#and the steps to reach that life are intense and difficult and im not sure if im ready for them but i want them anyway and i need them

[daphuu]

Little self-update (and rambles) in tags 👀

>:33

[ttttaehyungie]

sincerely, but no longer yours | chapter 5

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sincerely, but no longer yours | ex!kim namjoon x reader

genre | angst, smut, exes au

summary | It started as a coping mechanism as getting the words out provided a form of catharsis. But now you can’t stop writing these love letters, even with the knowledge that they’ll never get sent. After all, who writes love letters to their ex?

word count | 5.2k

chapter rating | 18+

warnings | angst, smut (but it’s angsty smut lksjdflk help), nipple play, dry humping, alcohol consumption, someee intense jealousy

a/n | FIRST OF ALL im so sorry this is so incredibly late lskjdflkjs life has been extremely busy for me 😪 but it’s here!!!! thank you to everybuddy who’s been waiting patiently for this 🤧🤧 but i think this is one of the most angsty chapters of the series soooo 🙃

Namjoon’s an expert at avoiding uncomfortable topics, even if they’re massively serious. It’s something you absolutely hated and it was the cause of many arguments in your previous relationship, and perhaps was even the ultimate cause of your breakup.

But right now, you’re really beginning to understand the appeal.

The first time he swung by the museum for lunch after his birthday celebration - a paper bag in hand filled with bagels still warm and toasty from the store on the corner that you adore - you were caught entirely off guard.

Your mind jumps to the unread messages sitting in your texts and you regret ignoring them. Not because the guilt had hit you, but because maybe if you had been contactable, you would have received a heads-up that he was coming by.

Some might call it selfish, but you prefer to call it self-preservation.

To be fair, it’s not like you were going to leave them unanswered forever. You just needed space to collect your thoughts and make sense of your confusing emotions first, lest you begin the conversation prematurely and drag Namjoon down into the dizzying depths of your current state. As it is right now, your thoughts are like nodes floating in a decontextualized void, the web still unformed because you haven���t had the time to grapple with everything yet.

But here he is, inspecting the cross-section of each bagel Soo-eun pulls out of the bag, trying to identify which is which. Yeri’s at his side, gushing about how great the bagels from this place are. The three of them are crowded around the paper bag that sits on the wooden bench, the paint peeling from the way it’s been bleached by the sun in the museum’s outdoor area. Here he is at your workplace. With your friends. You can’t ignore him now, not without rousing your friends’ suspicion.

But what you can ignore is the issue.

It’s not the time nor the place to talk about this anyway. The atmosphere is warm and light, carrying traces of last night’s celebratory mood. The lunch treat is Namjoon’s way of appreciating the surprise you guys organized for him last night. And there’s a bagel stuffed full of salty sweet ham and sticky melty cheese waiting for you to sink your teeth into. Really not the time for serious conversations at all.

So when Namjoon’s eyes search yours, all wide and probing, as you step in to grab your share, you simply smile and thank him, before slinking away to join Soo-eun on the next bench. Not too far - barely five steps away - but far enough that it gives you space to breathe. Even if Namjoon notices your attempts at escaping, he doesn’t have time to call you out on it. Not when you slyly shoot Yeri a wink. Seamlessly, she catches the cue and sits herself down on the bench, tugging at his arm. For once, you welcome Yeri flirting with Namjoon.

“Let’s eat! I’m starving,” she says.

You don’t miss the way Namjoon’s gaze flickers between you and Yeri, but you ignore it and take a generous bite of the bagel in your hands.

“Mm, so good,” you say, and turn to Soo-eun. “Don’t you miss the days before this place got really popular?”

“No, because you and Yeri insisted on going there every day. I can only ingest so many bagels a week.”

“____ hasn’t changed one bit.” Namjoon chuckles. “This time in middle school, she ate tater tots every single day for three weeks straight. She had to be banned for a week.”

“Are you weaponizing my middle school past against me?” you ask amidst your friends’ laughter. “Too bad. I don’t regret it for a second. Tater tots are too delicious to regret.”

Lunch falls back into the easy rhythm of lighthearted jibes, the kitchen debacle receding for now.

Procrastination is a real bitch of a habit to kick. As soon as one reason to put it off expires, your brain churns out another two in its place like a modern-day Hydra.

As for Namjoon? Well, you’re not surprised when he makes no moves to initiate the difficult conversation. After all, you’re adopting his bad habit.

Eventually it gets to the point where you might as well not talk about it at all. Everything’s going fine so far without it. Or as fine as it can be with this beast looming in the backdrop.

You know you need to just get this damn conversation over with. But you can’t. Not till you figure out what exactly is going on with your emotions. Without it, there’s no way you can cauterize the wounds and invalidate your excuses for what they are -- excuses.

It’s not that you haven’t tried. But it’s presenting itself as a real Herculean effort. Mulling it over has you tossing and turning in bed, only leaving you with a headache and a steadily growing desperation. It’s desperation enough that you leave the comfortable warmth of your bed to sit at your desk, shivering as you pen the familiar words once again.

Dear Namjoon,

The words flow in their usual, unrestricted manner. Before, it had been like a dam breaking, the tight restraint that was normally kept on your emotions finally released and the wave of emotions gushing out till it reached a peaceful equilibrium. But now, your emotions are just a whirlpool and your words you pen mimic its spiralling, chasing your thoughts in endless loops.

You’re not over him. But so what? It’s not like getting together is an option. Not when he hasn’t grown out of one of the major things that caused the end of your previous relationship. And not when you haven’t even talked that out, if you ever will.

So what can you do now? Kicking him out of your life will mean having to deal with the loss that his absence will bring again. Going back to pretending the other doesn’t exist will mean dancing around each other again every time you bump into each other in this too small city. And with the way your social circles are intertwined now, that would mean a bunch of explaining to do.

But having him close yet holding him at arm’s length? Walking the narrow margin that is being friends with your ex? A misstep in either direction would be torturous but inevitable - too close and it’s alarming, but too far and it’s a painful reminder that he’s not yours.

Far from the illuminating effect you were hoping it would have, your letter to Namjoon only leaves you deeper in confusion. You throw your pen down. Giving up, you fold the paper up. Sealing the letter in an envelope doesn’t bring the same sense of relief it did before. The Hydra remains unslain.

And so the problem gets shoved away - the same treatment the letter gets as it’s roughly tossed into the desk drawer - into the same corner of the recesses of your mind that your breakup resides in.

You know that Namjoon’s confused. Heck, you are too. It’s a strange dance the two of you are involved in, caught between the compulsion to continue yet knowing the risks it bears. Neither of you are bold enough to take the lead. And so this strange stasis drags on as it has for weeks now.

It’s as if the kiss unearthed something in him. Actually no, it’s unearthed something in both of you. And the tension - the fucking tension - is unreal. The tells are so obvious that you wonder how neither Yeri nor Soo-eun have said anything about it yet. There’s certainly no subtlety in the way his eyes linger on your lips in the middle of conversations that you wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it.

And when it’s just the two of you? It’s infinitely worse.

It’s hard to blame him. Touch has always been your love language and Namjoon knows it. Physical touch wasn’t just a thing of your previous two-year relationship. It was a thing of your decades of friendship too, the little touches so casual and almost subconscious. Rekindling your friendship without them had taken intentional effort.

You’re not sure who started it. Maybe both of you just fell back into it, the casual little touches slipping their way back in. But what’s not casual at all is the way your heartbeat goes erratic at the most simple of gestures. The way he blithely sweeps the crumbs from your lunch off your lap. The slightly too long side-hug he holds you in, the warmth of his arm around you permeating through the layers you wear and has you simultaneously freezing up while also turning your insides to goo. But it isn’t overtly romantic either.

At least, that’s the excuse you give yourself when the comfort of his touch gets too tempting and you end up succumbing to it. The familiarity of it all makes you feel like you’ve finally arrived home. As if you’ve been on this long, arduous journey and you’re finally here. You get to drop the heavy backpack and rest now.

But the voice of rationality in you tells you this wrong wrong wrong. You’ve got to get out of here.

And that’s how you end up here. White-knuckled grip tight on the edges of the sink as you stare yourself dead in the eyes in the bathroom mirror. The music outside thumps away albeit muted through the door to the ladies’. But the way your heart thumps has nothing to do with that.

Even without shifting your gaze, you can tell that your cheeks are slightly reddened and warm. You can feel it tingling. No, you don’t shift your gaze. It stays fixed on the intense stare that your reflection throws back at you like a challenge, the ferocity of it enhanced by the sharp eyeliner you’re wearing tonight, an uncharacteristic look for you.

Heck, this whole night is uncharacteristic.

You could take the easy route and blame it on Yeri. God knows she can be real persuasive - it’s why she’s excellent at her job. So getting you all out to the club on a Friday night to celebrate nothing other than the simple joy that - c’mon guys, we’re all young and alive and free and tell me that’s not worth celebrating and I’ll fucking fistfight you right here and now even with my freshly manicured nails - is no feat for her.

Still, no one really expected your simple reply, tone nonchalant and eyes still glued to your work screen, “Yeah, I could use a night out.”

Soo-eun had remained silent but you could feel her stiffen slightly beside you. Yeri had been surprised too but more elated that she didn’t have to get through your usual ten solid minutes of whining and half-baked attempts at slithering your way out of it.

But back to the present. Your bodycon dress - one of the rare pieces that survived not just your college partying days but also the wardrobe purge that occurred when you had to downsize everything to fit into the tiny apartment that’s quintessential to city-living - expands with your chest as you take a deep breath. Gripping the hem where it sits mid-thigh, you yank it down slightly. It’s been a while since you’ve worn this dress. And while the younger, more risque version of you that was your college self had been enthralled by the daringness of the dress, your current self has to dig deep to muster up that same boldness.

Relenting as you realize that this is the limit to how much you can stretch the length of your dress, you let go and your fingertips unintentionally brush your thigh as it falls back to your side. It elicits a shudder, the sensation of your own fingers too close to the electrifying feeling of someone’s thumb skimming across it. It was electrifying enough that your brain finally powered up again, voice of rationality sending you skedaddling away, out of reach of his touch, and pathetically seeking refuge in the washroom.

You roll your shoulders back and shake your head, dispelling the thoughts. Standing upright, you look yourself in the eye again. You can do this. You’re going to go out there, and you’re going to have a good time with your friends. You’re going to have a good time with Namjoon. With a nod of affirmation, you turn and saunter your way back to the club with a confidence that has your chin firmly tipped upwards.

You push the door open and look for your friends. The sight that greets you immediately punctures your confidence and your steady posture falls limp.

It’s hard to miss her silvery dress - the dress you knew she would wear and the dress that your very own was meant to counter. It catches the light and grabs attention. And at this moment, it grabs your attention so you can witness Yeri standing between Namjoon’s manspread thighs as he’s perched on the barstool, her hands all over him.

Whatever puffed up confidence you’d had is knocked out of you with that sucker punch of a sight. You turn away, needing to look anywhere but at them.

And that’s when your line of sight falls on a curly-haired man, oddly familiar, and apparently someone you know since he’s waving to you.

“____, hey!” he yells over the music.

“Dong-In?”

He nods and smiles at you. “It’s been a while.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “I was supposed to get back to you on brunch, wasn’t I?” Damn. You’ve been so wrapped up with Namjoon that you totally forgot about Dong-In. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been really caught up with things.”

“It’s no biggie.” He shrugs boyishly. “The exhibition, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sure, the exhibition. Let’s go with that.

“And nothing to do with…” he directs his gaze - and yours along with it - to none other than Namjoon who’s now drinking with Yeri.

Your gaze snaps back to Dong-In and his cheshire grin.

“Nah,” you feign a laugh. “He’s just a friend.”

“The hand he had on you sure didn’t look like just friends.”

“I said we’re just friends,” you snap, then gasp, taken aback by your own outburst. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I should be the one apologizing. I hit a nerve there, didn’t I. D’you wanna talk about it?” His voice is warm and mellow and oh so inviting. And you very nearly give in.

But you can’t pull him into your problems. It’s not his burden to bear.

“Not really. But thanks, Dong-In.”

“That’s cool.” He nods, and relief fills you. This is what you’ve always liked about Dong-In. He’s chill. “Well since we’re here, wanna get buzzed?”

You laugh. “I won’t say no to that.”

The bar isn’t too far from where you are, and it doesn’t take long before the burn of alcohol is sliding down your throat. Picking up the conversation again, you have to admit, you’d forgotten how easy it is to talk to Dong-In. He’s got that effortless charisma and an easy sense of humor that you can vibe with. Things are simple with him. There’s no line to be tiptoed. Flirting - now that you’re no longer obtuse and you’re finally aware that he is indeed flirting with you - isn’t accompanied by guilt or fear.

And after weeks of this complicated situation with Namjoon, simplicity is what you crave.

“Hey, do you wanna dance?” you ask suddenly. Surprise colors his features for a moment but he laughs it off.

“Is the conversation boring you? You could have just told me to shut up if you wanted me to,” he jokes.

“No!” You laugh. “There’s just a good beat going and-”

“I’m just kidding. I’d love to.” He smiles and grabs your hand.

The two of you weave your way through the mass of gyrating bodies. Lightly buzzed, the fog and the strobe lights blurring everything around you other than your dance partner, you finally find the courage you’ve been searching for this whole time. Dong-In hasn’t been very subtle about checking you out all night, and it gives you that extra boost of confidence that’s finally quelled the antsy thoughts and calmed the fidgety adjustments to your dress’s hemline.

