#a problem permited to fester

[mrmorphea]

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[leprosycock]

do you think lud would ever get sick of J? like they bang once and J gets Wayyy too clingy and lud tries to drop him

i go back and forth on this.. perhaps to an extent. i think lud still obsesses over the Idea of j and the image he has of him in his mind whenever they’re not together and builds it up to a certain point and twists it into what he wants it to be and when they’re actually together, lud is overcome by how it feels to be so attached to him and to experience, like, real human feelings and he purposefully puts some level of distance between the two of them so he can watch j from afar and observe him. because this is a lot more comfortable for him. he needs the idea, not the reality, because he’s an insane and spoiled child with so many problems. i don’t think that lud would ever necessarily drop him, but i do think that it would lead to him being way too mean and rude and nasty for the mere sake of it because he knows on some level that he’s permitted to be that way, because j will chase him no matter what. i think currently the state that they’re in is certainly lud trying desperately to be normal and regretting a little bit that he fucked that old man because that old man will not leave him alone and let him fester but the natural draw he has towards j prevents him from setting boundaries. i think it's excruciatingly messy in the best way

[darkmaga-returns]

By Charles Hugh Smith

To reverse the damage wrought by financialization, we must reverse financialization.

The post-election hope that festering problems can now be solved doesn’t seem to extend to unaffordable housing and homeless encampments, two blights on the socio-economic landscape. Perhaps this reflects a sense that these blights aren’t readily fixable, or an unsure grasp of the causes of these blights.

Let’s focus on the primary cause that led to unaffordable housing and homeless encampments. There are many contributing factors, of course, such as the NIMBY (not in my back yard) restrictions on new housing, the soaring cost of construction permits, materials and labor, and so on, but all these factors are subservient to one: financialization, which enriched the wealthy and incentivized them to pursue housing not as shelter for their family but as a low-risk investment that generates income and capital appreciation.

As the wealth to be parked in assets exploded to unprecedented heights, those seeking housing as an investment outbid those seeking housing as shelter. As demand generated by financialized investment pushed housing valuations higher, the wealthy gained more capital to be sunk into housing, creating a virtuous cycle of increasing demand and higher valuations.

Those without substantial portfolios of stocks and housing could no longer afford a home as shelter.

Lest you think this is an exaggeration, consider An estimated 26% of Fort Worth’s single family homes are owned by companies, city says. That is a non-trivial percentage of homes owned by corporations, and this doesn’t include homes owned as rentals / short-term rentals (Airbnb’s) by wealthy individuals, households, trusts, etc. So up to one-third of all single-family homes being owned by investors of one type or another in desirable regions is not unreasonable.

[topshelfworlds]

BEYOND THE TABLE: REALITY, THE SECONDARY WORLD, AND THE ROLE OF THE DUNGEON MASTER

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

DEFINITIONS

(Primary) Reality – whatever this is, just read some metaphysics or some shit

The Secondary World – the Other Realm, the place beyond Primary Reality bridged by Imagination

The Table – Imagination; the veil of play-space wherein the Secondary World makes contact with Primary Reality

Campaign – an excursion into the Secondary World via Imagination, obfuscated from Primary Reality  by the friction between Gameplay, Simulation, and Narrative

adjudication – the process of mitigating friction between Gameplay, Simulation, and Narrative

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

My most recent ex all but annihilated me last October with the contents of an amicable text message. Over the previous few months, we’d been slowly repairing our communication enough to plan cat-care responsibilities. By all accounts, it should have been a completely normal interaction following a breakup just finding its footing: she had unearthed index cards encoded with statistics for magic items her character acquired in my since-canceled campaign from among her effects and buried the small-bore offer of their return for my records under discussion of scheduling time for me to see Mr. Kitty.

I fell apart.

Background

The fantasy adventure campaign the cards originated from was easily the most ambitious – and quite possibly most successful – design of any game I’ve constructed in my near-15 years of facilitating TTRPGs: what started as a weekly Thursday meetup running dungeon crawls by the book for some co-workers quickly became a West Marches game with a roster 12–14 players deep across 2 regular play-groups using a hacked-up mish-mash system I built on the fly week-by-week. The scale was magnificent to behold, our hex map slowly blossoming as the players peeled at petals to see what the flower of this mythic land looked like inside. Nearing a year removed from those adventures, I am proud of what we accomplished to this day.

Session was an opportunity to run from the deep problems festering in my relationship; I had just moved into my partner's run-down, dream project home with her & absconded from any deeper thinking about the friction that had been building over the previous year, instead fixating on clear records of narrative timelines, dungeon excursions, side-quests, character relationships, and world events. When I made time for (free) labor around our changing living space, I permitted resentment to simmer: that my passion – being the best facilitator of this emergent fiction I could – was secondary to the dreams of my property-owning partner. When I surprised her with completed projects from her list around the house while she was away, anything less than her utter amazement left a bitter taste in my mouth. I let slip passive-aggressive moans at never having time for the prep work that made me happy, lacking the insight to realize the game was a shield against the loneliness I felt in my relationship. 

This was also my then-partner’s third Campaign of mine played in 2 ½ years. A stand out from the start, she rarely took time to understand the game outside of session for her natural ability to process mechanics and draw narrative details from thin air; creative writing and an overachieving academic streak gave her a leg up when attuning to the role she played in the group’s function. Piloting a campy, edge-adjacent build played with deadly seriousness, she worked from the shadows to accomplish her goals, maneuvering the roster’s characters as means to her ends. I was proud of her for this, the scheming and the side-quests and the subtlety, because she was playing the game and well. I could never get over the gnawing feeling that participating in the Campaign wasn’t her desire, though, but that a sense of duty absent of passion for my interests brought her to the Table; like she felt that playing was important because it was my game, and not because she was having a good time. I could never tell if she was having a good time.

When my partner and I separated last April, I disbanded the company of cordial comrades who attentively arrived to each session, oathsworn that our jaunts through The County of Blunderburry in Esterdale would continue at another time; The Secondary World moved and changed even when our minds’ eyes were occupied, I insisted, and each future visit was a promise of new ideas, of change. It wasn’t until months later that I let on to some of the game-regulars the real reason why I called our grand adventure off, well after I had found temporarily stable ground post-life-collapsing-around-me. 

Judgment

In the fallout of the breakup and upkeep of coordinating kitty care, I had completely forgotten that she had the cards, physical cues marking her in-game possession of the artifacts statted on them. Rather than answering the inconsequential question raised for me of the cards’ fate, I fell headlong into debilitating anxiety catalyzed by months of emotional turmoil, seeing past the oversight in my facilitation to the now-painful memories of hours spent at the table reaching into the Secondary World with her. My binder stuffed with dog-eared notes chronicling the escapades of the roster had gone untouched in months for the same reason; confronting the hurt inside those records of her achievements in my game was something I was not ready to bear.

I agonized over the “right” answer to her offer, begging myself to conjure something satisfactory to my principles. The way I understood the scenario, there were 2 outcomes:

• I take the cards

• She keeps the cards

These outcomes were further layered by the intentions associated with the choice:

• I take the cards...

… because they are sentimental to me … because unique items should not have duplicates … because I did not want her to throw them out

• She keeps the cards...

… because I want her to deal with them … because their existence is painful to me … because… because…

I had very little to lose, and I knew it: the items’ information – two magic swords with dragon-slaying enchantments – had been recorded in my binder upon their looting, reducing any stakes of the outcome to whether it would keep me up at night. People-pleasing tendencies reared reliably thrashing maws at my principles, insisting through self-sabotage that my only priority was to act without spite or resentment. I was frozen by this weightless decision resting on my dignity.

So I hit the copium: rather than address this unsettling quandary as the most authentic version of myself, I reached into the depths of my Imaginary Costume Chest and procured the garb of the Dungeon Master. What would the ideal facilitator do? How would they deliberate over such a low-stakes scenario, charged as it was with emotionality? I quickly found my answer and transformed through its adjudication. 

Experience dictates that enlightenment is not a once-and-for-all type deal, Siddhartha wasting away under the fig tree until perfection, weary from resistance, unravels forever. Rather, it is a series of accumulations, moments that shriek across the sky of inner sight, arriving unexpectedly and leaving as soon as you look away. In that moment, seeing through the eyes of the Dungeon Master, the Secondary World was there. The Table rose before me, and from ego-differed I saw what was due: that the fate of the cards should be decided by the player of the character possessing them, regardless of personal desire for the physical symbols. The player-character position of possession is weighty in classical adventure games; treasure is a promise of the play-style, the payout for characters bought into designs of Dungeons, Demi-Hells, and Derelicht Halls. The Truth of the Secondary World hinged on this adjudication: that – no matter what interpretation of the items’ possession I could enforce in later chronicles – the fate of their simulacrum in Reality must be decided by the equivalent representative of their possessor in the Other Realm. Any other choice was a dishonest attempt to twist the Secondary World around my selfish desire for power in Primary Reality.

Erudition

Who gives a shit, though, right? So much emotional effort spent just to decide the fate of some dingy 2x3 index cards pedantically recorded months before. Even still, I returned to the decision again and again, feeling a familiar truth that had evaded my comprehension for more than a decade of facilitation finally coming into focus. In therapy sessions following the breakup, I had confided doubts of my motivations for running games amidst shifting insecurities and self-loathing: that I used table time not as a thought-experiment I longed to leverage against those weaker parts of myself but as abolition of my responsibility to Primary Reality, to my obligations and concerns of a better life for myself and those around me. I doubted my practice, this steadfast duty to my happiness, in fear that it caused the crumbling of my relationship, rather than the tension and mistrust obviously sign-posted in shrinking gaps the farther down the road our time together traveled. 

Cloaked in adjudication, I found sublimity. I was free from expectations of self-importance and righteous grandiosity, unshackled from my self-imposed totalitarian responsibility to be anything other than a conduit for the Truth of the Secondary World. My weakness was leveraged against the fulcrum of objective judgement. Removing my ego from the equation, I found peace in the Dungeon Master’s decision. 

This epiphany is my remaking, an affirmation of my long-held belief in the practice of officiating the movements of the Secondary World; when we gaze into the Other Realm to see what could be, we are afforded the grace to think beyond our compromised persona in Reality to the idealization of our selves. The Dungeon Master’s thankless role is to give what is due the actions of those who brave the dangerous truths inside the Secondary World, moving and changing as it is even when our minds’ eyes are occupied; becoming this conduit, the Dungeon Master is anointed in acceptance of the truths they must bear. For me, just this is it: the idealization of my highest self is purest acceptance, and each orracular excursion across the Table and into the Beyond is an exercise in that action. With hope, I gaze into wonder and oblivion, knowing that the Secondary World is only just outside the scope of reality by the width of a dreamspan.

I sent her a reply with thanks for the consideration. In the post-apocalypse of my anxious breakdown, I coincidentally put my current game on hiatus for the season; sabbatical was spent compulsively plumbing the depths of myself for changes the Dungeon Master has imparted to me with years of practice. Any ttrpg player with some experience can describe at least one moment when the line between themselves and their character blur, the bounds between the Primary self and the soul on the Table becoming too small to sense. These event horizons eclipse the light of our egos, and in the cold shadow we learn where our silhouette overlaps with our characters’. Is the Dungeon Master a projection of my inner landscape, disappearing with ego death? An archetype of acceptance to aspire to, standing parallel to me in the shadow? Only a lifetime can tell.

[fortressofserenity]

Judgement comes for the Philippines

This is something I've been talking about before and it bears repeating that the Philippines is under judgement for its sins, but most especially leaving God for the world, that he will allow China to permanently take over it like how he let Babylon take over Judah for its own sins. The Philippines will be judged for enabling idolatry over celebrities and politicians, for allowing pornography to fester, for loving the world and Babylon over him, for permitting homosexuality and the like, and for indulging in the same sins as America does that he's going to cut this country off of America.

He'll do this by not only allowing China to conquer it, but also have America go into such disarray that it's practically helpless to stop its enemies from conquering its allies. Civil war is underway in America and so is World War Three, both of them will happen at the same time and these are wars that America will lose, America will continue losing allies until there's absolutely no more. The Philippines will come to resent America for its injustices towards its people, for not helping it when China conquers it and for going into such debt and problems that it will be normal for Filipinos to hate all things American.

Just as the seven-headed monster came to despise and destroy Mystery Babylon (a character that America's often compared to), the Philippines will come to conspire with China against America and will particularly come to war against it. The seven-headed monster could represent America's allies that come to resent Mystery Babylon a lot, just as somebody who hates people essentially murders them. America will be hated by all nations, even the Philippines will join in eventually. And as the Philippines will get judged for its sins, it will resent America for not saving it in time.

It will resent America for falling into disarray as to consent with China in destroying it. So begins the end of Philippine-American relations.

[enchantingcomputerperfection]

If You Are Actually Fighting With Unpaid Income taxes, Listed below's How to Arrange Payment Plans with the IRS

Introduction

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If You Are actually Dealing with Unpaid Taxes, Below's Exactly how to Bargain Payment Plans with the IRS

Understanding Unpaid Taxes: What They Way for You

Unpaid tax obligations refer to any amount been obligated to repay to the federal government that has not been actually paid out by its own owed date. These may occur from profit taxes, real estate tax, or other applications of taxation.

Types of Overdue Taxes Income Income tax Financial debt: This is actually the absolute most usual form of overdue tax and frequently happens when people do not spend their federal or condition profit taxes. Property Tax obligation Crime: Individuals might locate themselves overdue on real estate tax if they fall short to pay what is actually been obligated to repay on their real estate. Sales Tax obligation: Businesses may additionally gather overdue purchases tax obligation if they stop working to secure or transmit it appropriately. Why Are actually Unpaid Income taxes a Problem?

