#Classification: Not Dangerous

[arkham-dossiers]

Patient File: Maximillion J. Pegasus

President and CEO of Industrial Illusions.

Born in Las Vegas, Nevada, Maximillion J. Pegasus was the heir to a fortune made from a casino hotel. He was still a child when he met another wealthy child at a social event: Cecilia. She became his best friend and ultimately his lover, encouraging his dream to not follow in his father's footsteps and instead become a painter, as art was his passion ever since he became a fan of Funny Bunny, a character in TV and comic books. Pegasus and Cecilia ended up becoming engaged, only for Cecilia to fall seriously ill and then pass away, leaving her fiancé devastated as he sunk into a deep depression.

After looking up beliefs in the afterlife, Pegasus was the most drawn to the legends of Ancient Egypt, and so he went on a trip to Egypt to see if he could find any truth to the myths. In the village of Kul Elna, he discovered the hidden underground Temple of the Millennium Items, where members of the Millennium Order told him he could not leave without trying on a Millennium Item...a potentially deadly situation, as if an Item did not accept him then it would kill him. But feeling as though he had nothing to lose, Pegasus accepted having his eye gouged out so that the Millennium Eye could be inserted in.

The Millennium Eye accepted him, as the dark power within it showed him a vision of Cecilia emerging from the Door to the Afterlife. This convinced Pegasus that it was possible to retrieve his beloved's soul, and it drove him to madness. He pursued the truth behind the Millennium Items fervently, leading him to found the game company Industrial Illusions and create the trading card game Duel Monsters, with every card based on monsters and spells that were actually summoned back in Ancient Egypt and personally painted by Pegasus himself. He even did so with three Egyptian Gods, although he regretted this when he realized that it invited said Gods' power into the cards, which he promptly hid away to protect the world.

Pegasus' fixation on Funny Bunny and cartoons in general also increased because he came to associate them with immortality: lifeforms that were not of flesh and blood and thus could never die. That is why his own personal Duel Monsters deck is largely centered around "toon monsters" and the Toon World magic card, although its trump card was Relinquished, a monster that represented Pegasus' own twisted psyche and willingness to use others for his own ends.

Eventually, Pegasus determined that he had to unite all seven Millennium Items into the Tablet of the Pharaoh's Memories in Kul Elna in order to retrieve Cecilia's soul from the afterlife. But then there was the matter of the body it would inhabit. For that, Pegasus needed the lifelike holographic technology of Kaiba Corp, another game company that he had dealings with. This goal led Pegasus down a path of villainy, as he kidnapped, manipulated, and even murdered his way through every obstacle. The more he used the powers of his Millennium Eye, the more tainted his soul became.

Diagnosis: Pegasus suffers from clear monomania. He has the idée fixe that he can bring Cecilia back from the dead and is willing to do absolutely anything to make that happen, and no amount of arguing or appeals to morality can shake him. He also displays dissociative tendencies, as his lack of conscience in committing acts of evil stems from separating himself from others in his own mind: he places himself in something of a different reality where, much like a cartoon, matters of suffering and death do not affect him.

This patient is not dangerous, as he has lost his Millennium Eye.

[ceilidhtransing]

The discussions around whether or not to vote for Kamala keep being dominated by very loud voices shouting that anyone who advocates for her “just doesn't care about Palestine!” and “is willing to overlook genocide!” and “has no moral backbone at all!” And while some of these voices will be bots, trolls, psyops - we know that this happens; we know that trying to persuade progressives to split the vote or not vote at all is a strategy employed by hostile actors - of course many of them won't be. But what this rhetoric does is continually force the “you should vote for her” crowd onto the back foot of having to go to great lengths writing entire essays justifying their choice, while the “don't vote/vote third party” crowd is basically never asked to justify their choice. It frames voting for Kamala as a deeply morally compromised position that requires extensive justification while framing not voting or voting third party as the neutral and morally clean stance.

So here's another way of looking at it. How much are you willing to accept in order to feel like you're not compromising your morals on one issue?

Are you willing to accept the 24% rise in maternal deaths - and 39% increase for Black women - that is expected under a federal abortion ban, according to the Centre for American Progress? Those percentages represent real people who are alive now who would die if the folks behind Project 2025 get their way with reproductive healthcare.

Are you willing to accept the massive acceleration of climate change that would result from the scrapping of all climate legislation? We don't have time to fuck around with the environment. A gutting of climate policy and a prioritisation of fossil fuel profits, which is explicitly promised by Trump, would set the entire world back years - years that we don't have.

Are you willing to accept the classification of transgender visibility as inherently “pornographic” and thus the removal of trans people from public life? Are you willing to accept the total elimination of legal routes for gender-affirming care? The people behind the Trump campaign want to drive queer and trans people back underground, back into the closet, back into “criminality”. This will kill people. And it's maddening that caring about this gets called “prioritising white gays over brown people abroad” as if it's not BIPOC queer and trans Americans who will suffer the most from legislative queer- and transphobia, as they always do.

Are you willing to accept the domestic deployment of the military to crack down on protests and enforce racist immigration policy? I'm sure it's going to be very easy to convince huge numbers of normal people to turn up to protests and get involved in political organising when doing so may well involve facing down an army deployed by a hardcore authoritarian operating under the precedent that nothing he does as president can ever be illegal.

Are you willing to accept a president who openly talks about wanting to be a dictator, plans on massively expanding presidential powers, dehumanises his political enemies and wants the DOJ to “go after them”, and assures his supporters they won't have to vote again? If you can't see the danger of this staring you right in the face, I don't know what to tell you. Allowing a wannabe dictator to take control of the most powerful country on earth would be absolutely disastrous for the entire world.

Are you willing to accept an enormous uptick in fascism and far-right authoritarianism worldwide? The far right in America has huge influence over an entire international network of “anti-globalists”, hardcore anti-immigrant xenophobes, transphobic extremists, and straight-up fascists. Success in America aids and emboldens these people everywhere.

Are you willing to accept an enormous number of preventable deaths if America faces a crisis in the next four years: a public health emergency, a natural disaster, an ecological catastrophe? We all saw how Trump handled Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico. We all saw how Trump handled Covid-19. He fanned the flames of disaster with a constant flow of medical misinformation and an unspeakably dangerous undermining of public health experts. It's estimated that 40% of US pandemic deaths could have been avoided if the death rates had corresponded to those in other high-income countries. That amounts to nearly half a million people. One study from January 2021 estimated between around 4,200 and 12,200 preventable deaths attributable purely to Trump's statements about masks. We're highly unlikely to face another global pandemic in the next few years but who knows what crises are coming down the pipeline?

Are you willing to accept the attempted deportation of millions - millions - of undocumented people? This is “rounding people up and throwing them into camps where no one ever hears from them again” territory. That's a blueprint for genocide right there and it's a core tenet of both Trump's personal policy and Project 2025. And of course they wouldn't be going after white people. They most likely wouldn't even restrict their tyranny to people who are actually undocumented. Anyone racially othered as an “immigrant” would be at risk from this.

Are you willing to accept not just the continuation of the current situation in Palestine, but the absolute annihilation of Gaza and the obliteration of any hope for imminent peace? There is no way that Trump and the people behind him would not be catastrophically worse for Gaza than Kamala or even Biden. Only recently he was telling donors behind closed doors that he wanted to “set the [Palestinian] movement back 25 or 30 years” and that “any student that protests, I throw them out of the country”. This is not a man who can be pushed in a direction more conducive to peace and justice. This is a man who listens to his wealthy donors, his Christian nationalist Republican allies, and himself.

Are you willing to accept a much heightened risk of nuclear war? Obviously this is hardly a Trump policy promise. But I can't think of a single president since the Cold War who is more likely to deploy nuclear weapons, given how casually he talks about wanting to use them and how erratic and unstable he can be in his dealings with foreign leaders. To quote Foreign Policy only this year, “Trump told a crowd in January that one of the reasons he needed immunity was so that he couldn’t be indicted for using nuclear weapons on a city.” That's reassuring. I'm not even in the US and I remember four years of constant background low-level terror that Trump would take offence at something some foreign leader said or think that he needs to personally intervene in some military situation to “sort it out” and decide to launch the entire world into nuclear war. No one sane on earth wants the most powerful person on the planet to be as trigger-happy and careless with human life as he is, especially if he's running the White House like a dictator with no one ever telling him no. But depending on what Americans do in November, he may well be inflicted again on all of us, and I guess we'll all just have to hope that he doesn't do the worst thing imaginable.

“But I don't want those things! Stop accusing me of supporting things I don't support!” Yes, of course you don't want those things. None of us does. No one's saying that you actively support them. No one's accusing you of wanting Black women to die from ectopic pregnancies or of wanting to throw Hispanic people in immigrant detention centres or of wanting trans people to be outlawed (unlike, I must point out, the extremely emotive and personal accusations that get thrown around about “wanting Palestinian children to die” if you encourage people to vote for Kamala).

But if you're advocating against voting for Kamala, you are clearly willing to accept them as possible consequences of your actions. That is the deal you're making. If a terrible thing happening is the clear and easily foreseeable outcome of your action (or in the case of not voting, inaction), in a way that could have been prevented by taking a different and just as easy action, you are partly responsible for that consequence. (And no, it's not “a fear campaign” to warn people about things he's said, things he wants to do, and plans drawn up by his close allies. This is not “oooh the Democrats are trying to bully you into voting for them by making him out to be really bad so you'll feel scared and vote for Kamala!” He is really bad, in obvious and documented and irrefutable ways.)

And if you believe that “both parties are the same on Gaza” (which, you know, they really aren't, but let's just pretend that they are) then presumably you accept that the horrors being committed there will continue, in the immediate term anyway, regardless of who wins the presidency. Because there really isn't some third option that will appear and do everything we want. It's going to be one of those two. And we can talk all day about wanting a better system or how unfair it is that every presidential election only ever has two viable candidates and how small the Overton window is and all that but hell, we are less than eighty days out from the election; none of that is going to get fixed between now and November. Electoral reform is a long-term (but important!) goal, not something that can be effected in the span of a couple of months by telling people online to vote third party. There is no “instant ceasefire and peace negotiation” button that we're callously overlooking by encouraging people to vote for Kamala. (My god, if there was, we would all be pressing it.)

If we're suggesting people vote for her, it's not that we “are willing to overlook genocide” or “don't care about sacrificing brown people abroad” or whatever. Nothing is being “overlooked” here. It's that we're simply not willing to accept everything else in this post and more on top of continued atrocities in Gaza. We're not willing to take Trump and his godawful far-right authoritarian agenda as an acceptable consequence of feeling like we have the moral high ground on Palestine. I cannot stress enough that if Kamala doesn't win, we - we all, in the whole world - get Trump. Are you willing to accept that?

And one more point to address: I've seen too many people act frighteningly flippant and naïve about terrible things Trump or his campaign want to do, with the idea that people will simply be able to prevent all these bad things by “organising” and “protesting” and “collective action”. “I'm not willing to accept these things; that's why I'll fight them tooth and nail every day of their administration” - OK but if you're not even willing to cast a vote then I have doubts about your ability to form “the Resistance”, which by the way would have to involve cooperation with people of lots of progressive political stripes in order to have the manpower to be effective, and if you're so committed to political purity that you view temporarily lending your support to Kamala at the ballot box as an untenable betrayal of everything you stand for then forgive me for also doubting your ability to productively cooperate with allies on the ground with whom you don't 100% agree. Plus, if the Trump campaign gets its way, American progressives would be kept so busy trying to put out about twenty different fires at once that you'd be able to accomplish very little. Maybe you get them to soften their stance on trans healthcare but oh shit, the climate policies are still in place. But more importantly, how many people do you think will protest for abortion rights if doing so means staring down a gun? Or organise to protect their neighbours from deportation if doing so means being thrown in prison yourself? And OK, maybe you're sure that you will, but history has shown us time and time again that most people won't. Most people aren't willing to face that kind of personal risk. And a tiny number of lefties willing to risk incarceration or death to protect undocumented people or trans people or whatever other groups are targeted is sadly not enough to prevent the horrors from happening. That is small fry compared to the full might of a determined state. Of course if the worst happens and Trump wins then you should do what you can to mitigate the harm; I'm not saying you shouldn't. But really the time to act is now. You have an opportunity right here to mitigate the harm and it's called “not letting him get elected”. Act now to prevent that kind of horrific authoritarian situation from developing in the first place; don't sit this one out under the naïve belief that “we'll be able to stop it if it happens”. You won't.

[kosher-salt]

I'm sorry but if Sami people can be understood as other-than-white and lighter featured First Nations people can be understood as other-than-white and individuals of our sisters the Romani when similarly afflicted by melanin deficiency can be understood as other-than-white....

Your classification of Jews, who span the whole gamut of color but share the racialization and experience of being othered among any majority, including whiteness in the north/west, is only further evidence of your racism. Because in doing so you continue to perpetuate double standards for Jewish people, which is dangerous when merged with perspectives that view whiteness as a merit signifier. Not that our identity isn't a fair bit older than this pretty reductive view, but

Regardless, I'll remind that the minority indigenous groups I mentioned are in the context of a white majority, but white people do not have a monopoly on colonialism. Plenty of people don't want to be called Arab in MENA and plenty of people aren't sure that they'd classify themselves as Chinese or Russian in the sense that the West views national identity. But that kind of nuance probably isn't something I should bother with if we haven't made it past point 1.

[zayneslady]

hey!! loved that angst fic you wrote xx can i request the boys reaction to when the reader/mc and them are in an argument, and they accidentally said something extremely hurtful and it made reader cry. make the boys regret it so much pls hehe😼 thank you 💗

warnings: angst, open ending again hehe and again, reader is not MC

characters: Zayn, Xavier, Rafayel x reader (separately)

a/n: my first request *-* thank you so much! This exact trope is one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it! Get your tissues ready! Also thank you to everyone's support in my first post! I'm so happy! ❤️

Classification: scenarios

ZAYNE ❄️

You didn't want to admit it, but you were sick. During the day you felt a little sore in your throat and your nose was stuffy. Arriving at Zayne's house after work, it was more than obvious that you had a fever. Your face was red and the chills running through your body made you shiver. 

There was nothing else to do, you would miss work tomorrow to fully recover. Furthermore, with the care of your loving doctor, you knew you'd be fine in no time. So you quickly took a shower and after drying your hair, you grabbed a blanket and curled up on the couch with a cold patch on your forehead, waiting for Zayne patiently. 

To your surprise, he arrived at a normal time and your heart vibrated with joy when you saw him enter. He had his head low as he stepped out of his shoes and closed the door behind him. 

"Zayne! Welcome back! How was your day?” You greeted him as he shrugged his coat off. “Guess what," you said, giggling softly because it was quite obvious by your funny voice that you were sick. "I got a little sick after yesterday's ra- 

You jumped a little when Zayne suddenly groaned, whipping his head up to look at you. “Oh my Lord,” he said, annoyed. “Can't you see I'm fucking tired? You do not know when you shut your damned mouth? I can't stand you! Why are you so clingy?” 

Your eyes widened and your face turned bright red. Your mind went blank and you didn't notice the tears streaming down your face until Zayne's face changed from complete anger to guilt. He looked at you from the door as if he didn't know what had happened just now. He didn't recognize himself. How did he dare to talk to you like that when you-

He gasped softly, “you're sick.”

You tried to clean your tears with your hands as you got up from the couch. Zayne made an attempt to come close to you, but you quickly ran to the bedroom only to come back after a couple of minutes with your shoes and coat on. 

“Excuse me,” you said, as you approached the door. 

“What? Where are you going like this? You need to rest.”

You nodded, trying to keep some distance from him. “I know. I'll rest back home. So please move.”

“Stay here. I'll take care of you,” he grabbed your hand and more tears fell down. How could he talk so sweetly right now after what he said. 

You shook your head, pulling your hand away and pushing him aside so you could open the door. “I don't need you, Zayne. Not when you can't stand me.”

“I was wrong, please.”

“I was wrong too. Goodbye, Zayne.”

XAVIER ⭐

“My poor Xavier,” you mumbled, gently cleaning a wound in Xavier's side. You winced when he did and your heart broke. You knew perfectly well that this could happen because of his line of work, but you felt terrible every time he came home hurt. “Oh, Xav, is it too painful?” You asked as you started to bandage him. 

He shook his head, breathing heavily and resting his head against the pillow on his bed. “It could be worse. Thank you for helping out.” 

“No need to thank me,” you said, smiling at him as you placed a tender and loving hand over his now bandaged wound. “I wish you didn't have to do this. It's so dangerous.” 

Your words had no poison. You clearly didn't want Xavier to suffer in any way. Why couldn't he have a regular, safe job? Maybe he's just strong because he has to protect everyone. You said those words from the bottom of your warm heart, so you were more than surprised to hear Xavier's response:

“What? Are you saying I'm weak?” He spat and you blinked. 

“N-No! I'm just saying that I wish you had another job because- 

“Is that so? So you rather have a bunch of wanderers attacking innocent people? Just because you don't want me to get hurt?” 

“It's- It's not like that! I never said that. I just get worried sick for you and-

“Maybe I should really stop, huh? Just turn a blind eye to everything that's happening like egoist people like you di.”

He just kept vomiting out words, one harsher than the last. Every time you tried to speak and fix this misunderstanding, his irrational words drowned out your voice and it made something heavy and nauseating settle in your stomach. This was not going to end well in any way. 

“Xavier, my love, please listen to me. I do not- 

“Maybe one day a wanderer will actually kill you. And believe me, I won't even bat an eye at you,” he said, crossing his arms and turning his head away from you. 

Your eyes had never filled with tears as quickly as that moment. Your body began to shake with suppressed sobs as you felt heat and disappointment throughout your body. Did Xavier just... wish for your death? And in the hands of a creature as horrible as a wanderer? 

“Oh no,” he suddenly said and you flinched when you felt his touch against your cheek. “I am so, so sorry.” You cried a little harder before getting up from his bed. “W-Wait, my star. Please, I'm sorry.”

No words came out. You simply grabbed your bag and left the room.

He called your name and then groaned in pain as he tried to move. “Pl-please, come back! Where-

You couldn't hear more of his words as you closed the door of his apartment. Did this mean the end? You truly thought so. 

Rafayel 🐠

"Ah, welcome back, Rafayel!" The amount of excitement that rushed through your body whenever your eyes landed on him was almost overwhelming. It wasn't that you hadn't seen him in a long time, but a second without him felt like a century. 

His eyes, usually warm and sparkling, looked cold and even angry at seeing you in his house. "Hello," he said dryly as he closed the door behind him. You frowned slightly. "What are you doing here?" 

"Hmm, nothing much. I just wanted to visit you. Is that alright?" 

He sighed, placing a paper bag on the table. "Yeah, sure. I gave you a key after all."

You cleared your throat, nodding awkwardly. "Did... you have a good day?" 

He sighed again and shook his head as he stepped out of his shoes. "I didn't. It was terrible for the very first moment I opened my eyes. You see," he started and you nodded, listening carefully. "I overslept so I lost precious time for my painting. Then I didn't have time to eat so I didn't eat anything but a piece of bread."

You immediately got up to make dinner for him, maybe after eating he'd feel better? 

"And the worst thing was," he said, collapsing onto his couch. "I couldn't find my emerald green paint so I had to go all the way to the art store and get a new one! Ugh!" 

You blinked, frowning a little. "Your emerald green?" 

"That's what I said."

"Hmm, I'm very sure I put it in all of your greens?" You left the ingredients aside as you walked to the paints. "Here it is." 

He got up and looked at you with an astonished expression. Confusion quickly turned into anger and he was yelling at you in a second. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"You saw me last night!" You explained, carefully leaving the paint back in place. "You said you wanted your paints to be more organized and I asked you if I could help you out! You even told me you liked how I organized it by colors!" 

Rafayel let out a frustrated sigh as a hand carded through his hair. "I can't believe I just lost all of that precious time because of your stupid mistake!"

"Excuse me?"

"Every time you try to help, you just mess things up! Can't you keep your little hands to yourself for once? I was just stupid for letting you help me out! You are way too much, I can't stand you sometimes.”

You were stunned. He had never said anything like that about you, you couldn't even remember other times when you wanted to help him and you ruined it. Besides, it wasn't your fault. The green paint was there all along and he just hadn't taken the time to look for it properly.