So when his hands find your waist, you step in a little closer and run your hands through your hair, shaking it out and finally letting loose as your hips rock to the pounding beat. Dancing with Dong-In is much like conversing with him- easy and simple fun with just the slightest tinge of excitement. As your hips sway together in languid synchrony, you catch a whiff of the slightly intoxicating combination of his cologne and the undertones of his own natural scent. You give in to the giddying sensation of his hands running lightly over your body and press in closer, eyes fluttering shut, and just feeling. It’s thrilling. It’s risque. It’s-

A solid grip on your wrist yanks you forward and stumbling into a hard chest.

His voice is gruff as he bites out his words, “Get your hands off her.”

“Namjoon?” you gape.

“We’re leaving.” His eyes fix on yours, steely and piercing. A shiver runs down your spine - in all your years of knowing him, you’ve never seen him like this. He tugs on your wrist once more. “Now.”

Dazed by this brand new persona, you don’t even get to say goodbye to Dong-In, just pulled along by the force that is a quietly fuming Namjoon. Everything happens so quickly that it’s all a blur until you’re in the Uber with him, silently clutching onto your purse as an anchor in this sudden whirlwind of events. The anger emanates off of him even in the dimly lit backseat.

“What the fuck?” you whisper, but the shock diminishes the level of conviction in your voice.

He turns to you, the same hardness still in his gaze. “I should be the one asking that.”

“What?!” you snap. In your peripheral vision, you see the Uber driver jump slightly. Lowering your tone, you hiss, “What gives you the right?”

“What gives me the right?” he echoes incredulously, scoffing and turning away from you to face forward instead as he rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous.”

The car slows to a stop and you recognize your apartment building. You scramble to get away from him. But it seems your confrontation is far from over. Namjoon unbuckles his own seatbelt to follow you.

Terse silence sits between you, the aggravated stomping of your feet as you climb the stairs the only thing that fills the sound.

You turn sharply round the corner, stalking off to your apartment door. “You don’t have to escort me y’know, I’m perfectly capable of getting home by myself.”

“Really?” He folds his arms and leans on the wall next to your door. “It’s hard to trust you when you go off getting drunk and throwing yourself at a random stranger in the club.”

“Is that what the problem is?” You finally ram the key in, and the click as it unlocks is as harsh as your tone. “Sorry to break it to you, but I have a life apart from you. He’s no stranger. His name is Dong-In, he’s Yeri’s friend, and he’s a great guy.”

You shove the door open. Your heels get kicked off and left haphazardly at the entryway, shoe cabinet ignored.

“Wow, some great guy he is,” Namjoon slams the door shut and his shoes get discarded off his feet in the same fashion, “drunkenly feeling you up in a club.”

“Fuck!” You turn, wringing your hands in your hair. Your glares rival each other. “You say it as if I was strung along by him. Well I wasn’t. I initiated it.”

His glare flickers for a moment. He stays silent.

“Just admit that you’re jealous,” you whisper. You unsling your purse and dump it on top of the shoe cabinet, never breaking eye contact.

“Fine.” Namjoon’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I am.”

He skulks forward and traps you between him and the cabinet, gaze holding yours. Namjoon’s always towered over you, but at the moment it isn’t his height that makes you feel tiny.

“Watching his hands all over you like this,” Namjoon’s hands slowly skim the back of your thighs and up your sides and you bite back a whimper, “makes me jealous.”

“And watching you respond like this?” He continues as a firm hand presses the small of your back to close the gap between your torsos. “Glued to him like this? It makes me jealous.”

“You don’t own me,” you whisper but it only elicits a sardonic laugh from him.

“You say that, but you know damn well that’s not the truth. Tell me. Are you jealous?”

“What would I-”

“Yeri.” Damn. Straight through the bullshit. With an eyebrow cocked, it’s obvious he knows the answer and he’s not budging, not even an inch.

“Yes,” you admit quietly. “I’m jealous.”

“Silly girl.” He traces the hemline of your dress. “I only want you.”

A soft keening noise spills out of you. “I’m so sick of holding back.” You tug on his dress shirt, and the feel of his plush lips finally, finally meeting yours snips the final frayed cords of self-restraint you possessed.

Namjoon is quick to reciprocate, and you moan as his tongue licks at your bottom lip. Hooking your arms around his neck, you pull him closer, needing nothing else but to have him close after all this time of distance. He hoists you up, and your legs circle his waist to aid him. The world around you sets into motion as he walks you to your bed, and you anchor yourself by pressing kisses to his neck.

With how tiny your apartment is, it takes no time for him to carry you from the entryway to your bedroom. The cool sensation of your unmade sheets envelops you as he lowers you down onto the bed. He barely gets a moment to appreciate the sight of you, hair mussed and lipstick smudged, lounging on the bed and waiting for him. Desperate for his touch and running out of patience, you gesture to the zip on the side of your dress. Hurrying, he pulls the zipper down as you tug your arms out of the thin straps of the garment. You sit up and let the torso of the dress fall to bunch up at your waist, revealing your bare chest to him.

The quiet gasp that escapes him as he beholds you is infinitely flattering. It’s but a momentary pause. He dives forward into action again. An arm looped around your back to support you as your chest arches upwards, he crouches over you to take one perked-up tit into the heat of his mouth, his free hand coming up to toy with the other. His tongue laves over your nipple in a slippery flick. The other gets pinched and rolled, leaving you gasping at the delicious sensations.

“Namjoon,” you moan out breathily, and it only eggs him on. You whimper as he begins sucking on the bud and wetness pools between your thighs. Your fingernails rake down his back, muted through the layer of his dress shirt.

“M-more,” you plead. He releases your breast and moves his mouth upwards, trailing gentle pecks till he kisses along the length of your collarbone.

“Come here,” he commands, his words breathy and hot as they puff against the thin skin of your clavicle. He scoots back to lean against the headboard, and you follow hastily.

You clamber on top of him, knees bent and straddling his lap as he helps you hike the skirt of your dress up. But before you seat yourself atop the prominent bulge in the lightwash denim of his jeans, he holds you still with a firm grasp on your hip.

His thumb trails the lace detail of your panties, the patterns snaking across your hip bone, baby pink like your dress.

“Gorgeous,” he mumbles. His fingers wander to your clothed core, the material slightly sheer from the damp spot of your arousal. He strokes it tenderly with the pad of his finger, so light that it has you quivering as you hover above him.

His fingernail grazes your slit through the wet material and a gasp catches in your throat. You clench around nothing as carnal desire throbs through your core.

“Namjoon, please,” you whine.

Finally, he gives in to you and pulls you down. Your laced core meets his rough denim-clad one. The stiff material of his jeans pokes through the delicate fabric of your underwear, the friction rough as he drags you over his clothed bulge. The burn is delicious. His hands on you set a slow but steady rhythm that you follow easily, canting your hips in time. It’s enrapturing to watch the way you grind on one another, your clit rubbing up on the apex of his bulge in mutual pleasure.

A finger tips your chin up from the sight you were fixated on.

“Eyes on me.”

It’s difficult. Pleasure has your eyes drooping shut. But the intensity of his gaze compellingly holds yours and you manage, even if barely. His expression is stoic, and it’s only the twitch of his dick that betrays how affected he is. You, on the other hand, are completely abandoned to pleasure. Hands scrabbling across his upper back and up until they settle themselves as fists gripping tufts of his hair, teeth clamped on your bottom lip as moans spill out of you at increasing frequency as your pleasure climbs and climbs and climbs until-

Burrowing your face into the side of his neck, you pant as you cross the peak. Hips now stilled, your climax has you throbbing against his hardened member. You cling onto him with your arms around his neck as you free-fall in the subsiding pleasure. Bare chest brushing against the smooth material of his dress shirt, you catch your breath and yield to the moment.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit.” Louder this time. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The regret in his words yank you out of the heady fog of lust. There’s no time to bask in the afterglow. Reality comes crashing down hard and mercilessly.

Suddenly, you feel so small and so exposed. You read his regret as rejection. Your nudity and previous salacious actions make you feel stupid.

Namjoon attempts to extricate your arms from around him, but shame has you clutching to him tighter, hiding your face in his neck. You can still feel him under you, but it’s now an uncomfortable reminder of the act you just committed.

“Hey,” his voice is gentle now, pleading, “look at me? Please?”

You refuse. It’s impossible to look him in the eye right now.

“Fuck.” Even whispered, the panic laced in his tone is blatant. Gently, he maneuvers both of you to turn over. Feeling the mattress underneath you as you’re laid on your back, you release your hold on him and swiftly turn and tug your blanket up to hide away from him.

“____.” He tries. You grip the sheets even tighter as you feel him trying to pull it away from your face. “Please.”

Embarrassment. Guilt. Mortification. They overtake you and you curl in on yourself. You just want to disappear.

“____,” he tries again, hand stroking your head. But you don’t allow yourself to succumb to its comfort. “Talk to me. Please.”

Oh, now he wants to talk.

Why couldn’t you have just talked things out earlier? Why only now when things have fallen apart? Why now when you’ve just done something so stupid and so reckless?

Why now when it’s too late? What can talking possibly do to fix this now?

His pleas are met with silence.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” he says resignedly.

More silence. He sighs. You feel the mattress shift as he gets up. From where you’re still hiding in the stuffy darkness underneath your blanket, you hear his footsteps return and the muted thud of the glass getting placed on your bedside table.

The silence returns, but you can feel his presence. You imagine he’s staring at your blanket lump on the bed.

Finally, the heavy quietness is broken with a deep breath, and you hear him say softly, “Get a good night’s rest, okay? Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

The light clicks off and you’re plunged into lonely pitch-black darkness. In the distance, you hear the heavy opening and closing of your front door as Namjoon leaves.

Unearthing yourself to the coolness of the night, your dress an uncomfortable lump around your waist, your breasts slightly sore from his previous ministrations, you stare up at the ceiling as hot tears leak out.

It’s well into the afternoon by the time you drag yourself out of bed the next day. Sleep came intermittently and was far from restful, but waking up meant facing the nightmarish reality of what had transpired. So you hid under the covers for as long as you could. But you know you can’t stay there forever.

The buzzing notifications of your phone had woken you up on more than one occasion in the night. But you ignore it and leave your phone next to the glass of water - still untouched - in favor of washing up. It’s more pressing anyway, you surmise. You can feel your make-up, now icky and caked on your face. It’s awful. Your skin is probably revolting against you now and you don’t even want to think about the mess it probably left on your pillowcase. But last night, you were simply paralyzed by the weight of what you’d done, crying till sleep finally came for you.

You take your time going through an extensive skincare routine, even busting out the clay mask you had impulsively bought together with Yeri when it was on discount. You’re doing it because your skin needs the pampering and definitely not because you’re procrastinating getting to your phone.

But there’s only so many steps you can do with the limited skincare products in your apartment. And you know your friends are probably worried about your abrupt disappearance last night. Getting to those messages first, you quickly assure Soo-eun and Yeri that you’re safe at home. Looking at the remaining notifications, you sigh.

Missed calls Namjoon (8)

7 unread messages from 2 chats Namjoon: are you still sleeping? Namjoon: hey, you still asleep? Namjoon: text me when you’re up please? Namjoon: are you awake?

Dong-In: hey! Dong-In: not sure what exactly happened at the end there haha, but it was rly great seeing u again. Dong-In: i’m still waiting on that brunch reschedule, by the way.

Memories from last night come back to you. Dong-In runs his hands through his curls, an easy grin on his face as he leans in to listen to you over the loud music of the club. Things are simple with Dong-In. And, standing on the precipice of a mental spiral whenever you think of Namjoon, the same craving for simplicity from last night returns.

[2:06pm] ____: well it’s a little late for brunch right now

[2:06pm] ____: but you still up to grab a bite?

[chunhua-s]

im gonna CRY, this is like the 3rd time im sending this: OKAY-- ushijima <33 and a royalty au maybe? whether he's the loyal knight or loving king, i will take anything <33 ily davi ur so cool and btw ur handwriting is SEXC

i’m putting the note at the end because really? they clog a lot of space 🧍🏽‍♀️

YOURS ➽ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA X READER

genre: angst

au: royalty, time travel

warnings: uh nothing went as i planned for in this oneshot and i’ve hurt myself with it enough to the point of a headache :D

when you open your eyes, you’re greeted by the night sky, though there’s something about it that gives you pause. the stars above you aren’t the same ones from your city — the ones that could only hope to shine against thousands of bright lights. the stars above you are brilliant in their light, loud with a declaration of glory and untold miracles that flow across the darkest purples and blues of midnight in rivers of silver. they’re radiant, telling you stories of worlds far beyond what you could ever dream of, and they draw your breath on frost and smoke as it falls from your lips. and should you have asked yourself — where does venus hide among this canvas of light, where does her red outshine the bursts of silver, the trails of gold that glow brighter than the sun, you’d never find your answer.

“(y/n)?”

it’s hard for you, but you manage to pull your eyes away from the night sky, and when you allow them to return themselves to the earth, your breath escapes you once more.

he’s standing amidst an old garden, his face familiar while being like that of a stranger. under the moonlight, you wonder if he’s an apparition, merely a figment of your imagination that approaches you with slow, almost cautious steps. he calls your name again and his voice carries to you on a chilling wind, it ghosts across your skin and fills up your lungs with the oxygen you’d forgotten to take. olive eyes glisten like deep ponds when he finally stands before you, and as you seek out your voice to respond to him, you find that it’s lost its strength.