Unpaid income taxes can easily lead to intense repercussions, featuring:

Interest Accumulation: The IRS fees passion on unsettled harmonies, which substances over time. Penalties: Stopping working to pay your income taxes can result in large penalties, even more raising your debt. Tax Liens: The internal revenue service might place a claim on your residential or commercial property as a way to safeguard their enthusiasm in your debt. The Significance of Attending to Unpaid Taxes

Ignoring unsettled tax commitments are going to just worsen the complication. It is actually crucial to take care of these concerns head-on as opposed to permitting all of them fester.

Potential Repercussions of Overlooking Income Tax Debts Wage : The internal revenue service possesses the authorization to garnish your salaries if you do not take care of overdue debts. Seizure of Resources: In excessive instances, the IRS may appropriate possessions such as checking account or even property. Impact on Credit Score: An outstanding tax obligation debt may adversely affect your credit score rating. Assessing Your Financial Situation

Before negotiating along with the IRS, take stock of your monetary situation.

Create a Budget

Start through creating a thorough spending plan that summarizes your regular monthly revenue and costs. This will certainly assist you establish how much you how the IRS fresh start program works may manage to pay for toward your tax obligation personal debt each month.

Gather Necessary Documents

[thefernmanner]

"The Shouter." From the Book of Sirach, "The Manner of the Fern" 32: 14-17.

Running from one's responsibilities is not the spiritual path. Once we know what we have to give up and what we must gain by following the law, this must be done. One cannot continually revisit what are one's responsibilities and what are one's options. Vacillations regarding who is resposible for what have caused the planet much despair. For this purpose, God says He gave us the Torah, the Gospels, the Quran, the Bhagavad Gita, and other scriptures. There is nowhere on this planet one can go and not learn about the importance of accepting one's responsibilities. So when I see Donald Trump in the White House or that ass hamster, Marco Rubio talking like a drippy water faucet during important global discussions knowing the US Government did not fulfill its repsonsibilities to its people and put them in jail when they were supposed to, I get very agitated. Sirach says this is the right kind of agitation to have.The only way to fix it is to interpret the law properly and do what is right.

Interpreting the Law = 1569, י״הסט‎, yethast‎, "the shouter."

Yes, I am continuing to come out publicly against the US government and its pedophile President and his illegal Cabinet. On January 6, 2021 a bunch of Mormons and elected officialls organized an insurrection against the US Government because I was pressing the police to arrest them and disband them for fraudulent election campaigning in 2016, trafficking in underage pornography, having sex with minors and trying to murder me and members of my family. They are open and frank about this. This precludes anyone who participated from holding public office, any public office ever again. I expect the lawyers in DC to snap out of it, to stop the complex case bullshit, annul both Trump Presidencies, and rescue the world from him. You are placing bureaucracy and politics ahead of the rights of innocent US citizens and this is unholy and you are going to address the gravity of the errors in your judgements.

Sirach agrees:

Interpreting the Law

14 If you fear the Lord, you will accept his correction. He will bless those who get up early in the morning to pray. 15 Study his Law, and you will master it, unless you are insincere about it, in which case you will fail.

16 If you fear the Lord, you will know what is right, and you will be famous for your fairness. 17 Sinners have no use for correction, and will interpret the Law to suit themselves.

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 14-15: Accept the Lord's correction. The Number is 14463, ידתסג‎ ‎‎, yedatisg‎, "you will be destroyed."

v. 16-17: Fear the Lord know what is right. I am not the only one that suffered from the mafia style tactics of the Republican Party and its kiddie porn traffickers and political opponents. I have named more than one celebrity that got "dinged" by Donald Trump and his guerillas and the government is playing dead. As I said, I intend to force the confrontation between the Capitol and everyone Donald Trump has wronged until it does what is legal correct and proper with all of the festering problems it has allowed to create in our nation.

If you are friends or family members who are connected to persons who were sexually assaulted by the Republican Party, including Channing Tatum, Tim Chalemet, Justin Timberlake, David Hogg, Kevin Quinn, Josh Rush, Adam Sevani, Luke Pritchard, Geoff Johns, Milo Ventimiglia, Kyle Kashev, or any of the USMC soldiers that were murdered or molested their President and his friends, you have a right to ask the government for swift justice and you must not take no for an answer. They try to tell you no, but do not let them do it. The government is trying to sweep all of us under the rug and persecute Trump's victims instead, and it must not be permitted to do it. I was privy to a video Donald Trump made of one of the times he raped me. I was unconscious, and he was standing over me. The video and stills were posted to Facebook. This was prior to his reelection. Under no circumstances did I ever have direct contact with the man or invite him to my hotel nor consent to any of that. President Trump and his running mate Jerry Falwell both openly confessed to doing it on TV. I hope this clarifies a few things. I am out for blood, and the rest of the world should be too.

The Number is 14268, ידרסח‎, yadrash‎, "require your demands."

The final Gemara is י״הסט‎ידתסגידרסח, yethast‎yedatisgidarsach, yethast‎ yed atisgid arsach, "Your hand will tell your fiance you are an atheist."

Persons that do not follow through with due process or support rule of law are according to the Gemara "not of God." Our Constitution says that we are, so once again, someone in the DOJ with access to an HP Deskjet needs to start printing arrest warrants for every politician that participated in that January 6 riot and courier them to the police.

Anyone interested should discuss Roy Walton with them. He is a rather randy character with whom the police have business in all of our cases.

[texasobserver]

From “Catastrophe 88,��� the Texas Observer guide to the new session of the state legislature, opening tomorrow:

Elections have consequences. This political bromide is overused for a reason—it’s reliably true. And this year, the fallout for vulnerable Texans could be particularly destructive.

After something approaching a blue wave swept across Texas in November 2018, a chastened Republican majority in the Legislature kept its focus in the 2019 session on serious policymaking—school finance and property tax reform—while largely forgoing their typical red-meat fare.

Republicans thwarted expectations of another Democratic surge in November 2020, and the next year the GOP ignored the problems laid bare by the COVID-19 pandemic and ensuing economic crisis, instead focusing on passing as much right-wing legislation as possible over the course of a regular session, plus three painful specials. 

The final outcome was ugly: Abortions were effectively banned by threat of bounty, handgun permits were done away with, voting laws were made more restrictive, transgender kids were targeted with statutory bigotry, and school curricula on race and history were whitewashed. Profound policy problems, meanwhile, were left to fester. 

Critically, the state’s electoral districts were redrawn for the next decade to ensure incumbent Republican majorities will be insulated from electoral backlash while the state’s growing numbers of people of color and Democratic-aligned voters are kept at bay. 

This fresh gerrymander set the table for another Republican rout last November as the GOP maintained strong majorities in the state House and Senate and easily swept the state’s high-powered executive offices—led by Governor Greg Abbott’s 11-point defeat of Democratic challenger Beto O’Rourke. 

Firmly in control, Abbott, Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick, and GOP lawmakers are now free to do as they please—to pick up where their vengeful 87th legislative session mercifully left off just over a year ago. 

Some top Republicans hinted during campaign season that they might want to soften the sharpest edges of their draconian and unpopular ban on abortion or pull back on the most extreme parts of their so-called “election integrity” laws. But there’s little reason to think this legislative session will yield moderation. The party’s activist base is eager to continue the march toward one-party authoritarianism, punishing political enemies and catering to political patrons as they go. 

Read the full guide on the Texas Observer.

[riddle-me-ri]

Hello there!! Can I request sub Eddie/dano riddler Headcanons?

A/N: shoutout to the danocels and danonation for blowing my first Dano!Riddler post out of the water, twojar riddler is having a hard time coming to terms with it but honestly that's his problem, meanwhile I totally get it. This is my first time dipping into sub/Dom dynamics I hope I did it justice!

Trigger Warning: sub partner traits, pet names, mentions of cum denial, and consensual controlling aspects

Dano!Riddler Sub Headcanons

- Edward practically lives to serve you. 

- He'll do anything for your praise and to be permitted to touch you.

- It's a wonder this man isn't on his knees kissing the ground you walk on 24/7.

- He would if you asked him too, though.

- Ed has gone way too long in his life without any sort of affection.

- Once he gets just a slither of it from you, whether it's a kiss, a soft caress, or something more. He's instantly hooked.

- If not for his upbringing and festering hate for the corrupt, he would've sworn his purpose was to please you. 

- It's a close second purpose though.

- "Good boy," "sweet Eddie," "Eddie baby," and variations of these are some of his favorite pet names you give him. 

- If you call out to him "Eddiieee~" in a sing songy voice, this boy is an instant puddle of mush.

- Nothing turns him on more than when you tell him he can't cum without your permission.

- The absolute euphoria he feels at not only obeying you but pleasing you for being obedient. Makes it all worth it…

- If you want him a whimpering mess, which he usually is anyway, but to drive it home, touch him but refuse him permission to touch you. 

- He cherishes and longs for your soft and loving touch, but he wants to be able to reciprocate it. To show how grateful he is, but he'll do his best and stay your good boy.

- He'll definitely thank you and whatever he's done in a past life for this privilege of your love and attention.

- You have this man wrapped around your finger so tight good luck even trying to unwrap him. Not that you ever would, right?

[abelflints]

Some Lincoln x MC Angst

Heal What Has Been Hurt (Change the Fate’s Design) Part 1 of 2 (part 2 available here)

Fanfic about the @itlivesproject game...

Basis: Vax is dead. Matthias McQuoid is the root of all problems. Killing him isn’t enough. (or, Lincoln uses the watch.)

Pairings: Lincoln x MC (mine is called Vax!), but intermittently (they don’t break up or anything, but well, look at the basis...)

Warnings: chapter 20 spoilers, lots of angst, swears, death, blood, injury, there’s going to be body horror in the next part, but it’s not in this one (except for the blood.) this is going to be dark!

Part 1 word count: 1834

Part 1 under cut!

Vax hated red.

It followed him everywhere.

Festering in his flesh–

In the flare of his nostrils, in the force of his fists.

Festering in the forest–

In the frown of his face, in the flounce of his feet.

Vax hated red.

Red was always hot. Burning, scalding.

I don’t want to be red anymore.

(be careful what you wish for.)

Tonight, red was cold.

He didn’t know what it was to die.

To stare the reaper in his face, and lift his unshaking gaze to it.

Red answered him…

When no one else would.

Red was loyal. Curt. Efficient.

Tonight, in these hallowed hills, red was cold.

As it spills out from him.

And he doesn’t know what it is to die…

Because there’s no authority figure left to curse. No finger left to point.

Finally, he finds, he doesn’t have any red left in him.

Not in his veins. Not in his head.

Red doesn’t blanket his fall, when he tips into the icy fingertips of the plunge.

Red doesn’t hold him, and cry, softly, softly, softly, with shuddering shakes.

Red doesn’t sneer:

“I told you so.”

The line they both thought (both dreaded– ) would be on their lips.

But red doesn’t hold him. Not tonight. Not like that. Instead, blue holds him, and all he squeaks is “I’m sorry, Abel.”    

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry– ” he stutters, over Lincoln’s shaking shoulders that hold him tight, staring out at Abel, frozen across from them.

“Please take care of Lia. Please. You’re kind – and good - and everything I’m not – please, please, please, please.”

Abel shakes out of his reverie, giving him a determined, tear-filled nod. Amalia’s sobs sound against him, falling into Abel’s side.

Lincoln’s uttering to him softly, softly, softly, so, nonsense against his lips, as he clutches at the red spilling from his fingers.

It paints him, now, in a twisted imitation of an angel’s wings, red against the black of the night.

Vax didn't know how to say those three words.

Not to his friends. Not to Lia. And certainly not to Lincoln.

He didn't know then… He doesn’t know now.

Red held so many words in his throat.

“I am sorry.”

“I love you.”

“I was wrong.”

The trilogy of words he could never say.

But he’s tired of being red. He’s so tired .  

Red didn’t permit him to say “I love you.”

But it was there in the way he nodded to Lia, when she did something worthy of his praise.

But it was there in the way when he bristled, when someone said something off to her.

But it was there in the way he grunted in response when Lia asked if he liked her outfit.

In the way how he remembered just exactly how she liked her breakfast, even though the last time she told him was half a decade ago and he’d rolled his eyes in response.

Or in the way his hands went for Lincoln’s own, even as both their teeth gritted, looking into the eyes of a viper.

In the way he’d rest his head against Lincoln’s shoulder, when he thought everyone wasn’t looking, then tear apart with a jump when people teased him about having gone soft.

Or in the way his jaw worked in the way that Lincoln knew to be him swallowing down a smile.

And in the way he followed the man like some lovesick puppy, then, when Abel pointed it out, grumbled how Abel ought to wear glasses all the time, because he was not staring at Lincoln’s ass, thank you very much.

Red didn’t permit him to say “I love you.”

But it was in the way he was there for Abel in the blink of an eye, guarding his side without question.

Or in the way he let out a hmph of laughter at Abel’s jokes, quickly covering his mouth to replace it with a scowl.

In the way he silently bandaged Jocelyn’s leg, against her protests, promising to break her leg if she jostled it again, even as the momentary frown betrayed the false threat in his eyes.

Or in the way he turned to the side, stifling a smile, as he complained about how chipper Connor was.

…So he didn’t know how to say I love you.

And so maybe neither did Lincoln.

But they knew. They knew.

Even if they never said it, they knew.

“Lia - I’m sorry - I’m sorry- ” Vax says, shuddering.

And he means it.

He means it.

Because he doesn’t know what else to say. Because it’s all he knows how to say. Because it was one of the only words red would not permit him to ever utter, the only words red ever snatched out of his lungs.

Lincoln holds him closer, and Abel stares, frozen in horror as his oldest friend and his oldest friend’s lover watch the red wash out of his veins.