You knew it wasn't your fault, but his harsh words and the anger and hatred in his eyes were too much. Tears quickly filled your eyes and began to fall down your reddened cheeks. 

Rafayel realized his mistake a bit too late. Letting out a gasp as he watched the first tear fall, he hurriedly approached you, but you backed away, putting space between the two of you. He couldn't say anything, too surprised by his own words.

What was just a moment seemed like minutes, endless hours with deafening silence. Only your sobs echoed around the entire house, until your voice, small and trembling, made him jump. 

“I won't touch your stuff again, Rafayel,” you said softly, avoiding his eyes. 

“N-No, I didn't mean-

You nod, “if you don't mind, I'll sleep in your guest room. Goodnight, Rafayel.”

Deep inside you so desperately wanted him to stop you, but he watched you disappear into the hall and never called you back.

You knew it was going to be a very cold night.

[teapartyprincess4two]

Intrusive Thoughts- M. Sturniolo

pairing: bestfriend!reader x bestfriend!Matt

classification: SMUT SMUT NO FLUFF (well a little fluff bc filler parts)

warnings: 18+, MDNI, literal sex, masturbation, use of y/n, cursing, suggestive content, forced proximity, Nick and Chris can drive bc if not this wouldn’t work & I don’t want to make up extra characters, short

inspiration: request^^

summary: You’re forced to sit on Matt’s lap during a long roadtrip and once you arrive at your destination he lets his intrusive thoughts win.

Intrusive Thoughts PT.1, PT.2

—

“Stop moving,” Matt grumbles, his legs going numb from the constant applied pressure. You’re currently sitting on his lap, every other spot in the car completely overtaken with bags, blankets, pillows, and warm bodies. “Sorry, I can’t help it. I have to pee,” you reply in a hushed tone, feeling embarrassed for all your constant squirming. You’ve had to pee for the past two hours and you won’t reach the next gas station until 30 minutes.

Matt hates himself for enjoying this, despite his legs being completely numb, he can feel everything on his lap. The view is nice too, your tight leggings hugging your round ass perfectly. You squirm again, accidentally grinding down onto Matt hard enough for his dick to twitch. All he can do is hope you can’t feel it and pray he can think of anything other than you for the remainder of the trip.

“Nick, pull over I actually can’t hold it,” you say, standing up slightly to point to the side of the road. Your ass is on full display for Matt now, he just wants to reach out and grab it. Nick sends you an annoyed glare as he pulls off the highway and onto the access road.

A relieved sigh leaves your lips, your body plopping back down onto Matt’s lap aggressively as you rush to get out of the car. Matt groans at the contact, the force at which you sat on him sending him into a frenzy.

“Don’t look!” you exclaim, running deep into the forest that ligned the road to hide behind a tree. Nick is annoyed and tired from all the driving and Chris is fast asleep. Matt was too busy trying to hide his erection to even care.

Why did he agree to come on this road trip? Why didn’t he just offer to drive? Now he’s stuck in the backseat with you on his lap and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Finally,” Nick groans in annoyance, watching as you run out from behind the trees and hop back into the car. You sit yourself on Matt’s lap again, this time much closer to his crotch and he swears he sees stars from this alone.

This was going to be a long, painful car ride.

—

You’re asleep, leaning into the bags and pillows that litter the middle seat, a blanket thrown over yours and Matt’s lap haphazardly. You stir slightly with each sharp turn or sudden bump, scooting back onto your make-shift pillow each time. The blanket serves as the perfect shield from wandering eyes and Matt uses it to his advantage, allowing his hands to hold you in place dangerously close to your inner thighs.

The car drives over a bumpy road causing you to bounce slightly on Matt’s lap, the pressure creating a sensation that he begins to welcome. Once the road smooths out again, you readjust yourself and wiggle your hips in an attempt to anchor yourself. Matt bites his lips and looks away, trying to fight the perverse thoughts that form in his mind.

All he can think about is you in your shared hotel room, clothes discarded and scattered on the floor. He imagines you laid out for him on the plush white comforter, ready to do any and everything he says. The bed would rock with each thrust causing the headboard to slam against the wall, informing all your neighbors that you belong to no one other than him.

His eyes are closed tightly, head leaned against the cold window as he tries coming back to reality. He exhales sharply, willing himself to stop thinking about you that way. You’re his best friend, and best friends weren’t supposed to imagine how the other would look naked. He wasn’t supposed to be fantasizing about your lips wrapped around him, or your legs pressed against your chest while his large hands held them in place.

“We’re here?” Chris croaks from the front seat, his voice still hoarse from his long nap. Nick hums in response, pulling up to the hotel parking lot.

Suddenly the car stops making Matt’s head bump against the glass slightly. You wake up from the sudden movement, stretching a little before turning towards Matt. You offer him an innocent smile, “Hi.”

He returns the smile, trying to pretend like he wasn’t just imagining you with his dick in your mouth. “Hi, sleep good?” he asks, still holding you securely in place by your thighs. He squeezes them briefly, before reluctantly dragging his hands away.

“Mhm,” you reply, your voice cracking a little from not talking for hours. He wants you making those noises from under him.

Chris opens the backseat car door before Matt can reply, causing you to jump off of his lap. You, Nick and Chris work towards getting all the bags out of the car while Matt tries to compose himself.

Finally, when he’s almost 100% his erection isn’t noticeable, he gets out of the car.

—

Matt knew he was sharing a room with you from the get-go, especially because he was the one who invited you on this trip in the first place, but the thought was still enough to excite him. It spiked his nerves, sending all his blood to his dick as he imagined all the possibilities.

“You can sleep, I’m gonna shower,” you say once you’re in the room, locking the door behind you. He fights the urge to follow after you, desperate for a little show. He’d have to save it for his dreams though, because despite being sexually frustrated, Matt was really tired and his legs were sore from the car ride.

“Okay.” He’s kicking his shoes off and undresses until he’s only in his boxers. Matt gets comfortable under the sheets, closing his eyes and trying to fall asleep before you get out of the shower. But it’s no use, his mind is racing with thoughts of you.

You in a bikini, you in a short skirt, you with a low cut top, you eating a popsicle, you kneeling down in front of him and letting him slap you in the face with his dick. So many dirty thoughts run through Matt’s head, all of them involving you in a compromising position.

His hand instinctively travels down under the waistband of his boxers, tugging until his cock is free. You were still in the shower, the steam coming out from under the door and the soft pitter patter of the water filled the room. Matt knew he had at least 15 minutes before you returned into the room ready for bed, plus the plush comforter served as an illusion, it was so big that you couldn’t even tell there was someone laying under it.

Slowly, he strokes himself, biting his lip to stop himself from making any noise. All of his fantasies play through his head, and like credits at the end of a movie, they're never ending. He picks up the pace, trying to finish before you’re done in the shower.

He hears the water turn off, mentally cursing himself for somehow not being able to finish. Just moments ago he was ready to bust at the idea of you and now the performance anxiety is inhibiting his climax. “Come on, come on,” he mutters, thrusting into his hand relentlessly, imagining that it was your hand instead of his. Finally he feels it, his climax builds and with one last pump he’s cumming into his hand. A quiet whimper comes from Matt, finally feeling satisfied.

The bathroom door opens, the light illuminating the rest of the room as you walk out in nothing but a cropped tank top and tight shorts. Your head is tilted to the side, your hands working a brush through your wet, tangled hair.

“Can you help?” you ask Matt, hoping he’ll help you get the knots out faster. He closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep to avoid the awkward situation under the sheets. His boxers are midway down his thighs, his soft dick laying on his stomach as remnants of his session linger on his hand.

You realize he’s asleep, or that he’s pretending, and huff in annoyance before returning back into the restroom to finish your night routine.

He didn’t know how he was going to survive the rest of the night.

—

Matt tosses and turns all night, unable to get comfortable no matter how hard he tries. You’re facing away from him because he’s sleeping on the side with the window and the sheer curtains do nothing to shield the obnoxious hallway light. Your soft snores fill the room, and even though Matt’s still physically tired, his mind is awake with thoughts of you.

After you got into bed, he hurried into the restroom and you wondered why. He stayed in there for a while, giving you enough time to think about a night with him and not an innocent one either. You fell asleep thinking about everything he’d do to you, all the positions he’d put you in.

“Y/n,” Matt whispers, nudging you gently. You’re out cold though, soft whimpers coming from you. At one point he swears he hears his name. “Y/n!” he whispers again, but much louder.

You finally stir, your head turning to face him as your eyes drowsily finding his face, adjusting to the dark. “What?” you croak, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You were having a good dream and the sooner you could return to it, the better. So, whatever Matt wanted better be good.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispers, pulling the comforter up higher against his neck. You groan in annoyance, turning away from him once again, “count sheep.” You close your eyes, preparing to enter another deep sleep full of dreams of Matt.

Matt snakes an arm over your waist, sneakily managing to go under your shirt. He’s only testing the waters though, not trying to take things too far too fast. “I did already,” he mumbles, tracing mindlessly shapes on your skin.

“Think of something boring,” you instruct.

How could he though when you’re right here, infecting his thoughts with perverse fantasies. “Can’t. Can only think of you,” he whispers, finally giving in to his intrusive thoughts as he presses a kiss onto your shoulder.

Whatever sleep you felt immediately leaves your body at the confession. Matt’s hand travels further up your shirt, holding one of your boobs. You groan at the sensation, instinctively scooting closer to him. Your ass presses against his crotch and immediately you feel his dick, it’s begging to be set free.

“I was dreaming of you,” you admit, one of your hands traveling behind you to massage Matt’s clothed penis. Your fingers manage to wrap around him despite the boxers being in the way, massaging him slowly. “Yeah? What was I doing?” he asks through strained moans, trying to see how far you two will go.

“Making me feel good.”

“Be specific, baby,” he grunts, bucking into your hand.

You proceed to describe your dream, all the dirty details only adding to Matt’s already active imagination. “First, you fucked me in the shower, lathering me up with soap and kissing all over my body. You fucked me against the glass and we left our handprints all over it,” you whisper, tightening your grip around his cock slightly. Matt’s breath hitches in his throat at the idea of you covered in sudsy bubbles.

“Then, you fucked me on the bathroom counter. You made me feel so good I screamed your name,” your voice is so seductive it has Matt whimpering. You move your hand from over his boxers and trail just above his waistband, allowing your fingers to linger there for a while before finally diving in.

“I sucked your dick on the balcony while you sat in the lounge chair. You came all over my face, all over my chest. All over, baby,” you pump his cock slowly, listening for his whimpers. His eyes are squeezed shut, he’s imagining every single scenario in full detail.

“Then I sat on it and bounced on it for hours. It felt so good,” you added. He squeezes your tit in his hand, pinching your nipple in the process and eliciting a small moan from you. “You sucked on my tits while I bounced on it, baby. You made me feel so good.”

Matt groans at the visual, he can’t take it anymore, if you keep going he’ll bust all over your hand without warning. “Stop,” he groans, pushing your hand off him before he can finish. If you two are going to do this, you’re going to do it right.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he says, eagerly tugging your shorts off. You kick the shorts off, clenching around nothing at the thought of him inside you.

He lines himself up with your entrance, groaning at how warm and ready you are for him. Slowly, he pushes in, allowing himself to adjust to the new sensation. You feel so good clenching around him as you try and take as much of him as possible.

“Tell me more, princess,” he moans, his hips slowly beginning to rock back and forth at a rhythmic pace.

You’re struggling to remember the dream now, but you’re afraid that if you don’t speak Matt will stop. “I was on the edge of the bed, face down ass up for you and you were- fuck.” His hips snap into you, the angle hitting a sensitive spot inside of you.

“Keep going,” he instructs, using his hand to work circles on your clit.

With each thrust your brain becomes foggier and foggier, but you’re eager to please. “You were fucking me from behind and your balls slapped against my pussy,” you spilled out quickly, a loud moan following right after.

“Then?” Matt grunts, you clenched around him in desperation for more. “Ugh.. then we did it in the hot tub. You undid my bikini and I sat on it. I bounced on it, felt so good,” you’re babbling at this point, struggling to form coherent words.

“Bounced on what?” He’s fucking you so hard and fast right now you don’t understand how he can even think straight.

“On your big dick,” you whimper, feeling your climax approach quickly. Matt stops asking questions, instead focusing his attention on pushing you past your breaking point. He’s starting to see stars, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier as he nears his orgasm.

“So fucking good,” he grunts, biting down on your shoulder as he cums inside of you, his hand still expertly drawing circles on your clit. The combination of stimulation is enough to make you cum, your body convulsing as you clench and cream around him.

You’re chanting his name, your thighs instinctively pushing together as the overstimulation becomes too much. He smiles at how fucked out he has you, removing his hand and finally slipping out of you.

The room goes silent, both of you so tangled in eachother that you can’t tell where one of you starts and where the other ends. He feels the drowsiness settle in his eyelids, they start to feel heavy and he fights it until he can’t anymore.

Shortly after him, you fall asleep too. Whatever consequences that were going to arise from tonight were tomorrow’s problem.

—

MASTERLIST

A/n:

🤫🤫

Shh they eepy.

- L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

taglist: @sturniololovers

[manicpixiedreamkira]

kigatsukeba

part one

megumi x reader, aged up!megumi (and others), early twenties, working as sorcerers, post shinjuku showdown arc but megumi doesn't have his face scars, megumi trying and failing to be in control of his feelings, gojo's gone, bonded through trauma, friends to fwb to lovers, drinking/getting drunk, jealousy, confusing feelings, megumi sucks at feelings, miscommunication, misinterpretation, megumi being stubborn, reader being clueless, slowish burn, idiots in love, jerking off, a bit of size kink ngl, megumi is older here so he’s taller (like 6'2?), he's also buffer (he's toji's son guys, c'mon), reader is described as smaller/shorter than him, takuma ino mentioned, smut, unprotected piv, nasty sex (multiple times), but also love making, confessions, aftercare, a bit of angst, but there's fluff here too, megumi's down bad, not beta'd

a.n: let me know if i missed anything, hope y'all like this one <3

w.c: 11,228

Megumi Fushiguro didn’t jerk off.

Not because he was a prude, or shy, or hadn’t thought about it—he had. He was a twenty-something man with a healthy sex drive and more than a few opportunities to take the edge off.

But he didn’t need to.

He was disciplined. In control. Raised with restraint wired into his spine like steel. If the need got bad enough, there were hookups—casual, clean, quiet. No mess, no entanglements. No reason to wrap his own fingers around his cock like some desperate teenager.

Until tonight.

Until your scent sank into the sterile hotel air, soft and lingering. Until it clung to the couch cushions beside him, where you’d been tucked up against a throw pillow with your damp hair dripping onto your shoulders, skin still flushed from the shower. Until he could still see the shape of your thighs in the shorts you'd worn to bed, still hear your laughter under the glow of the movie you'd picked—some dumb action thing you swore was "a cult classic."

Until all of that stayed behind when you left.

The door to your room had clicked shut almost an hour ago. The suite had gone quiet. And still, the ghost of you lingered.

So now, Megumi had his cock in his hand.

Fingers curled tight, dragging up the flushed length of it, slow and frustrated. The head was red, slick with precum, veins straining against the weight of his restraint. His teeth dug into his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

He hated this.

Hated the way his brain conjured the image of you, lazy and smiling, your bare legs stretched across the ottoman while you licked popcorn salt from your thumb. Hated the way your scent was everywhere. Hated that your name was on the tip of his tongue, curling like a curse.

His hips jerked against his fist, and he choked down a sound—something dark, desperate, pathetic. The walls were thin. You were right there.

And this—this was humiliating.

He squeezed harder.

God, he hated himself.

—

It was supposed to be a special-grade curse—dangerous enough that two full-fledged sorcerers were dispatched without question—but someone had definitely screwed up the classification. By the time you and Megumi arrived, it was clear the threat was barely even worth a second-year’s time. A third-grade curse, at best. One of you could’ve handled it solo, easy.

Still, neither of you complained. It was Shizuoka—quiet, a little more suburban than Tokyo, with the ocean close enough that the air smelled fresher. The hotel they’d booked for you was nicer than expected too, tucked a little away from the touristy parts, the restaurant downstairs good enough that you decided to make a night of it.

After the clean-up and the paperwork, you and Megumi shared dinner at the hotel restaurant, lingering over fresh sushi and grilled fish, sipping tea and half-heartedly talking about work. Mostly, though, you caught up. Missions had kept you both busy in different parts of the country lately—you hadn’t seen him in nearly two months.

It was easy, like it always was. He didn’t have to force conversation with you. Didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself. You laughed about old missions, filled him in on some dumb drama with other sorcerers at Jujutsu High, told him about the new cat you adopted. He listened, really listened, watching you from under the messy fringe of his hair with something almost soft in his eyes.

If he noticed how the curve of your mouth distracted him, he didn’t say anything.

If you noticed how he looked at you a little too long, you didn’t either.

Later, after dinner, you both showered and changed into comfortable clothes—loose shorts and a tank top for you, sweatpants and a t-shirt for him—and sprawled across the couch in his room to pick a movie.

Now you were lounging sideways with your hair still damp, loosely swept to one side. A blanket was thrown haphazardly over your legs, one foot sticking out. The TV glowed across your skin, casting faint blue shadows that made you look ethereal. Megumi tried not to stare.

“This is the dumbest movie I’ve ever seen,” he said flatly.

You beamed. “Isn’t it amazing?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. He’d let you pick the movie, like he always did, and like always, you chose something objectively terrible. Over-the-top stunts, cheesy one-liners, paper-thin plot. And yet—he was smiling a little. You made it entertaining. You always did.

“Admit it,” you said, nudging his shin with your toe, “you’re having fun.”

He didn’t answer, which only made you grin wider.

Outside the wide windows, Shizuoka’s lights twinkled against the dark, the city slowing down for the night but never fully asleep. Your mission was done. You had nowhere to be until tomorrow. The world, for once, felt slow.

You yawned and stretched, arms above your head, tank top riding up just slightly before you let them drop again. “Alright. Bedtime. Early train and all that.”

Megumi nodded once, eyes carefully on the TV.

“Night, Fushiguro.”

“Night.”

You stood, gathered your things, and padded off toward the left-side bedroom, the one you’d claimed when you arrived. The door closed softly behind you.

He didn’t move.

Just sat there, rigid, jaw tense, listening to the distant hum of the hallway and the quiet creak of the walls. Thin enough that he could hear you shuffling around, zipping up your overnight bag, plugging in your phone.

Thin enough that if he weren’t so tightly wound, so furious with himself, he might imagine hearing the faint rustle of your sheets as you crawled into bed.

Instead, he pressed his palms to his face, exhaled sharply through his nose, and cursed under his breath.

He needed a shower. A cold one.

—

But he doesn't take a shower.

Instead, thirty minutes later, he’s flat on his back in the dark, one hand buried under the waistband of his sweats, jerking himself off to the thought of you—after making sure to lock his door. It’s not even a coherent fantasy. Just flashes. Snapshots. The sound of your voice. The way your hair stuck to your neck. The shape of your thighs when you shifted positions on the couch. That one time you stretched in front of him in your sports bra before a mission and didn’t even notice he’d stopped talking mid-sentence.

Your smell. That lotion. Sweet and warm and unmistakably you.

He bites back another noise, this one closer to a whimper.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s noticed you. He’s not that blind. He’s seen the way other people look at you—sorcerers, civilians, even cursed spirits in the middle of battle. You’re beautiful. Sharp. Capable. Terrifying when you want to be.

But this is the first time it’s hit him like a goddamn truck.

The first time he’s had to acknowledge how deep it goes. How the fondness has turned into tension, how the teasing has gotten sharper, closer. How your hands linger longer when you pass him a drink. How your voice softens when it’s just the two of you.

His eyes squeeze shut as he strokes faster, chasing the high he doesn't want to admit he needs. His name on your lips. Your lips on his skin. The idea of you slipping into his bed and—

Fuck.

He comes with a stifled grunt, biting down hard on his own wrist to keep the sound from leaking out. His whole body tenses, the aftershocks wracking through him as he lies there, spent and furious and still half-hard because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He wipes himself off with shaking hands, then lies back against the mattress, chest heaving.

He’s so fucked.

—

The next morning, Megumi was already awake when your alarm buzzed faintly through the wall.

He hadn’t slept.

He’d laid there in the dark for hours, shame prickling under his skin like a fever, staring at the ceiling and replaying every humiliating second over and over in his mind.

