#do you lay on it? do you sit with proper posture? fuck if i know

[thebusytypewriter]

Okay Salem my beloved two options for my req you do whichever scritches the brainrot best 💕

—Reader-insert/Kamukura Despair-era shenanigans (shippy? chaotic? hurt/comfort? angsty? up to you!) (Bonus points for bullying Servant/Nagito /hj)

—A oneshot for any OC you haven’t gotten to talk about (enough) on here :> I know you have an FMAB and a non-Rosalind fangan kiddo in particular; maybe one of those!

ily Salem thank youuuu :D

Jonnie my beloved you give me options but this is for YOU and I know you love Kamukura so I offer Despair-era shenanigans :> It's a rather..... specific idea but I hope it suffices nonetheless! 💕

Towa City—the most fucked-up city in this new fucked-up world.

So why, exactly, are you—a former investigator before everything went to shit—finding yourself heading into this fucked-up city? Easy. You’re chasing a phantom.

Not a literal phantom, of course; you’re tracking an individual who’s popped into and out of your radar for months now, showing up without fail at the preferred locations of every Remnant of Despair. You have a couple of buddies in what remains of the civilian-formed safety corps, and they had the misfortune of running into this phantom while on patrol once.

Their number of squadron members was cut in half that day, and the bastard apparently never lifted more than a finger.

You’re intrigued, of course, but you want to make sure this odd man never causes any more disasters.

And so, you’ve found your way to the newest circle of hell: Towa City.

Based on reports, the bridges connecting it to the mainland have since been destroyed, but that doesn’t stop you from commandeering one of the small motorboats remaining at the docks. Ripples in the water nearby alert you to the fact that your target had the same train of thought. You quickly check your supplies before absolutely hauling ass across the water.

As you approach, you’re greeted by a surprising lack of robotic killing machines. They had been the staple danger of Towa City, and you’d prepared several countermeasures against those beasts, but there’s nothing; not even so much as a single ball-sized bot. It doesn’t sit right with you.

(You don’t notice the long-haired man staring down at you from the bridge’s remaining supports, taking in your confusion.)

Nevertheless, you continue on your way, handgun at the ready just in case. As per your training, you follow every turned stone, every shifted pile of dirt, and every open door to track your target. You can’t help but feel pride at your skill and luck to make it this far, to get so close to this strange person.

(He’s moving too fast ahead of you for you to see him laying out the path.)

You climb flight after flight in this one building, all stones gone, all dirt replaced with concrete. The only thing that guides you now is the echoing footsteps above you, growing ever so steadily fainter.

(He takes care to make noisy steps for a change.)

The sound of a door alerts you to the phantom’s exit. Tenth floor—a penthouse suite, you think. You pursue, ready for another chase… or maybe a fight. After all, no one really knows anything about this person; you could be dealing with the former Ultimate Taekwondo Master for all you know.

(You are. Among other things.)

You’re surprised to see your target standing perfectly still within the living area, back to you as they look out of the window toward the skyline. There’s no indication of hearing your entrance, and it unsettles you once more. Now significantly closer, you can reasonably identify them as male, or at least male-presenting. His long black hair drapes over his back and partially obscures his pristine suit from your view, and it’s almost annoyingly perfect and smooth. He stands tall, posture simultaneously relaxed and proper in an effortless manner.

He’s a bit of a vision, you catch yourself thinking.

Focus.

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, you take careful steps forward. One hand holds your gun, which is loaded in case of the worst, and the other delicately pulls your singular remaining pair of handcuffs from your belt.

Thirty feet from him. Twenty. Ten. He makes no move to run, no move at all, so you hesitantly holster the gun so you can have both hands at your disposal.

Just as you step within reach, he turns, and you manage to block a knifehand strike with your forearms. It catches you by surprise, but what combat training remains in your head took action just in time to save your ass from being knocked unconscious.

You have only that brief moment to take in his face—chiseled, neutral, objectively handsome. Intense red eyes stare you down, but they’re not angry. They’re not anything.

His head tilts, and after a beat, he opens his mouth to say something.

He doesn’t get the chance.

You manage to grab hold of the hand he’d used to attack you, and one side of the handcuffs is shoved on.

Click.

That’s when he moves, tugging the caught wrist back and attempting to shove you back by the chest, but you’ve got a vice grip on the other cuff.

“Come on,” you growl, keeping still the hand you just caught as you fumble to grab and get the other under control. “Don’t make me use my fucking taser—”

Click.

“AHA! Oh…” You move back just a hair, staring in disbelief at your target’s wrist… and yours.

In the confusion, you’d gotten it half-correct. You’d handcuffed him, all right. Just… to yourself.

Well, shit.

“This is awkward.”

He stares, thoroughly unimpressed. But he makes no move to escape.

“What, can’t you just get out of it?”

Red eyes blink back at you.

“…Thanks for the input.” You sigh. “Dammit, why couldn’t this have just gone the way I’d planned? Fine, let’s just… save both of our prides. I’ve got the key.”

Using your free hand—the right one—you reach into your small utility bag attached to your belt and grab the single steel key from within. Even as you hold it up to show him, your target continues to just stare. It’s unnerving, but at least he isn’t trying to kill you. That’s a first, and a welcome one at that.

However, despite your training and ability to lock and unlock handcuffs blindfolded, the edge of the key catches on a ridge it shouldn’t, and the dumb thing slides out of your hand and onto the floor. You ignore the burning in your cheeks and squat to retrieve it.

Just as you reach for the key, he swiftly kicks it with the toe of his shoe, sending it flying an impressive distance across the floor and under the penthouse’s oven.

You stare in disbelief at where it disappeared. Then you look up at him.

How the fuck is he able to look so smug while still remaining expressionless?

“The hell is your deal?” You push yourself up and waggle your cuffed wrists in front of him. “Unless you know how to get out of handcuffs without a key—which I don’t—then we’re stuck. Is that what you want?”

Blink.

“Or you could just not talk to me. That works.”

God, you wish you still had a team.

“You’re a detective,” he finally says, tone as flat as his expression. “You don’t appear to be related by blood to the Kirigiri line, and the lack of a ring on your hand implies that you are not married.”

The analysis throws you for a loop momentarily as you process it. “The Kirigiris? I mean, I know of them, but no, we’re not related. I’m just a private investigator from Tokyo. I came here to—”

“To track and apprehend me,” your target finishes, “someone you could not figure out. Someone who remained just out of reach. Now you have time to do so, and I will be able to do the same.”

“You make it sound like you planned this.”

He doesn’t refute it.

The sound of approaching vehicle engines alerts you to the presence of someone else outside. It’s faint, given your height at the tenth floor, but you’re still able to classify them as military-grade. Probably those Future Foundation people. You wonder what they’re doing in this city.

…You wonder if they can get you out of the cuffs.

Your target narrows his eyes at you, as if reading your thoughts. “That would be a terrible idea.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“If you surrender to the Future Foundation, it is quite likely that they will consider you an accomplice of mine.”

“Oh please, I’m a licensed detective, they have no reason to distrust me—” Now it’s your turn to blink at him. “Wait, did you say accomplice of yours? Who does that make you, then?”

For once, he hesitates, appearing to mull something over in that strange head of his. Then, he finally says, “I am called Izuru Kamukura, and I am considered to be a part of the Ultimate Despair, who are now the Remnants of Despair with the death of Junko Enoshima.”

It processes for a moment, then you huff a half-laugh. “A lot of uncertainty there.”

“They are facts.”

“Right, right. So the Future Foundation…?”

“Wishes to kill me.”

“Gotcha. And me showing up, handcuffed to you—”

“Would likely end in your own death, or at least imprisonment with suspicion of cooperation with a terrorist.”

“Son of a bitch.” You glare at Kamukura, gesturing vaguely toward the stove. “Then why make me lose the key? Are you just that sadistic?”

That smug little twinkle in his eye comes back. “No. I knew it would be interesting, being locked to the person who’s been following me for two months.” He leans forward into your personal space, dark hair falling to curtain the both of you. “Checkmate, detective.”

Heat rushes over your face once more.

Guess you have no choice but to follow his lead.

‘Interesting,’ without a doubt.

[ifuckingloveryoshu]

Self Indulgent Ryoshu X Vocalist!Reader

HCS (Or How I Got Myself into A Vocal Rabbit Hole)

This is self indulgent because one day I think I'm going to try to work on a project moon oc from the streets of music who sings. Also I'm too lazy to read all of this right now but it seems like a cool research thing and I will get some ideas from this. X Im blatently picking and chosing whatever. I'm also so out of the loop and like, I'm not reading all of these fully. I am an illterate Project Moon Enjoyer. Trust and go at your own discression.

I treat this like singing would help out with the lungs but the article claims that reseach on this area are poor and few.

(also feel free to give me constructive critisim because i want to learn how to write Ryoshu)

Just three bullet points in and fuck. I was just searching about neurotoxins a few moments ago. Aughhhh. If I find out me embedding links didn't work, I will gut someone.

Wall squats. Y/N is doing wallsquats to better train their lungs and Ryoshu is supervising. May god have mercy on your soul. She does it too sometimes and you both compete who can stay there the longest. Y/N also has to sing while doing wall squat. Ryoshu is exempt but sometimes she'll do it with you.

Y/N and Ryoshu run laps around the area together.

Y/N regularly takes waterbreaks with Ryoshu and the both of you are well hydrated. Hydration is very good for the human body. X

Y/N is not stopping her nicotine reliance but singing and doing exercises like this helps offset the lung damage. X

Just for a moment, when your together working like this, she puts down the cigarettes begrudgingly.

Its annoying but she must admit, it shows results. It's also quite usefull being able to hold your breath, pretend your momentarily dead only to suprise the enemy, or go in for an ambush.

As far as Y/N knows, their walking on eggshells. Ryoshu's not going to do anything though. She's not going to tell you this, she takes amusment in Y/N's underlying feeling of never being completly safe? There has to be some sort of unspoken trust to keep you two relaxed to sing well enough and the excersising helps. Respiratory tension gets removed when you've been running laps, huffing for air.

If Y/N lets her, she has the skill to cut into cut into Y/N's chest and neck, carefully showing how the things expand and the vocal folds narrowing, seeing the airflow. Its disgusting but also very useful information. (warning, graphic videos) X X

Sinner karaoke night. Ryoshu refuses to sing with the other sin-gers. Y/N can not force her. When everyone's packing up to go to bed, she stays behind and sings to herself a gentle lullaby she used to sing to Yuzuki. She knows your there. Tell anyone and Y/N gets a B.E.L.C.A.N.T.O. (Beat Entirely, Left Concious, and Neck Totally Offuscated) wrung out from their lungs.

Y/N and Ryoshu have excellent posture. Sometimes, to improve singing, Y/N and Ryoshu get to sit on the floor together and lay down, backs on the ground and heads touching each others. This is called breathing into your back. X X X

Other workouts include sit ups, proper breathing exerices, core muscles exercies, stuff that removes tension on your upper body

Being relaxed is also very important for singer's not to sound bottled up? The only reason she can momentarily stop smoking is because the singing is a sufficient enough distraction for the moment. X X

Ryoshu has a deep voice because of the cigs. She can still sing well though. X X

If Ryoshu's somehow gets a high or so into music herself, this is a possible thing that can happen. Y/N's job now is to try and make sure she takes breaks or chills out somehow because through this, she's still smoking her cigarettes. X

Sinclair is just with Y/N and Ryoshu sometimes because Ryoshu bullies him into it. The moment the other sinners got curious, she stopped. Indecisive if she stopped for good or stopped roping Sinclair in with Y/N. She just loses interest when other people start catching on. Sorry.

After that, she brings Y/N to her room sometime and you two only do the working out part together. Singing part is done on Y/N own time.

Put this somewhere idk (images of inside the vocal fold)

[lynxindisguise]

Snippet from Ch. 2 of my Slytherin! Sirius x Bad Boy! Remus AU. Read the rest on ao3

Blacks do not care about ‘goodness.’ They care about greatness, excellence, superiority.

Sirius doesn’t find himself waiting in a hidden corner of the library out of the goodness of his heart. He doesn’t care if Lupin—who is now seven minutes late—passes his classes. He doesn’t even care about winning McGonagall’s approval. (Okay, he cares a little about that, but that’s not why doing this.)

No, Sirius is simply seeking something, anything, to relieve his excruciating boredom. Plus, Lupin is going to hate this, and he's hoping to extract a bit of joy from that.

But when the gangly delinquent finally arrives—now twelve minutes late—he looks more sheepish than anything. Sheepish and exhausted, that is, the most recent full moon having clearly taken its toll. Everything about him is rumpled, from his tawny hair to his ill-fitting uniform to his sallow skin. He reminds Sirius of a crumpled piece of parchment.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sinking into his chair. “Fell asleep after Charms.”

Sirius is suddenly assailed by the image of Lupin passed out atop a tangle of blankets, and he imagines tucking him in and smoothing his hair and—

He clears his throat. “Shall we get on with this, then?”

Lupin nods blearily. “My worst subjects are Transfiguration and Herbology, so if we could start with those—”

“We’re actually going to start with the basics,” Sirius cuts in, tone jarringly crisp in contrast with Lupin’s soft mumble.

“Sorry?”

“Spellcasting 101. Your grip is too loose, your posture is atrocious, and your pronunciation is shit. How you’ve gotten this far is beyond me.” (There’s a compliment in there, somewhere, if you squint.)

Lupin sits up, affronted. “I—my pronunciation is fine! Just because I don’t sound like the bloody queen—”

“This isn’t going to work if you’re going to get defensive—”

“You just insulted me! That’s not how you teach.”

“What do you know about teaching?”

“I know it doesn’t involve insulting your students.”

Sirius would argue that insults have fuelled his learning since he was a child, but he’s at least partially aware how fucked up that is, so he just huffs a sigh. “Would you like my help or not?”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Lupin mutters, shoulders curling forward. “I can get O’s on everything, and I’ll still never be able to hold down a proper job. Not for long.”

Sirius’s lips part helplessly. It should be a relief—Lupin acknowledging what he’s been too polite to say. But hearing it aloud just makes his chest ache. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs finally. “That’s shit.”

Lupin looks up, eyes round with surprise. “I… yeah. It is. Thanks.”

“For what?”

He looks back down, picking at his nails. “Just for… No one ever… I love James and Pete, but they always try to convince me everything will be okay. They don’t get it, especially James. He thinks everyone is like him.”

“… A massive twat?”

“Open-minded,” Lupin corrects, stifling a grin. “He wasn’t trying to embarrass you in Hogsmeade, you know. He really does just have a thing about taking in strays.”

“I’m not a stray,” he snaps, the picture of poise and not at all reminiscent of a cagey rescue dog.

“Sirius—”

He flinches at the sound of his name.

Even his ‘friends,’ usually called him Black. That’s where his value lay—in his identity as the Black heir. Regulus called him Siri before he called him nothing at all. And his parents… He was always ‘son’ to Orion, and ‘darling’ to Walburga, and when they did use his name, it was a hiss, a threat, the slice of a dagger across a sheet of ice.

It’s different coming from Lupin’s lips, something foreign and soft and achingly tender.

“Didn’t think anyone would ever accept me for what I was,” he pivots, sensing Sirius’s discomfort. “Did everything I could to push them away, but then they figured it out, and…” He smiles to himself, a gentle, fleeting thing that briefly softens all his harsh angles. “And I still hate it when they fuss over me, and half the time I’m convinced they’ll eventually get sick of my shit and leave… But I don’t think I’d make it alone. And I’m an introvert.”

It should make him cringe, such cliché, sentimental drivel. It does make him cringe, to the point of creating a burning sensation in his nose and behind his eyes…

“Stop trying to distract me, Lupin,” he sniffs. “We’re still fixing your grip.”

[thatonewatching]

Church Boy-Failure

TW

I walked home instead of riding the bus. I couldn't face that fucking freak and his stoner buddy.

When I got home, my father was sitting in the living room. He always loved that chair, potentially more than he loved me.

"Travis."

"Father."

"I have a question."

"Yes, sir?" I ask, heart racing. "Do you think I'm a monster?" he asked, calm as ever. "No! Of course not, father!" I protested, dropping my school bag. "Oh?" he stated, giving me a subtle look of surprise. "Really? Then tell me why... tell me why you are so scared of me." 

"What...?"

"You heard me, son."

"..."

"Go on...Tell me...If you aren't scared."

"Well...because you are my father and I know you love me. The punishments hurt but I am deserving of them! You are teaching me." 

"Good. To your room. Now."

"Yes, sir."

I grabbed my bag and then walked up to my bedroom, sitting on my mattress that was resting on the floor. After an hour or so, I fell asleep. My dream was weird.

-DREAM-

I walked into the school's bathroom. Sobs and cries emanated from a stall. "Hello? Are you okay?" I called out. 

The voice was not mine.

So familiar, yet I couldn't pinpoint it.

"I'm fine! Go away, fucking freak..." the hidden voice replied, voice cracking. "I just want to help..." I muttered, embarrassment hinting in my tone. "I don't need your pity!" the voice yelled, slightly distorted. "I'm sorry..." I apologized, walking away and back through the doors. 

"Faggot!" the voice yelled as I walked through the doors. I didn't pay it any mind. But now, I was in my bedroom. Not my actual bedroom, one that was supposed to be mine. I lay in blue covers, blue sheets, blue hair, blue eyes, and blue pills...

My vision was funky and weird. 

I grabbed for something on the side of my bed. With a small 'pop!' I could see better. "Sal!" a voice called from the next room. Involuntarily, I got up and fell into a deep abyss upon stepping off my bed.  

That's when I woke up. I sat up in my bed, sweating and shaking. A moment later, my father walked in. "Travis, I suggest you begin to prep the table. That is, unless, of course, you aren't eating." he said, then closed the door and exited. 

I sighed softly and left my room. My father was in the living room, he was reading a book. "Prick..." I thought. 

*Time Skip*

I finished setting the table and alerted my father. "Father, the table is set." I informed, tending to my seat across from where my father will sit. "Good." he answered. When he arrived at the table, he sat and we began to pray.

(Sorry, I'm not religious and I don't want to include an actual prayer. I don't know what to put and it doesn't exactly matter anyways. I hope you all understand!)

"Amen." we finished. 

Dinner went by silently, it used to be comfortable and talkative when mother was here. I miss her...so much...

After dinner, I went back up to my room and lay down. Not to sleep, but to think and relax. Two hours passed and my father burst into my room. "Travis. Your teacher has informed me that you need math tutoring and that you could also tutor someone yourself, get up." he demanded. "Yes, father." 

I obediently got up and walked to the door, waiting for further instructions. "Come." he commanded. I followed my father down to the front door and waited by his side. A few muffled voices were heard on the other side, and my heart beat up. 

My father sighed in exasperation and looked over at me. He scowled and smacked the back of my head. "Act proper. You fucking failure..." he demanded, muttering the last part. "Yes, sir." I replied, fixing my posture and smiling. My father opened the door and there he fucking was...

Larry Johnson...

He was wearing a white button-up and some beige dress pants with loafers. His hair was brushed and pulled into a ponytail. 

Oh my fucking...

My fists clenched but I forced a smile. "Hello, Larry." I greeted, smiling until my face hurt. "Hey, Travis!" he responded, shaking my hand. "Hello, Mr. Phelps." Larry said, shaking my father's hand as well. 

"Good evening, Mr. Johnson. It's so nice to see you. I know you'll be a great influence on Travis. If there's any trouble, don't hesitate to bring him home immediately..." 

Little did Larry know, that was a threat. "Of course, Mr. Phelps! Can he come now? I don't want to be out too late!" Larry asked, faking it all. "Yes. He can go. I suggest bringing him home tomorrow morning." My father said, eying me. 

"Yes, sir! Will do!" Larry agreed, smiling harder. "Great." my father said, smiling again.

*Time Skip*

After my father and Larry stopped talking, he allowed me to follow him back to his apartments. He lived in Addison, they were right by the church, so I knew exactly where they were located. 

*Time Skip*

We got to the apartments and walked in. Larry grabbed a keycard from his pocket, and we started to descend. "Oh my fucking god!" Larry exclaimed, ripping off his button-up to reveal a brown shirt with the letters "SF" printed in the middle. 

"What are you going to do to me?" I exasperatedly asked. "Nothing, that's a question better fit for Sal." Larry answered. As soon as he said that the elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. "Come on, my room this way." Larry nonchalantly said. "Okay?" I responded, following right behind.

We walked into a nice-looking apartment, it was cozy and smelled like a home-cooked meal. I followed Larry into a room with a 'Do not Enter' sign on it. The room smelt of weed and smoke. There was a noticeable blue at the far end of the room.

Sal...

"Hey, Sal! I'm back with your boyfriend!" Larry yelled. "Shut up, Larry." Sal replied. I looked down and when I looked back up, Sal was right in front of me. He had no shirt on, and some baggy jeans that were barely on his hips. "Hey, Travis." Sal greeted. 

I was in a trance.

I could see his waist, it looked so fragile and small. His hips were defined and curved. The way I could see the little lines leading into his pants and a small part of his blue happy trail. I could even see a part of his boxers. "Travis?" Sal asked again, snapping his fingers in front of my face. 

"Yea?" I ask, finally paying attention. "Are you okay?"

"Yep."

"Alright, do you wanna help me with English or do you wanna study math?"

"Um..."

"..."

"Let's do the literature. I can get all my frustration out with that first."

"Ha, okay. I can get the textbook, just give me a second."

"Alright."

Sal walked over to Larry's bed and flipped over the covers. After searching for a second, he found it and lifted a large textbook. "Found 'em!" he shouted, scurrying back over to me. He grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the bed. Pushing me down onto the covers, he plopped next to me. 

"Ok, so, I didn't understand this metaphor, could you explain it to me? Like, I understand it's a metaphor for how sad the poet is, but what exactly does it mean?" Sal asked, pointing to a line near the center of the page. "Oh, it's about how they feel unappreciated." I answered, explaining why.

"I get it! Oh my god, thank you!" Sal yelled, throwing his arms around me and pulling me into a tight hug. "Mhm, no problem." I said, coldly. "Wish the teachers had explained it like that!" Sal joked, breaking away. "Yep..." I replied, grabbing my hands and putting them in between my thighs. 

"Alright, time for math!" Sal said, getting up and grabbing a different textbook. "Okay..." I muttered, waiting for him to come back. Once he did, we flipped open to the correct page and started doing the problems one by one.

"Hey, Sal! You want a hit?" Larry called from across the room, holding up a blunt. "Yeah, gimme a sec." Sal replied, helping me finish the problem and then going over to Larry. He loosened his mask and lifted it a little. I saw a part of his face.

He had a deep gash in his cheek and a large hole missing on his other one. His lips were pink and scarred with little white lines. He had perfect white teeth that contrasted with his pale skin. I felt my face heat up, but I didn't know why. 

He put the blunt to his lips and pulled it away after a second. 

Sal noticed my staring and put his mask back down. He breathed out and smoke escaped from his eye and mouth slits. "Sorry, didn't mean to stare." I murmured, looking back down. "You gay or something? You're all red and shit." Larry asked. "No! I'm not a faggot!" I yelled, standing up. "Chill out, it was a joke." Larry retorted, rolling his eyes. "Whatever..." I said, sitting back down.

I was just sitting there, waiting for Sal to finish his smoke. "Hey, Larry?" I called out, grabbing the greasy teens' attention. "Yea?" He asked. "Do you have a cigarette?" I nervously asked, hoping he would say yes. "Oh shit. Thought you were some goody-two-shoes little Christian boy. Never mind, Mr. Badass." Larry joked, grabbing in his jean pocket and pulling out a green box.

"Thanks, I'll be right back." I said, walking out through the door in the back of his room. 

I stepped outside and it was freezing. I pulled a lighter from my pocket and lit the cigarette. I looked out into the field; a tall treehouse was sitting upon a large oak tree. I was curious, I'd just ask when I went back inside. I took one last hit of the cigarette before throwing it on the ground and putting it out with my shoe. 

Sal's POV:

We finished the last problem, and I went over to Larry to smoke. Larry gave Travis a cigarette and he went out back. Wonder if he'll see the treehouse. I bet he will. After he left, I lifted my mask and smoked some more. I heard the door creak open again and a very cold Travis enter. He was shaking and his nose and cheeks were red. 

"Hey, Travis." Larry kindly greeted, piquing my interest. "Hey?" Travis responded, also confused at his sudden kindness. "Looks like you're a little cold." Larry commented, still kind. "Yea? Thanks for pointing out the obvious." Travis replied, sitting on the floor. "Yep."

"So? What the fuck was that?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to see if he was cold. I know how to fix that."

"Larry, what are you getting at?"

"Well, maybe Sal could warm you up a little."

"I'm not gay!"

"Sal is."

"He is?"

"Yep."

"Oh..."

I was still sitting on the ground next to Larry. I noticed that Travis turned to look at me. We locked eyes for a second before I looked back at the ground, ears heating up. 

Travis' POV:

I looked over at Sal. We just looked at each other for a second before he looked away. His ears and neck got all red and I stifled a laugh. "So, you guys wanna play a game?" Larry asked. "Sure!" Sal quickly agreed, likely hoping to forget the fact he just got outted. 

"Travis, you in?" Sal asked, ears and neck still cooling off. I shrugged my shoulders and crawled over to them. "So, what are we playing?" I ask. "I dunno, truth or dare?" Sal suggested. "Sure." Larry agreed.