“Do you want to try again?” Lincoln says suddenly, voice raw. He pushes a locket into Vax’s red-wrought hands.

Vax stares back at him, confused.

“What?…”

“Your psychometry. We were practising. Do you want to try again?”

“... Why ?” Vax rasps, slumping his head against the stone.

The light haloes him in ways gods could never. Lincoln prays those same gods won’t take him now. Not now. Not yet.

“There’s a message on this. You’ll… you’ll want to hear it.”

The mis-matched eyed man looks at him with his usual petulance.

“If it’s too much…” Lincoln reaches for him.

“No,” comes Vax’s determined voice, all but melting into his touch, “I’ll do it,” he says, a fire in his fluttering eyes – never one to back down from a challenge, even now.

Even now. As he lay dying.

…It hurts. Vax winces as his fingers wrap around the necklace, and Lincoln isn’t sure if his brows are furrowing in concentration or in pain (probably both.)

He shouldn’t have jostled him, shouldn’t have given him–

But a faint smile blooms on Vax’s lips. Unrestrained, free of his usual red.

And he falls back with a laugh, chuckling at some hidden message.

“So?”

“Love you too.” Vax utters, quietly, but he hears him.

He hears him.

For the last time.

It would be a mercy if they truly closed their eyes.

But that’s not how it happens.

Vax is smiling up at him one moment, and the next moment, his gaze goes distant, and in that moment, he is gone.

………

………

………

He doesn’t think, when he cries for him.

Doesn’t question how, what or why–

But his name - his best friend’s name - is on his lips, as soon as Vax’s head falls against the tapestries of his embrace.

Because Abel is smart. Abel is sweet. Abel is kind.

Because Abel knows everything.

Abel knows all.

…But this time, Abel has no answers to give.

Not one.

…Not this time.

Nothing to offer, but his companionship. But his shoulder, to cry upon.

And Lincoln’s head fits. Like a piece of a puzzle. It fits into the tall man’s shoulders, like it was made for them. Like that was always where his head was supposed to lay.

And Abel doesn’t say anything.

Because he knows, some hurts you can’t heal.

And Abel doesn’t say anything.

Just wraps his arms around him, and buries his face against his neck.

And Abel doesn’t say anything.

Because he’s crying too.

Because he lost a friend, on this day – and soon, a father.

And Abel doesn’t say anything.

Because Amalia’s sidled up behind them, wrapping her shaking arms around them both.

And Abel doesn’t say anything.

Because Jocelyn’s idling in the corner. And she can’t bear herself to look.

And Abel doesn’t say anything.

Because he always says something. And now?

He just..

Wants…

To cry.

………

………

………

A voice pierces through the veil of sobs.

“Hey… Can I–”

Jocelyn starts, hands held out in front of her like some trembling animal, a shrunken shadow of her wildcat-like ferocity.

Lincoln is still as stone in Abel’s arms.

“NO–” A low growl tears his throat, eyes glinting with all the vigour of a vicious venom.

The woman snatches back her arms as though burned, bracing them behind her back.

The three once-friends before her rear back, separating from each other's arms.

“I… I …” She stutters, twisting her hands in her own.

Abel throws her a meaningful look.

Amalia looks pointedly down.

“Fuck. Off.” Lincoln grits, gripping his nails deep into the flesh of his arm.

Jocelyn nods, a sheen to her eye as she steels her jaw and turns her face away from him.

“...I can’t make it better.” She presses, even so, in the smallest her voice has ever been.

“No.”

He’s breathing heavily now, breaths coming like fire from a dragon’s lungs.

And Jocelyn better step away soon. Lest she face the dragon’s wrath.

Lest she be burned.

Abel rises to his feet.

Lincoln’s eyes are like an arrow shot through him, the hurt in them, as Abel goes to follow.

He takes one sorrowful look back, guides Jocelyn out to the mouth of the cave, and his arm ghosts to touch her back…

But it falls just as soon, never to make contact.

She looks at him.

He looks at her.

And Abel clenches his eyes, tips his head to the skies…

Breathes out. Low, slow.

Wind whipping his hair, rain pelting his face. 

Then shakes his head. Once, twice, thrice.

...He’s not angry.

Never angry. 

But the disappointment is writ across his face.

There’s something to it, being outcast by the most understanding of them all. 

Not a condemnation, nor a persecution.

Not an extended hand, nor an olive branch.

Just a sad, slow shake of his head, a plea to get out of here, as much for Lincoln’s sake as Jocelyn’s own.

“...Goodbye, Jocelyn.”

He doesn’t look her way as she retreats. 

………

………

………

“We need to deal with this- this– bastard. ”

Amalia nods to Matthias’s still-unconscious body, sprawled unceremoniously against the stone, one with the filth he was spawned of.

Around him, the now-lucid witches crowd, bristling for the oncoming storm.

It’s funny.

How little he looks.

…How normal he looks.

Face pressed up against the stone.

Clothing in tatters.

Fingers twitching softly, softly, so..

But that’s how they get you…

Isn’t it?

………

………

………

Not one moment later, the chime of a clock sounds deep in Lincoln’s pocket.

Ding…

Ding…

Ding…

It’s the mourning bells.

The fanfare before a charge into battle.

The lilted call of a long-lost love.

A soft, cyan glow, calling him home across the lakes and the rivers, the oceans and the tides.

And as a low groan emits Matthias, as his nails claw into the dirt, Lincoln lifts the golden watch from his pocket, it’s face glowing, humming, louder than death, louder than life–

He knows what he has to do, now.

No matter the cost…

No matter the price.

...

The McQuoid line must be eradicated. ...

Link to Part 2

[undersero]

sweet

please note: i’m aware this work was on the lovingshinso blog- i am the one who wrote it and posted it there. i am the author and i am sharing it to my new blog here.

pairing: hanta sero x fem reader

warnings: breeding kink (this is literally the plot), squirting, swearing, unprotected vaginal sex, overstimulation, feral sero, eventual pregnancy/pregnant reader at the end, labor and delivery is mentioned one time as written here

word count: 5.1k 

There were some things in life that Sero really enjoyed. He liked to eat bagels with the strawberry cream cheese, and he liked to nap on Sunday afternoons. He really enjoyed when the weather was nice and he could fire up the grill and make something delicious. 

Of course, there were thoughts that he enjoyed too. Being a loved, sought-after hero. Backpacking around the world. Climbing the hero charts. Making a difference. 

One such thought was above the others, though. 

Breeding you. Throwing his pretty wife’s pretty legs over his shoulders and pounding into your little cunny with no thoughts other than to breed, breed, breed. Feeling your cunt stretch around him. Pumping load after load of his seed into your gushing hole, hoping that it’ll take, hoping that soon, you’ll be full and round with his child. 

When this thought crept up on him, a blush normally settled on his ears. It was almost overwhelming to think about- beautiful, yes, but overwhelming. His brain plays the sensations in his head and he has to consciously keep himself calm, take steadying breaths and will his arousal to die down. 

Some nights, though… it festered inside him. Hanta felt his heart clench in his chest when he saw you come out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. His t-shirt adorned your body, hanging off your frame adorably, the hem just brushing the top of your thighs. You smelled nice, like roses and vanilla- he caught a whiff as you crawled into bed with him. 

How could he not touch you? 

Gently, he tugged you near to him, and you smiled up at him, cuddling into his broad, strong chest. Hanta hummed in content, pressing his nose to your hair and inhaling your alluring shampoo, allowing himself to be caught up in you. 

Your skin was so soft, so smooth, smelled so nice. He wanted to squeeze it so hard it turned white, wanted to grope that soft area on your lower belly that made you mewl. That soft skin, when touched, always made you shiver and whine in the most beautiful way. You’d always shiver, pressing your head against him somehow. Were you showing submission when you did this? Or was it simply a need to be close? He never quite figured that out, but each time you did this, it unleashed something from inside him so possessive, so feral that he had to be careful to prevent it from taking over. 

But maybe he wouldn’t stop it when he bred you. There was a thought. 

What? 

Oh. 

He blinked in surprise, seeing your curious gaze meet his. You were talking to him, expecting an answer. He swallowed hard, chuckling a bit. His ears were red. 

“Sorry, what?” He asked, and you laughed, kissing his lips softly. 

“Didn’t realize you were so tired,” you said, mistaking his spacey behavior for exhaustion and not horny daydreaming, “I asked if you wanted me to bring you lunch tomorrow. You mentioned it was a paperwork day.” 

Hanta loved when you stopped by his agency, he loved when your face lit up when you saw him. He loved knowing that this work was what took care of you both. You didn’t have to work a day in your life if you didn’t want to- but Hanta, of course, never forced you to stay home. He wanted you to have the option to find your dream job anywhere you wanted- and if that job was to stay home and be his adorable little housewife, then so be it. If your dream job was to become a lawyer, so be it. He’d always support you. Always had, always would. 

“Yeah,” he said, smiling brightly at you. “Yeah, that would be nice,” he murmured. 

With that confirmation, you smiled, kissing him again, feeling your eyelids become droopy and your body feel sluggish and warm. Hanta’s arms felt warmer and more secure than any you’d ever been in before and you couldn’t help but want to stay there forever. 

Sleep came to you quickly. It didn’t come as fast for your husband; Hanta stayed awake after he clicked off the bedside light, looking at you sleeping so sweetly in his arms. 

That was the best way he could describe you. Sweet. Sweet in everything you did. You gave sweet kisses, and sweet advice, and you made the sweetest brownies he’d ever had. Your face was sweet… your hands were sweet, looking even sweeter when he put that ring on the left one not so very long ago. You smelled sweet… 

...and he knew you’d look sweet when he had you in a mating press. When he bred you and filled you up with his cum. Your face would be fucked out, red, eyes hazy and unfocused. Maybe you’d even be drooling- he loved when he fucked you that good. And he’d sure as hell do it when he knocked you up- he’d have you creaming on his cock so much, so often, that the only thing in your brain would be the only name falling off your tongue- Hanta. 

A shiver racked through his body. He blinked a few times, taking a deep breath. 

Settling back into the pillows, he pressed his nose against your hair once more, inhaling and smiling softly against your head. He loved you so much. But these thoughts…

Well, if he didn’t breed you soon, they might just drive him crazy. 

-

The next morning was pretty uneventful. Hanta woke up and went to work, kissing you several times, making you squeal and giggle with glee as you handed him a thermos of coffee to drink on his commute to work. When he arrived at his agency, his desk was nearly overflowing with paperwork, which surely would have put a damper on his day had he not known you were coming to see him. 

This knowledge didn’t do much to make the paperwork any less sucky, though. It was tedious. He signed and initialed so many times that he idly wondered if he could get stamps with his signature on them- that would make this whole, boring ordeal a lot easier on the wrist… might take a little less time, too. He wondered if there were any rules against that, and was still pondering this thought when his receptionist called into his office phone; the shrill ring scaring him nearly half to death. 

“Yeah?” He answered after taking a moment to compose himself and ignore the fact that he just shrieked like a twelve year old seeing a very large, menacing bug. 

“Cellophane, you have a visitor,” his receptionist relayed. “Should I send her up?” 

His heart soared. 

“Yeah,” he said, unable to hide the smile in his voice. 

Moments later, you came through the door, a bento box in hand, your bag slung over your shoulder. A blush was on your cheeks. Even after all this time, seeing your handsome husband, Hanta the Hero, made you so excited you felt like you could and would explode. 

A matching blush and smile on his cheeks, Hanta came around the desk and gave you a soft, loving kiss. You tasted like mint bubblegum, the blue kind, not the green kind, and it made him shiver, just slightly, with delight. 

“Hi, handsome!” you said, pulling him back in for another kiss and cupping his face. The cool metal of your rings pressed against his flushed cheek, only making his blush worsen. Sero grinned against your mouth and pulled you closer by your waist, giving you a little squeeze, before pulling away. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, gently carding his fingers through your hair and giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. “This paperwork has been kicking my ass. So glad you came.” 

You eyed the stack of papers on the desk behind your husband, making a squeamish face before looking up at him with sympathetic eyes. 

“Yeah that looks… like a migraine waiting to happen,” you said. Sero laughed. 

“I know. It is, though. Maybe I should make an intern do it for me,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Scoffing, you batted his chest before quoting one of your and Sero’s closest friends.

“That’s not very heroic!” you scolded playfully before breaking into a fit of giggles. Sero laughed, pulling you in closer and kissing your cheek and neck, over and over, thus making you laugh even more. 

After several moments of kissing and giggling, Hanta stilled and inhaled, smelling that same alluring scent on you that he’d smelled the previous night when you got out of the shower. It was so comforting… if there was ever a time when he was spinning, out of control, losing touch with his surroundings and with what was important or not, that smell… well, he knew that smell would bring him right back. 

The problem was, though, that right now, that very smell was sending his mind spinning again. He had no control over it and his ears were turning pink.

His mind raced. He could take you right here, throw the paperwork aside, lay you out on his desk, press you in half, holding your knees nearly by your ears. The desk would give him such a good angle too, he’d be able to fuck into you as hard as he wanted with no worries of his thrusts being impeded by the soft, plushiness of your bed. All he’d have to do was tell his receptionist to cancel any appointments he had for the afternoon- he couldn’t even remember if he had any at that point- tell her to not permit any calls in… 

All this ran through his hot, overworked brain in about a second, and in that second, he just smelled your hair, being so relaxed and at peace outwardly while he was, inside, raging with uncontrollable arousal. He had to have you. Had to breed you. Breed, breed, breed. 

“Babe,” you said, your voice was quiet, soft. Almost unsure. His heart dropped for a moment, worried that in his haze, he’d somehow spoken or made his thoughts known to you some other way. He pulled back just enough to look at you, tilting his head to the side, willing you to continue. 

