#I can’t tell if this was really long or if I just agonised over every sentence

[devil-doll13]

Graves of The Father

Tw: Angst, Horror, Death, Blood/Slight Gore, Implied Neglect/Abuse kinda?, Descriptions Of Corpses/Body Horrorish, like it gets a wee bit disgusting, Mentions of Birth, Religious Themes

Proceed With Caution!

I’m rather proud of this one, actually. It’s the most horror oriented fic i’ve made for Abigail yet. Some backstory/lore in here. A bit Lovecraftian but only a little. I’m still experimenting here lol.

Horror/Slasher Oc Writing For Abigail Williams

Basically a songfic, lyrics are in italics

Summary: Abigail & Her Father.

Dividers by firefly-dividers

Art by Takato Yamamoto

Sextons of the churchyard

Have seen unblessed things;

Ground no longer hallowed

Has sprouted new graves

Lucina Williams was found dead at 6:27, on a frosty November morning, in Salem, Massachusetts, in an old, weathered cemetery. She lay in the befouled hollow of an aged grave, her glassy eyes rolled back, convulsing in agony. And yet her face was twisted in an unnerving smile, disturbingly serene. She had died in a state of euphoric bliss. Happiness so unnatural, so completely grotesque, that her face had to be covered up in pictures; for the elderly gravekeeper’s state of mind. He had seen many awful things in his lifetime, but none so horrifying as this.

Lucy was buried in that very same churchyard. Her lonely grave untended to, unloved. No mourners or flowers were ever present, for she was disowned for some despicable deed the family would not speak of. Only that they were certain, absolutely so, that she had been taken in by the Devil; Lucy was pure evil.

The child she had given birth to, a pale, frightful specimen, was later christened Abigail. Her conception profane, her birth unnatural, her existence forbidden. A daughter of the grave, a creature born outside of God’s holy light. The wretched girl began her unfortunate life in shame. In the ever looming shadow of her mother’s sins, unable to redeem herself. A blight unto all; the final curse of a dying witch.

(The art of veneficium, Lucy learned from Him.)

Blasphemy made flesh. Ungodly freak, dark defiler. She poisons the family tree. The cuckoo in the nest. The snake in the grass. The fatal tumour.

The holy Father, not her Father, condemns her to eternal damnation, for rotten children do not deserve heaven. To plead for salvation is hopeless; there is no God who could give her purity back.

She simply should not exist.

(All of this, she has been told.)

Her family are repulsed by her, instinctively, but compelled by unknown forces to shelter her. They die one by one, at her unwilling command.

… But as a young girl she lives in merciful innocence. She knows not what she does, lost in her world of make believe. Strange yet wondrous creatures speak to her in the darkened night, as she dreams of flying amongst the glittering stars. Waving silver wands, casting magic spells. Dancing with dryads under the pale moonlight, enchanted by faeries; elven beings only she can see.

For if anyone were to turn their uncursed eye upon such abominations, madness would destroy them.

(Her older cousins, aged seven and eight, refused to speak of the incident. They refused to speak at all. Until death.)

Descendants of a clan

That usurped maternity

Hear whispers in their blood;

This summons of their fathers.

In a loveless home, she yearns for love, as all God’s children do. But cold hearts yield only emptiness, and hateful whispers spur her on to look elsewhere.

The graveyard beckons, begs her to draw closer. An almost desperate compulsion. Homesickness. As she walks amongst decaying tombstones, she hears ghostly whispers call out, and feels wraithlike fingers comb through her hair. A spectral voice cries out for sweet nourishment; she offers it her milk to pacify.

There, in the dark recesses of the churchyard’s ancient yew tree, she begs for comfort. She lies coiled as foul, egg despoiling serpent.

(As in the garden of Eden, she is the great deceiver.)

Inside she feels the thrum of an old God’s heartbeat. It exactly mirrors her own; an inherited resonance.

So powerful is this connection, she sees in her mind’s eye the unearthly form of the Father. The yew tree His outstretched hand, their gnarled, malformed branches His fingers, toxic sap His blood, unending roots His veins from which His dark ichor pulsates.

Her fingers trace the ancient bark, recounting primordial treelore. Her blood stirs with eldritch knowledge. Visions echo from another world far back behind her eyelids and inside her mind, as the Father summons her from deep below.

(Far from God’s condemning eye.)

“Forgive me Father

For I know not what I do;

My grave beckons

As irresistible as drawing breath.”

In the old yew she sleeps and dreams of His majesty. The Underworld, home of the blessed dead. Outside of this mundane plane of existence, his shadowy domain. It is a labyrinth of catacombs, endless and unfathomable. It eternally devours itself, serpentine; the cycle of life and death unfolding. Forever.

She peers into the gaping maw of Hades, in which the Great Gravekeeper resides. He sits upon a throne of misshapen yew, a monstrosity of wood and decayed flesh, and He is wreathed in bloodsoaked thorns and cloaked in an abyssal shroud. Atop His massive head rests His magnificent Crown of Horns.

The spirits of the departed kneel before Him in worshipful devotion, their servile offerings reek foul miasma. They chant in feverish orations, invoking His accursed epithet:

(Father of The Graves. None So Vile.)

His true name is unspeakable in human tongue, yet it throbs deeply in her soul, as familiar as her own.

His countless reptilian eyes turn to watch her in curious amusement. Her body shivers, an instinctive fear. The Father observes His daughter, and in recognition, He reaches out an ashy, skeletal hand for her to grasp. It is kindly, almost gentle. Loving.

… But every time she awakes in tormented screams. Her mortal brain is seized by otherworldly forces. Inside her witchblood boils with poison. She feels unbearably empty. The hollowness is agonising; she does not belong here. But there, by her Father’s side.

(And yet, she serves a purpose here, for He would not create without reason. Between life and death, she acts as His median emissary.)

Nature abhors a vacuum

The same is true to a tomb…

A vacant grave must be filled,

For this the Father’s will.

On Hallowe’en, she prepares for the welcoming feast.

The chosen victim lies screaming on the altar, gutted in ritual sacrifice. Arterial blood fills the chalice, spilling onto her conjuring sigil. A sickly green cloud of smoke emanates from within; The Dark Ones are appeased. She murmurs incantations, praying in an eldritch language. Her Father’s tongue.

Another shrill shriek of pain fills the air as she continues the disembowelment. Unflinching, she rips through soft flesh; carving out her choicest cuts. They cry and beg her to stop, to please god stop and oh god please stop like a bleating, pathetic lamb.

(“Be quiet.” She hisses. She must have silence.)

Candles flicker, wavering in the late October wind. Thunder cracks the livid sky, wild forks of lightning split across a hellish landscape of her own design. Acid rain floods a barren wasteland, corrupting the once fertile soil and disintegrating crops to dust. There is no escape. Under His reign, all will wither.

A gaping chest wound as she extracts the heart, relishing in the final cry of a slaughtered pig. For a moment she holds it, admiring the coveted organ. Dark, warm rivulets of blood flow across her palms and through her fingers. Pure and untainted. So unlike her own.

The first time she has killed with her own hands.

(It felt good to be cruel. To eat her guilt and shame.)

She turns back to her altar, prepares the sacrament:

A black box, dripping vile fluids; her phylactery. Her shadowed grimoire, bound in dark, hard leather. Nightshade, hemlock, aconite. An hourglass of ash, pilfered from a funeral urn. An assortment of bones, human and animal. Her ritual sickle, seeped in gore and entwined in snakeskin. Objects of witchcraft.

Now joined by the heart, lungs, stomach, the entrails, the severed head and the tormented soul. All them are hers now. Her cabalistic hoard. Madness overtakes her then. It spikes in her brain like fever. She grasps the overflowing cup of blood with one pale, bony hand. And, with a decadent sigh, tips it into her open mouth. It trickles slowly into her throat. She swallows it. It tastes like copper, like iron, like death; a flavour gone sweetly rancid.

(She is without mercy. Without compassion. The Father’s will is absolute. She will sow the bitter seeds of His funeral empire and be rewarded in death.)

Sired in blasphemy

In nocturnal obeisance to rotted hearts

Filled with necrolatry

Reverse the life cycle, be reborn through death

Now the time has come. She must reap her harvest.

Autumn’s frost bites her face. A deathly chill pierces her bones, but she does not shiver. She is serene, so oddly calm in her unraveling mind. Twisted, maligned branches of the old yew tree find her again and guide her to the cobwebbed graveyard.

Under the midnight sky, the tombstones appear as a sea of desolate grey waves, blanketed in fog like a funeral shroud. In that misty gloom, she walks amidst weeping spirits. They reach out with icy phantom limbs, offering up sepulchral hymns to their unholy lich mistress, they plead for their salvation; to be granted life once again.

(For the first time she will answer their prayers.)

Tonight, she will pervert life’s sacred order. Tonight, she will defy the righteous fury of God. Tonight, the Father’s will is to be carried out, as the once dead shall be reborn from the womb of the earth and usurp the living. By His will. By her will.

A moment of silence as she contemplates the vastness of her actions now, the end result of a perfect tantrum. She remembers all the faces turned away, all that would sneer at her demise. All of the fear, disgust and hatred, eyes seething and spiteful. Their eyes. Her eyes.

Blackened slivers of ichor drip from her sickle. Her own blood, her venom. So impure, so violently cancerous. It taints the consecrated land below. Theirs. Hers.

(Its blade reflects the moonlight, pale and haunting.)

And so from her lips spills a forbidden spell. Her cursed blood is absorbed into putrid grass, where it slowly coagulates into an obsidian snake. It slithers downward, downward, downward, into the many awaiting, hungry mouths of a thousand corpses.

From below an eerie moan. Singular, then multiplied. A foul odour wafts through the air as the tombs unseal, dark fog swirling in a shadowy haze. The Underworld exhale, from the filth they emerge:

Undead victims of plague, riddled with disease, lift their filthy, maggot-infested bodies from the infected earth. A writhing mass of baleful poxflesh, leaking yellowed pus and choked with vomit. Frenzied, murderous abominations scream in rage and bloodlust, tearing apart coffin lid and shattering tombstone to dust. Withered and shambling corpses groan in despair, ravenous victims of starvation. Their mortal hunger torments them still. They salivate and froth desperately at the mouth, crying in their desire to consume flesh and suck marrow from bone; to devour utterly. The drowned are bloated, soaked in embalming fluids. Their skin is cold and their lips are blue. They are still. Lifeless, glassy eyes stare up at the evil moon. Frozen. Possessed.

(Pestilence. War. Famine. Death.)

Observing her resurrected horde, she is filled with an intense feeling of power. It is intoxicating, so alluring. She reaches up an outstretched hand, as the malevolent puppet master, and they are forced to dance for her on invisible strings. Her magic binds their souls in eternal undying servitude. Pawns of her twisted vision, ensnared in her web, bewitched by her black sorcery. They shall all be as one. Necromantic slaves. Forever in her chains.

The Witching Hour bell tolls, thirteen times, as it did on the eve of her birth. The dead surround her in undivine mass; their vile priestess. They lift her onto many decrepit, rotted shoulders, and upon her head they crown a wreath of thorns, a halo of briar and sin. Her face is white, vacant. She no longer feels pain.

Infernal legions rise. Under her command, they begin their dread march. Onward, towards the apocalypse.

(No regrets. No going back. The end has begun.)

Her tears flow freely now, her body numb with cold. She recites in hushed whispers a final invocation, one final goodbye:

“Forgive me Father,

For I know not what I do;

I leave a void to fill one,

Hear my prayers from far below…”

Once I finally get around to writing that backstory fic it’ll add more context to this one. Thanks for reading!

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @the-pinstriped-hood, @goldrose-star, @soupbabe, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @solmints-messyocdiary)

[spacemagicandlaserswords]

The Clone Wars 4.09 ‘Plan of Dissent’ Reaction Take 2

I think out of all of the episodes from the Umbara arc, this is my favourite. If it’s possible to have a favourite with everything that happens. There’s so much of the clones themselves in this episode. So much of their interactions and personalities and characteristics and lives.

Hello to Fives' very nice thighs and crotch. There’s just something about a clone lying on their back, legs splayed, knee bent, as they do mechanical work on the underneath of a ship. Insert your own references to the 2 nickels meme here. Also inserting the gif of Tech doing the exact same thing because I can.

There are definitely moments where Fives voice gets husky and it is very nice. I am not complaining at all.

Obi-Wan is looking rather boxy there

Krell completely changes when he’s talking to someone with equal or more power than him. Slimy bastard.

I know they mean arms as in weapons but every time they say ‘arm’ all can picture is crates full of actual arms.

That tiny head shake from Rex. He is so done.

Ugh that look up from Rex. Ugh.

Ahahahaha it definitely looks like Fives is about to burst into an earnest and deeply emotional ballad in the music video as part of his 90s boy band. So, the important questions are: Who are the rest of the members of this clone boy band? And what is their name? These things, I must know them.

Look at Rex’s big beautiful brown eyes there

Paused the episode only to realise Jesse has an exclamation mark on the front of his chest plate.

Tup waving his space screwdriver grabby thingy around to make his point. I think it’s a calliper? It looks similar to the one Tech has on his belt or in one of his 2000 pockets. Just noticed Tup has the same hairline as Tech too.

“I do think his desire for victory has blinded him to the fact that there are lives at stake. I’ve never seen a General with these kind of casualties.” – I love this moment from Jesse. Especially because he doesn’t go after Dogma, he just calmly but firmly points out what isn’t right about this situation. The adorable nose scrunch is also out in full force.

“I don’t have a better plan.” Rex, you always have a better plan

Fives: Why don’t we just do the same thing we did before!

Lmao Fives’ little chaos face as he explains his plan

Gif by @nickleister from this glorious post

REX THIGH

That ‘do it’ from Rex was very Palpatine of him

“Yeah, he wasn’t really flying. More like avoiding crashing.” Tup going for the jugular there

Omg that was not subtle at all. “What’s going on?” “Eh, nothing.” *awkward*

Oh, Rex and Fives are fighting. That line from Fives about them all being not just another number really hit home too.

I know this is supposed to be a serious moment and all that but omg Fives is built like an absolute unit. Boy is thicc.

Well this is going well. Fives, why are you standing underneath the fighter that Hardcase is barely able to control?

Fives: Hardcase, what are you doing?! Hardcase: If I knew, I wouldn’t be doing it! CACKLING

Who's the random clone helping out Fives and Hardcase? They’ve got different paint but I can’t tell who they are.

“Great, this can’t get much worse” Well now you’ve gone and jinxed it

Oh, so that’s where that shot of Fives standing there comes from. Who knew the absolute chaos that was going on behind as Fives stands there looking all gorgeous.

Fives: “Nothing’s out of control down here.” Hardcase: *actively destroying everything*

Omg the absolutely over the top agonised full eye and body roll that Fives gives while he draws out a long “Uh” to try and come up with a cover story for what they’re doing. 

That has got to be a homage or reference to Han Solo doing basically the same thing in A New Hope.

“That’s gonna leave a mark.” Hardcase, you just melted the door!

“No harm done.” Says Hardcase, standing amongst the ruin he has just created

Absolutely losing it at Hardcase’s cover story for what they were getting up to. To be fair to him, he actually sold it fairly well and it was a decently believable cover story to come up with on the spot. Fives, on the other hand, cannot lie to save himself. Rex is not falling for his bullshit one bit.

Aaaaaaaaaah Hardcase’s little wiggly sneaky fingers. You utterly adorable dork. He looks so pleased with his idea at the end too. It’s the best idea guys!

Hardcase is in. He wants chaos.

Anakin telling Fives that the trick to taking out a control ship is to hit the main reactor from the inside? Well that’s totally not going to come back and bite him in his shiny black asthmatic arse in approximately 20 cycles or so. 

Jesse and Hardcase’s doubtful scrunched up faces as the listen to Fives’ “plan” are utterly adorable

"I can’t help you, when you get caught." — That exchange between Fives and Rex definitely sounds like Rex has put up Fives’ crazy bullshit before. And you can tell how much Rex cares and knows this is the right thing to do yet he’s stuck and he can’t do anything to help them or protect them when the shit hits the fan.

If those fighters are supposed to be locked down, then why are they conveniently sitting outside?

I found this scene of Dogma and Tup in the barracks really uncomfortable. I’ve been trying to reserve judgement on Dogma and not be so harsh on him because I know what happens in the end and he seems like a fan favourite. But it really felt like he was bullying Tup into snitching on Fives, Jesse and Hardcase. I don’t know what Dogma and Tup’s connection to each other is. They seem fairly close so I’m going with close or best friends, if not batch mates. I know Dogma thinks he’s doing the right thing (I know, please don’t come at me) but it felt really uncomfortable watching him bully his best friend/batch mate and vod into doing what he wanted. I think I’m reacting to this so much because I relate to Tup so much. The constant anxious worry. Being bullied and peer pressured into doing things you don’t want to do (hello school trauma). Out of everything that has happened, and a lot of truly awful things happen in this arc, it felt like this was the worst thing Dogma did. Even if he didn’t mean it, that doesn’t excuse it. 