They both turned their attention towards me, and I shrugged my shoulders, in a way, agreeing to the game. "Alright, Sal, truth or dare?" Larry asked. "Dare!" Sal answered. "Okay, okay. I dare you to...uhm...oh! I dare you to throw it back." Larry said a shit-eating grin plastered boldly on his face, the gap in his teeth barely visible. 

Sal's eyes scrunched up, signaling he was smiling. He nodded silently and walked to the center of the room. He crouched and arched his back, hands on knees. He began to aggressively move around, looking similar to a seizure. After he was done, it was Sal's turn to ask.

Larry's face had gone red from stifling a laugh. He couldn't hold it any longer and burst into a fit of boyish giggles and hiccups. After he caught his breath, we continued the game. "Alright, Travis, truth or dare?" Sal asked. "Truth." I answered, not really trying to participate in this game. "Aww, whatever. Is it true that...you're straight?" Sal asked, eyes staring right into me. 

Once again, my face got hot. "I'm not fucking gay! Holy shit! Why can't either of you understand that?!" I yelled, standing up and clenching my fists, and chewing on the inside of my cheek. "Sorry, dude." Sal apologized. "Whatever!" I yelled, walking out of the room and to the bathroom. 

In there, I absorbed my surroundings.

Toilet.

Sink.

Faucet.

Bath.

Soap.

Tooth brush.

Tooth paste.

Razors.

Razors...

(originally posted May 17th 2023 on Wattpad)

"Church Boy." - Failure - Wattpad

[weebsinstash]

Left Blind // yandere EraserMic x Reader

Sequel to Eye For An Eye. hopefully i didn’t get a certain events in the wrong order!

warnings for unhealthy/abusive/obsessive relationships, manga spoilers in terms of minor character death, hurt/comfort, drugging, body horror which i wont specify to ruin the surprise~

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Your leg hurts.

Crisp air is breezing along your body, a warm sunlight glowing against your skin, there's a pleasant amount of humidity that's juuust right

and your fucking leg hurts.

There's a scowl on your face, as usual. Whatever pain medication you were allowed only did so much to ease the discomfort from your now healed, maybe even improperly so, leg, a leg broken by the very men who sat on each side of you. Aches and sore muscles are a constant experience for you now, often making you want to simply lay in bed and wallow as the pain shifted around your body that was desperately trying to compensate for the shift in your gait caused by... the incident.

A grunt leaves your body as you try to shift into a sitting position that put less strain on your hips, aided by the soft cushion oh so lovingly added to your folding chair. The sound doesn't escape your company, both men turning to snag a glimpse of your pained grimace. "Should we head back?" Aizawa questions, and you shake your head in response. It wasn't often that you got to sit outside; you didn't want to give it up just because of an uncomfortable chair. Yamada seems to look you over, but remains silent, as if in thought. He’s been more quiet recently, you’ve noticed. You caught Shouta trying to ask him about it the other day, but the blonde was especially tight-lipped, particularly so when the two men noticed you hovering by the doorway.

Quite frankly, you don’t have the mental energy to be suspicious. If you’re not terribly depressed, you’re horribly apathetic. You’re just going with the flow at this point, if only to preserve your own sanity. Who knows, maybe being too audacious would cost you an arm next. It’s no lie to say you’re just existing on auto-pilot.

Although... you had to admit that Hizashi’s silence bothered you for more than one reason. After all, you and him had spent a lot of time together during recovery, and before everything went to shit and you were brought in as a captive, you had actually had a pretty positive relationship with both Heroes. It made you... strangely uncomfortable to think that there was something bothering him. Maybe what bothered you more was that you cared. Honestly, you’ve been so worn down and exhausted between being a captive and essentially losing your proper mobility that you had to take positivity where you could get it, and the loudmouth blonde was always a proper source of pep.

Or he had been. Maybe you could ask him about it?

-------------------------

Shouta and Hizashi are late. They’re really, really, really late. Why? What happened? Where are they? What are they doing?

A few hours off schedule and you’re like a dog who hasn’t seen its master in days. wondering what’s preoccupying the pair. They were your literal only human interaction, and the longer they were gone, the more you started to wonder: are they not coming back? Were you left alone? Did they get tired of you, broken down and defeated? Were you going to starve to death and rot in this house with no one to look for you, miss you, grieve you--

Your panic attack on the living room couch is postponed when you hear keys and a door, and you push through the physical discomfort to look for the source of the sound: Hizashi coming home through the garage. You instantly notice two things. The first is that Present Mic is alone, and the second is that he’s very clearly stressed, with messy hair, clothes in dusty tatters, and bloodshot eyes. Upon seeing you, however, the man’s posture relaxes, and before you can say anything, he’s reaching out, pulling you closer into an embrace, squeezing tight. It’s different, you can tell immediately by the way he holds you so strongly, lingering, like he hadn’t seen you in ages. It’s a hug you give when something is wrong.

“Shou is... gonna be off the air for a while.”

Present Mic hadn’t expected you to start crying as he explained what had happened. It was a scenario you’d thought of before, often times even wished for: during his duties as a Hero, Aizawa has been hurt, significantly. Hizashi won’t specify how, only soothing your worries that it’s nothing fatal and that he should be home within a couple weeks.

Shouta was home within days, missing one of his legs. It’s such an upsetting sight that you can’t help but feel sick, and the man’s behavior does nothing to soothe your worries. He’s clearly upset about whatever happened, about his newly-acquired disabled status, and he says nothing when you reach out to hold him, to provide comfort of some kind. He holds you back, but... the Hero is quiet, cold. It has a painful effect on you. You’ve only got two people to talk and interact with, and one of them just retreated into a deep shell, and while you haven’t known him too incredibly long, you can sense that Hizashi is affected, too. Later that night, you found him drinking with his head in his hands. The next morning, the two of them were arguing in hushed tones that grew silent when you entered the room. Days later, Shouta is back at work, even as you and Hizashi both all but begged him not to, that he still needs more time to recover, that he can’t push this. Aizawa ignores you both and leaves anyways. After that, Hizashi gave you a hug and sequestered himself in his office, and you thought you heard some sniffles.

Things were definitely different now. Both of your captors have lost much of their individual shine, becoming more quiet, reserved, stressed. Mic, who usually was a total motormouth, running a mile a minute, had all but become a mute, often having a frown on his face. Aizawa was similar, often isolating himself in the room where the Heroes kept their home gym equipment. He’s still been teaching his classes, but you can’t help but get... stressed over the idea of him going back to being a Hero. It made you... really scared. You don’t want to lose what you have left.

You have so little left, after all.

--------------

It was in the very air from the second you woke up; something is wrong. The house is dead quiet, but there’s an energy you can’t describe, something sinister and chilling that made you nervous to walk around. It’s late in the afternoon, so you should be home alone, but there’s a sound growing louder as you approach it, a sound that sounds an awful lot like crying.

It’s Hizashi. He’s crying on the couch, just, openly weeping with his head in his hands, a bottle of booze half-empty beside him. The sight instantly freaks you out. “Mic?” His head snaps up at your scared voice, and he quickly makes an effort to compose himself, one that isn’t working. He wipes tears from his eyes only for more to fall, every breath shaking, and you can vaguely hear him muttering swears in frustration.

“Uh, h-hey, babe, what’s shakin’!” His tone is too enthusiastic, clearly forced optimism, and there’s still tears in his eyes. “What’s, uh... what’s going on?”

“Are you ok?” You ask bluntly, slowly approaching the couch. Those green eyes of his seem to bore holes in you, the gaze in them struggling but intense. A small groan slips out of your mouth as you attempt to sit next to him, the action irritating your sore glutes, but you put up with it for Mic, who looks grateful, perking up, if even just slightly. He wipes at his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to pick the right words, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. “It’s... it’s...”

He turns away from you, like he can’t bear for you to watch as he puts his head in his hands again. “It’s Nemuri...! She’s gone...!”

Your heart twists as he cries harder. “Your friend Nemuri? Midnight?”

He nods, unable to speak clearly as he begins to blubber.

“It was villains... it’s always villains... they were attacking and-and she got caught going solo, so they... they...!!” A sob leaves him, and you don’t know what to do as the man who’s usually a ray of sunshine is incapacitated by grief. “And Shou! Shou!! I can’t get him to stop comin’ into work! I always knew he was gonna get hurt, and he won’t listen to me! He still wants to do the good work when he just- he just lost his fucking leg! They’ll kill him! They’ll kill him too! As if it wasn’t bad enough with Oboro!!”

Present Mic is completely distraught, slumped forward and sobbing. The only other time you’ve seen and heard him this upset was when the incident happened months ago and he was... he was... afraid he was going to lose you.

Against your best wishes, guilt claws at your chest, and to try and help, you put a hand on Hizashi’s shoulder. He doesn’t react, or even look at you, only crying, and crying, and crying--

"H-hey, look at me!"

Hizashi feels soft hands, warm hands reach down and cup his cheeks, lifting his face upwards to see you there, eyes filling with tears. The touch grounds him, his own hands laying to rest over yours, his tearful eyes quietly asking for help.

"You can do this, ok...?" Your voice is shaking slightly with emotion, your lips quivering. It hurts to see him like this, it hurts. "You're... you’re Present Mic! Everyone loves you! You roll with the punches! You've got one of the biggest radio shows in the entire country of Japan! You work at the best Hero academy in the country! You speak multiple languages, and you’re popular, and you’ve got a fancy car, and all these talents, and you still have Shouta, and... and...”

Fat tears roll down your cheeks. “...and you still have me, so... so... please... try and hang in there, ok...? ‘Cuz I can’t... I can’t stand to see you like this!”

The latter half of your plea came out in sobs, but your pep-talk seems to work. Hizashi immediately rights his posture to pull you in close, squeezing tight like he’s afraid you’ll go somewhere. Now he’s the one comforting you as you cry, letting you cling to him for support. Shame fills his heart as the Hero thinks about allowing you to see him in such a state, but knowing that you were worried for him, that you took the time to try and soothe his worries... it only furthers all of his manic delusions about what a happy, loving couple the three of you are. Hizashi spends time to savor your attempts to comfort him, even though you’re upset.

That’s right... you’re right! He’s Present Mic! He can do this, for Shouta, for you, for himself.

Sitting in silence, the both of you simply hold each other, quietly contemplating the future, until Mic speaks up.

“Hey... I think I might need your help with something.”

------------

“Shouta...?”

There’s a quiet, nervous voice that makes the teacher look up from his laptop. He had been typing up some papers for UA when you appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. “It’s late... shouldn’t you try and sleep a little? I mean...” He doesn’t miss the way your eyes dip to sneak a glance at his leg, or lack thereof. “You’re still healing, and you’ve barely been home recently....”

At the sound of sadness in your voice, Aizawa just can’t help but set his laptop for a moment, gesturing for you to come forth. Similar to Mic, the recent events had worn down the Eraser Hero, mentally, emotionally, psychologically. To see your sweet face filled with worry just for him was a comfort, if anything. When you’re close enough, he pulls you into his lap.

Both of you, although you don’t say it, immediately notice how different it feels, his hard prosthetic cold underneath you.

He doesn’t say anything, but the sigh he gives whooshes through your body, and you’re positive: he’s miserable.

“Still have a lot left to do,” He mumbles, taking a moment to pet your head, heart wrenching as you’re clearly disappointed. “I can’t get out in the field as often, so... gotta pick up the slack where I can.”

“But you’re healing,” You push. “and grieving, too.”

That just makes him sigh. “You’re sounding like Hizashi.”

“Because he just... we don’t want you to hurt yourself. We’re worried about you.”

There’s a moment of silence before your hope is crushed. “I’m supposed to be the one looking after you,” Shouta laments. “If you’re seeing me like this and getting worried, then I just need to work harder, don’t I?”

He smirks, but he looks tired. Mic was right. He’s not going to listen.

“Can I at least....” Tears are in your eyes. “Can I at least make you something to eat or drink or something since you’re gonna be up for a while?”

Shouta feels a pain in his chest at your crying face. He’s so weak for you. “Of course,” He says, petting your back. “I would love that.”

No he won’t.

“I appreciate this,” Mic tells you quietly as you both stand over Aizawa some time later, the dark-haired Hero slumped forward on his desk, drugged tea still in his hand. “He needs to sleep more, and he doesn’t really trust anything I give him lately.”

“Because you've done this before?”

Mic doesn’t reply, which is as loud as an answer that you need. With a sigh, you step forward to take the tea from Shouta before it spills, but something about the way you shift from one foot to the other agitated the hip for your healed leg, and you can’t help but let out a small noise as you move. “That leg really does bug you all the time, huh?” Your blonde captor asks with a certain tone in his voice, and, as if he can’t meet your gaze, he looks down at the floor. “Sorry. We... didn’t do it right.”

“You shouldn’t have done it at all.” You said quietly, sounding a little tired. “It hurts even though it’s healed. I’m hurting all the time.”

“I know,” His voice cracks. “but I’ll fix it, ok?”

“How?”

Hizashi gives you a tired smile. “You’ll see. I’ve got it all figured out.”

The very next morning, you awake in a bed that’s not your own. In fact, you awake in a bed with Aizawa lying beside you and Present Mic standing guard. The Eraser Hero is still out cold, but Yamada is awake, wearing casual clothes and looking calm as you look around. You’re in the bedroom they share, and all the furniture is the same, but a glance around shows that the room is shaped different, and a peek to the window shows sights that are not recognizable to you.

Meanwhile, Mic has the biggest smile on his face. “I know you’re gonna ask, so, I’ll come clean. That tea I gave you was the same as Shou’s. Yeah, I know it’s not super cool to dope the people you love, but--” He shrugs like he pulled a casual prank as opposed to knocking you out and moving you to a secondary location. Actually, you’re still hung up on that.

“Where is this?” You ask, and when you begin to sit up, there’s a tug on your arm. You’re handcuffed to Aizawa, and he’s handcuffed to the bed. “Hizashi?” There’s a slight tremble in your voice at the sight of the restraints, and tears begin to form in your eyes as you look to the blonde, gesturing to your handcuff. “Hizashi...?“

“No no no no, it’s ok, trust me!” Mic comes up to cup your face, much like you had done for him. “Everything is totally alright! I just had to take care of some real important stuff while you and Shou took a snooze is all! See,” Hizashi hesitates for a moment, and then sighs as he lets you go. “I think I’m done with the whole Hero thing right now, ya know? Like, maybe I might go back to it in the future or somethin’, but like, I wanna focus more on you and Shou right now! So, I went and got us another place, one that’s a little... farther away from all the danger!”

You open your mouth to ask just how far away, and from out the window, you swear you hear a seagull. “You didn’t,” You gasp, expression filling with terror. “You didn’t! Is this even still Japan?!”

The way he grins and averts his eyes is telling. Shouta is beginning to stir from beside you, beginning to blink himself awake, and Hizashi steps forward to ruffle your hair. You try to jerk away from his touch, your body shifting underneath you, and you feel it.

Or rather, you don’t feel it. Your eyes go wide with terror, ragged breaths beginning to cycle in and out of your mouth in hyperventilation. “Mic?!” You ask in a frantic breath, hoping that you’re wrong as you begin to reach for the bed cover that was over your body. “Mic?!”

Your panicked voice is waking Shouta up even faster, as he’s just starting to notice the handcuffs and layout of the room while his partner is trying to calm you down. Your blood pressure is rising, there’s ice in your blood, a pressure in your chest, a lump in your throat. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t--

“Well, it kept giving you so much trouble! You were in all that pain!” Hizashi tries to explain, watching as you threw back the blanket to scream at the sight of your bad leg.

....but there’s nothing there.

[infernalrevenge]

The Greatest Show

Fandom: Resident Evil 8: Village

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Rating: G

Summary: Donna and Angie attempt to cheer Reader up after a bad day.

Notes: A little bit of domesticity and comfort from our resident dollmaker. Yes, Reader is still a servant in the house while also being her partner -- because why not HAHAHA. Just thought this would be a fun silly thing to write.

----------

This day was not going the way you thought it would. Well, that was putting it nicely -- this day was going to shit.

It was bad enough that you had a hard time falling asleep last night and woke up in a sour mood, but then you had an argument with a new vendor at the village who not only exclaimed that there was no new shipment of vegetables that morning, but also had the gall to try and throw you out of the store under virtue that they "didn't want the freak servants of one of the freak lords tainting their good establishment." The fucking nerve!

When you got back to the manor empty-handed, fuming but attempting to prepare lunch (sans vegetables), you accidentally burned your hand on the hot stove. As if that wasn't bad enough, when you jumped back in pain, you knocked over a few plates onto the floor and had to clean all that up too. You had to complete all your other chores with just one usable hand, the other one wrapped in a loose bandage. Fantastic.

You wanted to scream. Just let out a long scream to let the frustration out.

But you didn't. You couldn't. You still had other things to do, and you weren't going to let a few setbacks ruin it all. You went about your day as usual -- or at least you tried to, because you didn't quite notice how you would grip onto cups a little tighter, with your jaw set and locked as your grit your teeth, and had a perpetual furrow in your brow that worried Donna and Angie.

"What's up with them?" the doll muttered as she watched you slam a tray down in the kitchen when you thought no one else was around.

Donna didn't reply, only looking at the tension you held in your posture -- like you were set to burst with just one wrong move.

Your thoughts were consumed with tasks to perform for the rest of the day, chanting "Just get through it, you'll be fine" over and over in your head like a mantra. You didn't want to worry Donna over such trivial matters. This was just one bad day. You were better than this! You could do this. Just get through it. Just push! Just do it!

It was close to evening when you found your last task for the day before supper: Tidying up the library. Maybe you'll see Donna and Angie there and they could help lift your spirits. Finally, something to look forward to! Angie would probably make some quip about your bandaged hand, and Donna would be winding down on the couch and picking out a movie to watch after supper while you could talk about something to take your mind off the stress. But when you were greeted with a dark and empty space, neither of them in sight, you only sighed in disappointment.

Just get through it, you'll be fine.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked away the blurriness in your eyes, picking up the duster in the corner.

Just get through it, you'll be fine.

You looked up at the clock. Half an hour until supper. Right on time. You took a deep breath to calm yourself and headed for the kitchen.

You were already going through the menu in your head when you felt an insistent force collide onto your chest, nearly knocking you over.

"Angie?"

Donna wasn't with her, and didn't seem to be anywhere nearby either. She was merely floating on her own. "Y/N, just the person I'm lookin' for! Come on, I gotta show you something!" She seemed rather urgent and excited at the same time. What was she planning now?

She took your uninjured hand and started pulling.

"Wait, but I have to get ready for supper--”

"Supper schmupper, this is way more important!"

"But--”

Angie dragged you by the pant leg to the living room, leaving you no choice but to hop along and follow. There, you saw a table laying on its side covered in a shiny silky cloth, obscuring your view of what or who could be behind it. You could just barely see a familiar veil-clad head crouching underneath. Before you could ask, she yelled at you to sit down on the short stool in front of the set up.

"Angie, what's going on?"

"You'll see, I promise. Now be quiet, the show's about to start!"

With that, she waddled away behind the table, seemingly greeted by a chorus of soft giggles. You tucked your knees close to your chest and waited for the commotion to settle down... whatever this was. You were used to Angie's antics at this point, but what kind of show was she talking--

Suddenly, three puppets dressed like the lords popped up from behind the table, with another one looking like a smaller replica of Angie. They all had cutesy and somewhat exaggerated features, completely made out of felt, cloth, and stuffing. Like plushies.

What the...?

"Don't be sad, Y/N!" they said in unison, their voices remarkably similar to each respective lord, if not much higher in pitch.

"Welcome to the village, we're so glad you're here! Turn that frown upside down and give us a cheer!" they sang, each of the dolls moving along to the beat they made.

"Donna, Angie, w-what..." you started, but they kept singing. You weren't quite sure who exactly might be providing these voices -- the dolls themselves, maybe even Donna -- but you were getting more and more amused by the second.

After their short number, introducing each lord to you (Big Sister Dimi, Mr. Heisenberg, Moreau the Fish Man, and Angie, as you recall), they proceeded with the show proper. Apparently that song wasn't all the two of them had up their sleeves.

"Okay, everyone! We have something very important to do!" the doll that looked like Angie spoke up (probably played by Angie herself) "How do we cheer up a loved one?"

"A loved one?" Doll-Moreau repeated.

"Yes! When someone we care about is sad, we should help in any way we can to cheer them up, right?"

"Right!" Doll-Dimitrescu agreed.

You felt a small smile start to crack your facade. Was this all for you?

"But how do we do that?" Doll-Heisenberg chimed in.

"Well what are things that they like? What makes them happy?" Doll-Moreau asked, who turned to Doll-Angie.

"They like cookies! Chocolate chip are their favorite!"

As if on cue, you felt something tug on your leg, and you looked down to see a porcelain doll in a sailor suit lifting up a plate of cookies to you, littered with chunks of chocolate in the dough. "Thank you," you said softly, giving the little one a gentle pat on the head before they ran off back behind the table. You placed the plate on your lap and started to nibble on one as the show went on.

"What else can we do to make them happy?"

"They also like tea with their cookies!"

You could just barely hear someone whisper "Tea? Ew, why not milk?" before they were swiftly hushed. On cue again, another doll emerged with a cup of hot tea for you. You whispered another thanks before they went back, taking a sip of your drink.

"We can sing their favorite songs!" Doll-Heisenberg started trying to sing before Doll-Dimitrescu interfered with a swift knock to his head. "Not with your voice, you can't."

That was a little mean, but you couldn't help but laugh anyway. You would've choked on your tea if you had been drinking it still.

"Why don't we ask them?" Doll-Angie said, turning to face the audience -- you. "What would make you happy, Y/N?"

The smile on your face only widened, tapping a finger on your chin as you made a show of thinking deeply. Might as well play along if they put in so much effort. "Well, what would make me happy is to have my lovely girlfriend here to share these cookies with."

"You heard 'em, Donna, get over there!" The real Angie peeped from behind the table, with the puppet lords cheering on as well as she emerged from her hiding place. You didn't even need to see under her veil to know she was blushing madly at the attention, even though it was just you and the dolls in her company right now.

You moved the plate of cookies from your lap to make room for her. "Y/N..." she was about to protest, and you pouted in response, giving your best puppy dog impression and opening your arms. "I thought you wanted to cheer me up, love?"

With a sigh and a shake of her head, she settled herself on your lap, your arms wrapped around her waist to keep her steady. You looked up at her fondly and pulled her against you -- it suddenly felt like the day's worries had melted away, and all that mattered was having the woman you loved so close to you. That in itself was a great comfort.

Angie seemed to have taken the reins now, the show getting louder and more chaotic as it went on -- the dialogue was reminiscent of the banter you had with her, and some jokes were made at the expense of the other lords (and sometimes Donna), much to her embarrassment. You rested your chin on her shoulder and couldn't help but laugh along.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Donna whispered, tilting her head slightly to look at you.

"You... noticed then?" Your shoulders sagged, head weighing heavier onto hers, feeling like you wanted to hide.

"I did. It was a little hard not to." She gently took your bandaged hand in hers, pressing a tender kiss onto it. "But I didn't want to stand by and not do something about it, so... I hope this was okay."

You felt your heart swell with affection for her -- when did you get so lucky to have such a thoughtful woman by your side? "More than okay. This was very sweet of you and Angie."

A moment passed before Donna spoke again, "I just want you to know that... if there's anything you want to talk about, anything at all, know that I'm here for you, love. Always."

You could almost feel a tear come to your eye at that, "I'll keep that in mind."

You caught a glimpse of her smile at this angle, "You know I'd do anything to see you happy."

And she could see yours, "You already do."

.

.

.

(After learning of the existence of these "lord puppets", it became a game between you and Angie to hide them in plain sight whenever each lord would come visit the estate and bet on how long it took for them to notice it.

Lord Heisenberg almost never seemed to see his -- you weren't sure if he just didn't care to look around, or found it once and opted to ignore it, muttering something about it being "creepy".

Lord Moreau took a while to find his too, but when he did, you couldn't forget the look of joy and flattery on his face. It was quite adorable, and it turned to how quickly he could find the doll in a new room instead.

Lady Dimitrescu never visited, but when you and Donna went over to her castle, you always made sure to bring it with you. You would catch her daughters trying to hide their snickers when you would just stand around carrying the doll like Donna did with Angie, but whenever the lady tried to find out why, she never thought to look at you to see the commotion. Your girlfriend sometimes scolded you for it, but Angie always had a high five ready for you at the end of every visit.)

[obae-me]

Hi again! If it's not too much trouble, can I request the brothers reacting to an MC who usually bottles up their anger (they have a LOT of patience) until one day they just explode? You are an amazing person, and thank you for everything! I hope you aren't pushing yourself too hard!!

Hi, welcome everyone to another episode of Mara Doesn’t Know When To Stop, this time featuring this lovely request! I had a small idea, which then turned into five whole pages for Lucifer alone, so, I will also be doing this request into parts, I really hope you don’t mind! I get a bit carried away sometimes...I admit it... Anyway, Lucifer’s part is first! I hope you like it! 💜

Warning: Angst, arguing, cussing, It does lead to a happy end though, it’s a bit cheesy but sometimes we love it

We All Get Angry Sometimes

Word Count: 2707

He was fully aware of MC bottling up their true emotions. Being well acquainted with angels, he knew, despite all their holy patience, that even they had their limits. He will admit, he was impressed and proud with how far they had taken it, being human after all. Their control was practically as good as his own. No matter what his brothers did, what they said, how much they pushed them, for weeks MC just smiled and swallowed it. He was pleased. Until they could no longer retain their anger, and turned it all on him.