The worst part wasn’t that he jerked off.

 It was that he couldn’t stop thinking about you even after he came.

 It was that it didn’t make it better. It made it worse.

Now, sunlight was creeping pale and soft over the city outside. The train back to Tokyo left in a few hours. And Megumi knew he had to face you.

When you finally emerged from your room—stretching and yawning in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair still mussed from sleep—Megumi’s stomach twisted painfully. You smiled at him, easy and warm, completely unaware of the disgusting mess he’d made of everything inside his head.

You could have climbed inside his mind right then—he felt that vulnerable, that raw. Like you could peel him open and see every shameful, ugly thought he'd ever had.

He dropped his eyes to the floor immediately.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little scratchy.

He grunted something back that barely qualified as a greeting.

You cocked your head slightly. "We’ve got time before the train—wanna grab breakfast downstairs?"

Your tone was so casual. So normal. Like nothing had changed. And maybe for you, nothing had.

But Megumi couldn’t even look at you.

He shook his head stiffly. "Not hungry," he muttered.

You blinked. "You sure? Their buffet looked—"

"I’m fine."

It came out harsher than he meant. Too harsh. He saw it—the flicker of confusion in your face, the way your mouth pressed into a softer, uncertain line.

Guilt bloomed hot under his ribs.

He felt like throwing up. For touching himself thinking about you. For thinking he could pretend nothing had happened. For hurting you now, too, on top of everything else.

You nodded once, careful, and disappeared back into your room to grab your things.

He hated himself more with every second that passed.

—

The train ride back to Tokyo was miserable.

You tried—god, you tried.

Little things. Commenting on the weather. Pointing out a funny ad in the station. Mentioning how badly you wanted a real breakfast once you got home.

Each time, Megumi answered in one or two clipped words, eyes glued to the window or his phone, refusing to meet your gaze.

He felt your energy falter gradually—like a dimming lightbulb. Confusion first. Then hurt. Then that heavy silence he knew was you giving up.

It made him feel even sicker. But he couldn't fix it. Couldn't find it in himself to risk looking at you again and you seeing everything written on his face.

So he stayed turned away, watching the landscape blur past, counting the minutes until he could get away from you.

Coward.

—

When the train finally pulled into Tokyo Station, Megumi was up and moving before it even fully stopped.

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder with a speed that was almost rude. You barely had time to get up before he was halfway down the platform.

"Fushiguro—?" you called, voice cutting through the sea of people.

He half-turned—just enough to throw a glance over his shoulder. Not enough to meet your eyes.

"I’ll see you later," he said quickly. "Thanks for the mission."

And then he was gone—shoulders stiff, disappearing into the morning crowd before you could say anything else. 

You stood there for a long second, your bag dangling from your hand, the city roaring around you.

Had you done something wrong?

You replayed the past twenty-four hours in your head, frowning. Dinner had been fine. The movie had been fine. You hadn't fought. Hadn’t said anything weird. Hadn’t—

You sighed, pushing those thoughts down and started moving, blending into the busy city folk.

—

Two weeks went by. 

You didn’t see him.

Not at Jujutsu High. Not in the training halls. Not even with Yuuji and Nobara, having lunch at that chinese place they always seemed to be at.

The absence sat heavy in your chest, even though you told yourself it was stupid to care. It wasn’t like you were anything important to him. Just friends. Just mission partners.

And maybe not even that, anymore.

It wasn’t until Yuji’s birthday—March 20th, a Saturday this year—that you finally crossed paths again.

Nobara was throwing a party for him at a loud ramen place near Shibuya. She’d booked a private room, packed with more people than should have fit, all of them loud and happy and shoulder-to-shoulder at the long tables. The air thick with laughter and clattering bowls of noodles.

You were already there, wedged between Aoi and Maki, when Megumi arrived, a few minutes late.

You felt his presence before you even saw him—like your body knew.

He ducked inside the room, hair damp from a shower, wearing a black hoodie half-zipped over a plain t-shirt. 

He looked exhausted. 

He looked beautiful.

He looked like he wanted to turn right back around and leave the second his eyes landed on you.

You caught the stiff jerk of his shoulders, the way his mouth flattened into a hard line. You turned quickly back to your drink before you could make it worse.

But your chest ached.

—

You weren’t planning on getting drunk.

But a few shots in, it stopped feeling like a decision.

The private room Nobara booked was packed, heavy with the scent of broth and beer, the buzz of a dozen overlapping conversations. Ramen bowls clattered against the wooden tables, servers squeezed between chairs with trays of drinks, and someone had cranked the music up too loud on the old stereo in the corner.

You lost track of how many shots Yuuji poured into your cup. You lost track of how many toasts you cheered to. You stopped caring. Mostly, you drank to drown the sharp, ugly knot in your chest.

Across the table, Megumi sat stiffly, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. He’d shrugged off his jacket, and the plain black t-shirt he wore clung to the lines of his shoulders, his arms. Even sitting down, he was long and lean, legs sprawled slightly under the table in a way that made him look like he didn’t quite fit in the too-small space.

He wasn't drunk.

He never got drunk.

He'd had a beer, maybe two, the lazy flush of alcohol just barely pinking his cheeks, but that was it. Always controlled. Always careful. Always responsible.

You hated him for it tonight.

You hated the way he sat there, silent and brooding, without so much as looking at you.

So you drank more.

You wore a slip dress tonight—short, backless, the silky fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, dipping low across your spine. It shimmered slightly when you moved, catching the dim restaurant light like liquid metal. Your makeup was heavier than usual too, smoky and dark around your eyes, your mouth glossed and soft.

You knew you looked good.

You wanted Megumi to look.

But if he did, he hid it too well.

Somewhere between your third and fourth drink, Yuuji slung an arm around Megumi's stiff shoulders, laughing too loud.

"What's with the funeral face, Fushiguro?" he teased, breath warm with sake. "It's my birthday, not yours, asshole!"

Megumi shrugged him off without much force, shooting him a withering look.

"Just tired," he muttered.

"Tired of what?" Nobara crowed from across the table, half-sprawled over Maki. "You've been sitting there looking like someone kicked your puppy all night!"

"I don't have a puppy," Megumi said, deadpan.

Yuta leaned in, smiling, voice gentle. "Maybe he just needs another drink."

"I think he needs to get laid," Todo declared, raising his glass with a booming laugh.

The table erupted into laughter. Even Toge, nestled between Panda and a slouching Noritoshi, muttered a muffled "Salmon" into his drink.

You laughed too, a little too loud, the alcohol making everything slosh and sway a little inside you.

When you looked over at Megumi, his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might break a tooth.

Good, you thought viciously.

Let him suffer a little.

That's when Ino slid into the empty seat beside you.

Takuma Ino—messy, charming, handsome in that way that didn’t feel serious. He’d hit on you before, more than once, always easy, always harmless. You never thought much about it.

But tonight... you were angry. You were drunk. And Ino was smiling at you like he thought you were the most interesting thing in the room.

"You look incredible," he said, tipping his drink toward you with a lazy wink. The dim restaurant light caught his sharp cheekbones, his strong jaw, the slope of his nose. The shadows made him look sharper, older. Handsomer.

Still—he looked like nothing next to Megumi.

That only made you angrier.

You smiled back at Ino, slow and syrupy, letting your hand trail lightly down his arm.

"Do I?" you said, leaning in, letting the neckline of your dress slip a little lower.

Across the room, Megumi’s hand tightened around his beer bottle so hard his knuckles went white.

He told himself to ignore it. He told himself you were drunk, you didn't mean anything by it. He told himself he didn’t care.

And for a few minutes, he almost managed.

Until he saw Ino’s hand slide lower on your back—fingers brushing the bare skin where your dress dipped scandalously low.

Until he saw you tilt your head back and laugh at something Ino whispered against your ear.

Something sharp and ancient tore through Megumi’s chest. He was moving before he realized it.

One second you were laughing into Ino's shoulder—the next, a large, strong hand clamped around your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

"Hey—!" Ino protested, half-rising from his seat.

Megumi didn’t even glance at him. His grip was firm but not painful, his body radiating a heat and fury you could feel down to your bones.

"She's done for tonight," he said curtly.

No one argued. Not even Ino.

Too much of something simmered under Megumi’s voice. Too much promise of violence.

You stumbled a little as he pulled you toward the door, your head spinning. Your heels clicked clumsily against the wood floor.

"Fushiguro," you slurred, trying to pull your hand free, "what the fuck are you—"

"Be quiet," he muttered under his breath.

Your heart stumbled.

Not because of the words. But because of the way he said them—low, rough, desperate.

You shut up.

Megumi didn’t let go of your wrist until you reached the sidewalk, the noise of the restaurant fading behind you. Only then did he stop, his chest heaving slightly, his hand dropping away like he was afraid of burning himself.

The second the restaurant door closed behind you, your skin prickled with cold, the flimsy silk of your backless dress no match for the crisp breeze rolling in from the river. You hugged your arms tightly to yourself, wobbling slightly on your heels as the alcohol buzz settled deeper into your bones.

You swayed slightly, like you were going to fall. He caught you instinctively, hands steadying you at your waist—but the second you were upright again, he snatched them back like he couldn't stand to touch you.

You stared up at him—blinking, confused, still dizzy with alcohol.

He was tall.

Much taller than you, the way he loomed over you without even trying—broad-shouldered, all lean, restrained strength wrapped in soft cotton and dark denim.

You had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

And he was looking at you like you were a problem he didn’t know how to fix. Something dark flickered across his face—something he quickly, ruthlessly shoved down. 

The night air bit sharper against your skin now, sobering you just enough to register the awful silence stretching between you.

Megumi still hadn’t said a word, still as stone and gaze trained on the pavement. Just a shadow in the orange wash of the streetlight, broad-shouldered and silent, his expression unreadable.

You turned your head slowly to face him, your voice sharp and slurred with anger.

"You dragged me out of there," you bit out, voice louder than you intended, "and you can’t even look at me?"

Megumi flinched almost imperceptibly—like your words physically hurt—jaw clenched. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, and even now, in his rigid silence, he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes.

"You’re drunk," he said shortly. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Fuck you, Megumi," you snapped, chest heaving. "I know exactly what I'm saying."

He raked a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something—something real—but still, nothing. No answer. Not even a flicker of emotion.

You gave a bitter, breathy laugh and turned away from him, hugging yourself tighter. A shiver rattled your shoulders.

And then, quietly, there was the rustle of fabric behind you.

He stripped off his jacket in one swift movement, draping it over your shoulders without looking at you. His hands brushed your upper arms only briefly, barely even touching, but it was enough to send a warm pulse through your chest.

The heavy fabric smelled like him—cedar, clean soap, something faintly citrusy underneath.

You looked up at him in surprise.

Even now—especially now—he couldn’t stand to see you shivering on the street because of him.

You tugged it closer instinctively.

It covered most of your slip dress, the silky hem barely peeking out from underneath, hiding the vulnerable expanse of your bare back and thighs.

You blinked. 

“Thanks,” you muttered, mostly to the sidewalk.

Megumi’s face was a mask. But inside, he was screaming. He didn’t even trust himself to touch you again. Didn’t even want to risk it.

You crossed your arms against the cold, his jacket still warm from his body. It was only then you realized—in his rush to pull you out—you’d left everything behind. Your jacket, your purse, your phone... even your damn house keys.

Panic flickered up your spine, quick and mean.

"You made me leave all my stuff behind," you said accusingly, your words wobbling. "What am I supposed to do now, genius?"

Megumi's shoulders stiffened.

"I’ll figure it out," he muttered.

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream.

—

She was cold because of you, Megumi thought. She was standing here without a jacket because you pulled her out without giving her the chance to grab her things. Because you couldn’t stomach watching Ino touch her. 

Because you couldn’t do a single fucking thing without messing it up.

You shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his coat, and Megumi glanced back toward the restaurant—jaw tight, throat working.

You’d left everything. Your phone. Your purse. Your house keys. Even your damn jacket.

He could take you back, let you go in, get what you needed. You deserved that, at the very least.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The thought of Ino still sitting at that table—smirking, buzzed, smug, maybe even brave enough to pull you back down beside him—sent a hard, nauseous twist through Megumi’s stomach.

He didn’t trust himself not to lose it.

So he pulled out his phone instead, typing out a quick message to Nobara:

[ hey. she left her shit at the restaurant. grab it before you go? i’ll pick it up in the morning. ]

A moment later, the read receipt popped up.

[ sure. you owe me. ]

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at you. 

You stared at him, confused and blinking through the drunken haze.

He didn’t answer.

A minute later, he ordered a cab.

—

The car rolled up to the curb a few minutes later.

Megumi opened the door, gesturing stiffly for you to get in first. You stumbled, nearly missing the step up into the backseat. The ravenette was there instantly, steadying you with a hand on your lower back—but he jerked away again like he'd been burned the second you were inside.

He gave the driver his address without hesitation.

You blinked at him, still confused.

"My place," he said shortly. "You’re not getting into your apartment without keys."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the seat was warm and you were so tired, and it was so much easier to just slump against the window and close your eyes.

—

The ride was short but suffocating.

You could feel Megumi beside you, rigid as a statue, tension rolling off him in waves. His hands stayed firmly planted on his thighs the entire time, clenched into white-knuckled fists.

When the cab pulled up to his building, Megumi got out first, circling quickly around to your door.

You hesitated before climbing out, legs wobbly in your heels, the cold sinking deeper through your skin despite his jacket wrapped around you.

"Goddammit," Megumi muttered under his breath.

The stairs to his apartment loomed ahead.

You squared your shoulders, stubborn, trying to prove some kind of point. But your heel caught on the very first step and the world lurched sideways beneath you, your ankle buckling. 

Strong hands caught you before you could hit the ground.

Megumi exhaled through his nose, long and slow.

"You're impossible," he muttered under his breath.

You blinked up at him, dizzy. “You’re the one who—”

“I know,” he bit out, frustrated. “I know.”

Before you could say anything else, he bent low, one arm behind your knees, the other at your back—and lifted you.

“Megumi—”

“Just—don’t.” His tone was tight. Controlled. But there was heat simmering underneath, wild and cracked and guilty as hell.

You wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You hated how safe you felt, pressed against him—despite your rage, despite your confusion—curling unconsciously closer, cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He smelled like cedar and clean soap. Like safety. Like someone you’d once known well and now couldn’t reach.

He didn’t look down at you once—carring you all the way to the third floor, barely breathing heavily, his jaw locked tight.

At his door, he shifted you higher against his chest with a grunt and somehow managed to fish out his keys. The door swung open, spilling the familiar, clean scent of his apartment into the hallway.

He set you down carefully just inside the entryway.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you swayed dangerously again.

With a frustrated sigh, Megumi guided you toward the couch, his hand at your waist, keeping you upright.

You collapsed into the cushions with a groan, burying your face in his jacket still draped around your shoulders.

He hovered for a second, clearly unsure what to do.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, mascara smudged slightly beneath your eyes.

"Why do you even care?" you muttered, voice raw. "You don't even like me anymore."

Megumi tensed.

"You don't even look at me," you mumbled. "You don't talk to me. You don’t want me around."

The words hung between you—heavy, accusing, bitter.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

A beat passed. Then two.

You laughed, short and sharp, and turned your face away from him.

“Thought so,” you whispered, curling into the couch.

You didn’t see the way he looked at you after. Didn’t see the way his fingers curled tight at his sides like he wanted to reach for you—but wouldn’t let himself.

You were already asleep.

—

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the smell.

Crisp, clean, familiar—cedar and soap and something warm underneath.

The second thing was that you weren’t on the couch anymore.

You blinked against the low citylight leaking through the curtains, heart thudding heavily in your ears as you sat up slowly. Megumi’s bed was bigger than yours—neat, sparse, a simple navy comforter tucked tight around you. His jacket had slipped halfway off your shoulders in your sleep, cool silk brushing against your skin.

You were still in your dress. Barefoot.

The room was silent. Heavy.

You pushed the jacket back up around your shoulders and slipped out of the bed, the cool floor making you shiver.

Somewhere past the half-open door, you heard it—the faint, broken rhythm of someone's breathing.

Careful, quiet, you padded down the short hallway until you reached the living room.

And there he was.

Megumi sat hunched on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head cradled in his hands. The thin cotton of his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the tense line of his back rigid with something you couldn't quite name. His legs were spread wide, his long frame taking up most of the space—a tall, powerful body crammed uncomfortably into a small seat he clearly hadn’t been able to sleep in.

For a second, you just watched him.

He was so much bigger now than when you’d first met years ago—taller, broader in every sense. Even folded over like this, he still took up too much space. It hit you all at once: how much he'd grown, how different he was, how painfully far away he seemed now.

"Megumi?" you called softly.

He jerked upright, hands flying off his head, his whole body tensing like he'd been caught doing something wrong.

His face—God, his face.

There was a flush blooming under his cheekbones, hot and sharp against his pale skin. His mouth pressed into a hard, thin line, and he couldn't meet your eyes.

"You should be resting," he murmured, voice low.

You took a tentative step closer. "I woke up and... I was confused. Why did you move me to your bed?"

He hesitated, fingers clenching into fists. "You were uncomfortable," he muttered, voice rough, not looking at you. "On the couch. Figured... the bed would be better."

You shifted awkwardly, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself. "And you?"

Megumi grimaced. "I'm fine."

You glanced down at the cramped, sagging couch, trying to imagine someone as tall and built as him trying to fold himself into it for the night. Your throat tightened painfully.

"You gave me your bed... and you took this?" you said, voice cracking slightly.

He still wouldn't look at you.

"I—" he started, then broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" you repeated, a bitter little laugh escaping before you could stop it. "Then why won’t you even look at me?"

Finally, he did.

And what you saw there—wild guilt, raw frustration, something worse lurking underneath—nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You took a step closer, heart hammering.

"What did I do?" you asked, voice wobbling. "Tell me, Megumi. What did I do that's so awful you can't even stand to be around me anymore?"

He flinched, like you’d slapped him.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely. "You didn’t do anything. It’s me."

You shook your head, fighting tears. "Then what? What’s so bad?"

He opened his mouth—and for a long, awful second, no sound came out.

Then, low and broken:

"You're in my bed," he said, almost to himself, like he couldn't believe it. "Wearing that—" his hands clenched tightly, knuckles white. "Smelling like you do. And I can't fucking stop—"

You froze.

Your heart thudded, confused. "Stop what?"

His whole body radiated tension, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I can't stop wanting you," Megumi ground out. "Even when I don't have the right to. Even when I know it would ruin everything."

You stared at him, mouth dry, vision swimming.

And that’s when you noticed.

The heavy bulge tenting the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric, painfully obvious now that he was sitting back against the couch cushions. His thighs were spread wide, like even now he couldn’t hide how wrecked he was.

Your stomach twisted sharply. Heat bloomed between your legs—and then just as quickly, cold fear.

Because if he wanted you, why was he acting like this? Why was he avoiding you, treating you like you were some burden he couldn't wait to unload?

The tears you'd been holding back finally slipped free.

Megumi stiffened instantly at the broken sound you made.

"No," he said, alarmed, standing up so fast the couch squeaked. "No, don't—shit, don't cry—"

You stumbled back a step, brushing your cheeks angrily. "You hate me," you said, the words tumbling out half-sob, half-accusation. "You’re disgusted with me and I don’t even know why—"

"I'm not," he said fiercely, crowding closer without even thinking. "I'm not disgusted with you. I could never—"

You hiccuped through a shaky breath, clutching his jacket tighter around your shoulders.

"Then why?"

Megumi raked a hand through his hair again, looking wild, desperate.

"Because I want you," he said, voice ragged. "Because I'm not supposed to. Because you're drunk, and you're hurting, and if I touch you it’s just—it's wrong."

You blinked up at him, tears shining in your wide eyes.

"But you’re hurting me anyway," you whispered.

And that—that—split him wide open.

He cursed under his breath, stepping back like he was physically restraining himself. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His chest heaved with every breath.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You stared at him, breathing hard, jacket slipping off one bare shoulder.

Megumi’s eyes flicked down—then snapped away, jaw locking tight.

He looked like he was about to break.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

You stood there, wavering, hugging his jacket around your shoulders like an armor. Your lip trembled, your eyes shining, and Megumi thought he might throw up from the way it made his chest tighten painfully.

He took a slow breath, forcing his voice steady.