Paused the episode at the start of the next scene and Rex is standing there in the dark looking down at his datapad and fuck me is he a tall glass of water.

The look on Rex’s face when he sees Fives, Jesse and Hardcase fly off in the fighters! I mentioned this in my first reaction post but man, is that a multi-layered expression. Deep long suffering at putting up with their bullshit. Admiration and respect that the crazy bastards went and did it. Worry and concern about what they’re about to do and how they’re all going to deal with the fall out. And probably a bit of satisfaction and amusement that it’s going to piss off Krell.

“I’m just doing it for fun!” Hardcase knows what he’s about

Well that’s a shit fight

Is that a blimp?

Fives, telling Hardcase not to get an itchy trigger finger is like telling you not to be a chaotic little shit. Utterly pointless

Omg the supply ship is even sphere shaped, just with a giant rectangle in the middle. It’s just a B-grade Death Star.

“I’m sure the report will make your strategy more effective.” Rex you sly bastard

So I know everyone says clones can’t lie to save themselves but Rex was pretty damn believable right there, covering for Fives, Jesse and Hardcase. It didn’t feel like a cover story that was made up on the spot either, so Rex had to have come up with it already. He knew they were going to go off on their own hair brained mission, and, even though he was disagreeing with Fives, he still came up with a way to cover for them and protect them as best he could. So he’s bloody smart and cares deeply too. Ugh, I love him so much.

Rex running interference for Fives, Jesse and Hardcase

“Regarding, what?” CACKLING

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” asdf;lkj why are you so badass. Though it does feel sad that all of this has started to pit the clones against each other. And doesn’t that come back in an even worse way later on.

Oh look, it’s a trench run to a reactor! I wonder where we’ve seen this before!

That tactical droid didn’t consider Fives in his equations

Oh man as soon as Hardcase’s fighter got hit, that was the moment you knew he wasn’t coming back. 

That gesture Fives made to stop his fighter made him look like he was using the Force

Nooooo Hardcase what are you doing

“This is for the 501st. Don’t wait for me.” *sobs*

Hardcase calls Fives sir. Again, I am baffled as to what the rank system is here, though I’m assuming ARC Troopers are at least above standard clone troopers in some way?

“If I know Hardcase, we better leave.” That speaks to a lot of experience with Hardcase making things going boom

“Live to fight another day.” Dammit now I can’t see the screen through the tears. Hardcase had a little happy smile on his face too.

Guys, you only blew up half of it! Though I should imagine the rest of it went up too.

That smirk from Rex. He knew.

Very interesting that Tup’s here with Rex. I wonder if Rex took him aside after intercepting him and Dogma or if Tup came to Rex.

It’s a tiny moment but Fives jumps out of the fighter and there’s a shot of his feet and legs landing on the ground and his kama is swooshing around his legs looking all badass

Rex’s look of concern when he sees only Fives and Jesse. He knew.

Oh Hardcase

It’s an equally blink and you’ll miss it moment but this is where that gif of Rex glaring over his shoulder comes from. I think this is going to be like the “On your knees” moment for me. Definitely hot in isolation but now knowing that Fives and Jesse just told Rex and Tup that Hardcase died, it’s going to take me a while to separate what’s happening in the moment from the hot glare.

Rex trying to take the blame for Fives and Jesse and then Fives refusing to accept this and making sure Rex and Jesse don’t get hurt and the agonised way Rex says “Fives!” and Jesse’s worried expression the whole time and just aaaaaaaaaaah *pained noises*

“Oh, do you?” I hate Krell even more. Piss off you overblown bullfrog

Being executed for disobeying orders seems way too steep. I could understand being reprimanded but shooting someone because they didn’t do what they were told? At least Krell gets what’s coming from him in the end.

[babybatss-blog]

FOR YOU

Abigail (stardew) x reader, 2000 words

summary: Despite her own interests and sanity, Abigail can’t help but partake in your hobbies.

cw: preestablished relationship between Abby and reader, innocent reader, kissing, slight swearing

The two of you are sitting together in Cindersap Forest, a red picnic blanket separating you from the green grass and thick pines trees separating you from the blue sky. Your head is lying on Abigail’s lap, her hand subconsciously brushing through your hair as she scrolls on her phone.

Suddenly you gasp, words in your book captivating you like many times before. “You alright?” She asks, eyes leaving the screen to look at you. “Yeah. I just finished my book, and it was amazing! At the end… No, I won’t spoil it, but it was incredible!” The way your eyes sparkle as you sit up, voice pitching up in your excitement makes Abby grin. She honestly could listen to you rant and rave about your novels forever.

“I’m glad. You know I’m not going to read it though love, I haven’t picked up a book since forever.” You pout, your cherry red lips turning downwards like a sad little puppy. Truthfully just like a puppy, Abigail wants to shelter you, keep you safe from the world and carefree. She envies your innocence, forever getting muddy on your farm or barely escaping danger in the mines without any care. She on the other hand has other things to worry about, more important events like her pressuring father or decisions to make on her impending future. “Abby you have to read it! The plot twist blew my mind, and it has heaps of action in it and deaths and romance and-“ Unable to argue with your sweet soul much longer, Abigail breaks your rambling with a kiss. It’s light, barred by her pleased smile and the way you hum against her. You are each other’s biggest weakness, and every moment spent together always ends like this. Intertwined, private, heated.

That’s why not another word is exchanged for the following twenty minutes, ending with the two of you sprawled out on the blanket with desperate breaths for air once more. “I’ve got to go…” You manage finally, as Abigail uses every muscle in her body not to pull you in again. She knows that you need to go, because Robin needed you to come over at 4 to help carry planks. But why couldn’t you stay just five more minutes?

Eventually you’re gone, leaving Abigail on the blanket alone. You took with you all of your belongings, including your phone, basket, cutlery and leftovers. But you do leave… The book.

Whether you did it on purpose or not Abigail is sure, but the way it’s placed so perfectly entices her. The light shimmers of it’s glossy cover, pages worn yet intact and bookmark hanging out as you left it. Abigail picks it up, lightly flicking through the pages and inhaling the fresh smell it produces. Would it be so crazy to give it a read? No, surely not! It would make you happy, and it doesn’t look that long… right?

It’s now two in the morning, and Abigail is huddled under her bed sheets, eyebags fighting desperately with her mind to fall asleep. Truthfully, Abby didn’t really realise how long books can take. How was she supposed to know 400 pages was a lot? And what’s worse, is she actually likes it. Realistically she should tell herself to go to sleep, perhaps read more in the morning. But her eyes are stuck to the page, almost breathing in every word and consuming every feeling. And this goes on for hours more.

Three in the morning, her favourite character dies. It’s a painful, agonising death, which brings Abby’s usually strong demeanour to a crashing halt. Perhaps it’s the tired delusions, but she soon begins sobbing, body shaking and mouth covered by a weak hand to stifle her cries. Frankly she should’ve seen it coming, her favourite character was too sweet for this world. Sort of like you, and she wouldn’t let anything happen to you, no matter what.

It's the final page of the book, and the sun has well and truly risen. Abigail isn’t sure how, but sometime during the night she ended up on the floor and is now sprawled out, arms aching from holding the book up above her purple locks of hair. “No. Fucking. Way.” She says aloud, voice hoarse from making comments into the abyss during the night. Its an insane plot twist, one she never would’ve seen coming, yet it makes sense nonetheless. I mean, of course that was going to happen. The way it was set up, the subtle foreshadows and hints sprinkled in.  How naïve she was to think it would go any other way.

But she can’t just sit here pondering the novel on her own when she’s got you! She gets ready quicker than ever, throwing on the first top and pants she sees, brushing her hair frantically and grabbing an apple from the kitchen as she walks out, despite her mothers confused cries. “Honey, your dad needs help in the shop today ~” Whatever, Abigail’s got something better to do.

When she arrives at your farm, you’re watering your crops and whistling some tune. Abigail can’t pinpoint the tune exactly, but it sounds like a lark’s song. One that you hear when your deep in the forest, that brings a smile to your face at natures raw beauty. “Hey love” Abby utters, hiding the book behind her back. Your eyes snap up to meet hers, and you grin in a way that makes her heart flutter. Without a word you set the watering can down and skip over to her, sending her stumbling backwards with an enthusiastic hug. As you do this you spot the book, and pull it out of her pale hands.

“Oh thanks! Did I leave it behind yesterday?” Abi nods, tucking your soft hair behind your ear to get a better look at you. “Yeah. But I did have a look at it…” In response you frown, tilting your head in confusion. You clearly don’t understand what Abigail is trying to tell you, and you understand even less when she gives you a confident smirk in return. “I read it love. The whole thing. And I have to admit, it was pretty good.

Just as she hopes, you squeal, jumping up and down and flapping your arms in shock. “No way! Oh Abs, I’m so glad.” You pull her in for a kiss, wrapping your arms firmly around her as she holds your head in place. The two of you try not to smile, but you can’t help it when you are locked in an embrace like this one, euphoria surrounding you. Finally you pull away, looking deep into her eyes with an intensity Abby loves all too well. “Come on, let’s get some coffee and talk about it more.” You lead her into your house with these words, looking back at her with an eager smile. Something tells her that a chat isn’t all the two of you will be doing.

[jackalopes-pen]

Chapter 7: Pressure

Summary: Kenny goes to visit Stan in the hospital and tries reassure him on what to do

Characters: Kenny McCormick, Stan Marsh

Word Count: 933

A/N: I'm telling you right now there's a .5 to this chapter, because I want to exposition a touch. It's not a pivotal chapter so it's probably gonna be much sooner then my typical schedule.

Previous: [Escalation] | [Perspective]

Kenny hated dealing with the press. Any media, really, was just trouble. They’d guess at his identity, shove mics and cameras in his face and ask intricately framed questions to make him seem like the worst person on earth. Now that The Omens blew up a whole building, the media were on his tail. Now every headline was about how the Coon and Friends couldn’t stop actual terrorists. They wanted answers, justice, they wanted the vigilantes heads on pikes. Mysterion was the only one not forced out of the public eye to heal.. So he had to deal with all of it alone.

However, no one gave two shits about Kenny McCormick. No one cared that two of his three dickhead friends were in horrible condition and Kyle was in complete stasis. It’s stressful, and awful and is making him slowly lose it. That damn thing, stasis, it’s a fucking nightmare.

How it works is that when someone born with their powers gets really hurt, their body shuts down to heal. However, what that actually means is Kyle is practically comatose and the only way they can tell he’s getting better is as his heartbeat slowly raises back to normal. His pulse is still so damn slow, and it’s agonising to just wait it out. From what he’s heard from Kyle, it’s even worse to live it… but he can’t talk to Kyle right now.

It’s not like Stan is in much better shape. His ribs looked more like crushed chips from the blast force. He’s stuck in the med bay, barely able to walk without help. Healers are so rare these days, and especially a trustworthy one that won’t just expose their identities. The specifics were less than important, because now he was going to visit Stan and try not to lose his shit, being relegated to the only person who doesn’t start shouting around Cartman.

“Hey, man. Still breathing?” Kenny said jokingly as he saw Stan laid out on the cot. He had a ton of wires connecting all over, and the scars looked rough to heal.

“Pretty much. Kinda wish I had your power sometimes… wouldn’t have to heal.” Stan laughed, but even that was weak. In fairness, his ribs were the main point affected but, it just hurt to hear.

“Anything you wanna know about? And- don’t you dare bring up the rat fucking thing.” Kenny smirked, trying to take his friend’s mind off of everything.

“Heh, that was hilarious. But- um… how’s Kyle? Is- is he beating any faster?” Stan sounded hopeful. 

“52 BPM. A little faster every day.” Kenny was doing his best to soften the blow, but it’s difficult to say that this person’s super best friend still isn’t even in the normal range. 

“Oh, okay. I’m just really worried about him, y’know?” Stan said, turning to look Kenny in the eyes. 

“You know Professor Timmy is doing everything he can to help the process. We kinda just have to wait.” Kenny put as much sympathy in his voice as possible. There’s really no silver lining.

“Yeah, I know… it’s weird to think he’s just.. suspended in liquid and trapped in his own head.” Stan sighs and looks out the window for a moment. “Then again, he wanted to put me in liquid too.”

“You could always say you reconsidered.” Kenny offered gently

“It just creeps me out, I mean, think about it. You’re just sleeping in like.. this weird green stuff for whoever knows how long and, I have no idea what they do to me. It just doesn’t sit right.” Stan said. He looked down, a little sad.

“As much as I want to help, I’m not the guy to ask about this.” Kenny laughed nervously as he finished speaking. In all fairness, he really wasn’t. He’s the one sent on the life-or-death missions, so he never really has to heal thanks to his curse. It’s pretty much a foreign process.

“I know, I know. But, if your best friend was out for who knows how long, and your options were to either wait it out as you slowly heal or sleep through it but it kinda pushed some buttons.. what would you do?” Stan looked at Kenny as he finished his words. He had an almost pleading tone.

Kenny paused and really thought about it. On the one hand, waiting sucks. It’s agonising to just sit and wait with minimal updates and no real idea what’s going on. On the other, by sleeping through it you have no idea what they’re doing or injecting. Sure, you can ask questions after that fact but that’s hardly a comfort. It’s either prolonged and minimal discomfort, or short but major discomfort. It’s like asking how you want to die. 

“I think… I think I’d trust Timmy on this. You know he’s not gonna do something that would actively hurt you. It’s not helping you that you’re stressing over this.” Kenny smiled gently, trying to be nice about it. 

“I guess you’re right.. I don’t really wanna leave you alone though. I know the press is like a locust swarm right now.” Stan said, sympathy in his voice

“Dude, it’s fine. I can handle myself. Don’t even worry about me.” As he finished talking, Kenny put a gentle hand on Stan’s shoulder. “I trust you, man.” 

“I trust you too, Kenny.” Stan takes a deep breath “I guess I’ll go tell Professor Timmy that I changed my mind.”

“Hey, dude? Try not to die.” Kenny said, in a joking manner. He waved his friend goodbye as Stan weakley laughed. 

It’s always nice to visit Stan, he's a good guy. As much as Kenny loved talking to him, and having someone who understands, sometimes you have to put other people first. The hard fact of it is that Stan isn’t getting better when he’s stressed and can barely rest. Sure, he’s not the quickest person to trust someone but he’s really quick to care. If he can’t stop stressing about Kyle, then maybe it’s best he just sleeps through it all.

[writing-for-life]

The Light of Stars (WT)

Okay, after much agonising, I’m finally doing it:

The ginormous (well over the 50,000 words-goal) fanfic I wrote “for fun” last NaNoWriMo and never wanted to touch again, never mind publish, has been haunting me for over 6 months now, and I need to bless and release it so I can get on with my life 🤪

So I've pledged to myself I will publish it, chapter for chapter, tidy it up along the way, maybe rewrite a few things that really weren't thought through when I "just had fun", and quite possibly add bits that I've thought about ever since (November 2022).

I’m aiming to publish one chapter weekly on a Friday, but that might change here and there (might be more or less frequently), so bear with me. You will get an excerpt here, but the full chapter will only be available on Ao3 via the link provided.

A word of warning: This is a full-length romance novel and hence a slow burn. If you’re into shorts that have their MCs f*** within the shortest amount of time, you won’t find much joy in this. I occasionally write those, too, but this is not that. However, good things come to those who wait, also in this one 😉

I will tidy up the posts as I move along and create a masterpost, but this first one needed a bit more of an intro.

And don’t forget that creators really appreciate your likes, but that we’re even more grateful for comments and reblogs.

Here we go…

The Light of Stars (WT) by Writing-for-Life

Chapters: 1/?

Fandom: The Sandman (Comics), The Sandman (TV 2022)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus & Original Character(s), Dream Of The Endless | Morpheus & Original Female Character(s)

Characters: Original Female Character(s), Dream of the Endless | Morpheus

Summary:

This is a story about traumatic pasts, deep empathy and healing, but also one of sacrifice. Most of all, it is a story about choosing love despite knowing it has the power to break us…

Artist Thalia Callaghan has strange dreams, but it soon turns out they are more than just dreams.

Night after night, she enters Dream’s throne room, much to her confusion and his dismay. They reluctantly agree to embark on a quest to find out why Thalia has abilities that are usually not granted to mortals - unless there is a greater plan at work.

Chapter 1 - Juxtapositions (1898 words)

“You can’t be here.”

His voice was soft, and yet, it had startled her because she thought she was alone in this vast hall – she couldn’t even remember how she got there. She turned around, and he stood halfway up white marble stairs that seemed to go nowhere - or did they? It was hard to tell - cascades of light flooded the room through seemingly endless stained-glass windows behind him. She could only make out his shape, but none of his features.

All she could say was: “Who are you?”

He slowly walked down the stairs, his long black robe brushing them with every step. Heavy, yet light. The closer he came, the more his face came into focus. Hard, yet soft.

When he stood right in front of her, she noticed the intense brightness of his eyes. The palest blue, or maybe grey?

Silver.

They seemed cold, and yet they were burning with an intense heat – just like stars.

If she had ever seen someone full of juxtapositions, he was standing right in front of her now: In all his unearthly verisimilitude, all his ethereal physicality.

