#i have no idea why i wrote this in present tense

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Hello,

I have a writing prompt for Michael Kaiser (Blue Lock): Kaiser gets into a pr relationship with an actress and they eventually bond and fall in love.

I think he would have a hard time because of his feelings of worthlessness, but this guy has so much potential, I swear, I love him so much.

If you want to go for a "dark side of Hollywood" type of concept, imagine: a young girl who was raised under the pressure of becoming "the perfect star" and surrounded by the chaos of the industry (Idk, the movie Black Swan comes to mind, or the typical representation of Marilyn's life, something along the lines). I think he could bond with someone who is in a similar mind space as him, but who externalizes it differently, remaining kind and such. He definitely needs someone who is empathetic and can see through his insecurities, and I really like the concept of two characters who are hurt helping each other heal.

If you don't want that much drama, scratch the idea of a hurt oc. Think about someone with an "entrepreneur" mindset: someone ambitious, confident, and level headed, who (again) is empathetic and would call him out and help him grow (I'm thinking about sae, but emotionally competent lol).

You don't really have to go for any of this though, it's just meant to get you inspired to write something for my boy Kaiser. I hope it's not too much. Also, there's no rush at all!!

Thank you in advance. I hope you have a good day 🩷

── THE INSTRUMENT

Synopsis: Michael Kaiser is like a rose, and you are the songbird he cannot bear to lose.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.8k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, implied/referenced abuse, call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, open ending, relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…

A/N: hiiii anon ty for requesting!! i hope that i wrote kaiser in a somewhat satisfactory way 😫 this is my first time writing for him so idk if i got him right 😓 also i have NO idea why but for some reason i decided to write this in the present tense which i literally have never done?? so if it sounds off that’s why 💔 i’m so sorry i really don’t know what possessed me SKDJFSHKL

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

It’s hot and like a bruise, your first phone call with Michael Kaiser. He’s that brand of aggravating and just shy of painful to speak with; morbidly, you wish for the conversation to manifest as some kind of actual injury, perhaps on your upper arm, so you can poke at it until it is tender and blooming. But of course, that sort of thing isn’t possible, so you amuse yourself by tapping your fingers against the counter and considering what you might eat for dinner.

“Did you hear me?” he snaps when you do not respond to his proposition immediately. He speaks with an accent, clipped and short, lending severity to his words even when he’s saying nothing of note. “Miss L/N. It’s in both of our best interests to cooperate.”

He’s not wrong about this. It’s the only reason you’ve stayed on the call for as long as you have — it’s in your best interest. It’s the same for him, too, and the thought almost makes you laugh, because who would’ve expected your interests and his to ever align?

“Of course I heard you,” you say, twisting open your bottle of water, taking a sip and idly wondering if he can hear an accent when you speak, too. It’s difficult for you to notice your own, but maybe to him, you sound as odd as he does to you. “You should learn patience, Mr. Kaiser. Such a heavy request you’re making of me, and yet you demand my answer immediately?”

He huffs. “It’s not something you need to dwell on.”

“It might be,” you say, though it’s not at all. Your mind was made up the moment he asked; everything after that has been nothing more than a ploy to irritate him. You’re good at that, at irritating people. Michael Kaiser is not an exception.

“Miss L/N,” he says again, something like a darker version of pleading creeping into his tone. “Your answer. Now.”

“Well, you already knew before you asked, didn’t you? Naturally, I’ll do it,” you say. “It’s a mutually beneficial partnership. Though I expect you to really try your best, Mr. Kaiser, or else it’ll all be for naught.”

“I could say the same to you,” he says.

“Between the two of us, who is the actress?” you say, chuckling when he is silent. “I am sure that I will be convincing. It’s you who I worry for. Hiding your true feelings has never been one of your strengths, has it? Or you wouldn’t be speaking to me at all.”

“Shut up,” he says after a moment has passed. “I doubt your acting skills are anything to brag about.”

“I know you’ve watched my movies,” you say, and when he doesn’t refute this, you beam. “Have you really?”

“Only because someone I know suggested I should,” he says. “If I want to love you, then I have to understand you. That’s what he told me.”

“And what did you think?” you say.

“I thought that I don’t plan to love you at all, and then I told him as much,” he says, the force of his eye roll transmitting even over the phone. You’re not sure if he’s acting deliberately obtuse or if he really thinks you care about this inane conversation he’s describing, but either way you sigh, because his answer is so telling of his personality.

“I was talking about my movies,” you say.

“I don’t prefer the genre,” he says, and then he’s hanging up with a promise to call you later, if he is so inclined. He doesn’t tell you not to call him, but you feel like he implies it, so you vow to set your phone aside and pay him no mind for the rest of your evening.

I’m dating Michael Kaiser, you type in the body of your email to your manager, who you are certain will be so delighted by this news that he will combust spontaneously upon hearing it. You want to type it again, this unbelievable turn of events, so you do. I’m dating Michael Kaiser. Then you delete the repetition, reverting it once again into a formal email, instead of a giddy celebration over an event which should not prompt giddiness or anything resembling it.

It’s a relationship meant to salvage his ruined reputation and boost your career in one fell swoop, and so it’s a relationship that can only work if it’s formed between you two in particular. He, who is a foul-mouthed soccer prodigy, known better for his crass treatment of others than any actual skills he may possess, and you, a rising star who will do anything to be famous and are already of a serviceable status to be seen with him.

Despite your burst of excitement, the prospect of dating Michael Kaiser isn’t actually a thrilling one. The rumors of his horrid demeanor aren’t rumors, and you know this well, albeit through secondhand accounts. Cruelty is the way that he operates, his so-to-speak basal mode, and because it is so intrinsic to his being, you do not fancy that he will deviate from that malicious rule, even for you.

But you are accustomed to a false existence. Donning a facade and masquerading as a person who you are not is the only thing you are good at, are good for, and this time is no different than every other. You will put on the mask of a woman who is loved by Michael Kaiser, who has tamed that mad emperor and turned him into her sweet pet, and you will once again fool the world into believing you.  

He’s doing an interview today. You’re only aware because he texts you right before and tells you to turn on the TV to a channel you’d never choose if you had a say in the matter. But you’re intrigued and he refuses to explain further, so you do as he commands and find yourself watching as he reclines back in a leather armchair and smirks at the host, who’s clearly nervous.

She’s pretty, her hands shaking but her expression serious. You’ve never seen her before, which means she’s new. Of course, that’s not a surprise; only someone very inexperienced or very stupid would invite Michael Kaiser to their show, and she does not seem to be particularly stupid, so her affliction is the first. 

“Um, Mr. Kaiser, it’s a pleasure to have you with us,” she says, like she cannot quite believe that he is actually there, or like she is afraid of what he might take offense at, or some combination of the two.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he says, all roguish and self-assured, which is such a contrast to his typically surly demeanor that you have to commend the girl for keeping her composure.

They speak at length about his soccer career, throwing around words you do not understand and do not care to. It’s so boring you almost power down the television and tell him you think as much, but then the girl clears her throat, her face turning a comical shade of red as her fists clench the paper she’s been reading off of.

“This last question is from our viewers, but it’s personal, so if you don’t want to answer, then it’s not a problem,” she says, squirming in her chair, probably hoping he does not humiliate her. It will be bad for her career if he does, even if by now everyone knows what kind of person he is.

“Go on, then. I feel like we’ve built a rapport here, so I don’t mind it as much if it’s from you,” he says. It’s a perfectly packaged sentiment. His PR team must have tortured him into this new persona. You try to imagine it — it’s definitely a humorous thought, picturing the Bastard München representative slamming Michael Kaiser’s face into a bowl of water for every snarky comment he makes. Unrealistic, though. They would never risk compromising his performance like that.

“There’s rumors that you’re seeing Y/N L/N, the actress. A source who claims to be close to you both mentioned it online, and people can’t stop talking about the possibility. Neither you nor Miss L/N have addressed it, though, and our viewers were hoping you might…?” She cringes back, already preparing for one of his tirades, but he only smiles genially and winks at the camera. You remind yourself to tell him later that he’s laying it on too thick, even if you are enjoying this new character that he’s playing up for the sake of it.

“Y/N L/N? I’m shocked that you think I’m handsome enough to date someone like her,” he says. Your phone buzzes — it’s your manager, crowing about how impressed he is with your ‘boyfriend’ and his presence of mind. 

“So it’s a no?” the interviewer says, almost hopefully. He’s mysterious when he shrugs, mysterious and more than a little coy, as if she’s flattering him and he’s too shy to accept the praise.

“If Miss L/N ever deems me to be worthy of her, then it’s a yes in a heartbeat,” he says. It’s an excellent setup for his redemption, and the girl plays into it so beautifully that you tell your manager to send her flowers or some chocolate at the earliest possible opportunity.

“I think that you’ve shown yourself to be an excellent candidate today,” she says.

“Have I? I’ve really been trying to prove myself,” he says. Dreamy sighs ripple through the live studio audience. Someone whistles. It’s all very romantic and fairy-tale-esque, although he is far from being any kind of prince.

“You’re doing great,” the girl assures him. “I’m sure that, if Miss L/N is watching, she’ll have no choice but to be smitten.”

“If she’s watching? Oh, the thought didn’t even cross my mind,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. You shouldn’t have doubted him and his audacity; he’s fallen into the role as if he were born to play it. “How embarrassing. I’ve just confessed to her on live television without even knowing if she’s interested…”

He’s actually blushing. You are doubly awed — he’s a natural-born talent. It’s a shame that he’s devoted to soccer; he could make it out like a bandit in the acting industry.