"Please," he said, the word scraping raw in his throat, "go back to bed. We can... talk in the morning."

You stared at him like you didn’t believe him, like you were trying to read something from his face that he didn’t know how to hide. And maybe you could—maybe you always could, that was the problem—but still, you stayed frozen there, shivering slightly, the silk hem of your dress brushing against your thighs in the draft.

Megumi felt like his body was locked in place. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, nails biting into the heels of his palms. His cock was still hard—achingly, miserably hard—straining against the waistband of his pants, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He deserved it. He deserved to sit there with this shame crawling under his skin, with his body betraying him at the worst possible moment, with the sight of you crying burned into his fucking memory.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to stay still, to stay silent, to stay contained.

Because if he let himself speak, he knew it wouldn’t come out right. If he let himself move, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

You blinked at him, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, and Megumi squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to pull himself back together.

"Please," he said again, softer now, pleading. "Just... just go back to bed."

Maybe—maybe if you slept, maybe if you forgot enough of tonight, he could fix it in the morning. Pretend none of this happened. Pretend he was still the responsible one, the one who could be trusted not to ruin everything just because he couldn’t get a fucking grip on himself.

He opened his eyes and found you still standing there.

For a terrible second, he thought you were going to stay, going to push, going to ask him for something he couldn't, shouldn't give you.

But then you blinked slowly, wiped at your cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, and without a word, turned and padded back down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Megumi stayed frozen in the living room until he heard the soft creak of the mattress as you climbed back into bed.

Then, and only then, did he let himself move.

He sagged onto the couch like the strings holding him up had been cut, head falling into his hands. His cock was still painfully hard, a pulse of need that throbbed through him with every breath, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t even consider it.

No.

He deserved this.

He deserved to sit here, miserable and aching, with the weight of his own self-disgust settling heavier and heavier across his shoulders.

Every heartbeat was punishment. Every shallow breath, every twitch of his muscles.

This was what he deserved for letting you get close enough to hurt. For being weak enough to want you. For making you cry.

He stayed like that, head bowed between his hands, until the first pale threads of morning light began to creep through the cracks in the blinds.

—

You woke up slowly.

The first thing you noticed was the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton and wrapped it too tight. The second was the heavy warmth of the comforter over you, the faint scent of soap and cedar sinking into your skin.

Megumi’s scent.

You shifted, muscles stiff and aching, and only then realized you were still wearing last night's dress—rumpled now, the hem twisted high around your thighs. Megumi’s jacket was still draped over your shoulders, half-off, half-on, swallowing you up in worn fabric and the echo of him.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, blinking blearily at the morning light bleeding in through the curtains. Everything hurt—your head, your throat, your pride.

And the memories—

They floated up slowly, sickly, filling your chest with something thick and sour.

The fight. The crying. The way Megumi had looked at you—gutted, guilty, refusing to touch you even when you had all but begged for answers.

You pulled his jacket closer around yourself, cold despite the sunlight, your heart thudding unevenly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment was silent.

For a second you just sat there, gathering yourself, dread pooling low and heavy in your stomach.

Then, cautiously, you stood.

Your bare feet made no sound against the floor as you padded toward the door, jacket trailing behind you like a shield. The hallway seemed longer than it had last night, every step loud in your ears.

You found him in the kitchen.

Megumi stood by the counter, his back to you, hunched slightly like he hadn’t slept at all. His hair was a mess, tangled at the roots like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. His hands were braced on the edge of the sink, knuckles pale with the pressure.

He must have heard you—but he didn’t turn around.

You hovered by the counter, nerves scraping raw inside your skin, your voice catching in your throat.

"Morning," you said, voice hoarse.

He flinched.

It was subtle—just the barest tension running up his shoulders—but you caught it, and it made something twist painfully inside you.

Slowly, Megumi straightened. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the counter before he finally turned to face you.

You almost wished he hadn’t.

There were dark shadows under his eyes, tension carved deep into the lines of his face. He looked—wrecked. Like he’d fought a battle with himself all night and lost.

He opened his mouth—then closed it again, jaw tightening.

You swallowed hard, clutching his jacket tighter around yourself.

"I remember," you said, voice small. "Not everything, but... enough."

A beat of silence stretched between you—long and sharp and unbearable.

Megumi shifted his weight, his broad frame seeming even bigger in the tight space of the kitchen, dwarfing everything. His arms crossed over his chest—defensive, protective, like he was trying to physically hold himself back.

"You were drunk," he said finally, voice rough. "It doesn't matter."

You let out a shaky breath. "It matters to me."

He looked at you then—really looked—and you hated how much it hurt. Hated how much guilt and self-loathing you could see bleeding out of him, barely restrained.

"You’re mad at me," you said quietly, not a question.

"No," he said immediately, too fast, too sharp. "I'm mad at myself."

You blinked, confused.

"I made you cry," Megumi said, the words like gravel dragging out of his chest. "I hurt you. That’s on me."

You took a step closer, careful, feeling the heat radiating off his body even from a foot away.

"You didn’t hurt me," you said. "You just... confused me."

His mouth twisted, bitter and miserable.

"I can’t—I can’t want you like that," he said, voice low and cracked. "It’s not right."

Your breath caught.

"Why?" you whispered.

He turned away again, bracing his hands on the counter, bowing his head.

"Because you’re drunk," he muttered. "Because you’re my friend. Because you deserve better than—"

"Stop," you said, sharper than you meant.

He froze.

You stepped closer until you were right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the tension vibrating through him like a wire pulled taut.

"I’m sober now," you said. "And I know what I want."

He let out a rough, broken laugh—one that sounded more like a sob.

"It’s not that simple."

"Why not?"

He turned then, so suddenly you flinched. His hands caught your arms—careful, barely touching, like he was afraid he might hurt you just by holding on too tight.

"Because if I let myself have you," he said, voice raw and shaking, "I'll get too greedy."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared up at him—at the storm raging in his dark eyes, at the way his fingers trembled against your skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the truth clearly.

This wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t disgust. It was need.

Fierce and desperate and so long denied that it had festered into something wild inside him.

Your hands lifted without thinking, tangling in the front of his t-shirt.

"I can be greedy too," you whispered.

Megumi made a strangled sound—something halfway between a groan and a curse—and dropped his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

"You don’t know what you’re asking," he breathed.

"I do."

"You’ll hate me."

"I could never."

Megumi’s breath stuttered against your skin, the heat of him leaking through every careful inch where he wasn't quite touching you. His fingers curled tight in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, and you could feel how badly he was shaking—like he was fighting himself at every breath.

"You'll hate me," he whispered again, voice cracked and low, like the confession cost him something he couldn't get back.

You stared up at him, heart thudding too fast, your mind scrambling to make sense of the words—to shove them into a box you could understand.

Hate him? For what? Was it really that simple?

You swallowed, heart lurching painfully—but you still didn’t quite get it. Didn't see the war he was losing inside his own chest.

Instead, you gave a shaky little laugh, trying to lighten the crackling tension choking the air between you.

"I mean…" you started, teasing, trying for levity, "if you’re just talking about sex, Megumi... we can make that work."

Megumi froze—went so still you thought maybe he'd stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, confused, startled by the sudden intensity in his eyes. Dark, wild, burning like a fuse had finally hit the powder.

"I’m serious," you said quickly, heart hammering harder. 

You smiled, a little awkward, a little too bright. "I mean... it's not like I never thought about it," you joked, nudging at the tension with a clumsy, hangover drenched bravery. "You're hot, Megumi. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t... you know. Thought about it. Back in high school. Still do, sometimes. And if this is just... you know, a physical thing, that’s fine. We’re adults. We can be smart about it."

You winced internally the second the words left your mouth—but it was too late. They hung there, stupid and weightless, in the heavy, aching air between you.

Megumi's jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them. His whole body was wound tight, every inch of him vibrating with something you didn’t know how to name.

You thought you did, though.

You thought it was guilt. Fear. Worry about crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

You mistook the devastated look in his eyes for hesitation—for regret—instead of what it really was: need, thick and choking and helpless.

You pressed on before he could retreat fully, heart thudding painfully.

"I'm not gonna freak out," you said quickly, voice softening. "If it's just sex, it's just sex. I don’t want to lose you over something stupid. We’re friends first, right? We can... figure it out."

You meant it. You meant every word. You would rather give him this, would rather let your heart ache quietly in your own chest, than lose him altogether. You could handle it. You could be smart. You could keep it simple if that’s what he needed.

So you smiled—small and earnest and maybe a little shaky—thinking you were offering him something safe.

Megumi made a rough, broken sound in the back of his throat and turned away, raking both hands through his hair like he wanted to tear it out at the roots.

Your stomach twisted, misreading it entirely.

You thought he was trying to resist. You thought he was scared of ruining what you had—the ease, the history, the friendship built over years.

You didn’t realize he was breaking apart because he knew he couldn’t pretend it would ever be casual. Not with you.

Still, you didn't want him to spiral alone in whatever guilt or shame he was carrying.

"Just... think about it," you said, softer now, stepping closer, your fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. "You don't have to decide right now. I just... I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m not gonna hate you."

He turned his head slightly—just enough that you caught the shadowed edge of his profile. His lips were pressed into a hard, miserable line, like he was swallowing back something sharp and dangerous.

Megumi stared at you like you’d just offered him a loaded gun and told him to aim it at his own heart. Like you didn’t even know what you were asking him to survive.

But he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t correct you.

Maybe he couldn't.

His fingers just flexed uselessly at his sides. His throat bobbed in a rough swallow. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle ticking in the hollow beneath his ear.

He couldn't breathe around you. Couldn't think. Couldn't even stand there another second without feeling like he was going to tear himself apart.

Finally, he muttered, hoarse and rough, "I need to go get your stuff. Nobara has it."

You blinked at him, a little thrown by the sudden change of subject, but you nodded anyway, giving him a small, shaky smile he didn’t see because he was already reaching for his keys.

"I’ll be quick," he added, already moving toward the door like the apartment was on fire and he needed to escape before he got caught in the blaze. "Stay here. Take a shower. Eat something. Wear whatever you want."

You stared at his back, your heart thudding unevenly, confused and stinging all over.

"After that... I’ll drive you home."

You nodded slowly, even though he wasn’t looking at you.

At the door, Megumi hesitated, one hand braced against the frame, the other clenching around the keys, the metal denting the flesh of his palm.

His shoulders stiffened, and he said, almost too quietly:

"I’m taking the bike. It’ll be faster."

You opened your mouth—not sure what you were going to say—but he cut you off before you could even breathe.

"Your dress," he said, voice tight, still refusing to turn around. "It’s not... it’s not bike-appropriate."

There was something almost broken in the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just about the logistics. Like if you climbed on behind him wearing that little slip of silk and nothing else, he wasn’t sure he'd make it back in one piece.

You stood there frozen, jacket swallowing your frame, lips parted and unsure, while Megumi finally forced himself out the door — pulling it closed behind him with a soft, definitive click.

You stared at the wood a long moment after he was gone, heart hammering hard and helpless in your chest.

The apartment buzzed with silence. Heavy, humming, full of words you hadn't been brave enough to say.

You hugged his jacket closer around yourself—the scent of him sinking into your skin—and let yourself skin to the floor, your knees pulling to your chest, the cold of the hardwood bleeding through your bare legs.

For the first time all morning, you realized:

Maybe you hadn’t understood anything at all.

—

The door clicked shut behind Megumi as he stepped back into his apartment, your bag and jacket slung over one shoulder, a plastic to-go container from the ramen place clutched in his other hand—some mercy from Nobara he hadn’t asked for.

He moved on autopilot at first—slipping the keys back into his pocket, toeing off his shoes—until his gaze caught, snagging helplessly on the figure moving across the kitchen.

Soft morning light spilled through the large window to his balcony, pooling across the counters, catching the slight sway of your body as you shifted from one foot to the other. You moved carefully around the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with a spatula, the buttery smell of cooking eggs soft in the air—smothered under the domesticity you’d stitched into his kitchen like a thread he hadn't noticed pulling tight.

And you were wearing his clothes.

An oversized black t-shirt hung loose on your frame, the neckline dipping slightly but clinging just enough to stay in place, soft cotton brushing the delicate line of your collarbones. His gray sweatpants sat low on your hips, cinched tight with the drawstring, the extra fabric pooling at your ankles in lazy folds, right down to where your socked feet met the floor.

You looked small like that. Warm. Not just because the clothes dwarfed you, but because you made them look soft, lived-in—like you belonged to them. To him.

You glanced up when you heard the door, offering him a cautious, wobbly smile—so soft, so unsure—like you were ready for him to push you away again.

Like you were still trying to give him a safe out.

Megumi’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the strap of your bag.

"Hey," you said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear, voice pitched soft. "I made you something."

You gestured toward the pan, where a half-folded omelette was browning gently at the edges. He could smell it from where he stood—eggs, cheese, something savory and sharp tucked inside.

You remembered. You always remembered the small, stupid things he never said out loud—like how he preferred salty over sweet in the mornings, how heavy breakfasts made him nauseous, how he took his coffee black without ever complaining about it.

The lump that formed in his throat was sudden and vicious.

He forced himself forward, dropping your bag by the door, setting the container carefully on the table without really registering the motion. His body moved on instinct, trying to pretend normalcy, trying to suffocate the riot building under his ribs—one heavy step, then another—until he was close enough to reach you if he dared.

You watched him—guarded but hopeful—twisting your fingers absently in the hem of the too-long t-shirt. Then it hit him. 

The scent.

Subtle at first, creeping under the buttery heat of the kitchen, but impossible to miss once it reached him. You smelled like him.

His soap, his shampoo—cedar and musk, brightened faintly by the citrus edge he'd stopped noticing years ago—soaked into your skin, into the damp ends of your hair, familiar in a way that left no oxygen in his lungs. 

You had washed yourself in him. You weren't just wearing his clothes. You weren’t just standing in his kitchen. You were wearing him. You were wound into his life now—sewn into places he hadn't even realized were empty until you filled them. 

That knowledge sank its claws deep.

It was unbearable.

It was beautiful.

It was going to kill him.

He clenched his fists once at his sides, willing the heat roaring under his skin to die down, to give him some semblance of control—but it was useless. His hands itched to touch you. His mouth ached to say things he shouldn’t even think.

It was worse than before. So much worse.

Because now he knew you wanted him—even if it was just a flicker, a clumsy admission, a casual offer you’d made thinking it would be simple.

You smiled at him again, smaller this time—cautious, uncertain.

The soft curve of your mouth, the way his t-shirt swallowed your frame, the fact that you smelled like his fucking soul—it twisted something brutal deep inside him.

And Megumi knew, in some awful, bone-deep way, that he would take it. He would take whatever you offered him—even if it ripped him apart from the inside out.

Still, he forced himself to move.

"I’m gonna take a shower," he muttered, voice rough and low, already backing toward the hallway. "Then I’ll drive you home."

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to ask him something else—but he didn’t give you the chance. He turned away before he could see the look on your face, the soft, confused crumpling of your expression—disappearing down the hallway like a man fleeing a fire he couldn't outrun.

Megumi hated himself for putting that look on your face.

It was cowardice. But if he stayed—if he let himself sit across from you, smelling like him, wearing his clothes, smiling at him like he hadn’t already broken something essential between you—he would crack open entirely.

And there wouldn’t be any putting himself back together after that.

—

The bathroom door clicked closed behind him.

Megumi leaned heavily against it for a second, head bowed, breathing ragged.

He shed his clothes like they were burning him, stepping under the scalding spray without looking at himself in the mirror. The water pounded against his skin, steam curling up around him in thick, smothering clouds—but it did nothing to drown the ache rooted low in his gut.

He scrubbed at his hair, at his skin, trying to wash away the ghost of you—the sweet, clinging imprint of your body in his clothes, your voice still echoing inside his chest.

He couldn’t. He never would.

He twisted the tap off when the water ran cold and grabbed a towel, roughing it over his hair with more force than necessary. His body was tight with frustration—blood still hot and heavy in his veins, his cock stirring half-hard again at the memory of you in his kitchen, socked feet and sweet and his in ways you didn’t even understand.

He wrapped another towel low around his hips and shoved the door open—still toweling his hair dry, eyes half-closed—when he froze.

You were sitting on his bed. Waiting for him.

The comforter was twisted around you, your legs tucked under your body, a stubborn pout blooming on your mouth as you glared at the doorway like it had personally offended you. Your damp hair clung to your temples, messy and soft.

You looked... furious. Frustrated. And so heartbreakingly beautiful he thought he might actually fall to his knees.

Megumi’s brain short-circuited.

He stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, your gaze catching—and sticking—low on his body, on the way the towel around his hips barely hung there, still damp from the shower, clinging to the hard lines of his waist, the ridges of muscle cut low across his abdomen. Water still beaded at his throat, trailing down the tense lines of his chest.

You swallowed—visibly—your breath hitching.

And then—

The barest flicker of want flashed across your face—raw and unguarded and so blindingly obvious it punched the air from his lungs.

And when your eyes lifted again, locking onto his—

It was over.

His cock hardened instantly—painfully—straining against the towel, throbbing with brutal, humiliating urgency, blood flooding south so fast it left him dizzy.

You caught the movement—the twitch, the thickening at the front of the fabric—and your lips parted, your breath hitching almost silently, thighs pressing together instinctively where you sat on his bed.

Megumi’s whole body locked up.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air was thick, humming, heavy enough to drown in.

And in that frozen heartbeat— 

Megumi realized he was done.

There was no guarding himself anymore. No holding back. Not when you looked at him like you wanted him. Not when every trembling, uncertain beat of your heart was written across your face.

He was already drowning. He may as well let you pull him under.

—

He moved before he could think—before caution, before guilt, before anything but you existed in his blood. One step, then another, until he stood at the edge of the bed, the space between you crackling like a live wire.

You blinked up at him, your pout slipping into something softer—questioning, uncertain—but you didn’t move away. You didn’t run.

You just looked at him—chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, damp hair framing your face—waiting.

Megumi dropped the towel from his hips with a dull thud against the floor. There was no ceremony in it—no attempt to hide the way his cock strained heavy and flushed between his thighs, already leaking at the tip, already so hard it hurt. But he didn’t reach for you with it. He didn’t even touch it himself.

You stared—your breath catching sharply in your throat.

The scars were impossible to miss.

But they were there.

They would always be there.

And still—he was beautiful.

More beautiful than anything you’d ever seen.

You leaned back into the bed, your hands curling loosely into the sheets beside you—an unconscious invitation.

He, instead, reached for the hem of the t-shirt you wore—his shirt—curling his fingers carefully into the soft fabric, pausing just long enough for you to nod once, almost imperceptibly.

He peeled it up over your body, baring you inch by inch.

No bra, just smooth, warm skin—the soft swell of your breasts, the gentle slope of your waist. His hands trembled slightly where they brushed your sides, fighting the instinct to grab, to worship, to fall apart.

He tossed the shirt aside without looking, gaze locked on you like you were something sacred.

Then his hands slid lower—slow, reverent—tugging at the waistband of the sweats you’d borrowed.

You lifted your hips automatically, helping him, and the pants slid down easily, crumpling at your ankles. He knelt briefly, steadying himself with one hand on your calf, the other working to peel the fabric free.

That’s when he saw the socks still clinging to your feet.

A muscle ticked sharply in his jaw—something raw and restless flashing across his face.

He hated it—hated leaving anything between you. Hated the barrier of it, the wrongness of something so small when the rest of you was already laid bare before him.

He hooked his fingers into the cuffs, tugging them down carefully one at a time, leaving you completely naked in front of him. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows, watching him with wide eyes, your breath coming a little faster now.

Megumi sat back on his heels, dragging his gaze up the beautiful lines of your body—the soft curves, the warm flush blooming across your chest, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively under his stare.

That's when he noticed. You weren’t wearing panties.

You must have folded them away with your dress from last night—leaving yourself dressed only in him, in his scent, in his space.

It undid him.

He crawled up onto the bed, straddling your hips lightly, his hands bracing on either side of your head. His hair dripped faintly onto your skin, dark and wild across his forehead, casting shadows across his desperate, wrecked face.

He cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing your skin, his expression cracking wide open—reverent, starving.

"Need you," he rasped, voice raw, before crushing his mouth to yours.

The kiss was messy—desperate—all teeth and tongue and broken sounds.

You whimpered into him, arching helplessly, your hands flying up to fist into his still-damp hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything.