“ushi-... ushijima?”

and truly, the face that you see before you is that of wakatoshi ushijima. his hair, the shape of his face, and even his lips that now twist into something of a helpless smile. here is the man who you’ve worked with for so long as the dietitian of japan’s national volleyball team; the man who you watched grow through high school, whose transformation reminded you of a cosmos flower in autumn; the man whose smiles told of secrets shared on late phone calls and a voice as calm as the ocean waves at night.

and yet, there’s nothing here of that man you know.

the wakatoshi ushijima you see carries the same regality that he always does, the same grace and silent power that flows from him just as the maroon cotton flutters around his body like waves. he’s always been the perfect picture of royalty, you consider, but here, with assured steps and a certain hush to the normally domineering force he exudes on the court, he really does appear to you like an emperor.

he chuckles lightly, a deep sound that rumbles in his chest and travels through your entire being as his eyes search your expression. there’s something that glistens on starlight, a certain warmth that you’ve yearned for on your loneliest nights, when his gentle words would pull you into deep slumber. does he see the way your brows furrow, the way your lips part with questions you don’t even know the beginnings to? “i thought i told you to call me wakatoshi, didn’t i?” he whispers, his tone soft and gentle, careful just as the hand that reaches up to cup your cheek. your heart stutters under the brushes of his thumb, and you’re sure that he can feel the heat spreading across your skin. “what are you doing out so late? and barefoot, nonetheless.”

he’s right. your feet sink beneath blades of grass as if they would be embraced by them, drops of dew clinging to your skin and causing a chill to travel up your spine. looking into ushijima’s eyes, you have no answer — neither for his question, nor for this strange situation you’ve found yourself in.

with concern melting into his warm gaze, he studies you for a while longer, the thumb that had been rubbing circles into your cheek coming to a stop as he ever so slightly tilts your head back to meet his gaze. at the same time, he’s leaning his head forward ever so slightly, as if to meet you half way. “(y/n)?”

“i—” your words fall short, disappearing under the night air when you try and speak. your eyes fall from his patient gaze, and all your attention is given to the green grass that, beneath the starlight, gives itself to a colour you can’t find the name for. this, you’ve decided, isn’t your world. it can’t be — the stars don’t shine as brightly as they do here, and neither does the air encompass you as if it yearned to kiss your skin. and in your world, wakatoshi ushijima has never held you so gently, and his eyes don’t sing to you poems of a feeling lost on your wildest fantasies. you force air into your lungs when you meet olive hues and try your best to speak with a wavering voice. “ushijima, what’s going on?? i don’t— where are we?”

you see confusion etch lines around his lips and between his brows as he frowns. “what do you mean? we’re in the palace garden, of course.” he says it so assuredly, confident, yet his words are hushed in a secret shared by the both of you. and the way he looks at you, you feel terrible for not knowing that secret. it feels as if somehow, you’d betrayed something sacred by taking the face and name of someone he might hold dear — maybe in this world, in this time, there’s a you who knows ushijima’s love.

“i’m sorry...” you mutter out, guilt and shame unwarranted yet potent behind your words as your eyes lock with his. “i think there’s been some sort of mistake. i’m—” you force yourself to swallow, to breathe; you find that the task comes difficult and your body betrays you terribly. “i don’t think i’m the person who you think i am.”

ushijima’s gaze falters, the hand that had so lovingly warmed your face falls to your shoulder and his fingers grab on to you tightly. “what do you mean...?” there’s a bit of a broken laugh that bubbles from his lips, and to you, it’s as foreign as the night sky above you, because there has never been a time when you’d ever seen him so vulnerable, open, pained. it’s new, and it scares you. it makes you want to wrap him into your arms and to take back everything you’ve said, to selfishly become the person he sees in you — the you whom he loves and cherishes so dearly. “you’re you, aren’t you? you’re (y/n)... my (y/n).”

you shake your head weakly, tears lining your eyes as feelings you’d long since fought against begin to spill from your aching heart like rain. every i love you that you’ve ever whispered to your starless sky burns your skin and sets an unbearable fire alight inside your chest, and the smoke clouds your brain and makes you forget your reality. my (y/n), he’d said — he’d called you his, his (y/n), with all the certainty and confidence in the world, as if those words should stand as true as the moon should shine at night, and oh, how desperately you wished they were true. you wished with all your heart that you really were his. but to look into his eyes, so hopeful, so loving and so, so beautiful in the starlight, you can’t find it within yourself to lie. not to him, and not to yourself. and so you steel your heart and abandon those feelings, and you lift your hand to pull his away from your shoulder, ignoring the pain that could blind you from its intensity. “i’m sorry...” you whisper, and this time, the hushed words bring no secrets, no sweet affections or longings told when the night showers your bodies in silver. it tears you apart and leaves your wounds to fester. “i’m really sorry, but— but i’m not them...”

“i’m not your (y/n).”

chile im so sorry this took so long!! and uh.... see i originally started this oneshot with a cute idea in mind??? but 🤡 somehow it turned into angst and uh.... but anyways!! i had these two requests and i thought “hey, why not combine them!” and it was the perfect opportunity to push my emperor! ushijima agenda 🤩 well.... that was the original intent? but somehow i got sidetracked.... again.... and didn’t really focus on that 😗 in summary? nothing went as i planned for this oneshot and somehow i ended up with a short angst oneshot that could work for an entire plot. like deadass?? i have the whole thing planned out in my head already and i was tempted to go off on it but it would become too long and i wouldn’t have a resolution for it all... or at least not one that didn’t involve pain. so, basically, reader in emperor! ushi’s world would have been like a palace worker who grew up with toshi, and they’d have fallen in love, but it’s ✨forbidden✨ because toshi would have already had his s/o chosen for him. on the flip side, modern world reader is team japan’s nutritionist and they, similarly grew up with toshi, but they have feelings for him that they don’t ever let show because they’re worried that they would destroy what they have with him already. if i went on with the plot, it would have shown reader going about palace life and their interactions with toshi, along with a handful of challenges that they’d have to face. this idea was highly inspired by one of my favourite k-dramas, scarlet heart ryou (a really good watch i def recommend it) but yeah! that’s the end of my rant! (it’s not. i’m stopping myself because if i don’t i’ll never shut up about it.) but anyways!! i really hope you guys enjoyed this oneshot! it feels good to write something after a while — if any of you guys have any thoughts or anything i’d love to hear them!!

taglist: @aiiishiiiteru @tsumue @bootylikepeachy @waitforitillwritemywayout @mixxfi @shnnn @janellion

send an ask to be added or removed!!

[h2bakugou]

deadpool’s quirk p.2 | headcanon

a/n: i wrote a request to this idea and i’ve been thinking about deadpool lately so once again i am putting aside requests dskjfhdj im so sorry dfjk it’s the mask fetish-

headcanon: them with a s/o who has a quirk like deadpool’s

key: (y/n) - your name / (f/n) - first name / (l/n) - last name / (e/c) - eye color / (h/c) - hair color / intense regeneration/borderline immortality - your quirk

warnings: fluff, swearing, gore/blood

»»————-　★　————-««

tomura shigaraki

»»————-　★　————-««

When you show up to the league, he has no idea what your quirk is, he’s never heard of you. He’s quick to think you’ve got some genetically drowned out mutation quirk that’s nowhere near powerful enough to make it in the league.

But you start to test his patience.

“I can’t really show it off, it’s hard to explain.” You stand a few feet away from them in the abandoned building. The rest of the league looks interested, you’ve sure got a fierceness about you standing up to Shigaraki like you are.

“You won’t regret this.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“Why the hell would I let you in, I don’t have a fucking clue what you can do. You’re useless to us.” Shigaraki hisses. It’s the final straw. Things were about to get messy.

You reach for the gun attached to your hip and pull it up and cock it, and the members of the league are quick to come at you.

Lifting the gun in the air, you pull the trigger and fire up into the sky, a few of the blonde girl’s knives sticking into your side.

“That all you got, blondie?” You smirk and look at her, watching as her own sadistic smile fades away.

You push her away and pull the knife out of her hand. It’s quick and messy, blood dripping from some cuts on your hand.

In one somewhat difficult move, you’re slicing your own hand off. The other members stare in horror as they watch it fall limp to the ground.

“I hate this part.” You mumble, tossing the knife to the side.

You lift your now amputated arm up and show the powder-blue haired man just what your quirk entails.

“This blood could’ve been resolved if you would’ve just used your quirk instead.” You groan, watching as the flesh around your severed hand began to grow back.

Shigaraki is silent. He’s completely mesmerized by your quirk. You’re strong, you’ve got attitude, and now he knows you can regenerate lost limbs. You can withstand stab wounds like it’s nothing.

“Are you immortal?” A man wearing a top hat asks. You laugh and shake your head.

“About as damn close to it as you can get.” You reply.

“You changed your mind yet Handman?” You’d already given the leader a somewhat boring nickname.

“Don’t call me that. You’ll refer to your leader as Shigaraki and noting less.” His red eyes glare at you.

“You made a good choice.” You smile and pick up your gun, setting it back in it’s holster on your hip.

From there on out, you’re at Shigaraki’s side constantly. You’re more or less the unofficial right hand man.

Overtime you start to develop feelings for the man child. It’s hard to come to terms with though, you’re both busy, and he clearly shows no signs of even displaying normal emotions. 

All it takes is one mission gone wrong to tell him how you feel.

Everyone is injured, severely. You’re the only one that’s going to even be remotely okay within the next few days. It makes you feel guilty.

It’s one of the reasons why you never get close to people. You can withstand what most people can’t. It’s unfair. You get out a-okay while everyone else returns in shambles, barely even holding on.

As they continue to get hurt, you barely know pain. That’s your own torture, watching as those around you take hits while you sit back perfectly fine.

Seeing everyone in the league hurt, hurts. You do your best to try and help, but you find yourself sulking alone after.

Shigaraki is the one to find you outside by yourself, the cool air nipping at your exposed skin through the rips and tears of your outfit from where you’d been shot at or swung at with a knife.

“Why are you out here moping?” Shigaraki’s tone isn’t soft or kind. It makes your heart break a little.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve just never stepped into that building.” You apologized. Shigaraki was confused. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” He replies, taking a seat beside you, the large hand that usually rested on his face, nowhere in sight.

“I can go anywhere, do anything, and make it out alive. You can’t.” You turn to face him, your eyes red and puffy with tears,

“It’s fucking torture. I don’t want to lose you, or anyone in the league. I-I care too much about you.” You hang your head and ball your hands into fists.

“Part of me wishes we’d never met, while another part wants to spend the rest of my life with you, you’re the best things that’s ever happened to me. You gave me a home, a family of friends, and feeling of being alive and having something to fight for.” You confessed. Shigaraki was taking it all in, his cracked dry lips parting in disbelief.

“I can’t stand to watch you go out and get yourself killed.” You let a few more tears fall. Shigaraki’s hands diligently shoot up and place themselves on your shoulders, a finger lifted on each hand.

“Shut up.” He remarks, shaking you lightly. You lift your head and examine his face.

His lips collide with yours, it’s rough but tender. You never expected him to kiss you first. You were almost certain he hated you.

But you kissed back, closing your eyes and melting into the kiss, you let his hands fall from your shoulders to your own hands, holding them carefully.

He pulled away and his expression returned to normal.

“You’re important to the league, and everyone here needs you. We’ll try to be more careful. But just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you should go all crazy.” Shigaraki scolded you. You let out a small laugh and threw your arms around him.

He’d never hugged anyone, or at least he couldn’t remember hugging anyone. It was a nice feeling.

He quite like your arms around him, he liked the feeling of your lips on his, he enjoyed the taste of them too. Maybe being around you wasn’t as bad as he thought.