“No, no, don’t be embarrassed. How could she ever reject someone like you?” she assures him. How, indeed! At the moment, you are so pleased that you could kiss him. He’s better than any co-star you’ve ever had to work with, in that he is making your job exponentially easier instead of exponentially more difficult.

“If she really is watching, then I can only pray she heard you say that part,” he says, waving in greeting, presumably at you. “Hello, Miss L/N. I really admire you, so if you find me at all agreeable, then I would quite like it if you would say yes to the date I’m going to ask you on.”

He’s made the world swoon and your social media mentions triple. People are begging you to say yes, to give him a chance, to see how he has changed. They want to live through you, and you will let them.

When he calls you, you tell him you were thrilled by his performance. This causes him to shoot back that he finds you insufferable and condescending, to which you say that it’s what makes you and him such a perfect pair. Then you recite an address, and he asks you what you’re going on about. You answer that it is the place where you will have your first date, and then you hang up before he can respond, just so that you can deny him the chance to do it to you first. 

Cameras flash in your faces as you enter the restaurant your manager has booked a reservation at. Michael Kaiser’s arm is wrapped around your waist, and it’s nauseatingly domestic, the kind of scene that would be the cover for one of those coming-of-age movies your agent loves booking for you. You wait for the frantic sound of camera shutters to slow, and then you tug on his sleeve.

“What is it?” he says. It’s quiet enough that no one else can hear, which is why it’s devoid of any warmth, but you are unruffled.

“Your tie,” you say. “It’s not crooked, but we will pretend that it is, and I’ll fix it so that there is something sweet to accompany the tabloid articles that will come out tomorrow.”

Your hands reach for his neck, and he does something you do not comprehend — flinching back, he shakes his head. When he realizes he’s done this, he grits his teeth, like the anger can make up for the temporary weakness. You do not press the issue, merely furrowing your brow and gazing up at him, doing your best to ensure that your eyes remain soft, so that the exchange is not misinterpreted by the parasites around you.

“No,” he says. “Do something else, but leave my tie alone.”

“Alright,” you say. It’s not sensible for you to argue, and anyways it doesn’t matter much what you are doing, as long as you are doing something. Humming to yourself, you adjust the lapels of his jacket. The cameras go off again. You pretend like you do not notice, like the world consists of only you two, and then you interlace your fingers with his, allowing him to drag you into the restaurant behind him.

It’s your turn to be interviewed. You’re wearing a dress, your legs crossed at the ankles — it’s demure and practical and prevents anyone from leering at you, so it’s been a habit of yours for quite a while. The interviewer is female, though, which calms you a bit. She’s older, around your mother’s age, and the wrinkles on her forehead remind you that you should call your parents and arrange for them to meet your doting boyfriend.

“Miss L/N, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to finally meet you!” the woman says. You think her name may be Anne, but she hasn’t introduced herself to you yet, so you’re not certain.

“You are too kind. If anything, it’s an honor for me to be here,” you say. The audience really likes that, when you are humble and shy and so darling. It’s palatable and easy for them to digest, or that’s what your manager tells you. 

“Tell us about your upcoming projects,” she says after giving you the appropriate amount of praise for your charming personality.

“I’m currently shooting a new romantic comedy, but I’m afraid it’s all very hush-hush, so I can’t say too much about it. I think you all will really enjoy it, though, and I’m looking forward to the day that we can discuss it at length,” you say. 

The conversation goes on like that for a bit, but you know she’s going through the motions because she has to, not because she wants to. There’s only one question she cares to ask, but if she just talks to you about your boyfriend and not your own accomplishments, then she’ll be blasted online as an anti-feminist. You hear quite frequently that this is akin to suicide in the world of marketing, so you can’t blame her.

That doesn’t stop you from having some fun. When she’s exhausted every possible avenue of questioning you about your future plans and past successes, you make as if you’re going to stand up and leave. Panic leaps across her face, and you snicker.

“We’ve spoken at such length about my acting career. You can’t possibly have any more questions about it, hm? You probably know more than my manager does!” Your attitude is balanced out by the joke. The audience laughs. It’s a fine line that you walk, but if you do not have the chance to act sharper every now and again, you believe you will die — internally if not externally — so you take such risks when you can justify them to yourself.

“You’re dating Michael Kaiser now, aren’t you?” she says. It’s a rancid curiosity she hides with a motherly type of concern. You brush off your legs, recross them, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I am,” you say. You don’t have to play the games that he did; you both are established now. Official. A bona-fide couple. Anyways, it’s more appealing if you are outright with it.

“How has that been? You’ve really made a difference in that young man’s life, it seems,” she says.

The best way to lie is to tell the truth. “Yes, I suppose I have, but he has made an equal difference in mine. He is as good for me as I am for him; truly, I never understood what it meant when my parents called each other their ‘better halves’ until we met.”

In an hour, there will be thousands of posts online about this. If Y/N and Michael break up, then I don’t believe in love anymore! Maybe soulmates are real! Couple goals! These are the kinds of captions you are anticipating. The two of you will send screenshots to one another and laugh about how gullible the world is, and then you will strategically plan which comments to like and posts to favorite so that your message goes through. That’s the extent of your relationship with him, really, at least when the two of you are alone. The detachedness makes things much easier than they otherwise would be.

“There’s a popular theory going around that the two of you have had a secret wedding already. Is it true? Am I speaking to Mrs. Kaiser at the moment?” she says, eyes glittering like a vulture’s. She’s ready to pounce on any hesitation, any brief indecision that you might show, but you have spent more time in the spotlight than in your own parents’ home, so you don’t even waver.

“Marriage! I think we’re a bit too early in our relationship to be considering such things, and a bit too early in our lives to be rushing into major decisions like that,” you say. “If and when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know, but it won’t be for a while.”

It won’t be at all, actually. This relationship is not going to last for more than another month. Once the buzz surrounding you two dies, you and he will quietly split. It’ll be as if you never met in the first place.

Your phone rings as you’re leaving the studio. The caller ID says that it is Michael Kaiser, and the thought that he was watching your interview in the same way you watched his makes you feel odd.

“Hello?” you say.

“I’m not gonna marry you. Never-fucking-ever. If you’re expecting a ring, then put it out of your mind.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “How else would you have liked me to answer that question?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Neither of you hang up on the other — you don’t think you can summon the wherewithal to, which is out of character for him but typical for you — though you both also don’t speak any further. He stays on the line while you drive home, breathing softly like he is sleeping, but you are sure that he is not. The point of it is lost on you, but then you drive into a tunnel and the call ends on its own, so it’s moot anyways. 

Your parents are excited to meet Michael Kaiser. They’ve read up on him extensively, watched all his interviews and even his game highlights. Your mother calls you the night before just so she can gush to you about how handsome he is, how you’ve really done well for yourself this time around. Her approval is nice to have, though superfluous, like a luxury soap or perfume. 

Your father is the one who suggests you all go golfing. You don’t know how to play, and neither does your mother, but you recognize it’s his attempt at connecting with who he thinks is your boyfriend, so you accept. You’re not sure if Michael Kaiser knows how to play golf, or really anything besides soccer, but he is game enough to come that you suppose he must.

It’s warm out, the sun beating down on your father’s brow as he lines up the ball with his club. Michael Kaiser stands on his left, and you think he’s somehow beautiful in this lighting. Not beautiful how your many attractive coworkers are, but in a manner which is distinctly him and therefore utterly irreproducible. His body is lean and graceful, his hair shaggy and gold, though he’s dyed the tips blue in what you’re sure is a statement. The shade matches his eyes, and also the inked roses on his neck. You have long ago come to the conclusion that the flowers are also a part of that same statement, but you have yet to discover what that statement might be. 

“He’s an improvement from that last boyfriend of yours,” your mother says, leaning back so that she can pour the last few drops of soda from her empty can into her throat. You and her are sitting together in the golf cart, seeking refuge in the shade of its plastic roof, sharing the drinks that your father had bought for himself and forgotten about the instant he stepped onto the golf course.

“He is,” you say. That’s not an exaggeration, nor is it something incredible. Your last boyfriend was an old classmate of yours who loved your celebrity more than he loved you. Michael Kaiser doesn’t love you, either, but he is honest about it, and you do not love him back, so there is no resentment between you and him.

“I like the way he looks at you,” your mother says. There’s a hiss as she opens a new can of soda. It’s a vice, but whenever you remind her of it, she dismisses you. She wants to have fun while she’s on this earth, apparently. Maybe drinking five cans of soda in one sitting means her life will be shorter, but life without soda isn’t worth living anyways, or something like that. The reasoning is stupid, but you know she is loyal to it, so you have to accept it. “It’s refreshing. So gentle. You’ll be talking to someone else, and he’ll just be staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re his.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you say. 

Your mother is about to say something else, but she is interrupted by a loud whoop. Michael Kaiser has hit a hole-in-one, and before you can tell him to stop embarrassing himself, your father is cheering, throwing his arms around him and calling him son.

“Your father likes him, too,” your mother said. 

“Oh, he needs to stop that! I can’t believe he’s making things so awkward,” you say, getting up to reprimand him before realizing that there is an entirely foreign sheen to Michael Kaiser’s eyes as he rests his chin on your father’s shoulder. He is not quite smiling, but it is a close approximation of the expression, and when your father ruffles his hair and says that it may have been beginner’s luck but he’s proud regardless, the curve of his lips becomes deeper.