She had never seen anyone so beautiful. Even so, she caught herself thinking that “beautiful” was the wrong word. He wasn’t beautiful in the usual sense of the word: His features were sharp, his skin pale, he was tall and slender, almost wraith-like. An air of haughtiness surrounded him, but he seemed to radiate serenity at the same time. And it enveloped her within an instant.

Surprising. Unexpected.

She felt the irrepressible urge to touch his face, framed with hair so dark it made him look like a black-and-white photograph. However, her hand stopped midway, or rather: It felt like something, or someone, was stopping it, like an invisible wall.

He looked at her closely, his eyes full of inevitable certainty.

“This dream is over…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thalia gasped and opened her eyes…

Keep reading on Ao3

[somnambulants]

yelena requests you say? can i throw in my hand and ask for something with yelena telling you she loves you for the first time? 👉🏼👈🏼😌 thank you in advance!

open up those blinds

Word count: 1.3K Warnings: BW spoilers

Yelena knows she isn’t good with love. It doesn’t come easy to her. Not anymore. There was a time in her life that she remembers the words I love you had fallen from her lips quicker and with more ease than breathing.

It’s very distant. Very far away in her mind, like she was a whole different person and she kind of was.

But she remembers.

To be fair, she’d also been six and thought she’d been saying those words to her mother, her father, her sister. Her family. None of it had been real. Not even her love and especially not theirs.

Except Natasha. Her sister. But Natasha, her sister, was --

Either way, Yelena now can’t recall a time since where she’d told someone she loved them.

Not genuinely anyway.

In the years since escaping the red room, she’s had multiple relationships – multiple flings, she would call them actually and all of them had ended more disastrously than the last.

She’d been slapped by a lover scorned a lot more times than she’d admit but it was what is was in her mind. Life went on.

She doesn’t do love. Love is for children, as far as she’s concerned. She doesn’t need love. She has Fanny and all she really needs is her dog. And to her own slight wariness still; she will pick up Alexei and Melina’s calls when they do reach out.

But that’s it. She doesn’t need anyone else.

She’s not a total recluse though, she likes people — the normal ones — most of the time and she knows she’s charming. She can have anyone she wants. She just doesn’t care enough to keep them.

Not until she meets you.

That’s when it all changes.

It’s such a clichéd way to meet; like one of the rom-coms she secretly enjoys but would never tell anyone she enjoys.

She’s walking Fanny one day and all of a sudden, her dog – the Houdini of dogs – escapes out of her collar and lead and is running off down the street like something’s chasing her.

“Fanny, come,” she calls out after her, exasperated. It’s futile. Fanny keeps running, too fast for her to catch up so she has to jog after her, still calling out as her dog disappears entirely from sight.

She growls under her breath while she follows. “You ungrateful dog,” she mutters to herself. “Never giving you treats again. Or belly rubs. Or letting you sleep in my bed. See how you like it.”

As soon as she turns the corner, she finds Fanny, no longer running. And then you, the reason she is no longer running.

You’re on your knees on the ground as Fanny stands over you, paws on your shoulders, licking your face as you laugh and pat her on the head gently.

“Fanny,” she barks again to no avail. She might as well be invisible for all the attention she’s getting from her dog.

“Nice dog,” you call out to her, as Fanny gives you another lick on the check.

Still on the ground, you have to look up at her as you say it. You’re covered in mud and dirt, clothes dishevelled and covered with Fanny’s pawprints, and before she knows it, Yelena’s falling, falling, falling.

“Thanks,” is all she says, at a loss for words. Something that never happens to her. Normally she’d be saying something quippy and borderline obnoxious by now, while she flirted with you shamelessly.

You grin and hold out your hand to her. “Y/N.”

--

The first time you tell her you love her, she stares at you, wide-eyed and silent for long enough that your face starts to fall before you force a smile that probably wouldn’t even convince Fanny, who is sitting in the corner, paws over her eyes like she can’t bear to watch the train wreck in front of her.

Yelena wishes she could do the same.

“It’s okay,” you tell her, expression taut as you try to smooth away the hurt she can see plainly. You turn away as you say it but Yelena doesn’t miss the way your lip trembles; the way this is clearly not okay. “It’s okay. I’m going to go have a uh, shower, okay?”

You don’t come out of the bathroom for hours. Yelena sits on your shared bed and silently cries to herself, wondering what the hell is wrong with her.

She loves you. She loves you so much. She knows she does.

She just can’t say it.

That night, in bed, Yelena stares at the ceiling still thinking, or more aptly agonising about it while you flick through your emails beside her.

You’d returned from the bathroom eventually, your eyes red and not quite meeting her own but you still had given her a kiss on the cheek that she felt in no way deserving off.

You haven’t broached the topic again – haven’t so much as gone near it and things between you have just settled uneasily. Like it’s an elephant in the room neither of you can bear to address.

Fanny is curled up by Yelena’s side, nose pressed against her thigh. She’s looking up at her with her big doleful puppy eyes, as if she can sense Yelena’s despondency. Every so often, she’ll lean in to lick her on the arm.

Eventually, you’re the one that gives in and breaks the awkward tension between you both.

“You’re quiet, tonight,” you say, finger hovering over the keyboard as you scroll. She can hear the anxiety in your voice and hates that she put it there. “Everything okay?”

It’s clearly not. You both know that but it’s your way of giving her an out; a way to put this behind you and pretend it never happened if she says ‘yes’. It makes her love you — and hurts a little — all the more that you’d do that for her if she wanted you to.

Yelena doesn’t answer you for a long second, chewing on her nails as she continues to mull over what she can do to fix this.

She doesn’t know how to do this; no one prepared her for this. For you.

The silence stretches on long enough that she starts to panic. It pretty much bursts out of her. “I do. Love you, you know that?” she blurts out, stumbling over the words. It’s definitely not what she was planning on saying but now she’s talking she can’t stop. “So much. I’m just not… good… I’m not good at love. I don’t want to ruin this.”

Her heart feels like it’s going to beat out of its chest as you pause, your eyes no longer flicking across the screen, just staring at it blankly now. She wonders briefly if she’s having a heart attack. It feels like it.

She watches your brows furrow a little as you digest her words. Trained from a young age, Yelena is an expert at deciphering body language; and even more so with you so she knows by the look on your face that you’re trying to figure out what to say.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

Gently, you close your laptop and turn to her, shifting so you can pull her into your arms. Yelena doesn’t think she’s breathed out this entire time and so air comes out of her in a rush as she eagerly leans into you.

“I think you’re pretty great at love, actually,” you tell her quietly after a long stretch of silence, your voice careful but still completely sincere. She can feel your lips pressed against her temple as you speak. “And I love that about you. You don’t have to say it if you’re not ready yet.”

She can tell you’re being honest. There’s no inflection in your tone that indicates untruthfulness. And even if she wasn’t trained to spot lies, you were not a particularly proficient liar even on your best days.

In response to your words, she finds that she can’t speak and instead just twists around so she can kiss you.

It’s less co-ordinated than usual but she kisses you fiercely, hoping you can feel how much she loves you as she does.

The way you smile against her lips tells her you do.

[seijorhi]

Finders Keepers

the long awaited (sorry!) zombie au. hope y’all enjoy

Seijoh 4 x female reader & Miya twins x female reader 

TW Blood, gore, angst, um... toxic relationships?

“Let me see.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but in the quiet stillness of the night your voice carries. It hardly matters; Oikawa has you close, tucked under his arm with his injured leg stretched out between the two of you. He could stop you if he really wanted, but he only watches, those tired, wary eyes fixed on your face as you reach for his pants. 

“It’s fine,” he grunts out, yet he can barely get the words out before he’s hissing through his teeth – a knee jerk reaction to the scrape of rough fabric against his wound. His fingers are digging painfully into your arm, and it doesn’t make a difference how gentle you try to be, how many stammered apologies fall from your lips, your fingers are stiff and clumsy and his pants are caked with dried blood and grime, hindering the process.

Pursing your lips, you glance up. “This would go easier if you took these off, you know.”

He cracks a smile at that, strained and tense, but your chest still flutters at the sight of it. “If you wanna get my pants off so badly, cutie, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tooru,” you begin, but he sighs heavily and that brief flicker of mirth glimmering in his eyes fades. Reaching over he picks up his hunting knife, pressing the handle into your palm and letting his fingers slowly curl around yours. The weight of it feels unwieldy and foreign in your hand, and you can’t quite say for sure if the way your breath picks up and hitches is due to your nerves or the way Oikawa’s watching you, his warm hand still wrapped around yours.

“Cut it, then.”

The knife helps, shearing through his pants like butter, but the wound itself is messy – torn threads plastered to congealed blood and dirt – and blunt fingernails sink into your skin and Oikawa grits out a curse when you try to gently ease them free. 

It’s worse than you’d thought. A lot worse. Raked over his right knee, five gouges, jagged and gruesome, raw flesh and muscle exposed beneath. Your stomach roils at the sight of it, bile creeping up your throat, and for a moment you’re astounded by how calm he is, sitting there beside you. 

If it were you, you’re fairly sure you’d be rolling on the ground howling by now, but the only hint of pain Oikawa’s face betrays is the tightness of his jaw, teeth clenched even as he looses a shuddering breath.

“I-I’ll go see if I can find something to…” to what? Clean the wound? Stitch it? You’re not an idiot, unless this little cottage has an incredibly well stocked first aid kit, you know you’re in trouble. And even if it does, beyond the very basics of clean, disinfect and bandage, you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fix this.

Iwaizumi was always the one to stitch up their wounds, muttering obscenities under his breath and glaring at them the whole time. It was their own idiot faults for putting themselves in a position where they could get hurt in the first place, he’d say, they could deal with a little pain while he fixed them up. But as you stare at the grisly mess of Oikawa’s knee, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this might be beyond even Iwa’s level of expertise. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Iwa isn’t here. 

Makki and Mattsun aren’t either.

And strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the creatures lurking in the woods that’s gnawing at your gut. It’s Oikawa’s injury, the blood and mangled mess that you can’t even begin to fix, the thought of the trap that’s awaiting the others back at the sanctuary. It’s that feeling of helplessness that’s tightening around your neck like a noose.

“Hey,” Oikawa calls, snagging at your wrist when you try to pull away. “They’ll find us, have a little faith.”

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you nod. “I know.”

You don’t have the guts to tell him that that’s only half the problem.

Making do with vodka and some old bandages you’d scrounged up from a first aid kit under the sink, you do what you can for Tooru’s knee. Working by the light of a few flickering candles, your hands shaking like a leaf, it's a job easier said than done, and you can’t help but wince at every pained hiss and grunt that escapes him. 

It’s a hack job, a bandaid over a gaping wound, but he thanks you for it anyway, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple as he drags you closer once more. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he murmurs, and the words hang heavy over the both of you; a promise and a sobering reminder in one.

Tucked up in his embrace, you shut your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep. 

Yet the moment you do, you’re right back there again: the hallway doors bursting open and the undead pouring through. Rotting and snarling, the sound of panicked shrieks tearing through the sanctuary in their wake.

Tooru’s hand in yours, yanking you along as he ran. Your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you gasped for breath, your chest burning. And the fear, the horror that threatened to choke you as the others fell behind, their frantic pleas turning into agonised screams.

Everybody else first. The words spoken before any one of them left the safety of the sanctuary; you’d always assumed it was a grim kind of joke between the boys, a good luck charm. How many times had you heard Mattsun laugh it, clapping Iwa on the shoulder, or Makki for that matter, or Oikawa?

‘Come home safe’, you’d thought it meant, not ‘rip the guns out of other survivors’ hands and throw them back into the path of the oncoming undead’.

And then you’d stumbled, tripping over your own two feet. You remember Oikawa cursing, the pain that radiated up your knees and the palms of your hands as you hit the floor hard, and the absolute, bone chilling terror that surged through you when you looked up and saw one of the undead creatures lunge for you; jaw hanging loose, more ripped flesh and gristle than an actual mouth–

Oikawa was too far away, too slow, and even if he wasn’t, you’d just witnessed the lengths he’d go to for self preservation. You’d screamed for him anyway, squeezing your eyes shut and praying you’d go quickly when those fingers and yellowing teeth dug into your flesh and ripped you apart.

And in the space of a single petrified heartbeat, three shots had rung through the air, a warm wetness splattering against your cheek. Tooru was there, kicking the rotting corpse away from you and hauling you back to your feet, back safely against his side.

But the next one was quicker, leaping over the husk of its fallen friend, snarling and bloody and savage, and then it was Tooru who was screaming, undead fingers sinking into the flesh of his leg, ripping as it tried to claw him back.

Heart pounding viciously, your eyes shoot open in the darkness.

Even with the reassurance of Oikawa’s frame pressed up behind you, his breath warm against your skin, sleep doesn’t come easy, and the dawn brings little reprieve.

Stupidly, you’d hoped – prayed – that somehow through the night he might’ve gotten better. It was early in the morning when you’d felt him start to shiver against you. You’d tried to roll away, to give him space so you wouldn’t accidentally knock his leg, but Tooru was having none of it, burrowing in closer, his grip tightening.

And when you’d felt him start to sweat, his arms becoming sticky and clammy, his shirt dampening at your back, that slow, cloying sense of dread took root inside of your stomach.

Under the first rays of morning light, the true extent of Oikawa’s condition is unignorable. Without the luxury of being able to properly close the wound, blood’s seeped through the bandages overnight, leaving them a mottled, macabre red. His face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat dotting at his brow and with every shallow, rattling breath he takes, his body trembles.

It’s more than just simple blood loss.

You think for a moment that he’s unconscious, long lashes fanned out over flushed cheekbones, but the moment you reach for the bandages, his eyes snap open. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You frown, “Tooru–”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

Between him and Iwaizumi, and to a certain extent, Makki and Mattsun, you’ve never had much of a say in how things are run. You’ve never questioned that they’re the ones in charge, Oikawa most of all. They’re the ones who’ve kept you safe, kept you alive all this time, and all they’ve ever asked of you is that you do what they say.

And you have. Always. Because without them, you’d be dead. You don’t have to pick up a gun and fight, because they do it for you. You don’t have to go on supply runs because they take care of it, they take care of you. And it’s never mattered whether it’s just been the five of you out there alone, or if you were banding together with other survivors; that’s never changed – no matter how many dirty looks it earned you from the others.

You are their responsibility, but in return, you do what they tell you without question.

But this–

This isn’t like that. This isn’t you begging Iwaizumi to take you with him on perimeter patrol because you’ve been cooped up for what feels like weeks, or pouting because they’re deliberately keeping things from you again. 

And maybe they have kept you in the dark, but you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. The reality of this situation hasn’t escaped you. 

The sanctuary’s overrun, and if – when – Iwa, Makki and Mattsun make it back, they’ll be walking into an ambush. Even if by some miracle they do manage to all make it out unscathed and somehow figure out a way to pick up your trail, there’s no telling how long it’ll take for them to find their way back to you.

(You can’t bear to think about the possibility of them not coming home; you won’t.)

Right now, it’s just you and Oikawa, stuck in some abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a rifle and a baseball bat between you. You have no food, no supplies and he’s getting weaker by the minute.

You’re terrified.

And you don’t have the luxury of sitting back and letting somebody else take care of you anymore. You don’t stand a chance of survival without Oikawa, and right now he doesn’t stand a chance without you.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shake your head. “Okay, I won’t touch it, but I’m not just going to sit here and watch you get worse.” Smoothing your palms over your lap, you take a deep breath in through your nose. “There’s a prison–”

“No.”

“Tooru–”

“I said no,” he snaps.

Biting back a sigh, you try again, “Tooru, there might be supplies there,” you plead. “Painkillers, antibiotics, something that might help–”

“I don’t need antibiotics and you’re not leaving. We need to stay here where it’s safe until the others find us,” he grits out, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

Normally, this would be the point that you’d back off, running off to lick your wounds before he decided to get mean, but even as some part of you cowers at the mere thought of upsetting him, this time you don’t back down.

He watches warily as you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, gently smoothing damp brown locks back from his sweat slicked forehead. “I don’t know when Iwa’s coming back,” you murmur. “But until he does, the prison’s our best chance, if I can just–”

“No!” he snarls, cutting you off once again.

His eyes are manic now, blown wide and glazed over, he’s shivering, his breath a faint rattle – but his grip is iron, long fingers clutching at you desperately when you jerk back with a gasp.

“You don’t leave me.”

You don’t want to. 

It’d be easy not to, to sit and stay with him and pretend that your world isn’t falling apart and he isn’t dying. You’ve never been a fighter, always too soft, too weak, too naive to survive out there on your own. The thought of setting one foot outside of that door without him by your side fills you with absolute terror, but what other options do you have?

He might not like it, but you’re out of time – this decision isn’t his to make anymore.

“Tooru, I-I have to, you know–”

“No!” he snaps, dragging you closer. “You’re not leaving me, I won’t fucking let you!”

Your hand trembles when you reach up to take his, easing it from your shirt and bringing it to your lips. Tears spill from your lashes, falling in heavy droplets against the back of his hand as Oikawa makes a pained sound.

