#but also it is making my goddamn stomach churn fuck me

[sigmastolen]

"the conductor said you can rotate parts if you want, decide amongst yourselves"

ACHIEVEMENT: NEW ANXIETY UNLOCKED

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Sorry this took so long. I moved city and pretty much have a new life. Still obsessed with Rust, though, so some shit sticks

Warnings: 18+, talk of war, alcohol, drugs, sex work, talks of past domestic violence, smut, just genuine misery between the two of them

America venerates suffering, that's what Travis had always told Rust. Sacrifice isn't pure if it isn't coated in a blood so red and so hot that your family can smear over their words, for centuries to come, excusing their comfort, their indulgence, their ignorance. They are afforded that comfort off of slaughter beyond their imagining. At least, that's what had happened after 'nam. A hero for his fucking country was the propaganda they had fed Travis; squash the bug of communism and, along with it, massacre millions of innocents, because what is America without its sons who are willing to fight for it.? Yeah, a fucking hero for a father, who's night terrors kept both of them up at night and who kept his engraved lighter saying High Speed Low Drag in his hunting jacket, always. That same lighter that Rust had used to light his first cigarette: rolled up flimsily in newspaper with the leftover tobacco and tufts of filter that he'd scraped from Travis' cigarette butts. The same lighter that Cassandra is now using to light her Marlboro Gold, hands shaking,

'Rust. That's all I get, huh? Not even a fucking surname?!' she spits, through a shaky exhale.

'I ain't gonna give you my surname. The less you know about me, the better,' Rust says back, his stoic demeanour attempting to mask that churning in his stomach. One that he has realised isn't for him but for Cassandra.

'Is Rust even your actual name?'

'You want a fuckin' social security number, too?' Rust drawls dryly.

'Don't you-Don't,' Cassandra's head shoots up from where it's been in her hands, her shaking tone now gaining a momentum of uncontrollable anger, 'Jesus-fuck. You men are all the fucking same. I-I ain't staying in this fucking place, anymore. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck every goddamn person in this wasteland of a place!'

Rust regards her with an even look,

'You ain't going anywhere. Not tonight. You ain't in the right state.'

'You ain't my daddy, motherfucker.'

'Goddamn right, I ain't but I'm also the only person you have who doesn't want to take advantage of you. So, hedge your bets tomorrow, baby, but tonight you're stayin' here,' Rust's voice is lapidary, stopping Cassandra in her tracks as she starts to shove clothes and books into her duffel bag.

'I said: you ain't my daddy and you sure as hell ain't keeping me in a place where I don't want to be,' Cassandra says in a tone equally as gelid, throwing her duffel bag over her shoulder. That elegant, fine-boned shoulder tinged with its bronzed hue; some of the love bites that Rust had left a few nights ago decorating Cassandra's collarbone. Rust fears that the sentiment festering under his skin is nostalgia. A nostalgia that scares him and, then, makes him cruel,

'No, Cassandra. I ain't your daddy cause all he did for you was get heavy handed with you and cut you up with his empty liquor bottles when he really wanted to teach you about mouthin' off at him.'

The colour drains from Cassandra's face,

'How the fuck do you know about that?' a sudden spark of spite reaches her as she sneers, 'Pull my file in your spare time, huh?'

Rust grabs her arm and yanks up her tank top, ignoring her yelp. He nods to the fine, white line along her ribcage,

'I ain't a fuckin' idiot, Cassandra. Skateboardin' fall, my ass,' Rust snarls, holding her ribcage with a calloused hand. Cassandra viciously claws at his hand, tears threatening to spill from her eyes,

'Get off! Get the fuck off!' and Rusts lets her go cause in that moment, the smooth, sultry cadence made slightly husky from after-sex cigarettes reverts back to the pleading of a little girl. Cassandra's words are devoid of any real bite, Rust notes. All that rage has been stripped away and all that she is left with is the panic of a little girl's voice turning into burning sobs in her throat; the stale cookies in her stomach turning sour from terror. There's that wide eyed looked, too. He can see it as Cassandra hastily covers herself back up and rearranges the duffel bag back onto her shoulder.

'Fuck you, Rust,' she says his name like it's a poison that she needs to spit from her mouth before it corrodes the flesh into a pulpy mess. Corrosion. Rust. That's what he is, it's what he does because sometimes corrosion is needed to get to the bone of things; to see what everyone else in too caught up in their delusions or affectations about fucking Natural Law to truly comprehend.

'Don't you fu-Cassandra!' Rust's voice boils up from his chest in a rough bark, watching Cassandra explode out of the trailer door, almost stumble down the rusted metal steps and collapse into the red dirt. He thinks he can't get any angrier until he realises that she's pocketed the keys to his Harley, on her way out, and sees her bolt over to where it's parked, behind the trailer. A cloud of dust rises up as the bike rumbles out of neutral and Cassandra desperately revs on the accelerator; her legs hardly off of the ground before the Harley tears away. In other circumstances, the dramatics of the exit would have made Rust scoff and chalk it up to youth's thirst for impact: the flurry of a scene. Not now. Not when this kid is tearing down a highway in a bike that doesn't have enough gas to make it to Liberty, let alone wherever the fuck Cassandra thinks she's headed. A kid, Rust thinks, A fuckin' kid that I've pulled into the abyss with me. Rust calls her a kid now but knows that when he finds her, he'll treat her like she's grown. A sentiment that propels him into his truck, cursing to himself as the engine splutters.

It doesn't take long to track Cassandra down; there's only one road from the trailer park that lead to the freeway. No doubt, where Cassandra is headed to. Ride fast and hard, and get the fuck out when the heat starts to sting: the classic cocktail of self-preservation cooked up by kids who've already been burned. There are too many of them down here, below that Mason-Dixie line. Rust would know. Fuck, if he hasn't spent his entire career on the force witnessing the aftermath. Drugs, abuses, assaults, homicides: you name it. The abuser becomes the abused; Nietzsche's infinite return has those poor kids falling flat on their faces into the nice shit storm of generational maladjustments that their parents left for them. Shattered dreams, skin sucked dry from mosquitos, teeth black and rotting from sweet tea, underneath that sticky southern sun. Rust wants to believe that it's an innate sense of duty towards these kids is why he's currently violating every Highway Code there is. And for part of him, it is. The other part, however, won't allow himself the comfort of what he knows is a lie. What started as pure sex appeal has started to morph into something deeper, messier.

The bike has even less gas than he thought as, the first Texaco that he sees, has Cassandra next to the pumps trying to wrench open the bike's gas lock. She wants to be caught, Rust knows, Wants me to chase after her, show her I give a shit. If she didn't, she would've gotten a hell of a lot more reckless. He watches her, almost with pity, as her pulls into the gas station and slows the truck to a halt, the breaks groaning with their lack of galvanisation. Rust shoves the car door open, his leather boots landing heavily on tepid asphalt,

'Get your ass over here,' his voice rough, as he strides over to Cassandra.

'I told you to get the fuck away from me,' she whips around, her fury making her abandon her previous task.

'Get in the fuckin' truck, Cassandra. I ain't doing the whole scorned boyfriend act for these nosey fuckers,' Rust deadpans, his ice blue gaze conveying to her just how fucking pissed he is.

'Did you hear me, motherfucker? I said to go back to your junkie biker brothers, find some hooker so that you can fuck out your half-baked emotional needs and leave me the hell alone,' Cassandra says with such venom dripping from her mouth that she almost fully means it; warm milk out of hand, she resorts to spite. Not fully, though: Rust can see the tears glazing her eyes and that's enough for him. A firm hand comes to grasp Cassandra's arm and put her in what is practically a headlock as Rust drags her to the truck. Cassandra's duffel bag slips off of her shoulder as Rust holds her firmly against his chest, bicep right up against the column of her throat. Some old man up from his pump, spit collecting at the corners of his mouth as he calls over,

'Everything alright over there?' Not from the area, Rust notes. Not solely due to the licence plate and milky arms but the slight wariness of his expression. A man unacquainted with the imperatives that the arrid terrain commands. The violence. Cassandra takes it upon herself to drop the unwanted attention as she chokes out,

'They don't teach you to mind your own fucking business in Iowa?!' the rage in her voice stemming from a deep humiliation in how she must look, Rust's arm tight against her neck. Rust takes in the man's mortification and grits into her ear,

'Shut the fuck up.'

He opens the truck door and shoves her in, slamming the door and heading over to the driver's side to catch her as she climbs out. Rust concedes her a heavy slap to the face before getting in, essentially crowding her back to the passenger's side. As he starts the ignition and pulls out of the gas station, Cassandra is eerily quiet, tears leaving hot tracks of salt and mascara on her cheeks. Rust debates on whether it's shame at getting caught or just pure desolation at, once again, finding herself completely fucked over, until he feels his jeans' waistband go slack. He feels the air hit that sweaty patch of back where the barrel of his .38 S&W was pressed and licks the inside of his cheek in an almost smirk. There she is, Rust thinks, knowing full well Cassandra's loathing of acquiescence as she points the gun at his temple, sweat curling his caramel hairs.

'Pull over or, I swear to God, I'll put your brains all over your goddamn car windows,' Cassandra's voice is firm but Rust sees her fingers trembling. Red. Her nails are lacquered the same colour as a Shirley Temple, poised on cool gun metal of the safety.

'You don't want to shoot me, Cass,' Rust says, his tone flat.

'Oh, I don't?' Cassandra scoffs.

'Nah, you wanna make a fuckin' scene so that I'll burst into tears and beg for your fuckin' forgiveness or some shit. That ain't gonna work on me, baby. I'm around too many pussies who ain't man enough to pull a fuckin' trigger, as it is. I can tell when someone's bluffin'. And you, Cass, I can sure as hell tell when you're bluffin'.'

'How are you so sure?'

Rust looks at a small trail leading off of the main road before sparing a sideways glance,

'That gun ain't even cocked.'

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls the hammer back,

'Happy?'

Rust steers the truck off of the road, onto the rocky country road, before stopping and turning to her,

'You wanna go? Go.'

Cassandra's gaze falters before she contrives it into that practiced indifference,

'You're kicking me out?' she says, her voice so fragile that Rust almost feels bad for putting her in this situation but tough shit: wisdom comes hard.

'Nah, just callin' your bluff. You got 30 seconds to go, if you want to,' Rust says, not even facing her but staring straight out ahead.

Cassandra stares at him, lowering the gun, and looks around helplessly. The tears come back, not when she looks at Rust's stony expression or the destitute surroundings, but when she looks at her duffel bag. All her life fitting into some beat up gym bag and, now, she's about to throw away the one thing that can protect her. A gun isn't shit compared to his hand on her ass and his fingerprints bruising her thighs; not to these fucking animals. Rust gives her the mercy of two minutes of silence before speaking,

'You ain't movin',' he says more as a statement than a question.

'Don't mock me,' Cassandra murmurs out.

'I ain't mockin' you.'

'You know that I ain't gonna go. I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to.'

'You can and you will, eventually.'

'I ain't sure, Cra-Rust. You ain't either.'

'Use Crash. I don't need you gettin' confused and fuckin' this up,' Rust says, gruffly.

'You sure that's it?'

'Am I sure 'what's' it?' irritation starting to creep into his tone.

'That the reason you don't want me using your real name is cause I'll jeopardise your cover.'

'I thought you were smarter than that, Cass.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' Cassandra suddenly straightens, her voice hard but still slightly tremulous.

'I thought you were smarter than to get your emotions mixed up with what is gonna keep your ass outta the crossfire.'

It's a low blow but it hits home. Cassandra looks down at her scraped knees, gravel and raw skin, before looking up again; her voice now a whisper,

'Do you feel sorry for me?'

Rust clenches his jaw, the simple juvenility of the question making him feel sick. He knows neither of them will be able to bear whatever tidal wave of sentiment is about to breach their carefully instated distance. The partial revelation of his true identity has already been more of an unmasking than he can stomach; especially to someone he cares so deeply for as Cassandra. Her knowledge of 'Rust' throws whatever the fuck they are doing with each other into something that goes beyond sex and protection, and Rust can begin to feel everything veering off track. He won't allow her to expose herself to him like this, not when he's already emotionally fucked her over so much, today. So, Rust finally turns to her and says,

'Take off your top.'

Cassandra falters, her voice still that hoarse whisper as she ask,

'What?'

Rust wills himself to turn his pity into scorn,

'Did I fuckin' stutter? Take off your top. Those shorts, too,' he says, his tone unnervingly even and made rough from his Camels. Cassandra stares at him for a moment before indulging him: shirt discarded first before she lifts her hips and awkwardly shimmies out of them. Rust notices her holding her side, her hand cradling the scar; something she's never really done until now. Not until Rust had forced her shame into the searing white light of recognition. He knows what Cassandra must be thinking, grouping him into that homogenous, male blob of ill-intent: her next job, her next dance, her next humiliation. He tries to pretend that it doesn't slightly tear him the fuck up when she looks at him with those eyes, now cold.

'What now?' Cassandra asks, sitting up with her spine long and upright, shoulders terse.

Rust pats his lap,

'Come here.'

'Rust, I-'

'I ain't ever remember sayin' you could call me Rust, Cass,' he says harshly, completely disregarding whatever appeal Cassandra's about to make over how to treat her. Pretty words that don't mean shit to Rust nor to this godforsaken part of the country. A place where women bring guns in their purses to hookups and there are wards for the babies born hooked onto opioids, has no use for floral, storybook sex. Here, it's fast and it's hard and it's painful and it's often paid for. Cassandra knows this type of sex, or rather its corruption. So, she shuts up and sits in Rust's lap; swallowing the bitter pill of docility.

'Move 'em to the side,' Rust taps the waistband of her panties with his knuckles. For a moment, a light tinge comes across Cassandra's collarbones at the crassness of the act. She hooks her fingers into the waistband, moving to pull them down, before Rust grabs her wrist,

'I say to take 'em off, Cass?'

'No,' Cassandra murmurs, trying to asses if Rust is pissed beyond belief or on some pretty loopy downers.

'So, you can hear me. I was thinkin' otherwise, given some of the shit you've managed to pull,' that dangerous mix of anger and worry begins to seep into Rust's tone. He can feel her wet heat through the lace of her panties; almost disappointed that she can get turned on by this shit. Old habits die hard, Rust thinks, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into his seat,

'Undo my belt.'

Cassandra stares at him, holding unflinching eye contact as she unbuckles him and unzips his fly. It's like a game of fucking chicken: which of them is willing to degrade the other more, for the sake of self-preservation. Rust exhales a slow stream of smoke watching Cassandra's thighs tremble from the exertion of holding her position. He quirks an eyebrow,

'You gonna tap out on me, baby?'

'No.'

'You wanted this shit that bad, didn't you, Cass?' Rust says, the forcefulness in his tone coming out of the pit in his stomach when he thinks what he's done to her.

'I did. I wanted this shit. Don't paint me out to be some dumbass little girl who opened her legs to the first man who reminded her of her daddy. That ain't what this is. I'm tougher than that, you know I am,' her voice starting to tremble again. Her hands absentmindedly wrapped around her midsection., as if to protect herself from the next laceration.

'You want it? Then move those fuckin' panties to the side.'

Cassandra stares at Rust with that fucking stupid bravado of rapacity, before gripping the crotch of them to the side; the tepid truck air mixing with the heady scent of her arousal and Rust's cigarette smoke,

'Go on. Fuck me like a man.'

Rust looks up at her while he pulls down his boxers, before grabbing her bruised hips and slamming her onto him. Not giving a fuck about the sharp, shuddering inhale. The lamb must learn to run with the wolves and Cassandra is far from a lamb. Especially as she is now, gulping down her whimpers of pain, desperately rocking her hips against his coarse hair to stimulate her little nub. She buries her head into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing against his jugular as Rust lands a firm slap on her ass,

'Don't get sentimental on me now, Cass,' he manages to grit out, feeling her arousal literally drip down him, 'Fuck am I gonna do with a weak lil' thing, huh?'

Cassandra tries to nod, her eyes squeezed shut and her groans muffled into the leather of Rust's jacket. Rust wraps his arms around her, holding her in a vice grip for the third time today, all of which have been some form of degradation or excavation of the dirty, nasty shit that Cassandra keeps hidden under sultry, bedroom eyes and that cutthroat tongue. At least this time, the aggression of the act is more tangible; neither of them are allowed any delusions. Not with how Cassandra's spit smears against Rust's stubble when he fucks into her especially hard or the cutting of taught lace on her hipbone or Rust's still lit cigarette burning dangerously close to Cassandra's dark waves. Apt symbolism, Rust thinks, as she angles her head to inhale from the tip; eyes starting to roll slightly at the mixture of in adverted friction of her bundle of nerves, and Rust's angry, frantic pace. She turns to look him right, as she leans her head in him, exhaling the smoke right into his mouth. Rust catches some powdery grey wisps, shoving Cassandra down once more onto him. As she groans, her hands never loosening, Rust leans in to mutter into her ear,

'You never fuckin' learn. Do you, baby?'

[sinfulseashell]

Question for Y!Bonten how could they react if their darling escaped from them and started a new life with someone else?

Y!Mikey: Of course the male would absolutely go berserk if his darling was ever to think that anyone else would treat them better than he could, but fear nearly consumed him as he thought for a moment looking over at the host with an icy glare. “Escaping is one thing, but having the audacity to find someone else? Well…let’s just say there would be two less bastards on this god forsaken earth.”

Y!Sanzu: “Oh wow, well I guess one idiot plus another can make a deathly combination!” He cackled. “How fucking dumb could they be to find someone else, but let’s give the benefit of the doubt that my darling had the gall to have another person even touch them the way I do.” His snarl twisted into a demonic grin, “I will show my darling why they would regret stepping foot out of their haven…let’s just say the show would be more gruesome than any horror movie could ever show legally.”

Y!Bonten: Each male expressed a disgusted feature as they shook their heads in unison.

Y!Koko: “So we all agree that Sanzu is never allowed to come these interviews when it comes to murder.”