You don’t understand, but you don’t need to. You may have facilitated it, but the moment belongs to him, and your presence is as unwanted as it is unnecessary.

You sit back down and take a sip of your mother’s soda. She grins knowingly and says that you look like you are in love, too. You don’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so you hum noncommittally and say that you might be.

You are growing fond of Michael Kaiser. It isn’t a slow realization — actually, it hits you very suddenly one day. He hands you a bouquet of flowers before opening the passenger door of his car for you. You ask him why he’s brought you peonies instead of roses, and he says it’s because he despises roses. It’s such an absurd answer and he says it with such a straight face that you have to cough in order to disguise your choked laughter. 

“Those must be some other kind of flower, then,” you say, pointing at but not touching his tattoos, at the delicate petals which fold over his pulse, azure and bright and silky. 

“No, those are roses,” he says, his knuckles growing white on the steering wheel. Normally, you wouldn’t ask further, but today you want to prod at his bruise of an existence, so you turn the music down and hug the peonies to your chest.

“But you despise roses,” you say.

“It’s a good reminder,” he says. “No flower lies quite as well as a rose does.”

That is when you are certain that you are partial to him. It is an unavoidable fact and also a treacherous one, but true notwithstanding. 

You put the peonies in a vase of water when you get home that night and hope they never die, although you know that they will be gone within the week. It’s how time works. The peonies will die and you two will break up and you’ll have nothing but a bare kitchen counter and thoughts of his intricacies to remember him by. 

There are no paparazzi around on the night when he wraps your hands around his throat. You are alone with him, sequestered away in the living room of his mansion, a bowl of popcorn shoved between the two of you while a movie plays in the background. This seclusion defeats the original purpose of the relationship entirely, but you sense that that original purpose is no longer fully applicable, so you do not refuse when he calls you and demands you come.

There’s a blanket tossed over your legs, the brilliant colors of his soccer club’s emblem faded from repeated washes. It’s warm, and if you were not busily eating most of the popcorn, you’d pull it up around your shoulders. As for Michael Kaiser, he’s facing the screen, his hair tied back in a knot, a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose and reflecting the visage of the lead actress as she laughs. You observe him as you snack. You’ve seen this movie before and didn’t really like it, so you’re not missing much. He’s more interesting by far.

“I know that woman,” you say, so that he has to acknowledge you.

“Hm,” he says.

“She’s a jerk,” you say. 

“Sounds like your kind of company,” he says. You scoff, because he’s not wrong. He keeps watching the movie, and you keep watching him, until a thought occurs to you.

“Can I call you Michael? Even when it’s just us two,” you ask. He purses his lips. The actress screams. Her character has just died, but the scene is poorly shot and even more poorly acted, so it’s not as heart-wrenching as it should be. You would’ve done better, but your agent doesn’t want you taking any gory roles, and your manager agrees. In his professional opinion, it’ll ruin the doll-like persona you’ve spent so long cultivating. He’s probably right. It’s hard to adore a doll once you’ve watched it die so gruesomely.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing another mouthful of popcorn, the salt lingering on your tongue long after the popcorn itself is gone. “Michael.”

“Yes?” he says.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just wanted to say your name.”

“Okay,” he says. “Y/N?”

He’s never called you that in private. Of course, when you’re out and about, he must refer to you with such familiarity, but in private you’ve never been anything but Miss L/N. It’s a change but a good one. You don’t want to ever be Miss L/N again. Not to him.

“Yes?” you say.

“I’m trying to watch this movie,” he says. “It has high ratings, so be quiet and allow me to finish.”

“It’s shitty,” you say, yawning and leaning back against the mountain of pillows you’ve created for yourself. “Overly gratuitous with its use of fake blood.”

“Right, because that’s a cardinal sin,” he says dryly.

“Sorry, but it’s hard to enjoy films when you know how they’re made,” you say. He picks up the remote and pauses the movie. You blink, because that’s about the last thing you expected from him. Then he turns the TV off entirely and you realize you’ll probably never be able to predict what he does next, so you should stop trying already.

“I know how movies are made,” he says.

“Did you have a secret acting career you never told me about?” you say. It’s a joke, but you also wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true. He’s taken to performing like a fish takes to water, and every day you tell him he should quit soccer and devote his life to cinema because of this uncanny skill.

“Not me, but my mother was an actress, and my father was a director,” he says. 

“Was?” you say.

“Maybe they still are,” he says. “I don’t know. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“Why not?” you say. He takes your hands in between his, and you can make out immediately that his instinct is to hurt you, to press his fingertips into your wrists so hard that they leave marks. It’s to his credit that he fights back the urge, fights it back and arranges your palms against his carotid arteries. His jaw clenches and his pupils dilate as he waits for you to realize; when you do, you rip your hands away for fear of wounding him further.

“Don’t pity me,” he instructs you, unpausing the movie like nothing happened. “And don’t ever bring it up again.” 

Now that you have his permission to refer to him only by his name, you develop a strange fascination with saying it. He’s amused by your new fixation, answering you in a lilting tone every time you call for him.

According to him, you are like a small nightingale, always warbling, always happy, fluttering around beside him and changing his mood for the better. Well, if you are like a nightingale, then he is like a dog, and you tell him as much when you are sitting across from him at a coffee shop.

“A dog?” he repeats, his face pinching. He’s just taken a swig of the black coffee he always orders, but you know his disgusted expression isn’t a symptom of the beverage’s bitterness. “Take that back.”

“Not in a bad way,” you say. Your own drink is sweet, so you sip on it slowly to prevent a stomach ache. “I’m not calling you pathetic. I just mean that you are amiable and lively. It’s a compliment.”

“It’s not who I really am,” he says. “Have I deceived even you? Amiable? Lively? Remember why this entire scam began in the first place — because I am neither of those things.”

“Right,” you say. “A peacock, then. Terribly vain and entirely alluring.”

He relaxes and raises his cup to his mouth again. He’ll be up late tonight, he always is when he has coffee, but it never stops him from drinking it. “That’s better.”

The reminder that whatever you have with him is not real stings more than it should. You throw away your drink almost untouched, which does cause him to raise an eyebrow, but thankfully he refrains from commenting. It’s a relief, because you don’t even know how to explain it to yourself, let alone him.

He walks you to your front porch and waits with crossed arms as you fish for the key in your purse, shoving it in the lock once you have it in your grasp. His farewell when you open the door is stilted and abnormal, so you stop him with a hand on his arm before he can go.

“Michael,” you say. You’ve never said his name like this before. It comes from a place raw and deep within you, a place that you are certain is purple and black like a wound. You say it like you love him, and you think it must be because you do.

“Yes?” he says. It’s the way he always responds to you, his voice like a song, a small smile on his ordinarily strict face — though today, he is not smiling. Instead, he is frowning, like he has come to an understanding that he would have rather not reached.

“Never mind,” you say. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he says. He drives away, his car disappearing around the corner, leaving you standing alone in the still-open doorway and wondering how you will survive the day when he disappears permanently. 

You’re not sure what it is about him that makes pretending difficult, but suddenly, it’s a struggle for you to maintain your aloof front. You find it disconcerting, that he has taken this aspect of your identity and rendered it entirely null and void; it’s even more disconcerting that he has done it unwittingly and unsympathetically. If you loved him any less, you would hate him, because he has stolen who you are and left you blind and fumbling, but you fell for him, and the way you landed broke something fundamental, so that it is impossible for you to get back up. 

“I think that I love you,” you say. You are on his couch again, and there is a movie playing again, which is all too similar to a past scenario that you think about when you are lonely. Tonight, it’s some soccer documentary that you find so tedious you are driven to irrationality. 

He drops the glass of water in his hands; you reach out and catch it before it can spill, setting it on the table in front of you. 

“What?” he says. You shrug.

“I love you,” you say again, and you’re flippant about it because you’re not telling him in the hopes he loves you, too. In fact, you know that he does not, so you are using him as a confessional; after all, the minimum he owes you is sharing the burden of this sin.

“There’s no one around,” he says. “You don’t have to lie. It won’t gain us anything.”

“It hasn’t gained us anything in a long while,” you say. It’s true — your relationship isn’t trending anymore, and most of your dates are in locations where you will not be recognized. 

He stands up. The documentary continues as he paces, and a referee blows a whistle while he tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls. You stay on the couch, your eyes following his erratic movements, your hands folded in your lap.

“No, you don’t,” he says.

“I don’t what?” you say.

“You don’t love me,” he says. He wants to sound callous, you are sure of it, but the effect is lost on you. He sounds more lost than anything.

“But I do,” you respond. “Who are you to tell me I don’t?”

“Don’t,” he says. “Stop it. This instant.”

You laugh incredulously. “Do you think it’s that easy? I wouldn’t feel like this in the first place if it was.”

“Why?” he says. He’s still pacing. It’s like watching a tiger in a zoo. You want to study him, but he demands your attention in a different way. “Y/N. Why me? Why at all?”

“The reasons don’t matter, do they? I can tell you, but they won’t change anything,” you say, shrugging. “If you find yourself in the kitchen, bring water back for me. I’m thirsty.”

“Drink mine,” he says, pointing at the cup you had narrowly saved from disaster. “And quit your avoidance. Tell it to me plainly. Why?”