“Please don’t go.”

You both know he can’t stop you.

“Keep the gun,” you tell him, mustering up a tight, watery smile. “Anything but Iwa and our boys comes through that door, shoot it.”

—

It seems a cruel, twisted joke that you find a perfectly good truck sitting a little ways up the driveway, just begging to be used – with no way of getting it started.

Mattsun always made hot wiring look so easy, tossing you a wink when the engine rumbled to life, as if it was a neat little party trick he’d pulled out just to impress you. He did it so quickly, so smoothly, ripping the wires out and sparking them like it was second nature, but he’d never bothered to actually explain what he was doing to you.

And why would he? Between the four of them, there’d always be somebody else to take care of it for you. It’s the same reason they never taught you how to shoot, never taught you how to fight beyond the very basics of self defence.

Now, trudging along the side of the barren road with nothing but your baseball bat and a canteen of water slung over your hip, you find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention. Ten miles hadn’t seemed that far on paper – it was less than the trek back into town and you’d figured a safer bet, but walking around in broad daylight without any kind of real protection feels like you’re begging to be preyed upon. Yet by some stroke of luck (and despite that persistent nagging sense that you’re being watched) you manage to make it to the perimeter gates without coming across another soul, dead or alive.

The towering brick walls topped with spirals of barbed wire that line the prison complex are as imposing as they are unbreachable, and for a moment, standing there staring up at them, you feel a crushing sense of disappointment. You’ve walked over two hours, left Tooru in pain and alone for nothing. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to scale those walls, and without any kind of bolt cutters or firepower, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to get past the front gates. 

Iwa would’ve known that. Iwa would’ve been better prepared. 

But as you draw closer to the guardhouse, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not a problem. The heavy wrought iron gate’s already unlocked and open, creaking in the breeze. And really, that should have been the first warning sign, but you’re too busy thanking your lucky stars as you slide on through to pay attention to things like that.

The courtyard is just as deserted. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes too loud, setting your nerves on edge as you make your way towards the imposing structure. It’s quiet, eerily so – even the birds seem to have disappeared. Is this how all raids feel, you wonder as you climb the steps towards the door. This sense of foreboding dread that settles in your stomach, the goosebumps that prickle down your arms? 

Your grip tightens around the handle of your bat and you press gingerly against the door – just like the guardhouse gate, it gives under your touch, swinging open wide. It’s dark inside; you hadn’t thought to bring a torch and with the absence of any windows lining the corridor it’s near pitch black. Your heart hammers inside your chest, every cell in your body screaming at you to turn around and run back to Tooru, but you’ve come this far already. 

The undead flock to fresh, living meat. It’s been months since the outbreak began; anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves trapped inside when it happened is probably long dead, and any of the undead likely long gone.

It’s just a little darkness. 

Steeling your nerves you creep through the black, clutching tightly at your bat, toeing your way down the corridor waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dim. Every breath you draw in feels too loud, every step too obnoxious. Deserted or not, the sooner you can find the med-bay, get what you need for Oikawa and get out, the better.

The layout’s simple enough – five looming multi-storied wings breaking off like fingers from the central watch-tower, but you don’t have a clue which one holds what you’re seeking. Your only option is to search them one by one and hope for the best. 

You’d expected steel bars and heavy locks, but the prison reminds you strangely of a school instead; long hallways lined with doors, each with a tiny window to peek through. They’re all open now of course, whatever locking mechanism keeping them shut having failed when the generators ran out. The first few are empty, barren and stripped of everything but soiled mattresses – it should be a relief. 

There’s nothing waiting for you in the darkness but empty halls and emptier rooms. If the others were here, they’d be teasing you for sure. Or Makki and Mattsun would, at least. You always were such a scared little baby – their scared little baby – you’d jump at your own shadow if you didn’t have them around. 

And it’s easier to keep going imagining them there by your side, the jokes they’d crack, the warmth of Iwa’s hand in yours, or Makki’s arm slung over your shoulder. You’d feel safe with them. You wouldn’t need to feel afraid.

But no amount of pretend comfort is enough to allay the heavy sense of dread that’s sitting in your stomach, growing harder and harder to ignore with every passing minute. And the problem, you realise, with the prison being so deadly quiet is that every noise, no matter how quiet, echoes.

Climbing the stairs in the dark, you don’t notice the slickness on the walls either side of you, the red handprints smeared messily over white paint. You don’t see the broken, bloody fingernails littering the steps beneath you. 

You hear it though, when you reach the landing. It’s soft. A quiet, wet squelching, ripping–

There’s no screams accompanying it like there were back when the sanctuary was overrun, but it’s not a sound you’re gonna be able to forget any time soon. In the dark you freeze, not daring to so much as breathe as you peer down the endless corridor, trying to pinpoint which of the cells it’s coming from. 

In the end, you decide that it doesn’t matter. 

They’re quicker when they’ve fed, stronger too, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to be able to fumble past in the dark without drawing that thing’s attention. The wooden bat in your hands feels heavy, your palms already slick with sweat. You weren’t quick enough back at the sanctuary; without Tooru, that thing would’ve eaten you. And suddenly it seems laughable that you came out here, that you genuinely thought you could handle this – fight one of them off if it came down to it.

Tooru needs those meds, you know that, and you might be useless and weak and absolutely paralysed with fear, but you’re not stupid. You can’t help him at all if you’re torn apart by one of those creatures.

Your pulse racing, a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer, unrelenting terror coursing through your veins, you draw in a quiet breath, slowly lifting your foot to back away. It hasn’t heard you yet, and so long as it’s distracted–

“Oi, hurry up! I know what I saw, she came in this way.”

“Jesus, just shut up for a sec, wouldja! Ya don’t need to keep yellin’ at me, I’m comin’!”

Through the grate at your feet, you see two beams of light break through the darkness, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps echoing down the wing. Icy claws tighten like a vice around your heart and you still once more, squeezing your eyes shut as you listen, praying…

The squelching’s stopped.

Grip tight around the handle of your bat, your entire body quaking with fear, you watch with wide, stricken eyes as one of the doors halfway down the block slowly creaks outwards. 

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing, and you try and convince yourself it’s just the wind, that you’re imagining things and your mind is playing mean tricks on you–

A feral snarl rips through the air, and before you can so much as scream it’s crashing through the open doorway, head swivelling as it searches for the source of the disturbance. In the dark you can’t make out much, only that it’s huge, half its flesh torn and decaying, smeared with blood and filth – but you see it when those white, cloudy eyes fix on you, its rotting mouth bared and salivating.

And this time you do scream. You scream for Oikawa, for Iwa, for Makki and Mattsun and the faceless strangers on the floor below as you cast your bat aside and run. You don’t dare look over your shoulder as you take the stairs two, three at a time, slipping and slamming into the stairwell wall, a sharp burst of pain radiating down your shoulder – you can hear it giving chase, the rabid growls and snarls too close for comfort.

Tears flood your eyes, your chest heaving with every desperate breath as your feet hit solid ground once more and you take off.

“Please!” you sob as you run, blinded by the brightness of the torch beam as it’s shone in your direction. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

You can’t outrun it forever. Even now, you hear it gaining on you, its hot, foul breath puffing against your back – it’s just like back at the sanctuary. It’s gonna catch you, rip into you and feast while you choke to death on your own blood and screams, and this time you won’t have Oikawa here to save you. You’re going to die in agony, torn apart and devoured, and it’s all your own stupid fault.

Your throat tightens, more tears springing free. You can’t see anything beyond those two blinding lights, moving now, dancing across the field of your vision. “PLEASE!” you shriek, desperate and hoarse as the undead creature behind you readies itself to pounce.

Please don’t leave me here to die.

And for one heart wrenching second, you think back to your boys, and the words they’d said before kissing you goodbye. Everybody else first. Maybe this is some kind of divine retribution, you think. Maybe when the world went to hell people became cold and selfish and you deserve this for sitting back and letting others die in your place.

“Get down!” the voice yells, and you don’t even stop to think before you drop, sliding across the floor. There’s another blinding flash, a shot fired into the dark and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hug your knees to your chest as the creature snarls in anger and jerks backwards, a gruesome spurt of blood spraying over you.

“Ya fucking missed! How could ya fucking miss?!”

The gun cocks and reloads, another deafening shot ringing out above you and you flinch, your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm–

But this time the bullet hits its mark. The creature crashes to the floor with a loud thump and doesn’t move again. 

You don’t waste a second scrambling to your feet, launching yourself into the arms of your saviour. You don’t care that you’re crying, that you’re covered in blood and filth and god knows what else, you cling to him like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder. And instead of pushing you away like he probably should, he lets out a short huff that sounds almost like a laugh, his arm curling around your waist.

“I’m the one who shot the damn thing,” the other mutters sourly.

The man holding you snorts, “Nah, yer the idiot who missed.” Belatedly, you realise that he’s still gripping his gun, the brightness you’d assumed to have come from a torch actually from a light mounted to the barrel. He slings the rifle carelessly over his shoulder, drawing back slightly to appraise you. “Now, wanna tell me what a sweet thing like you’s doin’ all alone in a place like this?”

With your eyes now adjusting to the light, you can see that the two of them can’t be much older than you. They’re both tall, broad shouldered and handsome, the same jawline, the same slope to their nose, nearly identical hooded eyes – brothers you decide, maybe even twins. And they’re both smirking at you, not with the relief of just barely escaping a brush with a particularly gruesome death, but with an odd sort of lackadaisical amusement, as if this – skulking through dark, abandoned places, killing the undead – is nothing out of the ordinary for them. 

And from the ease with which they carry their weapons, maybe it isn’t.

Oikawa warned you about men like them. Men in general, really. Even the ones who smiled at you back at the sanctuary, the ones who offered to help you move heavy supplies when they saw you struggling – at least, until Iwa or one of the others stepped in with a poisonous glare. Anyone who wasn’t them was dangerous, a threat, just waiting in the wings to take advantage of a pretty, dumb little thing like you.

And maybe he’s right, but when the one holding you instead drags you closer, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you back towards the guard tower as his brother falls into step on your other side, you don’t shrug him off. 

Oikawa isn’t here, and they have just saved your life. That has to count for something, right?

“I-I thought it’d be safe,” you confess breathlessly, trying not to focus on the thumb sweeping over the curve of your shoulder. “Well, empty at least. I didn’t have a choice.” And they listen, sharing glances in the dark as you tell them about what’d happened at the sanctuary, about Oikawa and the desperation that’d led you to leave him and walk miles alone to try and find some kind of medicine–

Until a snicker interrupts you. “Sorry,” the blonde mutters, though he doesn’t look all that sincere when your eyes flash to his. “It’s just…”

“Anythin’ worth taking woulda been snatched up months ago,” the darker haired one interjects.

“There ain’t nothin’ here but the occasional idiot tryna set up camp an’… Well, ya saw how well that turned out.”

It hits you like a gut punch, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh, gasping breath. There was never anything here, everything… all of it was a waste. You came all this way, left him feverish and screaming himself hoarse for you, risked your life, almost died and–

It was all for nothing.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, they’re still talking but it’s just white noise washing over you. You don’t even realise they’re leading you back outside until you’re walking through the doors, the sudden burst of sunlight making you flinch. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

You’re an idiot.

A naive, dumb little girl who was stupid enough to think this half cocked plan was gonna work. That you would make it back to Tooru in one piece, medicine in hand to save the day and prove you weren’t the helpless damsel they’d pegged you for. 

You’ve wasted so much time, for nothing. 

There’s no drugs, no food, nothing that’s gonna help either one of you make it through the next few days and suddenly you’re drowning under a wave of hopelessness and bitter disappointment. You fall to your knees in the dirt, taking both your saviours by surprise, and let out a painful, heart wrenching sob. And once you start, you can’t seem to stop. It’s overwhelming, every emotion you’ve bottled up and shoved aside over the last two days suddenly forced into the light. You cry for yourself, for Tooru – for Iwa and Makki and Mattsun. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe anymore, and then there’s rough calloused fingers brushing your tears away.

You look up through wet lashes to find the dark-haired man crouching before you, his expression sober. “Ya don’t need to cry, sweetheart, we’re not monsters y’know.”

His brother chuckles behind you, “We’re not about to leave some pretty little thing all alone out here to starve to death.” His hand’s resting atop your head now, smoothing down the hair at your crown. It’s soft and soothing, and you’re so attuned to seeking comfort that you can’t help but lean into it, eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “We’ve got some friends nearby, a nice little hideaway stocked full of all kinds of shit. Everything ya could possibly need.”

“Y-you mean it?” you ask, wide eyes flickering to the dark haired one, who smiles at last. “You’ll share them with me?”

“‘Course we do. Meds, food, weapons. Whatever ya want, it’s yours.”

You take the hand he offers to help you stand, your limbs trembling once more – but this time it’s not from fear or exhaustion, but the overwhelming rush of sheer relief. You could kiss him, kiss them both, but you don’t.

Instead you settle for throwing your arms around them once more, breathless thanks falling from your lips faster than they can catch as you hug them tight. They don’t seem to mind though, sharing almost identical smirks as the three of you head out to an old, beat up camaro parked out by the entrance to the prison. While the blonde slides in the driver’s seat and his brother takes the passenger’s side, you climb up into the back seat. 

“Is it far?” you ask as he kicks the car into gear and peels out onto the deserted road. Hopefully it’s not, the sooner you can get back to help Tooru the better. 

“Nah, not too far. We’ll be home before ya know it.”

Of course, they’re driving you to their friends, but they haven’t promised anything about driving you back to the cottage and Oikawa–

Which is perfectly fine! You’re not going to push your luck, they’re already doing plenty for you. More than they really have to. You don’t even need that much – just some medicine for Tooru and enough food for the two of you to get through the next few days, and you’ll be fine. Whatever you can carry, which, admittedly isn’t much. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it back to him before nightfall.

Things are gonna be fine. You’ll bring the medicine and once he’s better, the two you can head out to find the others. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll be better when you’re all back together, the way things were meant to be. 

You need them, if anything this little venture’s proven that much at least. 

They’d promised that it wasn’t far, and maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few days creeping in, or the gentle hum of the engine as the car drives along the long, narrow stretch of road, but your eyelids start to droop, your breath evening out as sleep beckons.

And you’re just dancing on the edge of consciousness when a hushed voice breaks through the comfortable silence, dark eyes flickering up to watch your slumbering form in the rearview mirror. “Ya think Kita’ll be pissed?”

There’s a snort, “Nah. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, ‘specially the pretty ones.” He’s quiet for a moment, almost contemplative before he opens his mouth to add, “‘Sides, we’re gonna take real good care of her, ain’t we, Samu?”

The only reply he gives is a soft grunt of acknowledgement. 

[wri0thesley]

Hey Nat, I'm kinda blaming you for my budding infatuation with Nanami and I was wondering if I may request Nanami and his s/o having their first kiss? It doesn't have to be long but I'm just feeling soft and with the way you write him it sounds like a treat once this reserved, professional man finally allows himself to give in

oh anon i am so... so very soft.... you cannot blame me for the nanami desire. he is simply irresistible. 

date night - nanami x reader (3k)

you’re nervous about your first date with nanami.

warnings: none. fluffy, soft. neutral reader, some mentions of food and alcohol.

You cannot help but be nervous about tonight.

Your friends have made fun of you, talking about your hot date – Gojo thumping you on the back, Shoko looking at you with her tired eyes but a smirk on her face. Neither of them really get it, you don’t think – to them, Nanami is their former junior who is just a little too serious for his own good. A gloomy, stoic presence who they trust implicitly due to the good head on his shoulders, but who they do not really see as ‘a potential romantic match’. They know that you’ve been harbouring a crush on the former salaryman for months, and they’ve already tried to warn you off him.

“He can be so boring,” Gojo had said, swinging an arm around your shoulders. “Let me set you up with someone instead!”

Your face had heated up at the idea that Gojo didn’t trust you to make your own romantic decisions, but he was already halfway through listing the name of every eligible bachelor he knew (and a few who he said ‘weren’t eligible, but they probably could be, for you!’). You’d been able to do nothing but listen politely as you’d walked with him to his classroom, occasionally gathering strange looks from the students that were milling around in the corridors.

“Think about it!” He’d cried to you as he’d stepped into his bare classroom (you hardly ever see him doing any actual classwork in there; mainly, you see him lying on top of desks and making fun of his students) and greeted the three first years waiting for him. “You don’t wanna be stuck ironing Nanami’s socks for the rest of your life!”

You hope his students don’t hear him, as you decide to go for a walk outside to clear your head.

You and Nanami have been dancing around the idea of maybe possibly being something more than friends for weeks. You’ve felt it, in the brush of his hand against yours, the way that his eyes seem to soften and his tiredness seems to lift when you’re near him. You’ve felt it, as you’ve passed him a cup of coffee and he’s relished the warmth emanating from the cup. In the soft way he speaks to you.

You’ve felt it when he’s held your hand as the two of you have walked together, not saying anything. In his scarf wrapped around your neck, smelling like him.

What you haven’t done, is go on a date.