It had been at dinner, nothing unlike their meals every day, except recently Lucifer’s nerves had been on edge. It had been a few days since he had been blessed with adequate sleep, and his brothers were more bothersome than usual. Little did he know, MC’s mental state was about the same, close to the breaking point. An unhappy MC meant unhappy brothers, which meant it would all lead back up the ladder to Lucifer. There was only so far MC could be shoved around, only so long they could stay calm, and Lucifer had been the last straw. No one can really remember how it started, it hadn’t been important, simply some passing comment from one of the brothers discussing recent school projects. MC had scoffed, explaining their thoughts on how ridiculous the rules of said assignments were. Then it all went downhill from there.

“I’m not sure it’s your place to be making claims like that based on what your grades have been looking like recently,” Lucifer quipped. The rest of the siblings prepared to stand up for the human, knowing that MC was typically passive in nature.

Only, that same human beat them to the punch. “So, you’re saying that because I don’t meet your lofty standards, I’m not entitled to my opinions?” MC set down their fork, sending chills down the other demon’s spines as the room went silent.

Lucifer narrowed his gaze, already annoyed with their tone. “I’m merely explaining that maybe your statement would have more merit if you worked a little more at your studies instead of slacking off. And for the record, no, you haven’t been reaching my standards. I honestly expected more from you.” Every member of the household felt that line deep in their bones.

MC’s jaw clenched, the fire building up in their chest overwhelmed them to the point where if they shoved it down any longer, they felt like they would explode under the pressure. “You expected more from me? What more could you possibly want?! You’ve taken my home, my family, my friends, my culture, my time! You’ve constantly belittled me, ordered me around, expected nothing but perfection from me, and you still want more?! What have you possibly done to deserve more of me?!”

He was stunned at first, yes, but it didn’t last long. The shock factor was quickly replaced with a wave of fervent irritation. There’s no surprise he was already in demon form, doing his best to intimidate MC into submission. His eyes were glowing that deep red of his, looking down at the human as he got to his feet. His siblings slowly raised up from their seats as well, at the ready to intervene at any second. This whole event had them astonished to their core. Mammon and Levi had their jaws open. Asmo had his hand covering his mouth. Satan would have appeared proud of MC if not for the wary frown. Beel was instantly engaged in protection mode, already in a stance to grab onto Lucifer if he needed to. The eldest was barely able to control himself. Somehow MC had gotten deep under his skin, his body prickling with anger. “What have I--I’ve brought you into my home, ensured your protection, done nothing but make sure your experience down here is sufficient for your fragile little life! Do Not speak to me that way. Know your place.”

MC was physically vibrating from rage and frustration, their mind clouded with fury. Logic was far out the window now, they simply were saying whatever came to mind. Profanities were no longer held back. “I’m sick of your pompous holier-than-thou shit! I’m sick of working my ass off for you and not being good enough! You have a serious fucking lack of respect for everyone around you!”

The air was thick with his aura, his wings fully extended from his body. “Not another wor-”

“Fuck you!”

In a quick blur of motion, everyone worked together in tandem. As Lucifer lunged forward, his brothers held him back. Mammon scooped MC up in his arms and raced to the safety of their room before MC could get hurt, although deep in his heart he hoped Lucifer wouldn’t resort to violence. Lucifer growled inhumanly, flinging his brothers off of him in a single swift movement, ready to pursue the person that dared attempt to say such things to his face.

“How pathetic for you to have gotten so riled up over a few words from a human,” Satan shouted at him as he got up from his spot on the floor. Swallowing the small lump in his throat, he hoped this would prove a decent distraction as well as a way to snap his brother back under control.

Lucifer loomed over him. Satan seemed hardly disturbed. “Watch yourself.” But Satan’s words proved efficient, Lucifer’s Pride wounded as he realized how quickly he allowed MC’s words to get to him, how quickly he had lost control. All of his sibling’s eyes were on him, observing how he was acting. His head was pounding, but instead of heading up to MC’s room, he swiftly retired to his private study where he locked the entrance behind him. He paced around the area for a while, magically turning on some soothing music as his wings twitched in vexation.

He had been completely unprepared for MC’s retaliation, for their venom towards him, but perhaps he knew there was only so much a living being could take before they snapped. Had he been pushing them too hard? Expecting too much of them? Mistreating them? Had he gone too far? What if this spat ended up becoming a problem for the program? What if MC relayed this to Diavolo? His image, his reputation, they would be tarnished. Did MC think less of him now? Did he really care what they thought of him? He was better than this. He expected more from himself. He lowered his head as he sat heavily down into the chair behind his desk. He sunk down low, proper posture be damned. As he took a deep breath in, he realized he hadn’t been breathing for a while, lungs aching. He hadn’t meant to rub MC the wrong way. He simply strived to lead them towards the potential he knew they had. All he wanted was for them to feel proud of their accomplishments, to show the world what he knew they were capable of. But perhaps, it was unfair for the same standards he kept for himself to apply to MC as well. He pinched the bridge of his nose as that deep breath turned into a heavy sigh. He had failed in nurturing the success they’d already accomplished. He’d made them feel like they weren’t good enough, and now look at what he had done, in front of his family no less. Humiliating.

Meanwhile, Mammon was in the process of rubbing MC’s back as they lay on their bed, screaming into their pillow as angry tears fell from their eyes. They hadn’t meant to snap at Lucifer, it all...was just so much. They finally had cracked from the pressure. Everyone’s expectations had gotten the best of them. Be a human representative. Don’t let anyone down. Don’t show weakness. They weren’t purposefully slacking off from their studies, they just were burnt out, almost completely. Lucifer demanding even more from them...was the last thing they needed to hear today. Their own words made them feel sick to their stomach. Being angry wasn’t like them, it never sat well, which is why they always attempted to bury it in the first place. Mammon continued to tell them to breathe and calm down, doing his best not to freak out himself. He’d never seen his human act like this before. After some time, they both heard a polite knock on the door. As MC tensed, Mammon got up to answer it on their behalf. Lucifer was waiting, back in his casual clothes as his arms were settled folded across his chest, foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

“You’ve got a lotta nerve coming back here so soon,” Mammon scowled. “I won’t let anything happen to them, ya hear?”

“Nonsense, Mammon, I have no intention of harming them, I just want to talk. Calmly.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t think they’re in the mood for talkin’.” Mammon did his best to let his body block the entrance to the room, his shoulders nearly touching both sides of the door frame as he made his stature appear bigger. Lucifer peered over his younger brother’s figure, spotting MC sitting with their legs crossed on top of the bed, mostly calmed down as well, refusing to look at him. He noted the tear stains on their cheeks, and he resorted to having to clench his own teeth to stop the bubbling guilt rising up in his chest. He would make this right, if he couldn’t do this, how could he possibly call himself the wise and mature older brother?

“It’s...okay, Mammon,” MC assured him. The demon of greed scoffed, stating much too loudly that he would be right outside the door. He threatened his older brother not to even think about laying a single finger on them, unafraid of any punishment when it came to protecting MC. Lucifer waved him away with a single hand, too exhausted to deal with him further. As the door shut, he strode over to MC’s bed, chin high but spirits low. He had no intention of apologizing first, but if he could just persuade MC to start, he might be able to swallow enough pride to follow.

“Have we calmed down now?” He asked, MC simply nodding in response. “Very well.” He paused for a moment, letting an uncomfortable silence settle over the room. He did have many things he wanted to say, things he wanted to rectify, but for the life of him, he couldn’t bring himself to say them. Not yet. “Did you have anything you wanted to say to me?”

He observed them fight back their irritation before slumping their shoulders as they gave in. “I’m sorry, Lucifer.”

“And?” His voice sounded like a parent scolding a child, causing MC to nearly flinch in humiliation.

They bit their lip. “And the things I said to you were uncalled for. I know how much you do for all of us...for me.” They sat up a bit straighter as they stammered over the thoughts they wanted to say, to explain their feelings. They were afraid to be honest and vulnerable, much like he was, but they had the courage and humility to be open. It was a trait he secretly admired. “I just...I’m finding it difficult to--to find the--the energy and motivation to make everyone happy. And...and it hurt when…” They looked down, swallowing their emotions once more as they halted their watery eyes from crying again.

Lucifer let his body unwind ever so slightly. It would be rude of him now to not follow their example. “I...regret my words and my actions. I allowed my emotions to get the best of me, it won’t happen again.” He let the conversation fall once more as he took the time to straighten his coat around his shoulders and his gloves tighter over his fingers. “It was not my intention to invalidate your efforts. You’ve already accomplished more than I originally thought you were capable of, and it was foolish on my part to expect more from a simple human.” His rather backhanded compliment forced MC to rest their face in their hands in shame. The nerves in Lucifer’s spine shot a jolt up his back as he realized how terribly this was going. His temples were pounding, and he finally put his pride aside for the sake of reconciliation. He couldn’t stand to be the cause of their distress. MC stiffened as he sat himself beside them on their bed. A gentle hesitant hand hovered above their body before it settled between their shoulder blades. He glanced at the door where he knew Mammon was behind, probably listening in, and so he spoke softer. “I’m...sorry.” He had to ignore how harshly the words hurt him, but something about it was freeing. “I seem to have pushed you too far. I am thankful and truthfully astonished of what you’ve done during your time here. Not only did I cross a line today but I was blind to the fact that you’ve been overtaxing yourself. I know how hard it is to juggle my siblings and my work.”

He allowed his hand to drift up and down their back in a soothing rhythm, relaxing some himself as their muscles eased at his touch. MC finally raised their head from the confines of their palms and looked him in the eyes. “Do you think I’m a disappointment? A burden?” He found himself stunned for the second time today, and for a while he wondered when it was that he could be so easily swayed by the words and emotions of this human. Here he was, not only apologizing, but expending every effort he had in consoling them. He wanted MC to be happy again, because somehow it seemed to make his days a little brighter, his mood a little softer. Perhaps...he cared more for them than he realized. Their shouts had wounded him deeply at dinner, but somehow these new words hurt him more. Their forlorn face spurred an unfamiliar pain in his chest. 

“I’m sure it will be hard to convince you after the unforgivable things I said to you today, but it could not be further from the truth. I suppose the fact that you question yourself is one of my biggest failures. Clearly, we have not been communicating properly. For that I am..s...sor…” The words got caught in his throat. Apologizing once had been difficult enough, a second time seemed impossible. Out of the blue, he felt a tight set of arms wrap around his torso. He held his arms up in the air, his body turning rigid as his little hairs stood up on end. MC had pulled him into a tight hug, burying their face in his side. He felt their nose nestle against his ribs. As soon as he found his breath, his arms slowly lowered, settling around the smaller human. His body felt warm. Allowing himself a small smile, he cleared his throat. “I would prefer a situation like this to never happen again, do you understand?” MC detached from his sides, sitting back up as they nodded silently. “So, for the future, instead of quarreling with me, I expect you to come straight to me to discuss any woes or issues you may have. Fair enough?”

“Yes, Lucifer.”

He gingerly brushed his fingers against MC’s cheeks. “But it would be remiss of me to ignore the faults of my own. Since our meal was interrupted, what do you say to me taking you out to dinner, as my way of making amends?”

MC felt themselves blush a bit. “Sure-”

The door burst open, Mammon leading the charge as the rest of the siblings spilled into the doorway. They’d all been eavesdropping. Mammon came over and tugged MC further away from Lucifer. “Oi, what did I say about touching MC?!”

“And our dinner was interrupted too, I think we deserve something!” Asmo whined.

A loud grumble echoed from Beel’s gut. “I’m starving…”

Lucifer’s eyelid twitched a bit, and he gave MC one last apologetic look before he sighed. “Fine...we’re all going to dinner then.”

[drwcn]

《 Without Envy 》 storyboard 10 - concubine/sleeper agent!wwx & prince!lwj

Other snippets and storyboards can be found on [Master List]

Exactly 851 days - 2 years, 4 months and 11 days - after Wei Wuxian arrived at Gusu and began his mission as a sleeper agent, he was activated.

That chilly morning, he walked into the pastry shop - a front maintained by a decade-long Wen spy - a walk he'd done hundred of times on hundreds of mornings since he arrived. He breezed past the packaging counter, skipped through the faded cotton drapes, and rounded behind the back staircase to the room where Xue Yang always waited for him. Only this time, it was not just his candy-obsessed, murder-happy shidi, but a face he hadn't seen in many, many months. "...Shifu?" Wen Zhuliu's visit meant the end of his carefree days. It's time. That night, Wei Wuxian did not look at either Lan Wangji or Jiang Yanli when he bid "dianxia" and "Jiang-zhuzi" good night. He pretended to retire to bed early, after washing himself of his servant's exterior and donning his robes of night-black. He laid in the dark, waiting for time to pass, and reminded himself of his true purpose. He was never meant to care about these people; love these people. Jiang Yanli was not his doting foster sister; Lan Wangji was not his beloved wangye. I am Wei Wuxian of the great Qishan Wen. Nevernight is my home. I am a spy. Gusu is my enemy. Wei Wuxian kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, and his heartbeat slow. In the lonely quiet, he waited, and waited, and waited. Until the candlelight around the princely manor dimmed to nothing, until the night grew still and the moon shone bright and high in the dark, dark sky. Reaching under the floorboard beneath his bed, Wei Wuxian retrieved his life-long companion from its hiding place and released it from its sheath. "Hello, old friend." He whispered, stroking the blade edge. Suibian's steel glistened with cold malevolence in the stark, pale moonlight.

It would be another year before WWX's identity is discovered. During that time, he lived a double life. In the day, he was Lan Wangji's precious Wei Ying, and at night, he was the blade in Wen Ruohan's hand, stealing, killing and destroying on command. His assignments were not always murder; sometimes it required him to break into secure facilities and obtain copies of certain documents. He was never alone on these jobs; there was always someone convalescing with him from within. Slowly, he began to realize just how deep Wen Ruohan's spy network had infiltrated Gusu's foundation. In a way, it excited him, to know that the posturing and pretending would soon be over, that in the near future a quick war would sweep across the land and unite the two nations. In another way, it frightened him to the bones.

Wei Wuxian killed 37 individuals within the span of a year, 37 men and women of different ranks, status and stations. He did not always know why these people needed to die; in fact, he often didn't and preferred it that way. If he didn't know the motive, then he couldn't argue against the reason, and thus could go on believing that what Wen Ruohan did was ultimately for the betterment of everyone. The men of Gusu were weak - Wei Wuxian was always told - they were not fit to rule. The people of Gusu would be better served under a united empire. He repeated this statement to himself before every job, but over time, the mantra on his tongue began to lose its flavour.

In the meantime however, Lan Wangji and Jiang Yanli quickly formed a strong plan on how they wanted to live out the rest of their lives. Lan Wangji never quite enjoyed laying with women, but Jiang Yanli had just enough wickedness behind her demure exterior that things were... well, interesting. In any case, it was not long before she came to him all smiles and whispered the good news over luncheon .

"Truly?" Lan Wangji set down his chopsticks. "Hm uhm." Jiang Yanli dapped her mouth delicately. "Now, perhaps it's a good time to discuss how dianxia should go about winning A-Xian's affection. He's under the impression you've cast him aside on taishi's orders and has been giving him the cold shoulder." "I wasn't." Lan Wangji defended himself, distressed and slightly offended. "It's just, huangshu's been watching me like a hawk. I was afraid any further attempt to be closer to him would give my uncle reason to remove him from my household entirely." Jiang Yanli was sympathetic. "The summer hunt is in two week's time, and afterwards, since bixia always likes to finish the night on the river with fireworks, perhaps...." She let the sentence dangle, a knowing smile playing at her lips. Lan Wangji felt hope.

Unfortunately, a little hiccup happened before the hunt could take place. Jin Ziyan falsely believed that Wei Wuxian had fallen out of favour with Lan Wangji and was itching to show him his place. Poor Mo Xuanyu was caught in the middle. Jin Ziyan knew Wei Wuxian was an audacious one, but not so stupid that he could be easily goaded into committing a grave offence. Thus, Jin Ziyan planned to cause an incident in the garden whereby poor Mo Xuanyu would unwittingly "offend" him, and he would publicly announce a punishment that was harsher than necessary. He made sure that Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian were near by, as they usually took a mid-afternoon stroll after lunch. True to his predictions, Wei Wuxian could not stop himself for interfering on Mo Xuanyu's behalf. Then in their altercation, Jin Ziyan would fall into the pond, making it seem as though Wei Wuxian was the one who shoved him out of anger. Oh but a lowly servant shoving Hanguang-wang's deputy consort into the pond??! He was as good as dead. What's more, everything happened on the same afternoon that Lan Qiren was scheduled to visit Lan Wangji to discuss matters of court. If it was only Lan Wangji, Jin Ziyan knew Wei Wuxian would suffer little consequence, but taishi tolerated no insubordination or churlish behaviour of any kind.

Lan Qiren was incensed, livid, but he was not hasty to deal the punishment. Instead he turned to his nephew and asked, whilst fully knowing the answer, "Wangji, your household follows the regulations that govern all princely manors, does it not?" "It does, huangshu." "Then tell me what is the punishment reserved for a servant for daring to lay hands on a deputy consort and to cause physical harm to said consort?" "It....I - huangshu -" "What is the rule?" Lan Wangji knew very well that the punishment was death for any servant, maid or eunuch who dared to harm any member of the harem. But Wei Ying, his Wei Ying... "Wei Ying is very precious to Yanli and to Yunmeng-hou. As well..." Lan Wangji hesitated. "Yanli is with child again. It is still very early so we thought it best not to announce it lest we have a repeat of last time. It would not do to upset her at this time." Lan Qiren was extremely dissatisfied with his answer, but conceded for Jiang Yanli's sake. "I'm glad, Wangji, that you've found your way back to your proper companions. This Wei Wuxian clearly has been spoiled to the point of impropriety. His actions today are utterly unacceptable and cannot be allowed to go unpunished or else others would surely follow his example. Guards!" "Detain Wei Wuxian. Have him strung up on a post in the servants' courtyard and give him fifty lashes. No food nor drink. Sun or rain, he is not to be let down until dusk tomorrow." "Huangshu!" Lan Wangji's head buzzed, as though someone had struck him squarely in the temple. His chest felt tight, and his heart ached where it rebelled inside him. "Please -" "He has his life. That is mercy enough."

Wei Wuxian was stripped down to his trousers only and tied up to a post, his hands bound together above him and his bare feet never finding purchase on the ground no matter how he struggled. This fucking suck ass. Jin Ziyan you're a dead man. When all fifty lashes were dealt, even the guards were sweating through their robes. They left him dangling there in the blistering summer heat. A young maid dared to try and sneak him some water but was thwarted by an older momo. "What do you think you're doing, lassie? Did you not hear taishi, no food or drink until dusk tomorrow. Do you want lashes too? Go on! Go!" It rained hard all through the night, only easing up at dawn, but the aftermath of the storm left the air muggy and humid. Combined with the heat, it felt as though he was being steamed alive like a wheat bun. At some point during the second day, Wei Wuxian finally lost consciousness. He was not aware when Lan Wangji barged into the courtyard against Lan Qiren's explicit orders and cut him free.

Really tho, i just want this scene to happen (╹ڡ╹ ) "I'm sorry." Wei Wuxian blinked at Lan Wangji's hunched figure sitting at his bedside. "Whatever for? You saved me, dianxia." Lan Wangji, "But it was my attention that put you in such a position in the first place. Huangshu was looking for a reason to punish you since that day he saw us in my study." Wei Wuxian, "dianxia..." "I find you... lovely, Wei Ying," confessed Lan Wangji with a heavy sigh. His ears burned red not only with the embarrassment of a youth in love but with shame. "I wish for your company, even when you have no desire to be part of my harem. Now I know my mistake. I should have respected the boundaries. I should've known my attention on you would incite jealousy from the others, and as a servant, you have no means of protecting yourself. This is entirely my fault." Wei Wuxian's heart fluttered despite himself. He quickly shook his head. "No dianxia, please don't blame yourself -" Lan Wangji, "perhaps I should send you back to Jiang-fu; I'm sure Jiang-xiao-gongzi would be delighted to have your company back. You would be safe there." Jiang Wanyin had come to visit his sister the very next day after Wei Wuxian was sentenced to whipping. He was one of the most accomplishment young men of his generation, anticipated to be a great general. Nie Mingjue had thought highly of him and had expected great things from this youth. Though perhaps what the late feng-jun found truly commendable was Jiang Wanyin's complete lack of pretense and his short-fuse temper. That is to say, he did not hesitate to get in Lan Wangji's face. His sister would have chastised him, had she not been so preoccupied by her tears. Wei Wuxian, "Jiang...Jiang Cheng was here?" "He was, and he was very upset about your condition. He left many fine medicine and ointments for you." Lan Wangji sighed again. "I shall speak with Yanli. If she is amenable, then I shall make arrangements for you to go back to Jiang-fu. You would not have to put up with me any longer." Lan Wangji stood up. Wei Wuxian grasped his sleeve immediately. In that moment, he could not tell if his panic was derived from his worry that he would not be able to complete his assignment if Lan Wangji were to send him away or if he simply did not wish to part with the prince. "Dianxia - I - I don't want to leave. I - it's true I had once rejected you, but...would you think less of me if I said your attention … hasn't been unwanted for a while, that I have come to enjoy them." At Lan Wangji's widened eyes, Wei Wuxian continued quickly. "You need not give me anything, no elevation, no rank. I don't care about any of that. I am a man, I have no ability to give you children. Nor do I have any family who would benefit from your continued favour of me. I am an orphan, dianxia, I have no place to go. I just....don't send me away. Please let me stay! I'm not afraid of Jin Ziyan, or taishi, or anything!" Lan Wangji sat back down. His hand trembled when he laid it on top of Wei Wuxian's. "Wei Ying...?" Wei Wuxian smiled, still radiant despite his pale complexion. "Dianxia -" "Lan Zhan. No more dianxia, I only want to hear you call me by my name." Wei Wuxian flushed pink. The blush was real, as was the pleased little smile he tried to hide. "Lan Zhan, Wei Ying is yours, if you still want him." The worst part of that was that he meant it. Just the mere thought of being held by Lan Wangji, of being kissed by him, of... so many other wonderful possibilities, made Wei Wuxian want to hide his flaming face into his pillow. Lan Wangji smiled. Quietly, he lifted Wei Wuxian's hand and pressed a kiss to the inner side of his wrist. "Rest, I will be right here." Wei Wuxian felt his treacherous little heart soar: oh no … oh no no no no ….. (Xue Yang's voice in narration: and it was in this moment, that Wei Wuxian knew, he fucked up.) The cruellest thing Wei Wuxian ever did was give Lan Wangji hope knowing that one day he would take it all away.

[ephemerlskies]

constant craving | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: drabble series, angst, unrequited love, idiot!jungkook, idiot!oc, basically everyone's an idiot

⇢ word count: 1.7k

⇢ warnings: unreciprocated pining, explicit language, themes of hopeless romanticism (!!), (slightly) unedited

⇢ summary: your best friend decided to confide in his best friend on how to win his girlfriend back after a fight. you tell him exactly what to say to her, however he is unaware that what you were saying was a sincere delivery of your once undeclared love.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: hello my little loves!! this was definitely ;) not ;) an impulse write and release ;) ;) sorry for being so inactive lately. i've been focusing on myself (i know how cliche that sounds but it's true). anyway, enjoy this incredibly angsts fic i wrote at 2 am for absolutely no reason at all other than i'm an emotional sadist and a masochist. love u!!!! <3

part one: control

He was coming over for the third time this week. Third time. Three times is two more times than he'd gone over his girlfriend's house, but you did everything in your power to convince your inconvincible heart that it meant nothing. Friends see each other more than their girlfriends, right?

It was making a racket in your chest, that muscle that strained much harder for a man who had his pumping for the girl of his dreams.

But, he was coming over for the third time this week.

The first time he said this visit ranked, in his words, 'out of the question' on the degree of necessary that he come over and show you Star Wars. You played a good game of reluctance when asking if it was the entire series or just one movie, and in your head, you hoped to God it was the entire series. For him, you'd watch the series four times over if it meant you sat through this outrageously nerdy movie next to the even more outrageously nerdy love of your life.

The second time was particularly funny to you. He called while you were cooking dinner, almost as if he was in stride with you in a way that was an ounce too synchronized to be platonic, and asked if you were whipping up a delicious meal that he could mooch off of. Knowing he was a terrible cook, plus the fact that when he begged so politely you felt your posture unbind into to a puddle, you more than happily obliged.

This time, the circumstances made it harder to say yes, but not yet impossible. And it was a second or two before you heard that knock on the front door that had your once pounding heart come to a complete halt. It was still, waiting for you to make a decision.

Since it was Jungkook, of course, you'd say yes. And your heart would continue beating. Beating, as in sending sharp jabs that stained the inside of your chest with bruises. Beating, as in when the time came, the final blow of your constantly craving heart would devastate your entire being.

"Thank you so much, ___. God, I'm such an idiot." He walked in with all the confidence of someone who was a bit too familiar with your company. Jungkook's feet reintroducing themselves to your floors in the same manner as he would the night before, and the night before that, and the countless nights you kept secured in your collection of memories. As if he belonged there; as if he was coming home.