Megumi groaned low in his chest—a hungry, guttural sound—as he kissed you harder, tilting your head back, his mouth sliding hot and open against yours. He kissed you like he was drowning. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Fuck, baby," he gasped against your mouth, panting, "feel so good... so fucking good."

He kissed down your jawline, your throat, mapping every inch of skin with his lips, his teeth—hungry, possessive. His hands roamed greedily, skimming over your waist, your hips, your ribs—leaving nothing untouched.

"Mine," he whispered against your collarbone—low and rough and barely audible.

You shivered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard lines of muscle beneath your palms.

He worshipped your breasts next—kissing over the soft curves, mouthing at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, drawing gasps and helpless moans from your lips.

"Fuck," Megumi groaned, scraping his teeth lightly against sensitive skin, "could spend forever on you, pretty girl."

Your legs fell open without thinking, hips canting up against him, desperate for more friction, for more of him—anything he would give.

He kissed down your stomach—lingering over the dip of your navel, the soft curve of your hip bones—leaving open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs until you were shaking under him.

"So perfect," he muttered, voice hoarse, hot against your skin. "Gonna make you scream for me, baby. Gonna ruin you."

You whimpered—a broken, wrecked sound—and Megumi’s hands slid under your thighs, spreading you wider, lifting you toward his mouth.

You gasped softly as he bent down, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh, inhaling the clean, dizzying scent of your skin. He pressed another kiss higher, then another, slow and deliberate, until his nose brushed the tender crease where your thigh met your hip.

You were already wet—glistening faintly in the low light, the smell of you thick and sweet in the air between you.

And then he buried his mouth against you—tongue flattening against your soaked pussy, licking a slow, filthy stripe up your dripping folds. He groaned against you—the sound vibrating straight into your bones—and licked again, deeper, hungrier.

"You taste..." he muttered into your cunt, voice wrecked, "...fuck, baby, taste so fucking good... like you’re made for me."

You cried out, thighs trembling, head tossing back against the mattress as his mouth worked you open—his tongue fucking into you, circling your clit in devastating patterns that made your whole body shudder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, clutching, desperate for something to anchor you.

"Please," you gasped, voice wrecked, "Megumi—!”

You jerked, a soft, but he only held you steady—hands braced under your thighs, locking you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

"That's it," he rasped against your cunt. "Give it to me. Let me hear you."

His tongue was relentless—flicking, swirling, tracing maddening circles around your clit, dipping down to fuck into your dripping heat and back again. Every sound you made—every breathless little whimper, every shuddering gasp—sank into his blood, pulling him deeper, deeper.

He could have lived with his mouth between your thighs forever.

Could have drowned there, if you let him.

You moaned—high, broken—your hips grinding helplessly into his mouth as he licked you harder, faster, losing himself completely in you.

He rutted against the mattress without even thinking—humping slow, desperate circles against the sheets—chasing the friction he needed like a man starved.

Your fingers twisted into the sheets—into his hair—tugging, clutching, as your thighs trembled around his head.

And Megumi—God, Megumi—he was dizzy with it, overwhelmed by the taste of you, the heat of you, the desperate slick noises filling the air as he licked you messily, sloppily, building you higher and higher until—

You broke—with a soft, shattered cry. 

And when you came—when you sobbed his name and clutched his head between your thighs, trembling and wrecked—he followed.

Spilling hot against the mattress, undone by nothing but your taste, your sounds, your smell.

It was messy—his body locking up with the force of it—and it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

But he was wrung out. Hollowed. Broken open in a way he didn’t know how to survive.

He slumped forward with a low, exhausted groan, nuzzling his face against your bare hip, arms wrapping loosely around your waist like a lifeline.

You lay there stunned, your body still twitching with aftershocks, your hand falling instinctively to card through his messy, damp hair.

You could feel him trembling still—feel how hard he’d fought to hold himself together and how completely he’d lost, feel the weight of his exhaustion, his surrender.

Still, he didn’t try to fuck you. He didn’t even move to touch himself again—to maybe see if could go another round.

He just pressed closer—snuggling into your skin like he could crawl inside you and stay there forever.

You stared down at him, confusion flickering through the soft haze of afterglow.

Is this... how friends with benefits are supposed to work? you thought vaguely.

Just him... going down on me and falling asleep?

You didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand how he could be so... so selfless. So unguarded. So Megumi.

But you didn’t push it. Didn’t question it.

You just let your hand drift lower, tracing the broad span of his back—feeling the thick ridges of the scars that marred his ribs, sitting low under his pecs. Another one—brutal, ragged—slashed across his stomach, cutting from one hip to the other, just above his belly button.

You shivered—not from fear, but from memory.

The scars were old now—years healed—but they told stories you couldn’t forget. Stories of possession, of battles he almost didn’t survive.

Your hand hesitated briefly over his stomach, over the brutal scar left where Sukuna’s mouth had once gaped open.

Softly—almost reverently—you smoothed your fingers across it, feeling the uneven texture under your touch.

And when you lifted your gaze, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

You knew, if you squinted, you could probably still catch the faint ghost of the ones that had cradled his face—two pale shadows along his right temple, over his eye and along his cheekbone, another one just below his left eye—almost invisible now, healed under Shoko's careful hands.

But they were there. 

A ghost of the pain he carried.

A ghost of the boy he had been—and the man he had become.

You tucked the comforter up around his broad shoulders, cocooning both of you in warmth. He stirred slightly—a low, content hum rumbling against your skin—but didn’t wake.

And so you stayed there, tangled together, your fingers gently stroking along the scars and across his soft, dark hair.

Letting him rest. Letting yourself hold onto him, just a little longer.

Wrapped in him. Wrapped in something dangerously close to love.

© MANICPIXIEDREAMKIRA - do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

RagaPom fan kid when🥺?

Jk but I ADORE your art so much i might as well be called a believer of it 🙇‍♀️

Harlequin!Jesterdoll fankid - Anya!

I gotchu homie I should probably also clarify that the fankids aren't canon-

This is Anya, or Aanya Belle. She is Pomni and Ragatha's child, and is the second child puppet to ever grace the world. Quite possibly the most emotional one too, earning her the title "Little Sensitive Poppet". She's sweet and empathetic like Ragatha, but she doesn't have a temper. She instead inherited her harlequin mom's intense emotional reaction, but for other emotions. Her classification is a Mannequin.

She gets scared quite easily and ends up crying for hours, which made Jax give up a teddy bear he had been keeping near and dear to him. Aanya has been never seen without the teddy bear ever since.

Yes, to everyone's surprise, Jax is good with kids.

She has the largest sense of empathy out of anyone, a trait clearly inherited from Ragatha. So much so to the point that she's willing to abandon her "safety spot" (which is any furniture she can hide behind) and comfort you with her teddy bear if she so much as senses you're upset.

Her relationship with her half-brother was a little rocky at the start; Cade was overexcited over the idea of a new playmate (that wasn't Bubble) and kept wanting to bite her fingers off, and so had to be kept in his favorite box to calm him down, and make him get used to his new half-sister's presence. Soon enough, he learned to get along, and eventually, their sibling bond strengthened.

Cade would hug Anya if he notices that she's distressed (which is something that my irl baby brother does and I used it as inspo here) and would not hesitate to step in the big brother role to protect her if there's a threat.

He also attends her miniature tea parties, although for some reason he likes to stay in his box when the tea party commences. He never touches the teddy bear either, and even seems to want to avoid to touch it. Pomni thinks it's because he doesn't wanna end up ruining it.

When Cade turned six months, Ragatha started avoiding Caine, which made the puppetmaster confused. There were no more invites to tea parties, no more friendly talks, and no longer did Ragatha ask Caine if he had another vinyl she could listen to. All the more, Pomni looked extremely guilty everytime they would talk, and looked like she really wanted to tell Caine something.

Caine didn't prod at the girls' relationship, since he knows it's not exactly his concern/nor is it his business. But when one day that Pomni came rushing in to his office for help because Ragatha collapsed in pain, Caine wasted no time rushing to her aid.

Once all symptoms were described to him, he immediately managed to connect the dots that Ragatha's die was also housing two souls, and that it went on for so long, it was already starting to kill her off FOR GOOD. When the puppetmaster asked why she had kept it a secret, Ragatha admitted that she felt guilty; Cade was already in this world and that she had no right to have a child with Pomni, yet here it was.

Caine was immensely disappointed, but not because of the little soul's existence. Instead, he was upset that Ragatha would rather risk her very own life for something so non-trivial, and that the doll was freaking out over nothing. After an intense and dangerous procedure since the incomplete soul's grip onto Ragatha was stronger than Cade's was, Caine managed to extract and transfer the soul, but Ragatha remained unconscious for three moons because of the exertion it took.

He told Pomni to keep the die for now, and wait until Ragatha wakes up, so they can both decide whether they want to keep the little one or not. Pomni, guilt-ridden, questions why he's remained calm, and not exploded over the fact that she and Ragatha created a new existence without his permission, and Caine simply replies "Whoever told you that you both needed my blessing for it, needs their heads bashed in"

Eventually, Ragatha wakes up and apologizes to Caine for giving him so much trouble. The puppetmaster is quick to comfort the mannequin, and that he's relieved that Ragatha survived. He then reassures both Puppets that they didn't have to keep secrets like this from him out of shame, since their polyamory relationship was consensual from both parties in the first place. After a reconciliation, Caine asked the question: Will they keep the soul, or not?

They chose to keep it. And in only a few months thanks to Caine's prior knowledge, Anya was officially welcomed into the world.

[sunderwight]

TSCTIR-inspired SVSSS AU.

Shen Yuan was just a regular (ehhh kind of) nerd when the invasions began, monsters and dungeons started showing up, and people started "awakening" as RPG-style superheroes with special abilities, enhanced strength/speed/etc, and ranked classifications.

Shen Yuan's older brother awakens as S-classes. His younger sister awakens as an S-class. Shen Yuan?

F-class.

Of course, chronically ill Shen Yuan told himself he wasn't really expecting any different. But there have been people who have awakened as higher classes despite their own lifelong health problems or disabilities, and in many cases awakening cured them, and so he'd hoped...

Well. It doesn't matter what he'd hoped.

The worst part isn't even that he's not some badass dungeon-delver himself (even though he is wildly curious about all the strange monsters and beasts and demons that have been turning up), the worst part is that his siblings have all but left him in the dust. They aren't just busy, he can tell that they've increasingly been avoiding him, until virtually the only time they speak to him is when they catch him trying to go into a dungeon again and then yell at him about it.

(Of course, his siblings have been increasingly aware of the danger SY is in whenever he's in proximity to them, but no one ever accused the Shen family of having strong communication skills...)

Nonetheless, if there is some possible way for Shen Yuan to increase his rank, he won't find it staying at home. And there are too many mysteries to investigate to just keep himself out of it, even if that would be more sensible. So, Shen Yuan arranges to be on various low-level dungeon teams. Often among the more questionable, misguided ones being attempted by the newly-awakened or by people who are just desperate to try and get some kind of windfall. Dungeons are dangerous, but a lucky item drop can still make someone more money in a minute than they could otherwise earn in a year. It's through these jobs that Shen Yuan meets fellow F-class Shang Qinghua, whose motives for entering the dungeons are definitely more financial than academic.

This is also how Shen Yuan ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time, in a dungeon that has suddenly gone from low-level to a high-level boss, fleeing for his life. Just when it seems like he's about to become mincemeat, his older brother (Shen Jiu) shows up and takes on the dungeon boss. But it's too much for a lone S-class, even one as determined and vicious as SJ, and Shen Yuan can only watch in horror as his brother is killed by the terrifyingly powerful and weirdly beautiful Heavenly Demon Boss.

But the reason SY survived the initial assault, when no one else did, is thanks to his hidden ability. Which temporarily grants him the powers of anyone he has a bond with who has just died, x2. Previously, he had his bacon saved by Shang Qinghua's traumatic death, and when Shen Jiu dies, SY gains enough power to actually take down this mysterious Heavenly Demon boss.

It's a hollow victory. His brother is dead. His friend is dead. Even the boss monster seems inexplicably tragic to him somehow.

And why did SJ show up anyway? Between his siblings, Shen Yuan thought that his brother had grown the most distant from him, that he even hated him now! Why couldn't he have just... stayed away...?

Despite the traumatic horror of these events, killing the boss monster grants Shen Yuan a boon. It isn't a "raise people from the dead" boon, but it does permit time travel! In fact it seems kind of emphatic on that point, like something has gone really horribly wrong with reality and the world is struggling to hold itself together now somehow. Though that could also just be because Shen Yuan's world is struggling to hold itself together...?

Regardless, this new entity called "the system" refuses to let Shen Yuan go back to a point in time before he awakened, or before the dungeons appeared. But he can go back to a point before his brother died, which is definitely good enough. Accept, accept! Who has time to read the terms & conditions? Whatever it is he'll deal with it! Just send him as far back in time as he can go!

As such, Shen Yuan's memories are sent back five years in time. Along with him go a bunch of weird new unlocked abilities, and the system menu, which demands he fulfill certain tasks and complete certain quests as a stipulation of the time travel boon. Succeed, and he gets more rewards to help him keep himself and his loved ones alive. Fail, and he'll be rebooted back to the bad ending, except to the moment before the Heavenly Demon boss died but without any of his power boosts.

So maybe Shen Yuan should have read the fine print.

Though, even if he had, he still would have made the same choice.

Back five years in the past, he's got some thinking to do. Five years is a decent chunk of time. His siblings have both awoken, and begun distancing themselves from him, but their positions are still pretty different. Shen Jiu and his childhood friend Yue Qi had a falling-out over something (they wouldn't say what) at this point in time. Shen Jiu signed on with the Qiu Collective, one of the initial rich adventuring guilds that hired people to go into dungeons. But the Qiu Collective was corrupt even by the standards of a lot of dungeon-oriented corporations, and though Shen Yuan was never made privy to the details, he knew they mistreated Shen Jiu badly and that there were a lot of investigations. The collective ultimately went under when their office was destroyed by a rogue rampaging monster, after an undiscovered dungeon opened nearby. Dungeons that open but aren't found are especially dangerous, as the threat levels will steadily increase without anyone to clear them out, until the result is a dungeon break -- monsters escaping the dungeon and emerging in the normal world, causing havoc and Godzilla-style rampages.

According to the official reports, that was what caused the destruction of the Qiu Collective's head office and the death of their CEO.

Yue Qi, on the other hand, joined the Cang Qiong guild, which had fared a little better over the five year span. Yue Qi eventually even took over the guild, and after the Qiu Collective went under, Shen Jiu made up with him enough to join him there. Shen Yuan had hoped they would reconcile and maybe even answer some of his calls, but things remained strained between all of them even afterwards.

Shen Ying, his little sister, was sheltered and trained by their older brother until she was old enough to join Cang Qiong as well, but despite being S-rank, her youth and inexperience kept her more on the sidelines. Shen Yuan had thought they might bond over being kept out of the loop, but his last conversation with his sister had made it clear that as far as she was concerned, he was still world's away from her level.

(Read: Shen Ying told him he should keep away from dangerous things, was clumsy about it, and unwittingly fed some of Shen Yuan's worst insecurities.)

On top of that, though, was another consideration:

Luo Binghe.

Among the guilds that could rival Cang Qiong five years hence, the biggest one was Demon Path. Luo Binghe would start out as a member of Cang Qiong guild, recruited shortly after awakening. Shen Yuan had thought he was pretty cool, actually, but there was some bad blood between Luo Binghe and Shen Jiu, and it got bad enough that when Luo Binghe made his solo break he got Shen Jiu embroiled in some kind of legal investigation (something about the wrongful death of another guild member) on his way out. Demon Realm and Cang Qiong remained thoroughly at odds afterwards, and things only got worse when Demon Realm surpassed Cang Qiong's count of S-rank members, and conducted a successful merger with Huan Hua guild. That is, until Luo Binghe just mysteriously vanished altogether from the public eye.

Though Luo Binghe of course wasn't the dungeon boss that actually killed Shen Jiu, he had certainly been trying to destroy him before Shen Yuan reset the timeline.

But going five years back in time... Luo Binghe had been a prodigy, the youngest to become a guild leader. Five years hence, he'd be around twenty years old.

Which means that right now, thanks to the rewind, he is fourteen or fifteen years old and hasn't even awakened yet.

It would be possible to take him out of the equation altogether.

Then, there's Liu Qingge. An S-rank who died in a dungeon under suspicious circumstances, which provided the crux of the investigation into Shen Jiu. He and Shen Jiu had also never gotten along, although once again no one had confided the details to him. Shen Yuan refused to believe that his brother had actually murdered Liu Qingge, though. If Shen Jiu was going to murder someone he'd be a lot less obvious about it.

But it would probably be better if Liu Qingge didn't die at all.

Lastly, there's the matter of Shang Qinghua.

According to Shen Yuan's mental math, Shang Qinghua won't have awoken his abilities yet either. Five years into the future, extensive research and several regrettable moves on the part of various governments and guilds would reveal that even though it was supposedly impossible to increase someone's rank after awakening, how a person awoke their abilities could have a great deal of impact on their rank.

Shang Qinghua was a textbook example of a bad awakening. His skills were mostly oriented towards stealth and item drop bonuses, but his awakening had been violent, prompted by a shady center that promised people an avenue to adventure and riches only to use mortal terror to trigger the awakening process. Being in extreme danger would work fine for those with combat skills, but wasn't so good for everyone else. A lot of people had their awakening stunted by such early methods, which were not only a bad way to go about it but also traumatic to boot.

Shen Yuan has a suspicion that someone like Shang Qinghua would actually be incredibly valuable for stealth missions and item farming, if only he'd awoken at full potential. Instead, he'd struggled to make anything of his abilities due to his lack of durability or access to the kind of high-level items that would compensate for it.

Gathering all this foresight, Shen Yuan sets about altering the future to protect his siblings.

Step one: find Luo Binghe.

Shen Yuan's initial thought was to just kind of, nudge Luo Binghe towards something different from Cang Qiong altogether. Maybe if he started out with Huan Hua guild, he could contain all his trouble there. But when he finds him, Binghe is in a bad situation. The kid's living in foster care with abusive caretakers, his adoptive mother has recently died, and he's waiting tables and picking up trash instead of going to school. His clothes are threadbare, he's too skinny, and he looks like he's been beaten.

Between a rocky introduction and an attack from a Moon Python Rhinoceros thanks to a nearby dungeon break, Shen Yuan manages to convince Luo Binghe to hire him as his agent (fee = 0% of all Binghe's dungeon earnings plus 0% from contracts), and determinedly takes over. The System seems to wildly approve of it.

Creepy. And suspicious.

But Binghe is actually a total sweetheart, as it happens, to the point where Shen Yuan can't imagine what inspired the enmity between him and Shen Jiu. This kid truly is a diamond in the rough. He just needed a little help and some actual guidance, that's all!

With Binghe on the road to a less antagonistic fate, the next most chronologically urgent item on the list is Shang Qinghua. Shen Yuan has a new ability that lets him awaken people to their full potential, and his chosen guinea pig is his own formerly deceased bro. Somehow, awakening Shang Qinghua's abilities ends up involving a near-miss with rescuing him from debt collectors, and running into (and rescuing) the S-class Mobei Jun, who had joined Demon Realm as Luo Binghe's subordinate back in the original timeline.

It's actually quite fortuitous, though, because Shang Qinghua's treasure-hunter and stealth abilities are best suited to him being accompanied by a high-ranking hunter who can pick up the physical slack. Shen Yuan had been thinking that at least awakening Shang Qinghua as a D-rank would make him durable enough to handle some dungeons without turning to sketchy organizations for back-up, but with Mobei Jun, the ice prince can ferry the man right to the most valuable loot!

Shen Yuan's on a roll!

He discovers that some of his new abilities have utility as beast-taming skills, and tackles several dungeons successfully with the help of Luo Binghe, Shang Qinghua, and Mobei Jun. They even manage to rescue A-class Sha Hualing from a sticky situation, and Shen Yuan learns that his abilities can, in fact, help other awakened level up their own rank (previously believed impossible). With enough of his influence, Sha Hualing could become S-rank one day.

But of course, it can't be too easy.

When Shen Yuan moves to intervene with the dungeon break that wiped out the Qiu Collective, and seemed to start all the controversies against his brother, he instead finds that there is no dungeon at all. Yet, clearly some kind of attack on the building is underway.