And perhaps this isn’t a date the way you’d once have dreamed about it. You’re going over to Nanami’s place; he’s going to cook a meal for you, the two of you are going to catch up after he’s been gone on a mission for almost a week -  the two of you are going to watch a foreign film he’s been able to get hold of, that you’ve been saving to watch with one another. You’re going to perhaps have a glass of wine together, or two--

You kind of do want to be stuck ironing Nanami’s socks for the rest of your life.

It sounds so silly when you say it aloud! You haven’t even kissed him, just brushed fingers and held hands and saved each other’s lives whilst on exorcisms together. But whenever you close your eyes and imagine your future, Nanami is always there, right beside you.

You breathe in deeply. You have to ignore what Gojo and Shoko and everyone have been saying. They’ve known Nanami for longer than you – they were his upperclassmen, after all, and you suppose it’s traditional to make fun of and quash your younger classmates a little. You just need to think about what you want, and what Nanami himself may want. Plucking uselessly at your clothes, nerves fizzing in your stomach, you elect to ignore the anxiety gnawing at you until you’re at least outside of Nanami’s front door.

Then, you tell yourself, then, I’ll allow myself to panic a little bit. Seeing Nanami’s calm, handsome face always calms me down. The minute he answers the door, I’ll forget that I was even nervous, and everything will be just as it should.

It doesn’t stop you worrying, as you get dressed and try and fluff your hair and rearrange all of your accessories whilst you get ready. It’s just an evening at his house, you try and keep telling yourself. He’s not expecting me to show up like a runway model, he’d probably hate that anyway--

Still. Having a crush on somebody is never easy, and Nanami can be so utterly unreadable at times, that you get dressed and undressed twice more before you settle on something in between casual and formal; that looks like you’ve made an effort, without looking like you agonised for hours to figure out what the level of effort should be. You’re clutching a bottle of wine and standing outside of his door three minutes early, wondering if he’s the kind of man who gets annoyed if you are there too early.

The door swings open, and Nanami is there, leaning on the door frame. He’s breathtakingly handsome, in casual clothes – an expensive looking sweater in soft grey that gives just a peek at the column of his throat, cuffed jeans. You’ve never seen him look so . . . relaxed. And the fact that he’s looking at you, his lips barely tilting, his tired eyes just a little turned up at the corners.

“You look nice,” he tells you, and you thank God that you went with this outfit. You hold out the bottle of wine for him, and his smile breaks wider as he looks at it. “You didn’t need to bring me anything, you know. I’m happy to be the provider this evening.”

“It’s-- it’s polite!” You insist, and Nanami steps aside to allow you into his house. He’s very proper, and you’d wanted to impress him – you think the young lady who had served you in the specialist store you’d anxiously entered had sensed your worry, and had been very kind as she’d picked something for you she was certain you’d like.

“You made a good choice,” he tells you, as he invites you into his hallway and you gratefully pull off your shoes. “This one looks fine--”

“I didn’t really choose it,” you admit. “I let the experts do it.”

He laughs, the sound like an early spring morning. You don’t think anybody else hears him laugh like that, and the comfort that the two of you share makes you feel soft and warm.

“Even more admirable, then,” he says. “Most people we know would just barrel in guns blazing and insist they knew the right way to do things.”

You both share a secretive smile, your cheeks warming. You can feel tension draining out of you the longer you spend in Nanami’s company. Something about him just sets you at ease.

When you’d first met him, you’d been frightened of him. He seemed so gloomy and intense, so utterly focussed on his goals – when you had tried to speak to him, he had brushed you off with short one word answers and you’d caught him looking at you when your back was turned as if he was waiting for you to slip up.

But as time had worn on . . . as time had worn on, Nanami’s edges had softened. You’d realised that he was willing to talk, when the participant had proved themselves to be worth talking to. He’d told you once, shrugging, that most jujutsu sorcerers just tended to be . . . odd.

“Not you, though,” he’d said, and your heart had leapt in your chest. “Well. You’re not odd in any way that isn’t charming.”

He’s not usually the kind of man who heaps praise on other people; that little compliment, you had carried with you like a flame in your heart. The first time he had held your hand, he hadn’t said anything. The first time he had walked you home, and met you for coffee in a morning a half hour before you were due to be at the scene of an exorcism; Nanami Kento shows that he cares about you in a hundred different little ways that aren’t as simple as telling you it out and out. You admire that about him. You’re so used to putting your foot in your mouth.

“Come sit at the table,” he says, and you follow him obediently. His house is tastefully decorated, somewhere between modern and traditional; he has shelves of books everywhere, and that makes you smile. You’ve heard him say, sighing; “When I’m done with all this, I’ll finally have time to get around to reading them.” The shelf in the very corner of the dining area is the only one that looks well-thumbed; even from here, you can see that it’s where he keeps his recipe books.

“I hope you’ll like it,” you settle into the chair that he pulls out for you. He moves into the kitchen with purpose, grabbing serving dishes and utensils and juggling them with a precision that makes you admire him all the more. “I’m very glad you were on time. It’s the kind of dish that needs to be eaten at the exact right moment.”

He whips the cover off the main dish.

You knew that Nanami was a foodie. His instagram is full of pictures of various places and treats he’s eaten – with a particular focus on adorable baked goods, especially bread, that had made you feel warm inside when you’d noticed. Still, the spread that he’s laid out before you would not look out of place in the most high-class of restaurants; the kind that you’d never had the money to afford to eat in, and you’d have been afraid of showing yourself up at the tables of. You stare at it, mesmerised; the vegetables, so bright and colourful and steaming, lovingly presented – the glaze of the meats, the bowls full of side-dishes that you can’t quite recognise.

There’s an anxiety in his face when he looks at you.

“Sorry,” he says, quietly. “I think I probably over-estimated. And over-compensated, I suppose, for not taking you out to a restaurant--”

“No,” you say, quickly. “It looks delicious. I’m glad you invited me. It’s just . . . a lot.”

“Yes,” his eyes rove over the table. “There are only two of us.”

“It’ll make good left-overs,” you suggest, and he brightens.

“That should have been my line,” he tells you as he retrieves the wine you’d brought. You can see that there was already a bottle chilling in a bucket by the table, but Nanami’s face is affectionate as he pops the cork and pours some into the wine glass by your plate. “I’m supposed to be the responsible one.”

“Sorry for stealing your thunder,” you take a sip of the wine.

“Just as long as you don’t make a habit of it.”

The food really is delicious. You could easily have had seconds, or even thirds – on an ordinary day. A day in which your stomach isn’t churning from how alone the two of you are. There’s a buzz in the air that isn’t quite tension; more, it’s a promise that there’s more yet to come. You and Nanami laugh over dinner, the conversation surprisingly easy when the knot in your insides is so tight. He talks about his old job, and you talk about your own adventures before you’d ended up in Tokyo – he smiles, and laughs, more than you’ve ever seen him do.

He seems so much more at home here. That’s silly, considering it is his home – but somehow, there’d always been an image of Nanami in your head as serious and unforgiving with his tie very tight and his suits perfectly pressed even when he was relaxing in his own rooms.

That image is quickly wiped away, by the way he looks as he rolls up the sleeves of his sweater to take the dishes away.

“Let me help you wash up,” you try and say, but he waves you away.

“I’ll leave them for after you’ve gone,” he says. “I’m not going to ask a guest to do that. Or maybe I’ll even be bold; leave them for in the morning.” His smile makes you feel weak at the knees, this time – a spot of pink high on those sharp cheekbones. Is he blushing, or has his face gone rosy from the wine?

The two of you migrate into the living room. His television is large, but not ostentatiously so; a row of DVDs are neatly in the cabinet beneath it, mainly drama films, period films and some foreign prestige box sets. The movie the two of you have been talking about is one of those – a Danish film about an ageing detective who takes on one last case. You had originally planned to see it together, when it made it to Tokyo cinemas; but one thing had lead to another, and before you could both get the schedules to work out it had gone.

He places the DVD into the player and you can’t help but stare at him; how the soft material of the sweater clings to his broad shoulders, how the jeans seem to emphasise his ass – he’s always in slacks, you’ve never really had the chance to ogle it before, but seeing it in front of you now you suddenly understand why he keeps it covered. Who knows what riots it might incite, if it were just out and about for anyone to see?

“You’re staring,” Nanami turns his head slightly, catching your eye. Heat rushes to your face – but he keeps your eyes pinned with his own for a moment, before deliberately dragging them down the length of you, sat on the sofa. You feel hot and warm and bothered by the way he smiles afterwards, as if he is saying that he likes what he’s seeing too. “You don’t need to be sneaky about it. I don’t mind.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly going very dry. Nanami moves across the room, sitting on the sofa beside you. Heat seems to be radiating off of him; there’s a comfort in having him next to you.

“You look uncomfortable,” he says, five minutes into the movie. He leans back, an arm coming to rest on the back of the sofa behind you. “You can lean on me, you know. I don’t mind.”

He looks inviting. His head is tipped to one side as he meets your eyes; there’s no challenge in his. Just a softness. A quiet affection. Perhaps a touch of nervousness – of trepidation, that you’ll refuse the offer. You hesitantly sidle closer, leaning your head against his side. His scent wraps around you; freshly cleaned laundry, peppermint, coffee, spices, some of the wine from earlier--

You fair go dizzy at it all, but not as dizzy as you go when the arm on the back of the sofa wraps around you, his fingers resting on your shoulder. How are you supposed to concentrate on anything, with him so close to you? With everything about him making you feel like you’re on a roller-coaster climbing upwards and upwards, hurtling towards the inevitable?

You try – oh, you really do try – to keep your eyes on the film and the subtitles scrolling across the bottom of the television. But the aged detective is not half as interesting as Nanami; as the way he focusses on the screen, as his face bathed in the light. As his hand, as it gently starts to stroke over your shoulder, as if he’s barely aware he’s doing it. As his tongue, as it darts out to nervously lick at his lips.

“You’re staring at me,” he says, and you flinch that he’s noticed. His head turns, pinning you with the full force of his gaze. “Are you not enjoying it? We can turn it off?”

How do you answer that?

The real answer: ‘I’m not enjoying it because I can’t concentrate on anything other than you, and how badly I want to be brave enough to kiss you’, feels too bare and bold. You bite your lip.

Nanami leans in closer to you, so close that you can see the flush on his cheeks. The slightly ruffled hairs falling over his forehead. You can count his eyelashes, almost--

“I’m not sure what’s going on either,” he admits, softly. “And I can speak Danish.”

The arm not around your shoulders moves, resting on your waist. You can barely breathe. He’s so close to you; so gorgeous, in the light. All of that former salaryman indifference seems to have gone; he’s not cold any longer, but boiling hot. You’ve been watching it slowly strip away from him since you met him, you think, but tonight might be the first time he’s been Kento Nanami with no pretension.

Nervous about his food, even though he knows he’s an excellent cook. Blushing as he realises you’re checking him out. Almost trembling, as his hand slides up and he cups your cheek like you’re made of porcelain and he’s afraid he might drop and shatter you at any moment. You blink up at him, honey-slow, so dazed by his touch and his presence you can barely make sense of what’s happening.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Nanami says, as a warning. Even now, he seems to think you might pull away. But you cannot, you do not; you just press yourself closer into him, your voice coming out very soft and small as you whisper;

“Please do.”

He does not need to be asked twice. His lips are so soft against yours. The wine clings to them, intoxicating and heady. The hand on your cheek tips your face further up, so he can keep his mouth pressed against you so sweetly. You pull back, your heart pounding.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he’s saying, almost immediately, nervous that you have changed your mind – but all you do is free your arms, so you can wrap them about his neck and pull him in closer, to devour him the way you’ve wanted to for months.

The movie plays on, forgotten.

[galacticjs]

📓THEIR FIRST INSTANCE WITH THEIR S/O’s PERIOD

— feat : eren jaeger , levi ackerman , jean kirstein , reiner braun

— warnings : the one swear word in the a/n at the end 🙃 afab!reader

— a/n : this was originally going to be a general “when their s/o is on their period” but i for some reason began writing about the first instance. maybe i’ll do that in future, though 🤷‍♀️ NOT PROOF READ :))))

— posted : 4th august 2021 , 11:32pm

📓EREN JAEGER

mr clueless

literally would have no idea and would be hella confused with your mood swings

like one minute you were lovey dovey and the next you were telling him to f off. huh 😃

probably thinks he did something ( and idk maybe he did… ) so mikasa would have to inform him that you were probably just on your period

eren probably felt really dumb and confessed that he forget that periods were even a thing

would then ask mikasa what he should do — even though what she told him may or may not have gone completely over his head

so when he found you all alone and hunched over in pain, he kinda knew what to do

first and foremost he would give you a biggggg hug and by this point he would have completely forgotten about the incident earlier

although he did realise that being in agonising pain and having a boyfriend that was pining for you every second was not the best, and quite frankly an annoying combination

he’d offer to carry you over to the bed where the two of you could cuddle — and who were you to decline such a lovely offer?

admittedly, cuddling wasn’t going to solve everything regarding your period but you were still very greatful just knowing that he’s trying his best

eren would place his hand on your lower abdomen and would soothingly rub his thumb against your skin :)

📓LEVI ACKERMAN

unlike eren, is not clueless and he actually considers ~by himself~ that the reason behind your moodiness may be your period

you told petra that you were sorry if you seemed a little off to day to sich she responded by presuming ( in a friendly manner, female-to-female ) it was your “time of the month” and you confirmed

levi overheard said conversation so be now knew that his assumptions were correct

he had a faint idea of what to do

first of all, on an expedition, he would make you do less work and do the more easier stuff ( if possible that is, he can’t exactly tell you to “stay out of this one” if titans are coming at you from left, right and centre ). plus he’s got to be careful that the others don’t start accusing him of favouritism even though he obviously prefers you

but if it’s just a chill day, he’d probably make you some tea but add some fancy herbal stuff that he knows can decrease pain and ~relax the mind ~ [ i use ‘ ~ ‘ far too much ]

at night, he would try his best to help you and because he on idiot cares about you very much, he’d want you to get to sleep and not spend your night in pain

whether this be by making you another cup of of tea, or cuddles, he’s easy. just tell him what you want, and he’d try his best to provide

ultimately, as long as you’re happy, he’s happy

📓JEAN KIRSTEIN

as we know, jean acts tough and bed try his best to be himself around you 24/7 but he sometimes fails

so when you lash out at him he would act offended and hurt before removing himself from the situation

he loves you too much to argue hence why this ruined his mood ( and yours, of course )

when the others ask what’s wrong with him and why he was being even more snappy than usual he would first tell them that it was none of their business. but after being nagged to death for a second time, he told them that a tiny situation had gone on between the two of you before quickly moving on

sasha and connie agreed between themselves that it was very unlike you as yourself and jean had always been like two peas in a pod so sasha suggested that it was maybe just your time of the month

like eren, jean ridiculed himself mentally for not thinking of that earlier

so as soon as he next saw you he would immediately provide you with plenty of love and affection

“i’m sorry for acting the way i did earlier, y/n, i just didn’t understand. i should have reacted more maturely”

he wouldn’t know how to literally get rid of any pain you may be having so he’d just aim to make the whole thing more bearable for you

however, in the end and after a couple of months or so, jean would get the hang of it and would always be more prepared than the last

📓REINER BRAUN

this boy omg. literally all i’m thinking about these days lmao

would turn up at your door with a bunch of pretty flowers that had a note of “im sorry” in his hand after you had a go at him earlier that day. he just wasn’t ready to give up on you ( even though it was no where that deep :( )

you obviously took the flowers with gratefulness before asking him why he was sorry

“well, erm, i presumed i did something wrong after this morning so-“

you quickly explained to him the situation and how it was no way his fault whilst he looked quite dumbfounded.

i feel like reiner would just know when it’s roughly the time of month for you to start your period? and he would be more than prepared

he would make sure that you were stocked up on all the essential snacks and what not because bro… he really cares about you

and if you’re having back pains just imagine reiner’s large hands giving you a message like my god. heaven on earth

plus if you ask for something, reiner is already on it ( besides, he has it all ready anyways )

i think we can all agree that reiner is one of the best people to cuddle with. mans will spoon you, giving you all his warmth and making you feel safe and secure, until the break of day

like jean, reiner would get used to and it would become a part of his routine too. he’s very mature about it <3

——————————————————————————

— a/n : guess who’s fallen ill? 🙋‍♀️ thankfully not covid, but i still feel like shit — so what better to do then write about these lovely people :)

——————————————————————————

© galacticjs - do not repost my work on any platform

[whoreshijima]

So me and @m-mortimer did a lil collab :) all we do is thirst at eachother so here enjoy our one braincelled thinking and horniness 🤍

Thank you Izzy for allowing me to post this ilyvm and Your smart brain :))

WC- 2.9k

CW// daddy kink, reader has a vagina, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, slight mention of breeding, FaceTime masturbation, choking, mentions of fem receiving oral, basically no prep fucking

Every time Ushijima goes away, he promises to call you everyday, even if it’s for two minutes before bed or as he’s eating his lunch on the small breaks he gets. You appreciate it so much, the way he thinks about you constantly. But sometimes it gets to be way too much, way too long. He’s been away for three days now, three days too long. Ushijima called you as often as he could, simply missing the sweet tone you’d greet him with, the smile on your face as you answered the call. He loved every part of you, from how you dance whilst making dinner as he watched through the screen. Or how, like right now, you’re trying to hide your whimpers from the microphone and how you’re trying to keep your face straight, keeping the casual chatter about what you’re going to do that day.