"An idiot with a great friend." That last word nearly withdrew the bile you had been ever so gracefully holding in.

"Yeah yeah." And he was comfortable with that same word, 'friend', that deepened your bruises into scars. He had absolutely no clue. Idiot. "I can't believe I broke up with her. I was so angry and acted on that instead of logic. Fuck, why would I do that to myself? I love her."

"Well, you never know. Maybe..." You hated yourself for not resisting the selfish temptation that was about to fall from your lips. The words you've been internally screaming to him to leave her and fall in love with you instead were diluted to something much more tame when your tongue formed them into sound.

"Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you guys are better off apart? To, um, grow or whatever."

"No." He said that with too much certainty and too little hesitance and just enough conviction to sink another wound in the organ exhausting itself in your chest. "She's the one. I know it"

"Jungkook."

He looked at you with all the earnestness of a man who carved his utmost and unchanging dedication to her. A look that any love-induced sap would kill for. A look he would never direct towards you.

Your eyes weren't under your control as of now. The glue that held them to his eyes, his lips, his hair, and every other part of him you dreamed of was more than a marathoned yearning. It was an adhesive twelve years in the making, not showing the slightest sign of wearing away.

"The way you love is something to die for..." And then he smiled at you, but still not for you.

You were utterly crushed.

"She'll take you back in a heartbeat. I mean, she has a brain, so of course, she will. Anyone would."

I would.

"I hope you're right." The couch was four feet wide at most, but there was an impressively vast space between you and the man who was sitting next to you. "Can you tell me what to say? You know I suck with words."

"Uh... Yeah. Of course. Anything."

If breaking hearts were a crime, then Jungkook would have much to atone for. You'd be convicted as a willing accomplice for holding on this long. Up until this point, you've let every small glance, every shy smile he sent your way, every eyebrow twitch conveying a meaning only you knew well enough to retrieve him from whatever awkward situation he needed rescuing from, every accidentally brush of his hand against yours, every purposeful embrace that lasted so long your tears stained his right shoulder string you into a knot of miserable, unrequited love.

And up until this point, you had hope he would choose you.

Each ring of his phone worked in tandem to reduce your undying devotion to Jungkook into a compressed seed of denial.

I don't love him. He's just my best friend.

Your pulse pronounced itself loudly in your ears, as a not-so-gentle reminder of how much you hated him for loving him. Somehow, your heart beat faster. Then again, anything was possible when it came to him. Anything except the miraculous event of him hanging up, declaring his love for you, and living in the land of happily ever after that only existed in your deluded imagination.

"Hey Irene! I'm so fucking glad you picked up."

He gave you that look. With the arched eyebrow, his widened doe eyes, and the slightly hung jaw, you read each feature better than words and nodded to signal you knew exactly what he needed.

"I'm sorry about what happened." You said, in a whisper, though the deflated volume of your words carried no implication of the unbridled sincerity sealed in them.

"I'm sorry about what happened." He repeated, laying down that same Irene-contrived smile on you that fostered a smile of your own, knowing fully it surfaced as a reflex from hearing her voice.

"It might be crazy to try this, because I don't know how you feel."

If the thing people say about your life flashing before your eyes during encounters with death, then you were sure your heart was about to consume its last pulse of blood. The scenes of you and Jungkook spending your Friday nights when you were a ripe city dweller in your shoebox apartment doing everything and nothing at all had convinced you that you were certainly about to go into cardiac arrest.

"It might be crazy to say this, because I don't know how you feel." Jungkook was so many things, however emotionally perceptive was not one of them.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you." Those words tasted sweet despite fermenting in a chamber of your heart you kept preserved since, as you said, the very moment you met him.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you."

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

He repeated your words, but dehydrated all of your sentiment from them. You were left with the remnants of the feelings, and none of the words from him you were so desperately starved of. He took them right from your throat, along with the very breath that seemed to keep returning because of Jungkook, molded them into his own, into a sequence of sounds that were meant for Irene. You were left hungry, breathless, and forever wanting.

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

Irene must have been smiling right about now. Who wouldn't smile hearing those things from someone like Jungkook?

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Then, you began to ask yourself another question.

If you make me complete, Jungkook, will my story ever end?

You knew the answer to that. You swore your heart beat in a morse code that told you everything you needed to know.

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Jungkook looked to you, before Irene could form the proper response, and smiled. It was the third time he smiled at you today because of course, you were keeping track. You knew it was his own physically linguistic version of a 'thank you' or a 'you're a life saver' but somehow, to you, it translated to something similar to a 'goodbye'.

Your legs miraculously rose and carried you to the back porch. The sun was just beginning to dip in the horizon, proliferating a warm orange that was about to subside to an indistinguishable and unpredictable dusk. Whatever color came after the sunset, you were ready to accept it, to memorize how it reflected against a world without the possibility of him. And even though the night will always embody undertones of orange, it was time to focus on the colors around it.

It was time to let go.

a/n: i might make this into a drabble series!!! if anyone would be interested in that please let me know :)) thank you for readinggggg <3

[lunnybunny12]

Sandor Clegane X reader (Rory)

MODERN AU

A/N: This is a modern AU based off of this headcanon. 

Word count: 2036

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, mentions of death

Master List

As an Infantry Soldier, Sandor served in the field, working to defend his country against any threats on the ground. He'd capture, destroy, and deter enemy forces, assist in reconnaissance, and help mobilize troops and weaponry to support the mission as the ground combat force. He'd seen good people get murdered, shot, hanged, killed. People with families to get back to and friends who would miss them. Sandor had neither, and yet he was allowed to return.

He took a large gulp of his drink and looked at his surroundings. Sandor had been to the bar many times before and the familiar hum of other patrons as they'd pull frothing glasses of beer to their lips was there like always. He heard the occasional clicks from the back where the pool-tables were placed. The smell of alcohol, snow and pine-scented air freshener drifted through the air as you dragged a damp rag across the bar.

"Oi Barkeep. Beer." Sandor called, fiddling some change from his pocket.

"Keys first, Dogface. Then you can drink," You retorted, not moving from your place at the bar. (Dogface- A nick-name for Infantrymen because they sleep in "Pup-tents" and hide in "dugouts")

Sandor sighed in annoyance and paused to look at you. It hadn't been the first time you had told him this, he never understood why but he knew full well that you weren't joking with him.

"Again?"

"Yes, again. now hand them over."

He begrudgingly did as he was told and slid the car keys across the bar, avoiding your outstretched hand completely. You snatched them away and placed them in your pocket, with a fake glare.

"Good boy. They'll be in the same place when you come to pick them up tomorrow." You said popping of the cap of a beer and sliding it towards him and going back to cleaning the bar.

"You're lucky you're one of the few people I can stand in this town" He grumbled.

"Oh I feel so honoured" you joked and rolled your eyes.

Since there were other customers to attend to you couldn't talk long, but it's not like he'd say much to you anyway. The community he had found himself in was quite tight-knit. Everyone knew everyone and it was tricky to not run into someone who had something to talk about. Sandor however was a very quiet individual who often kept to himself making him stand out to many of the residents.

As the night continued and other staff started their shifts, Sandor found himself looking at you from time to time. He watched you collect glasses, chat to customers, tell jokes and take orders. He found himself doing it allot recently and he didn't understand why. At some points, he had even begun te eavesdrop on your conversations since he had nothing better to do.

"Ah (y/n) hows Rory? Heard the lad had an accident" A customer asked as you took their order.

Sandor's ears pricked up. He'd never heard of a Rory before at least not from you, and from what he knew there wasn't a Rory in the village.

"Yeah, the silly thing fell down the stairs and hurt his leg. He's upstairs having a lie-down. he should be up and about in a few days though," You chuckled.

You had changed so much since he was dragged off to the army. You weren't a crazy teenager anymore but a grown woman, with a proper paying job and a life outside of work. Yet you were still the same when it came to your personality: humerus, silly, carefree, cheerful and stupid... my god were you stupid, you had to have been to be his friend.

"Right, consider me.. clocked out" You smiled to yourself and looked at Sandor.

"Why do you need to clock out? You own the bloody place." Sandor said.

"Yes, but its this new fangled technology thing that Mr Ray insisted I use, and you know what he's like. 'His town his rules.' Plus it helps me keep tabs on whos working."

"At least you understand half of the tripe you just said." Sandor joked taking another sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes and patted his shoulder as you headed towards the door. "Goodnight everyone!" You yelled earning a cheer of goodnights.

Everything was different when Sandor went away. One day he was there and the next he wasn't, no warning, just a letter that said that he had been accepted into the army and to not expect him back for a long time, that was if he came back at all.

When he did eventually return he had also changed. His personality remained the same, as you expected but he had changed physically. He was taller, broader and stronger and his hair had been cut making his burn a more prominent feature.

If it was up to you, you would've stayed away from him but since yours was the only bar in town, he would come for a drink. Out of politeness you talked to him and sent the occasional harmless jab his way and in return he was civil. You were still angry that he hadn't said goodbye but you still cared, you must have done to take his keys.

It was misty that morning. All mornings were misty since the Autumn season rolled around. You loved Autumn. You loved the feeling of the wind rushing past your face and how the leaves crunched beneath your boots. Your favourite place to walk was at the park and since Rory had stopped limping around your apartment, you thought the park was a good idea.

Rory was a large thing. The hound was easily half your height when stood on all fours and towered above you when on his hind. In his youth, he would have been jet black and full of energy but as he aged, the fur around his snout and paws had dimmed to a light grey and he had mellowed out.

As you walked along the wet grass a sudden yelp bit through the air.

"Someone get their fucking dog!"

You immediately ran to the voice to see Sandor, on the ground with your dog licking his face.

"Rory! come here. You silly thing" you laughed as you latched the lead onto the dog's collar and pulled him away from Sandor.

The man looked awful. His hair was a mess and he was covered in dirt. The shirt he wore was the same as the day prior and he seemed half asleep.

"Were you sleeping in the bush?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine thanks for asking" Sandor huffed as he pulled himself off of the grass.

He was in a mood and in all honesty, you would be too if you were sleeping in a bush.

"What kind of dog is that? Looks like a living mop"

"He's a wolfhound and I can guarantee he's cleaner than you."

"Well, you try and stay clean when you've been sleeping in the park for 5 days," Sandor growled, dusting off some leaves from his pants.

"5 days?" you asked. "You've been sleeping here for 5 DAYS! What happened to your apartment?"

"No money to pay for an apartment."

"What about your job?"

"Why do you care?" Sandor asked, bending down to grab the blanket that was hidden in the shrubbery. He was about to walk away until you stood in front of him with a serious look.

"I care because we were friends once and I'll be dumbed if I let my friend sleep in the cold. So I will ask again... What about your job?"

The look Sandor gave you wasn't out of shock or surprise. It was a look of familiarity. A look of relaxed friendliness that you hadn't seen since before he left.

Sandor sighed and scratched his neck. " My job fired me a few weeks ago. Said that 'I have talents that could be useful elsewhere.'"

"They fired you without reason?"

"I stacked boxes (Y/n) and that's all I did."

"Load of cunts," you sighed. "Right you're coming home with me, you're gonna get a shower and we can talk about a job later."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"No, but you're getting it anyway. Follow me Dogface."

A month had passed since then and things once again changed.

You gave Sandor a job at the bar more suited to his skillset and became the security. The town was a tourist hotspot in the summer months and you would get the occasional rowdy bunch that you nor the rest of the residents liked to deal with. In the other months, Sandor would just hang around, help with any shipments that required heavy lifting and occasionally cover for a staff member. Since you couldn't have him sleeping in his car or in a bush you gave him the spare room in your apartment and when he could afford it he insisted on paying rent and wouldnt take no for an answer.

One day when Sandor came back from his shift, he was met with you, laying on the couch with Rory draped over you with his head on your chest. Rory had done this more than once and you thought it was adorable, whether it was to protect you or because he was cold you didn't know but it was adorable just the same.

"You look comfortable," Sandor said slipping off his shoes at the door.

"Oh, I am. Very much so. I was in the mood for cuddles and since you weren't here Rory stepped up" you joked, petting the sleeping dog.

At the corner of your eye, you saw Sandor's demeanour change. He straightened his posture and took a sharp breath in.

"You alright?

"I'm fine. move your legs." Sandor said sitting on the couch beside you as he leaned to grab the tv remote.

He had been doing that a lot. Whenever you joked about ding something a couple would do, he would shy away or close himself off and to be honest you were only half-joking. It why you were so upset when he left without a word of warning. You liked him but if he liked you was a different story.

"You jealous?" You asked

"Jealous?" Sandor chuffed. "Of Rory? Nah. You wouldn't go for an old dog like him"

"I like old dogs. They have more charm and personality than the younger ones." You answered as you ran your fingers through Rory's fur and kissed him on the head.

Sandor sighed and continued to look at the TV. He looked so handsome to you, he always did. Sure he was rough around the edges but its what drew you to him in the first place.

"I like you too, you know."

"What?" Sandor laughed and looked a you. He thought you were joking like you usually did but by the look on your face, you weren't.

By that point Rory had jumped off of the couch to get some water, allowing you to sit properly.

"I like you, Dogface."

"In what way?"

"In a romantic way... since before you left" a second of silence cut between you when you started laughing at yourself. Like a real laugh. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you feel the same anyways."

"How do you know I don't like ya?"

"Look at me, Sandor. The only men in my life  are you, the customers and my dog, I'm not exactly a noble-born am I? Just a daft bar made"

You stood up and walked to the fridge to grab a few beers.

"I like a daft bar made. They're way more entertaining than the smart ones."

"Very funny" you said handing him a bottle and sitting back on the couch with a huff.

"I also like my bar made: brave, and strong, and funny. With... a nice dog and a home of her own. Look, I like you too. I like being around you. I...I like your face."

You laughed and shuffled closer to him and leant your head on his shoulder.

"Cute" you mumbled and leant up to kiss his cheek. " I like your face too"

[kitkat1003]

When the Tide pulls away and the Earth Sharpens to Steel

Chapter 2: But He Burns All the Same

HUGE Warning for this chapter -Temporary Suicide -Graphic Depictions of Violence -Blood and Gore Nothing too crazy imo, but still enough cause for an alarm I imagine.  Just want y'all to know what you're getting into. Enjoy!

AO3 Link

In the end, very little changes.  Tang still continues through the days, as winter turns to spring turns to summer turns to fall.  Almost lazily, Bajie and him fall into a routine just a little different, where they no longer have to dance around their feelings.  Lingering touches can mean something, can lead to something.  Tang can blush and get teased and not be terrified of being found out, of ruining anything.

The days are very much a routine.  He goes out to meditate, and comes back to help Bajie cook.  He’s not actually much help, considering that of the two, Bajie has far more experience in cooking, but he certainly does try.

Bajie seems to enjoy teaching Tang, regardless of Tang’s missteps.  Tang thinks Bajie likes feeling like the smart one for once.  Likes seeing Tang fumble around awkwardly.

Bastard.

The other monks notice Tang’s chipper mood, but no one was ever that interested in anything Tang has done or been, unless it’s to admonish his misconduct.  So, they leave well enough alone.

All save for one.

Tang is coming back from meditation to see what wonderful concoction Bajie is cooking up for dinner when a hand grabs him by the shoulder.  He whips around, startled, and comes face to face with

“Bao,” he grinds out.  “Have you taken up stalking?”

“You’ve been a ghost in the monastery for months,” Bao argues.  “I just wanted to see what you were up to.” 

He steps around Tang and towards the doorway.  “Collecting occult objects?  Sneaking in meat?”

Tang runs so that he’s back in front of Bao, trying to stop the monk’s advance.  His face is bright red, a mix of rage and embarrassment.  If Bao finds out about Bajie-well, the whole monastery will.  The one thing that brings Tang joy will be thrown into scrutiny, until he can’t enjoy it anymore.

“I wanted some privacy.” It’s not exactly a lie.  “And besides, no one liked living near me anyway!  Shouldn’t you be happy I’ve found a space far away from the rest of you?”

“Why hide it then?” Bao argues, smiling when Tang cringes away from him.  “Clearly, you’re doing something you know is wrong.”

“That-that isn’t-why won’t you leave it?” Tang clenches his fists, voice quieting as he speaks, as if the thoughts turn everything to a hiss.  “If you know I’m doing bad things, then why do you care?  Everyone already thinks I’m a bad person!  What, you just want to satisfy your curiosity?”

His voice has more hurt in it than anger, because he’s spent his entire life knowing his life’s features were segmented into categories. There was the place he lived, the people who lived there, and him.  He could never be part of that whole.  He’s the outlier, always has been, and he’s learned to live with that.

It still hurt, when he thought about it.

But Bao was a reminder.  Bao pushed.  Tang could take the neglect, the snide looks, but Bao would talk.  Would intrude into the space Tang carved out for himself and himself alone, and prod at Tang’s sore spots until he snapped.  And Tang was so tired of that, nowadays, because he finally had someone that made him believe he might not deserve it.

A shadow falls over them and anything Bao was going to say doesn’t come out, silencing into a squeak.  Tang watches Bao’s gaze rise up, up, up, before locking onto something.

Bao’s eyes quickly fill with fear.

A very familiar hand rests on Tang’s shoulder, though Tang is surprised to feel Bajie’s grip tighten.  The claws dig just a little into the fabric of his shirt, though Bajie’s grip is always careful not to damage Tang or his clothing.

A growl comes from Bajie’s throat, too.  When Tang looks up, he’s surprised to see Bajie’s eyes glowing, his teeth bared.

“Tang is my mortal.” Bajie’s voice is cold.  Rage is painted in his posture, as he leans down so he’s eye level with Bao.  He huffs a breath through his nose, one that ruffles Bao’s hair.  “Mine.”

Bao flinches.

“You stay away, or I’ll find you.  You say a word about this, and I’ll find you.  Got it?” Bajie pokes a claw into Bao’s chest every time to punctuate each ‘You,’ eyes narrowed to dark slits.Bao nods, very quickly.  His head is a blur.

Bajie leans in even closer, so that his snout is touching Bao’s nose.

“Now, start fucking running.”

Bao stumbles back, trembling.  He turns on his heel and sprints down the hall, disappearing behind the corner.

Tang blinks and looks up at Bajie.  Bajie continues to stay in a battle stance, free hand splayed out with claws bared, fingers twitching.  Likely for his rake, Tang surmises.

“Bajie,” Tang reaches up and places a palm flat against the side of Bajie’s face, gentle.  As much as it is charming to have a strong demon as his protector, Tang much prefers his Bajie when he’s off the battlefield.  Bajie responds best to touch, regardless.  Sometimes words don’t reach him. 

 “Dinner will run late if we stand out here all night.”

Bajie blinks a few times and shakes himself off, lifting his hand from Tang’s shoulder carefully.  His shoulders slump down as he relaxes, a little weary after being so tense.  He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and smiles, a little strained.

“Right.  Uh, sorry.”

He ducks beneath the doorframe and heads back into their room.  Tang follows.

They make dinner in relative silence.  Tang has gotten rather proficient with a knife, and he chops up the vegetables as Bajie sets up the broth.  Bajie’s started making the noodles himself.  Apparently it’s far cheaper if you do, even if it takes longer to complete.

When they’re done, and when Bajie pours out their servings so they can eat, Tang speaks up.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.  “I could have handled it.”

Bajie sets his bowl down with a heavy sigh, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“He shouldn’t talk to you like that,” Bajie says slowly.  “No one should.”

“Bajie,” Tang starts, a sad smile of acceptance already on his face.  “Plenty of people here are like that.  I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be!” Bajie explodes.  “You shouldn’t have to deal with all that, it’s none of any of their business what you do!  People shouldn’t expect the worst from you!”

Bajie stares down at him with a plea in his gaze, like he’s begging for Tang to understand, but Tang looks away.  Something about what Bajie is saying, some part of Bajie’s expression, makes his chest twist something painful.  Maybe Tang has always known, deep down, that being treated the way he is is wrong, maybe he just buried that part down so it wouldn’t hurt so much.  The earnest look in Bajie’s expression, the desperation-that digs that part back up, and Tang struggles to bury it again.

“It doesn’t matter.  People think what they will of me.  I just don’t want their opinion to be any worse,” he sighs.  “I can handle what they throw at me.  I can prove that I’m better than they are.”

Bajie’s reaches over, tilting Tang’s head up and forcing Tang to look at him again.

“You don’t have to hold yourself to such a high standard, you know.  You’re allowed to be angry.  I get mad enough, and you never tell me not to be.  Why can’t you get upset?  Why do you gotta handle it all?”

Tang blinks, and his vision blurs.  When had anyone, before now, told him that he was enough?  Just as is, without need for a perfect posture, unbreakable composure.  When he was young there were times where he could almost say he was liked, but soon the other children pulled away and Tang was forced to climb his way up to somehow reach their level again.

But here Bajie is, on the same level as him, telling him the view is just fine right here.

Bajie pulls him forward, and Tang holds Bajie as tight as he can, hiding his tears in Bajie’s chest.

When he finally lifts his head up, Bajie is smiling down at him.

“See?  Nothing wrong with gettin’ upset.  Better to go through it and come out better for it than to let it sit and grow.”

“You’re just saying that because you liked going ‘protective demon’ on Bao,” Tang mutters, grinning despite himself.

“Hey—well, maybe, but that’s not the point!”

Tang presses his face into Bajie’s chest to muffle his chuckles.  Soon enough, Bajie is laughing too.

At night, when they lay together, Bajie likes to pull Tang close.  Tang will pepper Bajie’s jaw with kisses and lean his head against the demon’s chest, listening to the rumbling purr of delight Bajie is unable to stifle, along with Bajie’s heartbeat.

Being in love is something Tang finds unexpectedly warm and comfortable.  Like slipping into a slipper fitted perfectly, he stands taller and walks with far better purpose than he had before.  Even the whispers of how he isn’t a proper monk do little to stifle the swell of elation sitting in his heart, each breath making his ribs creak with strain, as if his heart couldn’t fit it all.

It’s a good type of pain, to be in love.

One night, though, Bajie presses Tang so tightly against him that Tang startles.  He’s about to ask when his lips are stolen in a kiss, and, well, he doesn’t mind that at all.  He leans into the heat, making his cheeks blush.

But a hand creeps up his thigh, beneath his clothes.

Tang is suddenly consumed by panic.

He pushes away, quickly, wide eyed and trembling.  Glancing at Bajie’s eyes show no anger, more confusion and hurt.  They’re both breathless, but Tang has to take an extra minute to get his lungs to cooperate, to be able to breathe at all.

He knew this would happen.  This was the whole point of the challenge, was it not?  He just...he hadn’t thought of it, between the shock of Bajie actually loving him and the fluttery feelings he had for the demon as well.

“I-I’m sorry,” he sputters, embarrassed.  Ashamed, even.  

He’d known that women were expected to perform for their husbands, and while Tang wouldn’t call himself a wife, he knew that there was always the expectation to perform if he began this sort of relationship.  To be unable to...it’s shameful.

Bajie looks very much like he wants to reach for him, but he keeps his hands pressed against his chest, away from Tang.  Worried.  Nervous.

“I-it’s okay.  I’m not-I want you to be comfortable.  Did I do something wrong?” Bajie assures.  Soothing.  The lack of anger makes Tang relax a little. 

“No-no, you didn’t, I just…,” Tang doesn’t know how to explain.  “I-do we have to?”

Bajie blinks a few times, confused, and he rubs the top of his head in thought, looking around before his gaze settles back on Tang.

“I thought…,” Bajie starts, haltingly.  So very careful.  “I thought that this is what mortals do.  Anyone does.  You know?  Is this about the monk thing?”

“No,” Tang replies again, firm.  “It’s hard to explain, I just…,” He takes a breath.  Shuffles a little closer.  

Bajie’s hand settles on the bedroll.  Tang places his own on top of it, like an olive branch.  He feels Bajie relax, a little.

“What do you like about me?” Tang asks. 

Bajie tilts his head to the side, at the question.  It’s an odd one, but Tang has heard time and time again that consummation equals the truest love.  And yet, if that were true, why love any other part of your partner?  Why think of anything besides this moment?

Tang has a plethora of things he loves about Bajie.  He hopes that Bajie is the same.

“I mean it literally,” Tang clarifies.  “Why are you in love with me?”

Bajie shifts, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.  His hand does not move from where it is, in Tang’s, so he rubs a circle into the back of it with his index finger.  He turns it into a spiral.  Bajie’s hand is big enough for it, after all.

Bajie’s voice starts soft. “I like the way your hair looks.  It’s windswept, almost.

“I like how your face looks.  It’s very soft, and comes to a nice point, you know?  I like your eyes, because they’re a brown red I haven’t seen before, and I like your smile, because it’s kind of cheeky but mostly just kind, and I like that look you get on your face when you read, or when I make you something to eat, and I like that your hands are soft, and—”

Bajie stops, for a moment.  His eyes are wide, face  flushed, like the more he talked, the more affection burned him.

Tang thinks he’s nearly a cherry tomato himself, with how much he can feel his face steaming.

Bajie shifts to face him again.

“I love that you can talk to me about things like this.,” Something warmer enters Bajie’s voice, right then.  “Most people either tell me to go or don’t tell me anything.  You stand your ground, but you don’t just shove me away.  You tell me why the things I do upset you, so I can fix it.  Most people are too scared to bother.”