You were chewing on your lip so adorably that it hurt his heart and made him yearn to be the one chewing your lip. Your cheeks were redder, but your eyes were looking at him earnestly, almost shining with excitement. Clearly he hadn’t slipped and spoke his thoughts, otherwise you wouldn’t have been looking at him like that… 

“Hm?” he asked, tilting his head, “you look so serious, babe.” 

You smiled a little, looking down, bashful. 

“Yeah… um… so, like...you remember what we were talking about the other day?”

Well...that was vague. The two of you talked about a lot of stuff the other day, and every day before or since. Hanta’s confusion was evident on his face and you shook your head, giggling in spite of yourself, before taking a breath and trying again. 

“Okay… that’s not clear. I meant…” 

Why was this so hard for you to say out loud? Maybe it was because of the way Sero’s brown eyes bore into you, looking intensely, even though he wasn’t necessarily trying to do that. Just looking at you, curiously, wanting to know what was on your mind. Your husband...so caring. So loving. 

“I’m listening, Bonita,” he prodded gently, tucking some hair behind your ear. The nickname sent a shiver down your spine, and you smiled at him. 

“About starting a family,” you said, shy. 

Oh yeah. The conversation that started this whole obsession that was taking over Hanta’s thoughts. You’d been looking on Social Media, on a friend’s profile, cooing over her baby who’d just turned two. And then the conversation...turned. 

“I think it might be a good time to think about it,” you said, turning and looking at Sero with hopeful eyes and pink, blushy cheeks. “You’ve got your agency going...and we’re both still young. Seems to be working in our favor, don’t you think?”

Sero smiled at you, his own cheeks getting red; the tips of his ears were starting to pinken, too. 

“You think so?” he asked, delighted, butterflies in his chest akin to the ones he felt the very first time he’d seen you smile at him. You nodded enthusiastically. 

“I think so! I mean… that’s assuming you want to.” 

You had talked about it before with your husband, but in a passing kind of way. Like, ‘one day we’ll be parents’ and ‘we’ll have to remember that when we have kids’. It was never a fully serious thing, never something that the two of you really thought about or planned out. Until this conversation. Until now. 

“Yeah! Of course I want to,” Hanta said, giving you a kiss. And then, what started off as five simple words, became the source of his current obsession. Of his current need to breed you immediately and upon every surface of every space you’d been in. Five words that seemed totally innocent at the time but immediately had his heart racing, his libido rising, and his gut clenching in arousal. 

“You’ll be a beautiful mommy.”

Presently, Hanta had to consciously swallow to wet his suddenly parched mouth. He grinned at you, that same dazzling, sparkling Hanta Sero grin that made your knees weak and your heart flutter. He leaned in and kissed you, passionately, the lunch you’d brought for him all but forgotten about. 

Inhaling deeply and pulling away, you saw Hanta’s expression had changed. It was darker now, more… needy. He nipped your bottom lip, making you mewl in surprise and lean in closer to him;  his strong arms kept your knees from collapsing. 

“Yeah, I remember,” he told you, voice having noticeably dropped an octave, maybe even two. The change immediately made you blush harder- you were sure you looked like a tomato at this point, but you didn’t care, not when your husband, the only man who’d ever have your heart, looked at you that way.

“I thought,” you murmur, voice sounding softer, like your body would surely be when you carried his child; softer, supple, stretching so beautifully around a stomach full of life, “I thought it would be nice to maybe start trying.” 

Hanta groaned, the words having an obvious effect on him. He pulled you  flush against his chest, roughly kissing against your jaw, nipping every few times to make you positively melt in his arms. You felt the need waft off him in waves- it was hot and potent, almost making you dizzy as you felt his unquestionable want, his need, to breed you. 

He opened his mouth to answer you, when at the exact moment, his office phone rang again, causing you both to flinch in surprise; thankfully, he didn’t shriek this time. That would have changed the mood. 

But he still sighed heavily, swallowing hard, before opening his eyes and giving you an easy smirk. He’d been brought out of whatever trance you’d put him in, it seemed. 

“I hate that damn thing,” he muttered, casting a disparaging glance at the phone.

-

He answered the call from his receptionist, and soon, you were on your way home. Hanta gave you many kisses and hugs for the road, leaving you feeling well loved and excited to see him that evening. 

But further, the entire visit left you...curious. You’d never seen Hanta act so...possessive. Almost… you couldn’t think of the right word. The way he kissed you, though. How dark his eyes had gotten. The way you felt your husband’s need roll off of him in the heaviest way you’d never experienced before. 

Your mind rolled the interaction over and over, prodding and playing and questioning and wondering. 

Certainly, you knew you wanted a family with him. Hanta would be an excellent father and you never doubted that for a second, never for a moment. Excitement tingled in your chest- this was a huge decision, of course, but it was one you knew you wanted. Based on his behavior back at his office, and the behavior he’d been displaying before, you could tell your husband was pretty into the idea as well. 

A familiar heat settled into your stomach, burning embers of arousal keeping you just warm enough to notice, but not yet scalding enough to make you squirm. 

That, like you, like your husband, would come later. 

-

It was an understatement to say that Sero was distracted for the rest of his afternoon. He likely wouldn’t have been able to hit the floor with his helmet, even if he was trying to. His brain whirled in excitement, spun in arousal and possibilities. It was maddening, dizzying. He couldn’t tell which way was up anymore, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know which way was up to know he was the luckiest man in the world. 

Not only was he your husband, but he was going to be the father of your child, too. 

Sero never considered himself to be the fatherly type- not really, at least. He’d never discounted it either, but then… well. Then he met you, and his entire life changed.

When he first saw your eyes, your smile… heard you giggle… he knew without a doubt he wanted to be your husband, wanted to be your man. He wanted to hold you every night and wake up to you, bed head and morning breath, every morning. 

And the more time he spent with you, the more he knew he wanted to be a father. He wanted to be the father to your children, he wanted you to be the mother of his babies. 

And the time, finally, blessedly, was here. 

-

Dinner was an interesting affair that night. You couldn’t have been more spaced out while making it… you were only semi-sure that you’d included all the correct ingredients in all the proper amounts. It didn’t taste awful, so that was a good indication; you still would not have put it past yourself to mix up two spices, or forget something altogether only to add an unneeded ingredient. 

Sero didn’t complain, though, not that he ever did. But he looked distracted. His cheeks were permanently rosey, it seemed, and he kept looking at you, only to shyly look down when you met his gaze. It was cute, really, like you two were kids trying to figure out your feelings for one another for the first time. 

There wasn’t much conversation. Little broken bits of sentences passed between the two of you. Small laughs and hums filled the rest of the otherwise quiet atmosphere and semi-regular sounds of silverware scraping plates. 

After about half an hour, and after you both had managed to eat about half of what was on your plate, he finally spoke. 

“I don’t know why I feel so nervous,” he said with a shy, almost bashful laugh, cheeks blooming a brighter red. 

“I feel it too. I feel like a virgin,” you told him, to which he reached across the table and took your hand.

“I’m sure you were a cute virgin,” he teased with an affectionate squeeze, and you laughed out loudly, maybe a little more harshly than you intended with your shotty nerves. This only made Sero’s expression toward you soften even more. 

“Gee, thanks,” you said, leaning in, closing the gap between you and kissing him. The kiss came easily enough; you were pros at this point. 

“Should we… y’know?” Hanta asked, lips mere millimeters from yours, breath fanning across your flushed face. Another giggle left your lips, but this one was more high-pitched and nervous. 

“Yeah,” you said. You swore you saw the same apprehension mirrored in Hanta’s eyes, but he quickly stood and scooped you up before carrying you, bridal-style, to the bedroom. 

The walk there seemed to take ages. You were horny, that dull warmth from your walk home had turned into quite the all-encompassing heat, but your hands felt clammy and cold and were fidgety. 

You hadn’t been lying; you really did feel like you were a virgin. Like you’d never been fucked stupid by the man holding you. 

It was an exciting thing. A scary thing. An exhausting thing. But it was the start of your adventure, the greatest one you’d take, and it was with your loving, attentive husband. 

As you approached your room, Hanta’s body seemed to relax a bit, almost as if passing the threshold made this whole thing easier for him now that he was in an extra safe, comforting space. 

As he laid you on the bed, on your back, you didn’t see apprehension in his eyes anymore. They were dark now, nearly black, and just one look alone had your heart racing. The butterflies in your stomach were now the size of watermelons and it felt like there was no way, no reasonable way at all, for them to avoid bursting your stomach, but they never did. Somehow. Heat which didn’t exist before radiated between your bodies, and you were taken back to that same feeling that washed over you when you visited him earlier. Your cheeks flushed and you felt...submissive. Needy. Helpless. 

Hanta started rubbing his hands all over your pretty little body, rubbing your sides as he hovered over you, gazing down lovingly at your form through those dark eyes. One hand slid up under your shirt, fingertips gently grazing over your soft belly, the action and the intimacy giving you goosebumps. 

“Love you,” you whispered, looking at him with starry eyes, and he smiled back at you. 

“Love you too,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you, “and I’m gonna fuck you full.”

-

The shivers in your body hadn’t subsided once you both were stripped down. You weren’t cold; there was no shortage of heat between you and your husband’s bodies- it was the thrill of it all. The knowledge that you were going to be bred by such a handsome, capable man. It drove you wild. His touches drove you wild. You wanted to jump his bones, but you were stuck, on your back against the comforter, with Hanta kissing down, down, down… 

Then, your legs were over his shoulders and he was lapping hungrily at your already sopping cunt. Long, broad strokes up and down your lips before he spread your folds open with his fingers. You heard his sharp intake of breath, though this was something he’d seen many times before. 

Your cunt, pink and pretty, like a tiny rosebud, was breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. Delicious. Hanta leaned forward as you held your breath in anticipation, eventually exhaling with a tiny whine as he licked through your folds with practiced movements. His tongue felt like heaven. He knew exactly what to do, how to swirl his tongue, how to lap at your hardening clit. And there was no room for teasing tonight, not as far as Hanta was concerned. He wanted you to cum as many times as he could. 

The first orgasm came quickly; his constant sucking and lapping at your clit, coupled with harsh, efficient swipes to the bud with his thumb, had you cumming in mere minutes. If you hadn’t been so fucked out, you were sure Hanta would have teased you about making you cum in a new record time. 

Pleasure pumped through every artery, every vein of your body. You felt warm and floaty, but Sero didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. He was nowhere near done with you. 

A finger breached your hole, pressing inside up to his knuckle with ease. You mewled at the sensation, the slight burning, the overwhelming goodness of being so full. 

“Ffff…” you huffed out, cheeks red, squeezing your eyes shut as your toes curled in response to Hanta moving his finger into and out of you at a nearly agonizingly slow pace. 

Then, he added another. And a third. Three fingers pumping you open, scissoring inside you, curling to hit that little spot within your spongy walls that made you moan and cry and see stars. 

Sero looked like he was possessed. His head was bowed between your legs, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, feeling in delight the fact that you didn’t seem to want to let his fingers out. His eyes were dark, too. His cheeks were flushed. There was so much tension in his body- he held it in his shoulders, in his hips, in his hands...and most especially in his cock, throbbing with need, bobbing heavily between his legs. 

Your second orgasm washed over you without much fanfare, though it did feel incredibly good, making your toes curl so hard that you almost felt the muscles in your feet cramp in protest. Almost. 

And then, Sero was sitting up and your legs were falling off of his shoulders. His hands rubbed soft, soothing circles into the soft, flushed flesh of your thighs, and he smiled at you so softly that it nearly made you cry. Your husband. 

“Ready?” His voice was soft, surprisingly so, considering how rough he looked and how red his cock was. You nodded, smiling, feeling anxious nerves bubble up in your stomach and make your chest feel fuzzy, like soda. 

“We’re gonna do it,” you said, voice hoarse from your whimpers. “We’re gonna be parents.” 

A silent, intimate moment passed between the two of you; a moment in which eternity spread out before you. You could both see it; a child, growing in your womb, slowly at first, but then quicker than you could ever imagine. You envisioned a nursery, one with soft green curtains and a big, white crib with a soft, pastel baby blanket hanging over the side. Labor and delivery flashed through both your minds, but then, the warm, imagined feeling of seeing your child for the first time. It made both of your chests expand with a love so strong that it nearly consumed the both of you. You surmised, though, that actually seeing your child, in your arms, would be a much stronger event. 

Then, like a reel of film, you saw your child growing up. Learning to talk. Walking. Running. Playing, laughing, growing. Breaking your hearts and making them stronger at the same time. Developing a quirk, maybe, but developing a passion, definitely. Knowing how loved they were by mommy and daddy, knowing that they had a safe place to call home. School. Graduation. The real world. Weddings. 

It all stretched between you and Hanta, like the vast expanse of an unexplored journey; the greatest and most terrifying and exhilarating and challenging of all. 

This all happened within a second, but you both felt it. You saw the same things, you experienced the same feelings. Hanta’s eyes, still dark, but now brimming with emotion, stared into yours, and he touched your cheek. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed softly, with a nod. “Yeah, babe. It’s always been you.”  

-

First. Your legs wrapped tightly around Hanta’s waist, resting on the dimples of his lower back as he drove himself into you with practiced, hard thrusts. His hands dug into your hips, his thumbs pressing on that soft skin on your lower belly. You mewled at his presses on such a  delicate area. Your first orgasm with him inside you was like being submerged in a warm bath. It was slow, almost, not frenzied, and at this point, it was relatively calm. Sero’s orgasm followed suit. 