It started as a simple FaceTime call from his cheap hotel bed, like any other day he’s away. But the grumbling deep voice on the other end of the phone, mixed with three days without his touch, made you shivery and needy. You didn’t know Ushijima was thinking the same thing. The slight mess of your bed hair and bare skin around your shoulders and chest from the small cami you were wearing made his breath catch in his chest, blood rushing south instantly.

“I dunno I might go grocery s-shoppping” you mumble out, cursing yourself for stumbling over your words as your fingers ghost over your clit, the slickness from your arousal easing your movements between your legs. Ushi can hear the sheets shuffling, the way your legs spread to give you more space to slide your fingers deep inside yourself, the wet sounds not breezing past your boyfriend's ears without notice. “Get us some f-food for when you come home?” You can’t hide the way your breath catches in your throat as you catch the spot deep inside you, the spot that Ushijima knows makes you scream and gush around him. “W-what would you like to eat?”

If Ushijima could answer honestly, he’d want to eat you. Spend hours between your legs as he swirls his warm tongue around and over your clit, strong hands pinning your legs to the bed as he spits and devours your cunt. There’s nothing better than the idea of you cumming over his mouth, writhing and wriggling under his firm grip, as two fingers curl and scissor inside you, knowing that he’s prepped you enough for his cock. Prepped you enough so that the stretch around him doesn’t hurt you as much as it should.

Just the thought of him being between your legs, cunt stretched so beautifully around him as he pushes inside you, your soft, plush thighs wrapped around his waist as he bucks his hips up into your swollen cunt. Imagining the way your warm walls surround him as he pins you to the mattress, a large hand wrapped around your tiny throat, completely at his mercy, has him pushing his hips into the mattress.

“Erm, chicken of some type?” Lower. His voice was definitely lower, almost a snarl as he talks to you, the pressure of his cock against the mattress making his eyes roll to the back of his head briefly.

“S-stir fry?” You turn your head to meet his gaze through the screen, your eyes are glazed over. Your glossy ones meet his lust filled stare, his lips are parted in small gasps and grunts. You know exactly how his other hand is gripping the sheets, knuckles turning whiter and whiter everytime the head of his cock catches against the bumps of the sheets and mattress. Neither of you bothering to hide from eachother, you let out a whine, letting your mouth hang open as you speed your fingers up against your clit.

How you wish you could see his swollen, leaking cock right now. The way it twitches with every grind forward, how the pre cum beads at the head of his cock before dripping down the shaft. But the way his face is scrunched up as he closes his eyes, the few beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and how the hand holding the phone is shaking ever so slightly drives you insane. You can hear the squeak of his hotel mattress everytime he moves against it, the steady sound obvious to anyone near his room. The gentle banging of the headboard against the wall would make anyone think he’s Railing someone hard, but it’s just him, desperately rutting against the bed.

Ushi growls out a “Fuck baby” and that’s all it takes for you to arch your back and cry out for him, fingers rubbing speedily at your swollen clit and leaking pussy. The lewd sounds of your sweet slick dripping out of you mixed with the sweet Mewls you let out, driving ushi over the edge. His hips roll one, two times before he grunts out, body shaking as he cums, spilling all over his boxers and the sheets underneath him. His cock is throbbing over the thought of cumming inside you, marking you as his. Breeding you and filling you up with his cum. He lets out a shaky breath, staring into your eyes as he watches your arm moving fast in the view of the camera.

“Cum for me” he growls, voice low and gruff as he commands you to cum. And you’re not one to disobey him, your fingers move faster as you grind up into your touch. A high whimper leaves your mouth as you reach the point of orgasm, swiftly followed by a loud and needy moan, directing it at your boyfriend. Your body shakes and twitches as you ride it out, a layer of sweat adorning your skin.

“Fuck...” you whisper, finally going limp against the sheets and pillows “I miss you... so much” his gaze has softened as he smiles gently at you. He so desperately wants to reach through the screen to stroke your cheek with his thumb, hooking his fingers under your chin and pull you in for a deep kiss. To feel how your spit mixes together, and how it drips over your chin after he’s fucked you dumb on his cock.

He chuckles deeply, it rumbling through his chest “Oh just you wait till I’m home baby”

He was late. Which was a first, because there was no skirting around anything with him, either five minutes early or exactly on time. Maybe it was the nerves making you work double speed, looking at the clock every other second, turning on your phone and forgetting to actually look at the time and having to turn it on again, revisiting the last message he’d sent you - a blunt text telling you he was just getting a taxi from the airport and that he should be back in about thirty minutes.

Forty minutes ago. The skin around your thumb was raw with how you’d been nibbling at it, but not from nerves, if the dampness of your underwear and the tension in your core was anything to go by. No, you were ridiculously turned on, from what? From everything, from nothing, from him and that goddamn look he gave you two nights ago, paired with a few choice words that sparked lightning up your spine just remembering them.

“Baby.”

In that blunt, dark voice of his, croaky from sleep and strained from moaning your name, lips swollen from how hard he’d been biting it to stop himself grunting and snarling as loud as he usually did. God - that was what you were waiting for, the sounds of him, the smell of him, the taste of him, of his mouth, of his fingers, of his cock.

You shivered, a wave of lust clouding your mind for a split second, daring to slide a hand between your thighs, trembling and tensing already, and all you’d done was think about him. 3 days, 3 fucking days and you were reduced to this quivering mess on the couch at the thought of Ushijima coming through that door and finally - finally giving you what he’d promised during that call.

A muffled vibration and ding sprung you from your thoughts, from your quick spiralling down into a puddle on the floor, ripping your fingers from your underwear to pick up your phone, heart stopping and breath catching at the singular word on the screen.

Here

It was a fucking word and yet, a fresh wave of arousal flushed through your body and you struggled to stand, shaking with adrenaline and panting heavily, the implications of the word taking a toll on your body and if you were in your right mind - you’d probably slapped yourself and remarked on how desperately pathetic you were acting. But it had been 3 days, 3 agonising days of waiting and texting and barely being able to talk to him outside his strict schedule and your shifts at work.

And now? He was here, he was here and you could hear the elevator ding at the end of the corridor and the back of your neck heated, and all you could see was the front door and your hand gripping the handle, and something thumped to the ground and -

He was here. Ushijima - he was stood right there, at arm’s length, neck pillow tucked under one arm and duffle bag slumped at his feet. That must have been the thing that fell to the floor, but you don’t really care because he’s staring at you with the dark, dangerous look on his face and it should have struck playful fear into you but all you could do was whimper,

“Toshi,”

You sounded so much better saying his name in real life, fresh and feeble and sending blood draining from his head so fast, one hand shot out to grab the door frame. Ushijima strained, against everything, knuckles turning white and he probably could have cracked the woodwork, cock unbearably hard and aching within seconds of seeing you. It would have been a lie to say that he hadn’t been half hard the entire time after your call, unable to get the vision of you with your head tossed back and your eyes scrunching in pleasure, cumming deliciously from the frantic movements of your fingers beneath your pyjamas.

“Again,”

You squeak, he’s never sounded like that before, never been so low and so gruff, on the verge of snapping, avoiding your eye because if he could see the wrecked gaze you fixed on him -

“Toshi - please,”

His shirt ripped from the force with which he tore it over his head, one arm getting caught in his desperate attempt to strip and he very nearly tripped when his foot caught in the strap of his duffle bag, dragging it over the threshold before untangling himself,

“Again, say it again baby,”

He’s on you before you know what’s going on, kicking the door shut but neither of you hear it click, too consumed in each other to really worry about the fact his bag is preventing you two from having complete privacy. But you can’t think, you can’t form a single thought apart from,

“Toshi - Toshi more please!” Ushijima’s mouth swallowing your words almost instantly, one of his hands cupping the entirety of the back of your head, tilting you just so and allowing him to lick into you, feasting on your lips and tongue like a man starved and for a second, you realise he probably is. And so are you, god - you’re hungry for everything he has to offer, wrapping your hands around his waist and trying desperately to shove his sweat pants down, hissing when he accidentally bit your lip too hard but he’s dipping to your neck and delivering an even harsher bite -

“Fuck,”

Your legs give out, like they usually do under his rough assaults of your neck but you often have a bed or a couch behind you, nothing cushioning you from the hard wood floors of the hallway except for the fat of your ass and his arms encircling your head and shoulders.

“Here - I’m fucking you here, I can’t wait,” Ushijima follows you down, mouth barely leaving yours, form engulfing yours, hands trapping yours. He spreads you out on the cold floor, snarling when he gets a face of your chest from how violently you arch at the temperature and the painful nips left over the skin of your collar bone.

Ushijima isn’t much of a talker when he’s got you trembling underneath him, but the comments that are spat unfiltered from his mouth do absolutely nothing to curb the bright hot lust making you loose all semblance of control,

“Fuck - you’re soaking, did you wait for me? Did you make yourself cum again after I ended the call? No? I didn’t - I’ve been waiting for two days to do this, to touch you like this, put my hands on your body like this - fuck baby you’re so needy - no, here, look at me,”

You hadn’t even realised you had closed your eyes and thrown your head back, feeling thick fingers digging into your jaw and forcing you to look at him, dark eyes tracing every inch of your face while he dragged the other hand down your torso, short nails catching the loose fabric of your dress. It was a short moment of clarity; him looking at you, you looking at him, eyes softening so something akin to affectionate love before it was overwhelmed with predatory intent, that soft touch of his hand shoving your thighs apart and sinking into your underwear,

“M’not - I can’t wait, I can’t - let me,”

“Yes! Yes! Toshi please!”

You two sound ridiculous, desperate and clawing at each other, your smaller fingers shoving his trousers down over his ass and your entire body jolts when his cock dropped heavily on to your cunt, hot and angry and hard as fucking steel, throbbing against your clit and you clench around nothing, the anticipation too much to contain.

Ushijima is in no better state than you, fumbling with his footing with snaps of his jaw and he’s entirely too rough with the way he pumps himself, grinding against the silk of your cunt in a feeble attempt to try and prep you, to make the breach less painful, less of a stretch but you need that, you do and it’s driving you crazy, and it’s probably driving him crazy too,

“Go - Toshi, please, I can’t - fuck me please!”

The strength that emerges from the man astounds you every time, hoisting your thighs high up his waist and then apparently changing his mind, throwing your ankles over his shoulders and looming over you, sinking into you with once, debilitating thrust of his hips. And the noise that left him, oh god - it was borderline animalistic, debauched and wrecked, and one of the hottest things you think you’ve ever heard.

He’s got his hands either side of your head, clawing against the floor for purchase, immediately starting a brutal pace, the slap of his skin on yours echoing throughout the apartment, drowned out only by the high pitched squeals coming from your mouth and the filthy way he was talking down at you,

“Taking me so well baby, so fucking well - m’so proud of you, didn’t need any prep - fuck! So tight, so goddamn tight f’me -,” he doesn’t soften, not when the sounds of your pussy creaming around his cock grows louder with every sharp snap of his hips, shoving your legs into your chest and forcing harsh shouts from your throat,

“Yes! Daddy - missed you so, so much - harder, please! I’ll be s’good for you, so good just - hah - harder!”

Neither of you realise that every sound your bodies produce, every squelch and click of your cunt, every growl and deep snarl from his chest, every needy squeal and plea from your lips can be heard all the way down the corridor. The front door was still open, propped from where the duffle bag had prevented it from closing, the light from the corridor providing a perfect spotlight for the unsuspecting neighbour who dared venture out to see what all the noises were.

The vision of Ushijima’s back rippling and rolling with his bringing his hand to close around your throat, prompting a garbled hiccup and tears to spring in your eyes, and your little feet dangling uselessly over his shoulders probably should have rendered them silent, shocked and rooted to the spot.

But the quiet gasp was caught by the hulking creature on top of you, quirking his head and making eye contact with them for a split second before simply resuming his quick, paralysing thrusts, harder even than before - drawing a high pitched wail from your throat and there was no mistaking the fluid splashing on the floor, mingling with white and smearing over his balls, slapping against your ass.

A leg struck out, kicking the door shut and locking the duffle outside, looking as sorry for itself and your neighbour, cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glassy, still reflecting the vision of you cumming harshly on Ushijima’s cock, and him simply continuing to fuck you through it, the sounds of you two muffled but no less poignant against the calm stupor of the corridor.

And so what if it carried on, moving through the apartment and quiet possibly earning a complaint from the complex security but neither of you could hear the phone ringing over the bed creaking and slamming against the wall, too consumed in each other, too wound up in the sounds you could pull and the reactions you could bring forward. Damn - if him only being gone for three days turned you both into needy desperate animals, then how the hell would you cope with his next match that required over a week away in a completely different country?

Please follow Izzy she’s a genius and the reason for me being horny @m-mortimer

[justpevensies]

Please Come Back to Me

request:  “ hi can i request a edmund angst like a really good heartbreaking one where he says really hurtful things he doesn’t mean but with a happy ending” - anonymous

blurb: Edmund says some things he didn’t mean..

A/N: my first request! this one was difficult to write but I hope you all enjoy it x

warnings: lots of angst but eventual fluff

Curled in a ball against the door, hot tears were free falling down your face spilling all over your hands and clothing. You had no idea how long you had been sat there weeping bitterly as the pain continued to sting every ounce of your being - your heart ached - and at the same time you felt numb with the sadness and shock. Muffled you could hear a voice crying from the other side of the door.

~

Very rarely did you and Edmund get in arguments but in this moment, that was exactly what you were doing. You couldn’t even remember what had triggered it but you both were here now and it was going back and forth. At the peak of this anger, Edmund said: “You know, I don’t even know why-”

“Say it!” You spat at him. 

“I don’t even know why I care. Why I bother. I can’t believe we’ve come to this”. As far as you were concerned, that was what he thought of this relationship, unworthy of attention or care. 

He stared blankly at you, there was almost no traces of remorse in his body. Tears began to glisten on your horizon and when you responded to him pleading your case, Edmund didn’t say anything and in that moment you wanted to slap him across the face for being a coward. 

This wasn’t the Edmund you knew, this wasn’t the Edmund you loved. The Edmund you knew and adored didn’t argue with you, he didn’t raise his voice at you, he wouldn’t dream of speaking to anyone like this. In fact, it scared you.

“So that’s it?” You asked sternly. “That’s us?! After everything we’ve shared, experienced and dreamt, all it will come crumbling down over some stupid argument?” You asked, arms folded. Edmund looked at you and it was a look that could kill. “Well” he scoffed, “I guess it will”.

That was not what you were expecting. Your voice went quiet, almost as if you were restrained and you asked in a whisper: “What?”

Edmund turned around and sighed, about to resume work at his desk and he responded: “I don’t know if I can talk to you like this”. At that you stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. “No!” you yelled. “I want to hear what you have to say”. 

Edmund looked at you and shrugged, “Okay”. After that, he laid it on you. He told you everything he had been feeling in the last few minutes - anger, disappointment, frustration. You knew that recently he had been overworked and tired so you assumed that contributed greatly to everything he was doing right now - probably to this very argument - but the things he was saying at this moment felt different. Every word felt like a stab at your worst insecurities, it felt like an attack and you knew you wouldn’t dream of speaking to him like this, regardless of how he made you feel. In this moment, you looked at Edmund - tears in your eyes - and for the first time you didn’t feel any love for him.

Frozen in that moment, you whispered back to him when he finished: “Is that really how you feel? I’m not enough, I’m not good enough?”

Edmund didn’t say anything, he just clenched his jaw. However, he knew that as soon as he finished that he didn’t mean a word. The pent up frustration, anxiety and exhaustion of duties he had been experiencing lately had almost possessed him and he had found no other way to let out that anger than onto you. Everything he had just said to you was how he felt about himself, yet here he was - an unworthy, stupid fool who had wasted the most joyful and good thing. He knew instantly he had made the biggest mistake.

However, his lack of response convinced you that everything he said was true. You didn’t need him to say anything, so you took that as your cue to leave.

“(Y/N)! Stop! I-”

The door to his study opened and immediately slammed shut.

~ 

You raced to your dressing room in your bedchamber, slamming the door and locking it shut. Sliding down in defeat, you just the agonising pain consume you. His words raided your head, your heart was detonated, you wanted to scream but no words came. 

Suddenly you heard another noise that wasn’t your heavy breathing or sobs: approaching footsteps. Rather quick paced footsteps. 

You had forgotten to lock your bedroom door so whoever had come to check on you (bearing in mind several people saw you in the corridors) was obviously going to waltz right in after your emotional exit. 

However, you recognized the sound of those footsteps, that walking speed. You wanted to believe it was him but everything right now was telling you he wasn’t interested and didn’t care. 