»»————-　★　————-««

masterlist

[fairycosmos]

lmao im actually so desperate to die im considering swallowing two peach pits just to see if i will choke to death because nothing else ive tried has worked so far . you know what my life doesnt fucking matter ill do it. with my luck it wont work i feel im being punished and thats why i cant die. ill do it. if i dont get back to you something happened but i doubt it. im tired like you said i deserve peace. we do. bye maybe i hope this works this is pathetic but im desperate to die

hey, i'm really sorry to hear you're feeling this way. it seems like you're totally overwhelmed right now and i completely understand how debilitating that can be. i know there's nothing i can do or say that will really change how awful it feels, and you're probably not in the headspace to read all this. but if you ever want to come back to it, it'll be here. maybe you could try some of these grounding exercises, here / here and here beforehand to get you in a place where you can focus a little. it's alright, there's no rush or pressure. i just wanted to say first of all that this is not pathetic in the slightest. sometimes the world gets on top of you and you go througn so much trauma and hurt that it really does feel like giving up is the only option. people can only take so much, and i get it. that's the trick of the suicidal brain though, i think. it uses life's suffering and your own past experiences to convince you that it is always going to be this way. to romanticize death and make it into something it isn't in your head. it is actually very hard to die, as i'm sure you know. and it's not the peaceful option or escape you're looking for, either. and the most paramount thing i want to say is that your life 100% does matter. this was never up for debate. you were born with an inherent worth and it hasn't went away just because you can no longer see it. you honestly can't fathom how you've impacted peoples lives, directly and indirectly, and even just the world itself. you don't have to be anybody but who you are, i promise, the whole point is just having the human experience you're having. you're fulfilling your purpose by existing, no matter how hard it is at times. i think it's a good sign that you reached out to me, i honestly think it shows that you have a lot of self awareness regarding what's going on and that you're truly capable of asking for the help that you need. you're not in a place right now where you can trust your thoughts and feelings, so it's good to seek an objective perspective from somebody else. this state of mind is so transient, it's so intense that it's not built to last. i'm not trying to downplay how unbelievably hard to live with, of course, but it can be freeing to acknowledge that this is not all there is, no matter how difficult it is to endure currently. you deserve to be here and to exist in a way that heals you, no matter what your mind is telling you. there can be a variety of underlying causes for suicidal feelings, and obviously they're very serious issues that need real medical attention in order to begin to overcome. but with that and with time, it is totally possible to learn to live a full live along side all you've been through. even though right now i'm sure that's the lastthhing on earth you want to do.

are you currently working with a mental health professional of any sort? your doctor, a therapist, a support group, even a hotline? if not, i would really urge you to get in touch with them as soon as possible. and if you already are, let them know where your thoughts are at lately so they can focus on upping your level of care. if you're worried about money, there are cost-effective choics available, like finding a therapist who offers a sliding scale price, or looking into mental health resources within your community. i know your brain is probably screaming at you to do the opposite, but i promise any baby step in the right direction is going to pay off. the prospect of reaching out and being honest is a daunting one, and i'm only bringing it up as something to consider at the moment (or when you feel able to) so please don't write it off all together. you don't have to do anything right now, just know you have options. you honestly do. and talking to someone really is not as bad as your brain is probably building it up to be. just like with physical illness, mental illness can be confronted and treated. it's all about learning how to manage your unique mind, and even if it takes a lifetime, it is so possible to lessen the frequency of episodes like this. or to become more prepared for them so they feel less erratic when they do occur. discussing about what you've been through, pinpointing root causes of your suicidal thoughts, learnng how to implement healthy coping mechanisms into your daily routine, building a support system, finding the medication for you if needed - all of this is going to make a tangible difference. it is not going to fix everything, obviously, but it is going to lighten the weight and broaden your perspective on yourself and on living. you deserve to be supported without judgement and with genuine care, you deserve to be listened to. there are a lot of people, professionals or otherwise, even just strangers like me, who are willing to filling that role for you.

idk how it is for you and i won't pretend to, but sometimes suicidal people don't want to lose their lives, they just want to stop living the way they are. with so much chaos and unresolved pain and exhaustion. you don't have to hurt yourself in order to get there. i know when you're in this mindset, any even slightly positive piece of advice just feels impossible to believe. but even if you can't seriously take it on board at the moment, i hope when you're in a more grounded place, you can at least consider as an alternative to absolute hopelessness. you may as well, because you are alive and that is not always going to feel like a curse. it is so hard to believe it, i get that, but it is a fundamental truth. you are in an extremely difficult moment but that is not your whole existence. the future is ever changing, and you've already made it through the past, so the only thing that really matters is this moment. focus on what you need, not what you want, but what you need to do right now to truly self - prioritize. even if that feels like the last thing on earth you want do. if self destruction and self harm was gonna make you feel better, it would've by now. welcome the idea of trying something new, maybe just the notion of attempting to guide yourself through this with a bit of self-compassion. please, if you feel like you are an immediate danger to yourself, please exercise any sense of self preservation/ survival instinct and call the authorities, a hotline or a friend/family member right away. no matter what bullshit your brain is telling you, no matter how heavy your heart is right now . everything is always always always changing and things are going to change beyond recognition, it's the one thing you can count on. you deserve to stick around to see it all, and once you've made the decision to do so, you won't feel so stuck and conflicted anymore. i'm going to leave some links that i think might help a little in this moment, but like i said, please call someone if you feel you can't be alone right now. i'm rooting for u a lot and i really hope you are able do the right thing for yourself. if it's all too hard, focus on getting through the next hour. if that's too much, the next minute. and if that's too much, the next second. break it down into what you can handle and let yourself live. and then just go from there. sending you all my love.

list of hotlines

coping with depression

coping with suicidal thoughts

so you feel like shit?

template for creating a safety plan

[jessiebanethedragon]

hello if you're not too busy or something may i request a crosshair fic where he teases the reader a lot bcs she's shorter than him (probably like, reaches his chest and that's it) and like it's cute and wholesome? srry if it's weird hehe im a sucker for height differences bcs i too, am vv short. i love your fics btw 👉👈

heya! thanks for the Request and the love xoxoxo, this started in my head as cute fluff and turned a lil more saucy than i thought it would be so... yeah... oops (Hope you like!)

Oh how you hated him, the resident sniper of Clone Force 99. You absolutely hated him, every single cell in your body despised the man. And every time you saw him that stupidly handsome face was there to mock you. He made you seethe with anger, that smirk with the toothpick and the eyes that would side stare at you like he was checking you out when in reality he was just trying to rile you up all over again. 

You’d kick his ass if it wasn't so damn attractive. 

“You look like you’re going to implode Picks.” Hunter mentioned offhand one morning in a briefing room.  Even the name sent you into a rage. Picks. Short for Toothpick, which according to Crosshair, you were the size of. 

“I hate him.” You grit out, causing Hunter to laugh from his spot in the corner, even the mere thought of you working with them again was driving you crazy. Well, okay, you didn't hate him per-say, in fact you’re actually afraid of the opposite but it’s easier to pretend that you dislike the  sniper than it is to pine over him constantly. 

“He’s not that bad…” Hunter started and then stopped when you sent him a glare. 

“Who’s not that bad?”  Tech asked entering the briefing room to look over the Holoprojection once more before you departed. With Wrecker in tow the two began discussing various assault attempts for the mission. 

“Crosshair.” Hunter supplied for his goggled brother, who immediately looked over to you, who was currently perched on a ledge, trying to ignore how your heart clenched at every mention of his name. 

“Ah yes, well…” Tech trailed off, “Don’t worry Picks i’m sure he’s uh…. Mellowed.” he offered, trying to ease your worries. 

“I hate him.” You stated again, maybe if you said it out loud enough it would be true. 

“Well that’s just rude Short Stuff.” The voice drawled from the doorway, where of course, the man in question was leaning. Not even wearing his full armor like the rest of the batch. You swore he left the top half off and pushed his sleeves up just to annoy you. 

“Listen here wise-ass. This is my mission, you follow my command.” You said hoping down from the ledge and stalking over to him, falling short (no pun intended) when your face met his chest. 

Oh the universe was cruel. 

“Yeah and what are you going to do if i don’t?” He teased, still very much relaxed. 

“I’ll kick your ass.” You snapped at him, causing Crosshair to smirk and roll the toothpick in his mouth to the opposite side. 

“Sure you can reach that high?” He asked, and if you weren't fuming before you were now. Why did he have to be so stunning and suave and flirty and oh right you’re supposed to be pissed at him... 

“Why you little…” you started.

“That's you pretty girl.” He interrupted, maker you could not win with this man.  

“I could have you court martialed.” You countered. Feeling a little disappointed that you’d reached the point of pulling rank in order to win an argument with him but he really was that difficult. 

“Of course you could. But where’s the fun in that?” He tossed back to you, before lazily saluting Hunter and striding out of the door. You threw your hands in the air as he sauntered away, had he really just shown up to drive you crazy and then leave. Probably. But he was certainly not getting the last say this time. 

“Hey!” you called after him, jogging down the empty hallway to catch up. 

“Yes general?” He raised an eyebrow for a split second before a look of fear overtook his face as you sprinted at him. Throwing yourself at the unsuspecting sniper and tackling him to the floor. Crosshair wasn't exactly as much muscle as his brothers, but he was still much bigger than you. And that didn't make an impromptu wrestling session in a GAR hallway easy. So of course in moments he had you pinned against the wall (no complaint from you other than the embarrassment of being beaten.) Legs flailing every which way in an attempt to kick/knee him in a not-so-low blow to his crotch. 

“Hey.” he said, trying to maneuver away from you legs but still keep your upper half pinned. You let out a frustrated scream. 

“Hey.” He pressed again, softer this time. 

“What?” You huffed relenting, and slipping into the grip he had on your hands and one on your hip to support you. Oh, well now things were a tad awkward. 

“I think there was some miscommunication.” Crosshair states, watching you get more and more confused. 

“How so?” You take his bait, you have no idea where he’s going with this. He lets out a sigh looking around and stepping closer to you, is it weird to notice how good he smells? You ask yourself, right around the same time your eyes meet his and you turn to putty in his hands. 

“I was tryin’ to…”  he starts before letting off another sigh. Gently leaning closer, testing the boundaries, waiting for you to tell him to back off. Instead you take a breath. 

“Trying to what?” you whisper, before it all clicks, the teasing, the names weren't even names at all. Terms of endearment, your brain finally makes the connection. 

“Listen, the long necks didn't exactly teach flirting.” He admits quietly. Loosening his hands and letting your feet reconnect with the floor. 

“I can tell.” You tease, and you see Crosshairs mouth open and close, like it’s searching for words that he doesn't know. 

“I’m sorry.” He settles on, “if I upset you.” You straighten in shock, did he just apologise? Did the sniper of the Bad Batch, known for his assholery just give you an apology? Now that was a win. He pauses for a second before turning away from you. And as if you're possessed by a much more confident version of yourself, your hand grasps his and stops him from leaving. 

“You are so stupid.” You shake your head at him, leaning up onto your toes to fist his blacks and pull him close to you. 

It’s not exactly a romantic kiss, more like a kiss that's been pushed away for so long it’s surfacing with a vengeance. It’s full of yearning and want, and so when Crosshair leans down whispers for you to jump, and all but slams you into the wall again, you happily comply. Legs around his waist and tongues in each other's mouths. 

And then he groans. The bastard has the audacity to groan into your mouth, the sound has you reeling and whining into his. And maker what are you even doing? This is so against every rule in the GAR regulation handbook.    

“Regulations.” You pant as somewhere he moves from your lips to your jaw to your neck.

“I don’t give a damn.” He almost growls into your neck. Especially when your hands anchor themselves in his hair. 

“But…” Your brain tries to think of any reason to not do what you’re doing right now, but it draws a blank. So you let all your responsibilities go to hell as you pull his face back to yours and envelop his lips again.  

“That's so gross.” Tech comments at the view in front of him, having leant out of the doorway to make sure you hadn't killed his vod. And instead getting greeted by what could only be described as the most intense makeout session he’d ever seen. 

“What's gross?” Hunter asked, moving to join him, and before Tech had a chance to want him. “Oh for kriffs sake!” He shouted, throwing his hands in the air at his sniper's actions. 

“I liked it better when they hated each other…” Tech stated a look of disgust on his face. “Hunter?” He asked turning to where his sergeant had been, only to see him sitting back in the briefing room holding his head in his hands and Wrecker having the time of his life laughing it up in the doorway.

“It’s about damn time!” He called loud enough for the two of you to jump apart in surprise. Flushing red as you caught Techs terrified face and Wreckers loud laugh.

“Come on Toothpick, you got a mission to run.” Crosshair said, looking down at you and stealing one last soft kiss before turning back to his brothers. 

Okay so maybe you didn't hate him all that much. 

[mjalti]

I really love your approach and your "take it or leave it" attitude and I'm hoping you might have some definitive advice to share. I'm in a competitive medical program and Im one of the top students. I use to be way more self confident, but the difficulty and demand of the program is really wearing me thin. Also my unrealistic desire and expectation to be the best. I question every interaction I have, I doubt my approach, I wonder if I'm saying the right thing, I want to perform perfectly. Other sources are just telling me to practice self care and yet that is meaningless to me. I know I'm a resilient and compassionate person who has plenty to be proud of, but I just feel so uncomfortable in my own skin. I have a really supportive partner and a good job, but I feel like nothing I do is good enough (even when my grades and feedback say otherwise) and I use to be a lot happier with my lot in life. How do I settle back into myself?

“I want to perform perfectly.” really sticks out to me, we’ll get into it in a minute.

 i’m not sure if you’re questioning your approach within your field/ your decisions you make within that or if you’re questioning the depth of your knowledge. medicine is an EVER-evolving field and if you are questioning “how much you know” in the grand scheme of things--that is WONDERFUL. that is the mark of you truly understanding the complexity of the field you have the honor of practicing in & it is a trait that you should keep. stay curious. if you are doubting your decisions in the clinical context, always feel free to ask a colleague to glance at your work, just make yourself say “hey would you do anything different on this?” and get a second pair of eyes to look over your train of thought. You are a medical STUDENT, you aren’t competing with the doctors who have 40 years of been-there-done-that experience. You are still in the “going there” phase. Have compassion with yourself & remind yourself that if getting this experience was easy, it would be disrespectful to the people who have dedicated their lives trying to get good at it. 

next i want to remind you; everyone you meet is a series of impressions you have of them, not necessarily reflecting what they’re going through. even the most confident person you will interact with in your field, had a medical student phase where everything was overwhelming, intense, and over their heads. the only difference between them and the others was that they kept going. 

I am really happy to hear that you have a supportive partner. Have you been open to them about what you are going through or do you feel like a burden? It sounds like you have great intentions, but you have allowed this negative thinking to start to isolate you from your partner. You should not be living two lives in your head. [except riding dinosaurs while you’re taking a shower, but that’s understandable, cool and totally normal, i swear.]

“Self care” for high achievers is its own animal because the very things that cause us so much damage are the things which, in controlled portions, we are told bring us success & happiness. It becomes so difficult to put a hard stop on things that burn us out when the positive reinforcement is so loud, so vivid, so all-encompassing. I bring back your statement: “I want to perform perfectly.” To perform is to act, not to be. It seems like you struggle with wanting to be everything for everyone but when it comes to you being your own side, you give yourself the scraps of what’s left from a long day-- and let’s be honest here: it’s usually nothing. 

You seem to be very good at helping others, but how does that translate to helping yourself? 