He finds out why when he comes across his brother in a fugue state, murdering his way through his own guild.

Turns out, most S-ranks creep people out. Most average people can barely tolerate being around them even before they awaken. But afterwards? Their oppressive auras and sheer strength tend to trigger everyone's flight-or-fight reflex. Shen Yuan never noticed, because he's grown up surrounded by S-ranks his whole life. Even upon watching Shen Jiu kill the Qiu members, Shen Yuan's chief source of upset is that they were apparently treating his brother so badly that they inspired a murder spree from someone ordinarily much more calculating and clever than that.

Apparently, Shen Yuan should have been taking the opportunity to move against them a lot sooner, rather than just mitigating the whole supposed dungeon-break disaster and then investigating after. His own fault. He thought that keeping his distance would help his siblings, but clearly, letting them hoard their secrets and do whatever they think is best isn't the way to go either.

Does he even know what's really happening with his sister? Or to Yue Qi over at Cang Qiong? At this point in time, his friend had stopped contacting him altogether for several months in a row. When he came back, he was definitely more subdued and even more distant than he had been before. And that's the same guild that Shen Jiu and Shen Ying will eventually join as well, presumably with its own skeletons packed into the closet.

Shen Yuan's going to have to adjust a lot of his plans, it seems.

But first -- he's got a murder spree to help cover up, and an older brother to take home and, uh. Calm down. Or something?

Damn. Maybe Shen Jiu did kill Liu Qingge on purpose. He's going to have to thoroughly figure that situation out too, if he wants to handle it right...

[diejager]

Hi! I got the notification that your requests are open skjsjsjs so exciting, can you do something about the noodle dragon with Monster!Task Force 141 please? That would be all, thank you and have a nice day! ❤️✨

Cw: canon-typical violence, weird water magic, weird dragon/monster shit and lore, death, crash, tell me if I missed any.

They’d gotten used to you over the month, watching you prance around them like a graceful panther in hunt, stalking around them with that cheeky smile of yours and a clawed hand always ready to patch someone up. You were a might dragon, a warm to some classifications and an Asian one to others, but the consensus was that you weren’t one to be trifled with —as most dragons were, but if anything, you were so a feline in a body of a dragon than the ferocious monster you were. Always prowling and on guard, watchful and observant, aware of the events transpiring around you like a protective cat.

They took well to you, forgoing the paranoia and apprehension at your eagerness to help them and you openness, your long tail, hard scales protecting the thick cords of sinewy muscles curled ever so softly around them, and the tuff of fur tickling any naked piece of skin. And however tender and soft-hearted you were, they’d seen the dangerous part of you, the draconic one with a strange affinity to water rather than the destructive fire they were so familiar with. Whereas Price was a chaotic force, burning everything on his path and leaving nothing but cinder and ash, you were an unmoving force of water, a typhoon and cyclone that would crash the land and leave broken pieces of what remained, cold and drowned —the calm before the storm as people said, a perfect imagery of you.

Yet there was a lingering suspicion that it was all, that there was a more monstrous part of you hidden away from their eyes. Horangi had shared such thoughts - another mythical creature of sacredness and nobility - and showed them what hehad heard of eastern dragons: giant snake-like creatures with the faces of lions and crowns of graceful antlers, born with lustrous manes and hard but flexible scales that let them dance and twirl as they wished it. Destructive beauty, Horangihad mumbled, a creature who’s image is drawn to represent beauty and nobility. 

They knew, they were fully aware, that you had more to show, yet they couldn’t hold back the awe and amazement that followed the gut-deep fear and worry after they saw you fall, your figure shrinking as you plummeted into the dark and silent ocean, gone into the wide, open sea. Rather than seeing your head pop out, gasping for air while they clung to their straps and helicopter, Nikolai screaming through the comma about holding onto something, swirling left and right to avoid being hit a second time by the war ship, it was calm, a smooth plain growing in darkness, a shape forming beneath the veil of a blue ocean. 

Then, before they knew it, a majestic serpent erupted from the sea, wet scales gleaming under the sun while you rose into the sky in a spiral, white fur floating like you hadn’t just come out of water. You were swift, curling in the air, your magicworking it’s wonder when you flew, stubby arms and legs moving as if you were swimming, looping around them to shield them from being narrowly hit. It was as Horangi gushed, water rose and fell with you, tendrils of salty water reaching out to curl around you, rising high to swarm the enemy ship the same way you did, circling around it until it was left submerged, swallowed up by your hydromancy. You had drowned warship in the depth of the abyss, a dark and cold pit that promised a lonely death, forgotten and painful. You had caused the deaths of hundreds with a twirling dance, an alluring, yet deadly show, like an oleander.

You made no show of joining them in the aircraft, keeping your distance from them, adequate enough to protect them from further damage without becoming a danger to them. They - especially Price, since he had never seen an eastern dragon, only from files and catalogues - gawked, gazing at your head-sized eye, blinking owlishly at them with a narrowed eyes, slitted pupil gleaming with glee at their admiration. You purred, a growling rumble that shook your gills, a deep sound shuddering through them like thunder, low and booming, but it was a happy sound, meant to comfort them from the near sinking that you’d saved them from.

Even in this situation, where they’d been saved by you, you were still trying to comfort them and reassure them despite having taken a hit or two. They were glad Laswell found you.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird-kamakse @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce @sobbingnshtting

[arkham-dossiers]

Patient File: Edelgard von Hresvelg

This is a patient whose life has multiple outcomes, but only one root.

The root in question is that she is one of many children borne by Ionus von Hresvelg IX, the Emperor of Fodlan's Adrestrian Empire. During the first few years of Edelgard's life, she was instilled with a sense of imperial pride...and imperial responsibility. This on its own would be unremarkable given her circumstances, but said circumstances soon changed drastically. After an internal coup effectively removed Emperor Ionus from power beyond that of a figurehead, Edelgard and her siblings were locked in the palace dungeon and experimented upon by a shadowy collective of mages.

The cruelty of the experiments, which turned Edelgard's hair white and cut her natural lifespan in half, also caused her great psychological and emotional trauma, as did the suffering and eventual deaths of her siblings around her. As the only one to achieve the desired result of the mages' experiments, the ability to bear two Crests rather than just one, Edelgard holds massive survivor's guilt. All of this - in tandem with one of the few childhood memories prior to the experiments that she vaguely retained, where she was gifted a dagger by a relative and told to cut out her own path in life beyond what's expected of her - is what shaped Edelgard into who she is now and influenced the extreme actions she took.

In several timeline branches, Edelgard allies herself with the mages in order to serve their purpose while also scheming to betray them once she has obtained the requisite power and knowledge to efficiently do so. Living a double life as a student at the Garreg Mach Monastery's Officers Academy and as a masked terrorist known as the Flame Emperor, Edelgard manipulated her classmates and cut deals with criminals in order to bring instability to Fodlan, particularly the Church of Seiros that runs Garreg Mach and holds sway over most of Fodlan's society and governing bodies, with the end result being her as the newly crowned Emperor of Adrestria declaring war on the Church and its allies so that Fodlan may be united under the Adrestrian banner. In one timeline, she prevailed, while in others she was defeated and slain, although the results of the war still led to a changed Fodlan and a united government full of societal reforms.

In other timeline branches, however, Edelgard was able to betray the mages early on. As a result, she dropped the Flame Emperor guise and was instead able to manipulate the Church into acting as the aggressor toward Adrestria, now justifying a war in retaliation. Sometimes she prevailed, sometimes she didn't, and sometimes a compromise was reached, but in all cases she was able to survive.

What all of these timelines share in common is Edelgard's almost monomaniacal focus on her end goal: destroying both the Church of Seiros and the mages, and unifying Fodlan under the Adrestrian Empire so that it can be completely restructured for the better, abolishing the nobility and Crest system in favor of a meritocracy. In contrast to most warmongers, Edelgard has no intention of holding onto power. Once her end goal has been achieved, she plans on appointing a successor and stepping down to live out whatever years remain in her shortened life in peace. It's a peculiarly selfish brand of selflessness she has: ruthlessly forcing her will and ideals upon the population of Fodlan all so that they and future generations can reap the benefits rather than herself. She similarly rationalizes all the deaths her war causes this way: many will die, but if her reforms to Fodlan are put in place many more will live. There will be little chance of anyone else having to suffer the way she and her siblings did.

That is ultimately what Edelgard's motives boil down to: the desire to prevent future victims of what she was put through, by eliminating every factor that led to her suffering. The Church of Seiros, the system favoring bloodlines and the power of Crests that it perpetuates through its false gospel, the corrupt nobles, and of course the mages...Edelgard hates them all for what happened to her and her siblings, but she does not seek their demise out of a desire for vengeance. Having accepted what is done cannot be undone, Edelgard instead focuses on the future, with the past and even the present firmly pushed behind her. This is what grants her the ability to emotionally detach and repress even her own moral compass to an almost sociopathic degree in order to do what she believes is necessary. As she herself puts it: "My regret. My grief. My whole life. I've thrown it all away...into the darkness..." She is fully aware that others will see her as a villain for this, but she is willing to embrace that label so long as she can change Fodlan for the better.

Edelgard's greatest fear is forging personal attachments to others. Not only does she fear losing people she grows close to like she lost her siblings, but she fears being close to people will be a greater burden on her conscience, making her hesitate and second-guess the path she's taking even when she whole-heartedly feels it's a path she needs to stick to. In the worst case scenario, Edelgard isolates herself so much that she is consumed by her lack of self-love and her need to prevail by any means necessary, transforming herself into an inhuman monstrosity as a result. Conversely, in the best case scenarios, Edelgard discovers that being close to people willing to share her path with her and taking input from them even if it goes against what she believes is achievable and healthy, leading to her showing more emotion and vulnerability rather than stoically take on every burden by herself. This usually comes about through Byleth, the human avatar of the reincarnated Nabatean goddess Sothis.

Diagnosis: Taken on the whole, Edelgard appears to suffer from a frighteningly potent combination of post-traumatic stress disorder, high-functioning avoidant personality disorder, and mild dissociative tendencies. Her past is both everything and nothing to her simultaneously, having shaped her psychology even as said psychology centers around fixating upon the future at the expense of all else. Depending on what point of her life she's at, treatment and improvement is possible, although victims tragically unpreventable.

This patient is not dangerous if approached in peace.

[windvexer]

So you're worried about getting into spirit work because you might say the wrong thing and offend the spirits

[[YMMV; this is a UPG post, etc. Other spirit workers are welcome to include their own experiences, suggestions, or cautions :)]]

My take is straightforward. Each step is expanded below.

Do the research you can to understand the kind of spirits you're interacting with. If myth, lore, or folktale gives you rules/guidelines for interaction with that kind of spirit, follow them.

Whether or not you can do that (unknown kind of spirit; limited lore), always behave with your highest level of respect and manners.

If a spirit tells you its preferences or boundaries that contradict with their lore or your manners, prioritize the spirit's preferences.

If you make a mistake that causes offense, apologize and ask for another chance.

If a spirit is going to be an unforgiving vengeful jackass just because you make a mistake, maybe that guy just sucks and you shouldn't work with him.

Do the research

THE RESEARCH IS NOT TO FIGURE OUT IF THE SPIRIT IS 'GOOD' OR 'EVIL'.

The research is to understand if there are any expected acts of courtesy and hospitality when dealing with this category of spirit.

Spirits are not the stupidest guy you've ever met. They are likely to understand if you have taken the time to research appropriate means of hospitality.

It's like googling horse behavior before you go hang out on a farm for the summer. You read a story about how horses can kick. So they're evil?? Evil dangerous??? But also, they can be good friends and people even say they can be helpers... Then which is it? Are horses right-handed path or left-handed path?

The point is to gain a roadmap, if one is available, to understand appropriate behaviors during interaction. Like, don't stand behind the horse!

If you know the classification of spirit you're working with, trying to understand their cultural expectations is a sign of respect and can help you. Every once and a while there might be a really important rule that's outlined in lore, and if that exists, you'd be better off knowing it ahead of time.

Like, idk. Don't agree to a fiddle contest on a crossroads, you know? This is lore you should already have in your back pocket before you go to meet the Devil in Appalachia.

Always behave with highest respect and manners

This doesn't mean groveling, boot-licking, or worship.

Respect spirits as individuals. Do not ignore what they show you about themselves because you only think of them as cookie-cutter lore-clones.

Use manners.

As much as you can, try to think of your spirit encounters as being actual present-moment encounters with real beings.

If you see that your behavior seems to make a spirit withdraw or be uncomfortable, try pausing that behavior. If you see a spirit responds well to certain behavior, try using that more.

If you see that a spirit is getting frustrated with a behavior, do not keep doing it over and over again just because you heard that kind of spirit is supposed to like it.

Importantly, if you do end up accidentally upsetting a spirit you want to be able to say, "I'm sorry that I offended you, my action was meant to be one of respect."

You never want to be stuck saying, "wow, sorry that offended you. I guess I don't know what I was thinking, I just assumed you'd be more chill..."

Spirits are not the stupidest guy you've ever met. They understand if you are making an effort, or not. And making an effort can go a really long way.

In addition, I personally recommend that during spirit contact assume you saw and heard correctly, but don't immediately integrate what you perceived as being proven fact.

If a spirit tells you it's a dragon and you don't believe it, don't keep asking it what it is over and over. Like imagine that from their perspective. "What are you?" "A dragon." "...Can you tell me what you are?" "I'm a dragon." [takes three deep breaths, intense meditative focus] "Spirit, please reveal to me your nature; what might be called type, or species." "D R A G O N" "Can you describe your appearance to me? That would help me understan-- oh, I no longer sense a presence. I guess this was all in my head. I was right to have my doubts."

If you hear silly or nonsense names, are told unbelievable spirit types, or anything, assume you heard correctly. This does not mean you should assume the spirit is being honest or forthcoming, or that your psychism is flawless. Rather, roll with the punches - accept what you experience in the moment, and later on spend effort in discernment, testing ideas before you accept them as truth, fact, or beliefs.

Just don't demand the other person repeat themselves and then tell them to their faces you don't believe them.

If you did hear incorrectly, spirits can take their own steps towards correcting your understanding later on.

Assume spirits are individuals

Imagine making friends with a goth (!!), but you've never interacted with that kind of person before. So you go to WikiHow and read their helpful article, How To Be Friends With A Goth. It says that goths really enjoy listening to The Cure and having a collection of safety pins.

Because you want this relationship to work out, you invite your new goth friend over and put on The Cure.

"Do you mind if we listen to some Manson?" Anastazia asks you. "I'm not really into the older stuff."

You can't believe your hearing has failed you. You zoned out to the point where you actually thought a goth said they did not want to listen to The Cure. How embarrassing. However, you know what Anastazia really wants. Anastazia wants to listen to The Cure.

WikiHow said so.

Apologize and work it out

People worry about 'offending the spirits' as if that's the worst possible thing you could ever do. It is not.

I offend spirits sometimes. This is how it usually goes:

Me: [offensive action] Spirit: "Woah, that sucks. Don't do that, I didn't like it." Me: "Oh dang I'm sorry, I didn't realize it would go down like that. I'll remember how you feel and try to do better." Spirit: "Okay, thanks for not being a jerk about it. I gotta go now, let's talk later."

What's the worst case scenario, that the relationship will be irreparable? IRREPARABLE, because you accidentally said one wrong thing?

If your spirits are making you walk on eggshells, making you terrified to speak up or communicate because saying the wrong thing will make them lash out, give you the silent treatment, or put you in danger...

What would you tell your friend to do, if they were in that kind of relationship? I think you might offer them help to get out and find a new relationship where they are valued and respected.

Putting on my serious hat: If you do believe that spirits are inherently vengeful, heartless, or prone to abusive behaviors like harming you because you made a mistake, I encourage you to consider if spirit work is really a healthy choice for you at this time.

Maybe that guy really isn't just for you, you know?

A lot of people are really worried about saying something wrong. Like spirit work is that Squid Game of glass floors, and if you step on the wrong tile it'll shatter and spirits will drag you straight to hell.

Look - I know what the wrong things to say are. Here's a list to help you avoid stumbling into these pitfalls (not comprehensive):

"Fuck you, I'm God."

"You are now my slave. I bind you, worm. That's what you are to me. A worm."

"Hi, I choose you to be the one who gives me power and teaches me magic. I brought you a pretty rock to live in :) Get inside of it :)"

"Nice to meet you, I'm the new head bitch in charge of this forest. Go tell everyone else who the new boss is."

However if you choose to say the following sorts of things I think you're really playing it safe:

Nice to meet you, I'm really excited to be reaching out and I hope we can be friends.

I'm hoping to find a helper or a familiar who wants to be a part of my practice. Do you think that could be you?

I'm surprised that you take the appearance I associate with a European being, but we're in Idaho. Would it be correct to call you a Kelpie?

Thanks for joining me when I called out, but as it turns out your energy is way too intense for me. Is it possible for you to hold back your radiance? Otherwise I think we need to part ways.

I really can't Hear you at all, so would it be okay if I just gave you a nickname?

Nonetheless, if a guy does get really offended and demands that you self-flagellate to soothe his temper, then maybe he kind of just sucks and you shouldn't spend any more time with him.

You can be the nicest and most respectful person of all time, and some spirits will just never be happy.

If you think certain spirits are likely to be easily offended, don't reach out to them.

If you think all spirits are likely to be easily offended, that is another problem altogether.

If you don't know where to start, the following kinds of guys are often quite patient and easy to get along with:

Domesticated trees

Culinary or medicinal plant species (poisonous plants excluded)

Streams, lakes (rivers... maybe not so much, IME)

Clouds, rainbows, light rain

Breezes, joyful gusting winds

Fish

Air, atmosphere

Salt

Learn sorcerous skills to back you up during spirit work, behave with common sense and respect, and take your time getting to know new spirits. And I think you'll be okay.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 252

“Sir, we’ve… There’s been an encounter with a Reaper class entity.” 

There were several classifications for ecto-entities. Several ways the Ghost Investigation Ward classified each. Several common ones that they could easily destroy, easily study. Others however… others were dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. 

There’d only been two other Reaper-class entities confirmed before- both contained but barely. RP-1, a large knight-like entity seemingly made from shadows, and RP-2, a child-like creature that could near perfectly mimic a human. 

And now, there was a third. A third entity that could- and judging from the reports coming in had- killed. Had done so several times even. Which meant it needed to be contained yesterday. 

“Send out the teams- I want this thing in Site X Now!” 

[llyfrenfys]

I'd like to preface this with that this is a screenshot of a post I saw a few days ago in the #welsh tag and that the OP has since deleted this post, but the sentiment is something I'd like to address since I see a lot of parallels with this kind of thinking in other contexts, such as in LGBTQIA+ rights conversations.

So, the most obvious elephant in the room is the idea that Welsh is super widely spoken in Wales now and that it isn't in as much danger as other Celtic languages. This idea is wishful thinking at best and erases the very real danger that Welsh is in and that it could be lost just as easily as Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Cornish (which is related to Welsh) actually did die out and has had to be revived. To make a metaphor out of this, we classify languages on a scale of non-threatened to endangered in a similar way to how we classify species.

Here are the statuses of Welsh and Irish as of 2010 (above) and the statuses of Lions and Tigers (below).

On paper tigers are more 'in danger' than lions. But that does not mean that lions are suddenly not in danger at all. The little bracket above CR, EN and VU labels all of these classifications as threatened. It isn't (and definitely shouldn't) be a competition of 'who is most in danger' because you do not want the thing you care about (whether it be a species or a language) to be in danger.

To come back to the original screenshot "they* [Welsh speakers] have always had the means and the ways because the English didn't beat or slaughter them for speaking it"- on the most basic of levels, this is just incorrect. The Welsh Not was a wooden token hung around schoolchildren's necks if they spoke Welsh in school. If someone else spoke Welsh the Not would be hung around their neck. At the end of the school day, whoever was wearing the Not would be beaten and caned by their teachers. I needn't go into much detail but there have been concerted efforts to beat Welsh out of schoolchildren. With the lions vs tigers metaphor, making the claim Welsh speakers have never been beaten for speaking Welsh because they always had the means and ways, while Irish speakers were beaten and never had the means or ways is like claiming poachers have never shot lions, only tigers. Bottom line is, lions and tigers are both victim to poaching and both species have suffered as a result. Similarly, Welsh and Irish have both suffered language loss and both need conservation efforts in order to survive.