“(Y/N)?!” A pleading voice cried out. It was Edmund. 

He must have heard your cries from the other side of the door as you heard the footsteps approaching and then a loud banging on the door. The handle rattled as he attempted to burst in and - due to getting a fright - you suddenly held your breath. You were certain that your heart was pounding, as if something cruel was trying to break through. For a brief moment, everything was quiet.

~ 

That was what happened... you had no idea how long ago it was but you couldn’t see yourself moving anytime soon.

The voice crying from the other side of the door became more muffled as time ticked on. Cries, pleads and shouts from Edmund of your name gradually became more audible to you as you tried to inhale more and calm your breathing. 

“(Y/N)?!”

“(Y/N)?!”

The cries became more desperate, the thumps on the door became more repetitive but less strong, evidently it was hurting his hand. However that pain - as far as you were concerned - was nowhere near what you were enduring on the other side. 

“Oh (Y/N), open the door!” Edmund yelled through with a cracked voice. 

You didn’t want to imagine how he was looking right now because it would only tear you in two. 

You managed to piece some of your emotions together to wimper out: “Edmund-”. You heard him let out a sigh of relief before his thumping stopped. “Oh goodness (Y/N)! Please open the door!” You had somehow managed to stop crying, as if all of reality had snapped back into place. However, it felt like some alternate universe, a nightmare, and one you wanted out of quickly.

“Edmund-” you repeated, holding back more tears, “No”.

“What?” 

“Please go away”.

There was a silence before Edmund again knocked - this time in a more gentle manner - “(Y/N)” he said before you snapped: “Go away! Leave me alone!”

These words broke Edmund more than he could say, as if he wasn’t feeling guilt already. This came down on him like a tonne of bricks: you didn’t want him. He cracked involuntarily and he fell into the wood. With his face pressed against the door, some stray tears began to glide down his cheeks. You could hear him but you didn’t say a thing - right now there was no sympathy.

“Oh (Y/N)...” Edmund began to whisper. “Please... open the door. I need to talk to you”. 

You scoffed, more tears beginning to glisten: “No you don’t! You’ve made your perspective very clear” you replied sharply before burying your face in your knees. 

There was a silence but it was piercing. You could hear Edmund sniffling through the door and while you did feel compelled to open it - largely out of heartbreak -but out of stubborness you didn’t. He finally broke the tension by saying: “Listen (Y/N) you’ve got to open the door”. Just wanting him to leave you alone you shouted back: “Why should I?”

Immediately, Edmund responded: “Because I love you!”

Before you could even say anything back, he continued: “Yes. I love you! You may not believe that right now and the feeling is probably not mutual right now but I love you”. 

You were silenced and you waited to hear if he said anymore. He did.

“Oh (Y/N) I love you so much. Every aspect of your being - your radiant smile, your character, the fact that you are truly genuine, caring and loving regardless of who or circumstance. I would compare you to the beautiful things of this world but none could do justice for you are so perfectly different from everyone and everything else. I cannot tell you how blessed I am to have you in my life - you’re a saving grace to me. However, I understand if that loving nature isn’t extended to me currently-”

You slowly began to stand up at the other side of the door, at the same time your head had fallen silent and no words were capable of coming from your mouth.

“I’ve been a fool. I was stupid and immature, and instead of talking about how I was actually feeling because of all this outside pressure, I took all of my own doubts about myself and put them onto you. You will never be like that - you are worthy of every ounce of love and praise, you are a saint. If I have to spend every day proving that to you then I will do that but I know I am unworthy to have you for making you feel how I did.

There was a pause.

“If you can find it in your heart to forgive me-” you heard Edmund whisper before breaking into tears. At that you leaned against the door, pressing your hand to the wood. Your heart ached, torn in two. He sniffled, wiping away any emotion before continuing: “If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll never make you feel the way I have ever again. You’ll never doubt my love for you. I didn’t mean what I said, I don’t even know why I said it. But I know it was wrong”. 

Those final words were the ones you needed and they began to patch your brokenness. He finally said: “If you will forgive me, I will dedicate all of my soul to yours. ” It was a bold statement but Edmund knew it was genuine and you could feel the truth from within it. “Please come back to me?” he asked in a whisper but you remained in your position, listening against the wood, unable to move from the response you had just heard. 

The silence marked the answer. Edmund began to cry yet again outside and, defeated, he turned and walked away. His legs almost gave way and more tears began to fall - he had never known a feeling of loss and pain like this one. It was the pain that you could only feel when something special was taken away from you too soon, too unexpected, and he knew it was his fault.

Suddenly, from behind, he heard a noise and as he turned to see, he saw the door was unlocked, the handle moving at an angle and you stepped out from the hiding. You looked at his face, drowned in grief and his body beginning to sink, and the vision in front of you was a broken man. As Edmund looked at you, his heart pounded - unaware of what was coming and whether to be hopeful or not - and you simply responded: “I will forgive you”.

Without anything else being said, the two of you sprinted to one another and embraced closer than you had ever been. The most deepest of kisses was shared and almost instantly all of the pain had been washed away. Through muffled voices you both cried “I love yous” and Edmund restated his promise of faithfulness and love - you believed every word. 

After kissing several more times, Edmund held your face in his hands delicately and he smiled brightly at the look on your face. Your crying had been replaced with tears of joy. You just wanted to hear him tell you how much he loved you again and again and as you gazed into his eyes, you knew those words were true. This was the Edmund you knew, this was the Edmund you loved...and would continue to love for all time.

[needleanddead]

remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah. 

knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k

trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab. 

cross-posted to ao3

You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.

Well.

That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.

Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--

Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.

You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.

You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.

What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.

It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.

Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.

“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--

You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.

The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;

“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”

You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.

His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--

“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”

(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).

“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”

He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.

You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.

It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--

You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.

(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.

It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.

When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)

You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--

It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.

You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.

“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.

It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.

A chuckle.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”

The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.

He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.

The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.

He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;

“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”

Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).

He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.

You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.

Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.

You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.

You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.

You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.

Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.

Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.

“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.

(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)

“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.

You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.

But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;

“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”

Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.

“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”

You don’t think you do.

You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.

So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;

“Pl-please—”

It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;

“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”

[german translation dictionary;  schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure mäuschen - little mouse sehr süß - very sweet/very cute so hübsch - so pretty idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]

[pbaintthetb]

It doesn't take long for Mo Xuanyu to realise that everything is a performance for Nie Huaisang. From the tears lining his face and the idiocy, to the bargaining and threatening of cursed spirits. To the way he taps his fingers and swallows and breathes. Nothing that Nie Huaisang shows him is really real, even if Mo Xuanyu gets to see a side of him that's closer to real than others. It's not real, none of it is real, Nie Huaisang isn't real, or at least he ought not to be. Mo Xuanyu made sure of that. Mo Xuanyu's cowardice made sure of that.

Nie Huaisang's grin at him over drinks is every bit as false as the face he's drawn over his hollow bones. Words are spoken by a tongue that's really nothing more than illusion. Nie Huaisang is a ghost and Mo Xuanyu can't make himself believe that if he were to grab him the other man wouldn't just disappear.

The good thing about everything being false is that Mo Xuanyu doesn't have to waste time wondering about what's true. Instead he sees the exhale of Nie Huaisang's breath and wonders when he taught himself to do that. And to make it seem nothing over than natural.

"I want to help you," Nie Huaisang tells him, and it's false, false, false. It's all ringing false in Mo Xuanyu's ears because Nie Huaisang is an illusion of a dead man's creation. The Golden Ghost is as real as a myth or legend can ever be, the Headshaker isn't real at all and Nie Huaisang ceased to exist ten years ago.

Nie Huaisang isn't real and his words aren't either. Which means he doesn't want to help Mo Xuanyu. But Mo Xuanyu thinks he would have known this even if NIe Huaisang wasn't lies wrapped up in mist, or maybe he would have just agonised over it. How could the man whose death Mo Xuanyu played a role in ever want to help him? He couldn't.

That's the answer that's simple. But Mo Xuanyu owes him, and he's been waiting for his punishment for ten years, thirteen years, since a ghost dragged him out from under a tree and told him it didn't want him to die just yet. The curse had run when Nie Huaisang had appeared, eyes glowing green and maybe the only thing about him that was real- even if it was a projection of an image nad power. Mo Xuanyu hadn't run, Mo Xuanyu had stayed because he was an idiot and a coward and because he'd been prey his whole life and knew a predator when he saw one but he didnt' care.

Mo Xuanyu stayed, wrapped up in the lie, because if Nie Huaisang wants to play with him before he eats him then Mo Xuanyu owes him that.

"I'm so sorry," Nie Huaisang tells him and nothing about the man is real, nothing less than his words. But if nothing about Nie Huaisang is concrete then neither are his deeds. Nie Huaisang has nothing to be sorry for.

It's a fever dream drinking with a man who doesn't exist and everyone claims does. Yet when Mo Xuanyu sits with the man they say he doesn't.

They all thing Nie Huaisang is real, but now, when he's the closest to real that Mo Xuanyu can believe they think he's fake.

If Nie Huaisang isn't real- eyes cold as ice behind all the emotion. If Nie Huaisang isn't real- a body that isn't his own. If Nie Huaisang isn't real- words that are nothing but falsehood. If Nie Huaisang isnt' real- if he'd died a long, long time ago. If Nie Huaisang isn't real then his justice won't be real either. It won't be real justice, real revenge. The Yiling Patriarch was real. He's as real as legend and myth could be. Mo Xuanyu could make the Yiling Patriarch real though, flesh and blood and no body, but real behind the eyes and in the mind. Not something that could be flushed away.

The Yiling Patriarch would get a revenge that was real and tangible and bloody. For all of them.

Nie Huaisang tells Mo Xuanyu he's sorry and it's not real but it's fine because if he's not real he has nothing to be sorry for. Because either way Mo Xuanyu owes him. Because Mo Xuanyu can make the Yiling Patriarch real.

And really. That's what matters.

[obi-wkenobi]

an obikin fic in which Obi is pining (and is hopelessly in love) with Anakin from afar but he thinks he is too old and that Anakin deserves only the best but Obi has his happy ending

Hi anon, thanks for this! I hope the below fic is something you had in mind. 😊

Anakin was next on the Council’s agenda, and from the hastily written report they had received hours before, the meeting was unlikely to be a quick one. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, what with Anakin mostly touring the outer rim and himself left on Coruscant. It wouldn’t do well for the other Council members to know, but Obi-Wan had missed him. He missed them. The Team.

And if Obi-Wan missed Anakin more than was entirely appropriate, then only he would ever know. There was no need to embarrass himself after all.

Sweat and dust darkened Anakin’s robes as he walked into the chamber, his curls plastered to the back of his neck and usually golden skin a chestnut brown. Tivol was a hot world, Obi-Wan recalled dumbly, with scorching heat that rivaled Tatooine’s, and Force, if possible, it had made Anakin even more beautiful.

The sight of him hit Obi-Wan hard, both by the frantic thud of his old heart and the deep and low drum below his belt, sparking adrenaline in his veins like the crackle of an electroblade. He shook his head, urgently trying to gather his wits after having them knocked out of him due to the simple sight of his former Padawan.

“Masters,” Anakin said, bowing respectfully and casting them a small smile, his eyes lingering on Obi-Wan.

“Knight Skywalker,” Master Windu said, “the Council is glad that you have returned, your report was most...brief in its detailing about your success on Tivol.”

Anakin flushed, the red tint wonderfully darkening his cheeks even more. “My apologies, I was too engaged with the mission whilst there and only remembered the report on my way back.”

Oh, Anakin, he thought fondly, chucking his erstwhile Padawan an exasperated look and privately delighting in watching Anakin squirm as a result.

Master Windu leaned forward, disappointment written plainly on his face. “You forgot?!”

Anakin’s face went from endearingly embarrassed to outright irate, turning a telltale purple as his anger grew. That wasn’t what Obi-Wan wanted to see. Anakin had had a difficult few weeks, he didn’t deserve to be reprimanded so soon upon his return.

“No harm has come from it, surely, Master?” Obi-Wan interrupted softly, stubbornly keeping his composure as Master Windu’s deep brown eyes settled upon him rigidly. “Anakin can add to the report today if necessary.”

A few seats down from him, a baritone chuckle sounded. “Knight Skywalker, your former Master has come to your defence once again. He does that quite a bit you know,” Master Plo observed.

Obi-Wan spluttered, indignant. “I do not.”

“Don’t you?” Master Windu asked, an eyebrow arched knowingly.

Now it was his turn to blush, except when he did so his face turned awfully red and splotchy. Charming on someone as lively and youthful as Anakin, but utterly demoralising on an older man like him.

Anakin peered at him with an odd intrigue in his sharp blue eyes. “Do you?”

“I-I…” he fumbled, victim to a verbal ineptitude that he very rarely experienced.

Apparently, Anakin found that amusing. Those enigmatic eyes shined with mirth and a mischievous smile settled on his face, no doubt delighting in the flustering of his usually impervious former Master.

“Perhaps I am guilty of doing so on occasion,” Obi-Wan admitted reluctantly.

It was worth it. Anakin ducked his head shyly, coyly looking at Obi-Wan from beneath long, golden lashes. They stared at one another intensely for what felt like an infinite moment. Each agonising second made him hot all over, heat making his vision hazy, and he fought every instinct telling him to go to Anakin. To pull him into his arms and to bite at that full bottom lip.

But he wouldn’t. Anakin didn’t want him like that, why would he? There were others who could give him what Obi-Wan could not. Younger, better, people who were able to give him everything that he deserved.

“Perhaps you can tell me about those occasions over dinner?”

What?—

Obi-Wan’s wandering gaze snapped back to Anakin’s face. Embarrassment had returned, but there was also the familiar hardness of determination. Had Anakin really just said that? Was Anakin flirting with him? Right here, in the Council chamber—

“Force help me,” Master Windu suddenly muttered. “Can we please get back to the mission report?”

Obi-Wan slowly turned to look at him, face beet red and mortified by what had just transpired. He rubbed a grounding hand through his coarse beard. “Of course, Master.”

Throughout the remainder of the meeting, Obi-Wan kept his eyes firmly planted anywhere but on Anakin, convinced that should their gazes meet then he would do something horribly inappropriate. Just when exactly had he become this man? Wildly passionate and besotted with a man who could enchant him with his insufferable teasing and his loud, booming laugh.

Oh, how Obi-Wan ached to hear that laugh. It had been too long since he had enjoyed the thrill of Anakin’s company.

By the time the Council adjourned for the day, Obi-Wan had mostly been able to purposefully forget what had occurred hours earlier. So sure that he had misinterpreted Anakin’s request, and certain it was only a result of his own hopeless longing, Anakin wanting him in return never being a possible explanation.

“It’s about time.”

Frowning, Obi-Wan finished standing from his Council chair and turned to Master Plo. “Excuse me?”

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure, but he thought the Jedi Master was grinning beneath his mask. “I said it’s about time. That doesn’t mean I want to hear about all the sordid details in the morning though, Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan gaped at him. Sordid details? About what? “I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Master.”

Yes, Obi-Wan thought, the Jedi Master was definitely smiling, he could see the recognisable creases by his eyes now.

His gleeful reply also gave him away, “Go and get him, Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan stared after him as he walked away. Go and get him, Obi-Wan repeated to himself as he made his way to his quarters. What in the galaxy did that mean? Today had been one of the strangest in recent memory. Force, what was he even going to say when he next saw Anakin?

His quarters should have been dark when he entered, but they weren’t, something was...flickering?

What in the Force—

The room was lit by a slew of candles placed around the dining room, light blinking alongside the subtle shifts in the air. The room looked remarkably serene, the candles backlit by Coruscant’s sunset providing hues of a dusty orange-pink. On the table was some food, steam rising from plates, and a bottle of red wine placed in the middle.

Alderaanian wine—Obi-Wan’s favourite.

“Hello there, Master.”

Obi-Wan swivelled to look at Anakin, the alluring lines of his body resting deliberately casually against the kitchen counter, surveying Obi-Wan with a nervous, but amused smile tilted on his lips.

“Hello, Anakin,” he croaked. “What’s all this?”

“Dinner,” Anakin said, grinning when Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I can see that,” he retorted, voice dry and fond. “Why is there dinner, and err—” he blushed furiously, hoping that the darkness hid it, “candles.”

“Because I said that we should have dinner together.”

Obi-Wan tugged at his beard, thinking. “No, you asked if we could.”

Anakin sighed, naked, frustrated affection sitting on his face. “Details, Master.”

Obi-Wan hummed and continued stroking his beard, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. He observed the situation again, considering the impossible...Anakin was not known for subtlety, perhaps...Anakin wanted him? Maybe Anakin was trying to tell him something.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath. “Anakin—”

Before he could say more, Anakin smiled at him, almost shyly, before walking up to him, and then...then—

Anakin’s lips were on his. They fit together as he had always imagined they would, their lips slanting together and meeting with an intoxicating heat. Obi-Wan wound one hand to cup his head, fingers threading through dishevelled locks, the other hand falling to his lower back, pulling him close. Their lips parted at the instinctive pressure, their tongues slipping into each other’s mouths. Anakin moaned obscenely, the sound more erotic than his wildest dreams.