Start by defining simple things:

when was the last time you felt happy/at peace/confident? 

what were you doing, who were you with, what were you thinking?

what has significantly changed from that time to now? did you move? did you become jaded with a certain aspect? when did you start feeling the way you feel now? could you reach out to your partner for some help with answering these questions, as they could have more insight into your behavior [we observe and analyze the people we love endlessly, we observe the nuance]?

What is something you do for YOU, regardless of how productive it is, how good at it you are, how much other people respect it?

when was the last time you did something new, without it being related to your profession or being prompted by your partner? 

There are so many things going on, there is so much of yourself that you bring to this equation which is hidden from me, that I cannot provide you a solution in a gift-wrapped box but I can hopefully provide some outside perspective. I think you would really benefit from some sessions with a compatible therapist who can help you answer those questions above with some guided exercises. What you are going through is not going to go away like it arrived; spontaneously. You have to have the tools and resources to tell it to leave. I think you owe it to yourself to invest in yourself, to find a way to learn to make sense and peace with the chaos that’s trying to come in between you and your best life. Being proactive about this is the best self-care possible, and even you coming to me anonymously on the internet is a big step in the right direction, especially because it doesn’t sound like this is something you often bring up. 

[undergrounddweller89]

NOTE : THIS IS A SPIES IN DISGUISE AU, WALTER IS THE CRIMINAL MASTER MIND AND KILLIAN IS THE SCIENTIST

THIS DEFINITELY CONTAINS SEXY TIMES

Not well written though probably and I tend to rarely go through my work to look for mistakes.

Despite Killian being kidnapped and handcuffed EVERY THING IS CONSENSUAL... Tristan is crazy obsessed with Beckett so he's very happy.

Now you've had your warning you read this instead of scrolling past that's on you, lemon is a tag used for stuff like this but if you feel like there are other tags I need to use please do tell me!)

The bag was stuffy, head phones covered his ears, they'd knocked off his glasses in their struggle to capture him, he could barely see without them.

Now his hands were cuffed behind his back, a hand on each upper arm, honestly Tristan was terrified, the car ride seemed a life time, though realistically it was only ten to fifteen minutes long.

He'd pleaded saying he was a no body just a scientist the agency threw in the corner and that no one ever took him seriously.

He was hunched, trying to tuck his head into his shoulders, so this was how he was going to die.

He felt every bump of the car and turn, trying to map out where he was going but he didn't recognise this route, usually he rode every where on his bicycle, deep blue with a silver bell and a basket on the front to pick up dinner on his way home...

Home where he could research the Criminal Master mind Walter Beckett ...to a near unhealthy obsession...alright it was unhealthy when you imagined him pushing you back against the table parting your thighs, fucking you and making you look at him by holding your head with his clawed hand....

Fuck was he going to die thinking about Walter, a man who didn't even known he existed...well he had no one, nothing living to care about...he might as well think of someone who made him happy even if only in his fantasies before he died right.

He was pulled from the car where he tried kicking at his handlers, Tristan didn't get very far though as one of them punch his gut winding him, he was wheezing as he was taken out of the vehicle.

"You know he's gonna kill you for that right."

The first handler smacked the second on the back of the head

"Only if this limp dick tells him, he's too much of pussy to squeal."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, but Im not covering your ass."

He was dragged through the facility, Tristan refused to make it easy to carry him and went limp.

Both handlers groaned, fuck, great a difficult one, well the first wasn't going to risk hurting him into compliance and the second knew he was on thin ice, if that punch had bruised him their boss was literally going to kill him.

Other workers watched as they went by, another two carried Tristans legs who now tried to struggle again, what the hell was going on!

He was sat in a chair with ease, after all their boss was right there, the workers didn't dare handle him as if he were anything less than a handle with care package with fragile taped all over him.

"Well are you going to take that off him, it's a little hard for dramatic entrances when he can't even see me."

"Yes sir, right away."

The bag was pulled off swiftly with the headphones clattering to the floor.

Tristan squinted, everyone looked like blurs, he could see faces only as different coloured splodges, his hair sticking up in different angles, shoulders aching now, he still sat up right, heart racing

"Where are his glasses?"

Tristan turned to where he heard the man speak, it was cold, commanded respect...familiar but no it couldn't be...

"Sebastian, where are his glasses?"

"I ah, James you see knocked them off in the struggle and-"

A metal arm, supporting four claw digits at it's end clasped his face

"What did I tell you about people with glasses, remove them, keep them what Sebastian."

He had brought the man to his knees holding so tightly Sebastian could feel his skull on the verge of cracking, he let out a cry as he managed to finish the sentence

"Safe!"

"Oh good you can listen to orders, now James..."

He'd let go of Sebastian and beckoned over his other crew member, Tristan knew this voice but it couldn't be him, he must still be disorientated.

"James, what have I told you about harming what belongs to me."

He said softly, curling his his claws around James's tie, Sebastian stepped back, well he had warned his coworker and with a snap and flick of his wrist the tie had been pulled so hard and tight the man's neck had been snapped.

"He had trouble following orders, first few times is understandable, you're settling into this new life but after five years it should not be that hard."

Tristan wished he'd had his glasses because if this was Walter Beckett he would have just witnessed one of Becketts trade mark moves and yes maybe would have gushed like a fan boy.

He was going to pretend it was him until he could see at the least and imagine he was kidnapped by Thee Walter Beckett.

He listened to him calling in clean up crew and for someone to bring up the glasses, his shape coming in closer and closer, it had to be him, the silver blurred limb was on his left, the hair colour.

"Awww poor baby..."

The younger man cooed.

Tristan tried very hard not to lean into his touch when his hair was stroke back and felt the Claws against his scalp

"Don't worry now, my useless men have been dealt with, come on now look up at me."

He didn't exactly give Tristan a choice as he place a claw under his chin

"See, now Mr Mcford I know I have my fans, the ones who do their fanart, their fictions whatever you will, I keep an eye on anyone who searches my name out of curiosity..."

He tapped his nose

"You Mcford like clock work will watch videos that have only the briefest flash of me, pour over articles, fictions..."

He smirked tracing one long metal claw along his jaw

"Reader x Walter Beckett, but you got tired of them, skinny little me always being pinned, submissive, no, no you wrote your own, named yourself Killian, nice name by the way, where I owned you, laid you back and made sure you knew who you belonged to."

Tristan was red, he was so fucking red and wanted the bag back on his head

"But Im not here to embarrass you, you're actually a good writer and it was the first one I ever enjoyed myself to."

Tristan wanted to implode, die right there, hearing Beckett had fucking masturbated to his little story, he let out a whine then hung his head, trying to hide how much that effected him.

The crew came up and pulled the body from the room and handed Walter the item he'd requested

"Face me now, unless you prefer being half blind."

Beckett held his face with his human hand, finger tip tracing a cheek bone, my they were sharp weren't they, what a pretty scientist.

Placing the glasses on, small lights flickered then settled.

"They read your eyes and the lenses adjust to the prescription you need."

Walter explained now casually sitting on Mcford's lap, an arm around the back of his neck.

"I'll cut to the chase, as I said we check everyone who even so much as types my name out of curiosity and when I found out you were working for the agency that has reaaaally caused a lot of problems in my life I researched you."

Tristan was staring, no way did Walter not feel the protruding problem down below, you would literally have to be either dead or have no feeling in your body to not notice that, he was still, he listened to him, was he having a wet dream, it had to be a dream right?

"Besides my uh Internet history...what...what did you find out."

"Oh you know, that you're an under appreciated scientist who came up with designs so dangerous they had to lock them away...and I may have slightly stolen them, now while I could personally and am the only qualified person here to build such delicious technology...."

He slipped his hand under Tristans lab coat, slowly rubbing his palm against his chest and smirking at the shakey breath and the way Tristan adjusted his hips, oh he could certainly feel that reaction

"I have an evil empire to run...I need you Tristan, I want you..."

He leaned in closer, lips nearly at his.

Mcford whined, fuck he was close Walter hadn't even done anything but the raised brow and smirk on Becketts face told him he could feel him twitch and gasped as the hand that'd been on his chest traveled down a finger tip teasing the head of his cock through his pants.

"How do you feel about working for me Tristan, build your machines and what ever else comes to mind, I need someone as competent as myself..."

Walter kneaded him slowly, to the point the slow pace was painful, his mouth was open and another ragged breath left him, this had to be a wet dream a really, vivid wet dream, please don't let his alarm go off...he pressed against his neck, forehead on his shoulder as Walter stroked the back of his neck with metal Claws, cool against his flesh.

Even if he was awake, of course his answer was yes....

"We could even build something together, I'm sure you'd just love to see me work..."

Beckett leered.

Walter was so warm, he was here, touching him, fucking touching him, dragging it out and making him nearly beg and he loved it.

"Yes..."

Tristan panted, lifting his hips trying to get more friction, he still had his handcuffs on he couldn't reach out and touch the man he wanted, his wrists struggling instinctively to part.

"Look at me and say it, Tristan."

That purr went through Mcford's entire being, lifting his head whimpering, biting his lip, he loved the tease, feeling so close to the edge and having Walter deny him...he begged to some god out there that Walter would finish it at least, it was so intense, he knew his clothes were stained with precum, Beckett seemed to enjoy reminding him he knew it was there by playfully tapping a finger over the tip of his cock where the damp patch was.

"Yes...I'll work for you....I have mmmphn wanted to since I ahh first saw you... Oh my god..."

Walter smiled, watching him, listening to him, oh how blue his eyes looked when his cheeks were this flushed, absolutely gorgeous.

"Oh Tristan there is no god, only me and my loving hands."

He returned, unbuckling Tristans belt and reaching in, blushing a little himself as he watched Tristans eyes nearly roll up, his head falling forward.

Tristan watched as Walter finished him off how desperately he wanted to hold onto him, press fingers into his back, he couldn't remember the last time he came this fucking hard or if he'd ever...he was speechless...breathless and fuck he'd made a mess of them both.

He was putty in Walters hands, feeling a claw lift his head again, moaning softly still, his body was tingling all over

"Welcome to the team Killian."

Beckett said sweetly before leaning in and kissing him.

[xsarcasticwriterx]

Childhood friends

Summary: y/n and negan have been friends forever and have done everything togother. When negans wife Lucille gets sick negan 1st tells her. This event leads to hell but also heaven.

Warnings: swearing,rated R jokes,angst

Recieving a text from negan was a daily occurence for y/n but mosf of them didnt say "get in here. Fast." Y/n walkes into negan office seeing a stressed negan sitting at his desk hyperventilating. "Hey hey breathe" she said running to his side kneeling beside him. She put her hand on his back alarming him to her presence. He turned looked at y/n. "Shes sick" is all he can say as tears fall from his eyes.

She knew negan was speaking of his wife Lucille. Negan had been speaking of this for a while saying how Lucille was getting test done and how he had to work overtime to get the money for some of them. Y/n would help when she could with extra money she had. Due to her living alone and spending most her time passing out at negans she usually ended up with a bit of money left to do as she pleased.

She stayed with negan till he calmed down. "So the test came back?" She asked. Negan nodded. "Its bad y/n" is all he said. The look in his eyes was as if he was begging y/n to do something. "I'm so sorry negan" she said hugging him. She felt negan crying into her shoulder. After a while he pulled away. "Sorry." Is all he said. "Hey...its ok..." she said.

"Want me to come back with you after?" Y/n asked negan. Y/n has known Lucille sense highschool and even introduced negan and Lucille. She really wanted to see Lucille before it got too bad but she didnt want to intrude on negans and lucilles time. Negan nodded. "Please....i cant do this alone." He said softly his voice slightly cracking. Y/n nodded.

School had ended so y/n sat sat with negan while he finished his work. They didnt say anything she knew negan was truly hurting and she didnt wanna bother him. When negan was silent she knew to not speak he was never silent always mouthing off about some bullshit. Negan closed his laptop looking up at y/n who was laid out on the couch asleep. Negan couldn't help but just think of all that had happened within the past few hours.

He looked at y/n thinking about how she was why he met Lucille in the first place and now......here he was. He walked over to y/n picking her up walking to his car. She buried her head into his shoulder. He layed he in the passenger side walking back to the drivers side. He sat down and broke into tears. He felt a hand upon his shoulder not long after. "Its ok. She'll be ok." Y/n said softly. She put her head on his shoulder.

They both knew it was a lie the results werent looking up for Lucille but they had to have hope they had to believe. At the moment negan didnt have much hope and y/n had to hope for them both. After a few negan started driving. They reached negans home in silence.

Negan just sat there staring at the house. "It'll be ok negan." Y/n said. Negan nodded. They walked to the door as negan stared at it. Y/n grabbed his hand and nodded. Negan nodded back. They opened the door to see an empty livingroom. Turning they saw a wasted Lucille in the kitchen. "Heeeeeeeeeeeey y/n" Lucille slurred. "She shouldnt be drinking riight?" Y/n said to negan. He sighed and shook his head. "No. No she shouldnt" he stared at his wife shaking his head before walking upstairs. "Well now is just us gals" Lucille said.

Y/n shook her head. "Lucille..." was all she got out. Negan didnt come down most the night and y/n spent most the night watching Lucille and trying to stop her from drinking more. She babbled on of childhood memories. Eventually y/n got fed up and stood up and started twoard the stairs. "Y/n" Lucille said soflty. Y/n turned. "When im gone......love him the way we both know you do. He'll need it." She said before crashing. Y/n knew what she meant hell anyone who wasn't negan knew what she meant.