“Because you are you,” you say once you have drained half of his glass and your tongue is not quite as papery. “It’s a series of things; there’s not just one concrete reason. You hate roses and only drink black coffee. My mother thinks you’re handsome and my father is convinced you’re a golfing genius. You are a dog but also a peacock and then again an emperor. Don’t ask ridiculous questions and expect me to answer them when I cannot.”

“I’ll hurt you,” he says. “I’ll hurt you, Y/N, and I don’t — I don’t want to. You’re the only one who I don’t want to hurt, so just give up. It’s for the better if you do.”

“You won’t,” you say. “I don’t think you can.”

“Of course I can,” he says. “It’s the one thing I’m capable of. The only way I know how to love someone is by hurting them. I’ll do the same to you if you let me, and if you’re telling the truth, then you will let me.”

“Because I love you?” you say. “You think I’ll let you hurt me because I love you? For shame, Michael. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Please,” he says. It’s a word he’s never said, not to you and not in his life. Its weight hangs before you, pulsating in the air like it’s tangible. “If I love you, I’ll destroy you. And then you’ll leave, and it’ll destroy me.”

It’s a selfless desire that he’s disguising as a selfish one. You’re good at pretending, but you’re not good at telling when others are. That much is obvious, because if you had any talent at the latter then you would’ve seen that he’s loved you for as long as you have loved him, maybe longer. He loves you and so he’s urging you to flee, to destroy him before he can do it to you first.

“Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, huh?” you say, exhaling and finishing off the rest of his water. “Listen to me.”

“No,” he says. His obstinance is endearing, but you throw a pillow at him instead of cooing like you want to. He catches it and tosses it back. It lands beside you with a thump. You pat it for emphasis.

“Yes,” you say. “I love you.”

He plugs his ears with his fingers. “Nope.”

“I love you, I love you — hey, I know you can hear me!” you say.

“La la la,” he shouts over your voice, sticking his tongue out petulantly. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you!”

“You’re cruel,” you say. “I won’t deny it. I know who you really are, Michael Kaiser. You possess cruelty in spades, but it’s in the way that a rose does. You have grown malice like thorns so that no one may come near your heart, and you think these thorns will tear me apart when I extend my hand past them. What you aren’t accounting for is that I have done so already. I have reached your heart and still I am intact. Now, what is there to cause me harm — a mere flower? But a flower can’t cause anyone harm, least of all a person such as myself. You can’t, or more importantly you won’t. I believe that you won’t.”

He stares at you. The soccer team in the documentary still playing behind him scores, and the crowd roars in approval. You stare back at him and wait.

“I hate roses,” he finally says. “I hate them a lot. They’re the worst kind of flower.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say. “I quite fancy them.”

“They prick your fingers,” he says.

“Not if you are gentle,” you say. “Not if you understand them.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Go home, Y/N.”

You do as you are told, flagging a taxi and shivering while you wait for it. You wish for things to be different, but the amount of unfulfilled wishes you’ve made outnumber the stars in the sky, so you add this one to the list and vow to move on.

You have no desire to leave your bed the next morning, but you are also hungry, and your hunger wins out over your despair. You muster up the energy to roll out of your sheets and trudge downstairs, but you are miserable as you do so. You are utterly miserable, and the fact that you are only worsens the feeling, trapping you in an endless kind of loop.

When you enter your kitchen, you are surprised to see a pot of flowers sitting innocently on your counter. You didn’t put them there, so you should feel afraid, but they’re roses, and they’re the same arresting shade as the sky, so you don’t. You only grin, slowly and then all at once as you begin to giggle helplessly.

There isn’t a card or an explanation provided, but you don’t need either. You already know who they are from.

[mumms-the-word]

Wandering the Gray

Pairing: Gale x gn!Tav Summary: In the midst of a brutal battle against Viconia DeVir and the Sharrans, Gale finds himself in the Fugue Plane once again. But this time, he recognizes a voice echoing in the distance. ao3 link A/N: You can 100% blame a 1 minute section of The Underworld from Epic the Musical by Jorge Rivera-Herrans for this fic. That's the entire inspiration for this fic. I don't want to spoil too much but if you've heard the song you know what's coming. also I suck at titles, every other title was too spoilery to me anyways enjoy the angst CW: some mention of suicidal ideation, death, grief, sad feels in general,

The air is thick with magical darkness, thick enough to drown in, and Gale is barely hanging on by a thread. He can feel the darkness choking him as he stumbles back, narrowly dodging a blade as it arcs toward him, appearing and disappearing in the inky black. Spell effects from the others briefly illuminate the darkness like obscured lightning amidst stormclouds, but nothing is effectively dispelling the swirling black. Shadowheart had warned them this would be the Sharrans’ tactics, and they had prepared as best as they were able, but the darkness was relentless. Gale had lost sight of her and the others ages ago. Now, he dares not cast spells with wide damage, lest he harm Shadowheart, his other allies, and Tav as well as the Sharrans.

His back hits granite and he realizes too late that he’s backed himself into a wall or platform of some kind. He grips his staff, jaw clenched, ready to swing outward or thunderwave the next Sharran that emerges from the darkness. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, in his ears, and though the battle rages all around him, it’s all he can hear. Every last desperate beat of a heart that is failing, his wounds too much to bear.

He nearly freezes as Viconia herself steps through the darkness. She sneers at him, but something in her stance assures him that he’s not worth her time. Before he can so much as summon a firebolt, however, she gestures sharply toward him, uttering a curse in Drowic. He feels the curse wrap around his chest, squeezing tightly, and his head begins to swim. A barrage of thoughts crowd his mind, clawing at his every insecurity and tearing them open to be laid bare and bleeding. Inadequacy, shame, guilt, terror, they all threaten to overwhelm him.

He sucks in a breath and flings a chromatic orb of crackling lightning at Viconia, but she blocks it readily with her shield. Smirking faintly, she steps backward into the darkness, leaving Gale with her curse, like a thousand voices screaming in his mind.

Pathetic. Weak. Flew too close to the sun. Defied your goddess. A shadow of your former self. Not worth redemption. Use the orb, Gale. Kill yourself. Kill yourself!

He doesn’t see the mace come arcing down toward his head until it’s too late.

—

When he opens his eyes again, he’s not surrounded by darkness, but by shades of gray. Gray and white fog swirls slowly around him and the sky overhead is shrouded in low-hanging clouds, all dull silver. Flakes of ash drift by, born aloft by winds that he cannot feel or sense.

The Fugue Plane, he realizes distantly, looking slowly around him. There’s nothing to see. Even the flat ground beneath his feet is a colorless gray, not quite stone but not quite earth either. When he shifts, his steps kick up a fine dusting of ash, or perhaps mist, which floats upward to join the shifting fog around him. There’s not even a shadow of the looming city of the dead to look for, to guide his steps. 

Just an endless expanse of cloudy gray.

The sheer emptiness of it all settles over him immediately, threatening to make him fold. He’d hoped since the last time he died, he would never have to return. Or at least that the next time would be decades and decades away. To be back so soon…

He lifts a hand to his chest, as if seeking out the pouch that formerly rested over his heart, but he knows it’s not there. Even in the Material world, he no longer wears the pouch. Tav carries it now, though it bears little more than a scrap piece of parchment and a flute, the scroll of true resurrection used up some time ago. He knows he ought to be at least a little concerned, though logically, it won’t be the first time that Withers had dragged one of them from the Fugue Plane for a meager sum of gold. It’s just a matter of waiting.

But it is the waiting that wearies him. A moment in the Fugue Plane stretches on for aeons, in his mind. Even his movements feel weighted down. But with nothing else to do but sit or walk, he chooses to walk.

As he moves through the fog, the hush of the plane is oppressive. Like a droning whisper, the only sound he can hear is a white noise that feels thick enough to cut through yet distant enough that the source is always out of sight, out of reach. There are no words to pick out from the hush, however. As he walks, he moves through the mist alone. No other souls pass by or even materialize in the gray.

Never has he felt so desperately alone, so isolated.

But then…a voice. 

He stops and turns his head as he hears it echoing through the fog, half thinking it’s his imagination. But then he hears it again, this time clearer and closer.

“…waiting…”

He grows still and would have grown cold, had he any body left. That voice…he knows that voice.

“It can’t be,” he whispers.

“I’m waiting…”

He takes a cautious step forward, following the voice deeper into the fog, straining his ears for more of that familiar voice. It must be a trick, and yet…

“Waiting…I’m waiting…”

“Morena?” he calls through the gray, but his voice is muffled, swallowed up by fog and mist. He turns to move in the direction of her voice, following it through the swirling gray.

“My darling boy…”

“Mother!” He stumbles forward and then to a halt, a figure materializing in the mist. “Mother…”

There she sits, perched on the flat of a rock, her hands resting demurely in her lap, the same way she sits in her favorite chair on her balcony overlooking the Waterdhavian harbor. A slate gray sea laps onto the ashen shore around the rock, the rest of the waters disappearing into the dark fog. The sound of the waves should have been familiar, comforting, but the sound is quiet, as if he stands yards away rather than only a few paces from the shore.

She doesn’t turn to look at him. Instead she sits, her head turned toward the water, just as he remembers her looking the last time he visited her in Waterdeep, over a year ago. Before his fall. Before his folly. She’d been admiring the sunset then, a wistful smile on her lips, a book abandoned in her lap. Now her expression is distant and tired.

She should not be here.

“Mother,” he murmurs, venturing another cautious step closer. But she doesn’t seem to hear him. She never once glances his way as he finally reaches the rock she sits on, kneeling down near her feet. He barely notices the water soaking his robes and trousers as the sea flows up toward the rock and ebbs away. “Mum...”