Host: “Wait…none of you said anything…also…all of you commit murder?”

Y!Rin: “Ok one, we don’t need words to communicate, I know you noticed the silence after his comment. Two, we commit murder because it’s necessary yet this sociopath commits murder as a fucking hobby.”

Y!Sanzu: He emits a boisterous laugh while wiping tears from his eyes, “Ah…it’s true. I have a scrapbook as well.” He smiles happily.

Y!Rin: “Do I need to say anything more?”

Host: “Oooookay…noted.”

Y!Takeomi: “Well that was unsettling…anyways. I wouldn’t say that I would be happy my darling started their life over.” He gritted his teeth at the thought that his darling could find someone else so damn easily…replacing him. The thought made his stomach churn, “As if replacing me would be the best option for them…I would murder anyone who would try to take them away from me.” He growled.

Y!Ran: “Well the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Looks like you and Sanzu have so much in common, makes sense why the two of you are related.”

Y!Sanzu: “How dare you say something so fucking disgusting in my presence! No fucking brother of mine, as far as I know I don’t have family.” He hissed.

Y!Takeomi & Host: 😐

Y!Koko: “We’re not here to discuss their family drama, wait…hatred? Disgust? Whatever. We are not here to speak on that. Now as for me, the fact my darling would even think that someone could afford the lifestyle I provide well,” He chuckles while shaking his head, small chuckling turns to laughter. “Ah…ah ok, ok,” Koko clears his throat to continue. “Besides my awesome joke, I doubt that my darling would even survive without me.”

Y!Rin: “Look Im tired. So I’ll make this quick…whoever the dumbass would be I’ll make sure that have a slow painful death while I take my darling back to have the punishment they deserve.” Bringing himself to stand the male makes his way to the door and leaves.

Y!Ran: “Dont mind him, Rin is just tired from taking care of his darling all night. They were sick.” Ran pouts. “Isn’t that so cute though!”

Y!Rin: “SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP!” He screams from the other side of the door.

Y!Ran: The male smiles as he turns his attention back to the host, “What would I do if my darling escaped and found someone else? Hmmm, well murder would be first on my list and once I get rid of them then I would make sure my darling was well.” He hums happily, “-but once I know they are fine then I’ll remind them of why they belong to me.” He smirked menacingly.

Y!Mochi: “I dont believe my darling would have a reason to leave. No to toot my own horn or anything, but these guys are monsters compared to me.” He huffed.

Y!Sanzu: “Quit bitching and answer the goddamn question.”

Y!Mochi: “Fine. If my darling were to ever find someone else…even though I know they wouldn’t. I wouldn’t murder the person, but I would purposely break each and every bone in their body enough to keep them conscious throughout the entire time that way their screams of agony could echo off the walls having their cries be the last thing they hear.”

Y!Koko: “Dear god. We all need therapy.” He spoke while pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

Y!Kakucho: His gaze stays focused on the floor before him as if lost in thought when he hears the host call his name it brings him back to reality as he sighs, “I wouldn’t kill them. Or hurt the person that they are with. I want my darling to be happy then I would want them to stay happy, but…a part of me would take them back with me…I can’t…I just can’t be without them…they mean everything to me…” he sighs in frustration. “If I take my darling back and the other person tries to stop me…well then I would have no choice but to kill them.”

[strniohoeee]

Poignant Pt. 2

Pairing: Matt Sturniolo X Female Reader

Synopsis: After not seeing Matt for 4 months he finally reaches out, and wants to talk to Y/N…..he expresses certain feelings, but will Y/N feel the same?🫀

Warnings⚠️: None just cute or whatever I guess angst? This one’s short but still hope you enjoy it🫶🏽

Song for imagine: It Will Rain- Bruno Mars

Read Poignant Pt. 1 here

And pick up these broken pieces

Til I’m bleeding

If that’ll make you mine

Matt Stromboli🤭

-How about in this lifetime?🪻

I smiled down at his text, and went to answer him.

-Hey Matt

-Hey Y/N. How you been?

-I’ve been good. Just been working on myself for these past few months

-I’ve been thinking about you, do you think about me still?

-Of course I do Matt….

-We should see each other again

-I don’t know…that might open some wounds

-Wounds?

-Yeah, I’m not sure I’m ready to see you again

-Why not?

-I’m scared

-lmao scared of what??

-scared that when I see you my feelings will still be there

-that’s not a scary thing

-yeah it is….especially if the feelings aren’t mutual

-but what if they are?

-you don’t know that Matt. You might think you like me, but that’s not always the case

-Come see me please?

-where? And what time?

-tonight, the burger spot on the pier…6:30??

-yeah sure I’ll be there, see ya Matt

-see you later

Later on that day I had gotten ready to see Matt. I wasn’t sure how to feel. I felt like I still had feelings, but I also felt like I just missed him as a whole, as my friend. I wasn’t sure how seeing his face was going to affect me.

I had Ubered to the pier, and I got there at about 6:25, so I walked to the restaurant. My nerves making me nauseous and anxious.

I got to the restaurant, and told them I was meeting someone so I walked until I spotted Matt. My stomach instantly churning. I walked to the booth and sat down

“Hi” I said looking at him

“Hey Y/N” he said smiling at me, that goddamn smile

“It’s been so long,” I said looking at his face. How can someone change so much in four months

“It has. You look great” he said looking at me

“Thank you. You look great too” I said smiling at him

“Thank you..nothings change” he said laughing a little bit

“You just look so different” I said looking at him

“Could be the hair, or the tattoos” he said looking down at his hair

“Yeah it could be” I said nodding at him

We had gotten dinner and barely spoke…this weird tension always in between us….I just didn’t know how to feel at all. Did I like him or did I not?

We walked on the pier and sat down watching the sunset

“I um I’m not sure what to say” Matt said quietly

“I mean you don’t have to say anything” I told him

“No I do. I just don’t like how that day went” he said looking out to the waves

“It’s okay Matt. We’ve grown from it, and I’m okay. It was needed” I said looking over at him

“I just…man I don’t know. As soon as you left I felt this pain in my chest” he said blinking

“Well I left all you guys” I said looking at the water too

“I feel like I made the wrong decision” he said

“I don’t think you did. I think some part of you feels bad for rejecting me, and you’re making yourself like me, but I just think you miss your friend” I said to him

“Do you still like me?” He asked still not looking at me

“I’m not sure Matt. I came here wondering how I’d feel and if all those feelings would come back, but I uh I feel at peace” I said still looking at the waves

“I really like you” he blurted out

“I don’t think you do. You like the idea of me, but you don’t actually like me” I told him

“Stop hurting yourself by denying it. I fucking like you” he said shaking his head

“Matt, we haven't seen each other for four months. How can you just now say you like me” I said defeated

“Because I've always liked you, and I was so dumb to see that….it has always been you” he said

“Matt….” I said looking over at him

“It really has, and I’m such an idiot for taking so long to realize. I checked everyday if you’d be active on social media, if you’d comment on anything, my finger hovered over your contact. I so badly wanted to call you everyday, but I just couldn’t” he said shaking his head

“I’m glad you didn’t call.” I said to him

“What?” He said looking at me

“I feel like if you called me you would’ve kept me on this string of false hope. I needed to be away from you” I told him truthfully

“I was so stupid” he said

“It’s okay.” I said to him

“I want you, and only you” he said looking at me

“Don’t say things you don’t mean” I said looking at him

“I mean it okay! Stop pushing me away” he said getting a little upset

“I don’t want to get hurt again” I said looking down

“I would never do that to you….again” he said

“I don’t know” I said shaking my head

“Please Y/N” he said pleading

“Matt I don’t know that I see myself with you” I told him

“Kiss me, and tell me you don’t feel the same” he said

I looked up at him, looking into his eyes searching for an answer, but I didn’t find one.

I reluctantly leaned in and connected our lips. It was a kiss that made the whole world stop, it made all my problems float away….Its Matt it’s always been him, and I never wanted to pull away. With him I felt safe and loved

We pulled away, and looked at each other

“Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I will walk out of your life for good, and never bother you again” he said looking into my eyes

“Matt it’s you….it will always be you” I said smiling before pulling him in again, crashing our lips together

Kissing Matt felt like stepping outside into an empty field on a warm evening while watching a beautiful sunset overhead. This kid was my sunset….hes mine, he’s my safety net

“I’m never leaving you” he said rubbing my cheek

“I’d hope not” I said leaning into his touch

“Come home with me” he said

“Of course Matt” I whispered before we got up, and headed out to Matt’s car. Getting in and heading to the triplets house.

I guess Matt’s mine in this lifetime, and in another🪻

The End

I want to write another sad imagine, but nothing pertaining to death of the triplets….Im thinking like an actual….yk what let me not explain my ideas I wanna make yall cry 🤞🏽🤭 anywhooo hope you liked this one💋

-J💅🏽

[autisticlancemcclain]

fic rec friday 45

hello and welcome to fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

Pieces by zenstrike

Five times Keith found comfort with Lance, and one time he tried to return the favour.

look i know i talked about zenstrike last week and im here to do it again. i know what the secret relationship trope is, i know there are so many great fics but like. zenstrike reaches something in my chest and fucking twists it. i read something of theirs for the first time like two years ago and i remember being actually fucking struck dumb on my bed and clutching my phone because the way my stomach churned and my heart pounded and i well and truly FELT every fucking emotion!! when keith nervously pressed his palm to the junction of lance's neck and his breath sharpened mine did too!! when the swirling dread of fear and nerves turned in lances belly it turned in mine too!! idk what it is about zenstrike but they have touched me in a way no other author ever has in my whole life and i cant always read everything they write in one sitting, sometimes im consuming it all in a frenzy and sometimes one fic takes me days. anyway keith loving lance with every goddamn molecule but being physically unable to say it but determined to show it will always make me insane sorry for the goddamn essay

2. when you're here loving me by orphan_account [EXPLICIT]

“’Look at me, I’m Keith,” Lance muttered, “’I run directly at Galra sentries and don’t even think about the big, glowy thingies in their hands. What are those called again?’” He tightened the gauze, gently despite his trying to act angry, “’Right! Guns! Can’t possibly hurt me, right?’” Keith scowled, “I know what a gun is.” ✦ they come back from a mission, gross and in love.

this one is kinda porny lol but its pretty goddamn funny. of COURSE these two are the massive losers who play rock paper scissors after they bone 💀💀

3. The Samurai and the Sharp-Shooter by orphan_account

It's tough going on missions when you have to pretend you're dating your rival. Tougher still when you're actually not even rivals but lovers forced to hide that fact for the sake of the team's greater mission. Not canon, but still in space and everyone's there. Fluffy with zero angst.

this fic makes me CRY with laughter bc why are they fake dating to hide that they're real dating on a god damned assassination mission 😭😭 they're actually so goddamn stupid

4. Headshot by @angelwithaknife

“Guys,” Lance grunted, lying down behind a couples of rocks and aiming at some soldiers again, “I appreciate that you appreciate me but please stop waving at me after I save you, I’m sick of running around trying to find new spots, I specifically chose a long-range weapon so I could lie down all the time.”

this is so CUTE the team loves lance so bad. and as they should!! bc hes so smart and amazing and cool and wonderful and talented honestly i just love him so bad

5. What's Something You've Never Told Me? by @fondaboo

The lady drops a slice of lemon into it and slides it back towards him. “You’ve got pretty good taste kid,” she says. Her cordial smile turns wicked and teasing, as she jerks her chin to the dance floor. “And it's not just limited to drinks, I'd say.” Keith follows her dark gaze, before he can help himself, biting down on a groan when he sees where she’s looking. Lance. Jesus, he can’t even go to a bar without someone calling out his—blatant and painfully obvious—crush on Lance. “Friend of yours?” She croons. He drags a hand down his face, maybe he needs something stronger than whiskey. Ketamine maybe. “Best friend actually,” he squints through his fingers, glaring darkly, “not that it’s anyone’s business.” Or the author overuses em-dashes while trying to make Keith talk about his damn feelings! OR ace Lance has to deal with a smitten Keith and just wants to watch disney

ACE LANCE ACE LANCE ACE LANCE ACE LANCE ACE LANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!! god i love him. also fondaboo literally never misses

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

[what-the-hell-is-going-on-here]

use this to talk about soft vore?

i wanna know how it can be soft or comforting pls tell me

oh my god my first anon

yes! yes i will! im actually kinda in the mood for soft comforting stuff rn so this is perfect

btw warning you now this is gonna be incredibly self indulgent (hope its not too much lol)

also i wrote this w/ g/t in mind

AAAHHH i love soft preds… maybe the prey’s having a rough day and just wants to chill, so the pred picks them up in a hand, peppering their small body with kisses, humming at their taste.. they just wanna make their prey happy! they get all squirmy, asking to be eaten so they can rest, so the pred slips them into their mouth, softly biting and tasting them, pushing them oh so softly around with their tongue, just savoring them and hoping the soft pressure calms the prey down. maybe they sit there for a bit, soaking up the nice feelings and the warmth of their pred’s mouth, comforting in ways they can't express. they lay on the pred’s soft tongue, feeling drool pile up around them, signaling the need to swallow.

hesitantly but sure the pred carefully presses the prey up to the top of their mouth, swallowing their drool that tastes like their friend, then the prey themselves.. the prey just melts at the touch, slowly making it down the pred’s throat, pressing into their body like a reassuring, full-body hug.. they savor every feeling, trying not to squirm and risk it being too much for their partner, finally slipping into the stomach. there they stretch out(hearing the pred hum in delight at the feeling), getting comfy and curling up against the so, so soft stomach walls like a cat. the prey feels saliva sticking to their clothes and hair, something that would usually be gross if it wasn't a reminder of how much they are cared for, how much they are loved, to be as close to someone as they ever could be. the prey lets a smile creep onto their features, hearing the pred mumble something about how perfect they taste, how wonderful they feel inside, how ethereal their movements feel, how fucking amazing and loved they are.. the prey digs a hand into the folds of the pred’s stomach, rubbing back in a non-verbal way of saying yes, of thank you, of i love you. maybe the pred purrs- they really needed this too, didn't they? the pred’s stomach churns around them softly, another feeling reminiscent of a hug that just makes the prey’s face go all warm. they hear their friend’s heart beat softly in time with their own, the comforting sound of their breaths luring them to a drowsy, half asleep state, the temperature reminding them of fresh blankets just out of the dryer or a nice warm bath. the soft gurgles around them only comfort them instead of worry them, knowing that their pred would never ever dream of hurting them, knowing they only want them to feel better- which has definitely been accomplished by now. the prey drifts off to the sound of quiet praise and the feeling of belly rubs from the inside, too tired to keep doing it themself, feeling so goddamn loved.

maybe later the prey gets a mini bath in the sink once they're out, pred washing them off with soap, making sure everything’s out of their hair and clothes, wrapping them up in a warm washcloth and holding them in their hand or on the pred’s chest, staring down at the prey with adoration obvious in their features. they can tell everything they did helped both parties, already planning when they could both do it again some time.

AAAHHH SORRY I GOT REALLY SAPPY THERE… platonic and romantic vore just gets me… im a sucker for soft shit like this, its what got me into vore in the first place lol- the soft touches and nonverbal reassurance is just so sweet to me, its such a show of how much ppl care abt one another, to keep someone safe INSIDE OF THEM, WHERE THEY’RE AS CLOSE AS THEY CAN BE TO EACH OTHER??? HOW IS THAT NOT ADORABLE.

PEOPLE PLS FEEL FREE TO ASK FOR MORE I LOVE WRITING/TALKING ABOUT VORE!!!!

[littleperilstories]

The Prince of Thieves: A Cruel Twist of Fate Has Brought Us Together Again

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03!

Warnings: Fantasy-esque prison setting, blood, aftermath of flogging, mention of attempted sexual assault, mention of death/execution, lady whump

Fun fact! This chapter has its origins in Whumptober Day 11 ( sloppy bandages, self-done first aid) and Day 13 ("Are you here to break me out?"), but literally none of the prompts survived the revival process.

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Word count: 2366 || Approx reading time: 9 mins

A Cruel Twist of Fate Has Brought Us Together Again

Teaser: Noise cracks the silence—a door screeching open, voices and clanking chains, scuffling footsteps and curses. I blink. A ragged breath catches in my chest. They’re dragging someone in. A girl—that girl.

Will

Wakefulness is not my friend.

How… How did I get here? My memory is hazy. Why does everything hurt like hell?

I’m lying on my stomach—not how I would normally sleep. Who in their right mind would press their bare face into the grime that passes for a floor in here? Trying to move, though, reminds me exactly why I’m lying face-down in muck.

Fifteen lashes with the cat. Hatchett’s voice, as stony and cruel in my memory as it is in life, sends a chill down my spine. How could I have forgotten the moment he sentenced me to yet more pain, every ounce of his barely contained wrath trained precisely on me?

My feet ache from being hit, but not in the same way that my back screams in agony. Hatchett was probably right when he predicted I would walk away from the whipping post after the first round—in pain, sure, but not incapacitated.

He’d have been right, that is, if I hadn’t set myself for the second part.

God, what was I thinking? Tears burn my eyes as I make another feeble attempt to move. Tracking the memories backwards is a struggle when the only thought I can conjure is, This hurts this hurts this hurts this hurts so fucking much. But I have to concentrate, try to remember. I…I was angry. Really pissed off. Why? Aside, of course, from having every eye on me while they flung me around like a sack of potatoes and let Michaelson hit me as hard as he wanted—

A scream, shrill and tearful, cuts through the fog in my mind. “Stop it!”

Fuck. The girl. That’s what it was.

When her gasp first caught my attention, and she was staring at me with more than just pity and horror, as if she recognized me somehow, I had no idea who she was. I remember thinking at the time, though, that it was a relief to see someone looking at me with something other than disdain.

But I do remember who she is. It’s come back to me now. She’s the same runner I met in that alley two years ago, the night I tried to walk home with a gash in my side and would probably have bled or frozen to death if Jamie and Colette hadn’t found me.