“I am scared of you, sometimes,” Tang whispers.  He’d kept that fact a secret, afraid of the look it would put on Bajie’s face, to know that Tang, even with all his love, fears Bajie even a little.

“But you still try and stop me if I push too far.  That’s trust.  That’s bravery,” Bajie rebuffs, steadfast even with the hard truth laying between them.  “I love that about you.  You’re brave.  You trust me.”

The way he says that takes Tang’s breath away.  It takes Tang a few moments to even collect himself, and when he does he still feels like he’s going to melt into a puddle.

“Right,” he starts, and Bajie chuckles before he continues.  “And what does that, any of that, have to do with,” He gestures vaguely to the whole concept they’re avoiding.  “Sex?”

Bajie opens his mouth, and then closes it.  Tang watches the thoughts bounce around Bajie’s brain with a fond smile, until Bajie finally looks back at him.

“I guess it doesn’t,” Bajie mutters, and then laughs, incredulous.  “You’re so smart, you know that?  Sometimes I wonder if you’re wasted, here.” 

He reaches over and brushes a hair back behind Tang’s ear.  Tang chuckles, both at the sentiment and at the motion. Perhaps laughing will help the butterflies out of his stomach.

“This place is my home,” he says, and he shrugs.  “I belong here.”

Bajie’s smile flattens into a straight line for a moment, but he doesn’t argue.  Silence falls upon them, as Tang’s fingers trace shapes into Bajie’s hand and arm, until Bajie speaks up again.

“I uh-I thought for a second it might be because of, uh, this,” Bajie gestures vaguely at his person, and Tang raises a brow.

“You just gestured to all of yourself,” He says.

Bajie flushes, embarrassed, before huffing out, “The biggest hurdle most mortals have to get over is that I’m not exactly conventionally attractive, by mortal standards.” 

Bajie doesn’t look him in the eye.  It’s said matter of factly, and there’s an undercurrent of hurt that has Tang’s brow furrowing.  Tang doesn’t know about the partners Bajie’s had before, but he does know Bajie has been chased out of many towns.  He wonders how much of it was because of Bajie’s attitude and how much of it was his appearance.

“That’s true.  You’re not,” Tang replies bluntly.

Bajie seems surprised, before Tang continues.

“You’re not mortal.  You’re not human.  It would be ridiculous to use those standards to classify you as attractive or not.  By my standards….”

He trails off for a moment, and when he continues, his smile is coy.  “Well, you’re quite outstanding.”

“Tang,” Bajie starts, and it comes out choked out, the blush moving from embarrassment back to attraction.

Tang scoots closer, and reaches up to Bajie’s face.

“You have lovely ears.  Perfect for hearing anyone who would dare attack you.  They blush like your cheeks, did you know?  I always love that about them.  Gorgeous blue eyes.  Two different shades, even.  Most mortals are stuck with one, but I suppose this was a treat from the gods for me,” Tang fiddles with the ears for a moment, before his hands trail down. 

Bajie doesn’t seem to know how to handle this much affection.  His eyes are locked on Tang’s, and his lips are slightly parted in shock.

“You have such strong tusks.  Very imposing,” Tang wraps his fingers around them, grips them for a moment.  “Perfect for biting through most anything.  A strong jaw.” 

He trails the shape of it with his finger.  “To show you mean business.  Powerful vocal cords.”

Tang smooths a hand down Bajie’s neck.  Bajie shivers.  “To shout at anyone who would challenge you.  Broad shoulders so that you loom.   Sharp claws to cut through any obstacle.  Strong arms to lift that rake of yours.”

“Burly legs so you can move faster than any mortal would dare, and,” Tang has to laugh. “An adorable tail that you can’t stop from wagging when you’re happy.”

Bajie just stares, as if no one has ever said something like that to him in all his years of life.  The tragic thing, to Tang, is that it’s likely that that’s the case.  He pulls himself up, so that he and Bajie are eye to eye.

“I almost forgot your lovely snout,” he leans forward and places a kiss there.  “Perfect for kisses.  All of it makes you the most beautiful demon I’ve ever seen.  My Demon.  My Bajie.  My Pigsy.”

Each phrase is punctuated by another peck.  The last title snaps Bajie out of his haze, and he grins, lopsided and gorgeous.

“Pigsy?” he asks.

Tang flushes a little.  “Do you not like it?” 

Bajie lifts Tang up and shifts so he’s on his back, placing Tang on top of him.

“I love it,” he murmurs.

Tang smiles and curls on top of Bajie like he’s always belonged there.

They lay there for a moment, until Bajie opens his mouth.

“Did I still win the challenge?”

Tang laughs so hard  he cries, tickled by the memory of a conversation what feels like a lifetime ago finally coming to its close, leaning down until his forehead is resting against Pigsy’s.

“Of course you did.  You got me, didn’t you?”

They have arguments.  Disagreements, really.  Arguments imply real hatred and they never have that, not for each other, but they do disagree.

Bajie wants Tang to come with him, to leave the monastery and go out into the world.  But Tang can’t.  Not when everyone here already expects him to fail, to be the worst of them, to fall away from the religion and be the lesser monk they think him to be.  What would they say, if he disappeared into the night, never to be seen again?

“I don’t understand why that matters,” Bajie stresses, during one such disagreement.  “You know they’re never gonna be satisfied.  And what about when they find out about me, huh?  How are you gonna swing that?”

“I know!” Tang cries, head in his hands from the frustration.  “I know, I know that, but what can I do, Bajie?  I can’t just leave, they’re my family, this is my home.  What don’t you understand?”

Family is difficult to handle, and Tang knows his isn’t perfect, isn’t terribly kind, but it’s his.  It’s so hard to imagine disappearing.  Could he even come back?  Obviously not, they already dislike him, so there’s no way he could leave.  How could he keep in contact?  The mail moves so slow, and how would they write him back when he’s moving around so much?  Would they even write to him?

Bajie doesn’t get it.  Bajie doesn’t have a family like Tang does.  Hecan just salt the earth and leave and lose nothing.  Tang could lose everything.  He needs his foundation.  He needs something to go back to.

“Tang,” Bajie starts, soft and gentle, but unrelenting.

Tang raises a hand to silence him.

“Stop asking,” He says firmly.

His voice takes on a more desperate edge as he adds a quieter “Please.”

He needs to figure this out for himself, and if he’s constantly being pressured one way over the other, how can he make an informed decision?  He just needs a little more time.

Bajie’s brow furrows, eyes going dark for a split second before his expression empties, like everything has been poured out of him.  Tang stiffens, because the lack of reaction is frightening, somehow, like he’s been pushed to the edge of a cliff, and isn’t sure how long the precipice can hold him.

But then Bajie leans down, and presses a kiss to his forehead, soft.

“Alright,” Bajie whispers.  “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Tang whispers, promises, hopes.

Bajie starts leaving.  At first, it’s only for a few days.  Then, the trips become longer.  A week.  Two.  

He’s never gone longer than a month, and he always tells Tang the night before that he’ll be gone in the morning.  Tang will wake up to the feeling of a soft kiss to his forehead and he will watch Bajie trudge out of their room as sunlight peeks over the horizon.

Tang hates every second that Bajie is gone.  Hates that the monotony of his normal life is no longer satisfactory.  He had forced himself to be satisfied with the mundane, the normal, the expected.  Then Bajie had come in and smashed all his expectations and made Tang yearn for more again.

At the very least, Bao is no longer a problem.  Tang feels a sense of satisfaction that when he enters a room, Bao is quick to leave it.

“I wish you wouldn’t leave so much,” he says, during a night when Bajie is here, and close, and Tang can lay with him.  “You never seemed bothered before.  You never went anywhere for this long.”

“I had a goal, then,” Bajie rumbles, voice soft.  “You’d be surprised by how easy it is to forget about other stuff when you have a task.  But I’m a demon, with a nine toothed rake that isn’t for tilling land.  I’m not made for domestic life.  Not when I’m just getting started.”

The explanation feels almost like a farewell, and something in Tang’s chest squeezes tight in a panic.  Tang isn’t a demon, he isn’t a fighter.  He’s the definition of domestic, isn’t he?  If Bajie isn’t made for domestic life, maybe Tang isn’t made for him.

“Can’t you stay?” Tang whispers, interlocking his fingers with Bajie’s.  His hand is dwarfed by Bajie’s large palm.  “Just for a little while.  Just—am I not enough?”

“Can’t you come with me?” Bajie rebuffs, voice almost too pointed.  “Aren’t I enough?”

And, well, there’s no winning the argument there.  Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and Tang’s afraid of the crash.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “It’s never because you aren’t enough.” 

He needs Bajie to know that, to know that Tang isn’t doing this because Bajie failed, in some way.  Tang wishes he could feel secure enough to jump ship, to leave everything behind like Bajie wants.

But, regardless of what Bajie thinks, Tang has never been brave.

Bajie says nothing.  Tang wonders what the silence means.

As Tang wrestles with himself, his wants, his life, he finally comes to his conclusion.  He rethinks life, his own, from beginning to present, and like any good story he wants a happy ending.  Who doesn’t?

And he realizes, at the center of it all, that a happy ending isn’t possible if Bajie isn’t there.  That in every path Tang’s life leads him down, Bajie has to be there if it's to end with a smile.

And if Bajie needs Tang to leave, then Tang will swallow his terror and take the leap.  He has to at least try.  If it doesn’t work, if Tang fails, then...then he’ll only have himself to blame, won’t he?

He has to try.

There’s preparations to be had.  He researches.  While Bajie is out on trips to who knows where, Tang learns about the marriage methods of demons.  Apparently, when a demon takes a mortal’s hand in marriage, they kidnap the mortal, steal them away.  There’s an exchange of courting jewelry.  A physical claim.

He doesn’t have the money for jewelry, but he thinks he could do something else.  So he buys some paper, some leather, some twine, and carefully, he constructs a book.  A journal.  Something that they can write in for years to come, something they can share.  Maybe it’s unorthodox, maybe it isn’t good enough, but Tang wants to be able to look back.  He wants to see Bajie’s scrawled sentences, words written comically large next to Tang’s smaller, tighter script.

Maybe it isn’t the right way, but it’s Tang, in every sense of the word.  If Bajie rebuffs that, then there’s nothing to be done.

He writes out a script.  The next time Bajie leaves, Tang works on his speech, writes and rewrites.  He memorizes until every line is burned into his head, and then goes over it again, because he knows that when he says it he’ll stumble.

He plans, and strategizes, and hopes.

 This time, when Bajie returns, Tang can tell something is off. Bajie is….distracted.  He spends more time off to himself, staring out the window, than he does interacting with Tang.

It makes Tang anxious.  It feels like the moment before an explosion.  He wants to broach the subject, but he’s afraid of being caught in the blast zone of whatever Bajie is hiding.

So he sets the plans aside and focuses on lifting the terrible fog that makes Bajie stare at him like Tang is already gone.  Like Tang is some far away place that Bajie cannot reach.

It seems to work.  Tang complains uproariously about different texts he’s been reading in the interim of Bajie’s stay, and he gets Bajie to laugh.  He helps make dinner and remarks on how invaluable he is to Bajie’s cooking process.  Bajie rewards him with a few stories of some customer service issues he had to resolve when he worked as a cook.

“She had to get thrown out by the owner, she was screaming so loud,” Bajie laughs.  “It’s a good thing he settled things with her and not me.  I woulda given her the what-for, if she’d screamed at me.”

“I have no doubt,” Tang giggles.

It settles, as they become comfortable with each other again.  Every time Bajie leaves and comes back, it’s like they have to slowly get back in sync with each other.  Sometimes it takes longer than Tang likes.  Like now, where it feels like it takes weeks.

Bajie stays for an entire month and it takes most of that to get back to that comfortable place their relationship should always be in. A month full of Tang making excuses to wait to propose, making excuses to be patient, to give it a little more time.

But, after a month, things seem comfortable.  Tang swallows his fears.  Bajie called him brave once and Tang has to live up to that, right?

Except, after a week of things seeming okay, Bajie suddenly closes himself off again.  Goes quiet, empty.  Pensive and secretive in the worst way.

“Don’t shut me out,” Tang whispers, a hand against Bajie’ cheek.

Bajie’s sitting down, staring out the window, and Tang is standing, as he slowly turns Bajie’s face toward him.  “Is something wrong?  Tell me, please.  You’ve been...different.”

Bajie still stares at Tang as if Tang were the world, except now it’s as if the world is crumbling in front of him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Tang promises.

He leans in, so his forehead rests against Bajie’s.  Bajie leans into the touch, eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” Bajie’s voice is soft.  “I—nothing’s wrong.  I’m just...I’ve been thinking too much.”

“That’s a first,” Tang smiles, trying to joke.  

Bajie’s lips twitch upward, but he doesn’t smile.

Tang glances back, towards the book hidden, and thinks of the speech burned into his brain.  He could let everything out, right now.

But Bajie looks like he needs more time.  Looks as if Tang were to push, he’d crumble.  And Tang is terrified to see Bajie break, so he decides to wait a little longer.  To stall, a little longer.

It takes far too long to coax Bajie to lay down that night, pulling his gaze away from the starry sky and back to the ground, back to Tang’s eyes.  Tang searches for something familiar in Bajie’s, but the picture is too blurred to be recognizable.

“You look tired,” he hears himself say.  “You should get some rest.”

Bajie doesn’t reply, but he does lay down, and Tang curls up against him, like he always has.  Like he always should.

“I love you,” he whispers, promises, hopes.

Bajie must say it after Tang is already asleep.  He must.

That’s the only reason Tang wouldn’t hear it said back to him.

Tang does not see Bajie sit up in the night, knees pulled to his chest.  He does not see Bajie turn to look at him, eyes watery.  He does not see Bajie run a hand over his head, shaking, glancing between the door and Tang over and over.  He does not see Bajie reach a shaking hand over Tang, a breath away from touching down, from shaking Tang awake.  He does not see Bajie pull away with a choked breath so quiet it’s almost unheard even by Bajie’s ears.  He does not see Bajie cry into his knees for far too long, and he does not see Bajie wipe his eyes, look over, and press a feathersoft, gentle kiss to the top of Tang’s head.  He does not see Bajie stand, slowly, and walk out the door, never to return.

Tang sees none of this.  He wakes up the next morning to see Bajie gone, with nothing but the indentation he left in the bedroll to indicate he was ever there.

It’s odd, because typically Bajie says something before he goes, but Tang chalks it up to the odd mood Bajie was in.  He must have simply forgotten.  The alternative is of course laughable.  Impossible.

So Tang moves on, continues with his life, and waits for Bajie to return.  

Because he has to.

Right?

It takes three months for Tang to start doubting.  

It takes six for it to start to hurt.

A year passes.

Tang feels the shelter he’d given his heart cave in as he buckles under the weight of heartbreak.   

The cliff has crumbled beneath him.  He’s fallen over the precipice, and the worst part is that no one, absolutely no one, would ever think to reach and catch him.  

Heartbreak feels like grief.  Tang has felt grief before, when his beloved masters would eventually fall to time.  Loss of a person and loss of love are equally painful, because once something is gone it can never be reclaimed.

He goes through the motions.  Moves slow, but moves regardless, like every step is through mud. He gets up, gets breakfast, gets some new scrolls.  Meditates, waits.

He just keeps on waiting.  He refuses to get rid of the fire pit Bajie made, nor the kitchen utensils, nor the pot.  He cleans them, scrubbing them all until they shine in the sunlight, polished and pristine, and then he places them back in their spots with a reverence reserved for the gods.

When Bajie gets back, he’ll want them to look nice.

Another few months pass, before logic kicks in.  Of course Bajie would leave.  Why stay with a nobody, why stay with a mortal, a monk?  There are far too many cons against the few, if any, pros.  Tang should have known that this was an eventuality.  

Sure, he’d dreamed of them growing old together, or spending eternity together, or any number of things.  But those are all that those thoughts will ever be, dreams.

Tang is a fool, to dream.

The utensils collect dust.  Tang does not read books. He doesn’t do much of anything.  He meditates, more to give himself an excuse to sit, with his eyes closed, and forget existence.

He settles again.  He must.  Logic holds him together like cheap glue, and while his cracks drop pieces as he forces himself to continue to move on, move forward, it holds enough.  Enough that he can breathe.

“Have you heard?” 

Tang is eating lunch in the common area, idly chewing on rice, and he only hears the conversation because he’s not focusing on anything else.

“The monk Triptaka is going on a journey!”

“Isn’t his name Tang Sanzang?”

“Yeah, but he goes by Triptaka.  Maybe wants to get away from a name shared by…”

Tang ignores the glances thrown his way.  He’s dealt with them plenty.

“Anyway, he’s going on a journey to get holy scriptures.  I’ve heard Bodhisattva Guanyin is even overseeing the journey herself!  She amassed a group of demons to protect him.”

“Wow, who?”

“Sun Wukong-she had to release him from under a mountain.  She also got, um, I think a dragon prince to be his steed, a demon named Sha Wujing, and one named Zhu Bajie!”

Tang freezes.  Logic starts cracking.

“What?” he finds himself saying, turning to the group.  They seem startled by his intrusion into their conversation.

“Uhhh,” one of them goes, cringing away from Tang in confusion.

“Who is on the journey?  The last name you said.” The words keep coming out of him, and Tang doesn’t have the time to figure out where they’re coming from.

“Zhu Bajie?” The name falls out of the other’s lips, and Tang recoils.

No.  No, it must be a mistake.  It couldn’t be.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

The thought is acid in his brain.  It burns, and he feels his hands shake.  The bowl drops to the floor, and shatters against stone.  Rice is wasted at his feet.

“Tang?” someone says.

It doesn’t matter that this is the first time in months that anyone has spared him a drop of concern, because Tang is running, running to their room, running to the room he’s been waiting in for months and then was grieving in for longer as the pieces of his broken heart started trying to slide back together.

Everything is shattered again, and Tang doesn’t know if he can put himself back together.

He gets to their room and falls to his knees in the center, the thud muffled by a bedroll he hasn’t had the energy in months to fold or move because that would require realizing that one half of the space would never be filled again.  He covers his mouth with his hands.  He can’t stop shaking.

He can’t.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

He thought it was because he was a mortal.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

He thought it was because he was a monk

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Gods, he didn’t think it was because of his name, but even that avenue is gone.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Tang sobs.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

In the end, when you strip away his mortality, you strip away his monk status, when you strip away his name, all that’s left is his character.  His personality.  Himself.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

And that’s what Bajie ran from, wasn’t it?  That’s what he abandoned.  He didn’t abandon a mortal monk named Tang, he left Tang.  The person he is at his core.  Bajie looked, was given Tang’s heart, and decided that wasn’t what he wanted.

A monk named Tang, on a journey with Zhu Bajie.

Tang laughs.

It’s funny, he thinks, after hours curled into a ball, heaving sobs and crackling laughs.  It’s so terribly funny, so terribly cruel, so terribly poetic.  He knew from a young age that he wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t a good monk, wasn’t a good person, but he’d tried.  He’d tried so hard. 

And then Bajie had come along.

And Tang had hoped.  Selfishly, he’d slacked on improvements, believed that he was enough as is.  Bajie never seemed to want more from him, never expected anything special, and Tang had grown lax, grown complacent.

No wonder Bajie had left him.  Tang was never good enough for anyone.

But maybe he can try to be.

He can’t change who he is.  Clearly, his 25 years of failure have shown him that.  He can’t change who he is at his core, but if he fixes everything else, maybe that will be enough.

Just maybe, then, he will be enough.

Step one.  Get rid of his mortality.

Bajie and him can’t share eternity if he’s dead a hundred years into it.  If he’s to reinvent himself into something worthy, into someone worthy, he needs time.  Mortality cuts that short.

He is a ghost in the monastery in the sense that he appears in rare bursts and his continued existence leads to whispers and rumors.  He leaves and does research in the library.  The stares of disapproval no longer stab through what once was pride, because that space in his chest has been torn open.  The knives pass right through the hole left in its wake.

He’s fervent.  Doesn’t sleep.  Doesn’t eat.  There is no point in maintaining a body doomed to die, regardless of his efforts.  He can care about himself when he’s worthy, when someone tells him he matters.

And no one has told him that.  Bajie can’t count anymore.  Not until Tang gets him back.

A year of research leads to nothing. 

Tang lives in the barest of senses, half dead on his feet as he works.  He has to figure it out, he has to.  The books he find tell him little.  But, then, he remembers the town.  The townspeople.  

People know plenty, when you know how to get it out of them.

He is a ghost in the town in the sense that he hides in its darkest, coldest corners and listens.  Travelers come in and out, always with stories.  Slowly, Tang learns how to use a stiff drink and a kind smile to pull the stories out.  Slowly, Tang learns how to twist until the people he talks to think that it was their idea, to say what he wants them to.

Tang does this all quietly.  He’s always had a way with words, always too afraid to use that power.  After all, a true monk wouldn’t be so manipulative, wouldn’t want the knowledge of anything beyond the buddhist texts, much less the ravings of wordly travelers.

Bajie is worldly.

Tang wants.

He has heard, from a million different whispers, of how Monkey King is able to live forever.

Folktales fall from slippery lips and Tang listens.  Tang learns and relearns, drags the specifics out with carefully placed drinks and sugary sweet honeyed words that coax out more information.  This is important.

Monkey King’s spirit was dragged down to Yama’s realm, he hears.  Monkey King blotted out his name from the ledger, so he may never die again.

Die again, he thinks, and realizes you have to die once for such a thing to be true.

He considers the stares aimed toward him.  He considers the lingering whispers of how he doesn’t belong, how he isn’t true to his practice.  He considers the years of him asking what else?  What else is there to learn?  He considers cold, disapproving eyes that followed him from youth to adulthood.

He considers blue, beautiful ocean blue ones that looked at him as if he’d hung the stars and he considers blue eyes gone in the night without a word.

Considers dying.  

Considers.

Acquiring poison isn’t difficult.  He buys it in the market (He used to go with Bajie where’d they’d pick out the vegetables and noodles for the ramen that night and make fun of weird shaped vegetables and laugh) with some coins Bajie left behind (left behind with him, like him, left left left abandoned because Tang made Bajie wait made Bajie lose love Tang ruined everything—) and stuffs it in his pocket.  He eats dinner (Bajie made it better he was always the better cook and Tang is nothing isn’t anything just the worst monk in the world—) and carefully pours himself some tea, mixes in the poison, and breathes.

It barely changes the taste.  There’s something bitter on the edge of it, but Tang drains the cup and sighs.  

He sets up his bedroll and lays down, eyes staring up at the ceiling.  He can feel a slight pain in his chest.  Likely due to the poison.  It’s not a very painful one, slow but not cruel.

Like this, he can practically feel Bajie next to him, a hand over his heart.  That must be where the weight on his chest comes from.  Must be.  Bajie has to be here, beside him, at the end of it all.  Where else would his love be?

They were having a conversation.  One hard to navigate, but Bajie was trying, so Tang would too.

“Why are you in love with me?” he tries to say, but the black edges take over his vision.

Dying isn’t so bad, he thinks, when it’s like this.

He comes to with little difficulty, laying down on stone.  The sky is a dark purple, with blue clouds.

He feels empty.  Weightless.

He stands and is immediately shuffled into a line of a million people, all spirits heading in one direction.  The dead are the dead, and he is placed with the typical mortals, those without plans.

Some are far older than him, some far younger.

The land of the dead is a palace.  He can see the entry gate, a speck in the distance.  The dead whisper amongst themselves, but he says nothing, stepping out of line.

He heads down the path away from the gate, off to the right.  Occasionally, he ducks out of the way of guards, which only proves that he’s going in the right direction.

Being dead doesn’t change much.  If anything, he feels a little lighter, without a physical body to hold him down.

He finds the room he’s looking for after about an hour, a large, seemingly endlessly long book sitting on a table, open on a table.  Tang walks over and when he looks down on it, he can see thousands of names.  Every second, another changes status.  Black for alive, white for dead.

White is a mourning color, after all.

He quickly begins searching for his own name, flipping through page after page with utter abandon and scanning, because time is of the essence.  He is fairly certain that there’s a reason only the Monkey King was known to have pulled this off, because it isn’t as though anyone besides King Yama and his attendants are meant to touch said book.

Not that Tang much cares who is and isn’t supposed to be doing this.  If he’d cared at this point, then, well, he wouldn’t have bought poison for himself.

He’s finally making headway, recognizing a few names from those who once lived in his town, when he hears footsteps coming toward his direction.

Well, not footsteps.  Hoofsteps.  The sound of cloven feet on tile.

Tang schools his expression, and continues to flip through the book, even as the steps come closer.

“Hey!” He hears.

He looks up.

Ox head and Horse face were mentioned in the stories detailing Monkey King’s escapade through the land of the dead.  They were the ones to drag the Great Sage’s spirit down, after all.  Ox head has dark eyes and a shining golden nose ring that accents the gold on his arm and leg bracers.  Horse face has golden earrings to match, and his outfit is much the same.  They both wear a leather-esque set of armor, ornate in its stitching, but scuffed with dirt from sparring matches or nonsense fights.

Tang looks them up and down, and decides immediately that they do not compare to how Bajie intimidates.

“Hello,” he greets, keeping his voice even and uninterested as he glances back down to the names on the page.

Ox head and Horse face stare, clearly taken aback by Tang’s cavalier attitude.  Tang is simply glad they can’t see his knees wobble behind the desk.  Sweat trails down the back of his neck.  He cannot fail.