Again she ignores him, her white, clouded eyes on the horizon. Or what would be the horizon, if the swirling mist were not obscuring every view. She hums absently under her breath, little melodies that are heartbreakingly familiar, but she never once looks away from that hidden horizon.

She shifts, her hands making a stroking motion as if she were petting something in her lap. “I know he’ll be home soon, Tara,” she murmurs, her voice echoing softly in the mist as it did when he was searching for her moments ago. “I don’t mind waiting for him.”

“I’m here, Mum,” he says softly, his throat closing around tears he can’t shed. He doesn’t have a body to produce tears nor a physical heart to break. So why does he feel so desperately sad? Why does it feel like he’s about to unravel completely? Some part of him still desperately hopes this is all an illusion. A trick. “I’m…I’m right here.”

But she never hears him. The souls of the dead rarely see or acknowledge each other. He knows that from his last visit to the Fugue Plane. But she can’t…she can’t be…Tara would have said if she were…

She breathes a small sigh, smiling gently to herself and looking down at her lap. “My darling boy…my little love. I do miss him, Tara. But I know he’ll return soon. And when he does, I’ll be here for him. Waiting right here, where he knows to find me.” She looks again to the distant horizon. “I don’t mind waiting…as long as it takes…”

“No,” Gale whispers. “It can’t be…when...”

The answer unfolds in his mind with dreadful certainty. It doesn't matter when.

He took too long to return to her. His year-long seclusion in his tower. The journey from the nautiloid. Months spent traveling, moving farther and farther from Waterdeep. He kept himself away for too long and left his home and his mother entirely behind, and now…

Now it is too late.

He reaches up for her hand, but his fingers pass through her and her form flickers briefly. He curls his fingers into a fist, battling the swirl of emotions inside him. Rage at himself, fear, a desperate longing to say something, do something, to get her to simply look at him. To acknowledge him.

But mostly grief. A deep, irrepressible grief that yawns within him like a chasm with no end. Black and cruel.

“I’m here,” he says again, his voice breaking. “Mum…I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I…”

He shouldn’t have stayed away. Yet even as he thinks it, what other choice did he have? There were no choices. There are no choices. Everything he’d done since his fall, he’d done to protect her. Every choice he makes now is for that very purpose, to save her and everyone else in Faerûn.

And now it doesn’t matter. They’re both dead. 

“I love you,” he says, looking up at her, even knowing that she can't hear him. “All my heart, Mum, I love you. Forgive me. Forgive me.” He bows his head, bringing his forehead nearly to her knee, struggling to compose himself. “Forgive me…”

The hush of the plane and the faint sound of the sea are all that respond. But then a featherlight touch brushes his hair. He looks up, scarcely daring to hope.

His mother gazes down at him, her white eyes focused on him. When she sees him staring back at her, she smiles softly.

“My darling boy,” she murmurs, brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheek. Her voice still bears that distant, echoing tone, as if she’s a thousand miles away. “It’s time for you to wake up.”

“Wake up?”

“Wake up, my love,” she says again, and this time her voice sounds even more distant. Altered. Not quite her own. She covers his eyes with her hand, shutting his eyes for him, and he drifts into darkness. “Wake up.” 

“Gale! Wake up!”

His eyes fly open and he gasps, his lungs desperate for air. He looks around wildly, expecting more of the Fugue Plane, but instead he finds the familiar wooden walls and ceiling of the Elfsong Tavern. He turns his head to find Tav staring at him, their eyes wide with worry.

“Tav?” he mumbles.

“It was just a dream, love,” Tav says, brushing a hand over his sweat-soaked forehead, pushing his hair from his face. “I’ve been trying to wake you for a while now.”

“A dream…” He struggles to make sense of it, but slowly the pieces fall into place. 

Their fight at the House of Grief, where Gale had very nearly died. Nearly, but not quite. He remembers going with Shadowheart to free her parents, only to realize that their freedom meant their deaths. It had weighed on Gale’s spirit, watching her parents smile at their daughter mere seconds before turning into motes of light. He remembers thinking it was an impossible choice, one he couldn't have made on his own.

Something about it seems to have stayed with him. Even now, he half-fears that his dream is more than a dream. A premonition, perhaps, or a glimpse of the future.

Gods, he hopes not.

He sits up, rubbing his hands over his face. His shirt sticks to his sweat-soaked back and he wants nothing more than to splash his face and neck with cold water. But first—

“Where’s Tara?” he asks, dropping his hands.

Tav’s eyebrows draw together. “Tara?”

“I’m here, Mr. Dekarios.” She hops onto the back of the bed where it shares a backboard with Karlach’s. Tara always had an uncanny knack for being nearby whenever she was needed. She licks at one paw before fluffing her feathers and fixing her gaze on him. “Oh my. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Mr. Dekarios.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, but it’s without humor. “I almost fear I have, Tara. Tell me—this must sound like I’m mad but—my mother. Is she well?”

“Mrs. Dekarios? She’s as fit as ever, last I saw.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Why, only just the other day,” Tara said, flicking her ears. “I check on her regularly, you know. I wouldn’t miss our evening tea time for the world.”

Gale breathes a sigh of relief, dropping his head in his hands again. It was just a dream. Just a horrible dream. Probably left over from Viconia’s fear curse that had struck him during the battle earlier that day.

He feels Tav’s hand rubbing comfortingly against his back. “Gale? Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he mumbles. He takes a deep breath and drops his hands again, leaning back against the pillows. “Yes. My apologies. It was a bad dream, like you said.”

Tav is quiet for a moment before cuddling close, wrapping their arms around his middle. He shifts so that his arm is around their shoulders, his fingers trailing absently along their arm.

“Was it about your mother?” they ask quietly.

Gale’s throat closes up, but his silence his answer enough. He clears his throat quietly. “I saw her in the Fugue Plane. A dead soul.”

He can say no more. He reaches up to press his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, as if to block the tears that sting behind his lids. Even the thought of her sitting alone on her balcony, waiting for him, while he puts himself in more and more danger, is enough to break him. He takes a shuddering breath and Tav wraps their arms tighter around him.

“It’s okay,” they whisper. “I’m here.”

“I know. I…thank you.” He manages to compose himself enough to lower his hand and turn his head toward Tara. Her feline eyes glint in the darkness, watching him in silence. “Tara, will you—”

“I assure you, Mr. Dekarios, your mother is hale and hearty,” she says. “And we both have the utmost confidence that you’ll wrap up this Absolute business in time for the upcoming holidays, which you will be spending in Waterdeep, of course.”

“Of course,” Gale says, managing a smile. “But I have a request. I want you to go home.”

Tara blinks, and though she controls most of her expression he sees the fur on her neck start to rise. “Home? And leave you behind?”

“Please Tara,” he says. He rubs a hand against Tav’s back, knowing they’re listening quietly. “I will be fine here. You know you can trust Tav to look after me. But I need someone there to look after Morena. There’s no one more suited to the task than you.”

Tara’s tail flicks several times as she regards him in disdainful silence. But then her fur settles and she looks away. “Very well, Mr. Dekarios.”

“And don’t tell her anything. I don’t want her to worry.”

“Very well, Mr. Dekarios. If that is what you wish.”

“It is.” He knows he’s just worrying too much, but his dream has shaken him. Better to have Tara there, just in case, than to spend weeks wondering and worrying. “Thank you, Tara.”

“You’re quite welcome. But I shall expect you home within a few tendays, you know.”

Gale chuckles, settling in with Tav at his side. “We’ll see what we can do. Safe travels, Tara.”

“You as well, Mr. Dekarios. And you,” she directs her next words to Tav, who turns their head to look up at her. “Do see to it that he does not suffer more bad dreams.”

With that slight admonition, she hops down and disappears into the darkness.

Gale breathes a small sigh, shifting to get more comfortable and wrapping Tav more tightly in his embrace. “You should get some rest, my love. It’s still quite early in the morning.”

“What about you?” they whisper, their cheek resting on his chest.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I fear that after a dream like that, I’m wary of falling asleep again.” 

His dreams rarely repeat in the same night, but he can’t shake the irrational fear that if he falls asleep again, he’ll just find himself back in the Fugue Plane. Searching for his mother.

“Hmm…” Tav turns their head to rest their chin on his chest, looking up at him. “Then I’ll stay awake for a bit too.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” They shift to bring their lips up to kiss him before settling back where they were, pressed against his side with their cheek on his chest. “Talk to me for a bit. Tell me about your mother.”

“My mother? What would you like to know?”

“Everything. Whatever you feel comfortable with sharing.”

Gale pauses to think. Where does one begin when it comes to the venerable Morena Dekarios? But despite his hesitation, he’s grateful Tav is asking. He knows they’re only trying to distract him, but it helps. 

“Well,” he begins. “My mother is the inimitable, dare I say unavoidable, Morena Dekarios. She resides in Waterdeep, in a home overlooking the harbor…”

As he speaks, telling Tav of his mother’s quirks, her affection for him, the way she seems to know everyone, her favorite dishes, her talents, and more, his anxieties eventually fade away. It’s as though speaking of her like this, in the present tense, is proof that she is well. And would still be well when he finally returns to her. 

After a while Tav yawns, their voice heavy with sleep as they mumble, "She sounds lovely, Gale. I can't wait to meet her."

He smiles softly and presses a little kiss to Tav's hair. "Nor I, my love. I'm certain she will adore you."