Second. Your left leg is up over Hanta’s shoulder, the right one pinned to the bed with his left hand. His wedding ring glints in the lowlights of your room as he fucks you, this time with more vigor. Maybe it’s the different position, maybe it’s the harder thrusts, maybe it’s the fact that you’ve already cum three times and he doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon, but everything feels amplified. Every swipe of his thumb over your puffy clit. Every drag of his thick, beautiful cock against your sensitive, gummy walls. Every squeeze to your thigh… 

Every look that you shared. Hanta’s eyes were even darker now, darker than they’d been earlier that day at his agency. More needy, almost feral. Your second orgasm with him inside you wasn’t as pleasant. It was hot now, not just warm, and sparks of overstimulation shocked you as your body jerked, almost convulsing as the pleasure tore out of you. Hanta came with a grunt of your name, his voice now so deep and gravelly that he sounded feral. 

Third. Hanta was feral now. His hair stuck out in a million different directions, his pupils were completely blown. Breed, breed, breed. He held your thighs down to the bed, on either side of you, your knees pressed down on the mattress in close proximity to your ears. 

Breed, breed, breed. Tears streamed down your flushed face, and you were babbling nonsense, mostly of your husband’s name and broken little whines.The headboard smacked the wall, the sound reverberating through the room as Hanta thrusted with his entire body weight into your aching, sloppy cunt. He growled, primeval in his need to fill you up- it was no longer a want. He needed to breed you. He’d simply go crazy if he couldn’t. 

Your third orgasm felt like an atomic bomb went off within your walls. Arousal gushed forward as you squirted, your entire cunt clenching violently, milking Hanta’s throbbing cock for all it was worth, painfully so, in your sensitivity. You cried out, sobbing, nails clawing at your husband’s bare back and arms. But he continued to fuck into you recklessly. The drywall behind the bed cracked. The bedframe groaned. A feral growl unlike anything you’d ever heard came from your husband as he came, driving his hips and his seed further and further into your womb. 

Breed, breed, breed. 

-

The day was sunny and clear. A warm breeze fluttered in through your open kitchen window, rustling the curtains and wafting the delicious smells from the stove throughout your home. A soft smile pulled at your face as you stirred and seasoned as needed- baby corn. Baby carrots. Baby back ribs. 

Of course, there was a theme. 

Hanta came home, calling for you, and your heart soared, fluttering in your chest and settling down into your belly.

“I’m in here babe,” you replied, turning, and picking up a small box. 

The box itself was nothing remarkable. It was yellow, small, and rectangular- like the kind of box one would put a necklace inside of, but this one held something more precious than a necklace. 

This box held your future. 

Inside, nestled in with sea green tissue paper, was a pregnancy test. The first pregnancy test you’d taken that showed those two sacred, life-changing, little pink lines. 

[angstmonsterwrites]

Since my shitty body has decided to waste this Friday night being mildly food-poisoned, here's some disjointed thoughts and tidbits of advice I've picked up here and there:

Stop telling yourself you've screwed the pooch simply because you're afraid that's how things may go.

Life does not truly begin at any age, save for when it stops being a play for an audience.

Be careful of deciding to give a depressed or distressed loved one space they didn't ask for. Too much isolation is how some suicides happen.

'Authenticity' is a word that gets thrown around in a lot of saccharine pop-psychology contexts, but the genuine practice thereof comes with a cost, as it reveals who genuinely cares for you, and who only cares for what they want to make of you or how you might be useful to them.

Sometimes the cycle of abuse doesn't start with overt harm. Sometimes it starts with love-bombing during a vulnerable time, and sometimes the words "I do" portends a fate similar to a bear trap snapping shut.

Truth is sometimes necessarily rude, but rudeness and meanness or cruelty aren't the same thing. Refusal to stand on ceremony and disallowing comfortable lies that would permit a problem to fester isn't cruel--no more than cleaning a wound with disinfectant that makes it sting.

Beware tradition that rears its head in the form of a prescribed, rigid life script that tends to nullify or even shame the notion of personal autonomy.

A person who has suffered from malicious harm bears no fault for what was done to them. Cruel people often excel at disguising themselves as trustworthy safe havens--it's impossible to know all the tells.

Punishing and ridiculing someone (including oneself) for their anxiety or depression guarantees to make it worse.

Toxic relationships severed for one's own safety and sanity do not count as failures; those are successes in self-preservation. It's never anyone's responsibility to take a beating from anyone, physically or emotionally.

Beware of having such an over-inflated concept of responsibility that taking any risk at all feels dirty. That way lies stagnation.

Sometimes people do really mean the nice things they say, and have solid reasons for saying them. Not all praise is disingenuous, manipulative, or just a back-handed warning against failure.

If someone nit-picks your flaws or makes you feel bad for having your own needs, it's best to get away from that person. No one should face ridicule or mockery for merely being human and not an instant expert.

Read between the lines, but take care not to write something in that wasn't there before simply because you expected it to be.

Consistently good sleep won't solve all your problems, but it will help you tackle them with a clear head and avoid cranky exacerbations or drowsy miscalculations.

[undergrounddweller89]

It's another late at night one between them because reasons, I don't need to explain myself *flips a tiny table*

Killian stood there infront of the fridge, looking over it's contents, he was hungry, he wanted to snack on something...but all Beckett had in his fridge was...health food...he could really murder someone for a piece of cake, chocolate, chips...sleep couldn't find him and he couldn't find it.

He reached in deciding on some fruit flavoured yogurt, he would have preferred ice cream but such is life apparently.

A claw tapping on the fridge door it was a low one the top half a freezer and yes he had looked in there.

The clock ticked loudly for some reason when it was night time, glancing over at the kitchen door, thinking that each tick would be the one to wake Beckett....now if he was on the table for something he could eat, he'd devour him.

Heh there was definitely something between his thighs he'd like to snack on but why would Beckett so much as look at him.

He had been permitted to move in with Walter, of course the scientist had seemed eager, to let him live there, he'd been his first Misson...heh...First villain, did that mean he took his spyginity...fuck he was glad no one could hear that dumbass comment, he even groaned at himself and here he was still standing with the yogurt in hand, wearing nothing, usually he would put on a pair of boxers as a courtesy to Walter but there was little chance that he'd wake up....

"Tristan?"

When he'd heard Becketts voice he tapped the side of his neck, didn't want to give the young man nightmares with his deformed face.

"You know you don't need to do that Tristan."

Walter smiled, sleepily rubbing at one eye.

Killian only made a sound but he did look at him, looks like he'd borrowed one of his shirts...again, but he never complained, they practically swallowed him, they were so baggy on his lithe form it was...was it possible for something to be sexy cute because if so Walter was the damn epitome.

"Was you looking for something to eat, not much in here, should go out tomorrow."

Killian replied matter of factly.

"Oh, sorry, I'm still getting used to making sure there's actually food in the house...I'll go tomorrow...you can come with if you want."

The young man shifted from foot to foot, tugging the shirt down, did Killian have to look so pretty, even with resting bitch face.

"Sounds like a plan...I have not exactly ventured out much

Killian looked Walter up and down, oh yes the perfect snack right there, but out of reach...right?

His robotic eye glowing a brighter blue as he thought of swiping everything off the table and planting Walter on it...did it make him a terrible man that from the moment he'd stepped on him in Venice, when he'd made the comment about having fun he'd absolutely would have done his damnedest to seduce him if he had not been a man on a mission, not blinded by hate for Sterling, he was still baffled by the fact Walter even let him live in the same space as him considering he'd tried to kill him...

twice...

Yes it made him terrible in his opinion.

Perhaps he'd even fantasised about Walter turning at the last minute, instead of deactivating his arm, he could have carried him off somewhere and made him his...

apprentice.

"Hey, Killian, Earth to Mcford, you're gonna ruin the contents of what we do have in the fridge if you leave it open like that, mind closing it."

Walter chuckled reaching up and tapping Killian's nose.

"I can't do that Beckett."

Tristan answered sheepishly, god what was it about Beckett that made him like this...smart, sweet, unique, he really was a light in the world he'd missed, never knew he needed until he knew he needed him.

Walter stepped forward and Killian shifted a little and sucked in his lips, well that was not what he expected the younger man to do, there was a long moment of silence as Walter looked down at him, problem was he liked Beckett looking, liked that he was staring at all of him and it was becoming obvious.

"You know Killian, I wouldn't mind a late night snack myself...I mean if the feeling's mutual."

Killian nearly dropped the yogurt, hands flailing to catch the plastic container, surprisingly being the Villain was easy, being hit on by a five ft nine scientist who looked like the wind could blow him over apparently had him...well like this.

He watched as Walter moved back a little, tucking his hair behind his ear, feeling somewhat embarrassed, oh perhaps he was wrong, that there hadn't been moments or lingering touches, maybe he'd imagined he'd found Killian staring at him

"Sorry, weirdos probably don't do it for you, probably like either some big guy like yourself or a lady with-"

Killian tossed the yogurt back in the fridge and closed the door, oh yes he'd found the exact snack he wanted.

Walter squeaked at the sudden action but when Tristan pulled him forward, claws pulling the front of the shirt to do so he didn't fight, he sank into that kiss, apparently both of them were starving, he reciprocated eagerly, hands sliding along his back, finger tips over scars, Walter could feel him pressed against his thigh, slowly moving.

Tristans hands felt so big on his waist, the man could engulf him entirely and do with him as he pleased, he wanted to surrender to him but the moment he felt his fingers on his bare skin he giggled making Tristan stop.

"Beckett, what is it?"

He looked at him dead serious and was trying not to be offended, had he done something Walter found funny.

"Your hands are cold, you're cold after standing in front of the fridge."

Walter smiled, it was so warm and kind that Tristan couldn't help but smile just a little to.

The machine lights from Becketts home made devices were lined with glowing lights, a soft blue highlighting them both, each of them just marveling at the others beauty, silence passing, just the rising and falling of their chests showing that either of them were alive, still, lost in that moment.

Walter took Killian's hands holding them, leaning up to kiss him sweetly, he kissed his lips, his jaw and then his neck where the sensors were, triggering the masking tech, revealing his true face once more.

Killian instinctively went activate it again, he didn't want Walter to see him like that when they were like this...scarred and ugly...

Walter stopped him, capturing his hand in a gentle clasp stopping him from turning it on again

"You don't need to hide yourself from me...I know it doesn't mean much but to me-"

Killian looked at the hand that held his, watching as it moved, letting go of him to caress his face, to trace the marred flesh between metal plating, over his scalp, leaning into his touch, pressing himself closer a thigh pressed between Walter's thighs a playful smile couldn't help creep up on him, so the scientist was going commando.

His eyes closed as Walter caressed what he hated...some how his touch, so affectionate, so tender, Killian knew he'd do anything for Beckett...he felt fingers teasing the line between scarred flesh and where his hair began, making him shiver that felt lovely, so very wonderful his spine tingling, moaning softly.

"Tristan..."

"Hmm?"

Killian returned still leaning into his touch.

"Don't ever let anyone ever tell you, you're not beautiful..."

Killian's eye fluttered open as the robotic one flickered on when he heard that, something in his chest ached...it was a beautiful kind of pain and he'd known it only once before...oh when had that happened...when had he fallen in love with Walter Beckett?

Cupping Walters face kissing him again, slow and passionate, adjusting himself again so their hips lined, claws on his hip.

"You gonna strip me down to Tristan, body heat is best shared when both people are-"

Killian ripped the shirt open from the neck down, looking like a predator who wanted to consume him entirely

"I thought you liked that shirt!?"

Was the response Killian got but he only grinned

"Oooh Beckett, I think it should be obvious by now, I love what's underneath more."

"Promise you'll call in the morning?"

Walter teased.

Killian paused he noticed the tinge of vulnerability, lifting his chin

"Whoever it was that didn't call you, I'll kill them, you just have to say the word."

Walter shouldn't feel so secure in his hands, so safe, this man had more than once tried to kill him, he did though, he felt as if nothing could hurt him here in this moment.

"They even called me weirdo."

"Tell me a name Beckett, I'll make sure it hurts when I end them."

He growled, there was something though in Walter's look a strange sort of expression and smile on his face.

"I already did, now...are you going to take me to bed or are we both destined to freeze in our kitchen."

Killian's heart was racing at that answer, wonder boy wasn't so perfect after all, oh, oh he was going to absolutely ravish him

"Tristan."

"Yes Beckett?"

Killian answered, face buried against his neck, biting softly at his pale flesh, Walter's hands on him, hips pressed together, feeling him, his warmth, everything.

"Make sure I still feel it In the morning...I want to ache and know it's because of you."

Ohhh Killian was more than happy to comply with his wishes he picked him up, they barely made it upstairs to Tristans room, anyone outside might fear a murder was happening, neither of them holding back, finally giving in to what had always been there, primal and urgent, aching, sating a desire that had been festering between them until the dam broke and the idea of being separated was painful, they shared themselves to the fullest, subdued and weakened by want of one another...no matter what the future held after this, after everything no matter what.

Tristan Killian Mcford belonged to Walter Beckett and Walter Beckett belonged to Tristan Killian Mcford, they were one, they could not define beginning and end between them, one breath only to be exhaled by the other.

Yes to put it simply.

They loved each other.

(Also got tipsy half way through writing this xD)

[blitzturtles]

Title: It Starts Like This, Ch. 6

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): BruAbba, FugoNara / NaraFugo (Could be platonic, honestly, tho the BruAbba definitely isn't.)

Summary: “What?” he snaps.

“I’m just thinking.”

A pause. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Notes: Turns out being dead has a bit of a long term effect. Who would have thought?

This fic got away from me, so I'm breaking it down by character interaction (sort of). Here's another Bucci-centric chapter for the Bucci-centric fic.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Additional Notes: Sometimes having two disabled folks in one relationship is... rough. Not at all based on real life experiences...

Content Warning: couple fighting and a panic attack.