The memories are flowing freely now, too fast, out of control. Then—Colette’s worried face, Jamie’s terror manifesting as anger, that sick fucker trying to take something that did not belong to him, that girl’s fingers on my skin, her staring up half-dazed and teary-eyed as she tried to wipe the blood from my face. As she tried to offer some semblance of comfort to me, after what she’d just been through, while her own hands still trembled.

Today—Hatchett glaring down at me, so many eyes watching me being beaten, her tears, her cry to stop the whipping, the crack in her voice as our esteemed constable made her count to the last stroke.

Fuck.

Fury boils through me again, but my body won’t move, can’t move, and with no way out, it simmers down again to quietly churning anger. The bastards can do what they want to me. I know what fate awaits me, what I have chosen by refusing to talk.

But some girl from the line of prisoners, obviously distraught and trying to be kind…

Grunting, I try again to pull myself to a sitting position, to no avail. Deep breaths—one, two. Goddamn, I think my entire body might be on fire.

I vaguely remember now, coming back here. I don’t think I was fully out, but I don’t think I was fully in, either. Distant voices, pain blooming all over me, the medic grumbling… Yes, Gysborne, that slimy bastard. Said it was time for his midday meal and he’d come back around later to check my back if he remembered to. He’s still pissed off about the escape attempt and the enormous bruise I left on his ugly face. Seems I’ll be paying for it for a while yet.

Wonderful. The cuts on my back where the whip split the skin… Going to be raging with infection in no time.

The torch in the wall taunts me with its weak imitation of the sun, and a dark laugh rises weakly inside my chest. Wasn’t I wishing to be back outside and see the sky? Isn’t that part of what prompted me to run? Guess I got my wish. Turns out it wasn’t worth it. At all.

I need to move. Lying like this keeps pressure off my back, which is fine, but my still-healing shoulder is taking too much of my weight, and now it hurts, too.

When I’m finally sitting up, muscles shaking and sweat stinging my eyes, I glance down at my shoulder. Wet darkness has seeped into the bandage. Bleeding again. When the hell did that happen?

So much for healing well…the whole reason Hatchett was allowed to go through with my punishment in the first place.

The spectre of infection haunts me again. Maybe Gysborne just won’t come back at all—I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s almost a happy thought. If fever gets into my blood, rages through me like a storm, then I won’t even have to face the gallows. Wouldn’t that piss Hatchett off? If after all his efforts to keep me here until I spill every last IA secret, I died because his dumb fucking medic couldn’t do his job properly?

Sitting up is uncomfortable, but I don’t have much of a choice between my weeping shoulder and my shrieking back. I can feel every sizzling cut and how they, disturbed by the shift from lying down to sitting, ooze sluggish trickles down my skin.

Noise cracks the silence—a door screeching open, voices and clanking chains, scuffling footsteps and curses. I blink.

A ragged breath catches in my chest. They’re dragging someone in. A girl—that girl. She’s struggling against their grips, the pale cotton of her dress blinding against the dark blue of their uniforms. Nothing she does will dislodge their hold, of course, but the colourful words she’s spitting at Hatchett make her displeasure very clear. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so awful.

She’s still in chains when they stop, although Hatchett is kind enough to unlock the ones on her wrists before he shoves her into the cell next to mine.

“Until we speak again, Miss Cooper.” The smarmy voice makes bile rise in my throat.

The firelight casts a positively feral look across her features, but Hatchett is unfazed—already slamming the door and locking it.

His gaze flicks over to me, just for an instant, and when he sees that I’m awake and upright, his lip curls. Until we speak again, thief.

As he and the guards retreat and the far door closes, darkness reigns once more, leaving me and the girl alone in silence and frail, flickering light.

Miss Cooper. Just like Ezra, Hatchett knows her name. Unlike Ezra, he’s locked her up instead of killing her.

She presses a hand against her mouth, stifling a quiet sob. It strikes me she probably doesn’t know that I’m even here.

I’m about to speak, to say something innocuous like “Hello,” but when I attempt to inch a little closer to her cell, the chain on my ankles makes a scraping rattle across the floor, and the movement sends a wave of pain through my back so intense that instead of forming words, I just groan.

She jumps, startled, and then gasps.

“You’re…”

It’s difficult to know what is supposed to finish that sentence. You’re…alive? Awake? That moron who got humiliated in front of everyone today? One of the inner circle? The man from that night? A complete and total idiot?

Confusion slashes across her face, furrowing her brows and parting her pale lips. She must be cold. “I—Why did you…” Her words cut off again. “Are you all right?”

She’s asked me that before, and I’ve asked her. My side, still bearing a faint scar where that man sliced into the skin and Geoff neatly stitched me back up, twinges at the memory. “Uh… I’ve been better.”

She moves closer to the bars that separate us, her shackles dragging on the floor. “You didn’t have to— I’m sorry— It’s my—” She pauses and sucks in a deep breath. “I’m sorry they hurt you.”

Her unbruised, unblemished skin is stark against the darkness that surrounds us. Hatchett didn’t hang her like that other runner, and it doesn’t look like he beat her, either. Which is good, of course, but it begs the question… Why?

I don’t know what to say to something like I’m sorry they hurt you. They’ve been hurting me. They’re going to continue hurting me. It’s easier to change the subject. “Did he question you?”

She nods, glancing away as if I won’t notice the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “I had nothing to give him. And I told him that.” She wraps her arms around her knees. “He’s going to hang me, isn’t he?”

I swallow. I don’t know how to answer that, either. Silence sits between us until she, too, changes topics.

“Does it…hurt a lot?” The girl doesn’t sob at the prospect of her impending death. Not right now, not in front of me, anyway. She just angles her head and uses her shoulder to wipe the tears that sneak out. Real subtle. “Your…your back? Your feet?”

I let out a shallow laugh. “Oh, my feet are fine.” An exaggeration, maybe, but it’s mostly true. “Not that different from getting whacked on the hand at school.”

She winces. Perhaps she has never felt the sting of a strap or a ruler on her skin. “Did that happen a lot?”

The question with its all-too-obvious answer—yes, almost every day—makes me laugh again, which makes me move, which makes me hurt.

“Your back, though.” Her voice is solemn. She must hear the way my laugh collapses into a grunt of pain. “Can I see?”

I really, really don’t want to turn around. “I can’t move that much.”

“Please,” she says. “Let me look at it.”

For reasons I can’t articulate or understand, I do.

Dragging myself across the cell is nothing short of agony. The bandaged arm doesn’t take much weight. The chained ankles don’t give me much freedom. The bleeding back howls with such pain that my vision swims a little.

I rest my head on my knees when I’m finally close enough that she can examine my battered back. There’s no way I should be so tired from inching across this tiny cell, but I’m  dizzy. “Is it bad?”

She hums an affirmation, gentle with an undertone of worry and more than a little horror. “He…he did that.” Almost dazed.

“Yeah. He’s a crazy motherfucker. Are you surprised?”

Her answer drifts through the bars, a whisper. “No.”

Now that I’m sitting this way, I’m stuck here, too tired to move and face her again. I wonder if I should speak, but the cell is still rocking. I keep my head pressed against my knees.

“I know you won’t remember, but…” I certainly don’t need to worry about keeping the conversation flowing. She’s got it covered. “We’ve met before. I— We— It was you. You—”

“No, I remember. I know.” It’s a relief that I don’t have to be the one to bring up that horrible night.

“You do?”

“Yes.” Wind whipping through the narrow backstreets, a cry tearing through the air. “It was snowing. You were in the alley, wearing trousers.” Oh my god, what made me say that part? I think maybe I’ve been punched a few too many times now. “That man…”

“You saved my life.” Her voice cracks. “And I never thanked you properly.”

Really? I want to ask. That’s your big worry right now? Immediately, guilt worms into me. If she’s going to die, if we both are, perhaps clearing unfinished business isn’t the most unreasonable thing to prioritize. “I’m sure you did. But you don’t need to—”

“I didn’t—well, I guess I perhaps did, but I was distraught and probably not making sense and frightened and crying and…”

Lifting my head and looking at her would probably be the right thing to do. I can’t. “Are you… Are you telling me you’ve been worrying about that for nearly two years? That you were upset because something…upsetting…happened?”

“Well—”

“Listen.” I know I shouldn’t be so short with her. But it’s so hard, too hard, to collect my thoughts into the right words and my words into the right tone. All I really want is to stop hurting, and that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Or ever. “I just did what any good person would do.”

She waits, leaves a long pause before she answers. “Good people,” she says softly. “I… I haven’t met many of those.”

Something inside me shudders, breaking through the haze of pain. What the hell has this girl’s life been like?

Jamie and Colette and Geoff, Dad and Ma. Our landlord, from back when Jamie and I were kids, who hated my guts because I was loud and obnoxious but was still kind when he needed to be. Every person who ever caught on that we had money when we should’ve had none and kept their mouths shut and didn’t turn us in. The runners who risk their lives and freedom to steal for IA, all to make life a little better for folks they’ll never meet.

All good people.

There are plenty out there, I want to say. Just not…in here.

I hold my tongue. What point is there in asking questions, prying into her business, or insisting that she’s wrong? After all, I don’t know what kind of life brought her here. Maybe, I think, she doesn’t have anyone like Jamie or Colette or Geoff to give her hope. Maybe, ridiculous as it sounds, this girl has not been as lucky as me.

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

[Banner ID: A narrow horizontal, rectangular banner featuring a barred archway. The bars and the stone walls evoke the feeling of a dungeon or prison. There are burning candles on either side of the archway. The title of the story, The Prince of Thieves, appears in white text in the centre of the image. The author's username, abbreviated to LPS from littleperilstories, appears in the bottom right corner in partially transparent text. End ID.]

[laatmaar]

S/N: RG-300-459-76-44

Okay so this is the first time I have ever written fanfiction for anything, or even just written any story this long, but fallen hero has quite the death grip on my brain. So truly any advice and such is appreciated. Anyway I'm absolutely fascinated by whatever the regenes and the farm has going on, and this is a little piece exploring sidestep's, or rather Matt's, first mission on the farm. I say little but it has a word count of 3K, be warned. Also be warned that this piece contains somebody being murdered, but nothing too extreme or unusual for fallen hero I think.

You stand before a door. This specific door is quite unassuming, it is brown and the dark patterns of shaky vertical lines interrupted with little ovals signal that it is made of wood. Which makes it quite unlike most doors you are acquainted with, but it is normal here. The door looks exactly like the doors you’ve seen in picture books.  Presumably, to hide anything out of the ordinary, anything horrible, insidious, dangerous, behind a passibly normal exterior. In short, Mr. Brown made it look like all the other doors in this hallway. You like this door. 

If all went well Mr. Brown will now be lying dead on the ground behind this door, and the only thing you will have to do is help unit 44 with disposal of the body. It has been a long day and your body feels heavy, there is a strange empty feeling in your stomach. You do not know what you expected of your first mission, but certainly not feeling so… tired. You place your hand on the doorknob. You turn the doorknob. You open the door.

"Oh, thank God!”

Mr. Brown moves toward you more quickly than you were prepared for. He only stops in his tracks when, presumably, the gun that is quite obviously pointed at his head catches his eye again. Mr. Brown is, evidently, not dead. You close your eyes, breathe out. You open your eyes. Unit 44, who you were quite sure should have killed Mr. Brown some five minutes ago according to the mission parameters you memorized over and over and over and over again, moves towards the door. It makes sure its gun never wavers from its target's head and shuts the door behind you. You hear the click of the door being locked.  

“Look I don’t care what goddamn government agency thought it worth to send a goddamn fucking regene to assassinate me or whatever but-”  Mr. Brown grabs your arm, in his thoughts you find only relief, and pulls you towards him “-surely you’re not programmed to kill innocent civilians.” At this he shakes your arm, which you’ve come to understand is actually quite a rude thing to do.

Unit 44’s face is impassive although the corner of its blue lip might’ve moved upward just a tiny bit. Its gun however has not moved at all. It looks you dead in the eye.

In your ear Mr. Brown whispers “Play along with me and we might both get out of this alive.” He leans even closer and unit 44 does not shoot him in the head. It should. “Trust me on this miss,” still whispering  “that thing is not human… blue skin and all that.” Places his hand on your shoulder, his mind churning with possible escape routes, “It’s a fucking ai but it will not kill us if they think it will cause a scandal… I’m sure.” His thoughts imply otherwise. “Just tell it your parents are nearby or something, I mean what are you sixteen.. seventeen?  Your parents must be nearby.”

You open your mouth to ask why unit 44 has not followed standard procedure, do missions normally deviate this much from the norm? You’re not sure you like the idea of that. Why is it that it has not shot Mr. Brown already, even though it had ample opportunity. His fingers are digging into your shoulder in a way that is really becoming uncomfortable and the desperation and fear in his mind make it difficult to think. You are tired. You remember that you should report to your handlers in about 10 minutes and how does unit 44 think it will ever complete the mission in time. You already relayed all information you gathered from Mr. Brown’s houseguests during the party to your handlers. You’ve already done your part, why is it refusing to just do its part. Why do you have to be part of this. However unit 44 says, “Close your mouth.” and you obey.

Unit 44 is after all the senior unit out of the two of you, and the most senior unit on a mission is in charge in the unlikely event that your handlers cannot be reached. You paid attention during the briefing. Your handlers cannot be reached because Mr. Brown went to great lengths to design this room. Sound-proof, signal-proof , everything-proof. A perfect room designed for complete privacy, something Mr. Brown is often in great need of. You have recently learned what the concept of ironic means and you think that it applies now. That this room should be his downfall, or at least was supposed to be if all went according to plan. If unit 44 had paid attention. It had not. You had seen its eyes wander.

“Killing an innocent human being is sure to cause a scandal!” Mr. Brown’s voice is pitched a bit higher than before, his fingers beginning to dig in painfully. That is going to leave a mark.

Now you’re sure, unit 44’s lips turn upwards. You do not know what it finds particularly funny, or where it even learned to smile. Smirk? Its gun aimed around two inches to the left of your face. At Mr. Brown’s mouth. Which is still moving.

“I know her,” he lies, “if she disappears” shaking you, again “her parents will be sure to raise hell! They’re important. Influential.” Those last words he emphasizes. You’ve learned that people will do this if they mean more than what they are actually saying. You however do not see the relevance or deeper meaning of your imaginary parents being important. His thoughts suggest that not even Mr. Brown is entirely sure what he means. He just needs to stay alive, from one second to the next. He knows he won’t be able to overpower the regene planted in front of the door, but.. he’s not dead yet. It is a miracle that he is not dead yet. You agree.  He is sure that you might be the reason why. He can use that. Talk his way out. He has talked his way out of failure and into success his entire life.

Mr. Brown talks and talks and there are still nine minutes remaining. His grip turning painful, and you just wish your pain gate would activate for more mundane matters than life threatening injuries. You need to finish this. Quickly.

You look at unit 44. Its lean body clad in a skin-tight suit and armour, its stance almost relaxed. Not quite, but almost. The heaviest armour is centered around its chest area, all its appendages left unobstructed. Under the armour the skinsuit peeks out, the black fabric making for a nice contrast against the blue skin of its neck. There continuing from the neck and covering its entire face are those patterns you are so familiar with, this time in a lighter blue instead of orange. All traces of what might’ve been a smile gone from its lips. Its eyes are still looking at you, expression once again completely neutral. It nods and lowers its gun just a bit.

“Restrain him,” it orders “on the floor, preferably.”

 You do not stop to question why unit 44 wants Mr. Brown restrained and not dead. Why it won’t just finish this job. Neatly. According to mission protocol. With a bullet, preferably. You do not question it because some irrational part of you is glad that it has lowered the gun. It might have decided to shift it about two inches to the right. Unit 44, you have suspected for some time, is unpredictable. At least the smile has not returned, that you can admit unnerved you.

Most of all you do not question it because you are glad to move. To take that hand from your shoulder and in one swift movement twist it around his back, kick his legs, push him into the ground, put your knee on his back, the other next to his hip, your free hand on his neck holding him down. This is a move you have practiced a hundred times. It is even easier than expected, normally your partners put up much more of a fight.

Mr. Brown lets out a yelp of surprise and pain. His mind is a potent mix of confusion, betrayal and fear. Mostly fear, there is something very wrong with the picture being painted. He has misinterpreted the situation, badly. But… since when did they put regenes in charge of people.

He makes an attempt at opening his mouth to ask, but you press his face into the ground and that gets the message through. He closes his mouth. On his neck your fingertips press down and the skin turns red. Your own shoulder aches and you squeeze, just a bit.

Unit 44 has moved next to you. Its eyes finally leave you and shift a bit to the right, so that it’s not looking down at you but Mr. Brown instead. Gun pointed to the side. It looks like it's contemplating something but its mental defenses are better than Mr. Brown’s and you are still so tired. Then in a move that should not surprise you as much as it does, it kneels next to you. Nothing should surprise you when it comes to unit 44. Still you cannot help the question forming on your lips when it replaces your hand on Mr. Brown���s neck and hands you the gun. “Well,” it says, and nobody should have taught it to smile. It’s misusing the ability entirely, nothing about this situation is funny. “time is running out. Shoot him.”

You feel your shoulders tense and your right shoulder ache. The gun feels slippery in your hands. The temperature in the room has not risen even a degree since you’ve entered it and yet your hands are sweating. An uncomfortable heat spreading through your body as you look at unit 44, that stupid smile still on its face. Its expression still so calm. Your jaw aches with the effort it takes you to not open your mouth and say something. Anything. Scream. You don’t know.

Eight minutes remaining, and approximately a second has passed since unit 44 gave you the order. Mr. Brown’s thoughts are quickly turning from incomprehension to panic. He struggles under your knee and unit 44’s strong hands. Hurting himself. His panic full blown now, and maybe his thoughts are the reason you can’t seem to think straight on this matter. The fact that your hand is trembling without your input. Mr. Brown should have been dead for ten minutes already. His breathing ragged, and he might be crying. “Goddammit you’re human you don’t have to listen to it!” he screams. You shoot.