He won’t.

“Mortals aren’t supposed to touch that,” Ox head growls out.

Tang looks up again, face the perfect picture of confusion, before he smiles.

“Oh,” He laughs a little.  “Clearly there’s been a communication error here.  King Yama sent me to fix a clerical mistake with this book.  I’m just looking for it now.”

He looks back down, and bites his lip to stop himself from smirking.  Time is of the essence.  If he finds his name before they catch onto the ruse, far better for it, right?  He just needs to find his name.  He can tell he’s close.

“Nobody told us about this.  And we’ve never seen you before,” Horse face interjects.

“Yeah, we’re in charge here.  Someone would’ve said something to us,” Ox head agrees.

“If you say so,” Tang replies.  “I’m simply following orders.  King Yama is a very busy man, and he wanted this completed quickly.  If you want to waste his time by dragging me to him just to get the same answer I’ve told you, be my guest.  

“But,” Tang shrugs and smiles. “I don’t believe King Yama is very forgiving, when someone is wasting his time.” 

He continues to flip through the book, ever patient.  When he glances up, for a split second, he can see Ox head and Horse face share a look.

“...You know what, I think I remember being told about, the, uh, clerical thing,” Horse face finally says.

“Yeah,” Ox head agrees, awkwardly.

“Don’t, uh, don’t tell King Yama about this, alright?” Horse face tries for a smile.

“We’ll just keep this between us,” Ox head fidgets with his arm bracers.

Tang smiles, and he doesn’t know what he looks like, but the two demons freeze.

“Of course,” hHe replies.

The pair leaves, rather quickly.

It takes Tang a few more minutes to find his name, written in white on the yellowed pages.  There are pens near the book, so clerical changes must be a plausibility.  He takes one of the small pens and dips it into the inkwell.  He carefully drags the ink across his name, blacking it out.

With a harsh yank, his soul is pulled away from tangibility, and he drops the pen with a clatter as he is rocketed back up, up, up—slammed into his body with utter abandon, weightlessness and emptiness replaced with the heavy feeling of embodiment.

He wakes up with a gasp, and when he breathes he coughs, as if his lungs collected dust in the time he wasn’t using them.  He moves his limbs experimentally, and everything moves fine.  His senses are a little duller, he thinks.  His vision was always poor, but now it’s even moreso.  He doesn’t smell much of anything.  He can barely taste his own saliva.  There’s a ringing in his ears that doesn’t go away, but eventually he gets used to the sound.

He sits up, glancing around. Everything in his room is untouched.  He is unsure of how long he was dead.

To the left, he hears the shuffling of footsteps.  He turns his head.

Bao is scrambling back, half fallen over, hand gripping the doorframe.  His eyes are wide, his breaths are coming out as gasps.

“You—” Bao breathes.  “You were dead.  I-I checked—you were dead.”

Tang stares.

Bao.  Terrible, awful, disgusting Bao.  A nuisance that plagued Tang’s life for years, a person who took great joy in Tang’s upset.  A person who, at one point, was someone Tang desired the respect of.

Terrible, awful, disgusting Bao, trembling at the sight of him.

Tang smiles, slow, letting his lips curl up to show a flash of teeth, and finally learns the joy that comes from being feared.  He winks.

“Only technically,” He says, almost hisses, and he finds a perverse sense of utter satisfaction as Bao pales, turns on his heel, and runs, as fast as he can.

Away from him.

Tang laughs to the disappearing sound of footsteps, and breathes in new air.  He thinks Bajie would be proud of him, as he stands and brushes himself off.  He’s finally stopped caring.  

Immortality achieved.  But there’s still more to do.  If he’s to be worthy, he needs power.

Which means he needs to learn how to acquire it.

He takes what will be useful, settles it into a pack, and leaves his home of a quarter of a century behind without much thought.  So silly of him, to be attached to it.  If only he’d left sooner.  If only he’d stopped caring sooner, maybe this all could have been avoided.

He leaves the utensils.  Leaves his books, the dictionary, and keeps the memories safe in the space where his heart once resided, heading off to the next town.

He becomes a vagabond of sorts, coasting from town to town.  He will devour the town library’s collection, searching for something, anything, and perhaps partake in town gossip.  People have so much to say, after all.  Finding the pearls of wisdom and knowledge beneath the swine tales, so to speak, is something he becomes rather shrewd at.  

Some of the people he talks to apparently find him attractive.

“Has anyone told you that you have beautiful eyes?” A woman he met in a small restaurant asks him.

 I like your eyes, because they’re a brown red I haven’t seen before.

“No,” Tang replies.  “But it’s kind of you to say.”

He’s drawn to a town over whispers of mystic artifacts and knowledge being held there.  It’s a rather unassuming town, no different from the others, but the library is a bit bigger than most.  He pours over texts, though in the week he spends searching for something of use he comes up short.

Frustration has him nearly tearing the pages, and he lets out a harsh breath through his nose and forces himself to be patient.  He has eternity, after all.  As does Bajie.  The execution of his plan needs to be perfect or it won’t work.

A tap on his shoulder.  Tang turns his head to glance up at the librarian, previously absent or seemingly oblivious to his existence.  She stares at him with sharp, knowing eyes.

“You seek something?” she asks.

“Knowledge,” Tang finds himself replying.  “Power.”

She smiles at him.  It’s a wicked type of smile, but nothing cruel towards him.

“Come. I have something for you to see.” She turns, and gestures for him to follow. 

Tang nearly trips over himself rushing to her side.

She leads him to a room behind the library desk, a small office with more bookshelves filled with large, old scrolls and books.  He watches her trace her fingers across the different scripts, searching, before she slides a book out from the shelf and turns, handing it to him.

“If you want power, this is how you will take it,” she says.

She opens the book in his hands, flipping it to a specific page and pointing at the picture there.

“A gem,” she explains.  “You fill it with life, and it grants you power.”

Tang reads over the text.  You take a gemstone, one typically one clear in color for better results, and then use the life force of others to power it.  After a certain amount of power is added to the gem, you fuse it with your being.

“I’ll have to kill humans?” he asks, glancing up at her.

She chuckles.  “If you want, but it would take a lot.  Demons are far more...potent.”

Tang nods.

Demons.  That may take some work.  Demons are a breed far more powerful than humans, and even as an immortal being, Tang is fragile.

And, before even that, there’s the matter of acquiring a gemstone.  Those are often expensive.

He snaps the book shut.

“Thank you.” He bows his head in thanks.  “I’ll be taking this.”

It’s not a request.  He leaves with the book in hand and starts his search for a jewel.

He finds it three towns over.  There’s a jeweler there with an assortment of gemstones.  All definitely out of Tang’s price range, but now he’s located them. 

He thinks of stealing, but that’s a fool’s errand.  Taking something that can be bought with hard work is something an idiot would do.  Tang wants to be able to move between towns as he pleases, and gaining a reputation of a criminal makes it far less likely that people will speak to him, will tell him the things he needs to know.

So, he gets a job at a restaurant.  Bajie did it once and so shall he.

The work gives him something to do.  Being immortal means sleep and nourishment are no longer a requirement, and without those time killers the days and nights stretch on longer and longer, Tang made painfully aware of every passing hour, minute, second.  His purpose, his goal, remains the same, but with his job now there’s something else to occupy his time as he plans.

Plus, it helps that he learns how to use a knife effectively.  Bajie taught him the basics, but when it’s the lunch rush you learn far more how to cut, dice, chop, and slice efficiently.  If he’s to kill demons, he needs to be able to fight.  

His coworkers do try to start conversations with him, but he is far too focused on the task at hand to join in.  They learn, eventually, that he isn’t up for talking.  Interacting with people is only useful when there is something to gain from it.

Life has made it very clear that friendships do not come to him, so there is no bother hoping.  Tang is chasing the only person who gave him some semblance of respect.  He does not need, nor want, anyone else.

No one typically comments on his appearance.  His skin is paler than most, eyes dark and shadowed.  Still, that’s not enough to raise suspicion of him.

Typically, anyway.

“Do they know?” A man asks, when Tang comes up to the counter to hand him his order.  “Do they know what you are?”

Tang glances at the man with a small smile.

The man pales.  

Tang smiles wider.

“Here’s your order, sir,” he says.

The man leaves.  Quickly.

It takes him a year to accrue enough funds to acquire the gem.  It’s a clear white stone, almost in the shape of a teardrop, and it sits comfortably in his palm.  The jeweler had asked if it was a gift for someone.  Tang chose not to reply.

Now, there’s the matter of finding a demon to power it.  Again, not very hard.  Demons are well known to ravage towns from time to time.  Steal their crops, take the flesh to devour, things like that.  The next town over has been struggling with one.  Nothing too powerful, or else they’d have had a far bigger outcry, but of interest nonetheless.

He leaves his job without notice.  He doesn’t care if they’re bereft of a cook, not when he’s so close.  He rushes off, clutching his gemstone and his knives and disappearing into the night.

The demon doesn’t attack during the day, so when he arrives he has enough time to ask around.  Gather details.

They’re some sort of rhino demon, evidently.  Charging through homes in the night, taking mortals to consume, leaving nothing but demolished buildings and blood in their wake.  The townspeople are terrified, spending most of their days fortifying their homes.  They’ve neither the money nor support to escape, and sending for help will likely take too long.

That’s fine.  Tang can take care of this for them.  They get to be saved, and more importantly, he gets the power he needs. 

Tang stands at the entrance to the town, the moon high in the sky, patiently waiting for the demon to arrive.  His knife is gripped tightly in hand.  He has his pants rolled up to his knees, though his sleeves still hang loosely.

He hears the footsteps before he sees them.  Charging hoofsteps on the ground, and the glint of blood red eyes.  The rhino demon is large, at least twice his height, and is aiming for him, specifically.

Tang side steps, holding his knife out and letting it slice through the demon’s hide as he charges past.

“Sloppy,” he calls, turning around.  

Blood drips down the demon’s side.  The demon snarls, baring his sharp teeth.  He shakes his injured leg out a few times, splattering blood across the dirt, before he stomps it back down onto the ground, readying his stance for another charge.

Tang readies himself.  “Not used to a human who fights back?” 

Bajie taught him to fight.  Well, more how to dodge, because he said if Tang got hit by a demon even once he’d probably die on the spot.  Apparently, humans are very fragile.

“Do you have to be careful, with me?” Tang asked.

“A little,” Bajie had admitted.  “I mean, you’re not made of glass.”

“I’d hope not,” He’d laughed, sitting on Bajie’s shoulder..

“But I have to be a little careful,” Bajie shrugs the shoulder Tang isn’t sitting on.  “Most demons wouldn’t.  I, uh, want you to be ready for that.”

Tang scritched the place behind Bajie’s ears that always made a purr rumble up Bajie’s throat, smiling when he heard it right on cue.

“You have a lot of enemies?” he’d asked.

Bajie laughed.

“Something like that.”

The demon charges, and Tang jumps, stepping onto the demon’s large horn and using it as a springboard.  He leaves a large gash in the demon’s back when he descends, stumbling a little when he hits the dirt.

There’s a roar of pain from the demon at that.

Tang smirks.

He ducks when a large fist is levied his way.

Jump.  Sidestep.  Dodge.  Slash.

Close quarter combat would be to Tang’s disadvantage, considering one blow would break him into pieces.  The demon knows it, refusing to allow Tang an opening to make any more distance.  Tang doesn’t let that deter him, using the milliseconds between strikes to slash at whatever part his knife can reach.

By the time he trips, the demon is bleeding in more places than Tang can count.  Not bleeding much, the gashes rather small, but bleeding a little from a lot still has an impact.

Of course, getting choked also has an impact, Tang finds.

A large hand grips him by the neck when Tang trips, squeezing tight enough to bruise and then some.  If Tang were entirely mortal, well, this would be it for him.  Needing to breathe is certainly something required of Tang, in a sense, but he can hold his breath for far longer.  He makes his eyelids flutter, sliding them shut to keep the illusion that he’s dying. 

As this happens, as he goes limp, the demon huffs. Even relaxes a little, as if the battle’s won.

Tang opens his eyes and smiles.  He slashes once more and catches the demon across the throat.

Blood sprays out as if it were thrown out of a bucket, coating Tang’s face before he’s dropped.  The demon presses his hands to his throat and chokes, coughing up blood and wheezing for air.

The demon drops to his knees.  Tang comes close.

He drives his knife into the demon’s head, right below the horn, and the demon goes limp.

Tang side steps the falling body.

He takes a few deep breaths, watching the blood pour across the dirt in a way he’s never seen before.  He’s never watched anyone die like this.  He’s never made someone die like this.

All life is sacred, he was told.  All life was to be protected, cared for.  That’s why he was vegetarian.  That’s why he was a monk.  He should feel something, staring at the dead body before him.  He should be devastated by his actions.  He should be horrified.

He should care, but the demon was killing this town.  All life cannot be sacred when one life takes so many.  And, besides that, he needs the power.  If this is how he is to gain it, so be it.

He pulls out the gem, fumbling a bit.  His hands are wet from the blood.  He presses the gem against the demon’s body and waits.

Sure enough, energy flows into it.  The gem warms in his grip, and Tang swears he can hear a rattling scream before the gem begins to glow pink.  Reaching towards red, but not quite there.   

He holds the gem up in the moonlight, watching the light filter though it.  It’s too clear, still.  Once it’s near opaque-that’s when it’s ready.

“Look on the bright side,” he says to the body, though his voice is hoarse.  His throat is sure to bruise, and it makes it a little difficult to speak.  “Now that you aren’t murdering families in the night, maybe you’ll be of use.”

He pockets the gem, and after stealing some hanging clothes from the village—he feels little remorse, considering he saved the town—leaves the body to rot.

He washes himself off, burns his bloody clothing.  He’ll have to be smarter, he thinks, about how he kills.  Clothes are not easy to come by, and Tang doesn’t enjoy the idea of taking new clothes every time he kills a demon.  Far too much work, honestly.

He cleans off his knife once the rest of him is free of blood, staring at his reflection in the water.  The knife glimmers in the daylight.  The gemstone weighs heavy in his pocket.

He travels on the words of humans towards demons, flitting through the towns of the former and murdering the latter, and finds it a little isolating that he sees himself as neither.

The isolation is nothing new, though.  Tang has always been alone.

It’s after the sixth demon he kills that the gem starts to glow with promise, rattling in his grip as it begs for an outlet.  One powerful demon would have brought it to this point easily, but while Tang is no longer mortal, he is still terribly human, which means he is terribly weak.  He has to find the scraps of the demon world, those so weak they spend their days with mortals, hiding amongst them while trying to live a normal life.  He finds them using sigils that allow him to follow their trails like a scent, and he is silent as the grave in the night, knife steady in hand.

He’s gotten rather proficient with a knife, but he hates using it.  Too messy, too close, too personal.  He’ll find something more suitable later.

For now, there’s the matter of making sure the power he won (stole is such a dirty word, and is it really stealing if he beat the demon fair and square?) stays with him.  Consulting the book he took from the library, he knows he needs to establish a physical connection to it. 

That requires effort.  But Tang is nothing if not stubborn enough to make it work.

That night, he takes off his shirt and folds it carefully, setting it down beside him.  He places the gem on top of the cloth, and then uses his finger to trace the line where he needs to make the incision.  

He grabs the knife and follows his finger’s line down the center of his chest with the tip of the blade.  

Up and down, up and down.  

It starts to burn.  He trembles.  

It stings, aches, sharp and raw, and the knife slips from his fingers.

It drops, he presses a shaking hand to the wound.

Gasping for air, he coughs on agony.  Chokes on it as he wrestles with the pain of the action.  The urge to heave makes him shudder.

He isn’t unused to pain. He’d slipped a few times, cut his fingers while preparing dinner with Bajie.  The bruises on his neck took weeks to heal and asphyxiation burned.

But nothing like this.  Carving flesh, your own flesh, and having to continue regardless of every logical, emotional, and primal part of yourself screaming at you to stop is a challenge Tang didn’t think would be so hard to undertake.

Not for the faint of heart, the book said.  

His is already shattered, isn’t it?  What’s another break?

He takes a piece of wet cloth and wipes away the excess, patching up his failed attempt and making sure everything is clear.  He cleans off the knife, and takes a deep breath.

He raises the blade to right beneath his chest, closer to it than his stomach but still enough below that it isn’t exactly where his heart resides.  He hisses a breath in through his teeth as he sinks the blade in again.

Up and down, slowly pushing in deeper and deeper until the blade presses into flesh.

Up and down, like cutting vegetables, steady.

Up and down, deeper with each movement.

Blood wells up and pours down his chest as he slices deeper.  The stream buffers with every rise and fall of his chest as he takes deep breaths.

His hand shakes.  Pain is all he can think of and he pulls out the knife when he manages to make an incision a centimeter deep.  

Deep breaths.  Focus.

His teeth are clenched so tight they might shatter in his mouth, as he reaches over and grabs the gem.  He sets the knife aside and uses one finger to pull one side of the incision apart, creating more space.

His skin is clammy, sweat dripping down as he fights to keep himself from curling in on himself and screaming.

The blood pools down his legs, dripping toward the ground.

The gem sits comfortably in his palm, as he drags his tired limb up to press the stone into the newly made space.  His fingers are slick with blood, fumbling and terribly unsteady, as he forces the gem in deeper, until it pushes apart his flesh even more.

The sound is wet and sticky, as if his flesh were overwatered rice.  He swallows back nausea at the thought.  His breaths are haggar pants, wheezing gasps as his lungs beg for air below the lump of pain that tightens his throat.

The power hums, as he presses a flat palm against his chest, holding the gem in.  It pulses once, twice.

And then everything pitches into white hot agony.  Tang screams.

White becomes red in his vision as power surges through his core, the smell of burnt meat rising up to his nose as the gem clings to his flesh and fuses with it.  He can feel it touch bone, pressing against it.  He can feel veins crawling beneath his skin like worms, forcing their way into him.  

He curls in on himself, holding himself up by his forearms trembling against the ground, as something inhuman breaks through any barriers Tang once had and makes a home in his center.

It feels like hours.  Like centuries, even, as he twitches uncontrollably with every spark of energy that courses through him.  He coughs, and blood splatters onto his knees and onto the ground.  He spits a few times, to get the rest of it out of his mouth.  The metallic, bittersweet taste lingers on his tongue.

He swallows the urge to vomit up the meager meal he had a few hours earlier and breathes hard through mouth.

And then, as quickly as the pain comes, it vanishes.  Warmth spreads through his being, a soothing balm against the agony that threatened to pull him under.  Skin and flesh knit itself back together, even his first attempt healed within moments.  Where there was once pain there’s adrenaline

Tang pushes himself up and wipes his mouth.  A flash has him staring at his palm in surprise.

Crackling red energy twirls around his fingertips.  It bathes his skin in warm light, and when he clenches his fist and opens it again the power settles in his palm like a flame. Swaying with the wind, it moves in time with each breath.

His eyes glow with promise, as power surges through him.  He throws his arm out towards the firewood and the red energy crashes against the wood, splintering it and creating a blaze that shoots up tall, the flame rising up towards the treetops before it settles.  

He lets out a half hysterical laugh, a hand still against his chest.  He traces the veins that pulse outward, bright red, and imagines just how powerful he’ll be with more than six demons, more than ten, more than a hundred even.  It doesn’t matter how much it’ll take, he’ll make it happen.

“Just you wait, Bajie,” he whispers, grinning, imagining warm blue eyes, imagining the room they shared, imagining a new one.

The journal, the speech, it sits in the forefront of his mind.  He hasn’t had a chance to give either, yet, but that’ll change.  It’s only a matter of time.

“I’ll catch up to you soon.”

[theboredwritertm]

"Look at you... goodness you're so cute" fic request with reader/Din, please? :D

His Reason

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Warnings: None, I don’t think. Like one curse word.

Word Count: 1,935

A/N: This is the first time I’ve ever written a reader insert fic, so I hope I did alright with it. Thanks for the request, anon! I’ll admit I struggled to keep the story in the same tense in some parts because of the POV. But I had fun! And I love me some soft!Mando. This is also kind of based on an idea I had for a multi-part fic, so I might include it as part of that. 

Summary: Our boy, Mando, has just broken the Bounty Hunter’s Guild code, but with you currently calling Nevarro home, he can’t stand the thought of leaving you behind.

******************************************************

Din had absolutely no business dragging you into this. 

He was the one who had fucked up. All he’d had to do was deliver the acquisition, just like any other job he’d done before. Only this one hadn’t been like any other job. One look at the tiny, big-eyed baby and he knew he would never be able to leave it in the hands of a bunch of Imperials. Not in good conscience. And if he was being honest with himself, a conscience was one of the few things he had left; a standard to hold himself to that hadn’t been given to him or expected of him by somebody else.

So, he’d broken the code; a code he had based his entire career on, that he relied on for his reputation, which up until this point had been practically spotless. 

And now he was in a world of trouble and was somehow making a beeline directly for your door, babbling baby still in hand, and the weight of a bounty now firmly on his head, dragging along whatever stain he had earned on that once perfect reputation to taint your own. Yet, still, knowing all of this, he continued on the well-acquainted back streets to your home. 

He’d known you for years, agreed to sponsor you when you’d finally decided to join the guild, had even put some of his own earnings towards your fees, and yet here he was, on a direct path to making you lose everything and all because of him. His selfishness. His need to be near you. 

You’d settled in a small place on Nevarro to be closer to work, to give you a taste of what a less-chaotic life might be like in between jobs that involved chasing down dangerous fugitives. It had always given him the perfect excuse to appear on your doorstep, dropping by after collecting a bounty or picking up some new job from Greef. Never stopping by without a reason. That would be too obvious. Too needy. 

That would give him away.  

Yet, from the moment he had broken the code and taken back the child, he had known it would never be safe to step foot on Nevarro again. And the thought of never being able to see you again drove him to your familiar neighborhood.

As he stopped at your front door, he thought of what excuse he might use now and looked down at the bundle in his arms. He didn’t know a thing about babies. He needed someone to help keep this thing alive. At least that’s what he told himself – but what made him think you knew any better? Relying on some innate maternal instinct to kick in? You’d never had to care for any younglings, either, and you’d never mentioned wanting any, though it wasn’t exactly a conversation he had brought up with you. That topic hit a little too close to home. Because the thought of you having a child, of the two of you starting a little family of your own, was something he had thought about often in the rare, quiet moments he’d shared with you on jobs, when he’d allowed himself to daydream when you thought he might be asleep. 

When you opened your door and smiled up at him like you always did when you saw him, he couldn’t deny the relief that flooded over him. Being near you always made him feel safe, a ridiculous concept given the size difference and his greater experience with weapons and fighting – he’d been the one to train you, after all – but he thought that maybe it wasn’t a physical kind of safety that you gave him. Yes, he was sure you’d lay your life down for him without hesitation, as he would do the same for you, but you made him feel safe in the same way the Mandalorians had when they’d lifted him through the doors of the smoking basement all those years ago. It was a feeling that everything was going to be alright. That he was looked after. That he might just be okay.

It didn’t take long for your eyes to drift down to the stolen package in his arms, but before you could so much as utter a question, he was pushing you back as he forced his way inside your home. With one quick glance down the street, he pushed the button to slide the door closed behind him.

“Uhh…what the hell’s going on, Din?”

You listen to the modulated sigh that huffs through his helmet.

Right. The excuse. He had been too caught up in thinking about you to even remember to come up with one. 

He finds himself caught now between the usual pleasure of the way you say his name and the scramble for an acceptable excuse for bringing trouble your way. He looks at you, at the familiar curve of your face and your soft features, even as you frown up at him with eyes full of concern, and he’s suddenly reminded of his ‘why’; of his own personal reason. 

“Something’s happened. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

Even as the words tumble out of his mouth, he knows he’s asking too much. 

“Excuse me?” You blink up at him, confused and taken aback by what had almost sounded like a command. 

His visor turns towards you in what you can only assume is a meaningful stare, but without seeing his face there’s not a lot of meaning to read. Yet, you had spent enough time with him to read his gestures. He means what he says. You don’t think there’s ever been a time where he hasn’t. In his arms the child coos. You glance down at it, getting a proper look for the first time. You’d never seen anything like it before.

“What did you do?” you ask quietly. 

There’s no judgment in your tone, not that he had expected any, but there was a sharp curiosity as you bent down for a better look at what he was holding. Completely out of instinct, he hands the child over to you, surprised to find that you take it without hesitation. He watches you for a moment as you hold the baby up and pull it in close, and smiles to himself beneath his helmet at the way your face lights up when it gurgles happily. 

You hug the child in close, sitting it on your hip in a way that feels oddly natural. “Look at you…goodness, you’re so cute.”

“The Imperials wanted it,” Din finally confesses.

The horrified look you direct at him is like a punch to the gut; confirmation of his own wrongdoings.

“You took it to them?” 

There it is. The judgment he’d been dreading. Or maybe he was projecting, haunted by his own guilt at letting a child fall into the hands of people so evil. He fumbles for another excuse.

“I took it back.”

You stare at him, then your gaze drops and he wonders what you’re thinking, if he’s suddenly changed in your view; morphed into something monstrous beneath the armor. You had never seen him with it off, as was The Way, but he had taken it off in your presence many times before. He glances down at the strip of cloth you always keep tied around your forearm – a simple bit of clothing to the view of others, but to him a considerate accessory for, and constant reminder of, the many rendezvous you’d shared that never failed to escalate into a tangle of needy limbs and panting mouths.