Also, for unnecessary clarification: Moody doesn't zipper through anything. Abbacchio goes around barriers and resets her timer as needed. Oh, and I use she/her for Moody. I've got a fic planned for that eventually.

There's also a mild mention of a headcanon I have where Bucci is technically Narancia's guardian. For school and healthcare purposes. (Fugo emancipated post-disownment, and Giorno kind of flies under the radar.)

-

Bucciarati won’t admit it, but there’s something devastating about the first medication not working. Or not working well enough. They can’t be sure, but he’s not willing to continue on something that ultimately failed to curb such a traumatic experience for one of the people he cares for most. He can’t quite shake the guilt that’s been slowly wearing away at him for days.

It’s only the anxiety of having another seizure in front of his famiglia that has him permitting Abbacchio staying home once more. He can’t do that to Narancia again, and he knows that it won’t be any less stressful for the rest of them. It’s bad enough when Leone has to deal with the fallout, but he’s better prepared for it. He’s seen worse, and it’s part of what they both signed up for. For better or worse, in sickness and in health. They’ve done everything but scribbled their names on the paperwork to make it official, but Bruno thinks that, with everything else they’ve gone through, they’ve more than earned their right as one another’s life partner.

Still, that doesn’t mean that Bucciarati likes to be watched like a lab experiment. With eyes that are waiting for the slightest hint that something’s wrong. It makes him acutely aware of the fact that he could have another seizure at any given moment. That he might have one with no warning signs, or at least not any that he’d recognize as such.

That’s the problem with auras; he can’t seem to recognize them for what they are.

He’s being unreasonable, he knows. He hasn’t had enough seizures to know whether or not he’ll learn to recognize the warning signs, but it feels like it’s been an eternity already. And a thousand seizures, rather than a small handful. Part of that is due to how poorly he feels afterwards, and how off he feels on the medication. Part of it is how all of this has disrupted their lives in every way imaginable. And all of it has him in a sour mood.

“You’re upset,” Abbacchio starts with a frown. It’s the first time either of them has spoken all morning.

“I’m frustrated.”

Abbacchio hums in response. A quiet sound that wouldn’t normally grate Bucciarati’s nerves, but it gets under his skin and festers.

“What?” he snaps.

“I’m just thinking.”

A pause. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about it,” Abbacchio answers, snappish and untrue. Even if it were, he knows why. Understands better than anyone else.

Bruno’s eyes widen slightly. A startled, wounded look evident in his blue irises, but his gaze hardens and he sneers,

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“Bruno, wait--”

But Bruno is already gone with nothing but a trace of gold left behind.

Damn that stand.

______

It’s a childish thing, to storm off, especially when Bucciarati knows that Leone’s only worried. That he hadn’t meant the words that came out of his mouth, and that he’s as scared as Bucciarati is. That this is all out of his depth, regardless of what they feel for one another or what promises they’ve made. It’s still terrifying the way it’s terrifying to watch Abbacchio cough up blood some mornings.

He regrets leaving the moment he stops moving. Stops tearing holes through walls and leaving Sticky Fingers to put them back together. It’s like someone punched the air out of him, and all he can do is sink to the ground, on his knees, with his head held in his hands and his mouth open, gasping for air.

Each breath comes too quick, and leaves before he feels like he gets any air. There’s something wrapped around his chest. Too tight, and somehow pulling tighter. It’s all he can do to lie down. Before the next inevitable comes. He already feels too light-headed with a lingering dizziness that makes it impossible to think through.

“Bruno,” the voice sounds familiar. Too much like his own echoing in his ears, but he’s not talking, much less calling his own name. His voice wouldn’t sound like that. Wouldn’t sound steady, if not worried, but, when he looks, there’s a mirror image of himself looking down at him. It falls to its knees, and a familiar sound rings out in the air as Moody’s timer runs out. She reaches for him as purple wraps around her frame once more.

“Bruno,” Leone repeats, this time in his own voice, from his own body. He all but collapses on his knees beside his stand and reaches out with careful hands to brush Bucciarati’s hair from his face.

Time freezes for a moment. Bucciarati expects consciousness to flee him without warning, but the air lingers. Stale and stiff and impossible to breathe, and all he can do is try and try to pull enough of it into his lungs to try to chase away the spots dancing across his vision.

Recognition flashes across Leone’s features. Where his hand has gone still in Bruno’s hair, it moves once more. A gentle carding. A distraction from the racing fears in Bucciarati’s head. He can’t calm his breathing no matter how hard he tries. It feels completely out of his control, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Leone asks him seemingly out of the blue, but he knows that’s not right. That Leone must have been talking since his arrival, but Bruno can’t recall a word that’s been said.

“Yes,” he breathes, because he is now, and he meant to before. It’s just so hard to hear anything past the roaring in his ears.

“You need to calm down a little bit. Take some deep breaths,” Leone tells him, as if Bucciarati hasn’t been trying to do that since he stopped moving. There’s a sense of impending doom that lingers, pressing down on him until it’s crushing and unbearable.

“Hey,” Leone calls, tapping Bruno gently on the forehead, “You gotta focus on me, alright? Stop listening to whatever’s going on in that thick head of your’s, and listen to me. I need you to breathe in-- slower than that. Okay, good, hold-- now out. Annnd in--” They go through the steps several more times, until Bucciarati can successfully follow the counts more often than not. Finally-- finally he can breathe. Oxygen filters through his system, and his vision begins to clear. It’s only then that he starts to put the pieces together, and it’s shame that replaces the panic.

“I’m-”

“Don’t,” Leone cuts Bruno off before he can apologize. “I get it.” He moves to catch Bruno when he wobbles a bit too much upon trying to sit up. “Take it easy, will you?” He sighs and sits back.

“Sorry,” Bruno says, for lack of anything else to say.

“I’ll kick your ass if you apologize again.”

Bruno opens his mouth, and Leone quirks an eyebrow. It’s enough of a threat, empty as it may be, to convince Bruno to click his teeth together.

Leone huffs a sound that might be a laugh. Or it might be the last of his sanity slipping away. He scrubs his hands over his face and sighs. “I’m sorry. For what I said earlier. That was shitty. I’m just-”

“Scared?”

“Terrified.”

“That’s fair,” Bruno muses quietly. He absently wipes at his face, and it’s the first time he realizes that there are tears there. Streaking down both cheeks and plentiful in nature. He can’t remember the last time he had a panic attack. He’s better at running from his problems than he is dealing with them head on. At least the ones emotional in nature. The rest he’s always tackled with little more than a hope and a prayer to a deity he’s long lost faith in. “I’m sorry, too.”

“I told you to stop apologizing.”

“When have I ever listened to you?” Bruno snarks back, shoulders relaxing slightly.

Leone snorts, “Not a day in your life.” Bruno has the scars to prove it, too. Bastard. “C’mon. Let’s get off the floor. I’m getting too old for this.”

It’s Bruno’s turn to laugh this time, “You’re barely in your twenties.”

“And I’m too goddamn old. Up,” Leone pushes himself to his feet before reaching his hands out to pull Bruno upright. There’s a pause where the two are lost, staring at one another, and Leone decides ‘fuck it’. What better time to go for a kiss then after your partner has a full on panic attack? They’ve done worse with far more questionable timing.

Bruno responds to the kiss with a pleased little sound in the back of his throat. He tugs Leone closer, wanting the contact more than anything. He can feel Leone’s hands cradling the back of his head, fingers linking together at his nape.

“Gross! Get a room!”

Leone curses as they break apart and shoots Narancia the meanest look he can, “I will murder you.”

“Only if you catch me!” And the kid is off before Leone can even respond.

Bucciarati can’t help laughing at the whole display. He grabs for Leone’s hand before his partner can seriously consider killing Narancia. “May I remind you that I’m legally responsible for him?”

“They won’t find the body.”

“Leone!”

[yeahcxrrahee]

INTRÉPIDE — Nate Fick

Requested by: @bbysugarpink

hello, i would like to request something for nate from generation kill :) with the fluff prompts: “is there a reason you’re blushing like that” and “i’m not a damsel in distress. i’m a damsel doing damage” thank u so much! 🤍

To whatever sexist douchebag termed damsels — women — as always being in constant, unwarranted distress, Y/N Y/L/N could run laps around them with her intellect, physical build, and sharp tongue. She was a living illustration of an army disciplinary booklet, the words alive in calculated steps she’d approach a soldier with.

The men of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the Marine Corps vexed egos could attest to the goldenly shrewd behavior of their lieutenant. She was a great shot with her rifle, but her words walloped anyone with a more profound wound than any bullet could. Superiors would tease that if science could decipher the wonderstruck complexes of her mind and bottle it, they’d give it to every trooper to fortify some manhood in them that vanished with the diaphanous sand of the desert each dawn.

With the exception of First Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick.

The duo could forge a bickering storm within seconds of a misstep in strategy, a blazing crimson error of position that had a target pinned to their asses. The remainder of their platoon would settle in the beaten leather of their humvee’s, ears perked to open windows to listen to the rather amusing strings of hisses. They’d only interject if the woman was teetering on ripping the other lieutenant a new one, and it wasn’t for the paralyzed ego of their male superior, but for the sound discipline that should be happening.

Yet, as the cruel sun beat down on one afternoon, it's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky it's co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to obscure the unrelenting rays, there was no sound discipline to be enforced. Therefore, the feverish dispute erupting with a febrile existence as hot as the weather itself, was either eavesdropped by weary troopers or entirely disregarded by those who forced slumber.

Y/N stood in front of a glowering Nate Fick in a recognizable stance, arms folded sturdily across her chest and her jacket and pants littered with palpable burns from a imprudent stunt in the early morning. He was now ripping her a new one before a few other fellow lieutenants for the chaotic strategy that had her eluding a lethal shootout by her teeth.

“You were sent on a mission to collect intel, not engage in a fucking dogfight with Iraqi soldiers, Lieutenant Y/L/N. Lately, all you’ve been leaving is a trail of collateral damage wherever you go and I have to clean it up before any higher-up flames your ass,” Nate essentially snarled in her face, his gaze fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, whetting the edge of his cerulean eyes.

“If you’re going to chastise me for doing my job, I think you should be looking at yourself and everyone else in this damn platoon! We were ambushed and I merely retaliated to save the asses of my men like any lieutenant would do. I got the fucking intel for you and spared you from writing a few condolence letters,” she sneered in retort, beckoning an offending serpent of anger into their conversation with a spark of anger igniting in her chest, “And I would appreciate if you allowed me to do what I need to do to save my men—”

“And what if I had to write one for you?!” He interjected furiously, the rustle of the adjacent map indicating that his miffed outburst startled a few of the others. Their exasperation stood equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses. When it came to her — this brazen, shrewd female lieutenant — the stagnant, usually composed first lieutenant was easy to set off, almost like flicking the top off a grenade. Scrap the usually when it came to the woman before him now.

Y/N merely scoffed, a few sputters of laughter hissing from the rifts of her lips, “Besides a loss of a lieutenant, what is it to you if something happened out there? You could give less than two fucks about me, Fick.” She peered at him with frustration radiating, aghast that he would reprimand her recklessness.

Nearly everyday did he let Death almost beat the shit out of him, and it was always her that had to save his ass and dispel its clasp. The one day she didn’t duck for cover, demand them to fallback, had a momentary lapse of judgement was the day she was endlessly ridiculed. Her hand twitched at her side as she anticipated a reaction — an excuse — from the crimson-cheeked man, an identical grimace scattering out from beneath both of their helmets.

She sobered her tongue to her cheek for the sake of hearing this argument through and through, savor in levity the first thing the blonde could spare from his humiliated ass,

“Maybe if you pulled your head out your ass, you’d realize that there are some people in this platoon that give a shit about whether or not you live or die.”

“Like who?” she beckoned in challenge, true to her haughty dispotion, and her chest mere inches from seething against his own now.

She could taste the poignancy of his despair that fragilized in his light blues, the acidity of his wrath, and the blazing of his anguish, yet shook her head despite it all gradually soaking into her chest, “Like who, Lieutenant Fick?”

He was a man that knew no fear until he met this woman. He had met every dread of his in her heedless behavior. Certainly, she tends to sprint into danger on more instances than he could count, but managed to extinguish every flame of danger that lurked as a menace to her each damn time. Numerous wondered, even him in some moments, where Y/N’s tenacity emanated from, yet it could never really be pinpointed. Yet, that was just another aspect of the cumbersome girl he had spent his army career attempting to unravel.

And Nate Fick is a gritty man. He has strived for a while to not get his feelings for her entangled in the requisite of war. Love doesn’t belong in a war, where there’s a constant dance with Satan that would desecrate anything as vulnerable as love. Yet, there it was, keen as ever despite the uncertainty of the next few minutes. He loved her like there wasn’t a war occurring.

“Like me,” he admitted with his mouth abandoning all moisture for an arid wasteland of desert like his surroundings.

His whole mewl of a rant moments prior had fucked things up for sure. Even as he was blustering and calling into question her competence, he was aware how he was stirring an unspoken pot of exasperation between them. But she had scared him that morning. And Nate Fick thought himself a fool whenever he fussed in fright over something — someone. But, as he flanked position in the aforementioned dogfight with his own men, his peripheral — keen as always — had caught her dropping to the ground after a deluge of bullets mangled the metal of the humvee she had tucked herself behind. He had been certain that he had just bystanded her death and nearly got himself shot in the abyss of numbness that bittered his nerves.

“Well, of course, because who else would you bitch to about every damn problem you have?” she eclipsed his concern and amused the response, “Anyone else would simply kiss your ass and agree with your complaints — you’d never get your desired response and then the cycle repeats itself. I may as well be your therapist!”