There is something unpleasant about the way blood drops roll down your face. You’ve experienced many new situations and sensations today. You don’t want to experience anything else ever again. You want to go home. You never want to leave this room.

For the last minute or so unit 44 has been opening different cabinets and drawers in search of something, you don’t particularly care what for. You have been sitting next to a corpse. His eyes still open, staring at you. You stare back, and in the corner of your eyes you see unit 44 approaching. It hands you a packet of wet wipes and makes a gesture at your face. You obediently wipe your face, your makeup coming off. The lipstick has mixed with blood and turned a bright red, it was supposed to be a neutral colour. Presentable, but not attracting attention. While the other units were putting on armour they had dressed you in a nice off colour white dress, now ruined. They had shaved your face and applied all sorts of cosmetics. You don’t know exactly what. They had made what, you gathered from the laughter, were supposed to be jokes. Something about if only they had prettier models and the money they could make. They had sent you off to a party, and you had completed your task. As unit 44 should have completed its.

It is fiddling with the closure of your dress. At your questioning look it shows you some kind of gel. “For your shoulder,” it clarifies. It has gotten the button open and pulls the zipper down. There in contrast to the bruised skin on your shoulder the orange tattoos appear completely unblemished. Nothing ever damages that familiar pattern. You quickly reach out and close Mr. Brown’s eyes. Unit 44 looks at you for a moment, and you feel your face heat up. It has no right to judge you, but it merely smiles. Blue patterns moving.

It puts some of that translucent gel on your shoulder and, far more gently than you think is medically necessary, begins spreading it out. Looking back you should’ve known something like this would happen. You should’ve known because unit 44 had not been paying attention to the briefing. Because it had looked distracted when putting on armour. Because two days before the mission it had not been as efficient as it could’ve been at training. It had hesitated and you had not let it out of your sight since. You should have known because small disobediences lead to bigger disobediences later on. You lean back, just a bit, into her cool fingers. Its cool fingers. Its blue fingers. The same colour your bruise is beginning to take on, and that was not your thought. You feel sick to the stomach, and you are so tired and you never wanted to have anything to do with this in the first place. You did your job, and so you stand up.

You begin trying to zip up your dress, and you must look like an idiot when you can’t reach the zipper. You take Mr. Brown’s jacket from the desk chair and put that over your shoulders instead. A small burst of panic shoots through you. There are only two minutes remaining.

Your first mission is a complete failure, two minutes isn’t enough time. The blood pools beneath Mr. Brown’s head seeping into the wooden flooring. It is splattered on the walls, and on your dress. On your hands. You do not have enough time to clean it all.

Unit 44 makes no attempt to move from where it’s still seated on the floor. It looks relaxed in the way it’s leaning back on its hands looking at you, observing you. It looks resigned, like it does not care about any of this. Does not care about the consequences of not following mission protocols. Does not care about Mr. Brown lying dead on the floor eleven minutes too late. Does not care about you. You suppose its actions have proven that it doesn’t.

Under your gaze unit 44 finally stands up.

“We have one minute,” it states. “Now tell me exactly, what did it feel like?”

For the first time in quite a while you open your mouth and speak.  

It is only in Dr. Morgan’s office in preparation for your second mission that you dare to subtly ask about unit 44. Of course she knows many unit 44’s, 44 being only the last two numbers of a longer serial number, but she seems to understand which one you’re talking about.

“Hmmm, I get why you would be anxious about working with that particular unit again. After that disaster of a mission last time.” You had known it was a disaster, you had not known everybody else thought so too. “That it would wait to kill that Brown figure for so long, and then to do it so messily too.” It had taken the fall, you had suspected as much. “I had already said to Marcus there is something wrong with that unit. He even acknowledged it in that irritating way he always does, but actually listen? No. Never.” 

She is not truly talking to you, merely monologuing to herself and you are an unfortunate victim. This is why you asked her. She likes hearing herself talk, and her colleagues do not like listening. 

“He was all like let’s see where this goes. It would be a shame to have to start over again, blah blah blah. I said the nice thing about regenes is that we get to start over again. Its body is young and we can simply reuse it. Let’s just get it over with, but no. One more mission.” You wonder how many units had heard her complain about this in the days preceding the mission. Whether unit 44 might’ve. “So one disaster of a mission later and now it’s been decommissioned all the same. Marcus still won’t admit I was right though. Asshole.”

Unit 44 is dead. She walks over to you and injects something in your upper right arm. The bruise on your shoulder has healed faster than a normal human bruise would. You’re beginning to miss it.

“Well anyway its chip has been taken apart, and you won’t have to worry about ever working with it again. Sounds good?”

There is something ugly and sour rising in your throat. You force your face in approximation of a gentle smile and nod.

Later when you’re in the dorms lying on your stomach on your bed, you wait and listen. It is deep in the night and you’ve waited very patiently until you’re sure that most of the others are asleep. Or at least that the ones still awake are not paying any attention to you. You’re pretty sure you look convincingly asleep, you have not moved an inch in two hours. Your telepathy is not as strong as others, so you play defense instead.

In your mind you open the door. Step into the room. Lock the door behind you (unit 44 is not there to pick up the slack anymore). Check the room for anything unusual (ignore the body). Feel your own body on the mattress, muscles relaxing. Keep at it for another two hours. Convince yourself you have obtained some fraction of privacy. Some fraction of Mr. Brown’s room, his dead eyes never having left you. Only then, when you’re balancing on the edge of consciousness just about to fall asleep, do you allow yourself to imagine; her blue fingers spread out against your shoulder.

[flannelepicurean]

Today in Human Experience, me, eating ketchup packets so I don't completely dissociate in the co-working space I go to sometimes when I really need to concentrate, because I was today years old when it really landed on me how much I hate gendered bathrooms.

Work is already driving me into the dark, but I needed to pee right when EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the building was also in the women's room. And I just did the old "Hunch down and don't make eye contact and kinda pretend you're not there, or maybe a butch lesbian, just play it real cool," and bailed ASAP.

And it's not that I think I'm going to get arrested, personally. I still have tits, I can still up-speak to "Stacy with customer service" pitches, if necessary. But I have begun to feel, really deep-down FEEL, that this is NOT MY SPACE.

But I'm terrified, absolutely TERRIFIED, of taking that first trip to the men's room. Tight chest and heavy breathing and stomach churning terrified at just the thought. Because it's NOT MY SPACE. And I've spent my whole goddamn life being conditioned with ideas about what happens to people with parts like mine who go into NOT THEIR SPACE, or who just...try to exist, because when it comes down to it, the whole fucking WORLD is NOT THEIR SPACE. That's a whole other conversation, and I don't have the time or bandwidth to unpack it here.

But like...cis people who are up in arms about trans people in "your" bathrooms, this is what it actually looks like, sometimes. I'm not tryna bother you or anyone else, I'm trying not to have a mental breakdown when I have to fucking pee.

[thealexandriaarchives]

Y'know there are about 50 different straws on my back the last couple months but it's very fucking funny that the one that seems to have broken it is that from being burnt out as fuck at work again already after two days back and not able to give a fuck when I'm already missing deadlines, I've finally managed to get outside of the office for some fresh air and social activity. I am very late and I having a throbbing headache and nausea from day two of a severe period that is not being helped by the sounds of a baseball stadium, a game I don't really care about at all, but it is the home team and bougie stadium with my partner and until very recently they were having a killer summer, so I scored us tickets on the day that also gets us free pink hats and donations that support my favorite local nerdy museum with my membership to said museum. When we finally get to our seats and it is almost the 3rd inning already, my partner, understandably annoyed I left him outside for an hour (I had offered to send his ticket tbf and I had been rescuing his sister or I would have been a reasonable 15 minutes late) goes to get our hats before they're gone with the tickets on my phone and in the sudden silence between innings I have quiet and fresh air and 6 am meetings and work I can't give a fuck about and pushes to move further into a career path that is sensible and sustainable and not at all what I want to do with my life but makes enough money to keep the bills comfortably paid for two most months with new stress Hyperfixation purchases added in and all of a sudden-

My fucking parent corporation's name, logo, a stupid catch phrase I have never heard before, and 'come be an innovator / careers / team name' is all over the goddamn stadium. The Megatron, the banner boards, everywhere. In silence. For minutes. Then it changes. To another nearly identical set of ads for my parent Corp.

I am totally alone. With no phone for documentation for this surreal experience. Come on, be an innovator. Careers with us. It's been 6.5 years since you took your first job at this company and you like your company and the bosses and the work has been fine but the corporation who owns you is getting more restrictive and shitty and you are once again just staying put because you don't know what you want that's actually feasible and you like your boss and want to help which is a terrible reason.

It's a few hours and one talk with my partner who reminds me again that non-profits actually pay the big bucks to retain real full time qualified staff and one half assed overly filtered search later I am staring at indeed.com with a receeding headache and acid still churning in my stomache and half a dozen bad influence new blorbos whispering encouragement in my ear as I consider their opinion that there's nothing wrong with slapping your massive dick down on the table and saying 'so what's up i read your posting turns out I am your overqualified dream candidate with half a dozen things you didn't even ask for but don't worry I'll accept the low six figures and full benefits package you're offering anyways tbh I just want to feel some fucking control of my life again and like there's something useful to the office drone shit i excel at. here is my list of conditions, I await your call.'

[the-white-soul]

*Flowey gives a half smile. He is getting his prize after all, but it’s too short-lived. How can he convince Frisk to do more?*

I think you'll really like it, and then you won't mind being nice to me even after time is up! Flowey winks. You'll change, friend, I promise you.

Besides, you said that while you don't understand physical stuff, you like platonic relationships. You said it right before we started plotting about torturing Noelle. That was also right after I kissed you. You should remember that, don’t you? Heehee... it's the subtleties of what you say that I pay attention to.

I know you'd want a friend one way or another. Even now, you can think of a platonic relationship. I mean, a pair getting nice cream together isn't inherently romantic anyway.

Unless it is...? Flowey scratches his forehead I never really paid attention to how this stuff works until now. Understanding how romance is supposed to be was never my strong suit, however curious I am now. I was just like you, Frisk.

Do you know what? it won't even be a date anymore! Just a hangout between two best buddies, and then you get to continue being friends with me platonically if you so decide! I won’t request or even think of you as anything more.

*Behind his back, Flowey crosses two roots over each other much like someone crossing their fingers while telling a lie. He easily disguises this movement as fidgeting by doing more random stuff like tapping and twiddling them. He finally moves outside the shed and replants himself into the dirt before signaling for Frisk to come with.*

All I’m asking is for poor Flowey to get a new friend whose friendliness will last longer than just a few minutes.

(Frisk) "Frisk here. You used my words against me? That's brilliant. Bloody hell ain't it."

(Noelle) "Why did you go full British?"

(Frisk) "Thought it'd be funny."

(Noelle) "You're being funny now!?"

(Frisk) "I'm mostly trying to dodge what he said. Mostly because *sigh* he's right. Player here. Wait, are you actually admitting fault? You haven't done that in years except when you're trying to win an argument. Are you faking this? Frisk here. No, I mean it. Flowey, you had no idea what love was when you were first made. My Dad taught me I should not worry about anyone but myself. When I was younger I met a few people who were nice but needed some money. I told my father about the situation but he looked at me and said, 'You're too young to worry about people down on their knees. They are probably just using you to get money. They might be lying about everything. Don't trust anyone.' Heh, if he knew what those words meant to me."

(Noelle) "He probably knew."

(Frisk) "Does that make him a bad parent?"

(Noelle) "I..."

(Frisk) "Don't bother answering. Whatever you would answer would be wrong. You don't know enough. Not even I do. Can I judge a person? And even if I can, what if they go three steps forward and three steps back. Do you think that's good? Flowey, I can't let my guard down for anyone because it goes against everything I've ever been taught. The world is dark selfish and cruel. If it finds even the slightest ray of sunshine, it destroys it."

(Noelle) "Did you mean to quote tangled? If you did that should show what kind of parent you had."

(Frisk) "*Started a panic attack. Their heart pounded like a jackhammer. Their stomach churned.* I had a good family, right? No, they were malicious. Eh, it could have been worse. No, it couldn't!"

(Noelle) "Is that you player?"

(Frisk) "Player here. No, they're just going insane. I'll take control until they calm down. Oh no, they're not allowing me to respond! Listen they can boot me out for almost an hour. If they end up doing anything irrational, wait. Frisk here! You want a friend Flowey?! Do you want a fucking goddamn friend to cuddle with? Talk to you all the time? Is that what you want you little weed?"

(Noelle) "Calm down."

(Frisk) "Was I talking to you? I was talking to my best friend! My newest friend. Come on, let's have a great day!"

(Noelle) "*Shakes Frisk* Come to your senses! So what if you had bad parents? What matters is your choice today. Screw the past! Forget it happened. Well don't forget but don't live in the past. I carry around a burden too you know. I killed my friends right in front of me. Does that define me? When Flowey reset worlds to the point where days might as well have been years did that make him permanently evil? We're giving you a shot at redemption. Even the worst person can change."

(Frisk) "Anyone can be a good person if they just try. *Breathed in and out* I'm good. Flowey, I'll be your friend. If you can promise me that you will never imply anything could work with you and me romanticly again. It'll be worth it, for both of us."

[underscorecc]

2.

ive reached another time where i feel like i need to vomit out all the shit thats been churning in my psyche. you know that feeling where you dont want to go to sleep because of this subtle sensation in your stomach? I think its dissatisfaction, both with myself and with the people around me.

the girl that i broke up with turned out to just be a hoe. She played w my heart and told me i was " the right guy at the wrong time" and that "she needed time to be single" and then immediately hopped onto some mid ass white dude LOL. anyways i fucking hate her guts. not cause she doesnt like me anymore, but because shes a damn liar. on a positive note it just means that little plot threat in my life has just been tied up, and now all i have to do is reconcile with the distrust for people that ive already been harboring, so nbd.

the ppl in my life kinda got me fucked up tho. right now i feel like theres no one genuinely there for me. I have a therapist, but you cant rlly get the level of intimacy with a therapist in the way youd have with family or friends. so right now i feel like i have nobody. my friends all suddenly seem extremely disinterested in talking to me. someone who i consider my best friend barely texts me and brushes off making plans and never reaches out. and my other friends just dont seem to really care or respond to me anymore. I get replies, but im not having conversations. it also seems like my mom is tired of me. shes even said it herself. she gets annoyed at a bunch of little things that i do. so i dont think id be wrong to assume ive become a nuisance rather than a valued family member.

it totally could be me. it totally could be them. it also totally could just be a series of unfortunate circumstances so ive been kinda torn trying to figure it out. I know im partially to blame. i can be overbearing and i dont know when to shut the fuck up. its hard for me to do genuine real talk anymore. I say "real talk" and then give advice to friends (probably unsolicited). but i never rlly talk about stuff that goes beyond skin deep. I talk about terrible moments in my life, like when i was sa'd or like something fucked up ive done, but its water under the bridge and doesnt rlly affect me anymore. i dont know, i just get the feeling that people will be repulsed if they see the real me. the me that is insecure and struggling and tired and angry. god im fucking angry, but im also so goddamn complacent, which is infinitely worse.

i am in the process of changing my life in a drastic way, which is needed. wont say how but it should shake things up in a good way. unfortunately its also partially a waiting game. so im stuck here in this in-between where i am given the privilege and honor of being alone with all of my thoughts!!!

i think i am having an identity crisis. I dont know what defines me anymore and i dont know who i want to be. ive thought about changing my name. im already changing what i wear (slightly). and weirdly enough even though i am a straight, cis dude, i occasionally have very very slight doubts about my sexuality and gender. its probably normal tho who knows.

I think this stems from a lack of masculinity in my life. having high free testosterone does not make me a man. being aggressive or stoic does not make me a man. but theres this concept of a real man in my head as something to aspire to be, but its an extremely vague and loose concept ive formed. despite being 20, i dont really see myself as a man. but im not a boy either. not to say im non binary. im just in this awkward in-between period. I wish i had a genuine masculine figure in my life who i could look up do. my dad is more like reddit atheist ben shapiro who debatelords me when he doesnt like me doing something. i dont live with him anymore so those problems are in the past, but the lack of a male role model is catching up to me, and its on me to define my own masculinity, but like fuckkkkkk i dont think ur supposed to do this by urself.

i been feeling mad weak. i always was a pussy on leg day and its showing now that i havent been to the gym for months. it really makes me feel pathetic. that 15% increase in struggle for things that i used to pick up with ease is really shameful, or embarrassing, or idk. it just fucking sucks. I want to be a strong person who cannot be surmounted, like a legendary dragon. But at the same time i dont know if these desires are my own or some responsibility i put onto myself as a means to gain social acceptance. its probably something i should put thought into when im eating enough and actually going to the gym, but i think ive been holding off because i feel so pathetic.

its a brutal cycle too. I feel pathetic from prior experiences where ive been demeaned (so a lot) -> i feel i dont have the grit or willpower to do something -> i try something thinking ill fail or just avoid it outright -> i feel pathetic. shit sucks ass.

anyways word vomit over thats p much it

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Hi hi, first of all LOVED SDMC you truly are a fic genius (also the way you continuously churn out quality content with blurbs and stuff on top of big fics like that is so impressive you’re amazing but also pls remember to take care of yourself). That all being said, I know you mentioned what blurbs we’d wanna see from SDMC so I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing out the billy/Steve argument that ended in the fight?? I’m just curious about how how you would’ve written it because the way you wrote their dynamic overall was really interesting to me! Anyway hope you’re doing well sending you love!!

Hi! Thank you so much my lovely, I'm so happy you liked it! You're far, far too sweet! I hope this fills in that little missing scene! 🧡

Steve was already in a strange mood. 

He’d left your cabin that morning with a small smile and no words, slipping into the forest whilst the sky was still a pale purple, the camp still asleep. 