“What did they want with it?” you ask, drawing him out of his thoughts. 

“No idea.”

You notice the way his voice softens, his slightly hunched posture like he’s waiting for another blow. Your rejection, you realize. You try to slow things down in your mind and piece it all together. 

“You’re on the run,” you guess, not a question but a calm realization.

He gives a single, silent nod.

“If you come with me, now, you will be, too. You’ll be forfeiting –” 

Your sharp snort cuts through him and feeds a little more into that ever-growing guilt. You’re shaking your head at him and the rejection hits him harder than he was expecting, enough to make him realize the true gravity of his hopes.

“Whatever I’m forfeiting,” you tell him, “I gave it up the moment you showed up, Din.”

He had pictured all the ways that this could go wrong, and admittedly this reaction wasn’t one of them. He fights the urge to turn and leave, to take it all back with him out that door, to never bother you again. The thought is painful enough to keep him grounded. He remains where he is. 

“Six years ago,” you continue, and he looks up, hopes renewed. “When we did our first job together. I think that’s when I knew what I’d be giving up.” You stare up at him, face soft yet serious, as you sway the baby on your hip as naturally as a nursemaid might. “For the longest time, I thought I wanted a life of peace, after everything I went through. Then you came into my life and I was willing to let go of that dream. Because I knew that if I chose you, we might not get that. And I’m okay with that.” 

The room is silent. Even the child looks between the two of you, as if feeling the weight of the words being spoken, even if he can’t understand them. Din isn’t even sure that he does. He knows what he wants them to mean, but can’t allow himself to believe it just yet. 

You step towards him – this soft, funny man who still managed to take you completely by surprise, and who you had slowly but completely fallen in love with, even if it had taken months initially for the internal armor to come down and let you in. Your hand comes to rest on his chest, right above where his heart beats under layers of beskar, tunic, flesh, and bone, and he wonders if you can feel how hard it's beating beneath your touch – how hard it always beats when he’s around you. 

“You’ll never be able to come home again,” he warns you, looking around the space you had managed to make yours over the last few years. You chuckle and he looks back at you, and the gentle look in your eyes makes him wonder if he’s ever wanted to kiss anybody so badly in his life. 

You shrug and look around at the simple dwelling – a house that had proven to be a convenient place to stay, but had never quite felt like home. You realize now, in his presence, why this is. “This place? It was getting a little cramped anyway.”

His own laugh rumbles through the modulator. “If you think this is bad, wait until you’re on the ship.”

“I’ve been on the Crest. It’s not so bad. Better company.” You grin up at him, and though you can’t see it, you sense that he’s doing the same, both struck by a sudden, inexplicable feeling of hope. He reaches out, finally, and brushes your hair back, melting in a totally un-Mandalorian-like manner when you lean into his touch. 

He will think on this moment in the hard times to come, reaching back for a perfect memory to keep him grounded. But he won’t need it often. With you by his side, he feels certain he can make it through just about anything. 

[mxvladdy]

After the Fall

TW: Brief mentions of blood, amputation, gore, dealing with loss

A/N: A little character study between Lucifer and Mammon that I’ve had bounced around in a notebook for a while. It takes place right after they fall into the Devildom.

Mammon had never seen Lucifer like this before. He mentor- no brother was supposed to be the strongest of them. Yet, Mammon didn’t recognize the man in front of him. Lucifer’s once regal posture was now hunched and broken. The brilliant armor he took so much pride in lay cracked and stained underneath his swaying feet. The luster surrounding their father’s most cherished son was gone. He radiated a bitterness now that had been so unlike him. Mammon wasn’t sure what to do with this new Lucifer in front of him, or the new him.

For the first time in all of his existence, Mammon knew fear. Not just for his brother’s but for himself. New disgusting emotions were swirling deep within, a cesspool of things he was taught to fight against all cementing deep in his gut. “The others,” Lucifer croaks out not even acknowledging Mammon’s presence. His back still to his charge. “How are they?”

Mammon sighs, scratching at the large swatch of bandages wrapped tightly across his bare chest. He felt dampness under his callous fingers. Pulling back he glances at the black sheen coating his fingers. Damn it. They needed to be changed already. He ignores it for now stepping into the room. “That demon bloke got some healers lookin’ after them all. Asmo is still unconscious, an’ there is still no sign of Levi. But that demon’s little lapdog said he will help search- once we are stable.” He looks over Lucifer’s battered back. “Speaking of-” To a casual observer, Lucifer looked collected. The myriad of open wounds and magical burns could have meant nothing to him. It was as if he had just finished a particularly grueling training session. But Mammon knew better than that. Better than anyone. He could see how his brother was slowly unraveling. His knuckles were bone white with the tension they were holding. The blood running down his broken nose and across his trembling lips was in stark contrast to the slowly paling complexion of his skin. His muscles underneath the waxy skin spasm sporadically, writhing in a pain Lucifer could not hide. “Want me to get help?” Mammon asked.

Lucifer clicks his tongue dismissably. He drops heavily to the plush bed of his new gilded cage. He takes special delight in soiling it with his blood and grime. “I don’t need one- leave me.”  

Mammon scoffs and ignores his brother’s chilly demand. Swiping up the abandoned tray of medical supply left at the door Mammon takes stock. The tray held some pretty standard gear, not nearly enough to get his elder brother up and running, but it was enough to keep him from bleeding out like the stubborn fool he was. Mammon looks at the tray and stops, something was missing. He glances around, there should have been a set of hemostats here…“Fuck Luci! Were you pulling them out yourself?” He snatches up the tool in horror. The silver tips were caked with dried blood and clumps of feathers rotting feathers.

“What else would I be doing?” Lucifer hisses.

“Dumbass!” Mammon snaps. “Let me patch you up.” Kneeling behind his brother he helps him gently peel off the rest of Lucifer’s tattered gambeson, careful around the open nerves of his coracoid bones. He feels sick looking at the damage. If the fall hadn’t been enough to deal with, the self-inflected wounds were worse. Mammon works in quickly, powering through the sounds of his brother’s shots of pain. He loses track of how many times he apologies while working on his back. He removes bone after bone cooing and clicking in a vain attempt to comfort his elder, afraid he was one wrong move from Lucifer pulling away. But he doesn’t. Lucifer just buries his face in his hands to suffer through it.

Mammon finishes hastily and steps away. It wasn’t a perfect job, but a proper healer could work with it. If Asmo was up he could fix it up in no time. He checks his work carefully, ensuring the soaked packing gauze hadn’t shifted out of the craters left by Lucifers amputated limbs. “There.” Mammon rubs a bandaged shoulder comfortingly. “Let’s get you over to that Barbato’s clown. He should be done with Beel.”

Lucifer stirs at these words. Roused from his stupor slowly turns to his brother. “Look at what I have done,” He finally meets Mammon’s eyes, hands open and bloody. The fresh cuts and burns struggling to heal. “I doomed us all.” His voice cracks dangerously, tears dripping down his beaky nose. “Look at what my pride has wrought.”

Mammon looks on lost and angry. This was wrong, all so so wrong. Lucifer was the level-headed one. Lucifer was the strong, humble elder. So why was he- Mammon. The goof, the failed protege the one wiping at Beel’s tears and keeping Belphie inline while his big brother was holed up in his room? Lucifer was supposed to be their anchor. “What are the rest of us then? Clowns? Mindless little cherubs clutchin’ at your skirt tails?” Mammon asks angrily getting down on the floor to sit beside him.

“I never thought that of you.”

Mammon pats his brother’s knee. “Well, the way you are talkin’ makes it seem like we had no choice in the matter. We all joined you willing...and we all knew the risks.” Mammon trails off looking down at his own slowly leaking wounds. “I can’t speak for the rest of them-” He continues. “But I’d do it again, and I know Lilith would do too.”

Lucifer makes a wounded sound at the mention of their fallen sibling. His jaw clenching alarmingly.  He had something to say, but the words didn’t come. Mammon sighed. Even in the celestial realm, Lucifer kept his cards close to his chest. “Right-” Mammon gets to his feet with a groan. “we can’t wallow just yet. Levi is still out there and Asmo needs us.”

Lucifer chuckles. “For once you might have a point.”

“Of course I do! Learned from the best, didn’t I?” Mammon huffs reaching out to help Lucifer off the bed. “Now, think you can listen to me a little bit more and go to a healer? You’ve already bled through my handy work.” Taking the offered hand Lucifer rises, a renewed vigor in his gaze. Mammon was right, scarily enough. There was work to be done and deals to make. Damned or not he was still the head of the family.

[goodlucktai]

when the bones are good

@natsumeweek 2021 day 4; sweet/sour

read on ao3

(previous part)

x

Yousuke Takuma looks like he regrets inviting the Natori brothers into his house. They tend to have that effect on people.

“I shouldn’t be reading these,” he says in a very calm tone. “These are the sacred property of your clan. They shouldn’t even have left your property.”

“It’s not like anyone is going to miss them,” Shuuichi replies plainly. “My grandfather still thinks I can’t get past the locks on the storehouse door. Even Takashi can get past those, and he’s eight.”

“Sometimes I just ask Urihime to get me the keys,” Takashi admits. “She doesn’t get along with grandfather so she likes having an excuse to take stuff from him.”

It’s a nice way of saying ‘she fucking hates him’ but Takashi is a nice person. 

The kid is chronically honest. Always has been. He’ll strive to frame it kindly, but the truth is all you’re getting from him. It can be annoying, but mostly it’s pretty funny, and at the end of the day Shuuichi is glad that Takashi doesn’t feel the need to lie or make up stories. Even about the really unbelievable things. He just says what he’s thinking, because he knows it’s the truth, and his big brother will back him up if anyone gives him any trouble.

Shuuichi doesn’t have a lot in his life to be proud of, but he’s proud of that. 

The right people don’t care if a little kid tells ghost stories, anyway. Hinata thinks they’re great. She keeps threatening to write them all down and adapt them into her first screenplay.

Takuma puts his face in his hands. Across the room, Tsukiko giggles, clearly not as focused on her homework as she would like for the rest of them to believe she is. Ginro sets a tray of tea down on the table and gives Shuuichi a stern look for having the audacity to stress her master out so soon after his injury. Chastened, Shuuichi lifts his hands in apology. 

“If you really don’t want to look at them, I’ll put them away,” he says. “But I trust you not to—run off with them and patent them under your name, or whatever it is you think I should think you’re going to do.”

That works a huff of wry laughter out of the man, and he looks up at Shuuichi with a warm expression. It’s the way Shuuichi thinks his dad might have looked at him if he’d been born a proper son.

“Lunch first,” Takuma says, “then we’ll take a look at this paper magic of yours. Though if a couple of little geniuses like yourselves can’t figure it out, I don’t know what you think this old man will be able to do.” 

He adds the last bit with a smile for Takashi, who beams up at him from where he’s been not-so-subtly sneaking Jinbe rice crackers. Jinbe is the most unsettling of Takuma’s three familiars, but he’s also—to Shuuichi’s resignation—Takashi’s complete favorite. It appears to be mutual.

“You’ve kept your promise, haven’t you?” Takuma asks after a moment. “About staying away from those meetings?” 

Shuuichi sighs performatively. “Of course I have. It’s not like I could bring my brother with me, and he’d hardly just stay home. He’s very disobedient.”

Takashi scoffs. “Hinata-neesan says I’m your most redeeming quality.”

“Nowhere in there does she mention ‘obedient,’” Shuuichi replies without missing a beat, and grins when Takashi makes a face at him. 

“Alright, alright,” Takuma says, laughing properly now. “As long as you’re keeping your word, I don’t care about why.” He pushes himself up to his feet, moving a little stiffly, and smiles at his daughter when Tsukiko hurries over to take his arm. “There should be some margherita pizzas in the chest freezer. I bought them on a whim the last time I was at the supermarket. Should we try them?”

Of course they should. Takashi scoops the last of the cookies off the table and piles them neatly in Jinbe’s greedy hands, even though Takuma sighs and makes noises about spoiled shiki. Tsukiko gives the disappearing treats a bit of an odd look, but she seems more fascinated to be in the company of spirits than unnerved.

Shuuichi is beginning to think that his relatives are just bad people. 

“By the way, have you made any progress on,” Takuma starts, and finishes with a nod towards Shuuichi’s arm. 

The lizard is scurrying around in busy little circles, as if it’s feeling restless. Shuuichi covers it with his hand, something that sometimes works in calming it down, like putting a blanket over a bird cage. In this case, it crawls onto his hand instead and resumes scurrying there. Weird little thing.

“I still have no idea what it is,” Shuuichi says ruefully, “but Takashi is trying to teach it tricks.”

Takuma stares at him, and then at his brother. Takashi offers, “It knows ‘roll over’!”

“Go,” Shuuichi’s mentor says firmly, pointing them down the hall. “Kitchen. Lunch. We’ll discuss this later.”

A knock on the door interrupts their noisy exodus, and Takuma frowns. Clearly, he isn’t expecting company. The amiable man’s posture tenses as he gestures for Tsukiko, Shuuichi and Takashi to stay put. Ginro and Benihimo flank him on his way to the front door. 

Exorcists tend to be a paranoid bunch.

But with a dangerous ayakashi on the loose, Shuuichi thinks, with a prickle of unease all his own, maybe it’s better safe than sorry. 

“Urihime, go collect all our scrolls and put them in my bag,” Shuuichi says swiftly. “Sasago, stay right here.”

His shiki both nod, and Urihime disappears. 

Tsukiko is picking up on the atmosphere, even if her eyes aren’t the same as theirs. Even normal humans have a sixth-sense sense for certain things and it’s not to be taken lightly. She shifts nervously, and something in Shuuichi’s chest goes warm when he realizes she’s put her arm around Takashi’s shoulders protectively. 

“Seiji?” Takuma asks. His voice is raised in surprise, carrying from the genkan. “What on earth are you doing here?” 

Relief and dread fight each other in the pit of Shuuichi’s stomach. Dread wins. He’s only encountered Matoba Seiji twice, once at the summit he inadvertently followed Amasaki to, and then again in passing for a few minutes in the woods, but those brief meetings were enough. 

Even normal humans have a sixth-sense for certain things. Usually danger. 

“Tsukiko,” he says casually, “can you and Takashi go get lunch started?” 

To Tsukiko’s eternal credit, she doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Takashi, will you help me? Dad buys so much weird stuff when he goes shopping that it might be hard to find the pizzas.”

Takashi gives Shuuichi a look that says, very clearly, that he knows when he’s being fobbed off. Shuuichi ruffles his hair in a way that ruins the careful work Sumi-san (the only member of the Natori house staff who will still talk to either of them) put in that morning with half a dozen bobby pins. Now it flops into Takashi’s eyes and he makes an outraged sound, reaching up to shove Shuuichi’s hand away. 

“I’ll fill you in later,” Shuuichi says. “Promise.”

That’s enough for Takashi. Mollified, he trails after Tsukiko without argument, and with only one curious look over his shoulder. Jinbe drifts after them watchfully, and probably only partly in hopes of more snacks. Sasago remains at Shuuichi’s side, a stalwart presence that he’s come to depend on. 

It’s Shuuichi’s job to keep the monsters away. Whatever form they might take. 

Takuma looks irritated as he leads Seiji into the sitting room. With a nod of his head, he invites Shuuichi inside, too. The tea tray from before has vanished, a new one sitting in its stead, and Shuuichi notes with some inward amusement that Ginro didn’t lay out any snacks this time. 

“Well, what do you know,” Seiji says, as enigmatic as ever. “Shuuichi-san, I never would have expected to find you here.”

It’s impossible to tell what this guy is actually thinking. 

“Did you come by to check on Takuma-san, too?” Shuuichi asks. He has to work to keep his tone from biting, but he manages it.

“In a sense,” Seiji replies politely. “I was hoping to find out more about the ayakashi that attacked him. Going after it before it hurts anyone else is an exorcist’s job, don’t you think?” 

It’s bait, as clear and obvious as a cricket dangling from some fishing line. If he were still the bitter brat he used to be, maybe Shuuichi would have risen to it fiercely, like a tide, surging and crashing against Seiji’s unchanging stone facade. He would have said, ‘You don’t care about helping people. You called Takuma-san weak. You’re just looking for someone to use.’

Which is all perfectly true, and perfectly justifiable reasons to not want to drink tea with this guy and discuss the differences in their conventions, but it’s not like calling Seiji out would do any good. It probably wouldn’t even be satisfying. He would just gaze at Shuuichi with that stupid cat-that-caught-the-canary expression and make him feel like an idiot for existing.

He gets enough of that at home, thanks. 

“You’re right,” Shuuichi says mildly, with a smile of his own, “that is an exorcist’s job.”

Takuma eventually tells Seiji what he wants to know, clearly having given up on keeping the teenager away from exorcist summits and dangerous ayakashi, but he does afterword his information with warnings to be careful. 

Urihime sets Shuuichi’s bookbag beside him and he nods his thanks. Seiji clocks the two-second interaction with sharp eyes. 

“Look at that! You have a servant?” His eyes follow her when she moves to stand next to Sasago, next to both of Takuma’s shiki along the side of the room, and he whistles. “Two servants. Pretending to be an exorcist on the sly, are we, Shuuichi-san?”

More bait. Another cricket. Shuuichi sips from his teacup. “They belong to my family. I don’t know why they follow me around. They must be bored.”

All of which is true, technically. Takuma’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, but he doesn’t comment. Sasago turns her head very slowly, and her eyes, hidden beneath their blindfold, seem to bore into the side of his head. Urihime is less subtle and outright hisses at him. 

“Hmm, jury seems to be out on that,” Seiji says, and laughs. 

The sitting room door rattles open and Tsukiko peers through. Shuuichi’s fists clench in his lap, because sure enough, Takashi is right behind her, his brown eyes peeking curiously into the room. 

“Sorry, papa, but is your guest staying for lunch, too? Only, I don’t know how many pizzas to put in.”

“No, no, I couldn’t impose,” Seiji says. “I’ll get going and leave you guys to enjoy the rest of your afternoon. It looks as though you were having a pleasant time before I barged in.”

We were, Shuuichi thinks, but he keeps it to himself. He and Takuma stand up to see Seiji out. Seiji pauses when he spots Takashi behind Tsukiko, and his amicable expression takes on an edge that Shuuichi can’t define. He looks more engaged now than he did during the entire conversation with Takuma. 

“Hello again,” Seiji says in a pleasant tone. 

“Excuse me?” Shuuichi interjects loudly. “‘Again’?”

“Hi,” Takashi replies at length. His gaze is fixed on Seiji’s face as though there’s something interesting happening there. Jinbe drifts like a shark behind him, mask pointed towards Seiji suspiciously.

“As I thought, you have good eyes,” Seiji remarks, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He looks across the room at Urihime and Sasago, down at the bag by Shuuichi’s feet, at the lizard mark curled up on his arm, and then finally up at Shuuichi himself. Smiling widely, he adds, “I look forward to seeing what becomes of the Natori clan.”

Takuma escorts him out properly, and Tsukiko goes back to deal with the pizzas. Alone save for a scattering of trusted ayakashi, Shuuichi kneels and beckons his brother over. 

“C’mere, squirt.”

Takashi crosses the room to him. Standing in front of Shuuichi like this, they’re almost eye-to-eye. 

“Have you met that guy before?” Shuuichi asks. 

“Only once. It was when you had classroom duties and Hinata-neesan took me to the 7-Eleven to get chicken nuggets,” Takashi explains. “We met Matoba-san while we were walking. He said he was your friend.”

“I don’t have any friends.” 

Takashi nods very seriously.

“That’s what Hinata-neesan said. She took out her pepper spray and waved it at him. I think Matoba-san thought that was funny, but he said he didn’t mean to upset her, and he left. It was the right thing to do, probably, because he didn’t have any spirits with him, and Urihime was getting annoyed that he was talking to me.”

Shuuichi feels like he’s aged thirty years in the past three minutes. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough that there are spots in his vision when he looks up again. 

“Takashi, listen,” he says, “stay away from him. If he ever approaches you for any reason, tell me about it, okay? Promise?”

He holds out his pinky. Takashi rolls his eyes, much too grown up at eight years old for things like this, but he hooks his finger around Shuuichi’s gamely. 

“Whoever lies has to swallow a thousand needles,” they recite together, and then Shuuichi ruffles Takashi’s hair again just to make him squawk. 

“Sorry about that, boys,” Takuma says when he comes back. 

He pauses in the doorway and his bandaged face creases in a smile to see them rough-housing playfully, Takashi struggling to free himself from Shuuichi’s headlock, the tense atmosphere from before banished like an errant spirit.

“Bring those scrolls with you to the kitchen,” Takuma says warmly, “and I’ll help however I can.”

Seiji can think whatever he wants about Takuma, but the man is clever. By the time Shuuichi and Takashi are ready to leave, packed up with a leftover pizza and some cookies for the road, they’ve puzzled out the array that they were stuck on and Shuuichi managed to make a paperman fly. 

Takuma had looked over the notes he’d taken ruefully. He couldn’t help but absorb some of the practices for himself as he helped the boys study them, and clearly he felt guilty about that. Shuuichi leaned forward across the table and caught his eye. 

I trust you, he wanted to say. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. But there was absolutely no way Shuuichi could say something like that. Not out loud, with his mouth, where someone might hear him. 

“Clan trade or not, if you’re ever in danger and any of this paper magic could help you, I want you to use it,” he said instead. “No secret is worth keeping if it means you get hurt. Right, Takashi?” 

“Right,” Takashi piped up, his little voice clear and bright in that sunny kitchen. He was watching intently as his paperman wobbled precariously across the table, trying to carry a note to a delighted Tsukiko, and didn’t bother looking up even as he added, “It’s just paper, ojisan.”

“Yeah, ojisan,” Shuuichi teased laughingly. 

Takuma rolled his eyes, but gave in with a smile, as if he couldn’t help but be charmed by their noisy, obtrusive presence in his home. For a second, even though he was clearly the one who had gone out of his way to help them—wasting an entire day working with them on magic he didn’t fully approve of them studying in the first place, an entire day he should have spent recuperating—Takuma looked as though they were the ones who had done him a favor, just by being there. 

“What did Seiji mean when he said you had good eyes?” Shuuichi will remember to ask his brother a little later, when they’re walking home. 

“Oh, I guess because I noticed the weird mark on his face,” Takashi says. 

“Weird mark? What did it look like?”

Takashi hums thoughtfully, glancing around. He trots off the road a little bit to pick up a stick, then crouches in the dirt and starts drawing a strange, crooked symbol. Shuuichi leans over him to watch.

It’s not a symbol he’s ever seen before. Yokai writing, if he had to guess. 

“What does it mean?” he asks the shiki. 

Sasago drifts over and inspects the drawing, her face giving nothing away. 

“‘Something owed,’” she translates after a moment. “I think the closest human word would be ‘debt’.”

“Huh,” Shuuichi says. He offers Takashi a hand and hauls the kid back upright, frowning thoughtfully. “And you said it was on his face?” 

“Yup, above his right eye. Didn’t you see it?” A thread of anxiety works its way into Takashi’s voice that Shuuichi is quick to smother. 

“I didn’t have my glasses on,” he says smoothly, “so I must have missed it. You know your eyes are better than mine.”

Takashi grins up at him, appeased, and they spend the rest of the walk playing with bits of talisman paper. It’s habit by now to keep their pockets stuffed full of scraps. Shuuichi manages to make a couple of them fly, and Takashi claps his hands together in glee every time.

To anyone who might be watching, it probably looks like the wind is catching the scraps and lifting them out of their hands instead of the shaky first steps of magic it really is. There won’t be anything to question about the sight of two brothers, taking their time getting home to a place where no one is waiting for them, laughing and jumping as they try to catch those floating pieces of paper.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 8

Thomas X Reader

3744

Summary: Tensions grow between Grace and Reader when Grace is informed one of her co-workers is dead. Reader meets Ada.

by @adventuresintooblivion

Grace was due for a rendezvous yesterday, but she hadn’t a moment of free time until the Garrison Pub closed its doors two hours after it was supposed to. She had called into the station, but no one answered, which led to her practically sprinting to the nearest cabby who might take her to see Inspector Campbell.

After an all too expensive ride, Grace strode into Inspector Campbell’s office, clutching her purse between herself and the world. At first he didn’t even look up from his papers. It wasn’t until Grace cleared her throat that he spoke.

“You’re late.” He slowly looked up. Something about his posture had changed since last Grace saw him. While before he had stood tall and proper, now he held a tension in his movements.

Grace glanced down. “The Pub kept me working late yesterday. Everything was closed by the time I was free to contact you.”

Inspector Campbell grumbled, “You could’ve come over.”

She raised her eyebrow. “To your house Sir? Isn’t that dangerous?” 

Not to mention wildly inappropriate?

The Inspector ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But your father would want me to look after you, so I can’t have you missing deadlines like this.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you send anyone now?”

It was his turn to break eye contact. “Something has happened. I’m not sure how big it is, so I didn’t want to endanger your cover just in case.”

“What happened?”

He grimaced, “We questioned that girl you gave us a picture of. We’d been keeping an eye on her, but when she contacted Thomas and stuck around we thought he might be trying to fence the guns through her.”

Grace felt blood rushing in her ears as the world dropped from underneath her. “W...Who did she turn out to be?”