Eventually, Obi-Wan gathered enough awareness to break the kiss with a wet sound. “Anakin—what?”

“Master,” Anakin panted, the honorific making Obi-Wan groan indecently, “I can’t believe how oblivious you are.”

Obi-Wan scoffed. “I resent that—”

Anakin laughed and kissed the underside of his jaw. “It’s true.”

“I just…” he murmured against bitten lips, “I never thought you would be interested in an old man like me.”

Anakin’s brows furrowed. “You’re not old.”

“I’m sixteen years your senior, Anakin.”

“So? That doesn’t bother me, I’ll want you even when you’re actually old.”

“Hmm,” Obi-Wan sighed, gently biting at the hollow of Anakin’s throat. “You might not feel that way when you’re older and you meet someo—”

Anakin jerked his head back up and kissed him again, desperate and deep. “No,” he stressed, “I want you, I’ve wanted you for years, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows jumped at that. Years? His observation skills clearly needed improving.

“Do you believe me?” Anakin asked, pulling back to look at him.

Futilely, he looked for any indication of deception. It was pointless, want and need sat as clear as day on Anakin’s face.

“I do.”

Anakin surged against him, pressing their mouths together once more, and the both of them smiled in delight as their dinner lay forgotten.

[stuckwith-harry]

A/N: Listen, babes, I was straight up not planning on putting out fic this year, but a series of well-timed little accidents and a very sweet groupchat resulted in this flirty little guy. While I’m sorting out my organisational crisis over on Ao3, I’ll put it here, and now I will go and agonise over the 23 other writing projects on my desk, cool? Cool. I’ve no real content warnings, it’s only banter, although the banter is not what the kids might call family-friendly.

look at what a heart can do / i’m starting to get to you

Silence has begun to come easily.

They’ve opened the window over Ginny’s bed, and cool late-summer air comes spilling in like handfuls of water, moving through the loose shirt she’s slipped into. She’s sitting cross-legged on her mattress, her back to the window, her knees bumping into Harry’s legs, her fingers drumming on his knee in a slow, tipsy rhythm, lilting and lazy like the pitter-patter on her windowpane. Afterwards, she can’t say whether a few minutes or an hour passed this way, only that it was time spent simply sitting and breathing and shifting beside each other, exchanging glances like secret handshakes, knowing grins.

Harry is flipping through the Quidditch magazine that usually resides on Ginny’s nightstand, his thumb absent-mindedly scratching at his bottom lip, his bare back leaning against her headboard. His face is softer without his glasses – like she’s catching him asleep – and still covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Every once in a while, he turns the journal over to point something out to her, like –

“Look at this one.”

So Ginny leans over the open page and peers at the model he’s indicating. “D’you think it’s weird that they’ve got it listed as a Chaser broom?”, she asks quietly, meeting his eye. “Sure, it’s speedy, but look at the inertia, that’s a better fit for a –”

“Beater”, they say in unison, grinning, and settle back into silence. Outside, the night is complete and starlit, the rain showers are warm and brief, and time is passing at a languid pace, not in any hurry to end.

Ginny finally gives up on her novel after she makes it to the bottom of the page for the third time in a row without any of it sticking, resigning herself to the fact that her thoughts are elsewhere. More precisely, they’re stretched out next to her in a pair of boxershorts, squinting at a line-up of the most anticipated broomstick releases of September 1998.

She rests her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee, quietly looking over at him. His hair, she thinks. His hair is impossible.

He notices.

“What?”, he says softly, gazing back.

Ginny hums. “I have a question.”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Was tonight the first time you did … that?”, she asks.

He suddenly takes great interest in the pattern of Ginny’s quilt, picking at a piece of lint she’s pretty sure is imaginary. She thinks she can see a flush creeping up his neck, too.

“Which part?”, he asks, then, making a face: “Pretend I didn’t say that. The answer’s yes either way – yeah. Yes. I figured it was fairly obvious.”

“It wasn’t, actually”, Ginny says, “that’s why I was curious.”

This does nothing to lessen the way his face is heating up, but with the way he’s grinning to himself, she decides she needn’t feel too sorry for him. “I’m gonna … take that as a compliment, then.”

Ginny grins back. “Oh, you should. It is.”

He clears his throat, not quite meeting her eye. “Have … you?”

She shakes her head, shrugging.

“Huh.”

She squints, smile intact. “Surprised, are you?”

His face hovers in a place between trepidation and something that looks a little like bashfulness, but isn’t. It’s funny, she thinks, he should look bashful. Not very long ago, he would have, but now … she turns her head, searching his features. There’s newness in every slight movement of his mouth. In the intensity with which he looks at her.

“No – and it wouldn’t matter”, he starts, with that bout of sincerity he gets on occasion that makes Ginny weak in the knees. “You just, uhm …”

Ah, she thinks, there is it. Bashfulness in heaps.

“You were good at it”, he says, sounding breathless.,

“Well, thanks”, she says, feeling inexplicably warm. “So were you.”

He squints at her, then looks back at Broomsticks Monthly. “Alright, try not to sound too surprised.”

“I’m not surprised you’re good at it!”, she laughs. “I just wasn’t expecting to, ah – score a goal – the first time we did that.”

Harry peers up at her, the colour of his face roughly resembling their old Gryffindor Quidditch uniforms. Ginny wiggles an eyebrow.

“When would I ever have – who would I have done anything with?”

“You’re telling me you and Cho never reconnected in an abandoned broom closet after things went downhill?”

He seems simply stunned at the idea. “No. Definitely not.”

“It’s not a ridiculous assumption”, Ginny says, amused.

“Her and I only – come to think of it, I’m pretty sure we only kissed the one time. And she was – well, sad all the time, wasn’t she, and I was –”

“Seething all the time”, she says cheerfully. “Fair enough.”

He gazes back at her, visibly mulling something over.

“You and Dean never did anything?”

Ginny throws a pillow at him.

Harry catches.

“You needled me too!”

Which Ginny, unfortunately, cannot argue with.

“No, we really didn’t.” She watches his face for a reaction, for a hint of relief, or smugness maybe, but to his credit, there is none. “I think he wanted to, though.”

Harry makes a face.

“Alright, relax”, she grins. “I’d spare you the details, but there quite literally aren’t any.”

He slouches back, propped up on one elbow buried deep in her pillow, the deep orange glow from the lamp on her nightstand casting his face in soft shadows, in warm hues. Ginny continues to watch him. He’s squinting into Broomsticks Monthly again, but his eyes are not moving along the page, so she knows he noticed.

After a moment, he sighs.

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

Ginny merely hums in response, and it dissolves into ripples of soft laughter at his expression. There it is again. That newness in his face.

“You … made it pretty easy.”

“Hm?”

“Your face”, he says finally, with a quiet rasp in his voice that tugs pleasantly at Ginny’s insides, “is … extremely readable. It wasn’t that hard to figure out what was … working for you.”

Ginny stares at him, stunned, and he at least has the good sense to look a little abashed.

“Your face is extremely readable”, she mutters.

Harry grins. “It’s not a bad thing, it’s a good thing.”

“No, I mean it”, she says, throwing her head back, peering down at him with a grin. “You were pretty readable too. Very transparent.”

“I’m just saying, it wasn’t all me.”

In the moment’s silence that follows, while they effortlessly reassemble their limbs, Ginny’s eyes come to linger on the long-abandoned camp bed on the floor beside her bed, whose only function now is to keep up the ruse for her parents’ sake. She grins: he’s been sleeping in her bed since he came to stay in her room instead of Ron’s.

They’ve been sleeping with each other for almost a week.

“You make that easy”, she tells him lightly. She makes a purposeless dog-ear in her book, shuffling around on her mattress, her body bumping into his with such ease she might as well have never known anything else.  “Maybe it’s not … entirely accidental. It’s easy with you.”

She hears his slow exhale, watches the way his grin softens into a smile. Even under the loose-fitting shirt, she feels herself growing warm, even though it falls off her shoulders like a circus tent, the shoulder seams comically misplaced on her upper arms.

It’s as good a moment as any to remember that the t-shirt is Harry’s, technically. It makes her feel naked in a wholly new way; only she realises she doesn’t mind. 

She lets out a fluttering breath. “Interesting. I’m usually the one making you blush.”

“Well”, he says softly, “it looks good on you.”

It’s unclear if he’s talking about his t-shirt or the colour of her face, and it doesn’t matter much, it makes warmth pool in Ginny’s belly all the same. For a moment there, she’s the girl with her elbow in the butter dish all over again – if nothing else, she can imagine their faces glowing in identical shades of pink, bright like the carnations growing in the flower boxes on the Burrow’s windowsills.

What never presents itself – what doesn’t come back – is the urge to hastily pull back into her shell, like a little snail prodded by an overzealous finger. So he continues to look, and she continues to let him, the fluttering in her belly light and pleasant like the first sip of a fizzy drink.

That much is new.

[xhanisai]

Confront the boundary line of good and evil in my heart

AO3 / FFN

Summary: 

It wasn't her fault! No way whatsoever! But still... Still... 'It really does hurt so bad...so much, I can't take it!'

~(x)~ . . . Tick. Tock. "I'm so sorry Chat Noir! I didn't mean to- I just- I just completely broke down and she was right there and I needed someone-" "It's okay, Bug. I understand, don't apologise," Tick. Tock. "It's not okay at all! You've wanted to know for so long, so patiently and I have always said no- and then look at me now! A hypocrite! This is probably a huge sucker-punch for you and I hate that I've always kept on hurting you back then but now, this takes the cake-" "N-No, I'm fine, honest...really. What matters is your happiness and wellbeing-" "But what about you!?" "..." Tick- "...Kid, talk to me, please. The way you're staring out into space is scaring me." The subdued, raspy voice belonging to the ancient being of destruction went unheard. The boy in question continued to observe the empty space in front, sitting on top of his bed with his knees tucked under his chin and his arms folded in front, hiding the lower half of his face. If one were to enter the room, they would instantly freeze from the glower of the boy's fiery emerald greens that were begging to pool with unshed tears and the aura of his stone-cold demeanour. From the waft of his internal turmoil, even a blind person would be able to pick up that he was currently the host of bad luck. "...Adrien...I want to help, I want to understand, so talk to me!" Once again, Plagg was left ignored, leaving him no choice but to float back down to his pillow and direct his pleading kitten eyes at the blonde, his tiny heart shattered from the state of his chosen. Alas, even he was helpless, his feline ears and whiskers drooping with sorrow. 'But you won't understand. You never did and you never will. No one will ever understand.' Adrien didn't even flinch, didn't even bat an eye. He was a statue of apathy and aloofness; though deep down inside, he was a maelstrom of agonising pain. Oh, so much pain. It was excruciating. He wanted to suit up and claw through the rooves of Paris whilst screaming in anguish. He wanted to find every billboard that had his face on it and tear through it all like paper. He wanted to shred and pulverise his useless, traitorous heart along with its despicable feelings and emotions. But most importantly, he wanted to rip the magical ring off his finger and throw it into La Seine with all his might and then cry for the rest of eternity. And he hates that he feels that way. Absolutely, ridiculously, hates that he feels betrayed. Self-loathing and disgust have taken over his body like a puppet and rendered him completely useless, like a toy forgotten at the bottom of the box, never to see the light of day ever again. The feeling of uselessness and pure shame replaced the blood running through his veins and numbed him to the point where he was equivalent to a powerless machine. He felt his throbbing heart fall deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. It wasn't her fault! No way whatsoever! But still... Still... 'It really does hurt so bad...so much, I can't take it!' The younger, softer, naive part of himself which was usually tucked away within the dark, hidden crevices of his heart, screamed as if the rest of humanity's lives depended on it. It was taking Adrien everything to keep him out. 'Is it too much to ask for only one constant in my life? Is it too much to ask for one thing to remain the same? Is it too much for anyone to stop keeping me at arm's length!?' . It is. . It is. . Deep down inside, below the platinum chains and iron bars of solid, concrete denial, he always knew that Ladybug never considered him as close as he did with her. And why should she? Just because he performed an act of common, proper human decency and helped an old man get his walking stick back? Just because he was gifted with the power to destroy anything he touches in order to save the day? Just because he knew how to fight possessed villains alongside her? Just because he's in love with her? . "I'm literally the worst." Adrien finally spoke out loud ever since he returned from...that patrol many hours ago. Despite his words, his soul couldn't help but weep and pray that it was all one huge, cruel nightmare. A twisted, sick joke that whatever deities out there have concocted up just for him. Anything! Yet, this was his reality. "I disagree." The boy snapped his gaze towards the kwami, his brows furrowing for elaboration on the little God's part. "I may not be human but I do have feelings and I can empathise. I've existed from the beginning of time and I've witnessed many, many things in my lifetime." Plagg then floated towards him, settling on Adrien's arm so that he was face to face. "You're not in the wrong here, kid. It's okay to feel like this-" "No, it's not!" Adrien's sudden outburst had the kwami shoot away in surprise, the boy instantly turning baffled at his own harsh reaction and then visibly paling even further. He caught sight of his own reflection on a nearby mirror, cringing at the monstrous mess that looked back. With a frustrated sigh, he leapt off the bed, solemnly treading towards his windows, fingers digging into his upper arms as if he was hugging himself. . The luminous moon that shone through the night sky, what was once a beacon of freedom in the past, never looked so unappealing to the distraught hero. His usually glittering eyes were vacant, devoid of any joy and hope whilst his lips were etched in a permanent frown. How many fake smiles and empty words of wisdom did he force out in front of his Lady earlier on? He's lost count. And how many more times will he have to keep doing that, knowing that there will always be another person out that there that Ladybug trusts more than she'll ever trust him? . "I stand by with what I said," Plagg quipped once more, his host quietly surprised with how the little God managed to get so close without him realising. "The two of you have been thrust into a messy situation with very little guidance and a whole bunch of rules which only complicated it further." He then directed his eyes from the moon to the boy. "Yes, I agree that Ladybug's decision in confiding with someone about her identity was a good idea, but as a result of that, it's brought you so much pain. You are not the worst and it's okay to cry it out. It's okay to tell her how you really feel." He placed one of his tiny hands on Adrien's cheek, ears and whiskers still weighed with melancholy as the boy allowed his eyes to prick with tears. One drop. Two drops. Three drops. Four. "It shouldn't hurt- I...I shouldn't be so selfish! Even if she never told me, I was able to tell that she wasn't able to handle her civilian life any longer, especially after becoming the Guardian- I'm supposed to protect her and be by her side! Not throw a tantrum like a three-year-old just because I'm not the one she decided to tell about her secret identity! And then adding my own stupid feelings and insecurities to her plate? I'll be a burden!" The dam was broken and the overwhelming feelings within Adrien cascaded like a tsunami. "You have plenty on your plate as well-" "But I'm used to it, she isn't. I was born and raised to deal with these kinds of things anyway so it's a no brainer for me to shut up and accept it all with a smile-" He paused abruptly, a wet gasp escaping his throat as he leaned against the glass for support when even more realisation sunk in. 'I have been dealing with so many responsibilities ever since I was born...and that puts us on the same boat...so why couldn't she have confided with me then?' Adrien dropped to his knees, fingernails scraping against his scalp as he tried to fight back against those negative thoughts and questions. 'Why am I never good enough? Not for Maman, not for Père and now...not for Ladybug...?' 'Why am I even here then?'

"Adrien...you don't need to put a mask on when you're with me. Cry it all out. I'm not gonna sit by and watch you destroy yourself from inside out because of your inability to address your true feelings. I'm right here, I'll even destroy all the wretched butterflies that dare to come by- so please, let it all out," "I can't! If I do, I'll never be able to go back and nothing will be the same again-" "And if you don't, then things will change for the worse and trust me, kid, that is the last thing you need." Finally, Plagg's words unravelled the obstacles that slowed down the flood and Adrien couldn't help but give in. His body shook and a whole new fresh wave of tears pooled down his eyes, teeth biting down on his lip to prevent the sobs from bursting out. . "...It hurts Plagg...it hurts so much! I love her...and I trust her so much but it hurts! I know she trusts me on a level and I know that multiple times she's mentioned that I'm irreplaceable but dammit! Why does it all feel like a lie!? She did the right thing in telling her civilian best friend, she finally has someone to look after herself- but why does it feel so wrong? Why is my heart in so much pain? Why can't I stop crying? If Ladybug won't lean on me, then what am I here for? And if I can't lean on Ladybug...who...who do I have?" . "...I may not be much and I may talk about nothing but cheese...but you'll always have me, kid," "I want to believe you, I want to so badly, Plagg...but I can't. I feel so alone...I've always been alone... ...And I'll always be alone..." . . . A couple of hours ago, just shy under midnight on a lone, hidden rooftop, if a curious civilian looked up, they would have seen Ladybug and Chat Noir locked in an embrace. However, what they would have noticed first was the absolutely broken, heartwrenching expression Noir wore... ...As if his entire world has fallen apart... . . . ~(x)~ A/N: Just wondering if I should make a sequel and give these two poor cats a happy ending~