He’d ached in such a good way, the feeling that came from having someone climb all over him the night before, the push and pull of bodies against walls and beds and desks. His lips still felt swollen from your kisses and his skin and hair smelled like you, his clothes creased from where they spent the night on the floor. 

Eddie had grinned when he’d snuck back in, a sleepy, slow beam that stretched from cheek to cheek, but he didn’t say anything about it until the next day, when they were both unfortunately within earshot of Billy. 

For his part, Eddie looked immediately sorry, not knowing the blonde boy was lingering behind them on the trail, too close and able to hear how Eddie had said your name, a whisper about “what happened, what time did you even come home?”

Billy had laughed, stopping them both, Steve turning to find the other boy grinning, teeth sharper and eyes wicked. He huffed out a chuckle at the sight of Steve’s neck, all pretty little bruises in the shape of your lips. 

Billy whistled, long and low and Eddie was already gripping the back of Steve’s shirt, a silent warning. 

“Well, goddamn, would you look at that?” Billy crowed. “Did she finally let you get your dick wet, Harrington?”

Eddie could feel the way Steve tensed underneath his hand and the silence that fizzed through the trees was palpable. Steve didn’t say a word and it only made Billy grin wider, like he’d found something new to poke with a stick. 

It all came to a head a few days later, after hardly being able to talk to you, only stealing glances across the mess hall, across the camp and over the heads of the kids. 

It was making Steve’s chest hurt, his stomach tumble in a way he wasn’t used to, ‘cause Christ almighty, he couldn’t stop thinking about you and that night. 

And then Billy was walking towards him on the dock, red lifeguard shorts matching Steve’s, whistle around his neck, sunglasses over his eyes and another on obnoxious smile pulling at his lips. 

He waited until he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Steve, both of them staring out into the lake, kids swimming in the section cordoned off by bouys and red rope. 

Steve could hear the smack of Billy’s gum, the crack of his knuckles as he flexed his hands and stared at him from behind the dark glasses. Steve knew what was coming, he felt it, his hands were already balled into fists at the thought. 

“So, was she good?”

“Get fucked, Hargrove.”

Billy laughed, all deep and sarcastic, turning to face Steve fully. 

“What?” He pouted, all fake and insincere. “Can’t we have some guy time, Stevie? Little locker room chit chat?”

Steve scoffed, “I’ve never had much to say to you, man, I’m not gonna start now.”

It was the most sensible he could be. There weren't any other counsellors around, the kids were too close - oblivious but close - and Steve wasn’t ready to get pulled into Hop’s office for shouting some bad words. 

No. If that was going to happen, he’d make it worth his while. 

“Does she fuck like she argues?” Billy continued, head tilted to the side, pulling his glasses off so he could look at Steve with those discerning baby blues. “Did you give it to her rough?”

Steve took a deep breath, held it in his chest until it burned before blowing it back out with a dark chuckle. His nails were biting into his palms and he wondered where you were, what you were doing, if you would’ve smacked Billy across the jaw already if you had been here. 

“My shift’s over,” Steve grunted, shouldering the other boy out of the way so he could walk back up the dock, away from Billy on dry land. 

Billy’s smile became a thin line, tight lipped and annoyed that he wasn’t getting the response he wanted so he pulled at the whistle around his neck, spun it around his index finger instead and called out cheerily:

“You should’ve asked Byers for a loan of that fancy ass camcorder,” Billy’s smile was devilish. “I would’ve loved to have seen if Hawkins was as tight as she see-“

Honestly, Steve was impressed that he managed to hold off that long. The sickening crack of bone against bone was satisfying - and a long time coming. His fist connected with Billy’s jaw, the pain searing up across the blonde boy’s cheekbone and Steve wanted to grin at the look of complete shock he managed to pull from him. 

But then Billy was on him, hands grabbing at the front of Steve’s shirt as he wrestled him forward, pulling him into him before he swung his own fist back and caught him on the chin. Another punch, landing by his temple, making his eyes sparkle and the lake turn a little blurry. 

Steve could taste blood, could hear kids yelling, the sound of a shrill whistle in the distance and he managed to throw two more punches at the blonde, snarling “fuck you,” as Eddie grabbed around his waist and hauled him off of the blonde. 

Murray was there first, Hopper behind, steaming coming out of his ears but Steve didn’t care. He didn’t care about the pain pulsing through his face either, that sharp sting of his skin being split. 

Billy looked worse. 

And Steve was pretty fucking sure he wasn’t going to talk about you again. Not in front of him, at least. 

[adelaidedrubman]

wip wednesday!

tagged over the past week or so by @schoute @poeti-kat @starsandskies @marivenah and @purplehairsecretlair for wip day, and now that we’ve circled back around to a wednesday i’m finally doing it! sending fresh tags to everyone above if you have new stuff, and to @florbelles @henbased @heroofpenamstan @blackreaches @belorage @strafethesesinners @ishwaris @derelictheretic @dihardys @beautiful-delirium @stacispratt @confidentandgood @shallow-gravy @vasiktomis @the-delicate-disaster @snake-in-the-garden @bluemojave and anyone i might be forgetting!

bit from wildfire chapter 15, below cut for major spoilers... finally getting something i think we’ve all been waiting for for a long time now ;)

“Well I guess I’m real fucking sorry I didn’t pay appropriate goddamn respects to your inanimate fuckin’ bar,” Jestiny replied, words seeming to sting her tongue with her own surplus of bitterness now leaking out.

“Rook, I know that you don’t mean to —”

“She’s speaking her piece.”

“But I care because I’m interested in getting our living and breathing people back from him, and bringing ’em back to somewhere they can halfway survive,” she shot back in completion, ignoring Jerome’s increasingly concerned expression.

Mary May scoffed, rolling her eyes to shoot a disbelieving look to the Pastor, as if waiting for him to join her in offense, then narrowing her eyelids and looking back towards Jestiny.

“What do you think we’ve all been doing?” she asked, puff of air falling from her nostrils. “Everywhere?” she added, slanting brows down further. “Why are you only interested in the ones you gotta storm up to John Seed personally to get?” she demanded, voice rising with the queries, before she undercut it with a slight chuckle. “Do you just miss him that bad or something?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she spat back, gripping a hand against the ledge of the bar. “Yeah, Mary May, I miss being around the guy hunting me down and threatening to lob my skin off. Was hoping we could have a nice picnic by the water while I’m there. Maybe a sleepover! Braid each other’s hair, paint each other’s nails. Talk about boys,” she chimed sarcastically, craning out her neck to thrust her head forward, into the woman’s space. “It’s not my fucking fault he’s obsessed with me,” she hissed. “And it’s sure as shit not my fault I’m the only one around here bothering to dedicate an ounce of fucking attention to figuring out what he’s up to.”

“Come the fuck off it with that shit too,” Mary May responded, snarling her lip and stretching her own neck forward to meet her. “Always in here ranting and raving about how you know him…”

“Well I fucking do!”

“For fuck’s sake Rook, do you think you’re the first person he’s tried to play the obsessive little mind games with?!” she asked, before Jessie could say more. “You’re not! You’re just the first person sad and sorry enough to actually wanna play back!” she shouted, looking her up and down with an expression of disgust that appeared earnest enough to make Jestiny’s stomach churn.

“Whoa now —”

“He tried pulling the same shit with me, too. And tore my family apart doing it. Took everything but this place from me,” the bartender ignored Jerome to continue, breath falling hot against Jestiny’s face as she shouted. “Or, since buildings don’t matter to you, and you’re so concerned with people all of a sudden, how about you take a drive down the road a bit and ask Nick and Kim Rye about all the shit he’s put them through?” she asked, raising her brows. “Been obsessed with getting his hands on ’em both for years,” she elaborated, before Jessie could inquire. “Fucking came in and stole the shit folks gave ’em at their baby shower a few weeks ago, Rook. Just shit we were giving them for their kid. What brilliant fucking reasoning can you figure behind that?”

Jestiny flared her nostrils, drawing in a deep breath.

jerome in the background trying to radio out a distress signal to dutch:

(also normally never add commentary but for anyone unfamiliar with the deets on jestiny’s canon she’s being a giant liar here and has 100% earned the mary may callout)

[sgt-morgan]

Burden in my Hand ❤️‍🔥

18+ only, Minors on my page is a no no.

Moonknight Masterlist

Description: Marc is a hard man to love, but you are goddamn determined to love that fucker even if it kills you. Also, Deities, I decided what I wanted readers Patron to be.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, Angsty, Cannon typical violence, talks of alcohol, self sabotaging, blood, mental illness, manipulation, talks of a past EXTREMELY toxic relationship, alcohol, I got a sailors mouth, Su!cidal thoughts if you squint, joke mentions of smut, AFAB reader.

A/N: I was listening to Sound Garden (as I often do when I write for Marc) and this just formed in my head. The song Burden in my Hand is a little about drugs, and a lot about being terribly hard to love when you don’t love yourself. Didn’t really check for spelling or whatnot, if there are mistakes lmk.

🌘🌔🌒

The heat is what hit you first as you scowled into the sunlight of Cairo, chasing after your asshole boyfriend again. Your duffel where it was slung over your shoulder, and your sunglasses were your only source of cover for the moment, and you were beginning to question why you kept following after this asshole if he was hell bent on destroying his fucking life. Then you remember that not only do you love him, but you love his two alters too much to leave them high and dry when Marc was being a dick.

You finally secured a rental car and threw your bags in the open back, from your pack you pulled your phone and a scarf to cover your mouth and nose with. You were gonna venture into the desert, and settle this fucking score. You wanted to make it home in time for Casssie’s recital, and you’d be damned if that little girl was missing her auntie, and her Tio too all because her Uncle Marc believed he wasn’t worthy of your love, or deserving of your help because of a stupid mistake he made one time. When Jake makes a promise he keeps it, and you didn’t want to deal with his awful guilty mood if you didn’t make it on time. Marc had been writing an awful lot of checks he couldn’t cash lately, and you were fed up.

As you drove you thought back to how you woke up yesterday, and you could feel a deep pit forming in your stomach. You awoke to your bed being much colder than it should be, the other half being empty, the only thing left to remind you that your boyfriends were even there was a note. When you read it your stomach churned and your eyes watered in rage and anguish.

‘My Love,

I’ve gone to Cairo. I took the research, I’m going alone. I don’t deserve you. You’re too good for an idiot like me. If taking out this cult is the last gift I give you, then so be it. If you’re gone when I come back, it’s for the best.

Yours always,

Marc‘

Now you were in the stupid fucking desert, it was hot and grimy, and you really couldn’t wait to have a drink. For the moment though, you swigged bitterly from your water bottle and muttered to Juno about your relationship.

“Juno, he’s getting on my fucking nerves with this. How many times do I have to demonstrate that I’m not going anywhere, and that I’m not a delicate little flower, for him to get the point through his thick ass skull.” You muttered as the goddess lounged by you in the sand picking petals off of a lotus flower. You were currently scouting out the cult of Moloch, a cult you honestly could not believe was attempting to make a comeback, recently they had bombed a maternity ward in Cairo and one in Crete, (Thankfully you and your Boyfriends were on the case in both scenarios, so there had been no casualties.) in doing so, they had pissed off multiple pantheons including the one of your Patron goddess, Juno. You knew Mark was in Cairo seeking them out, you knew the last mission you had been on really freaked him out with the whole blood loss debacle, and he was still blaming himself for your freak out. You hadn’t been called upon by Juno in a minute, as there was really nothing that she had found troubling enough to send you out of the country, and there was plenty of work for you to do for her as a traveling Doula and secret crime fighter. She was the protector of mothers and children after all, and thankfully your area of expertise lead to you being able to save a number of pregnant women from scary scenarios all from your home city. Unlike Marc’s patron, yours had multiple Avatars in multiple places, you just happened to be her favorite, so she called upon you to do all of the heavy lifting when it came to the really terrible stuff. So there you were, working your boyfriends mission without his permission, and rolling around in the sand with an ancient goddess.

“Oh little avatar, I of all the gods understand your pain.” She shrugged, “Just be thankful your lover is faithful to you. He always comes back, and he always comes back without twelve demigods at his hip, so you have it made! Well little one, wipe these foolish mortals out for him and demonstrate your loyalty, and then, remind him why I chose you above all to be my avatar.” Her wicked grin made you smirk as you summoned forth her spear.

“Of course my queen, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” You grinned manically and threw yourself at the men in question. “Hello gentlemen, I am Avatar of the Goddess Juno, and you have come to meet your reckoning.” Then, you did what you do best. You slashed and clawed and beat at these men with all your worth. Cleaving heads from shoulders and wrenching limbs from bodies with ease. You were covered in blood and hadn’t taken a scratch yet, easily bodying the twenty or so men in their little hide out. Then some dude caught you off guard and punched you directly in the mouth. You reeled back in anger and we’re about to drive your spear through his forehead, when a moon shaped dart flew through the air and sunk into his eye sockets with a wet thud. He screamed and fell to his knees and you easily dispatched him and spit on his still warm corpse.

“What in hell are you doing here!?” Marc hissed as he stomped towards you, completely ignoring the warmings of his alters, as they encouraged him to keep his cool. You stood before him in almost regal beauty, shrouded by moonlight, your suit in hues of rich royal greens and blues drenched in blood, face shrouded in clouds of rage, a singular cut above your lip, (that was already showing signs of healing) the only thing marring your terrifying beauty. That look on your face had never truly been pointed at him before, and he thought about putting himself out of his misery before you did, but he knew you wouldn’t kill him if not for the sake of his two innocent alters who if they could murder him, would.

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me Marc Spector,” she hissed, the tone of her voice Austere and dangerous. Sharp enough to cut. He almost kneeled at her feet then and there to beg for his atonement, to find once again the favor of this goddess in her fury. “How dare you run out on me like that? Huh? Leaving a note and taking my research? Did you think I wouldn’t follow you? I found them before, I could find them again! Not only that, but daring to break up with me without the consent of your alters? You’re lucky you share a body with two innocent men, or I would rip you to shreds.” Her eyes were taking on a severe golden hue and her teeth were bared at him almost like a wolf’s. He really fucked up this time. Alas, if it weren’t for his pride he might have made it out alive.

“Lucky huh? Lucky to what, be stalked by you into the desert? Last time you soloed a mission, you had a fucking break down. Why the fuck would I want your help!?” He bellowed, but before he had even realized the words had left his mouth, he already wished he could reel them back in.

“Marc Spector? I would advise against you further angering the avatar of the queen of the Roman gods.” He heard Konshu mutter from behind him. Marc knew it was bad if Konshu was advising against his foolish actions.

“Silence Konshu, do not interfere with matters that don’t concern you.” You growled, “He wants to see my wrath? He can have it.” You growled driving Marc back with the tip of your spear until he was forced to his knees. “Listen to me Marc Spector, I have stood by you faithfully for the better part of two years now. I have helped you, and trusted you, and I have loved you. I will continue to love you, but if I have to turn my face from you as the moon from the earth? I will haunt you like a bad dream. My goddess is a goddess of loyalty, but she is also vindictive, and I too can take my revenge. You think on that Marc Spector before we speak again.” Then with a flourish, you were back to normal. Jeans and a black tank top, face streaked with tears. He saw, with immense guilt, that he hadn’t even realized you had been crying.

You stormed out of the temple and he heard a pop and the woosh of air leaving a tire, then the sound of your Jeep peeling over the desert sands. He sank back further onto his knees with a sigh and ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, yelling out in anguish. “Fuck!” He yelled, chest heaving as he remained in the sand. Then he filtered in what his alters were saying as they leered at him from shards of broken glass laying around in the remains of the cult.

“You are such a wanker Marc, breaking up with her? Really? Did you think that would work out for you mate?” Steven groaned from his reflection, rubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. “You should have shot her, it would have been kinder!”

“Joder, ¿por qué intentarías romper con nuestra novia? Are you an idiot? You didn’t even try and talk to us about it. We’re in this together cabrón, you don’t get to make hasty decisions when you’re scared. We have a family to think about now. I promised Estrellita we would attend her recital, did you even think about that? Did you think about our niece? There are other peoples feelings besides hers now Marc. También merecen tu respeto.” Jake gruffed from another shard, shaking his head in disgust at this betrayal of their trust.

“Can I have a say in the matter?” He suddenly heard a feminine voice from behind him, and he turned to see a woman resplendent and hauntingly ethereal in the light of the moon that streamed in through the doors of the temple.

“Yeah,” Marc grumbled, completely nonplussed in the presence of a goddess, “Only if you put your two cents in while I change my tire.”

He settled in to work on the one tire you popped, somehow touched that even though you were mad at him, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave him stranded, only mildly inconvenience him. He also noticed that you had tucked your water bottle in next to his, and taken one of his hotel keys. It was a sign that while he had totally fucked up, you still loved and cared for him, wanted to be there for him. He sighed, they were indeed lucky men to have you.

“You know, I chose her for a reason.” Juno said, settling on the hood of his car while he laid in the sand to loosen the bolts, his tired body sagging into the sand. “She is fierce in her loyalty, she won’t give up on a person till the very last. It’s what I admire most about her, actually. She has an enduring ability to see the good in everyone. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t get her in trouble though, the last man she had before you, he was trouble indeed.” She sighed, and Marc could feel his whole body stiffen. You don’t talk about your ex, you only talked about him so far as to tell them that you had made a mistake with him, and you wouldn’t be making that same mistake again. Marc was curious as to what Juno would say, and from the reflections of his alters in the rear view and side mirrors, he could tell that they were just as laser focused as he was. “He was a bad man, really he was, but he was very good at pretending to be a good one.” She mused, handing him a socket wrench as he continued to work on his tire. “He always promised her that the mistakes he made would be the last one, but they never were the last one. It went on until she found out that he got two other women pregnant while they were engaged. It took two babies for her to realize he was manipulating them. Asserting financial dominance over them to make himself seem like a bigger man. He gave them all rings, promised to love only them, and got two of them knocked up on purpose to get them to stay dependent on him. It was Fortuna herself who intervened on her behalf, her not getting pregnant. Told me she was destined for greater. So, I watched to see what she would do when she was cornered, do you know what she did Marc Spector? She got them all out of there. She slowly started funneling the other two money, and paid for those girls to go home to their families, taking nothing for herself. When he figured it out? Oh, he was infuriated. He beat that girl within an inch of her life, and the only thing she cared about, even in all that, was that those two women got out safe with their children. I snatched her up right there, and helped her to finish her vengeance. My only stipulation to her? Pick a good man, a trustworthy one, one who won’t hurt you. She insists that you are a good man Marc Spector, don’t prove her wrong.” Then, as if mist she vanished.