Y/n has loved negan sense she was 4 years old. But inevitably life kicked in and negan chose everyone else but her. She walked up stares to see negan laying in bed. His eyes were closed but based on his breathing he was awake. Y/n layed next to him with her head on his chest. "She shouldnt be alone doing that" he grumbled. "She fell asleep" y/n replied. Negan sighed and not long after was he asleep. Y/n sighed. This was going to be hell. Y/n didnt know how negan was going to do it but however she could help she would. She walked down the hall flopping onto the guest bed staring at the ceiling most the night. Why did this have to be so stressful.

Y/n woke up to the smell of breakfast. Grumbling she pulled herself up and out of bed. Walking down she saw negan and Lucille close while cooking. You'd think being in love with your childhood bestfriend whos married would be difficult to restrain feelings but honestly......y/n just wanted negan happy in the end even if its not by her. But now....well Lucille has fucked that up by saying what she did. It repeated in her head all through the night and even now. How could she put that pressure on her how could she have no hope but stand there with negan like nothing happened. Though to her maybe nothing did happen.

Y/n walked to the counter and cleared her throat. They looked and smiled. "Morning y/n" negan said. "Mornin" she replied. "What yall making ?" She asked. "Pancakes and bacon" Lucille said cheerfully. "Your awfully peppy for as much as you drank" y/n said. "Heh well yknow just want to eat" she said giggling. Negan kissed he cheek before walking to the garage to work on his car while waiting.

"Lucille do you remember last night?" Y/n asked more wanting to know if she meant what she said. "I remember what i told you if thats what your asking. I meant what i said. We both know how you feel and we both know i cant fight this. I can feel myself getting weaker and even with your help we dont have the money to fight this. You love him and once im gone hes going to need that. You need to care for him and show him you love him." She said as if it was just another fact. "Your going to be ok Lucille." Y/n heard her voice crack and felt tears start to cloud her eyes. Lucille was still her only other friend outside of negan. Shed known her sense highschool and the thought of her dying.....it shattered her heart. Lucille rolled her eyes. Y/n couldnt take this she couldn't listen to her friend talk of how she was dying.

Y/n walked out to the garage with negan feeling her legs wobble and her heart break. Negan turned and smiled softly then frowned. "Whats wrong.....y/n" negan said walking to her. He grabbed her face making her look up at him. "Nothing." She said. Negan huffed and shook his head. "Fucking hell never one to talk....." he said. Grabbing her he pulled her to the front of the car. He opened the roof showing all the improvements he had done. She adored the car it had so many memories sense even before he could could drive it. She smiled admiring the shiny new improvements. "Heh thought that could get a fucking smile out of you." He said proud of himself. She nodded. "After breakfast lets go for a fucking ride what you say ?" He asked. She smiled and laughed "absofuckinglutely" she replied happily.

Breakfast was awkward well for y/n it was. She sat only with Lucilles words repeating over and over. She felt so much pressure. After negan did as he said and they went for a ride. Eventually he stopped at a park that they went to often as kids. He walked her to their "hiding spot" that now them as grown adults was not so hiden.

Surrounded by trees and plants they sat by a broken down bonfire that was used not to long ago in the week. They sat in silence for a while. "What you fucking thinking about so intensely?" Negan asked. "Your wife." She replied. Negan laughed at how it sounded. "What about her?" He asked. "Something she said to me....." she replied not knowing if she had the right to say what Lucille said.

"What the fuck she say?" Negan said clearly lost what she could've said to have taken up her thoughts so much. "Promise not to tell her i told you." She asked. "Shit y/n........sure.......what is it?" He asked. "She said when shes gone i need to love you the way i truly do." She said. Negan made a grumble and sighing sound before sitting up more. He rubbed his face. "Fucking hell" he said.

"I dont know what to do....." y/n said. "Im sorry" she appolagize. "Dont be sorry she shouldnt have said that.......fuck." he said. He rolled his eyes and turned to y/n. He hugged her close. "This is not on you. Its not on you to care for me and she shouldnt use your feelings like that." He said before releasing her. He held her face. He kissed her cheek before sighing. He walked back to the car y/n following behind.

They returned back later afternoon. Y/n went to take a shower. After she heard arguing downstairs. She knew she shouldnt have but she sat on the step hearing it. "Why would you tell her that?!" Negan yelled. "Well i wouldn't have if i known she was going to tell you like some puppy !!" Lucille said back. "She was worried!! She got nervous with all the pressure you put on her!!" Negan replied. After a while y/n couldnt stand to listen. Negan had broken a promise and the yelling was making her remember things shed rather forget.

She walked into guest room sitting on the bed. At some point.she mustve fell asleep cause she opened her eyes when her bed dipped. She saw negan laying next to her. "Hey" he said softly. "You promised" she replied. He looked ashamed. "I had to say something. She used your feelings and put too much pressure on you. She......she knows our history and she used it. I had to fix it" he said. "But you made it worse......and the yelling......." she mumbled. Negan didnt say anything after.

Negan pulled her closer. They stayed in silence till she fell alseep. Being told to be with negan wouldve been her dream at 15 but at this point with negan married and her being told if said wife dies to love him BY said wife. This hurt her but seeing how casual negan has been the whole time.....that not only hurt but scared her.

[peachy-inserts]

todoroki falling for someone/relationship hcs

request:  may i request some headcanons of how shouto would fall in love and how would he act in a relationship?? 🥺🥺 thank u!!

warnings: just cursing! a/n: sorry for uploading this so many times! i messed up the tags (and also, hello! i promise we aren’t dead) long post! more under the cut

Shouto is a hopeless romantic at heart. Although it’s not something that crosses his mind frequently, whenever it does he finds himself daydreaming about the possibility of the perfect love interest as an escape from his mundane and repetitive life in which he feels trapped

Similar to Bakugou (Same prompt for him here!) I feel like Shouto would definitely fall in love with someone after learning how to trust them and interact with them rather than falling for someone after a couple meetings, he has to know you personally and on an emotionally vulnerable level before he would even consider the concept of something more; partly because of sheer embarrassment, the other from deeply routed trust issues

He would be best suited with someone spontaneous but respectful; someone who can break him free from the chains binding him to his career and future and expand his horizons and emotional capacity to levels nobody thought were ever possible. The way he acts around you is uncharacteristic of this terribly disturbed boy

Shouto realizing that he’s fallen in love with you will hit him hard and suddenly, knocking the air from his lungs and knocking him over onto his feet. Hopefully, you’ll be there to pick him up and make him see that maybe this won’t be such a frightening experience, and that you can help him along the way

He’s a very blunt yet dense person, which is shocking for someone of such quick wits and broad intelligence. Tease him about it and he will scowl at you, but give in and laugh as you both recount some of his most memorable moments. You paying attention to him, telling him your favorite times spent with him? It’s an intoxicating liquid drug that he wants to drink up and bathe himself in in a lavish fashion

Coming to terms with the fact that he’s in love with you, someone he’s so close with is by far what’s most difficult for him since he doesn’t know how to healthily process his own emotions, often times dismissing how he feels and letting it build up into an alcoholic cocktail of rage and self doubt

Without even realizing it, he’ll begin to cling to you. You’re practically attached at the hip, and he’s so subtle about it and kind that it will take an incredibly receptive sense of the world around you to notice that he’s putting an increased amount of effort into spending as much time as possible with you

Hell, kudos to anyone watching the two of you who will see what’s really happening. He’s a very unpredictable person, and everyone would simply assume you two were impersonal friends simply trying to be polite and help each other

Shouto isn’t really someone who ever writes, but like I said he is a hopeless romantic. One way he finds to cope with his new and foreign feelings is by writing sappy poetry inspired by or even for you. They’re actually not too bad, but there’s not a chance in hell that he would ever let you see them. Sometimes he’s so embarrassed to have done it that it’s incinerated on sight

I think Deku and him would be good, close friends, more so than what the series portrays. I like to think they’re besties and im putting that here because im selfish and love their dynamic. Anyways, Shouto would nervously approach Deku and ask for his thoughts on his poems, wondering if you would appreciate them or find him strange for writing about you in such a manner

After months of hiding away and suddenly growing distant, he would finally decide that if he gets rejected, it’s at least better than living out his dreams through fantasies in the solitude of his own imagination. He would come out and say that he loved you to your face, and then should you reciprocate become a shy and nervous mess who can’t help but shudder at the sudden fluttering in his stomach

Shouto actually really likes to go out on dates! He prefers to take a gentlemanly approach to your outings, and growing up frequently attending formal settings is more than comfortable with going out to whatever high end event your heart may desire

Date nights are just for the two of you, and provide for him confirmation that you’re his and nobody else’s; he’s the only one who gets to take you out and spoil you, the only one you will get ready for and the only one who will be there still at the end of the night to hold you tight

Not only that, but you have the opportunity to truly catch up and cast any other responsibilities to the side for a while. All that matters right now is the undeniable bond between the two of you, even if it’s only for a while. No matter how far apart you are, it can’t be broken by any amount of distance

Literally tell him to stop bringing you flowers; because of his mother, he’s always been particularly fond of them and their meaning, spending far too much time researching the symbolic truth behind every petal, and giving them to you for no special reason at all… far too frequently. This man is literally smothering you in carefully planned, sweet gestures

Please be patient with him. Afraid of losing you, he would actively try to change himself for the better so that he can become the person that he needs from you, since it’s only fair. He’s insecure about his seemingly cold demeanor, and worries that you may leave him for someone who isn’t afraid to reach out when they’re needing help, someone who isn’t broken and can take care of themselves without relying on you

This only feeds into his jealousy. Depending on the situation, he would most likely react one of two ways. If someone is hitting on you out of the blue, being rude and obnoxious, he would (again) be similar to Bakugou in that he’s immediately provoked and won’t hesitate to throw punches without a single bit of remorse. If you have a relationship with someone he doesn’t like or feels threatened by, then he will try to ignore it despite the way it nags him day and night, spending his free hours sulking over it; yet not bothering to speak out, afraid he will take things too far and accuse you or someone else of things that aren’t there

Help teach him that there are levels of conversation, let him know it’s okay to argue and disagree sometimes. When commiting to a serious relationship with Shouto, it will undoubtedly benefit you to show him how to have a healthy discussion from opposing perspectives without becoming heated. He doesn’t want to be the way that he is… he knows no other ways, though

Once he gets over the initial shock of being with you, he really doesn’t mind PDA. He’s not confident, but sure as hell not an ashamed person, either. He doesn’t mind to hold your hand in public or give you a chaste kiss on your forehead, perhaps even letting you rest your head on his shoulder

He would obviously wait a little before considering that you meet his family, that being a serious commitment. Him doing this definitely symbolizes his intense dedication to you and desire to stay with you for a long while. It’s a big step for him given their relationships, so stick it through with him and offer him support

He’s definitely spoken about you to his siblings and mother, though. Further into your relationship he won’t hesitate to openly gush about you and the ways you make him feel things he never has before, and how he didn’t know feelings this intense were possible when it came to others; it’s unlike anything he ever expected, feeling as if his life is better than any artistic interpretation of romance

I’m only gonna say this once so listen up. He is a Todoroki. He likes to feel as if he’s in control and protecting you, so one of his favorite things is to totally cage you with his body, so that the only thing keeping you shielded from the outside world is him and his loving embrace. Would absolutely randomly pick you up just to watch you squeal and jokingly try to push him away from you all while giggling as your face flushes pink

As for showing you off, he doesn’t really see that it’s necessary. What can I say, he’s a centered and simple guy. He’s hella proud, but it’s not important to him that everyone knows just how lucky he is. He doesn’t need an ego boost, not when he’s got you to cherish. All that matters is at the end of the day he’s got you to himself

A great listener! Not because he doesn’t talk, he’s actually very engaged in your conversations. Shouto just genuinely appreciates all that you have to say and wants to know every detail you have to spare, often times wondering what the world is like from your perspective

Not too fond of pet names at first, but if you insist on it and start making cute nicknames for him he’ll cave in and do the same for you, eventually sometimes stuttering when he uses your real name because it’s become so foreign to him. Always bringing you up in conversations as ‘pumpkin’ or something personal to you, and then feeling the heat rush to his face when he realizes it

 Shouto is the type to want to move in together very soon; mans is committed for the long haul. Just for fun, would draw out floor plans with you and discuss the features your future home would have, with every intention of making every detail you offhandedly mention a reality

He loves it when you kiss his scar I don’t make the rules that’s just how it is. He wants nothing more than to be smothered by you in love and affection, and your gentle pecks among his sensitive feature that represent so much horridness in his life are something that he lives for

Oh. He’s really good at giving massages.

»»————-　♡　————-«« Like these hcs? Find the same prompt for:

hawks.

bakugou.

aizawa.

kirishima.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜 

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​ @pomjompish​ @writerxinthedark​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.                                                        

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”  

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.  

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.  

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.  

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

[moonlightflower21]

Gone

A/N: 100% inspired by a TV show, bonus points if you guess which one.

angst, this time with leo 💙

there is slight mention of death involved, just a warning. 

and also, not sure if this is good. kinda wrote it on a whim so excuse any errors. i’ll fix them later. enjoy for now :)

The night air was silent, Leo held his baby in one hand gently rocking him to sleep. It had been a painful month without you. Learning of your disappearance, your passing had left such a big hole in his heart. He couldn't help but feel bitterness at the whole situation. You had left them in New York while you travelled abroad for emergencies. He begged you to tell him but you remained silent, compromising to tell the whole truth for when you returned.