Tav hides their sleepy smile in his chest and soon their breathing evens out, a sure sign they've been lulled to sleep. Gale listens to them breathing for a moment, grateful for every breath. Grateful, too, that they were willing to stay up and listen to him mumble quietly about his mother for an hour, of all things to talk about.

It’s enough to soothe his guilty conscience for the night. His dream was just a dream, he's more certain of that now. And one day, hopefully soon, he'll be back in Morena's parlor again, suffering her affectionate chiding and introducing her to the love of his life. The thought brings a smile to his face and he closes his eyes, comforted by daydreams of Tav meeting Morena Dekarios.

The daydreams soon bring with them the wave of exhaustion and at last he gives in, closing his eyes and drifting away for a few scant hours of dreamless sleep.

[windfighter]

Rock-hard fall

Prompt: Fracture | ”It’s just a scratch.”

------

There’s a yelp. Takuya turns around, worry gnaws in his stomach. Did someone get hurt? Would it be his fault? They are out here because of him after all. Kouichi and Izumi are already on the way down, Tomoki’s still clambering across the rocks. Junpei has stopped, the rock he’s standing on looks wobbly under his feet.

Kouji’s legs are visible between a couple of rocks. Takuya starts moving, jumping from rock to rock to get there as fast as possible. Izumi is faster.

”Are you okay?”

She leans down, offers Kouji a hand. Takuya slows his steps. Kouji groans.

”Yeah?” he says.

It sounds like a question. He’s still lying between the rocks. Takuya and Kouichi get there at the same time. Kouji’s right arm is bloody, he’s looking a little disoriented. He puts his left arm over his eyes.

”Just let me catch my breath”, he says.

Takuya sits down. Shit. They should probably head back.

”At least you missed the water”, he says and grins.

Kouji doesn’t even glare at him. The river splashes against the rocks. It’ll start rising in an hour. Not much, but enough that Kouji’s resting place will get wet. Kouichi sits down as well.

”Should I call dad?” he asks.

They’re not far from home, just half an hour on foot, but Kouichi must see the same thing Takuya is seeing. Kouji is not okay. He lifts his arm from his eyes, looks at Kouichi. Takuya notices the seconds it takes for Kouji’s eyes to find exactly where Kouichi is.

”It’s fine”, Kouji says.

He still doesn’t sit up. Kouichi gestures at Kouji’s bloody arm.

”Fine?” he asks and raises an eyebrow.

Kouji twists his head. Winces. Frowns when he sees the blood.

”It’s… just a scratch”, he says.

He doesn’t sound convinced. He lifts it from the rocks, closes his eyes and puts it down again. His breaths are loud despite the river. Kouichi pinches the bridge of his nose.

”I’m calling dad.”

Kouji finally sits up. Blood drains from his face, but he’s sitting. He puts his bleeding arm in his lap, leans his head onto his other hand. Junpei yelps as well. Takuya’s head snaps up, looks towards Junpei. He’s still standing, his hand gripping a tree that’s hanging out over the rocks.

”You good there?” Takuya asks.

”Yeah”, Junpei doesn’t look quite as good as he says, but Takuya’s sure it’s just fear. ”How’s Kouji?”

Takuya glances at Kouji again. Kouji hasn’t moved from his hunched-over position.

”He says he’s fine”, Takuya answers.

He tries to make it very clear how much he doesn’t believe that for one bit. Kouichi takes his phone out, starts dialing the twins’ dad. Kouji removes his hand from his face, grabs Kouichi’s arm. He’s going to say no, try to stop Kouichi. Takuya’s brain goes into overdrive to figure out how to stop Kouji from stopping Kouichi.

”...gonna throw up”, Kouji says instead.

And then he does. Kouichi and Izumi jumps backwards and Takuya quickly pulls his legs out of the way. When it stops Kouji tilts to the side. Takuya hurries to slide down next to him.

”...did you hit your head?” he asks.

”Hmm”, Kouji answers.

Izumi sits down, looks at them. Takuya gives her a one-shouldered shrug. Kouichi moves a few feet away as their dad picks up. Kouji leans heavier against Takuya and Takuya sighs. How does his ideas always end up with Kouji injured? Duskmon must have placed a curse on them or something. ...better not say that out loud when Kouichi is nearby. Izumi pulls off her backpack, grabs a bottle of water and a towel from it. Pours water over the towel and slides down into the hole as well. The hole is not big enough for three people.

Izumi starts washing the blood of Kouji’s arm. He winces, tries to pull away and groans. Curses and buries his face into Takuya’s shoulder. Grips his own shoulder.

”Just a scratch”, Izumi says and shakes her head.

Takuya watches. Kouji’s arm is swollen, bruises already forming between the scrapes. The scrapes start bleeding again and Izumi washes them clean.

”Might… have a slight concussion”, Kouji mumbles.

”We already figured that one out”, Takuya says. ”Your arm’s probably broken as well.”

”Bleh”, Kouji says.

”You’ll be okay”, Izumi says. ”We just need to get you out of here.”

The river is starting to rise, splashing harder against the rocks. Takuya looks around to see if he can spot Tomoki, but the rocks are in the way and he can’t move without disturbing Kouji.

”Tomoki?” he calls.

Kouji winces. Takuya puts a hand on Kouji’s thigh.

”He’s on the shore”, Junpei says, ”on his way.”

Junpei comes closer, sits down on a rock next to the hole. Watches them.

”Concussion?” he asks.

Kouji nods. Takuya pulls a hand across his face.

”Why do you still let me come up with ideas?” he asks.

”Well, it was fun until Kouji fell”, Izumi answers.

She wrings out the towel and throws it into the backpack again. Climbs out of the hole.

”I didn’t bring a first aid-kit”, she says.

She looks incredible guilty. Takuya doesn’t like it.

”I didn’t either”, he says.

”Me neither”, Junpei admits.

Kouichi ends the phonecall, turns around. Kouji nods towards him. Takuya’s stupid, but he’s smart enough to understand that. He looks at Kouichi as well.

”First aid-kit?” he asks.

Kouichi pulls his backpack off, pulls a first aid-kit out of it. Takuya stands up, climbs up from the hole to make room for Kouichi. Leans Kouji against the rocks instead. He can see water gathering at the edges of the hole.

Kouichi cleans the wounds with anticeptics, wraps Kouji’s arm with bandages and puts it in a sling. Kouji is pale when Kouichi leans back. Water’s splashing over their feet. Better get Kouji up before he gets wet and sick as well, Takuya decides. He wraps an arm around Kouji.

”Giddy up!” he says.

Pulls Kouji to his feet. Kouji’s whole body tenses up, his cheeks turn green. Takuya manages to lean him forwards just enough so the vomit misses his arm. It still splashes on both their shoes though.

”Absolutely disgusting”, Takuya says.

He sits Kouji down on the rocks. Stands in the hole himself and checks Kouji’s eyes. They still have trouble focusing. That’s a concussion. Kouichi sits down next to Kouji.

”Dad’s on his way, he’ll know what to do.”

”We should get to the shore”, Izumi says.

She’s watching the water. It’s rising. The rocks will get wet and slippery again soon. Takuya climbs out of the hole.

”Can you walk?” he asks Kouji.

Kouji looks at him. Towards him more than at.

”’s just my arm, legs are fine.”

He tries to stand up, but his legs doesn’t want to cooperate. Takuya and Kouichi grabs him, helps steady him. Kouji leans heavily against both of them. At least he’s standing. Now it’s just the dangerous part left – climbing over the rocks onto the shore.

They take it slowly. Takuya holds Kouji, supports him, and Kouichi helps guide Kouji’s feet when he doesn’t manage himself. Junpei clambers over the rocks instead of walking. Good choice, Takuya thinks, it would be bad if they got another injured person to help. Kouji is already one too many.

Grass under their shoes. Takuya lets out a sigh of relief. Kouichi does as well. Kouji starts sagging and Takuya wraps his arm around Kouji’s waist. Kouji’s dad is there, walks towards them with big steps. Puts his hands on Kouji’s shoulders. Kouji doesn’t look up, doesn’t move.

”Kouji? Are you…”

Kouji shakes his head. The movement is slow. Takuya changes his grip, makes sure it secure.

”He has a concussion”, Kouichi said. ”And probably a broken arm.”

Kousei winces. Puts his hand on Kouji’s back.

”Car’s nearby, come on.”

Kouji takes a few stumbling steps, then stops. His body shakes, tenses up. How does he still have more to throw up? Takuya puts an arm across Kouji’s chest, careful with his arm, and helps him lean forwards. It’s barely anything, but Kouji struggles with it for almost two minutes.

He’s crying, Takuya realizes. Kouji is crying. His body sags towards the ground and Takuya doesn’t know what to do. He lets him, follows him down onto the path. They just barely miss the vomit. Kouji hides his face in his hand, his shoulders shake. Takuya glances at Kousei, who looks just as lost as Takuya feels.

”Kouji…” Kousei starts.

Kouji shakes his head, presses his face into Takuya’s shoulder. Takuya wraps an arm around Kouji and Kouji grips Takuya’s shirt. It feels… nice? Not that Kouji’s hurt and tired and whatever else he’s feeling, but… that he trusts Takuya enough to seek comfort there. Takuya likes it. Or maybe it’s just the concussion. Takuya looks at Kouichi. Kouichi looks just as lost as the rest of them. Everyone is quiet. Even Tomoki. Junpei isn’t pulling any magic trick out of his pocket to lighten everyone up. Even Kouji’s sobs are quiet.