“I gotta go apologize.” He mutters, to the silent agreement of his alters. It takes him nearly half an hour to make his way back the the hotel he was staying in, and he was not surprised to learn that upon arrival, his ‘wife’ did in fact come in with a copy of his room key and ordered a bottle of whiskey and went directly to his room. He sighed as he trudged upstairs, thinking of all the things Juno said to him, and all of the ways he had severely messed up earlier in the evening. When he finally came into the room you were curled up on your side in his bed, wrapped in his tshirt, nursing a large bottle of booze as you softly sniffled into his pillow.

“Oh honey,” he muttered dry and feeble with regret and exhaustion as he watched you tearing up and taking another pull from the bottle clutched in your fist. “Don’t cry baby, please.”

“You don’t love me anymore,” your voice was thick with tears, “I want you to, but you don’t.” You cried, placing the bottle on the floor beside the bed. “The other two love me, but eventually they will stop like you and I’ll be all alone again.”

“Oh baby,” mark sighed walking wearily into the room and hitting his knees by the bed. His heart broke in agony. You were plastered. “That’s not,-“ he sighs trying to make up his mind on what to say to you. “That’s not true. I just figured you’d be better off with out me! You deserve to live a happy life without all my baggage.”

“I want Baggage Marc! I can handle baggage! I don’t wanna be alone in the airport terminal of life, lonely with no baggage! With you I’m not alone! I’m tired of being alone Marc!” You wailed splayed out in the middle of the bed, sobbing your heart out. It was childish, and it was a nasty, screaming, sloppy mess, (one that was sure to draw a noise complaint, if we’re honest.) but at least you weren’t icing him out. “At least if I have your baggage I’m not lonely! I could carry a hundred Marc’s if it means I get to talk to one Marc! Marc is my favorite guy! No, sorry, ONE of my favorite guys! I get three guys! I get a Marc, a Steven, AND a Jake! I love those guys, I want ALL the guys! But NOW I have NO GUYS!” You started crying again, and Marc would be tempted to laugh if your little rant wasn’t so sad. “I was so lonely Marc! Before you, I didn’t have my parents, my sister, my niece, friends, NOTHING! All I had was some bullshit man who wanted me to feel so lonely, and I did, I wanted to die Marc, I am NOT going back there. I won’t! You can’t make me!” With that last sentence you threw yourself at him and attached yourself to him like an angry, weepy, drunken, Koala.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Marc sniffled, as you clawed into his shirt whimpering, “You can keep us baby, I’m sorry. You won’t be lonely anymore, I won’t let you. You got your guys Honey, we’re all here and we’re not going anywhere. I was being stupid.” He hushed you and rubbed soothing circles into your back, while you still clung tightly to his shirt. He wanted to talk through his feelings, but he couldn’t do it like this. You wouldn’t remember, and he wanted his apology to stick.

Instead, Marc picked you up, and carried you to the shower with him, slowly uncurling your fingers from his shirt as you continued to mope, removing his clothes and then yours. He then picks you back up and caries you into the shower, letting you cling to him as he attempts to scrub some of the grime from your bodies while you cling to him as if any minute he might disappear. He then wraps your bodies in several towels and let’s you cling while your bodies dry. He dresses you both, making sure to put one of his t-shirts over you, and caries you back to your room. He made sure to call House keeping, and have someone change the sheets and bring you food while you were showering, hoping to put something besides at least two thirds of a bottle of liquor in your stomach. The whole time he’s caring for you, he lets you cling to him, knowing that in your drunken state you were searching for intimacy. He figures the least thing he could do was let you hang off of him while you were upset, at least you weren’t threatening him with a spear anymore. He feeds you, makes you drink water, take some Tylenol, and purposefully sets more out for you to take and drink in the morning, then he tucks you into bed with him. He hums softly to you as your breathing finally evens out, your arms still curled tightly around his body (almost painfully) in your sleep. Once he knows that you were a hundred percent passed out, he finally gives himself over to sleep, hoping that when he wakes, you’ll still be there, willing to talk.

Marc wakes before you, he study’s your features as you sleep, and slowly realizes that you are still tightly woven into his limbs, braiding your bodies together as if trying to meld yourselves into oneness. He reached the arm tucked under your head to play with your hair as the other gently strokes up and down your hip. Your body releasing a tension he has never seen it hold before in sleep. Then you start to stir, a small whimper bubbling up from your throat as you fight your way to consciousness from the grips of sleep.

“Marc?” You croak, throat hoarse from tears and sleep. He shushes you and reaches up to grab the water and the medicine, handing it to you with a small, sheepish, smile. You drink the whole glass in one go, downing it with ease. He rubs your back in soothing circles from where he leans against the headboard. When you finish, you lean back and sit next to him, your bodies pressed into each other, but not holding each other any more. You look to see Marc fidgeting nervously with the blanket, and you intertwine your fingers in a reassuring manner, leaning your head against his shoulder both faced forward staring at the Cheap motel artwork on the wall ahead. Sometimes, with Marc, there were conversations that were easier to have when your not looking each other in the eye, and this is one of them. “Talk to me baby, what’s going on.”

He sits for a second and ponders how to begin, still rigid in his fear of loosing you. “I, I guess I was afraid.” He shrugs, you soothingly run your free hand up and down his arm where you’re holding hands, waiting for him to continue. “I was afraid that I was ruining your life. I felt like I was adding unnecessary chaos to your already crazy life. I was so worried that I was hurting you in some way, that I never even considered that you-“

“That I like the crazy?” You laughed, “Marc, honey. Your version of crazy is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. It’s a crazy that compliments mine. I want it. I want you!”

“I know that now, I really do. I had an interesting conversation with Juno-“ he admits, and you bark a laugh.

“That meddling bitch, gods, sorry Marc continue.” You say, patting his arm encouragingly.

“It’s ok,” he chuckles, “but in that conversation, I finally understood that maybe, just maybe, even though I’m crazy, that you just might be crazy too. That you get my crazy and I get yours and maybe that’s all we can ask for in this world, for someone to understand our crazy.” He wooshes out a sigh of relief, and finally looks down at you with a watery smile.

“Yeah baby, I see your crazy, you see mine. That’s enough.” You nuzzle under his arm and wrap your arms around his waist and he settles you back into the mattress.

“I better call and change our flights, I’m not prepared for the consequences of pissing off Allison and Cassie.” Marc mutters, and you can feel him tilt his head towards the mirror near the bed.

“No te preocupes, I did it while you were sleeping, and ordered flowers for her. You leave in two hours, check out is in 30. Your bags are packed. ” Jake winked from the mirror at Marc, and he began to chuckle.

“What’s up?” You begin to giggle, looking up at Marc with love struck eyes.

“Jake woke up and changed the tickets already while we were sleeping, he packed for us.” He laughed, “He even ordered flowers for Cassie.”

“Holy shit.” You begin to giggle pulling yourself out of bed. “He put out outfits Marc, the man is smitten.” You grinned, pulling your toothbrush from the top pocket of your backpack, as Marc began to stir as well. Then you noticed something else with the outfit. “Oh my god!” You cackled as Marc began to brush his teeth at the sink.

“What is it babe?” Marc giggled at your obvious mirth, peeking out of the bathroom.

“That asshole didn’t lay out underwear!” You laughed harder. Marc whipped his head towards the mirror and was silent for a second, before he was crying in laughter. “What babe?” You giggled.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” he wheezed, “But that was all Steven!”

“STEVEN WITH A V YOU SLY DOG!” You cackled, digging for a pair in your backpack and suspiciously coming up empty. “There’s not any in here!” You gasped.

“Now that was all Jake!” Marc laughed, “I knew I had them for a reason!” He giggled.

“C’mere you pervs!” You laughed launching yourself at Marc and plastering kisses all over his face.

“I love all three of you so much, never try to leave me again” you smiled leaning up to kiss him again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it baby, wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles rubbing your noses together.

“But seriously babe, where’s my underwear.”

[strawberry-nugget]

Stargazing [through the five stages of grief] | K. Bakugo

★Pairing: Bakugo Katsuki/ reader

☆Synopsis: after Izukus sudden death you and Bakugo find comfort in each other

★Warnings:18+, minors do not interact, sexual themes(SMUT), aged up characters, grieving and coping mechanisms, depression as part of a stage of grief, language

☆A/N: I wrote this for @starstruckkittensweets​ 's  Summer Romance Collab collab I also cried multiple times while writing this for so many reasons. Dedicated to my friend @aichiin in hopes this is any comforting to her <3

★Word Count: 10.6K

i. denial | 3.28 am Just when you think silence is going to engulf you in lethal restraints, he's got you. Held and embraced, away from all the evil in the world, pouring a fountain of tears in the burgundy of his tank top. The beauty of the seashore is unmatched at this time of the year -end of July- honey colored sand spreading to as far as your eye can see, lining the white foams of the water perfectly. It shines under the moonlight beautifully golden, as if Midas' touch has grazed each and every speck of sand; it's almost a pity to watch some weather away in the soft evening breeze. Not many stars are visible with how bright the moon is and you simply can't stop thinking about it, the numbness in your heart as you're trying to spot the only few constellations that you know, but even them seem unable to shine brighter than the light of the moon. But he- he shoots a hand to the sky with one eye closed as he mutters something under his breath. It makes your heart pause. You don't catch it though -whatever it is he said- ears deaf to the feeling of being pressed too tightly into his broad chest -to an asphyxiating point, even- but you catch your heart fluttering again for the first time in weeks. A good sign, you guess, the little excitement that you feel can overthrow the buzzing void in your heart, or your head. "That's the Hercules one right? You've been trying to find it for years huh?" You feel the humming in his own hollow chest more than you hear the soft muttering that leaves his lips. This heat he usually emits is probably gone by now, from how tight he's holding you and you're not entirely sure why he's putting on that show for you. The soft pretending of searching for the stars when he won't let your face turn to the direction of the sky, or why he just so effortlessly knows all the constellations you've been trying to find. Under any other case you'd call him a show off, a self contrasting asshole and his sloppy hold around your chin and neck proves that you've never been this close, as expected. He doesn't know what you like or how you'd rather be held, or even, how anyone would like to be held and you don't know anything about how to handle someone like him but social expectations don't matter when comfort is needed, or whatever Mina and Ochako said. The air smells like salt and seaweed, musty and a bit heavy, but refreshing at the same time. As refreshing as hot July air could ever be yet you still find the breeze chilly, so you coo into chest even more, throwing a leg over his thighs, and flexing your palm on his ribs. In response he soothes his hand down your shoulder, trying to create some much needed friction for you. "You can drop the act now" You mutter, rubbing your cheek comfortably onto the soft cotton of his tank top

"What act?" "Trying to comfort me, trying to use me to comfort yourself" There's hurt in the way you talk, and it jabs his heart peculiarly, making him push you off his chest just one but so he can meet your gaze. When he does, you realise you've never been met with such a serious look, and your mind vibrates in what your own confrontation towards him should be. "I mean, why be comforted? We're strong. We're heroes, we-" He shushes you, with a gaze and a snake-like lisp sound that rattles out of his teeth. "What's insufferable for me, I'm guessing, is even worse for you" He clears his throat just when his voice gets a bit raspy from laying on his back "and I'm a hero, it's what I should do. He would have wanted this as well you kno-" "He would have wanted you to be yourself not try to become him" You nuzzle your nose deeper into his chest, avoiding his eyes and the prying stars that decorate the sky above, feeling watched, betrayed by how they're able to shine so brightly despite the loss you're feeling. But then again, why wouldn't they shine? Isn't life just supposed to move on even after a loved one isn't with you anymore? Stars aren't supposed to go out, to become more or less as time goes by, they've seen distraction and glory and fall -it's only you who finds

it cruel that they can still shine in times like this. "He would have wanted me to be better. It pains me more than you to admit" Katsuki has never shown such an appreciating side of himself when it comes to your late friend. Or he has and you've just not been there to witness. Or, perhaps, you've chosen to turn a blind eye to anything that's ever brought them close because you weren't the most fond of him since childhood. Yet, a feeling inside your chest commands you to oppose him and his word. Even by the comfort of his own chest. There's no denying that you've wanted to hate the one who's nothing but comforting you, but you find yourself stuck between grief and a burning heart. It leaves you numb, maybe, to think that he so graciously holds you as if nothing else in the world matters. When this shouldn't be the case. "Why, why does this have to happen to us? We're supposed to save people, losing people is-" "The biggest part of the job" He finished your words for you, strobing that little rattle of reluctance he senses in your voice "We didn't-" "Sign up for this?" You nod at his inquiry "in a way I think we did. He always pushed himself and if you say you never saw it coming, you're lying" "I didn't" "There you go" "No, no" You shake your head "he was strong. This shouldn't have happened, it's unfair and it's-" "It fucking damn is unfair but there's no rematch for him. I wholeheartedly agree, it shouldn't have been like this. We shouldn't be here, days after his damn birthday, hollow and mourning. He should have been here, we should be celebrating" He's not going to call him an idiot. Not anymore. Not even because he's hurt you or anyone as a matter of fact, but because he's come to respect his dead, he's come to lose the attitude when it comes to seeking help, or giving it. It's something Izuku has taught him, a strong moral that no longer rests in the back of his head as a possible value to characterise a hero. It's rather a reality, such a strong wave of consciousness and coinsense that washes through his body all the time. You think, qualities of Izuku, wash through your soul in waves too. "But suggestion is oceans away from reality" Katsuki whispers and just then, the tender touch of his fingers lingers in between your locks. Only for a split second, and for the sole reason of flicking some hair on top of your ear, to shield it from the chill of the air. You're not certain if you act on your grief's accord or not when you grab onto his wrist to prolong the soft petting of his hand on your head. But he complies with you wordlessly, sighing out a heavy bubble of air off his lungs. "That's not the hercules one" You whisper "Huh?" "The constellation" It's oddly satisfying how you coo deeper into his chest, even if you can't see him pop one eye open to peak at the sky "that's Ursa Major" "Like fuck it is Ursa Major" "Katsuki, is this your first time stargazing?" You ask quietly and he wraps a hand around your waist to drag you a little closer towards his chin. When he does, he rests his chin onto your hairline. "I can't believe I opened a goddamn map for this and couldn't even distinguish the hercules one from the Big Dipper" You hammer out a little giggle. It sounds mechanical but still, he mimics you, and you can not only feel the vibrations in his chest, but the movements of his chin too, as he mellowy rubs his soft skin on your hair, soothing his lips on your head from time to time. The breaths he lets out of his nose are silent, yet you feel them calming you down, so warm and so calming against you. "The Hercules is a big constellation but it's not bright at all, you have to catch it on a moonless night and it's usually gone too early" Katsuki sighs. The process of taking in your words in analogy with late Izuku is too strong and it's too early for him to touch a subject that even so reminds him of the situation. It's more than enough that you two got to talk about it tonight, or rather, about your feelings, but at one point the line is drawn on what's harmful to his soul. A sole mention of the condition of a constellation should be making his stomach churn, and it definitely shouldn't make him hug you tighter into him. For one, the phenomenon of the constellation's nature has been around for longer than he has been who he is, and will still be when he's not. This small coincidence, even if it rubs salt to the wound, is not the fault of a small mass of stars gathered together to form something human eyes can recognize as a kneeling figure. Izuku's life is probably just a parallel to the greek myth of hercules, or so, he likes to glorify, but when it comes to him, there's noass of stars for anyone to remember him by.