But you never did, the tragic news reached them and it had all changed. For the better or for the worse, he didn't know. The wind felt cooling on his cheeks, taking a solid breath out watching the leaves twirl in the gentle breeze. It felt nice to be out, after being confined in the lair. His sapphire eyes gazed down upon the small bundle wrapped up tight in his arms and Leo felt a stab in his heart. Everyday when he would awake, he could see you in his son. When he would fall asleep, your face would be there behind his closed eyes. He couldn't seem to catch a break anywhere. And there was only so much he could take in before he broke down. As the leader, he refused to show his family what he was going through. He stopped attending patrols, going every other week. And when he would go, intense fighting and while the rest of his brothers would leave after a long night he would continue to patrol the city. Hoping he could catch you somewhere even though deep down he knew he never would be able to. Fate was a cruel game.

Leo was snapped out of trance, hearing a thump on the ground behind him. Protectively, he grabbed a katana from the case and held it forwards while the other hand curled protectively over his baby. But his stance relaxed when the shadow looked very familiar, one of his brothers. The light shone on the red mask and Leo placed away his blade, adjusting the blanket on his son before settling his irises on the red brute. "What brings you here?" He spoke softly, and Raph held an envelope coming closer.

"It's Y/N's, the envelope you've been waitin' for..." when Raph had said that, Leo felt his blood psychically turn to ice in his body. The letter that never came.

With a shaky hand, Leo raised an eyebrow and gently took ahold of the letter wrapped in white envelope and a stamp. "I figure ya want some space, let me take 'im instead" Raph spoke softly in front of his brother, eyes upon the small baby boy. Leo looked up and slowly nodded, looking at his child. His peaceful face brought some calm to the storm in Leo's head. Not a word was said, gingerly placing his son in the arms of the red brute.

Raphael looked at Leo, heart wavering in the slightest. Never before had he seen his brother so... fragile. So close to teetering off the edge had it not been for his responsibilities keeping him grounded. Learning off your passing had been so difficult to comprehend, especially since they weren't even in the same country as you. But it had been the most heart wrenching for Leo, Raph could see the internal battle he went through everyday. He only wished Leo would let him in, but he knew what it felt like not being able to express your emotions. Hell, he was the president of the club.

"Ya know where I am if ya need me" Raph whispered, his hands cradling his nephew close to his chest. Cerulean irises glazed over his own amber ones, the blank expression on the eldest turtle formed into a knowing look. No words needed to be said, he understood. I know, thank you brother.

Turning around, Raph spared one last glance at his leader. Leo smiled back, watching his brother and his son go back home. Safe and sound. Leo looked down, the letter felt so heavy in his hand. His heart felt like it was being constricted no matter how many gulps of air he took in his system. He found a deserted park, sitting gingerly on one of the swings. A part of him didn't want to envelope, fearing what would be in its contents. But if he didn't open it now, he never would.

Dearest Leonardo, he read first. It was definitely your letter and his heart stung recognising your handwriting.

Since I have been abroad, I have missed both you and our baby so much. As much as it pains me, there have been certain events which have compelled me to extend the travel. There are some things that you may not know of me quite yet, you'll uncover all the secrets soon. I promise. I hated how I had to leave without a word to you or to our son. God, sometimes it feels as though the world is an unfriendly and sinister place. But you taught me to believe that there is more good in it than bad. All I had to do was look hard enough. And I'm glad I did, it landed me to you. I hope to have you and our baby in my arms soon, my darling; but in case this letter arrives before my return, know that I love you. I love you both beyond words could ever describe. It fills me with pride and happiness to know that, no matter what happens in this life, you will take care of your family with kindness, and bravery and selflessness as you always have. And remember one thing my love, and never forget it: that no matter where we are, know that as long as you have our son and your brothers, you have your family and you are home.

Forever yours, Y/N.

His hands were shaking, nearing to the letter. He bit his lip harshly to prevent anything falling down his cheeks but they fell at their own accord. The roar of thunder was heard faintly in the distant, and Leo could feel the droplets of rain beginning to pitter down on his body; knowing it was important to find some shelter but he couldn't bring himself to move.

A sense of yearning desire swirled deep within his stomach to have you back in his arms, to be a whole family once more. He looked up, noticing how the moon looked full as ever sitting in the sky even with a the raindrops falling around him. It shone a beautiful moonlight glow on the ground in front of his feet. Tears rapidly spilled from his ocean blues, the letter provided him with a comfort deep within his soul. Touching his heart in such a way, oddly as though you sat right beside him. His eyes drifted to the moon once more, the corners of his lips tilting upwards.

It was such a crazy wild thing. You taught him that while love can be an amazing thing to experience and a beautiful thing to have it can also have him up at some ungodly hour of the night, sobbing over how much more pain he could mentally take in. He always thought people were so dramatic with heartbreaks, but he hadn't ever expected to be on the receiving line for one. All the anger, sadness, frustration, hurt, stress came in floods. Sometimes they'd spare his mind and heart, but often times they would linger for hours and hours. In his case, it was different. Because you were gone and you were never coming back. He had to mourn over your absence whilst looking over his child to make sure he was okay. And yet, he couldn't ever blame you. Because you never wished for this. His mind haunted him with the what if's and the if only's. Because he failed the very thing he swore he would always do; protect you.

"I-I love you too, Y/N. Always" he whispered out loud, eyes glued to the sky hoping that wherever you were you could hear him. The rain was becoming heavier, drenching him to his very core and he knew he would wake up with the worst flu tomorrow but he couldn't bring himself to move. Sitting here, in the deserted park, felt like he almost could reach you. The wall protecting him from the torture of his own emotions had shattered deep within him and he was unable to relieve himself of the terrible heartache. If only he could embrace you once more, tell you how much you meant to him, kiss you.... He would never be able to do that anymore.

Sometimes alternative paths lead to different destinations, he wondered how life would be if you hadn't travelled abroad. If only you had stayed with him in New York, raising your family together. Whatever the matter, you had left so urgently. He didn't know what the secret he would have to uncover would be, and he didn't know if he was strong enough to do it. But your words... your letter had provided him with motivation to continue. He shivered slightly with the wind breezing through his body, dancing with the ends of his mask. It felt like you were near, unable to reach out but close by. He hoped you were. For the first time in a long time, he could smile and breathe. The dull pain in his chest would never fully go away but that was okay, baby steps at a time.

His eyes closed, feeling the rain trickle down his body while the wind blew against his skin. He made peace with the fact that you were gone. You left so much behind. To uncover, to find out. But he would unveil those in due time, for now his child was the main priority. He smiled to the sky, hoping that you could see. Hoping that wherever your soul was, you were happy and content. And thanking you for the much needed letter in this time of darkness.

[cherubchoirs]

akira telling yaldy to stop once he tries to start impersonating goro is cool n all but im thinkin abt what if. thats just the last straw for akira. like he just fucking snaps. its literally the worst possible thing that could happen to goro (being a puppet/fake/controlled) and goes against everything goro thought and akiras just like ykno what? no. fuck this. fuck you. this is the kid who shot god in the head, i think hed deffo be reckless n angry enough to draw a line

(reference to this!)

FAIR ENOUGH, i suppose i was just really thinking of it from the pov of bad end akira, who obviously has MUCH less free will and rebellious spirit than canon akira does - it’s very difficult for him to think for himself, he has at best very scattered and broken memories (goro is someone he feels close to but he has no context for that connection), and he is incredibly loyal to yaldabaoth, believing himself to be his own creation. so in that situation, he only understands that this is deeply wrong and it disturbs him heavily, but he doesn’t have the context of understanding just how cruel this is to someone like goro in particular. he feels it’s wrong to take someone’s self-direction like that and he knows for some reason it bothers him more intensely than it would for someone else, but he doesn’t remember goro and goro’s life or views, so he doesn’t have that driving point to catalyze the absolute rage something like that would in canon akira. like. he has enough emotional memory for this to make him upset and angry with his father, but his specific memories of goro are locked away where he has little access to them. HOWEVER, if his memories were sparked like they sometimes are, he could absolutely be driven to rebel against yaldabaoth, but i imagine he would be so incredibly upset and his mind still so scrambled that the effort would be overly frenzied. there would be no plans, no grand uprising to scale, just a broken boy that’s had the last piece of his heart torn out because this is his fault, goro was destroyed and remade into a doll for his “sake”, and he would have very little control over his actions at that point - he’s compelled forward only by grief and anger, but i’m not sure how effective he would be. he no longer has his heart in this case, he can’t summon his personas (particularly arsene/satanael) so he wouldn’t be able to defeat yaldabaoth no matter what he tried. if it did reach that point however, i feel their connection would be irreparably torn, akira would no longer be loyal and subservient to yaldabaoth and would fight him every step of the way...it would honestly be miserable for both of them sdfjhdfg

[youredoingkinwrong]

Hii uh I think I might kin a few characters but there's just. So much information on the internet and you seem to be really educated on the history of kin. So like, how can I know I'm for real? Is it necessary to have memories? Is it proper to say "in my canon?" But mainly how do I know km not fake and my mind is playing tricks on me?

Sorry just read your about saying not to ask you if you think I'm valid and I guess thats what I did. Sorryyyy. I'm just really lost and there's so much in the internet you're literally the most knowledgeable person I've found in the past hour

Sorry also the last two asks Anna also sorry for apologizing so much. But let me correct myself. I realised newly what otherkin is, and while some of it immediately resonated with me and some characters I've known forever, im still new to the culture of otherkin

Hi anon! I am really, really sorry about the wait on getting these asks answered. Like I’ve said before, my work schedule kind of sucks, and I don’t usually have a lot of time to hope onto the computer and answer asks. I could do it on my phone, but I feel like it’s easier for me to focus when I’m on my laptop. 

That being said, let’s get into it, shall we?

I don’t think this necessarily counts as you asking me if you’re valid or not. You’re asking for help discerning whether or not your mind is playing tricks on you, because this is new to you (or at least, applying the concept of being ‘kin to yourself is new), and it can be very scary! There’s no need to apologize for reaching out to someone who might be able to help.

As for “is your mind playing tricks on you”... there is no way for me to personally confirm whether or not you’re ‘kin. There’s not really a set list of requirements for being other- and fictionkin, aside from “the identity is not voluntary” and “you identify as, not with”. I can’t give you a checklist that you can peruse through and reach a solid, undoubtable conclusion regarding your potential nonhuman identity. I would if I could! 

But our experiences as a community are so varied that there really is no one way to be ‘kin, so there’s no one way to know for sure. That’s, personally, why I do love being alterhuman - I think there’s something beautiful about looking inside yourself for the answers.

The advice I can offer you is to take a deep breath and maybe take a step back. There’s no rush to know anything right away. You’re got your whole life to figure it out. It sounds like you had some sort of click when first learning about ‘kin, and I think that’s absolutely worth looking into, but keep in mind that questioning can take months or even years. Sometimes it doesn’t - some of my strongest kintypes i just knew, and hardly questioned at all - but especially in the beggining, when you’re new to this all, I think it’s worth it to take your time. Meditate on it, or if you can’t meditate, keep some kind of journal regarding your thoughts and feelings - I recommend a physical journal, one you can write in with a pen or pencil, but if that’s unavailable then perhaps a sideblog or a word document would do as well. 

For the record - no, you don’t have to have memories to know you’re ‘kin. People are otherkin for a multitude of reasons, and not all of us have believe our kintypes are the result of a past life, so of course some ‘kin don’t have memories. That doesn’t make their identity any lesser than anyone else’s. And not everyone has canons, much for the same reason! It’s definitely common, and I have quite a few canons that I like to talk about, but it’s not exactly required on the curriculum here. 

Knowing that you’re ‘kin is an intense process. it involves getting to know yourself, which some might say is a very difficult thing to do. Internal discernment can be tough to understand at first, but once you get the hang of it, it can be a nice feeling. And at the end of the day, if you realize that you’re not ‘kin after thinking that you were, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. 

If you need more help or have any more questions to ask, please do so! I’ll try to answer as quickly as I can.

[otomates-a]

@astracola sent ,          ❝   ———   i kno azamuku was in the big ask but now im in my emotions and i'm genuinely curious as to how you'll write it PLEASE azamuku :weh:

               He’s been biting his tongue, both figuratively and literally, for quite a while now. He’s not sure how obvious it is how dedicated he’d become to avoiding making eye contact with the boy sitting before him for the past hour or so, but he hopes it can be masked as intense concentration as he works on the final touches for his makeup. It’s not as if he’d ever been the talkative type to begin with, but  ...  there’s a stark different with him when it comes to being silent and feeling bashful. It’s just that few can tell the difference. Not that his frustration is entirely washed away by those feelings. Getting fake eyelashes onto Muku had proven the most difficult part of this process since he’d been cast for this role : he blinked too much and got fidgety when he got too close to his eyes, but  ...  if anything, it gave him an excuse to examine him when they were this close to one-another. Without being put under scrutiny for it, anyways.

               He really doesn’t want to get distracted by his own thoughts, but as he works between eyelash glue and a barely willing participant to get the first set of lashes on, he can’t help taking a moment to pause and look over the features of the boy  ...  or, well, his boyfriend, he supposes. Yuki’s handiwork with the costumes was on point as always, but  ...  he tries to ignore the heat rising in his face, taking in a breath before moving forward, afraid Muku would notice his pause and ruin his work by opening his eyes.