They sit there for a few minutes. Kouji’s sobs dies out. He sniffles, lets go of Takuya’s shirt.

”Okay”, he whispers. ”Okay, I’m…”

He’s not, Takuya can tell. Even before Kouji finishes the sentence. He wants to wrap Kouji up and let him rest until he’s feeling better.

”I’m ready”, Kouji finishes.

He starts standing up. Slowly. Puts a hand on Takuya’s shoulder for leverage and support. Kousei steps closer, holds Kouji. Kouji’s eyes are closed. He stumbles forwards, Kousei’s hands guide him. Takuya gets up as well. Glances at everyone. They all look down. Worried. Takuya doesn’t have anything to say that can chase their worries away. Can’t even chase away his own worry. He puts his hands in his pockets.

”Well, this was a shit idea”, he says.

”It was fun”, Izumi said, ”until Kouji fell.”

”Yeah”, Tomoki agrees. ”I loved it, climbing the rocks was exciting.”

”I’m sure Kouji agrees”, Takuya says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Kouichi snorts.

”He wouldn’t have come along if he hated it. But we should probably do something less…” he gestures vaguely. ”next week.”

Takuya agrees with that. He’s sure the others are as well. Kouichi lifts a hand.

”I’m heading with them. See you later.”

”Keep us updated”, Izumi says.

Kouichi nods, turns his back towards them and hurries after Kouji and Kousei. Takuya kicks a rock. It rolls across Kouji’s vomit and Takuya grimaces. Not the best ending to the day. He’ll try to make it up to Kouji later. Bring him an icecream or something.

”Guess the fun’s over for today”, he says. ”Or are we going to my place for some games?”

”I promised mama to help her with dinner today”, Izumi says.

Takuya is pretty sure she just doesn’t want to play his games. He mostly owns fighting games and it’s not quite her style. Junpei scratches the back of his head.

”I have a lot of homework. Maybe next week.”

”Yeah”, Takuya says. It’s hard to hide the disappointment in his voice. Mostly he thinks he just really wants the company. ”Maybe next week.”

They wave goodbye. Go their separate ways. Takuya starts walking home, hands in his pockets. Kicks another rock. He’s never going to suggest another activity for them to do.

[pinkwright]

need u on my skin like closure, baby | shuri udaku.

ƸӜƷ

pairing — college!shuri x college!y/n

trope — exes 2 friends 2 lovers

inspo — anya mmiri by ckay ft. pinkpantheress

warnings — fingering (reader receiving), dom!shuri, humiliation kink, erm dumbification (listen..), possessive!shuri, protective!shuri, shuri is touchy, kissing, overstimulation, its long my bad, reader is easily embarrassed, tensionnn, shuris mean n condescending but so in love, reader is bratty for like two seconds, jealous!shuri, dacryphilia, dirty talk, degradation but like its like praise coded, praise, reader gets rlly subby (poor baby) but not crazily so like subspace, i think that's it but i honestly don't know.

a/n — i wrote this pretty quickly actually n was initially gonna post for valentines but bc i'm drowning in ideas rn it doesnt rlly matter so, i hope u enjoy it ! girl i won't lie writing this had me a bit breathy LMFAO so if there r any errors that's my bad but u know why. im a miniskirt kinda gal so this is what i imagine reader wearing to the party while this is what i imagine shuri in (4th)— u can obvi imagine what u want.

⟢˚ @mbakuetshurisprincess @inmyheadimobsessed @letitias-fav @barkbarkbo @saintwrld

ஜ

confusion, confusion, it's life, and illusion. you’re with me right now, next thing you're gone. but i need you on my skin closure, like closure, baby.

the music blasts through your ears, the steady vibrations stimulating you sufficiently, working well in keeping you from getting distracted from the current art piece you worked on. the world around you seemed muted as the tones of green, brown, and orange danced across your canvas, the oil paint was firm but still allowed room for error, encouraging it even – your favourite medium for that reason.

a slow succession of knocks sound under the thump of your music, the door to your studio opening and closing with two soft clicks, the person not making themselves known to you. though, a smile creeps on your lips – having recognised the knocking pattern, “by now you should know that creeping up on me after you’ve knocked is futile, right?” your hand reaching towards your stereo to lower the piercing volume.

you place your palette on the covered table to your side, the dirty paintbrush following suit as you stand to turn to face her, your arms lift into a stretch then fall to fix the unruly bun of the lace on your head as you finally set your gaze on her. she’s standing in the doorway, her hands buried in the pockets of her baggy black sweatpants, a matching oversized black hoodie sitting on her torso, the accents of dark purple shifting as she lifts her hands into surrender, and there’s mischief dancing in her eyes.  

“i will never understand how you do that when i quite literally have the stealth of a panther.”

she’s smiling at you as she speaks, her voice is playful and light as you begin to pack up your belongings, “i don’t know, your majesty. maybe, just maybe, the deadly black panther has met her match.” you’re giggling as you say it, unaware of the inner turmoil you’ve thrown shuri in to.

the air quietens down as you raise your eyes to look at her, your sweep of the room to make sure it’s presentable for your arrival tomorrow complete, and you seem to realise what has transpired, what you insinuated. shuri’s gazing at you with a deep but unreadable expression, one that has you averting your eyes over an awkward chuckle as you walk towards her.

“that, she has.” her voice is deep, and serious, as it slithers up your body, wafting with your intake of breath to settle in the depths of your lungs. her words carry a depth you’re familiar with, or at least, were familiar with, one that spoke of her devotion to you, her love and respect for you, her desires and promises to make you, her queen.

you clear your throat before moving around her tall frame to step out of the small, now tense, space. your heart flutters as she quickly reaches out to open the door for you, her cologne permeating your psyche as it washes over you – jasmine and warm musk on top of cedar and bourbon vanilla, all wrapped within the sensual flamboyancy of roses.

you walk to the elevator and step into the space, the music is soothing as you sigh out and drop your head side to side in a stretch, you had been sat unmoving for a long period of time, “i always tell you to take stretching breaks to ease the strain on your body.” shuri’s voice is teasing but you can hear the firmness floating through the crevices of it. your eyes reach to look up at her, your lips parting on a snarky remark, but the ding of a stop on another floor has you pausing; then there are two things happening simultaneously.

firstly, a group of college boys is stepping into the small space and, secondly, shuri’s reaching both her hands to rest firmly on the skin of either of your shoulders, slightly pressing against you to shift your body away from the rowdy boys, guiding you to face slightly away from them, as she steps forward to press against you, giving the one that was nearest to you a curt but taunting smile, as if she’s daring them to touch you.

the action is so swift and so instinctive that it’s over before you even get to blink twice, but it wakes up your aching body, provoking it into calling out for her. you feel its call in the warmth pulsing through you, the sweep of your stomach, and the racing of your heart. her head dips to where her soft curls skim the skin of your collarbone, her nose barely brushing against the arch of your neck, and your head is tilting slightly for her, your body reacts before your mind can process, clearly yearning for her closeness.

“what were you saying, s’thandwa?”

she breathes the words into your skin, her hands squeezing your shoulders before they’re slipping down your arms and coming to rest on the heated skin of your waist, pulling you into her so her chest presses against the length of your back; and you’re embarrassed. you can feel the rapid glances of the others beside you, though their conversation never ceases, and you know that shuri’s doing this on purpose. she knows that no matter how much you deny it, your body vibrates with the idea of her possessing you like this, owning you where there’s nothing to shield the clench of your thighs from prying eyes; she knows you bask in the humiliation of it.

you shake your head to clear your thoughts, “it’s fine, it wasn’t important.” you almost flinch when you hear how breathy your voice sounds, the heat rising to your face but moving to settle in the pit of your stomach. shuri’s chuckle is taunting as she breathes you in, her head dropping slightly and you can feel her lips curling as she skims a phantom kiss on your sweet skin, and you swear when your head clears, you’re going to kill shuri udaku.

the doors ring open to the ground floor and shuri guides your body out, no longer pressed against you as she takes to wrapping her arm around your shoulder and your head finally clears. “you are such a fucking ass, actually,” her boisterous laugh is cutting you off as she turns to look down at you, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“looking out for you is being an ass, my love?” she teases. your eyes roll as you throw her arm off of you, her laugh only intensifying as she brings her hands to clap obnoxiously. the muscles of your heart seize as you regard her, you love her so much, why’d she have to confuse you like this?

“shut the fuck up, i’ll see you tonight.” you try to look annoyed, but a series of giggles are escaping you as you walk away, your apartment only a block away. you’re adjusting the bag on your shoulder when shuri’s voice rings out in agreement, her laugh quelling as she watches you go, a sigh taking its place as the longing grips her once again.