(*sidenote- the consistent use of 'them' and 'they' in the original post is definitely indicative of a 'us vs them' sentiment which is a deeply unhelpful attitude to have when it comes to endangered languages and the Celtic languages in particular)

I see parallels with LGBTQIA+ rights in this situation. When equal marriage came in for gay and lesbian couples in the UK in 2014, many allies began to act like gay rights had now been achieved and that gay issues had been done, they're solved. Except, they really weren't (and aren't). Progress has been made in Wales and undeniably Welsh is doing the best out of the living Celtic languages. But that doesn't mean Welsh has been saved or that full equality for Welsh speakers has been achieved. It very much hasn't. The sentiment of the post in the screenshot is not conducive to helping Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Putting down Welsh speakers and erasing Welsh-language history will not save Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Pretending Welsh has had it easy in some kind of lap of luxury is a deeply harmful and bogus claim.

I'll address the tags under the cut as this post is getting long.

To address the tags, personal feelings ≠ an accurate reading of a situation. Nor is it praxis, for that matter. Why is pride in Welsh different/less good than pride in Irish? Is it the assumed proximity to England? If so, that's a terrible claim to make. Not only that, but Scotland is also next to England- does that make pride in Scottish Gaelic the same as pride in Welsh according to this metric? It's a ludicrous thing to say and deeply insensitive to the needs of Scottish Gaelic and Welsh speakers, who cannot help any current or former proximity to England.

Additionally, proximity to England ≠ worse. I know it's a popular internet joke to hate on England because of English attempts to eradicate the Celtic languages, but when the joke becomes praxis, it does not help. England ≠ a place devoid of Celtic languages either. Many English counties near the Welsh border actually have communities of Welsh speakers, such as Oswestry (Croesoswallt) in Shropshire. Cornwall is also home to many speakers of revived Cornish. It does a disservice to Celtic speakers in England to insinuate that proximity to England taints or corrupts them somehow. This is how ethnonationalism starts and we ain't about that.

And "#it feels a little.... blehhhhh you were seen as sophisticated and english enough and you assimilated however the Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled". So, this is arguably one of the worst things to say about a Celtic language- or any threatened language in general. First of all, the 'you were seen as' - 'you' is very telling. The switch from 'them', 'they' to 'you' indicates that this sentiment is aimed at Welsh speakers directly. This was likely a subconscious thing that OP wasn't thinking about when they wrote this. But it does indicate unhealthy feelings of jealousy and bitterness unfairly directed at Welsh speakers, who are also struggling. This righteous anger at the decline of Irish and Scottish Gaelic would be better directed at efforts to help promote those languages- some useful things to get involved with are LearnGaelic, similar to DysguCymraeg but for Scottish Gaelic or supporting channels such as Irish channel TG4 by watching their programmes.

The idea that Welsh speakers were or are 'sophisticated and english enough' is insulting and carries with it a lot of baggage of how any of these assumptions came about. Welsh speakers were definitely not seen as sophisticated. Where Welsh was 'tolerated', it was treated as a curiosity, a relic of a bygone age. Classic museification which all Celtic languages and cultures suffer from as well. Welsh was not tolerated in any legal sense since 1535- with English becoming the only valid administrative language and the language of Welsh courts after England annexed Wales into its Kingdom. Monolingual Welsh speakers suddenly had no access to any legal representation, unless they learned English. This is no voluntary assimilation- it is an act of survival for many speakers of minoritised languages to 'assimilate' into the dominant culture, or else risk losing access to legal security and other kinds of infrastructure. You need only ask any non-native English speaker living in an Anglophone country what that process is like. Welsh people did not see English incursion as an opportunity to become 'sophisticated and english enough', they had to assimilate in order to survive.

The "Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled" is also painfully misrepresenting a very complex social and political process that unfolded over the span of hundreds of years. The phrasing itself of 'brutish animals that need to be culled' speaks to righteous anger at the damage done to these languages and cultures, but it reinforces negative stereotypes about the Irish and Scots themselves. It also is more complicated than a simple English hatred of anything non-Anglo, since the English conception of particularly the Irish changed a lot over the centuries. It was (and still is) rarely consistent with itself. See: the enemy is both strong and weak. The very earliest Celticists were by and large, Anglos or French.

Ernest Renan (1823-1892) for example, was an early French Celticist who published La Poésie des races celtiques (Poetry of the Celtic Races- English translation) in which he says:

"... we must search for the explanation of the chief features of the Celtic character. It has all the failings, and all the good qualities, of the solitary man; at once proud and timid, strong in feeling and feeble in action, at home free and unreserved, to the outside world awkward and embarrassed. It distrusts the foreigner, because it sees in him a being more refined than itself, who abuses its simplicity. Indifferent to the admiration of others, it asks only one thing, that it should be left to itself. It is before all else a domestic race, fitted for family life and fireside joys. In no other race has the bond of blood been stronger, or has it created more duties, or attached man to his fellow with so much breadth and depth"

Yeah. This guy (unsurprisingly) was a white supremacist. Note that this sentiment is being applied to all people considered Celtic by Renan- Irish, Welsh, Breton, Scottish, Cornish, Manx etc. None unscathed by the celtophobia of the day. In this period, Celticity was romanticised (yet disparaged at the same time). It is less 'brutish animals' and more 'archaic, time-frozen peoples' in this period. Of course, 'brutish animals' attitudes towards Celticity did still exist, but it is disingenuous to act as if it was this attitude alone which drove English celtophobia. Like many things, it is always more complicated and never clear cut as it might seem.

I'll bring this to a close shortly, but returning to OP's suggestion that the Welsh assimilated and the Scots and Irish did not, is also incorrect in that some Scots did have to assimilate to survive as well. The Statutes of Iona (1609) required Scottish Gaelic speaking Highland chiefs to send their sons away to be educated in Scots and/or English in Protestant schools. Many did as the statutes required, which led to further language loss in the Highlands of Scottish Gaelic. These are acts of survival- and not ones always taken willingly.

This has been a long post but it's one which I felt I wanted to address. There's no need for infighting between speakers of Celtic languages over who has it worse. There isn't any answer to that question, nor is it a good use of time or energy. All in all, the Celtic languages have suffered greatly over the years and its only just now that some of them are turning a corner. If you care about these languages, put your energy into something good. Only through active work will these languages be saved for generations to come.

[kiyosato-yuri]

I know we finally get a fricking pair ego from the same abnormalities from RyoFau but my nerd ass only wanna talk about the detail nobody wanna paid attention (such as the damn diseases)

Wall of text warning below ⚠️

_____________________

First of all, in medicine, when referring to a patient as α or β, the meaning depends on the specific medical context.

Example: Thalassemia (Inherited Blood Disorder)

α-thalassemia patients: Lack or have mutations in the genes responsible for producing α-globin chains, affecting hemoglobin.

β-thalassemia patients: Lack or have mutations in the genes responsible for producing β-globin chains, leading to more severe anemia.

➡ β-thalassemia is generally more severe, often requiring regular blood transfusions, while α-thalassemia can range from mild symptoms to fetal hydrops (severe anemia in fetuses).

---

Or Streptococcus Infection (Related to Immunity & Bacterial Infections)

α-streptococcus patients: Infected with alpha-hemolytic streptococci, which commonly cause mild conditions such as pharyngitis (sore throat) or endocarditis (heart valve infection).

β-streptococcus patients: Infected with beta-hemolytic streptococci, especially Group B (S. agalactiae), which can lead to pneumonia or severe neonatal infections.

➡ Beta-hemolytic streptococcus is more dangerous, as it can cause sepsis (blood infection) and meningitis.

---

Neurological & Psychological Aspects

Patients with dominant alpha waves: Tend to be in a relaxed state, with lower stress levels.

Patients with dominant beta waves: Are more alert but may also experience heightened anxiety or stress.

➡ People with high beta wave activity are more prone to anxiety and sleep disorders, while those with high alpha wave activity may drift into a dreamy or drowsy state.

Regarding sleep deprivation, it's well known that if a person stays awake for 3–5 days, both the brain and muscles will begin to deteriorate, leading to extreme exhaustion and eventual loss of consciousness.

---

Back to the ego Thoracalgia α & β – Classification of Chest Pain I already explained from the Ryoshu post

Thoracalgia α: Neuropathic pain without nerve compression, often caused by central nervous system disorders, spinal cord damage, or inflammatory conditions.

Examples include: Postherpetic neuralgia (nerve pain following shingles) Spinal diseases without visible compression

Thoracalgia β: Pain due to compression or mechanical injury, commonly seen in conditions such as:

Herniated discs, Rib fractures or injuries, Costochondritis (inflammation of rib cartilage)

➡ Alpha (α) pain is chronic, influenced by the autonomic nervous system and alpha waves (8–12 Hz), causing dull, persistent discomfort.

Beta (β) pain is acute, associated with beta waves (12–30 Hz), and tends to be sharp and intense.

And base from their passive icon its seem to be two different type of inhaler

Faust is a dry powder inhaler (DPI) and Ryoshu is metered dose inhaler (MDI).

Basically (and sum up) their passive, Shallow exhale and Deep inhale links into that with how they experience the pain from thoracalgia

[teapartyprincess4two]

Y/n and Matt get closer when it's just them 2 in the house, and i was thinking Fluff and Smut like a lot of Smut. Maybe Matt is a virgin but Y/n aint so she teaches him???

End of the World- M. Sturniolo

pairing: fem!reader x Matt

classification: Zombie Apocalypse AU, smut, fluff, angst/sad (kinda? Idk it’s a mix of everything)

inspiration: request^^

warnings: 18+, MDNI, set in modern day, use of y/n, literal sex, slight cursing, zombies & general apocalypse stuff (death, lnives, guns, killing, blood, hunger, dehydration, etc.), kinda long

summary: No one deserves to die a virgin, not even at the end of the world.

—

If anyone would’ve told you two years ago that you’d be huddled around the hood of a car, staring down at a worn out map, covered in blood, you would’ve called them crazy.

Two years ago your life was convenient. Now? Now life was simple, all you had to do was survive. All the things you wished would disappear; homework, bills, work, none of them mattered anymore. But they were easily replaced with an even greater burden, a zombie apocalypse and the end of the world.

Two years ago you wouldn’t have had even a spec of dirt under your fingernails, yet here you stand covered in blood that isn’t yours, weeks worth of dirt and grime, and sweat dripping down your forehead. Your hair is pulled back into a ponytail, exposing your shoulders to the harsh Texas heat and further working towards dehydrating you.

Two years ago you wouldn’t so much as hurt a fly. Now you wouldn’t think twice before pulling the trigger if it meant you had a chance at survival.

Two years ago you didn’t have to worry about where your next meal was coming from or if your bedroom was secure enough to sleep in. But the world has changed and so have you.

It’s been months since anyone in your group has had a good nights rest or a warm meal. All you’ve done is run from anything that threatens to harm you. Although you’ve all managed to set up a temporary moderately safe camp within the woods, it’s been difficult to stretch resources that are already scarce.

Food, water, clothing. These are all things that you wish you didn’t need. Why? Because leaving camp to retrieve them is dangerous. But, it’s been 2 days since your last run, and canned goods can only last so long, especially when there’s mouths to feed.

Chris uses his knife to point to an unmarked location on the map, “Nick and I will head south. I saw an old water tower in that direction when we passed through, maybe there’s a town nearby.” He uses the back of his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead before returning it back to the map, tracing the blade up a road.

“Matt and Y/n, you two try looking in this area. We haven’t checked there yet and if we’re lucky it hasn’t been completely ransacked. You might find something…” Chris pauses, taking a look at the group of people not far behind. They’re chatting, all of them wearing exhausted expression and filthy clothes. “…something to get the group through the next couple of days. We can’t stay here anymore, place is crawling with infected.”

Chris became the leader of your group easily. He had a great way of talking to people, of showing them that even though the world was ending, the glass was still half full.

“You want us to split up?” Nick whisper shouts, a clear alarm evident in his tone. “Remember what happened last time? We lost a third of the group!” Nick flails his arms in desperation, almost like he’s willing Chris to realize the stupidity of his actions.

Nick was reasonable and smart, but too kind for his own good. If he wanted to, he could’ve become the leader of your group and done just as good of a job as Chris, but Nick was too empathic to take on that responsibility. He felt the needs of the group and often was led more by emotion than by reason or logic.

“You think I don’t know that?!” Chris bites back.

You stand next to Matt, watching the argument unfold. This was typical for Nick and Chris, but it stressed you out every time.

“If we had more people, we wouldn’t have to split up. But we’re low on supplies and can’t wait around for food to magically appear,” Chris says.

“If we hadn’t split up the first time, we’d have more people,” Nick snarks, storming away. Chris groans, running his hand through his hair. This was much more responsibility than he could handle, but as the youngest, strongest members of your group it was up to you all to pull the heaviest weight.

“We’ll be fine. Y/n and I are always careful,” Matt finally chimes in, placing a firm hand on Chris’s shoulder to ease any tension. “Besides, that part of town is pretty deep into the woods. I doubt any infected will be lurking and if they are, Y/n’s good with a gun and I’m fast.”

“I’m fast too,” you chuckle, knowing that Matt is trying to make light of a dark situation.

“True. I just gotta be faster,” he replies, sending you a cheeky wink. You laugh, earning a small round of laughter from Chris and Matt in return.

Chris visibly relaxes, grateful that at least one of his brothers isn’t giving him a hard time. But truth be told, Matt didn’t agree with Chris’s plan, he was just smart enough to keep it to himself. He knew that doubt created fear, and once fear infected you, you were as good as dead.

That’s what Matt was good at, being quiet. It came in handy on runs like this, especially because he was so quick on his feet. It’s your favorite characteristic of his, he’s a good listener, he’s observant, and you know that you’ll be safe as long as Matt is with you.

“Alright. Let’s head out, we’re gonna lose the light,” Chris instructs, jogging in the opposite direction of the camp to begin loading up a few trucks with guns and ammo.

“You two can take the car.”

Matt mulls the idea over. A car would be faster, but definitely much louder. Noise attracts anything looking for its next meal, especially the infected, and with only you to cover him he’s not sure he’s willing to take that risk.

“Nah. We’re walking. The town’s not too far, we’ll make it back by tomorrow morning the latest,” Matt replies, tossing a rifle in your direction. You’re quick to catch it and just as quick to respond, “Are you sure? A car would get us there and back before dinner.”

He understands your concern, but he can’t risk losing you, not after all the losses he’s already suffered. “Just trust me,” he murmurs, the look in his eyes being enough to calm your nerves.

“Whatever you have to do, Matt. Just come back,” Chris says, slamming the trunk shut.

—

Leaves and dry grass crunch under your feet with every step. It’s late summer and the Texas heat has managed to kill everything left alive that wasn’t infected.

You’ve been walking for two hours, only running into a few infected on the way, managing to take them out with nothing but your blade. Matt hates using guns, in fact you’ve only seen him use them on very rare and necessary occasions. You never understood his apprehension, I mean it’s the end of the world for Christ’s sake, but you’ve never questioned him.

“Heads up,” Matt whispers, nodding his head in the direction of a gas station.

You follow his gaze. It seemed like an easy place to loot. Apart from the few rotted corpses that roamed the exterior, only parked cars litter the parking lot, most of them still connected to the gas pumps.

“We’ll go in through the back. There’s got to be dry storage there,” Matt says, crouching and leading you towards the back of the building. You hum in response, readying yourself with your weapon and following closely behind.

Your scent must carry because as soon as you’re within 10 feet of the infected, their attention is drawn to you. Their arms are limp at their sides and their walk is more of a stagger, but it always manages to get your blood pumping.

“Hurry!” Matt whisper shouts, reaching behind him for your hand. Soon he’s pulling you into the building, shutting it securely behind you and bringing his pointer finger up to his lips to instruct you to keep quiet.

“I’ll go left. You go right,” you mouth, beginning to walk the aisles of the store while ensuring to keep your back to the wall. Matt nods, perusing the aisles as best he can while his life is in immediate danger.

Infected bite and claw at the glass windows, snarling as they watch you and Matt like prey. Sometimes you wondered what their life was like before they were bit, but the second one is close enough to harm you, all sympathy leaves and you don’t think twice before unloading the clip.

When you’re sure the building is secure you put your knife away and grab a shopping basket, securing it in the pit of your elbow as you load it with as many supplies as you can. Chips, jerky, candy, canned food, oil, rags, water, any and everything you two can carry is being thrown into these baskets.

“How are gonna get all of this back?” You ask Matt, noticing the even greater pile he’s accumulated. He scratches his head, taking a look around for something that’ll help lighten the load.

From the corner of his eye he spots a few duffel bags. Matt grabs a few and motions for you to begin packing them with as much as possible. “If they get too heavy I’ll carry them.”

“Bet you wish we had a car now,” you chuckle, neatly organizing the duffel bags.

“Not when those things are staring back at me,” Matt says, shuddering as he looks behind his shoulder to see the group of infected that have pooled at the entrance of the building.

—

You’re carrying two duffel bags full of supplies, one weighing on either one of your shoulders. Matt’s holding three, two rest on his shoulders and he’s carrying the other in his hand. He holds the straps so tight that his knuckles have managed to turn white.

The both of you are exhausted from the strength you’re using to carry this supplies back to your camp, from the long trek up-hill, and the energy you exerted to take out at least a dozen infected.

You stumble on a rock, the weight on your shoulders making it difficult for you to fix your footing. “Hey, you okay?” Matt asks, examining you with his eyes.

“I’m fine. Just tired,” you wheeze, hunching over and supporting yourself with your hands on your knees.

Matt’s tired too, of course he is, but it’s not like you two can set up camp in the middle of nowhere while surrounded by infected. He remembers seeing a few houses further up the road, it’s not a long walk and if you can make it, you’ll be able to rest there until morning.

“C’mon I think I saw a neighborhood, just push through a little longer. We’ll rest there for tonight and pick back up in the morning, okay?”

He waits for you to catch your breath, rubbing your back and comforting you, but never once letting his guard down in case something gets a jump on him.

You take a deep breath, straightening up and adjusting the duffel bag’s straps on your shoulders.

“Okay.”

—

The walk to the neighborhood was much longer than you thought, and you were starting to wonder if you were lost.

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

Matt looks at you from behind his shoulder, subtly rolling his eyes before averting his gaze forward again. “You wanna lead the way, princess?”

The nickname makes you chuckle, mostly because you knew Matt used it when his mood was starting to sour and that only ever happened when he was hungry or tired. By the looks of it, he was starting to become both.

A small town comes into view just as you’re about to reply. It looks like you’ve stumbled across the Main Street, and as packed as it is with abandoned businesses and stores, a residential home is nowhere to be seen. “Didn’t I tell you I saw a town,” Matt snarks, a hint of sass laced in his tone.

You hum. “No. You said you saw a neighborhood. There isn’t a house anywhere to be seen. We might as well season ourselves for the damn infected to eat.”

A twig snaps in the distance. Your voices, although relatively quiet, have already worked towards alerting the undead of your presence.

“Shut up,” Matt grits, pulling you close to his body. You know better than to argue, instead pressing your back against his and unsheathing your knife.

Snarling and growling echoes through the town, bouncing off the buildings and making it difficult for you to pinpoint exactly what direction they’re coming from. That doesn’t stop Matt though, instead he uses the hand that isn’t holding a knife to grab your arm.

“Stay close,” he mouths, so inaudible that you almost don’t catch it. You nod your head, taking a fleeting look at your surroundings before following Matt through a back alley between a cafe and a gym (or what used to be a cafe and a gym).

The alley is a dead end, fenced off at the end with nothing but hungry zombies reaching through the metal rods in attempt to grab you. The old you would’ve screamed and cried for help, but you’ve learned to suppress your fear in order to survive.

You take a firm hold of your knife, stabbing it into the head of as many infected as you can. Quiet grunts emit from you and Matt as you clear the path, watching undead body after body hit the ground. For a second you feel sad, but only for a second. You don’t have time for trivial things such as emotions anymore, especially not when a trail of flesh eating monsters follows closely behind.

“Through here. C’mon,” Matt ushers, opening a door that leads into a gym. Although it’s safer than being stranded outside, the brick walls can only protect you for so long. You do a quick sweep of the room, looking for anything useful while also ensuring there aren’t any hidden surprises.