“Would you just shut up?!” Nate let her have it, tearing into her steadfast role of a bitter disputer, eyes temporarily locking with her own.

Any other soldier at the brunt of his outburst would flinch, unravel in whatever mock confidence they tossed between them at the start of the quarrel. She was a pistol of a woman, and there is everything right with that as could be for regard to her character. You fired at her, you could be damn certain you’d get fired at in return.

“Are you issuing an order to me, lieutenant?” She ventured a step between their already existing close proximity, “Someone of your own rank that you’re belittling on account of your questioning of my sanity? Well, let me deal you back a taste of your own medicine — I question you on your clear defiency to keep a cool head whenever something, involving me, occurs and you lose your temper! The line between your professional life and whatever personal thing you have festering in your mind is blurring, lieutenant. And I question if you can execute your rank’s duties appropriately...”

“You make it rather difficult to when you stick your ass in every dangerous situation that comes wandering your way,” he ruefully sighed, abating his zealous tone and plucking her elbow to shift them into a quieter corner away from probing eyes. And, much to his surprise, she permitted the abrupt veering off and the linger of his hand on the bend of her elbow.

“And why is it so difficult?” she aligned her tone with his own, still a searing and acrimonious murmur in the shaded corner.

Nate’s frustration tensed with a clench of his jaw, eyes drowning with something deviating between anger and lust — the latter glimmer being one she regarded before he was even genuinely aware it had erupted to the surface. And her heart fluttered.

“You know why,” he indifferently stated, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air.

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately as the words registered quicker than she would’ve preferred.

“Nate,” there was no agitation in her voice as if her heart beat so steadily now, the pistol-shot flare diminishing beneath a vulnerable facade. Certainly, she knew. She’d be daft to beat around the bush of his implications — the connotations of their intimate, clandestine relationship. “If the others — if our superiors — found out...”

“It’s been a year and they’re none the wiser,” Nate tread a few fingers through her messy, disheveled hair, her breathing almost instantaneously steadying with the slight yanks at the stray tufts of her ponytail brushing her neck. They rebounded to a silence with balanced inhales of arid desert air for a few moments, the din of adjacent soldiers in their makeshift tents curving around the flaps of the one they concealed behind. She glimpsed briefly through the heavy brush of her lashes, pressing a whisper of a kiss on his lips, lingering there with the ardor igniting her veins and no doubt his, defusing the ticking bomb of fury from minutes prior.

“Now, is there a reason why you’re blushing so profusely like that?” she mused with a curl of smirk in their departure from the kiss, her fingertips skimming the camoed cloth of the rear of his helmet while amused eyes adored the earnest crimson of his cheeks.

Nate chuckled with an eye roll spared for her radiating levity, his spur of mirth hindered by the dispute that anchored in the abyss of his stomach, “You could have died, you know.” He is vulnerable now, novel territory for Nate Fick to venture into, and he's found himself astray in the shallow waters of a defenseless position.

“You would’ve done the same,” she uttered through a throat she could’ve sworn was temporarily haboring jagged rock shards, “Besides, we both know that I’m not a damsel in distress needing you to swoop in as if you always need to do something to save me. I’m a damsel doing damage a majority of the time ‘round here.”

“Unfortunately,” Nate chuckled wryly, “And you leave it all to me to clean up.”

“It’s rather entertaining to watch — for everyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

[uhhhhyandere]

heheheehehehe 

no wedding yet. I really do be messing with the plot a lot, and making it when i shouldn’t but... i can’t help myself. ;p 

it’s totally true that light can be the sweetest person in order to convince anyone, and i exploit that like a bitch. as always, writing for fun, not perfection!! 

word count: 5.4k

 “I’ve been seeing you a lot more.” Rose mixed her drink with the spoon, but her eyes were happily trained on you. “It’s a good thing! Don’t get me wrong. You surprised me when you called to meet up. Usually, it’s me, then you say we’ll see, then you call me back later. It’s a nice change of pace when you call, but I know you’re busy with wedding planning and being happy.” You crossed your legs, slipping your hands under your thighs to warm them up from the ice of your own drink.  

“I think it’s probably because when the amount of stress in my life tripled is when I realized I need a break,” is what you said, and what Light told you to say if you were ever questioned on why you were suddenly so social after he allowed you the freedom to leave without permission. Perhaps he was finally tired of the calls throughout the day while he was working, or maybe there was a semblance of trust beginning to form. That, or he finally noticed that you were beginning to fester in the confines of your home and wants your spirit to lift once more, which is all the more amusing to you that he may think that would be feasible.

“Well, I don’t know how much I can do to help. I mean, I’m sure Light’s doing his part, right?” You laughed.

“Plenty.”

“Then, do you need anything at all? From me? Or mom?” As pins and needles in your hands began to spread, you removed them and stretched them out on top of your thighs.

“Can you tell me about your life?”

“Huh?”

“Your life. You know. Sato, your new apartment. Your sex life. I don’t care. Anything. Everything. I just need to look into someone’s life that isn’t my own,” because frankly, you were worried Light had something up his sleeve, and you knew, you knew, you would only bring yourself more misery if you drowned yourself in your thoughts. Your sister leaned back in the cushion and smiled to herself.

“Well, it was our three months last week. Nothing compared to you, but it was nice. I’ve never been the one for… commitment, really, but—I don’t know—seeing you and Light, it makes me think that ‘Yeah I want that,’ and it’s a nice change to hookups.” She cut herself off. Her eyes stuck on a crack in the wall below the window. With her lips parted, she sighed, and a sudden sadness fell onto her face. Her fingers played with the wood of the table for a few moments before she opened her mouth to speak again. “Sorry, I was just thinking about Oliver. Reminds me of him.”

“What does, specifically?”

“Commitment. He slept around so much in college, but, when he settled back in the US and met his partner, it was like he changed. That connection, he felt it immediately, and, right when he was brave enough to take the next step…” Rose wiped beneath her eyes, being careful to avoid the mascara on her bottom lashes. It seemed that her eyes were only watering though. “Well, you know.” Yes, you did. “I’m scared. What if I find that and then it’s just… taken away from me? It’s easy when there’s no feelings involved.” She shook her head and hid her mouth behind her hand. “Sorry. I’m supposed to be distracting you from the stress, but I’m just adding to it.”

You allowed the table to fall into silence. Every time you’ve seen Rose since Light gifted your freedom, there was a small, small voice in the back of your mind that told you to tell Rose the truth. Sometimes just parts of it, but you knew that you couldn’t unwrap a small piece without, over time, exposing it all. Even so, what harm could Rose really do with that information? She’s never ceased her devotion to Kira, and you remember it was a defining factor in Sato when she started talking to him. Would she see Kira different knowing he is not some omnipotent god descended from wherever to distribute justice on the human world? Losing her belief was too much of a risk in exchange for information she didn’t need to know.

Information she deserved to know.

“Double date.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you and Sato and me and Light just go for dinner or something? I don’t know him well, and it might be a good idea to try. I mean, when I get stuck up in the past, I try to appreciate the present by doing something. I think it’s what they all would want.” Lying comes too easy. Little did she know the dead you thought of most likely wanted you as dead as them, and, wherever Misa was, you were sure she wanted the same.

“They all?”

“Huh?”

“You said they all, as in plural.” You shook your head.

“Oh, yeah. Well, Light’s dad, coworkers he’s had who have passed, Oliver.” She folded her hands over mouth.

“I completely forgot. I—you’re right. We should set that up. Soon, and I mean soon. As in this weekend or the next? I know Light’s schedule is insane, and yours, too, with the wedding. Oh, and I’ll tell Sato that Light is okay with our beliefs, so there’s no issue there. You know, with Kira.” You shook your head.

“No, no, it’s fine. It was my idea. He makes his own schedule most of the time unless something particularly nasty comes up. I’m sure that he’ll be free. He tries for weekends off but… he’s a workaholic.” Rose laughed into the brim of her cup.

“Sounds like him. I’m sure Sato will be free too.”

“What does he do, if I may ask?”

“Oh, he’s a lawyer. He used to be a public defender, but now he’s moved to elder law since Kira first appeared.” She paused. “You know, I think that he could use it too. His stepbrother died a while back, and he looked up to him like they were blood brothers.” You nodded. “Speaking of which,” she raised her wrist, “I told Sato that I would meet him after his appointment to go to that—um—botanical garden, I think? I don’t know. I’m excited.” You watched her hurry to collect herself. “Are you coming?” You shook your head.

“No, I think I’ll stay for a bit,” you checked your own watch, “Light won’t be home for a little while anyway. You go have fun. Let this chained old hag stay here.” Rose scoffed.

“’Chained old hag’, my younger sister who is planning the best day of her life says. Call me when you talk to Light and we can set up that date. Bye! Love you!” By the time she was wishing you well, she was halfway towards the door. You smiled to yourself. No, you would keep her in blissful ignorance despite what she deserves. It only added to your list of shit deeds. Nothing new.

You dug into your back pocket and pulled out your cell phone you turned off for the duration of your coffee date and decided you would leave it that way. You could people-watch for the next half hour. Hell, you probably could for the next five hours and not even know. You could hardly remember the last time you had watched the passersby with no worries, or at least, with all of your worries suppressed to normalcy.

With each one that passed, you grew more and more envious. Though every person had problems, stressors, issues, you were sure that you would trade anything to have the struggles they are having, so blissfully unaware of the reality that is around them. How easy it was for them to simply perish from this world in forty seconds, and they didn’t even know. Too busy worrying about exams and deadlines to even care. You released a shaky breath and thought about how you would do anything to have calculus be your biggest problem.

Too little, too late. The time for self-pity has long passed. Still, you permitted yourself some time to wallow for the sake of “self-care.” To cry against the headrest of the coffee shop chair until it was three minutes passed the time you wanted to leave was a fine enough method. It gave you enough time to fix yourself so Light would never know the difference.

Though, he was nowhere to be found as you walked into your house. The only indication he was home was the muffled movement from the floor above. Before you moved to go up the stairs, the number of objects on your kitchen counter drew your attention. Multiple white binders with swatches of silk sticking out from the edges, different plastic flowers, multiple—.

“Oh my fucking god,” you muttered, dread dropping into your core like an anchor. You had a fucking meeting with your wedding planner today. You ripped your phone from your pocket a finally turned it on. Fifteen text messages. Eight calls. You were dead. You dropped the device onto the counter in order to cup your face with your hands and groan.

“Oh, nice of you to come home.”

“Light, I am—I don’t—I don’t know—.” He shushed you with an open palm. Your hands linked on the edge of the counter behind your back. Biting your lip, you kept your eyes on him, ready to take whatever he was planning to give. Light sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Stop looking at me like a wounded dog. I haven’t even said anything yet. When I allowed you your freedom, I didn’t mean to free your head from your brain either. I looked like a fool with her after calling you eight times. She asked me if everything was okay between us, if we were fighting. Do you know how annoying and more importantly embarrassing for me it was? Have you ever, for once, used your brain for anything outside of what is in front of you? Where were you, anyway? With your sister, again?” Light scoffed. “No wonder your head isn’t working as well as it used to.”

“Rose is not stupid.”

“She’s certainly not intelligent. Why have you sought her out so much, anyway? If there’s something wrong, you should be talking to me. She may be your sister, and she may think she knows what may be going on, but she never will. Rose can never bring you any comfort when she’s so in the dark. The only person who knows, who can bring you a semblance of peace, is me.” You clenched your teeth.

“Then why not tell her, then? Everything.” He scowled and a single brow rose in challenge. “She deserves to know at least how our brother and father died.” Your throat clenched, but you remained steadfast. They always say tears is how you convince someone of anything, but tears were only a sign of weakness to Light. He sighed, shoulders falling. Closing the space in between you, he brought his hand to delicately cup your jaw.

“The guilt is eating at you again. Y/N, if you decided to tell her that, you would need to tell her everything. You would risk losing all connection with her, just as your brother did when you told him.” He leaned in so his lips began to trail up your jaw, across your cheek, and towards your ear. “Not to mention the potential obstacle it could pose to me, and you know I don’t hesitate when it comes to anything that could stand in my way.” He placed a small kiss behind your ear. “Is that something you are willing to risk in order to alleviate your guilt? Is it really worth it?” His hand that was on your jaw traced up your cheek, fingernails lightly dragging across your skin. He tucked your hair behind your ear and moved his face, so he was looking directly into your eyes again. “I won’t waste my breath telling you what to do. By now, you should already know, which is why you have this freedom in the first place because you know better.” With a sigh, he retracted, leaving only his hand in your hair. “Still, should you decide to do something stupid, I won’t think twice before cleaning up your mess. Decide if you’re ready to go through that again.

He took his hand back and walked around to begin to stifle through the binders. Turning around, you helped him spread them all across the counter and the table.

“What did I miss?” Your voice was quiet, still nervous to tempt out a side of him you didn’t want to see. Light’s eyes jumped around the binders.

“You’re lucky we didn’t need to make any decisions today. I brought home everything. Color swatches, food options, flowers, music, venues, cake, everything,” You sighed. “Not to mention dresses.”

“Please don’t even mention it. I’ve always been more of a jumpsuit kind of person.” He met your eyes briefly. “I-I mean in general! No, I’ll be wearing the big, whitey giant. Just don’t even know where to start, and not just that, with everything. It’s so much. Do we even have a budget in mind yet?” He shook his head.

“Money shouldn’t be a problem.” You furrowed your brows, but he said it as easy as someone who was talking about the weather. “What? Don’t look so mystified. As long as we don’t decide to make this a royal wedding and invite the Queen, we don’t have any foreseeable problems.” In your time since you quit your job, you realized that you haven’t thought about money at all. It wasn’t really an issue that was… “in front of your face.” You scowled as Light’s statement replayed in your head. You used his card if you went anywhere or bought anything, and yet you haven’t even thought to check the bank statement.