Izuku falls and dies so long as the memories of his friends live, finding shelter behind a myth, a legend, a course change in the history of humankind that lead to this specific moment. Him, mourning with you, on the beach that Izuku cleaned years ago, feeling his heart ache in sync with yours. And maybe, maybe if- "If I close my eyes and fall asleep, will I wake up and realise that this is all a bad dream?" You ask as if you don't know what the answer is going to be and he tries to not indulge in feeding you a void of hopes just to make you feel a bit more sure of your future, or try to convince himself he'll have a good one too. He wants to reply positively, just as much as he wants to wake up too in a reality where Izuku is still alive, and he's got to say everything he's ever wanted. He knows, some nights he'll find himself thinking he would like to go back and change the course of his own history, whatsoever, to never hurt Izuku for naturally having qualities he had to work for, or change the fact that he's been harsh and cruel. The 'why us' inquiry that arises in his chest as he's stroking the slightly greasy hair on your scalp is what's left to bounce in his head for now, eating away every curly corner of his brain, turning any other thought into a wasteland, yet, still his answer to you is what he would rather not hear, bathed in a cruel nature he's tried so hard to lose from his persona. "I wish it were just one bad dream" There's so many questions in his head; are you asleep? Or will he hurt you by trying to force himself into accepting Izuku's death? Are you prone to being hurt and pricked by how raspy and serious his voice sounds? Because you don't make a noise, nor a sniffle, and your hand isn't tightening around the collar of his shirt anymore. He wishes too, it's all a bad dream. For the lover that you lost, and for the person he's known better than anyone, the person that knew him better than anyone. But it's not. And the mellow sound of waves crashing on the shore bears a tune to convince him to forget, but the water won't reflect the stars he can see with his bare eyes. Thus he's asleep before the lurking darkness in sound and sight gets him too. Just for a while, just until it's his own turn to face oblivion. A small part of his brain, though, convinces him he'd face any oblivion so long as he gets to fall asleep in your arms like that, over the soft, warm sand, on a chilly July night. 

ii. anger | 9.47 pm If you could only know the reason you're yelling, tears wouldn't be spilling from the corners of your eyes, down your cheeks just to drown on your overly stretched mouth, wetting the lips that are stinging in splits and bruises of dehydration. He's not one to back down while facing the disdain of his own feelings. When that disdain should be directed on how petty the cause for your irritation is, you're both focused on the snap of nerves inside each of your heads, chests heaving as you're staring at each other dead in the eye; you, from the cold seat of your couch, Katsuki, from the numbing howling that seeps through the cracks of your front door. The bags in his hands are heavy with groceries and the weight of this peculiar, unspoken agreement to settle together. It's hidden in the affection behind every piece of vegetable and fruit in the tote bags. Even if the night is young, he's got a look in his eyes that mutters how

willing he actually is to grab a pot and a spoon and cook for the two of you. But you know- he shouldn't put pressure on himself after a late patrol for a chore you were supposed to fulfill. If only he wasn't on your ass about ordering take out. "You can't fucking order again." He speaks, grunting more so than accentuating the words as he probably should. But he's irritated you, so much that you've spent the last ten minutes yelling at each other while standing frozen in your places. Probably, a neighbor has heard and your mere response to the alarming social anxiety that arises from that fact is apathy. You're already directing a big amount of angry spouting at the blond, there's no such room to experience other feelings right now. "Fucking hell, Katsuki just stop! I don't fucking care if you think ordering isn't fucking good. I can't cook right now. I won't cook" You say in a higher pitch "and you won't cook either" When he opens his mouth to speak, you roll your eyes, away from him -you just know what he's going to say- though you instantly regret it. The sight of him frozen, with bags in his hands before your door is upsetting, and begs to stir up your mind in horrid imaginations of him throwing a tantrum at you and leaving you, of him never opening up his door to you ever again. Maybe, just maybe you should have thought this through better before yelling at him. "Fuck you" He says through greeted teeth and scrunched up nose huffs "fuck fuck fuck fuuuuck" He's not a punching bag, he's the only person who's here for you and your heart won't forgive you if you lose him. Your head turns or snaps to his direction, eyes too gooey to meet his gaze properly, but you still do look at him so desperately, you're sure your heart makes a ripping sound at its very seams. And that firm dedication of his to closing himself off is evident again; in that wet anger in the corner of his eyes, seeping like magma just at the tips but never falling down on his cheeks. In his pursed lower lip -and oh, will it be so infuriating to think, you don't wanna fight, you just want him to press those lips against your forehead and forget those arguments that always arise? As he's headed for the kitchen, step after step and upper lip overlapping the bottom one to hide his irritation, his eyes are averted from you and you chase after him with counted movements; a little limp to your left leg by sitting on it for a long time bubbling up inside your bones. Unwillingly, non-eagerly. Regret and remorse for yourself are feelings that rush through you, making your tongue run faster than your mouth, making your head dizzy with guilt and drowning you of a trillion of things you want to say to him. "Katsuki" You plead with half a breath, eyebrows forming an impossible frown above your eyes "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have yelled, i-" "Fucking save it. Order if you want, I don't care" "Katsuki-" He huffs air too harshly out of his scrunched up nostrils again and shuts his eyes closed, hands resting over the groceries as he's leaning over the kitchen table. Not once in the minute he's taking from himself does he spare you a glance, but you can rather listen to him mutter a soft 'be patient' under his own breath. To himself, you realise, but your heart's too heavy as you anxiously suck your upper lip inside your mouth, wondering -will an apology fix this? It may irritate him even more, and taking the risk is probably not worthy of him getting riled up, but you go for it nonetheless, hidden away behind the stall that separates the kitchen from the living room. Your little hiding spot for the moment, a place where you can safely hide behind as you choke on your own spit, trembling at the thought of any possible outcome of your next choice of words. "I'm sorry, I'm just, I'm snappy lately" He won't respond and you notice how he's counting his breathing with eyes still shut, though, ever so slightly; that's your sign to step back, give him space and time as you make your first step to the living room. Though small glimmers of regret

springle inside your heart, landing in small needle-like jabs on every stretchy wall of the overly sensitive organ, your brain begs to be the voice of common sense, just to push you to just give him space. But what if he doesn't want space. What if he wants to be held? Like you do. What if he doesn't want to fight? "I'm sorry" You mutter under your breath, again Your step is almost crippled as you try to approach him, lost and scared at the sight of him still struggling to compose himself still. The guilt in your gut is immense and spreading like a wildfire on rotten land, but you feel like, perhaps, you -and him consequently- soothe down when your hand touches his shoulder, or, when your forehead rests easy on the crook of his neck, just after you out your weight on your toes, You can't help but repeat your previous statement. "I'm sorry, talk to me, tell me if you're good or not" He grunts, letting out a short breath in the form of a sigh. 'I'm not', you translate and your chest tightens Your right hand comes to curl around his chest over his shoulder, your left, mechanically even, cripples around his waist enough so you can press his back into your chest. "Fuck i-" You don't make a move to shush him "I feel so bad, I just. What would he have to say about me if I left his girlfriend on her own, to eat crap everyday. That's not healthy for you. I shouldn't be fucking yelling. I shouldn't-" He's so out of breath, that you consider punching some air into his lungs, with the softest CPR to have ever been performed, but the thought leaves your head immediately, your heart drowning your stomach in guilt at the imagery of your lips on his. The snap to reality after that little moment is so intense, you don't know how you handle yourself and your heart. "I shouldn't be yelling" In all your years, you've never heard him be so sincere while being so furious. When it's true that he's nothing of getting into drama or anything of sort, Katsuki is always too prideful to admit when he's made a mistake. You figure, it's unfair to still judge him as if he's his UA self, or his middle school self even. He's a different person now, having lived through so many events that could crush even the most strong willed person -and that's what he gets from admiring All Might, you think- and all he's ever done is try to be here for you. Understanding each other in such difficult times is mandatory and compromise is a foundation that you both need to work on. You find yourself opening your mouth and shutting it again for several seconds as you're trying to voice it. The dry, chapped feeling of your lips colliding makes you want to shut your eyes and wordlessly communicate your thoughts to him, but it's impossible. For your quirk isn't transmitting your thoughts to others, nor is it keeping track of one's thoughts. Everything you do to comfort him, has to be done by yourself, strictly. "Katsuki, I don't want you to-" You nuzzle your face into his back in hopes that perhaps, it muffles the intensity of your speech "I don't want you to overwork yourself for me. Izuku-" His name is whispered like words of sin or ruthless statements of atrocities, when it shouldn't "-wouldn't let me do that to you." He doesn't talk, or sigh, or even place his hand on yours and a whole minute passes like that. Or two, or three, or an eternity. The clock is ticking so loud that it's unbearable, his heartbeat muffling your ears while his scent is musking your nose. It's a funny thing, that perhaps, everything feels so warm, so comforting like this, you'd like to keep hugging him, if he allows you too. For as long as this minute's eternity can last. "Don't leave me cause I'm angry and snappy" It's so barely audible that you think he's only trying to calm himself down again, but it strikes you like a swift slash of a sword to your chest to realize the weight of his words. You thought you were the only one feeling this way. 'Don't leave me'. As if- as if it's an option that's hunting the depths of his chest, or perhaps as if your situation isn't a granted part in your lives for a little over a month. You're not one to inquire of a person in panic why they said what they said or if there's a cryptic meaning behind his very words. Because, frankly, there isn't. He's pretty clear, even while being tenderly desperate about it. And oh, you feel your heart pull and pinch at the thought of it.

"I'm not leaving" "Good" When he turns to face you, he's gripping onto your palms like it's painted out to be for dear life, a plea to not let him go as he turns his body around; you feel as if he needs you, as if, you're necessary to comfort him as well. You're too far gone in the joy that gathers in your stomach to hear him utter the words "I'm not leaving either" but you find some meaning of this statement in his embrace, when he shoves you into his chest. There's a little awkward cripple to your gaze that causes you to steal a stare outside the window or, perhaps, it's something bigger, or even the drive in your heart to hope for something more as an outcome for this. In the worst case scenario, you're pleading for forgiveness, if, by any chance, Izuku is still out there and can witness this little happening. That's when you find it, and truly, you have to catch a second glance at it to feel certain about what you just saw. Subtle little shimmers of stars, painting a large part of the sky, patiently awaiting to be noticed, in agony and tiredness that only a hero could recognize. And if you're a hero, you can feel it too, the kneeling of the legs, the flexing of the arms -it's all there- drawn by little stars of other galaxies in front of your very eyes, after searching for them for years. That's perhaps what people mean when they say, happiness is found in small things. Katsuki's arms around you, his faint breathing grazing the skin of your nape tenderly as he's calming himself down is more than enough, but the sky tonight has managed to make a compromise for the two of you, shining the diamond colors of the hercules constellation to the two of you. It's a blink and you'll miss it, no reason to break away from his arms, so you coo into his mellowy neck, speaking against his skin. "I found it, the hercules constellation" "What? Where" He's not shook at all as he speaks, and it doesn't surprise you either; there's this dazzling tranquility in the air, so much for getting you to calm down after such rage, but you'll take it over anything else, anytime. When Katsuki seems to detach his resting lips from the crook of your neck, he lays the side of his face on the very spot, inquiring again about the location of the constellation. You're more than happy to provide him with an answer. He drags you to the balcony with slow steps, a million steps away from the lights of your apartment as it seems before snapping his head towards the sky, squinting his eyes to comb through any star he could probably set his gaze on. You help him find it, not because it's before his very eyes, but because something inside you is flickering to rush you. Hurry it up. Look at the pretty stars and embrace him again, because it feels good, and you don't mind that you get mad at yourself for thinking this way. You don't even want to question your morals as thoughts of holding his hand pass through your head. Maybe a finger or two tangled in his like messy strands of hair, too hard to detangle- maybe that'd be comforting. Perfect even. Despite your best efforts to tickle his pointer finger with yours shyly, you come to realise he won't respond -you better behave, or, you should have know, but the insecurities that make you question everything are as evident as they'll ever be- you wonder if you've made him uncomfortable. But he's wrapping an arm around your shoulders, by grabbing that hand you're using to guide his gaze across the constellation and this time you can't help, but tangle all of your fingers through his, like a hair clam, fitting so perfectly, your heart cracks even more than last time. "I can pop some rice in the rice cooker and you can buy some Teriyaki" He sighs, though not once does he pry his eyes away from the stars

And that's where you feel a weight lifting off your shoulders, only to drop to your stomach; it's not a half hearted compromise, rather, it's sincere, something so eerie and far away from the usual 'take it or leave it' Katsuki Bakugo, but… you'll take it. With a broken smile and a coo into his shoulder. You turn to look at the stars as well, and Katsuki cracks a small smile now that you can't see it, because compromising actually feels good, relieving or whatever. He doesn't want to think about whether, in any sense, he's on your mind or not, he'd rather show you a piece of his own mind, a crack opening to see inside his heart -it's almost too painful that he has to be the one to calm things down. He's never been one to do so, but standing on his feet right now is mandatory. For you, him, whatever the two of you have got going on, because if not, coping won't be effective. He likes to think, you have each other in this, and that's enough for him. To keep things peaceful he has to take an occasional step back, and if that's the price to pay, he guesses he will. Izuku may be gone, he may have turned the two of you into what seems an unfixable broken mess, but at least he's left you with each other. Perhaps, he'll once appear again, in the form of new love, or a smile on your face at the sight of an old childhood photo, and things will be fine again. If only he could have been kinder, or better, or not as competitive, he wouldn't be sorry or trying to fix his own self. For now though rice and teriyaki ought to be the only problems he wants to face.

iii. bargaining | 7.30pm "What if I could have prevented this?" His voice is anything but loud, his chest too hollow, bouncing the voice of his concern around the broadness of his muscles, just to graze into your ears in soft vibrations. The statement alone makes you perk up and swoon your face away from him, hands laid flat and firm against his petrocals as you're finally fixing him with a gaze. Saturdays always bite his ass and Sundays are ever so depressing. This weekend is no less easy for the two of you. Katsuki's barely able to slur words without hissing or cursing, seeing as his jaw is bandaged up by being sliced by a villain at work today, and you've both decided that it's best if he gets to have an early night. "You'll be fine by next week, I'll help you change your bandages" He shakes his head before he buries his face behind his palms, as if trying to hide his emotions from you; you give him the right, with a worried face to match the situation "Not that, shit- no 'm taking 'bout Izuku" Oh You can't really place yourself into why but you've been having the same thoughts as of late. It's only natural, you dare say, to convince yourself not to be persistent on guilt tripping that little mellow voice in your head that tried to tell you that everything's going to be fine in the end, but it's in vain- for every time this happens you have to find a new way to occupy yourself to shove the destructive thoughts away. It's probably not right in any sense, to prompt Katsuki to ignore the problem as well, but the thudding of your heart -always matched perfectly by the raindrops that hit on the roof of the house hard enough to make you feel oh so concerned- commands you to find a new coping mechanism to add to your little pile. "I- I just-" A look in his eyes and you're lost in a trance of whether you're going to break his heart by momentarily avoiding talking. It is more than enough to convince you to voice something, anything, but every word that sparks at the back of your brain is washed by astounding waves of anxiety that have your tongue swim in the sea of your mouth. You don't come up with anything to say for as long as a moment lasts. "It's like- I should have been there! I turned down that fucking call because I was sure he could do this on his own" "Katsu" "He fucking- I fucking- I-" "Hey, stop it-" You plea "It doesn't make it any different, I know that but-" He snaps

quicker than you can imagine, prospering away from another call of his name that slips from your lips. Irises turn away from you in wrinkly eyes, furrowed brows and pursed lips. His heart is palpitating so fast, his eyes flicker in what you can read is pain, maybe, you could take some blame to yourself. Not that you have any right trace if thought to come up with comfort, or rather, not like you have it in you to let Katsuki assign this all on himself. "I could-" You start, yet your mouth is dry "I could have been there as well-" It's such an awkward miniscule moment that you share but it's enough to make your heart feel like it's breaking in regret. You're only left to wonder if your friends are feeling that way too, about Izuku's call for reinforcements that Katsuki turned down, that none of them tended to on time. "Don't put this on you" Your stomach, unable to cooperate with any plea of yours to not drown in anxiety, stirs its contents to it's desire, making you sit up; Katsuki's embrace is too void for you right now, your chest is way too hollow for you to not feel alienated. It's in moments like these that you know trying to handle yourself or your life with each other is probably a mistake, a false emotional dependency that should not exist otherwise, and you always hope he gets to prove those intrusive thoughts of yours otherwise. You're taken aback when warm hands find their way around you; it's unexpected and you flinch, but you're soothed the moment your brain processes who it is that's hugging you, bringing you back to reality and breaking your short lived dissociation. He presses his ear onto the crook of your neck, this time, not hissing at the way his wounds ache as his skin tubs on yours. He notices that certain way your breathing's working and he sighs in relief, or sorrow, for he's too scared to ever speak of what's hiding in his chest, or what's adding to him feeling so twisted and evil. "Wanna go for a ride?" He says, unexpectedly, surprising even himself by how absurd it sounds "Where to?" "Niko" He purrs and you let out a giggle "That's too far silly" "I 'on know, heard it's pretty this time of the year" You finally turn around to him, only slightly so as to not disturb his embrace and ruffle a hand through his hair, and pause just before your lips find his forehead. Somewhere deep inside of you it hurts for this to feel so casual, a loving interaction with Katsuki of all people. It feels like some sick trick of betrayal but your eyes are burning onto his skin while your world moves in slow motion. A hand on his cheek isn't as harmful as the addition of another one, yet you still go for that choice, dry lips inevitably set onto pale pink skin, pressing a soft kiss of comfort. "We could go at that spot, near UA, we used to go there a lot when we were high schoolers" Katsuki's words are calm and collected, hidden between gritted teeth so he can appear like his chest is fuller than yours, but what you don't know is that his heart is trying to beat out of his chest, like it's the most secretive, harsh prison. He briefly wonders if by knowing so, you'll hurt as much as him. But your kiss on his forehead, the warm place in which he rests face against your chest it all points to you feeling the same- it's there and he can read every single sign, whether he wants to deny them or not. "Should I get dressed?" A grunt this prolonged means yes. And truth be told the set and scenery of this small driving outlet is almost idyllic; a silent car ride, tainted faces and the gloomy watery corners of one's eyes to match the pouring rain, the slow, mellow music matching in beats with the squeaky wipers. What a perfect, diligent harmony you've got. It feels like a cut to another scene in a slow paced movie. The time is still stuck at 8.15, signifying how it wasn't long ago that you were starting to drown in a pool of bargaining -and voicing it out loud- and a part of you is still sad for thinking that maybe, for Katsuki, you're a coping mechanism. A full rembrandt of what's left of