Once you’re sure it’s safe, you motion for Matt to follow you with a head tilt. He locks the door behind him, barricading it with an old elliptical before following you into the next room.

You enter a changing room, lined with showers and lockers that were sure to have at least one fresh pair of clothes. You set the heavy bags you’ve been carrying down, sighing with relief as you stretch your shoulders. Matt does the same, joining you in rummaging through the lockers for a new, clean shirt.

A lot of the clothes is tucked away in backpacks, most of it being unflattering male clothing, but you weren’t big on fashion nowadays. “Here. Found this for you,” Matt says, tossing a white tank top your way. You hold it up in the light, “Cute. Thanks.”

You’re about to change your shirt, without any real warning for Matt, so he quickly looks away and fixes his gaze on the shower heads and tiled walls. His hands fiddled with an unopened bar of soap he found in one of the lockers. Matt doesn’t know why he grabbed it, it’s not like he had access to running water, but a man could dream.

“I wonder if the showers work,” he thinks out loud.

You stand behind him, wearing only your bra and underwear as you wonder the same thing. God knows you could both use a shower right now. “Hmm,” you hum, tilting your head in wonder.

“Only one way to find out,” you shrug, pushing past Matt and sauntering over to the knob. You twist it quickly, patiently waiting for even a single drop of water.

Nothing, just groaning pipes and a slap in the face for naivety.

“Guess they don’t,” you say, standing under the shower head and looking at Matt with a sad smile. He chuckles, and just as he’s about to give up too, hot water spurts out abruptly, hitting the back of your head and running down your spine.

“Holy shit that’s hot!” You gasp. In all the excitement, Matt forgets how inappropriate it would be to join you in the shower under regular circumstances, and throws his clothes off. You’ve somehow already managed to remove your remaining clothing and have started scrubbing at your skin with your bare hands, letting the water run down your face.

“Matt! Hurry before it runs out!” You say, waving your hand behind you blindly. He doesn’t skip a beat, joining you under the shower head and letting it relax his sore, aching muscles. The water draws an audible groan from his lips, bringing you back to reality. You were naked and taking a shower with Matt, someone who was a stranger to you before the end of the world.

Suddenly, he remembers the bar of soap still in his hands and he accidentally takes in your naked figure as he opens it. His dick immediately rises, a clear indicator that he’s enjoying the view.

“Turn around,” he instructs, running the soap under the water and lathering his hands up. You do as your told, immediately feeling his fingers tangle themselves in your hair as he massages your scalp. It wasn’t necessarily an in depth hair wash routine, but it would suffice for now.

Soon, you’re turning around and rinsing the soap from your hair before reaching for the bar and instructing Matt to do the same.

“Here lemme get you now.” You shuffle behind him, tip toeing to reach better. Although it was odd and unexpected, you were glad to be sharing this moment with Matt.

The rest of the shower is silent as you and Matt bask in the warm water that runs down your bruised and battered bodies. You try keeping your limbs to yourselves, save for the brief moments Matt’s erect member brushes against your thigh or butt, but it’s hard when there’s only one shower head. You want to say something, mostly because you’ve had a crush on Matt from the moment you met him and his group, but you don’t. This isn’t about pleasure, not in this world at least. It’s about survival and the second you forget that, you get hurt.

“Haven’t felt that clean in years,” Matt chuckles, shoving a shirt over his head. The shower seems to have brought his spirits up, providing both of you with a new surge of energy. Little things like running water meant so much more now, especially when you’re trudging through highly forested areas and fighting for you life on the daily.

As you’re about to reply, a loud bang echoes through the locker room, followed by the sound of shuffling in your direction. You’re putting your pants on, buckling them quickly as you try to keep quiet. Your eyes are wide in fear and anticipation, watching Matt for a signal on what to do next.

He doesn’t say anything, instead grabbing the duffel bags from before and darting his eyes towards the exit. Your gun, which you hadn’t used at all today, rests in your hand. Matt holds his as well. He’s on guard, raising the weapon close to his face as he inspects the area.

You follow behind him trying to keep as quiet as possible, fully expecting him to shoot whatever lurks behind the wall. But, as you near the exit, you see it.

Tense shoulders relax, lowering your weapon and sheathing it back into your belt. A squirrel sits on the cement floor, grooming itself and chittering away. You want to approach it, maybe even pet it, but Matt stops you with a hand to your chest.

Unlike you, he’d inspected the entirety of the situation and didn’t let himself become distracted by the first cute animal that crossed his path. After recognizing that it was a squirrel, he wondered what could’ve lead it into the building in the first place, causing him to check the window it entered through. A reanimated corpse stood right outside the window, dragging its feet as it paced back and forth in search of the fluffy animal.

“Let’s go. We’re done here,” Matt ordered, pulling you back towards the exit. And just like that, you were off to find somewhere to sleep, leaving the fluffy animal to fend for itself.

“Bye little guy.”

—

“Forgot how quiet and boring the world is,” you huff, slumping down onto the worn out mattress. Whatever energy the shower provided you was now long gone. You and Matt walked for another hour before finding the initial neighborhood you were searching for. And, after that, you spent another hour finding the perfect house and clearing all its rooms.

“Quiet’s nice,” Matt replies with a soft groan, joining you on the mattress. It sinks with his weight, the coils creaking as he becomes comfortable.

“You’re just saying that cause you want me to shut up so you can fall asleep.” You kick your shoes off and unbuckle your belt, letting it fall to floor with a soft thud. A smile tugs at Matt’s lips. “Right now yes. But in general, quiet’s good. Means we’re safe,” he replies, toeing his own shoes off.

Matt shuts his eyes, fluffing the pillow under his head and willing himself to finally get a full nights rest. This house is safe. He secured all the rooms, barricaded the doors, and his weapon is on standby. He can finally rest and relax. But, of course, your mind begins to wander and when your mind wanders, your words follow. “Guess you’re right… But quiet also means you’re not learning anything about the people you care about.”

A deep breath causes Matt’s chest to rise and fall. He doesn’t understand why you’re trying to be all philosophical at the end of the world. Nonetheless, he responds, “I know you, Y/n. I know you’re strong, I know you’re a kind person, and I know you have my back. I also know you’re annoying, but I trust you and I learned all that from watching. Sometimes you just have to watch people. In quiet. Can we sleep now?” He turns onto his side facing away from you in hopes that you’ll drop the topic and fall asleep.

You stare at his back. “Those are all things you learned about me now. I was nothing like this back then.”

Matt takes another deep breath. It’s obvious you’re in the mood to talk, maybe because you finally feel safe enough to keep your voice anything above a whisper, so he decides just to give in and turn your monologue into actual dialogue.

“Back then?” He asks. Matt shuffles on the mattress, now staring at the ceiling as your eyes remain on him. “Yeah, before everything went to shit. Before the end of the stupid fucking world when the little things used to matter. You know, like first kisses and picking the perfect outfit for a date with a cute guy.”

Matt picks at his fingernails, listening to every word that escapes your lips. When you put it that way, he really didn’t know anything about you. “Okay, so tell me about yourself then. Pretend like we’re not in a strangers house, in a strangers room, on a strangers bed, and tell me all about Y/n… Before the ‘end of the stupid fucking world.’”

You chuckle, preparing yourself for the vulnerability you’re about to put on full display, but now that he’s put you on the spot it’s much harder than you thought.

“Okay so… you already know my name. Hmm. My favorite color is pink?”

Matt scoffs. “That’s the real you? C’mon, you can’t go on this whole tangent about how you were different before and then say THAT.”

“Fine fine.” You think for a second. “I was a waitress at a hotel bar. Mixing drinks was easy, the customers were nice, my coworkers made the job tolerable. Mostly only worked weekends because I was at school during the week… I went to UCLA. Go Bruins!,” you let out a breathy laugh, “My siblings were going to visit me that weekend, the weekend it all happened. They had planned the trip for a long time and finally were gonna make the drive.”

Your mind goes to a dark place, the only thing anchoring you being the hand that Matt places on yours. You clear your throat before continuing, “I had a small off campus apartment. Cleared the living room out and everything for them. Even deep cleaned.” Matt squeezes your hand.

“College was fun while it lasted. My parents worked really hard to send me off. They threw me a going away party and everything, even dressed up my dog as the school mascot,” a small pause as you recollect your thoughts, “I had a puppy named Pig. Well he wasn’t a puppy, more like an old fart, but the name suited him. Named him after my favorite animal and because he had the pinkest nose when he first adopted him.”

You feel yourself becoming increasingly sad as you reminisce on what once was. “You know what? Maybe quiet is nice,” you laugh solemnly, wiping the tears that are rolling down your face.

Matt offers you a warm smile, thinking of something, anything, to get you to smile again. But he can’t help it, he’s curious, and since you’re already on the topic he wants to pry further into your personal life. “What were you going to school for?”

“Engineering. I’m shit with numbers, but I was pretty undecided so my parents just chose for me. Brandon would help me a lot. He was really smart… really sweet… But enough about me, tell me about you. Who was Matt before all this?”

Matt ignores your question, instead posing one of his own. “Who’s Brandon? Was he your boyfriend?” He cringes slightly, both at his boldness and at his lack of awareness of your vulernable, emotional state, but his curiosity keeps getting the best of him.

You snort. “Brandon? God no. He was my best friend, sure, but I was definitely not his type. Plus, I never had time for anything serious. I made time for the fun stuff, but never the commitment.” Matt couldn’t hide the relief on his face even he tried. A relationship status meant nothing during a zombie apocalypse, yet he found himself relieved to know that your heart didn’t belong to another.

“I’m sure you had girls swarming you,” you continue jokingly, poking Matt’s sides with a teasing edge. He makes a noise, something between a groan and chuckle as he runs his hands down his face.

“I take that as a yes?”

He hums, remembering the short lived internet fame he shared with his triplet brothers before shit hit the fan. “Some would say that. If you consider subscribers and followers as swarming girls.”

You visibly cringe, “Oh God. Were you one of those thirst trappers? Bet you went to influencer parties and vlogged your morning routine.” Matt laughs loudly, a genuine laugh, one of the few you’ve heard from him since you met.

“Rent was due, okay?” He replies between laughter. Soon you’re both laughing, bodies clumsily bumping as you clutch your stomach and wipe away tears. Your bodies are impossibly close, closer than they should be on a queen sized mattress, and you only notice it once your laughter dies down.

Your eyes have locked with his and your noses even manage to graze. Neither of you make an effort to look away or even to apologize for invading the other’s space. Instead, you do the unthinkable, the one thing you didn’t allow yourself to even think about doing even when he was naked in front of you earlier. You kiss him. You lean forward and close the gap, moulding your lips onto his.

Matt doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate the kiss. His hands find a comfortable resting place on your upper thigh and lower back, using the little energy left in his body to pull you closer. One of your hands lays on his chest while the other gently weaves its way through his hair.

The kiss is sweet and innocent, and it could’ve been over by now, but because you’re both so touch starved you separate for air and dive right back in. You moan against his lips, caressing the side of his face your thumb before moving so you’re cradling his waist. Subconsciously, as if on instinct, you grind down onto him, wanting to feel and explore him further.

Matt wants to go further, and he knows you know it too, especially with the display he put on earlier in the shower, but he’s a virgin who’s afraid to disappoint. So, he pulls away from the kiss and holds your hips in place with strong hands.

“I— Give me a second,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut and gulping so hard his adam’s apple bobs up and down. Matt’s mind is racing, every possible outcome for this situation playing through his mind.

You sense his apprehension, plus it’s written all over his face. You never want to push his boundaries or make him uncomfortable. So, you do the only thing you can think to do. Quickly, you shuffle off of him and off the bed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I just thought— today in the shower— I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch.”

You begin to gather your things, leaving Matt dumbstruck as he stares between you and his raging erection. If he didn’t speak up now, you were going to get the wrong idea and he’d miss his chance at a shot with you. Your face is red hot with embarrassment.

“Wait.” He reaches out and grabs your hand, gently pulling you back down onto the mattress.

Matt prepares himself for the vulnerability he’s about to display. He’s nervous, embarrassed, scared, and to top it off you’re the hottest girl he’s ever seen. And it’s not just because you’re the only one left either.

“I’m a virgin.”

Your eyes blow open in shock. “But earlier you said about the? I just thought?” He laughs at your inability to form a coherent sentence, but he gets the gist.

“It was hard to trust people when I was famous, especially girls. I never knew if they truly liked me or just wanted to have my name associated with them for the clout. But it’s different now, I know I can trust you. We took a shower together without making it weird after scavenging through old worn out clothes to find something slightly newer than what we had. You’re covered in the blood of monsters we killed to keep each other safe. You’re here with me when I have nothing permanent or safe to offer.” Matt pulls you back onto his lap, sitting up against the bed frame so your torsos are parallel.

“I should’ve said this a long time ago, but it’s hard to find the time when you’re fighting for your life on the daily… I care about you, Y/n. A lot. I’m not sure what to call it yet, but I care about you and I trust you. I trust you enough to do this.” You’re touched by his words, feeling their effect on your heartstrings and your throbbing core.

“I trust you too, Matt. So much more than you’ll ever know.” In that moment those words felt more real than an ‘i love you’ ever could. Matt leans forwards and kisses you, holding you by the neck. This kiss is different than the one from before, it’s needier and laced with lust.

His hands travel towards your tank top, tugging until he successfully untucks the fabric. You pull away from the kiss and lift your arms, allowing Matt to remove your shirt in one swift motion. The smile on his face as you slowly begin roaming your hands all over his body is genuine, filled with admiration, love and lust.

Your fingers beginning slipping his flannel over his shoulders, your mouth falling down to his broad shoulders to pepper kisses on the skin there. Soon, you’re both removing the rest of your clothes and Matt’s excitement has him flipping you over on the old, worn mattress. He gawks at the sight beneath him. You lay there completely exposed with only the soft moonlight that trickles in through the blinds to illuminate your body. Matt takes it all in, relishing in your beauty like it’s the last time, because in this world it very well might be.

A gentle hand trails from his stomach down to his penis, tracing the outside of his cock and watching intently at the way Matt’s eyes screw shut in concentration. It’s been so long since he’s touched himself and the sight of you alone is enough for him to combust, but he pulls himself together. You trace your thumb over the slit, coating his member with the natural lubrication that’s already spilling out before dragging his cock along your folds. Matt’s breath hitches at the new sensation, you already feel so warm and soft, he doesn’t know how he’s meant to last even one second once he’s actually inside you.

“We can stop if you want to.” Matt gulps, shaking his head feverishly. He doesn’t want this to stop, he’d never want this to stop, even if it hasn’t even really started yet. “No,” his voice is choked, “don’t stop.”

Your lip is caught between your teeth as you continue to guide the tip to your entrance, finally unwrapping your fingers from around him and instead wrapping your legs around his waist. Finally, Matt moves, sinking his cock into you slowly until he’s completely bottomed out. The initial feeling is euphoric, so euphoric in fact that his arms wobble as he tried to keep himself from collapsing on you. You love seeing him like this. A strong man who’d do anything to protect you, so weak and vulnerable from your touch.

His head finds the place where your neck and shoulder meet, forehead resting in the divot there as he slowly begins thrusting. Soft grunts and groans brush against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. Praises fall from your own lips as his tip continues to kiss your cervix, egging him further in helping you reach your climax. But tonight was about him, as long as the man on top of you convulsed with pleasure you’d be happy.

Matt’s hips snap against yours, picking up the pace as he chases his orgasm. It’s so close, right on the edge, and from the way he sounds and feels you’re close too. “Keep going, Matt. Don’t stop,” you moan, pulling him in closer with your legs around his waist. Matt whimpers your name, sucking and biting on the skin of your neck harder with each passing thrust.

“I’m gonna cum,” he grunts, words choppy and interrupted by pants and moans. All you can do is whimper in return, snaking a hand between your bodies to rub your clit. As soon as your fingers touch the sensitive bundle of nerves, your body goes into overdrive. Your legs are shaking, pussy fluttering around his cock as you grip his shoulders and moan his name. The feeling of your walls pushing and pulling around him, mixed with the way you chant his name, pushes Matt over the edge. His hips tremble slightly as he spills his load inside of you, his inexperience making it to where he’s unable to pull out before the wave of pleasure washed over his body.

Your bodies remain intertwined for a while, both of you trying to catch your breath. Matt reluctantly pulls out of you, relishing in the way your body chases after him. The mattress dips as he slumps into the spot next to you.

“Thank you.”

You turn to face Matt, a confused look on your face. You’re not sure where this will lead your relationship, but you never expected a thank you after sex, nor had you ever received one.

“Thank you?” You chuckle, curious to where the conversation was heading.

He hums. “Yeah, for not letting me die a virgin.” You can’t help the snort that follows.

“Well in that case, I guess you’re welcome. No one deserves to die a virgin, not even at the end of the world.”

Matt smiles again, a sight you’ll never grow tired of. He leans in for a kiss, pulling you close and keeping you there. The kiss is sloppy, mostly because you’re both exhausted from the days events, but neither of you dare pull away. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring or if there will even be a tomorrow, all you know is that this moment right here is real and you’d like to enjoy it for as long as possible.

“Get some rest, we have a long trip tomorrow.”

—

MASTERLIST

A/n:

Thank you so much for this request my sweet anon. I’m currently rewatching (binging) TWD and needed to get some zombie apocalypse type story out of my system, so I hope you don’t mind that I used that idea on your request. Also, I know you requested for the reader to teach Matt and I didn’t include really any of that here. I focused on the whole Virgin!Matt aspect of it all. Hope you all enjoy, sorry for not writing a lot recently :P I’m deep in the trenches of Daryl Dixon fanfiction right now so if u need me, that’s where you’ll find me (if u can’t already tell by my reblogs lolol)

ps, I didn’t go to UCLA so if that’s not the mascot don’t kill me. A quick google search told me that much

luv u all xxx

- L.A.M.B 💗👼🏻

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[potatosapien5]

Meet Lycognathus(otherwise known as the spiderdog)! This small carnivore wanders the plains that grow between forest colonies, preying on a wide variety of both small and large ‘animals’(aka mobile heterotrophic organisms). This creature may be small, but it packs a powerful venom in its two intimidating fangs, which it uses mainly to dispatch prey, though it won’t hesitate to bite in defense if it feels threatened. This species is mainly solitary, but will occasionally hunt in pairs or engage in mobbing behavior when scavenging. Lycognathidae is a large and diverse class, but most lycognathids are small and nocturnal. 

This took way too long to do, I really need to work out a style that both looks nice and doesn’t consume an extreme amount of my time. Hopefully once I figure that out I’ll be on track to making more finished pieces faster! 

Detailed lore below here: 

The genus Lycognathus was one of the first mobile organisms on the fluffbugs’ planet to be named scientifically by humans. Several small species were named before, but they quickly became invalid when the Interspecific Cultural Exchange Act was passed. Within this act were the negotiations conducted with delegates from the fluffbug planet, who agreed that no official human designations for any living organisms (and also some non-living artifacts) could be assigned unless the people who live in the same region of an organism approve its designation. 

The fluffbugs did have a reason for this. They made the case that humanity couldn’t know if their taxonomic conventions would apply at all to a completely different planet, and that many organisms already have names, just ones unpronounceable to humans, along with cultural and religious significance, and so therefore ignoring these facts is tantamount to a violation of a people’s right to cultural heritage. 

Despite a few reservations, human scientists agreed, though still stressing the importance of classification in scientific research. Therefore, when necessary, a human science organization could propose a designation for approval of the fluffbug cultures and their delegates. 

Most organisms are referred to with rough translations of their native names, which ends up in names such as earthrazer(aka “the one who uproots the ground”). This system is flawed, but it has mostly succeeded in keeping relations between the two sophont species peaceful. 

Lycognathus was, as mentioned before, one of the first species to be approved. This isn’t to say the fluffbugs of the world(since lycognathids exist across all nearly all dry terrestrial regions of the planet) weren’t hesitant, but most didn’t have too much personal history with the clade. Several attempts were made to domesticate Lycognathus species specifically, and despite them having many tendencies that would make them prime candidates for hunting aids, all attempts failed, mainly due to the danger these species posed to anyone who wasn’t careful. It’s hard to want to keep around your new pet dog-spider after it kills your child in one bite.

Hopefully I can get into successful domestication cases soon, and talk about one of my favorite aspects of fluffbug culture. But for now, my wrists are hurting like crazy haha.