               Like clockwork, he hears a quiet whine of disapproval as he finally manages to get the second set of lashes to lay finely along his eye. He lets out a sigh of his own, silently making it known that if he ruins them again, he’s going to throw a fit. Or at least as much of one as someone like him is willing. That seems to work, at least, because the only remnants of his pout when he opens his eyes and looks up at him again is the frown he has on his lips. Sakisaka has always been dedicated to his craft, it’s not as if he’s surprised he wouldn’t actually put up a fight, but... Azami freezes when he sees his face all the same, setting his jaw at the rush of butterflies that rush through his chest. Jesus, he’s beautiful.

               “  ...  it’s not that bad,”  he murmurs, his voice nothing short of choked out from him. If his expression, for what little it was, didn’t give away that he was flustered, that sure did. Absently, he raises a finger to thumb at his nose, hoping to whatever’s out there that his cheeks aren’t actually pink, but judging by the somewhat hopeful gaze he’s met with, he’s almost certain his thoughts are on  ...  full display. Pressing his lips together, he clears his throat and trips over himself as he moves to grab the hair extension resting beside his makeup station. He’s never been so glad to step behind a person in his life, although they can still see each other by looking into the mirror. He avoids this problem by not doing that.

               “You  ...  make a good princess.”  His voice is still quiet as he starts working with his hair, hopeful he can’t feel his fingers shaking. Not that his voice isn’t.  “Maybe you don’t want to hear that.”  He’s always going on about being prince-like. Not that he’d ever say it aloud without combusting, but he doesn’t really think Muku has many limits in that area. He’s never met someone so close to being out of a fairytale in his life. In the back of his mind, he knows even Sakyo would tease him for believing as much about someone.  “But you...”  His voice trails off, hands stilling with the extensions only half braided in. He stares down at them, where his hair meets the fake braid and he feels his confidence collapsing in on itself.  “You’re pretty, Muku.”

               He’s already inwardly kicking himself. Maybe he should’ve said handsome or ethereal or  --  it doesn’t really matter now, right? He dares a glance up at the mirror and when he sees him staring back he starts to tense. Before he can say anything, Muku’s hand reaches up behind him and loops around his neck, pulling him forward so that he’s leaning over him from behind the seat. It’s a bit awkward, until he feels the other boy’s lips press against his nose. Every part of his body goes rigid, with him jerking himself away so quickly that he completely forgets about the extensions in hand.

               “Wh----wh--!!”  His entire face feels like it’s on fire when he catches himself from tumbling backwards entirely, just barely managing to regain his balance. Muku is already facing him turned awkwardly in the chair, fighting against Yuki’s lavish dress and his unfinished hair styling to clasp his hands together and apologize profusely, but even still there’s an air of confidence there that hadn’t always been there before. He’s not sorry at all! Azami keeps opening and closing his mouth, trying and failing miserably to find something to say, but instead halfhearted, humiliating noises are all that comes out of his mouth. He’s not sure how long it stays like that, with Muku fighting between apologies and soft laughter while he attempts to find some form of competence, but it is quite a while.

               “Le-...”  Azami’s eyes tear up a bit : it’s made perfectly clear by his expression that he’s not upset, but he is embarrassed.  “Lewd!! That’s inappropriate!!”  With his voice humiliatingly higher than normal, he storms forward and rests his hands on Muku’s shoulders, forcing him to sit forward once more so that he can hastily finish working on his extensions. Let him out of here!! Let him out!!  “Y-you can’t just steal...”  He finishes his work, although it’s certainly not his best, and steps back. For a moment, he glances up and sees that the boy in question seems to have become genuinely concerned, though. Maybe he is too reactive... Reaching a hand up to clutch against his chest, trying to remain oblivious to the fast beating of his own heart, he glances to the side, shyly.  “S-sorry,”  he manages, his voice cracking.  “I’m just embarrassed.”  That, at least  ...  seems to get him a fond smile in return.

[mothercetrion]

Safety

Summary:  A walk in the woods and a mild injury leads to a newfound closeness.

Characters: Erron Black, Kotal Kahn 

Word Count: 2012

Request: “How about some Kotalblack where, while out in the wilderness, Erron gets a leg injury. Nothing major, just enough to make walking difficult. Basically, I just want a fic where Koyal sweetly carries Erron around the entire time.” - anonymous

this is for you anon!! im sorry its many months late. i feel bad but it’s here!!! enjoy :) warning for really mild injury [crossposted to AO3]

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“Thank you for offering to walk with me this evening, Erron.”

“Ain’t anythin’ big, Kotal. Just like the extra time with ya… I know you’re busy a lot.”

Kotal gently squeezed at Erron’s hand as they stepped over a fallen tree. “I am. That is why I am extra glad that you are here.”

Beneath Erron’s bandana, he was smiling.

The two of them had decided to embark on Kotal’s weekly walk in the Outworld jungle together one evening. It was the first time that both Kotal and Erron were free; endless new alliances between Outworld and other realms led to Kotal being a very busy man. He had little time to spend with his love.

Fortunately, their schedules had cleared up, and both of them were more than glad to walk together.

“Have you kept busy?” Kotal asked as they walked through a clearing.

“Here and there, making errands. Spending more time in Earthrealm than I would like to.” Erron sighed deeply. “Lots of Special Forces stuff. Lots of Cage and Cage Jr.”

Kotal chuckled to himself. “Those two are often a handful. A good amount of jokes between them.”

“Too many. They’re why I like it here more.” Erron looked up to Kotal. “Well, that, and… you’re here.”

Kotal smiled. He was glad that Erron was becoming more open with his compliments. It had taken a while of going out for Erron to drop his worries of it ending as quickly as it had started. It had been eons since Erron had been in a steady relationship (if he had ever been in one at all); he wasn’t used to the stability. Kotal was more than happy to hear him be more open.

They continued to walk for a while longer before stopping in a vast clearing of grass and trees. Kotal sat on the ground next to a tree and patted the ground next to him, and Erron sat down next to him, leaning back against the tree with a content sigh.

It was nice for them to be able to just take a break. Their lives had been so hectic for so long. They hadn’t even really a chance to breathe in days. It was nice to them to just sit in serenity, with one another and no one else to bother them. It was nice.

Erron leaned his head to rest on the side of Kotal’s arm. He wasn’t tall enough to reach his shoulder. “I’m glad that things are easing up.”

“As am I.” Kotal reached over a hand and placed it on Erron’s knee. “Perhaps you can finally spend more than a day in Outworld… We can just be with one another, like right now. Nothing sounds as blissful.”

Erron tugged at his bandana and pulled it off, and a small smile was on his face. “I would really like that… I really would.”

Kotal leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. Erron lifted his head to kiss along his jaw, then the two met halfway and kissed properly. They pulled away quickly and smiled at one another, then they both leaned against the tree and rested their eyes. They had no intention of sleeping, but… it was so peaceful among those trees. Closing your eyes was the greatest way to take it in.

After a while, Erron moved to stand up with a grunt. “Hope you don’t mind… Need to use the restroom real quick,” he said quietly.

Kotal nodded with a smile. “Of course not, my sun. I understand.”

Erron walked off behind some bushes a good distance away from Kotal. Kotal continued to enjoy the peacefulness of the area around him while Erron was occupied. He adored nature, if he were to be honest. If he were stressed or needed some time to himself, he could step into nature for a while and just… take it all in. Breathe in the scent of the grass and the leaves, listen to the chirp of Outworldian birds, and perhaps even swim in a creek or lake or pond if he were to travel deep enough. He always took time to dedicate himself, his mind and his body, to the natural world around him.

His dedication was interrupted when he heard the snapping of several branches, followed by a very loud, “Fuck!”

Kotal immediately rose to his feet and hurried over to where Erron was located, being careful so he didn’t disturb him if he was still using the restroom. Much to his surprise, he saw Erron laying on the ground, his left foot stuck in a deep hole. He looked vastly uncomfortable and in pain… and pissed.

“These fuckin’ animals in these woods, diggin’ damn holes,” he grumbled. He looked up at Kotal. “I’m fine, honey. Just… Just fell down.”

“Do you need help getting up?” Kotal asked, squatting down so Erron did not have to strain his neck to see him. “You appear to be in pain.”

“My ankle’s hurtin’ but I doubt it’s anything bad.” Erron lifted his torso up so he was sitting on the ground, and he went to pull his leg from the hole but grunted in pain. He pushed past it and pulled it completely out of the hole, gritting his teeth and crying out. “Fuck… That hurt.”

“Let me assist you.” Kotal rose to his feet and grabbed at Erron’s arms, pulling him to his feet and helping him stand. Putting even a little weight on his foot caused Erron to wince, and Kotal immediately lifted him up by his elbows. “You are wounded. Sit down for a moment.”

He ushered Erron back over to the tree and helped him sit down, and he knelt in front of him and gently grabbed as his left foot. He went to remove Erron’s boot and stopped when the gunslinger winced. “I apologize… I must remove it to make sure that it is not broken,” he said quietly, offering Erron an encouraging smile. “I hate that it is distressing you.”

“It’s fine… No need to make a big fuss. It’s probably just sprained,” Erron replied hurriedly. “Just pull it off. I’ll be fine.”

Without much more of a warning, Kotal pulled the boot completely off of his foot and tossed it to the side. Erron could not help but cry out loudly, and he covered his mouth with his hand to hide his anguish. Kotal quietly apologized and removed his sock, investigating his ankle with furrowed brows. It was already beginning to swell, but it wasn’t severely disfigured.

“You were right. I believe it is sprained,” Kotal said quietly, “but it is a bad sprain nonetheless. It must be immobilized for a few days. Therefore… you cannot make the walk back home.”

Erron shook his head as Kotal worked to put his sock and shoe back on. “I’m making the walk. It just needs… It needs to be worked out. A little weight won’t kill it.”

Kotal looked up at him with a faint smile. “You are not a little man, my sun,” he teased.

Erron rolled his eyes and grabbed onto Kotal’s arm, pulling himself onto his good foot. “I promise, honey, I’ll be okay walking. You can hold my hand in case I fall, if that makes you feel any better.”

That’s exactly what Kotal did. Gripping tightly onto his hand, Kotal led Erron through the woods, allowing him to walk slowly as to not injure his ankle any further. Every step for Erron was painful, as evidenced by him tightening his hold on Kotal’s hand every time his foot touched the ground, in addition to his occasional whimper.

After nearly ten minutes of struggling, Kotal finally stepped in front of Erron and held out a hand to him, stopping him in place. “My sun, please stop. I cannot stand to see you hurt yourself further.”

Erron looked up at Kotal with furrowed brows. “I’m fine, Kotal. We’re gonna go home, and I’ll elevate it and ice it and everything. Swear on it.”

“I know you will,” Kotal said, “but you have been struggling to walk since we began our trek home. I know you are in pain.”

Before Erron could protest, Kotal leaned down and lifted Erron into his arms by his legs, settling him in his arms bridal style so he was comfortable. Erron immediately began pushing against his chest, trying to fight his way down. “Kotal, put me down. I can walk on my—”

“You are not allowed to walk until you rest your ankle,” Kotal said seriously. “Until then, I will carry you. Do not fight this.”

Erron let his head fall back as he groaned. But he didn’t complain further as Kotal began to carry him through the woods, walking gently as to not hurt his ankle. Erron eventually rested his head against his shoulder, taking in the scenery around them as they went on their way.

After a while, Erron closed his eyes and yawned heavily. Kotal looked at him and chuckled. “Are you tired?”

“You’re so warm,” Erron admitted, keeping his eyes closed, “and I ain’t having to walk… I ain’t gonna fall asleep though.”

“You’ve been very busy lately. I know you are exhausted, no matter what you say.” Kotal looked back to the pathway with a smile. “If you sleep, that is fine. I will take care of you upon our return.”

“I might catch a wink or two… if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for Kotal to look down and see Erron dozed off against his arm. For once, he did not look intense or on edge or anything. He looked… peaceful. Serene. Relaxed. More handsome than ever. 

Kotal walked even more slowly to be sure that Erron got his proper rest. He cared very deeply about the man he loved; every ounce of him wanted him to be safe and happy. Never in his life did he love a man so strongly. He wondered how he became so lucky as to have someone like him in his life.

Soon enough, Kotal had carried Erron completely through the woods and back to their living quarters. Upon entering their shared room, Kotal placed Erron down on their bed as gently as he could manage. He kneeled next to the bed and began removing his boot a second time, working carefully as to not disturb his ankle. 

But Erron was awakened just as his sock slipped off of his foot. He grimaced slightly and looked over at Kotal, and he smiled softly. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hello.” Kotal turned his ankle and took note of its increased swelling. “I apologize for waking you. How do you feel?”

“Sore,” Erron replied truthfully. “Maybe, just maybe, I should’ve listened to you.”

Kotal let out a deep chuckle. “If only.” He gently rolled his ankle over and inspected it fully. “I still believe it is a bad sprain. I worry that my aid will not be enough to allow it to properly heal. You may need a medic.”

Erron shook his head hurriedly. “Not necessary. A few days of rest and ice will do me fine.”

Kotal lifted a brow in concern. “If you are sure, then I will not push it. But you must rest it. Promise me.”

Erron reached forward a hand towards Kotal. “Shake on it. You have my word.”

Kotal grabbed his hand and shook it gently. “Good. If you break your promise, I will not be pleased,” Kotal warned. Anyone could hear the joke in his voice.

Erron raised his hands. “Oh no, I’ll be in trouble if I break my promise? Scary,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Kotal laughed loudly then. He climbed to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing Erron’s hand. “I am glad that you are well, my sun. I must admit that I was worried.”

“No need to be.” Erron waved his free hand. “I’ve hurt myself worse. I, um… I appreciate it though. It means a lot.”

Kotal smiled at him. “Anytime, Erron.”