Inspector Campbell shrugged, “Y/F/N. She was an old war buddy of his. Worked in his company as what they called a Runner. Distracted the Germans while they dug.”

“She joined the army and fought?”

The Inspector nodded but didn’t elaborate. He started shuffling through papers until finally he held one out for Grace. When she took it there was a list of names with Y/N’s picture next to it. Each name had a different occupation listed next to it along with locations.

Grace frowned, “Is this all her?”

He shrugged, “Supposedly, though she’s never done jail time for anything. I’m half convinced most of these she just made for fun.”

“So how did you get her to come in? I didn’t think she’d be the type to offer up information for free.” Grace folded the paper and tucked it away in her purse.

Inspector Campbell’s features darkened. “Oh, it wasn’t free. She gave us no choice, we had to corner her. When she tried to escape, she killed Matthew.”

She froze, “Matthew’s dead?”

He nodded. “The funeral is this weekend. Due to your current assignment, I can’t allow you to attend, but we are all pitching in to help his wife and son. At least until she can figure something out.”

Grace nodded and practically threw what little cash she had on hand at him. She’d always liked Matthew. They’d bonded during the late hours working to neutralize the IRA. When Inspector Campbell had offered to take them both to Birmingham, Grace had even helped him pack up his whole family. Now he was gone.

Something about the situation didn’t all she could think about was her friend’s tired smile. “Please tell me you at least got something.”

He paused for too long but Grace was desperate for an answer, “We have a possible location.” 

She nodded. It was all she needed to keep going, to not run out of here right now and give Y/N a sound lashing. 

〜

The next day Grace wiped her hands on her apron, her foul mood having settled in to stay. Her mind kept wandering back to images of Matthew. While Inspector Campbell hadn’t gone into details about his death, her imagination provided plenty of gory details for her to mull over. 

She knew Y/N was upstairs. Hell, the topic of last night’s search party was all she heard about all day. Details were fuzzy at best but from what she could gather Tommy had roused half the Peaky Blinders in the late hours of the night to track her down. 

Grace tried to strike up conversation multiple times with her patrons, but they were all dead on their feet. Several of them went so far as to nap next to the pints they’d been nursing moments before. Even Harry’s stern glares weren’t enough to keep them awake.

Yet Grace was determined. If she couldn’t get information from them, she’d get it from Thomas when he returned.

〜

It was late afternoon by the time Y/N awoke. For the first few moments she lay there perfectly still and enjoyed her last couple minutes of peace. Then she shifted and it was all over. Her muscles spasmed, causing her to lose her breath for the briefest moment.

“Well, damn, I was wondering when you’d join us.” Nearby a woman sat with a book splayed open on her lap.

Y/N slowly sat up, her arms shaky beneath her.

The woman stood suddenly. "Hey now, don't you think about getting up alright? Tommy gave me strict orders to keep you off your feet."

Y/N chuckled, "Thank you for the attention, Miss…?"

She waved away Y/N's feeble attempts to dismiss her, "The name is Ada Shelby."

A smile spread across Y/N's lips. "So you're Ada? I was wondering when I'd get to meet you."

She nodded proudly, "The one and only. Now listen here, missy. You'll not get out of this bed until you're healthy again. You hear me?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Y/N tried to hide her growing smile.

Ada ruffled Y/N's hair. "Don't be cheeky with me. You're the one that got caught by a copper of all things. Now, what would you like to do today?"

Y/N shrugged. "Just grab me a couple books and I'll be fine. If you need to go do something I don't need to be babysat."

"Well, while that might be the case I'm not supposed to really be out and about either." Ada fidgeted with the ties on her dress.

Y/N raised her eyebrow. "I'd ask how come, but it doesn't look like you're comfortable sharing."

"I know I can trust you, otherwise you wouldn't be living above the Garrison right now. No it's just… I haven't said it aloud yet. Not to anyone except Aunt Pol."

Y/N shrugged, "I mean, I'm not really sure where I stand. So really, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Ada sat back, drawing her shawl closer around herself. After a moment Y/N noticed it was the same as Pol's just a different color. Wonder which one of them knits.

Then Ada spoke so softly Y/N almost missed it, "I'm pregnant."

The words hung in the air allowing their weight to settle as the implications slowly became clear.

Y/N bit her lip, "And you've only told Pol. Yikes."

She glanced down, "Yeah, he's missing too. Do you think.. He’ll come back?"

"I'm not exactly the expert on that. “Y/N paused for a moment. “But I did also come back from the dead. That’s a weird case though, so I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask."

Ada smiled sadly at her. "You really came back for Tommy?"

Y/N blushed, "Don't say it too loudly. You're gonna make me sound like even more of an idiot." 

She burst out laughing, the color returning to her cheeks. "Come on, let's get you some breakfast."

"I didn't get a chance to buy any groceries yet." Y/N bit her lip.

Ada bounced back up excitedly. "Don't you worry about that. I stopped by the market on the way here."

"I hope you're not hurting for money then, because I have absolutely no way to pay you back right now." Y/N felt a pit forming in her stomach. Or pay rent for that matter.

Ada turned towards the kitchenette, the room so small Y/N caught herself checking to make sure the blankets wouldn't get caught underfoot. She rifled through cupboards and moments later the smell of food filled the space between them.

Ada finally answered, "Don't worry about paying for anything, Y/N. Tommy would lose his head if anyone asked you for a dime."

Y/N shifted around until she was sitting at the foot of the bed, closer to Ada. "Yes, making a deal with the Devil is the perfect way to never worry about anything ever again."

Ada threateningly waved a wooden spoon at her, "You calling my brother the Devil? Cause you'd be right."

They burst into laughter, an easy chatter formed between them. Ada remained for a large part of the day. Eventually the sun began to set and the two women were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Thomas waited barely a moment before slowly poking his head in. “I hope everyone here is decent.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “It’s not gonna be the time you’ve seen me in my underwear, Thomas.”

Ada cast her a somewhat scandalized look but was quickly distracted by Thomas’ soft chuckle. “Yet you looked manlier than most the men you were changing next to.”

Y/N gasped dramatically as she clutched at her heart. Thomas’ chuckle rose into a full on laughter.

“What kind of sorcery is this? I haven’t seen you smile like that since you found out John tried to stick it in the wrong hole his first time.”

“John did what?” Y/N’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

Ada glanced between the two shrugging, “He said his reasoning was that ‘that’s how animals did it.’”

Thomas shook his head. “I still can’t fucking believe-”

Laughter filled the room, however the mood was dampened quickly as Y/N groaned. Thomas rushed forward, kneeling beside the bed while Ada stood nearby frozen as they waited.

Finally, after catching her breath, Y/N grimaced, “Oh stop your fussing. A good laugh is worth a few loose ribs.”

“You’re supposed to be healing,” Thomas growled.

She dismissed his concern with a small wave, “If I spend all my time healing I won’t have any left for living. Stop worrying so much about me Shelby, I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head before turning towards Ada, “Would you mind giving us some privacy? I have to talk to Y/N about a couple things.”

Ada huffed, but soon her steps could be heard receding down the stairs.

Thomas slowly turned back to Y/N. “How are you holding up?”

Y/N shrugged, glancing out the window into the abyss. When did it get so dark?

He took her hand in his, so gently she almost didn’t recognize his touch. “Y/N, don’t spare me the details. I can’t do my job if you don’t tell me how bad it is.”

“What exactly is your job when it comes to me?” Her voice was the barest whisper.

There was a long pause as the answer hung in the air, the one they needed to be said before either of them could move on. It was their last chance to escape from each other; if he pushed her away now, she would leave. Disappear. Once again becoming the ghost of his past.

Thomas bowed his head, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. “I’m going to look after you.”

Only the slightest tremor in her voice betrayed her, “You don’t owe me that, Thomas.”

“Not everything is about payment, Y/N?”

She raised her eyebrow. “Is this the same Birmingham that I left five years ago?”

He released an amused hum from somewhere deep in his throat, finally looking up at her. The dark circles had etched themselves deeper beneath his eyes. A tightness around the corners reminded Y/N of the darkest days in the trenches. Instinctively she reached up to cup his cheek and brush the worry away with her thumb. 

“Rough day, Tommy?”

It was as if the whole room released a deep sigh, “It always is.”

Y/N gestured to the chair Ada had been using, “Wanna talk about it?”

Thomas ignored the chair and sat at the foot of her bed, his hip pressed against her leg and his elbows resting on his knees. Old habits die hard, don’t they?

He gathered his thoughts, but soon he was catching her up on a myriad of events. About the horse and the unfortunate turn of events that had taken place. The guns. Thomas’ meeting with Inspector Campbell and how close he had come to throttling the man. Danny’s head being payment for the death of a man he’d caused during an episode of shell shock.

For the most part Y/N listened, offering advice where it seemed to fit, until he brought up Danny, “They want you to kill him with witnesses?”

He nodded. “I’ve already taken care of that. A casing full of sheep brains.”

Y/N couldn’t stop the smile that played across her lips. “This is why I love you. So do you have a good hiding place for the guns or are they still at the docks?”

Thomas’s mind went blank, then suddenly every thought he’d ever had felt like it was clashing together as he registered what Y/N had just said. His heart was pounding in his ears. The room was too hot and not warm enough all at once. It took every ounce of control he had left to control his breathing enough to speak.

“W...what did you just say?”

“Hmmm? I was asking if you had a good hiding spot for the guns yet.”

“No...Um, before that.”

Y/N furrowed her brow, “I was asking if they demanded witnesses.”

Thomas finally let himself look at her. There was no indication that she was messing with him. No tell tale smirk or signature twinkle in her eye. She just sat there confused on why he was asking her to repeat herself. He ran his fingers through his hair.

His voice was gruff when he finally answered, “No, I don’t have a place picked out for the guns yet.” He honestly already had several ideas, but he couldn’t conjure up a single one right now.

Y/N glanced around the room thinking for a moment. “Why don’t you put them in Danny’s grave?”

“He’s not actually dead. I thought I made that clear.”

“Yeah, but if he was dead you’d dig him a grave come hell or high water. So you’ll have to dig him one anyways so that no one gets suspicious. Plus, this won’t be related to any other contraband that the Peaky Blinders deal with so if someone snitches on you, it won’t be there.”

Thomas blinked slowly before he nodded. “That is actually quite brilliant. I’m a little disappointed I didn’t come up with that myself.”

Y/N shrugged, “One of my many random skills, hiding things.”

Thomas wasn’t exactly sure what to say about that, but he had one last thing to tell her. After her slip-up in the previous moment, the words felt like poison on his lips. “I’ve also asked Grace to the races.”

“Did you just need her for a plus one?” Y/N raised her eyebrow.

Just say yes. 

“No, Billy Kimber owns the race tracks, and we’re expanding. Making legal money and all that.” He pressed his lips against his clasped hands, wishing he didn’t have to answer what came next.

Y/N frowned, confused. “And what does this have to do with Grace?”

Thomas sighed. “Mr. Kimber is known to enjoy sampling the pleasures of women. She asked to work for me, so I plan on offering her up to him as part of the bargain.”

“Did you ask her if she was ok with that?”

“No.”

She smacked his shoulder, a sharp sting exploding from his arm. “Tommy!”

“Hey, don’t hit me, Ms. Cracked Ribs.”

She shook her finger threateningly at him. “It’s Ms. Broken Ribs to you, and I’ll smack you as much as I damn well please. You can’t just go offering up a girl’s dignity like that.”

Thomas turned and grabbed her hands in his, preventing any further retaliation. “She asked to work for me, Y/N.”

Y/N growled, “She’s not from the underbelly of Birmingham. Or any other city for that matter. You can tell from a god damned mile away. Shit like this ruins women.”

He paused. “You may be right, but I don’t have anything else he wants.”

She let out a deep sigh. “What were you gonna offer him?”

He told her, and she nodded. They sat in silence for a while as they mulled over what to do about all this. At the end of the day they both knew if he brought Grace she would end up having to go with Kimber sooner or later. He expected it to say the least. And it wasn’t just Grace, any woman Thomas brought would be offered up as a bargaining chip.

Finally Y/N spoke, “She may have to go with him, but she doesn’t have to stay with him.”

“And break the deal?”

She shook her head, “Save Kimber. Like tell him she has something.”

He smirked at her. “So much for preserving dignity.”

Y/N shrugged. “At least she won’t have to sleep with him.”

Thomas glanced away, “Yeah.”

Y/N glanced down. Her hands were still in his, though his grip had loosened into something more casual. A small thrill went through her as she realized how much smaller her hands were compared to his.

She stammered as she spoke, “It’s getting late.” 

Thomas took a deep breath broken out of his thoughts. “Yeah it is. I’ll head out and give you some peace. If you need anything, come get me.” He stood, letting Y/N’s hands slip from his grasp. 

The air was cool on her skin compared to his touch. She found herself following him with her gaze.“Come get you? I thought you lived at the Shelby house?” she asked.

He paused. “I’m going to be staying in the room next door for a while, until you’re better at least.” And with that he was gone.

〜

Y/N awoke in the late hours of the night. Darkness had escaped it’s daily chains, exploded from every nook and cranny and coated the room in a thick film. It took her a moment to shake off the disorientation before she remembered where she was.

Then she heard what had woken her. Through the wall she heard a cry. She couldn’t tell at first what it was for, but then it came again. Thomas.

She stood slowly, pain shooting up her back with every step as she shuffled out of her room and down the hallway. When she finally reached the rickety door she pressed her ear against it.

“NO...Freddie!” 

That was enough. Y/N pounded on the door. On a normal day with the noise of people, it would’ve been deep and resounding. But now it was so deafening she caught herself wincing as she hit the wood.

A bewildered voice answered, “Wha..Who’s there?”

“Thomas it’s me. Open up.”

A shuffling sound and rattle later the door opened slowly. Thomas blinked at her blearily with bloodshot eyes. Y/N waited patiently for him to come back to reality just enough.

He asked groggily, “Is everything ok?”

“You’re having nightmares.” 

Thomas stiffened, glancing around as if the whole world might be listening. He was about to answer when Y/N stepped forward, gently placing her hand on his chest. 

His skin was hot and damp, the sweat having left a small layer that made him glisten in the barest of light. The air inside the room was hot as it poured through the crack in the door, trying to escape.

He placed his hand over hers. “What’re you doing?”

She looked up at him, somehow finding his eyes in the darkness. “Let me in.”

“She says at the entrance of the Devil’s den.” A soft rumble rolled from deep within his chest, a sleepy laugh.

“If you think I’m not a devil myself then I really need to jog your memory.”

“Y/N.” 

Every ounce of fight in him suddenly dissolved away. After so many years of nightmares. After so long in the darkness. After watching her die a thousand times in his dreams. He had no will left to say ‘No’.

Y/N pushed her way inside, careful not to bump into anything that could make her fall. The room was much smaller than hers, and the window wasn’t open even the slightest, accounting for the heat. 

As she walked inside she let her hand fall from his chest to intertwine with his fingers. Thomas let her lead him back towards the bed. It was actually smaller than the one she had in the other room, but that didn’t stop her from laying down and pressing her back against the wall.

She waved for him to join her, “Come on, Thomas. Before the room becomes freezing again.”

His brows furrowed as he tried to process what was going on. “I don’t think this will help your ribs heal.”

“Just shut up and get in here.”

He crawled in slowly, careful not to jostle her. Thomas paused before laying his head down. Y/N finally got tired of waiting and slid back onto the bed proper and maneuvered him until his head rested on her stomach. 

Her fingers ran through his hair as he mumbled, “This isn’t hurting you?”

“The broken ones are higher up. And while I’m pretty sure any doctor would be shitting themselves right now, I’m fine.” 

“Y/N,” he protested.

“Hush now, and get some sleep.” 

After a few moments he chuckled, “My feet are hanging off the edge a bit.”

She hummed as sleep reclaimed her, “We’ll just have to sleep in mine tomorrow.” 

“The scandal.”

“Damn right.”

[mobiusxyearslater]

A/N: This takes place towards the beginning of Arc 1. Please enjoy!

~Mun @t-vict101

A/N: Please enjoy this tale containing original content from our AU. This is the first of many to come, so please be kind to the other mun who is working hard to produce this story as well as loads of other free content for this blog.

~Mun @spacepumpkinz

Riding through the city upon his beloved motorcycle, Shadow the hedgehog finds himself in a peculiar situation. Just last night he was finishing up an assignment for G.U.N. until something crashed landed in Station Square. What he found was just a bucket load of problems that frankly he rather not deal with. First, a weird orb broke open and something seeped into his body. Second, a weird tall bird floats right into his arms then proceeds to make him go on a wild goose chase. Lastly, he’s tied up in a situation that he never asked to be in and forced to go to that damn blue hedgehog for help.

He grumbles a bit at the state of his situation and feels a pair of hands shift on his waist. He peeks back at the bird who seems to be just looking down in complete shame at what has happened. She did run around the city like a manic with no regard for others’ safety so that’s something. Shadow huffs out and shifts his eyes down the road.

“...Have you calmed down…?” he said with a deep gruff.

The bird flinches at his voice and sinks in the seat further, “...Yes sir.”

Sir? He’s never heard that one before. “...Good. Now you’re going to tell me EVERYTHING else you know about this thing.”

The bird gulps and tightens her grip on his waist, “W-Well I told you everything I know… T-The notes I had were destroyed on impact. And the only thing I know is that if we don’t get that energy source out of you, you could die..”

Shadow scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Don’t worry about that. I’m the Ultimate Lifeform, I don’t perish that easily.”

The bird slowly tilts her head giving him a look, “....D… Did you really just say that?? I-I mean ultimate lifeform or not, YOU CAN STILL DIE!!”

He peeks back at her, narrowing his eyes, “...I said don’t worry about it..”

She feels a cold sweat from his stare and straights up her posture, “I-I’m just saying! That amount of energy can do a lot to your body if you exert yourself too much!”

He huffs and looks out ahead, “Well gee, someone didn’t think about that fact last night when she went crazy and I had to chase her down..!”

The bird flinches at his remark and looks back down in shame thinking about their initial meeting. She woke in his apartment and was surprised to see an actual talking hedgehog. Let alone one that could walk and have a weird fashion statement. But it was when it was revealed she transformed from a human to a falcon that really set her off. Admittedly she could’ve reacted better, jumping out of a window with a 5 story drop is not a proper reaction. And neither is running around the city in a full panic and almost causing a near-disastrous collision isn’t a proper reaction either.

She bit her lip a bit and fiddled with her fingers, “...I’m… really really sorry…. I-I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

Shadow huffs brushing off her apology, “You’re lucky no one did. Honestly. Don’t you know how to look where you’re going! How stupid can you be--” He peeks back at her looking down shaking making him cut off his words. He lets out a deep sigh looking back onto the road. “....Do you have a name…?”

The bird gulps a bit and fiddles with her fingers, “...A-Ailani… Um…” she looks towards the back of his head, “W… What do I call you? Mr. Ultimate Lifeform..?”

Shadow gives her a look and huffs looking forward, “Shadow. Shadow the Hedgehog.”

Ailani nods and hums a bit, taking in his answer, “Okay… Shadow. W-Where are we going exactly.?”

“New Mobotropolis. There’s a group there called the Freedom Fighters that could help, in theory, without any annoying ulterior motives.” Shadow gives off a huff gripping on the handles, “Unfortunately there’s an annoying faker who’ll get a good laugh out of this for sure…”

Ailani snaps out of her trance once she hears the word “faker”, “...Faker? There isn’t like a clone army of you or something…. R-Right..”

There was a beat of silence before Shadow responded, “...Not anymore. At least I don’t think so.”

“YOU DON’T THINK SO?!” the bird screams out, “S-So this hedgehog is just like you??”

Shadow nods and huffs out an annoyed breath, “So much so that people often get us confused with one another somehow. He may look similar and have the same abilities as me but we couldn’t be any more opposites.”

All Ailani could do was sit back in her seat in utter shock at the information she just heard. There was a hedgehog that looked just like Shadow out there, so much so that they get mixed up. There was absolutely no doubt that Ailani would get them confused so there must be a way to tell them apart. She scratches her head a bit before bumping into her hair clip. An idea popping into her head, she perks up and takes out her hair clip then studies Shadow’s head a bit. 

The hedgehog was still talking to himself about the annoying blue hedgehog, although Ailani tuned all of his rambling out. She leans over him and softly slips the hair clip into one of his quills. Shadow’s ear twitches a bit and he reaches up towards the hair clip.

“What did you--” he started to ask.

“It’s just my hair clip,” she chirps out “If you say there’s someone like you out there then it’s highly likely I’ll get you two confused. So this is just something that will help me.”

Shadow huffs a bit and grips on the handle shaking his head, “Whatever. If it helps you tell us apart then fi--”

Suddenly Shadow felt his heart practically beat out of his chest. It felt like it was going a million miles per second. He started to hunch forward slowly as a burning sensation grew within him. His bones felt like glass, his muscles like jello, and his vision started to blur. Despite his efforts to concentrate on the road, it came to no avail as the motorcycle started to swerve. Shadow tried to jerk it back to a steady path but it felt like he was being tugged back that forth between the road and the excruciating pain.

Ailani’s train of thought was interrupted by the sudden swerving and saw Shadow’s pain-filled form. “Oh, shi-- Are you okay!?” She asks reaching out to him. 

He hits her hand away and growls out, “I’m FINE. This is nothi--” but instead of finishing his answer, he lets out a loud scream of pain clutching his chest and losing grip of the motorcycle’s handle.

The motorcycle swerved like a mad man causing Ailani to spring to action, reaching over Shadow and grabbing the handles. Her hands shake as she tries to bring the motorcycle to a stop but she was beginning to panic and lose her concentration, “UH! UH! I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT I’M DOING HERE!!”

Shadow tries to reach for the handles again but a surge of pain rushes through his chest causing him to scream in pain. He growls out, “USE THE FUCKING BREAKS!!”

Ailani peeks at him and nods looking around the motorcycle, “O-Okay! Breaks! Breaks… breaks… Where… are they…”

Growing more and more impatient, Shadow grips on her face and turns her face to the handle brakes, “.....Squeeze those… left foot… then rig--” Before he could finish his instructions the burning sensation grew worse as hunches in more.

“Okay! Okay! D-Don’t worry! I-I got this!” Ailani reassured as she takes a deep breath and squeezes on the brakes slowing down the motorcycle. She manages to maneuver it into an alley and brings it to a stop. “Okay! Whew! Did it! Ah-- Right! You need help!” She hops off the motorcycle and carefully lifts Shadow off the bike.

She trots over to a wall and softly lays Shadow against it as he wrenches in complete agony. Come on Ailani, think! There has to be something you can do to help! Ailani stands up and paces a bit as ideas rattle in her head. Okay so I have no magic, no tech, and I probably don’t have the strength to kick him out! She suddenly perks up and pats at her belt a bit. She takes out a small blue vial and studies it for a moment. 

With not much time to think against Shadow’s cries of agony, Ailani decides it’s worth a shot. She kneels down to him and lifts up his chin. Carefully she dropped a single drip of whatever the vial contained into Shadow’s mouth. Shadow began to cough violently once the substance began to travel down his throat. It tasted horrid but the pain almost immediately subsided. He finally felt a sense of relief and sighed out, laying his head back on the wall.

Ailani lets out a deep sigh, relieved that the solution worked and looks at Shadow stroking his quills back, “...You okay, Shadow..?”

Shadow coughs a bit and looks at her. He sighs out and nods, “...I am.” He peeks at the blue vial, “...What is that stuff anyway..?”

Ailani perks up and looks at the vial, “Oh! This?” She holds it up a bit proudly, “It’s a remedy that I keep on hand in case of emergencies.”

Shadow nods a bit then quirks a brow at her, “How did you know it would work? I thought you didn’t know anything about this thing inside me..”

Ailani scratches her beak and nervously chuckles out, “I-I didn’t? Eheh. This is the most potent remedy I have so I figure it might do something.”

Shadow just sighs up holding his head suddenly feeling his eyelids drooping, “..Potent is an understatement…. I feel so… exhausted.” 

“Oh!” she chirped up, “That must be the remedy’s side effects..” She hums a bit looking around before taking Shadow back into her arms, “Here, you rest. I’ll try to get us somewhere safe..” 

Ailani carefully sets Shadow onto the motorcycle and sits down behind him cradling him with one arm. It takes her a good few minutes to get it started again and to start driving it. The pace was slow but at least they were on the move. Shadow feels at his chest a bit thinking about what just transpired. He felt pain before but nothing like this. He almost felt like he was… vulnerable. The motorcycle swerves a bit and Ailani keeps a tight grip on Shadow while trying to steady the bike.

Shadow huffs and peeks up at her, “...Do you know how to drive this thing..?”

Ailani sweats a bit and peeks down at him, “W-Well I’m doing good so far r-right?” As if the timing couldn’t be perfect enough for her to swerve a bit more. 

Shadow would take over right there but pure exhaustion washed over him as he leaned his head back on Ailani’s chest, “...Whatever… Just… Don’t break it… I like this bike…” After stating his final request, he succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

Ailani peeks down at him and breathes out softly. An overwhelming sense of guilt washed over her as if she was the cause of Shadow’s pain. Looking ahead she grips onto the handle tighter, “...I promise…  I’ll get you to New Mobotropolis…. No matter what it takes.” she says as they ride off down the city streets as the sun sets in the horizon.