Izuku's that he doesn't want to give up. You keep wondering if that would be the case had he still been alive. Would he ever have such an attitude stored inside of him for you had you not been dating Izuku on what now counts as ancient history? He parks his car on a narrow little road that splits the woods in half and turns the engine off. Seeing that it's November already, you think about how this is a bad idea, you know how cold he gets, and he's not wearing any jacket but you keep it to yourself. Perhaps, had Izuku been here, he would have brought an extra jacket too. For now, it's foggy windows and died down warm breaths. Thus, with a quivering lip you settle lower into your seat and sigh. "I- I know you like stargazing" He coughs, vermillion eyes pacing back and forth between you and the rain that's clashing on the car's glass "and I got an app and a window on the roof of my car" "But it's raining" "Who caaaares!" He grunts when you pout and turns away from you, something that makes your stomach coil abrasively. You want him to look at you, you want him to- As ridiculous and bitter as it sounds, you're tired of asking yourself if any of this would be happening were Izuku still here. Because he's got a stupid little fucking app on his phone for you. Because you're dying to press your lips onto his skin again. Half an hour ago feels like an eternity has passed already. He cares about you enough to open the app -and switch the location of his phone on- and that's more than enough actually. You glue your eyes to the bright screen and follow it as it pops us with a dark window, asking for confirmation that it's authorized to use the camera of Katsuki's phone. A part of you sinks in the silent death of love at the thought that, yes, he downloaded this just for you. Joy in little things, you figure, is what keeps you grounded, it's what ultimately pushes you to rest your head on his shoulder as he lifts his phone up, facing it on the small opening on the roof of his car. "Can't see past all this water, dammit" "So?" You coo, and the previous small irritation in his voice dies down with a grunt that comes from the depths of his chest. "The app's fine. Feels just like stargazing." You've never done anything similar with Izuku. And there's not even a spec of comparison clouding over your head, despite the guilt that settles in your stomach once again. Looking up to Katsuki, you can see his jaw tensing in the slightest, most probably in pain -you wonder, does his wound still ooze- and you can't help but feel like your eyes are stinging. You sniffle nonetheless. And Katsuki retreats his shoulder, letting your head hang without support as he turns to you. "Maybe, even if we can't see them, they're still there and-" You purse your lips to the side of your cheek, thinking of a reply, anything to say to make his words seem like they've come out of his mouth. "You've turned into quite the poet lately, haven't you?" Your answer should be that no, he hasn't, he's just hurt and confused, numb and afraid, but in turn you're all those things as well, or so he speculates by looking in your eyes. Because he can read people, he can read you, and as much as this has been established, he can't find it in him to speak a word on it. Then again, what's the point in holding anything in if you're going to die one day? The life of a hero is expendable, he's got his rise and fall as number one set in stone, so why should he hold back? He can't bring Izuku back even if he wants to, and he can't possibly stop himself from feeling for you. He remembers finding salvation in holding Izuku down and apologizing. He now finds humility in words that are spoken from his mouth that slip past his consciousness. "I love you- Don't care if it's fucking raining or not- Fuck" There's no time for you to think of a response before he throws a fit; his phone is slammed on the backseat, rocketing to the floor, and the click of his door is heard before he steps out of the car and slams it shut. He's lucky- the rain covers most

of the scream that he let's out and fills the buzzing void in your chest, your head. He said the words first, and your head is pulling you instinctively to your right, just where he was a few moments ago, you want to see if he's facing you, you long to feel your eyes meet his. You manage to collect the only ever courage you have left and push the thought of Izuku away from your mind, click your door open and shoot out of the car. Just like him. Like you're his echo. "Don't say a fucking word" He dismisses your open mouth, as if he can hear your breath clearer than this deafening rain, but you're not having it. "But i- i" "Shut up, as if you know-" "But I feel the same way" You whisper "What" He yells, and you scream at him to get back in the car, so you can talk, clearer. Though when he does, he's burning his eyes on your lips, then your eyes, then he never makes any move towards you, as if everyone and anything is on you. But none of you takes the bigger leap towards each -justified, because there's trembling in your movements and hesitation in your heads. And then your lips meet his. Tenderly, painfully, religiously Your first kiss is cursed by numbing ache, but it feels so right, like the warmest summer evening, or the most hazing bonfire during a cold winter night. Regret can't eat you alive for that one. And Katsuki, even with his lips still pressed against yours knows he will think about this kiss as a sin and a betrayal for far too long, he knows it'll torment him through the darkness of whatever tonight could mean. If only he gets through this night, he'll be fine Tomorrow you'll wake him up with a soft "how'd you sleep'' again and he'll be fine. The void and guilt inside his chest will get filled up with the warmness of being embraced first thing in the morning. Perhaps in time he'll convince himself that Izuku would never mind what's going on between the two of you, if you're meant to be endgame.

iv. depression | 12.07 am

Soft bubbles that smell like carnation and the auburn flicker of the fire that shines on top of a plethora of candles set the atmosphere for this evening. The lack of bright light -being that the whole city has been in a black out for several hours- is gentle to yours and Katsuki's eyes. What should have been matched with some of the artificial warmth the heater next to the bathtub, that should be providing for the two of you. Instead, it's him that keeps the temperature high.

Your muscles hurt and his wounds ache, as always, after a tiring day of hero work. You guess that's your daily nature; after hours and hours of overworking your body and soul, two people like you only get to spend the little time they have together like this. Late at night, curled up against each other, borderline sleeping in a bathtub. You're sure the water has a pinkish red tint to it -somewhere, a wound of his or yours is bleeding more that you'd like to believe is natural.

Katsuki is unbothered to check who's wounds are worse.

For the first time in a while, his mouth isn't dry, or chapped, a killer to his heart, for he can't find the right choice of words to spell to you. He should be fine with having you curled up against his chest, but somewhere along the way he finds it hard to experience the warmth he's trying to emit. And he thinks he finds your response to this unspoken mind trick when he cups your hands with his, checking at your fingers. Not a single prune or puckered line to clasp a non indifferent reaction from the back of his brain.

He's content with the way time seems to have stopped, trapping you in a moment filled with cold granite tiles and blood spoiled water that smells like lavender. In a movement he abandons your hands, watching them float over his. You hum -it's warm and welcoming, as if you're saying you're content too- and rest the back of your head to the crook of his neck.

His only reply is to nuzzle his nose into your neck as well. Placing a tiny kiss to the skin against his lips, tangling his fingers through your wet hair.

Small reassuring acts of

love with nothing special into them help you relax completely into him. "Kinda nice that you can see the stars so bright tonight" If you're looking for a cynical answer, then Katsuki's ever your man. "Of course they'd show when it's pitch black outside. What'd ya expect?" With your eyes glued to the glass ceiling for a long while you wonder, what did you expect really? Words that spiral in your brain are always spoken, leaving you numb and inquiring, searching for an answer in the deepest curves of your brain. When burning your eyes into his will never work, he decides to let his gaze melt holes in the vast of his bathroom windows. The beauty of minimalism leaves him cold and lonely, as if there's facelessness in the black veil of the sky that mimics the inside of his home. He curls into you by pressing you against his chest tighter. You never ask him why his bathroom is built the way it is -with that little corner window in the ceiling, neither does he know what he'd answer to you were you ever in a position to. He doesn't know how to apologize for being who he is, or his that window makes him feel like he used to be assured and secured on what was assigned to him by birth. (His parents’ money, a strong quirk.) He doesn't know how to apologize for still living in traits of his life that could make you feel like he's been everything but fair to Izuku. And all you probably think about, he convinces himself is that It'd be ironic to say that you mind having a view of the stars while having a midnight bath. It's a full moon tonight too -the glowing sky orb floating just above the furthest line of the horizon, illuminating the sky. And you, with your eyes shut by now and facing the glass ceiling, seem like you feel the weight of the moon pulling you in. What Katsuki knows for sure is that you have a terrible migraine that has you frowning horrendously. It's because of the fool moon, you'll say when the blond asks you why you're suffering, it always gives you migraines and he'll sit by you as you're making him his bath, holding your hand while he asks you to join him. He's nothing but a lover of roughness and void, he doesn't know how you're still with him, or how you ever fell for him. He feels slow, like a worn out tire, washed to a shore by the sea. But his hands, calloused and sculpted harshly even only by the -not so many- years of being a pro, aid to your comfort, not in his need to be a hero -more like, in his need to be human, or not feel inadequate, to not feel like his life is a pit of guilt because Izukus is over. And it has been for a long time. And his, is taking turns so abruptly that his gut churns and pleads. Two bulky thumbs run over your eyebrows, smoothing the short coarse hair and soothing the bone, swooning the sore pain away; it feels like custom made heaven, sweet and fluffy, and the water in the bathtub won't get cold, nor will his hands. You're so relaxed into him, bones turned into jelly and skin tingling at his touch. Every circle he's rubbing on your forehead is releasing tension you didn't know you had piled up. The soft splashes of water are merely inaudible when compared to his heartbeat, but you can't feel it. Not yet. It's not tense enough for him to feel like his heart is beating out of his chest. "You any better?" Cold. Brutal. Almost as if his hands belong to someone else, but that's Katsuki for you, or anyone else as a matter. You turn your head to him, wearing a tiny, worn out smile as you lean you mean into him, clashing your lips over his, bumping your nose to his cupid's bow when you're done. Katsuki, you're sure, closes his eyes in a feeling that doesn't seem pleasant and you do the most expected thing -retreat. It hurts; watching you slip away, turn your head to face the stars outside of his window, wiggle your body away from his, to collect your knees and press them against your chest. It's devastating how a small denial to a kiss can harm you in such a way. It's either his fault, or yours. Because somewhere deep inside his head he's convinced

himself he's a rebound. Someone you'll get over when you start getting better. And he's probably convinced himselfhes viewing you in this way, somehow. "You could have at least kissed me back" You whisper, shivering. The water is cold, finally, it was so nice while the warmth washed over your skin. Almost like a lie. "I-" He huffs, buries his head into his wet palms. He can't speak, for if he does, the crack in his voice, the high pitch of it, will snitch on his torment. He tries to shove it away, when he shoots his hands to your direction, trying to pull you into him again. When it doesn't work, you swear you see the corners of his eyes sparkle just a tad. It's alienating, when you've seen him cry and have numerous break downs, more times than you've seen him smile or laugh, you feel like you're foreign to the slight emotion that gathers in his eyes, now forming a pit, never spilling down the harsh lines of his cheeks. The moment a salty streak appears on his skin, you can help but wonder, what would happen if only you could stop your own tears from falling. You can't ask him to talk to you, it's more than obvious. You're deprived of any logical sentence forming mechanism in your brain, knees like jelly, arms heavy as two whole buildings in the verge of collapsing. One word of his and your heart will unleash all the ache that gathers slowly in your throat. "'M not just here cause Izuku died" There you go, not once, but seven times, feeling your heart pierce holes in your body, hanging from his every word, cursing yourself when you grasp his meaning. Wild and unleashed and raw, a plea, an inquiry. A way of masking his insecurity and it's your fault he's feeling this way. "You're not," You start, lost and perplexed "I love y-" But it does down faster than you would have wanted it. You turn your head away from him for a second. With the moon so high, and the city lights non existent, you can distinguish the Taurus constellation, just below the moon, and so very faint. Your throat is tight, your neck is sore, your voice won't come out -you wonder why astrology is right about Taurus controlling the throat- and you don't know how to make him feel good about himself. If only you can show him the constellation he'll be fine, right? Do zodiac constellations make him as excited as they make you? Or is that just a role he's taken upon himself to stick with you? His lips clash with yours, water splashing around you as he shifts, and he hugs you close to him. It's your cue, to close your eyes and move your lips in sync. Its a sullen form of desire, that dangerous one, where you get his lips to bleed from how hard you bite down onto his lip and twist and pull and clash him into you again because you can't get enough. You tell yourselves you have to live for this present, even if the past makes it unbearable. Just when your hearts feel like they'll jump out of your chests and dissolve into the lavender smelling bubbles, this time painting the water in a deep carmine, you clash your chest to his and he feels as if, he's wanted, here and now, even if the feeling won't last for long. And then it's hands that roam bruised skin, fingers than dig into softness or thick muscle, fingernails that dig into scalps painfully, until they draw blood as your teeth clash. It's passion, and only in the way your hips ghost over his, swaying in the water, as he's grunting "see, am kissing you back" and "We'll never be clean at this rate" "I'll massage your head when we're done" You breathe, pulling back for a second, as he sucks a spot on your neck, handling your back just to press your chest to his face. "Fuck, I love yo-" You shush him with your mouth on his, forehead sticking to his when a slit on your nose gets smashed when it scrunches against his cheek. He doesn't have to say it, you don't have to hurt him like this. It almost doesn't matter -the cold- when he pulls you to the edge of the bathtub and buries himself into you, you simply shiver by the way his thumb rubs your clit, thrusting your hips in rhythm to

meet his. And he bites on to your collar bones, eyes teary and heart heavy after he lets you set the pace, occasionally thrashing into your touch, his gut churning more and more as you go. It's only when he takes matters into his own hands -lifting you and pressing your back again the wall, putting out some candles I'm the process- hand on your face to shove some hair away, and legs wrapped securely around him that you both find release. Screaming in agony, crying in what could be mistaken for pain, sticking your foreheads together as your breaths tingle into one hot huff of air that travels up and way from you. You lock eyes with him, just before he lets his body collapse into the water, limbs numb and sore. "Please don't leave too." You whisper, sinking down just behind him, fetching for the shampoo bottle from behind you. He doesn't respond. Instead, he mimics you and rests his head on the crook of your neck, eyeing you backwards, pressing his lips into an upwards line. You're not sure you'll be able to get over this void soon, and you can't help but plead. Later, as you're washing through his hair, you show him the Taurus constellation and his eyes beam like a child's when he says "hey I'm a Taurus" all while tending trying to tend for the bite that he left on your shoulder. He doesn't ask to find the cancer constellation. You don't remember where to find it. The moon is too bright for you to even try.

v. acceptance | 6.59 am

The last rembrand of a star shines in a portrait of purples and oranges. The beautiful afterglow of the previous night, the first ray of sun washes its shine away, almost entirely, before a second can come. To paint the sky in blues, sprinkle the marine shade as to spoil the darkness' leftovers.

The night star, or morning star, tolerates a third, then forth ray of sunlight, and your watery eyes flicker at the scene, your head curling deeper into Katsuki's chest, humming as his hand wraps tighter around you, rubbing frantically over your skin to create some friction. It's only then that you're reminded how beautiful warmth is.

Your ear is cold -after Katsuki's doing while playing with the roots of your hair- and you tuck it under a few strands, instantly noticing the difference in temperature. Katsuki is cold as well, shivering slightly even with the blanket that's wrapped around the two of you. You can't help but wish that you were in bed, curled in a blanket cocoon, sleeping in the most sappy, eerie way.

But spending the night at the beach in early September night's has been a favorite activity of yours for the past few years. Long gone are the July nights spent in agony at the beach in Musutafu, nights that have allowed you to know Katsuki like the back of your hand. You can't take them back, replace them with memories of a happier process of getting to know him. You're not sure he wants to do that too.

He yawns slightly, squishing your head under his elbow to rub his tired eyes, breaking the loudsy inhale to chuckle at your pretend squirming. Avoiding your hair as to not hurt you while scratching the stubble hair on his cheeks -flinching slightly at it- before he moves your hair away from your ear, laughing trumphically at his doing.

"Nooo, I'm cold"

He chuckles again, running the tips of his fingers through your hair and tapping his palm over your ear. "Better now?"

"Katsu!"

You smile into his chest, trying to muffle your giggles, deciding to cook into him further.

His heart might as well burst. He thinks to himself that this is more than something he could have asked for, years of putting the effort in being with you awarding him in moments like this. Moments where he can see Venus shine faintly in the sky, feeling blessed by the planet of love as he places kisses to the top of your head.

I'm times like these, it's hard to look back and remember he used to beat himself over trying to convince himself he was drawn to you only because Izuku died. It feels like there's more behind it. Some karmic pull, some aligned stars, fates arranged in such a way that

you were meant to end up in this moment. Even if none of this is true and he's lost in superstitial bullshit, trying to explain things with something that bears no resemblance to simple logic, he figures there aren't any fresh wounds in his body. Time has flown since the last time he caught himself bathing in his own blood, but he's not reckless any more -neither are you- he doesn't go tormenting himself with wounds that will take long to heal. He can't remember times that have been tougher than this. But he's attached to the warm sand, moist still from the night's angry chill, so much that he slips one hand out of the blanket and sinks it low into the ground. It's so pleasant that he doesn't feel the ground pulling him in, or down. He's got a heart that will withstand his will to get up any time he wants to, and a pair of legs that will at his command, a chest that heaves with breaths while you're showering him with kisses. He won't get to spend an eternity like this, not even as many years as he thinks will be enough for him to enjoy this, but he's figured that there's eternity hinged in every moment, of taking care of yourself before you take care of someone else, so you don't hurt others around you. He's surprised with how much he's changed; he is aware that change is inevitable, through all the compromises that he's had to not condemn, all the soft words he's forced himself to say to you, to himself, to the point he's become softer, mellowed. Knowing he'd never forgive himself if he came to lose you to his grief. "We should get up, I'm sure Mina and Ochaco will be freaking at this point." He chuckles, hiding his tongue in the back of his mouth, as if to fish for a reply. "Kirishima and Denki will-" "Let the fuckers do as they wish, it's my wedding day, I decide when I show up. I can't with this enthusiasm" "Oh my god" You fake gasp, clapping your mouth "this is it? You're not going to marry me? You've lost your spark? Oh me. Oh my, whatever do I do?" You laugh, feeling the vibrations of his chest as he's laughing too, ruffling your hair in the messiest way he can imagine "There, now your hair is unfixable and I get to say it's you who left me at the altar" You burst out in giggles as you're trying to get up -efforts wasted in vain, because he's pulling you back onto him, for a kiss, one that makes your lips feel like cotton candy that slowly melts away, fuzzily yet so watery and with such delicacy. He gets up soon after you, folding the blanket neatly -too neatly- only pausing to take in the moment. Blue blotch after blue blotch is flooding the sky, almost every hint of purple gone, giving in to that warm tangerine light of the early sun. Katsuki sighs and you link your arms around his elbow. Content, happy. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't much of those himself. There's nothing holding him back. And so, he guesses, this is goodbye. The official one. Not melded with an apology, not fueled by regret. It's a silky woven letting go. There are no tears left for him to shed, there's no more trembling to violently shake your body awake at night. There's nothing but good in the memory of Izuku. Not even the subtle wish for him to be here, and happy with you. As the bright, starry light of Venus is outshone by the sun, he places another kid to the top of your head. "I'll see you at 5" "I'm going to be fashionably late" You argue, turning around to wield your hands around his neck and almost linking your lips to his. "Don't you fucking dare" He kisses you "Or what? You'll blow everyone to pieces?" He kisses you again, then again, then once more. "Might as well" And that's Katsuki for you, even in the calmer, softer version of himself. The personification of the twilight hours, even if he's going to bed at 10pm, wiggling his feet under the covers until you join him. He's the only reason you're still sane and you won't ever lose him. He won't lose you, in return.