By god, you were turning into a trophy wife. Maybe, if you knew what that really was. Whatever you were turning into, it didn’t settle right in your stomach.

“Then we should decide the vibe.”

“The… vibe,” he repeated skeptically.

“Yeah. Do we want it to be rustic, or classy and formal? Or modern? Minimalistic? Classic? I don’t know. Then we could decide colors to go along with the theme, and then flowers would follow. We work from the outside in. We just need to figure out the attendance before picking a venue. Then the date. Then—yikes, this is a lot.” You ran a hand through your hair. “Do you care?”

“What do you mean, ‘do I care?’”

“I mean, I don’t know. Sometimes guys are like ‘I don’t care,’ and—I don’t know I watch a lot of TLC and HGTV.” Light brought a hand to your waist and pulled you into his side. He rolled his head in your direction.

“Do you really think I am anything like those guys on TV?” You pushed his head away.

“Yeah, sorry. Stupid question. So, what about—.”

“Formal.”

“Huh?”

“The ‘vibe.’ Formal.” His fingers drummed against your hip. You shouldn’t be too surprised he would want it to be professional and classy given he’s been dressing for his job since high school. Though, if you wanted to pose an argument, could you? Not that you minded the formal idea, but maybe your freedom has given you some of your courage back to test your limits.

“What about rustic? Like country-side.”

“You expect me to be married in a barn?”

“Rustic does not mean getting married in a barn,” you laughed. “It’s what I’ve always imagined my wedding would look like. Maybe a sunflower field or horses. Outside under a huge oak tree on a summer day.” A smile grew on your face picturing it, but as Light remained silent, it fell into a pensive frown. Your brother would have walked you up the aisle. “Though, I guess nothing has really turned out as I’ve imagined.” Whatever moment of courage flared in you moments before died. “Formal is fine. Then the colors should coincide.”

“Gold and black.” You grinned quietly.

“Yeah, that’s—um—on theme. It’s-it’s good. I’m going to go get a pen and paper to write this all down. I think there are notebooks in the drawer in the closet.” You tore away from his side and sped to the closet. Shutting the door behind you, you released your wet and shaking breaths in the darkness of the small space. Warm tears spilled down your cheeks, and you laughed because you had no idea why you were even crying. Still, you wrapped your arms around yourself and silently squeezed your eyes shut to push them all out. The door opened behind you, flooding the closet with light. “I’m sorry. I s-swear I’m not crying. I’m not I’m—.”

Arms wrapped around your own. Gently, he guided you to move them to allow his own to take their place. He nudges his head to slot between your neck and shoulder, but he, for once, does not say anything. He need not to. This was to comfort you, sure, but you knew better to think it was a sign of care. He had to do this. To be his true, ugly self all the time would simply eradicate the pretty picture he paints that distracts you from reality. Light had to convince you that there was something there that was not twisted, raw possession. Maybe there was a time it would have genuinely worked too, but the time has long passed. All there was left to do was believe in the known lie that this was love.

And that went both ways. What you felt towards him… you called it love, but even that would be too simple. Fear. Hate. Loneliness. Were they parts of love as well? If so, then maybe love was the right word. It had to be. You couldn’t be marrying a man you hated, that you feared. You had to love him. That was the only… it was the truth. All those years, you did. You’ve loved him all this time. It was the truth.  You loved him. You would pledge the rest of your life to him. That was the truth. It was. It was it was it was it was it was it was it was—.

“I love you, Light.” A kiss to your neck was your only answer.  

  No more planning was done that day. Once your tears dried, Light led you to the bathroom upstairs by hand in silence. You followed his footsteps as he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and stepped back into the space of the bedroom. Your eyes followed his form as he opened the drawer in the dresser and placed yours and his pajamas on top. He changed himself first, unbothered by your shameless staring. Then, he turned to you.

With unmatched gentility, he gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly brought it up to your abdomen. You rose your arms to help him disrobe it. He walked around you and unsnapped your bra, throwing it alongside your shirt. Back in your view, Light motioned for you to raise your arms, and he slid your long pajama shirt down your body. Before moving to your lower body, you stepped back and discarded them yourselves and put on your own bottoms. There was a small smile on Light’s face as you turned back to him.

Despite it being the early evening, you both settled in next to each other on the bed. Light reached for the remote and began playing a movie you both had already saw from a time far different. You did not question a single thing as you nuzzled into his embrace. The warmth of his body was no lie even if the lips that sought yours were. The kisses were long. They were short. They were deep. They were shallow. They were consuming. They were fluttering. They were right. With his hand behind your head, Light devoured you, but he did no more. He did not move to your neck. His hands did not deviate below your shoulders. His show was… real. It was. When he would push far, he would filter back to shallow. When his teeth nipped too hard, his tongue would follow to soothe the pain. It was all him. His taste. His scent.  

He did not do this to Misa, to Takada. This was for you. You were his. No one else could have ever said so and told the truth. You smiled into the next kiss, turning your head to take him deeper. For all the fighting, the confidence those women had that he was theirs, and where are they now? Where has their confidence gotten them? Burned. Removed. Gone, yet here you were, alive. In a game you never wanted to play but was the front runner, you won. They got themselves killed or wherever they are. It was the truth. It was. Lips parting from his for air, you let yourself immerse into the brown of his eyes. Chests rising and falling together, breaths intermingled, this was right. It was. This was the God of the New World, and this was Light Yagami.

It was. 

“Gold and black,” you said. “With hints of purple.”

  “A double date?” You stared up at him the next morning, head nestled into the cusp of his arm and shoulder. “With your sister and her boyfriend?” You nodded.

“Impulsive idea, but it’ll look good when she tells my cousins and everyone. PR, you know? Not that you don’t already have a lot with my family who hasn’t even met you, but she talks to them a lot. Might help the day of. Might not, but… I would appreciate it. Her boyfriend is a lawyer.”

“Oh?” You nodded.

“His step-brother was too, but he died. We think. He’s missing, but he thinks that he’s dead. Well, that’s what Rose told me, anyway.” You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt that lied over his chest.

“What is his name?”

“Sato.” When you look back up again, Light was hyper-focused on the ceiling. “Do you know him?” He scoffed, moving his hand that was near your back to come forth and flick you in the forehead. You lost your head cushion in the process as he moves to get up. “She wants to set it up this or next weekend, if you’re free.” Light’s muscles flex as he stretches.

“Saturday is fine.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll call Rose, then.”

  The restaurant was one you had heard of many times but haven’t had the chance to go to yet. It was a more casual setting, but it was packed. However, Light used his magic to get a booth in the far corner. You slid next to him. “I don’t know how you do this.”

“When will they be here? I don’t like to wait for people.” Thoughts of your forgotten wedding planning appointment sail through your mind.

“Rose is always late, but she’ll show.” Light hummed in response and pulled at his jacket sleeves. It was only five minutes before you saw your sister happily heading towards your table, a stressed man of her age following behind. You and Light rose to greet her with a hug that you knew Light hated.

“Hi, Y/N. Light! It’s been so long. How are you?”

“I’m alright. How are you?”

“Amazing. Anyway, Y/N, Light, this is Sato.” You did a double-take at Light’s expression but shook it off as you greeted him. “I’ve told him a lot so, don’t be surprised of how much he knows of you two.”

“All good things,” Sato reassured. The four of you sat at the booth, and the waiter was immediately present to ask for drinks. “Though, it is great to meet the brilliant Light Yagami. Your work on that missing persons case was astounding. Who would have thought to connect the sister to the missing luggage and the misplaced car? I read over the case file.” Light smiled and laughed.

“Thank you. I try not to talk too much work outside of it, but that was a nasty case.” Rose groaned.

“We get it. You’re smart, Light. We know.” The waiter returned briefly with the beverages. “You’re lucky that you’re nice, or else I would have beat you up in college.”

“College?”

“Light, Y/N, and I are all alumni of To-Oh, though they’re both a few years younger than me.” Sato looked impressed at the three of you. “It’s where their love blossomed.” You shook your head and hid your face behind your sleeve. “Don’t get embarrassed, Y/N! It’s true. Anyway, Light, what are you up to these days anyway? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Wedding planning. Work. Nothing unusual, except maybe the wedding planning. That’s not really usual, is it?” Light laughed. Silence followed as you all scrutinized the menu. Light leaned over to you. “Do you want to split this?” Your normal answer would be absolutely not, but the gleam in his eye was unmistakable. Without even looking at the menu item, you nodded. “Alright.” The waiter returned to take the orders before leaving once again. “So, you’re a lawyer?”

“Yes! I used to be a criminal lawyer and did public defense here and there, but I’ve moved to elder law. A lot less stressful for the most part.” Your fiancé leaned forward, placing his chin in his palm.

“I see. Why the switch, if I may ask?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal. Criminals are dealt with without much help from lawyers. There’s a bigger force than judges and courts casting justice. Staying in the business is just financial suicide, especially with crime down the way it is.” Sato’s face fell. “My step-brother too. He was a criminal lawyer, but he disappeared a while ago. He was my biggest influence growing up. Couldn’t get a case without it reminding me of him, so I switched as well.” Light’s eyes did not move from his own.

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry. I lost my father as well, and Y/N and Rose lost their brother, but that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? The dead wouldn’t want us to cease our lives because of them. I know my father wouldn’t, at least.” Sato nodded.

“Same for Mikami.”

…What?

Light leaned back in the booth. It was nothing to Rose and Sato, but to you, it said mission accomplished. He crossed his arms and gave you only a second-long glance before focusing back on the company. You, though, you were choking on air and frozen to your seat. Though you’ve never met Mikami, having only seen him outside of the warehouse that… day, Light told you about him, and about he was almost the reason for his death should your father and you not been involved.

“…Y/N. Y/N!” Rose’s shrill voice cut you from your thoughts. “Thought we lost you there. Something on your mind?” You shook your head and laughed nervously. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you dared not look at Light.

“No, sorry. Wedding things. What were we talking about?”

“I was talking about my step-brother and Light’s dad. Both of them were men of justice. I could see where you get your motivation and talent from then. Having your father as chief of police must have been a strong pull in the criminal justice path.”

“And your brother. He sounded like a good man.” Sato shrugged, scratching his nose with the crook of his finger.

“Yes, he was. He’s one of the main reasons I believe in what I believe in today. He loved Kira. Worshipped him, and when he died, I started to think the same. There was foul play in my brother’s disappearance, and I just hope that Kira has brought them to justice.” Your fists clenched under the table. Light placed a soft hand on your shaking fist and tightened his grip as you refused to loosen yours. “There’s simply no evidence. He was doing nothing different. Acting the same. Then one day he moved plans because he had somewhere he had to be. Then he was just gone.”  Light’s hand was at the point of hurting your own, so you finally loosened your fist. He still did not let go.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Sato.”

“Has it crossed your desk, Light?” Rose asked. “Sorry. You’re with the NPA, so I thought maybe you would have seen it.” Light shook his head.

“When was this again?”

“January. A little more than a year ago.”

“It must have been around the time… something happened.” Oh, around the time you watched his brother and all your ‘friends’ die? Light must have sensed your discomfort and moved his hand from yours to grasp your thigh and rub back and forth. “It was a rough patch for me. I took off a lot of time then.”

“Oh, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I remember I didn’t see either of you until the funeral, and even after…”

“Please, forget we said anything.” Sato finished for her. Light smiled and waved him off with his free hand.  

“It’s fine. You didn’t know. Still, I can look into your brother and see what I can pull. If I can help you find closure, then I’ll do my best.” With an earnest voice and an award-winning smile, he even had this man he just met looking at him like he had a halo and wings.

“I… really appreciate it. I can’t believe you’re actually as nice as they say. You know, sometimes highly accredited detectives can be… dicks. Thank you,” Sato’s gaze turned to you, “and congratulations to you both! I forgot to say before.” You grinned politely but could not speak.

“Ah, thank you. We’re still in early planning process, but we’re getting there.” He nudged you with his shoulder, and once again you grinned politely. “Anyway, how did you two meet? I hate to just talk about ourselves, though I can go on forever…”

You hardly spoke through the dinner, only responding when you were directly addressed. It was a good thing Light and you split a meal, as you couldn’t stomach more than a few bites. Light would squeeze your thigh when you had to respond. For the rest of the time, you were zoned out, focused on the cracks in the table, the movement of the servers, and anything else but the interaction between Light and everyone’s brother’s murderer. When it was getting too obvious your attention was purposely away from the table, you played with Light’s fingers that were on your thigh until Light offered to handle the bill and you were on your feet wishing your goodbyes.

“Are you okay?” Rose whispered as you hugged. Wordlessly, you nodded. “How are you, really?” You sighed.

“I’m fine. I promise.” You glanced to her boyfriend and your fiancé who both waited for the two of you. “Light will take care of me. Don’t worry.” Reluctant, she nodded and followed the men outside of the restaurant where you went your separate ways. You watched Rose lean happily into Sato, hands interlocked, while Light had a simple hand on your hip with his back poised and straight.

“You knew.”

“Of course, I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You found out, didn’t you?” You exhaled through your nose.

“Was it because of what I said? About telling her?” Light did not respond. Parting from you and entering the driver’s seat, he did not regard you until he put the car into drive.

“Telling her was out of the question in the first place. The rest was a problem that solved itself. You know now, at least, of what would happen the moment you tell her a single thing. Risking her happiness, her and his life.”

“But not mine.” It slipped before you could even think about the words you just said. Light pondered them, eyes narrowing in thought as he weaved through traffic.

“But not yours. Never yours.” You did not know whether his words were the truth or more pretty lies, but you opted for the former. It brought you comfort, after all. 

“Do you like the idea of dark flowers with gold details?”