⤠ 

you roll your lips to spread your lipgloss and reach to put the tube in the black bag you decided to carry tonight, rocking your hips to the beat of baby boy reverbarating through the walls of your apartment as you deem yourself ready. you spin your back to the mirror, your eyes sliding to gaze over your shoulder as you give yourself a once over, the length of your skirt was daring, provocative, just how you liked it.

the knocking at your door has you grabbing your bag and ruffling out your hair, allowing the bangs to frame your face cheekily because you know shuri likes it when you look a little bit of a mess for her, not that you wanted to look good for her or anything along those lines. the door swings open, your previous smile dropping as you lay your eyes on her, sweeping your gaze down her lithe frame as your glossy lips part, she needed you bad; shuri’s doing the same, her tongue coming out to lick her lips as her dark eyes burn into the skin of your legs, she had always been a leg girl.

your eyes snap up at the clearing of her throat, and she’s smirking at you before leaning into your space, her arms wrapping slowly around your waist, pressing you against her firmly as she brings her lips to your ear, “bast, you’re killing me, baby.”

the words end with a grunt as she slips one of her hands down your hips to play with the hem of your skirt, “this fucking skirt, you’re a little slut for attention, hm.” her voice is soft and cooing like she’s praising you, and her fingers grazing the skin of your thigh paired with the tenderness of her tone coaxes you into accepting the praise.

you let out a low whimper, the heat of your core bringing you to clench your thighs slightly, shuri chuckles condescendingly before pulling away, lifting your hand to her lips to graze your knuckles before she’s pulling you away, guiding you to her car. the ride is a short but electrified one, god what kind of exes slash friends were you?

the party is in full blast by the time you two arrive, music blasting through the house and flowing into both the back and front yards, you could feel the vibrations settle in the marrow of your bones as you make your way inside, still being guided by shuri. she moves through the crowd just like a panther; gracefully, instinctively, moving with the aura of the apex predator she was, she greets people as she enters the kitchen, using the grip on your hand to seat you on an empty barstool before she starts to prepare some drinks for you.

you’re joined by some of your friends, and soon you’re laughing, enjoying the party and the sweet drink shuri had prepared for you, before you feel like dancing. you hold one of your friend’s hands as you go to dance, letting go of the overbearing stress you carried, letting the music caress the heat of your skin. you feel her eyes watching you, feel them heavily sliding down the length of your moving body and it exhilarates you. you open your eyes and just as you meet her gaze, a body presses itself against you, much like she had earlier, and her gaze is darkening.

the intensity of it shocks you but lulls the bratty side of you forward, calling you to make her move, make her claim you again. the thought excites you enough to bring your hand to guide the strangers to rest on the material covering your ribs, your lips twitching in amusement when you see her eyes drop to sneer at the touch.

that’s it, come to me. the vixen in you is cunning, luring her lover to her with tactics she knows shuri will concur to, tactics she knows will break the regal patience of the queen.

but shuri simply raises a manicured brow, her lips lifting into a smirk as she sweeps her eyes over your frame and she’s leaning forward against the marble countertops before tilting her head at you. you know that look, and so does your body, seeing as it instinctively clenches with a fire so deep it licks at the jagged edges of your ribs, sinking into the space between your legs.

she barely lifts her hand, her fingers moving to call you to her and you’re moving without thinking, like a prey to its predator, and you’re soothed by a false sense of security when she allows you to place your hand in hers so she can gently pull you towards her and whisper directly into your ear, “i don’t know who made you think you run shit, s’thandwa, but i know you need me to fix that for you, right?”

the shiver that wrecks through your body is instant and you’re nodding before you can comprehend, your breath hitching when you feel her pull you through the crowd, you were in for it. the lock of the bathroom door barely clicks before one of shuri’s hands grabs both of your wrists to press against the wood while the other pushes your hips against the surface.

there’s a pause, “i need to hear you to tell me you want this baby, that you want me.” her voice is strained like she’s holding back.

“please, please, shuri, i need it, need you, always.”

the whine barely escapes you before she’s letting out a tortured groan and pressing against you, her hand sliding down your hip, roughly pushing the hem of your skirt up, and pressing over the front of your damp underwear. your hips stutter as she presses against your clit, your lips parting as you moan out, hearing her groan into the curve of your neck, her lips pressing heated kisses along the length of it, “barely touched you and you’re this wet for me, baby? my pretty pussy’s crying for me, isn’t she?”

her voice is pulling you into the state only she can pull you into, where your mind is only occupied with her, and it’s hard to think, to breathe, to exist beyond her. her fingers trace slow circles over your underwear, your hips swirling to match the movements, and she’s laughing at you. lifting her lips to slide over your cheekbone and press against your temple as she increases the pace of her fingers.

“my desperate fucking girl. you want to come in these pretty lace panties?”

your hips buck wildly as you gasp, your head spinning as you whimper out her name, over and over again, a series of pleads falling from your lips. the way she’s talking to you with that lilt in her voice like you were just a girl to be scolded, a girl to be humiliated until you learned, learned what being hers meant. she’s speaking words to you, wanting you to gaze into those eyes while she touches what’s hers.

you feel the wave cresting, your stomach clenching as you practically squeal out her name, your hips gyrating frantically in time with her hand, your hands are clenching, your arms still held above your head, wanting to grab something to ground you, wanting to touch her to ground you. she coos at you, murmuring about her, “pretty sweet thing coming so good for her.”

your heart rate doesn’t get the chance to slow as you feel her hand slip into your now-soaked, underwear, your hips bucking violently as she grazes her slender fingers across your sensitive clit, and your eyes are widening as you lift your gaze to find hers already on you, “had enough, angel? i don’t think you have.” her voice is taunting, her eyes holding a fire that burns your insides.

your mouth drops open, your gaze unable to move from hers as she slides her fingers to your entrance circling around the opening as she groans deep in her throat, “bast, you were made for me, my love, made to take me?” her finger slips in slightly as she curls her tongue around ‘take’ and you’re chasing her fingers, she’s being so mean.

you tense as she finally slips her finger into the warmth of your walls, a satisfying moan slips from your mouth as she begins to gently thrust in and out of you, her fingers dragging against you, just the way she knows you love. she’s smirking against your cheek as you unabashedly moan out repeatedly, thumb coming to circle your clit as you shut your eyes. the tears are gathering on your lashes as you’re whimpering out.

“there’s my pretty baby’s tears.” her voice is dark, menacingly dragging out the words. “couldn’t have my pretty pussy crying by herself tonight, hm.” the words render you dumb before her fingers glide firmly against that rough patch inside you and you’re clenching so hard that it drags her fingers deeper into you, your legs trembling, your body solely held up by shuri’s hold on your wrists. and you still long enough for her to mutter out a ‘that’s it, angel.’ before you’re exploding again.

the tears are clinging to your lashes as you see flashes of colour behind your eyelids, your breath coming out in pants as you stutter your hips to the soothing slow of shuri’s lithe fingers, she’s using the hand holding your wrist to lower your arms to rest around her shoulders, her arms then coming to the back of your thighs to gently lift you on to the sink.

you feel her lift your chin, her lips approaching yours before she pauses, “you’re mine, right. my precious love, hm?” her voice is raspy. you nod eagerly, tightening your arms around her neck, whining for that kiss. she smirks as she leans in, placing her lips against your own softly but with a little desperation, the slide of your lips is a back-and-forth pull of your love, a love song duet, a devotion of walking into what will be.

the panther’s sly hands skim up your still quivering thighs fiddling with the band of your underwear, pausing, before she’s ripping them off. the gasp you release into her mouth is sharp but as you go to pull away, she doesn’t let you, her mouth slipping against yours felt like an addiction. both her hands slip along your inner thigh making their way to your dripping cunt.

her lips separate from yours when the tips of her fingers graze your folds and you thrash so wildly, she has to reach a hand to your hip to still you, a grunt slipping passed her mouth at the action, you were so sensitive, it made her feral. her eyes lift to your shut ones as she glides her fingers over your clit, your head frantically shaking, “you don’t want more, my love?”

her voice wisps through the clouds in your mind, “c-cant…please” you force out pathetically on a whimper, her fingers circling your clenching entrance, “i know, baby, i know.” she’s speaking gently to you, lovingly, “but you’re mine, yes? mine to love, mine to make come as i please? isn’t that right, honey?” and you’re nodding frantically.

“then i want you to get off on my thigh like the desperate girl you are, sweetheart.”

her voice is the only thing you can fathom, and it has you craving for more, inviting her into you and it almost makes shuri preen – you’re so open to her, settling into her embrace as if you trusted her more than yourself, it makes her soaking pussy clench tight around nothing, in a way only you could make her. her thigh presses between your legs and your muscles tremble around the strong muscle, her hand slips around your throat, squeezing gently as she guides your eyes to hers, and she gazes at you so deeply, it makes you squirm.

shuri’s watching you struggle against her thigh, her lips lifting into a condescending smirk that forces you to shut your eyes and let out a lengthy, needy whine before she uses her free hand to grip your waist and harshly slide you against her.

“dumb baby needs me to do everything for her?”

the moans you’re sobbing out sharply slice through the air, and you feel filthy, crying out for her while she drags you against her thigh like a desperate slut. you’re hiccupping on your tears as she continues to coo at you, walking you to your demise and you can feel it, your heartbeat pulsing through your desperate clenching walls.

her head is nodding along with yours, your eyes unable to separate from hers, and she’s groaning along to your cries, asking if you want it enough if you’re desperate enough for her. she leans in to press a tender peck to your lips that you can’t reciprocate, “that’s it, my angel, give me that come.”

then your body is convulsing so violently, shuri has to press the length of her body against you to prevent you from slipping off of the sink she has you sat on, her head sinking to your neck to shower you in praises and remind you how good you were for her, how much she loves you, how pretty you are when you cry for her. your tears are hot on your cheeks as you soak her thigh, and you’re heaving as your eyelashes cling to one another, the mascara smeared along your waterline - you looked ruined.

shuri regards you with a tenderness that sends you spiralling, she reaches her hand to brush along your wet cheeks before following the trail with her warm lips, exhaling her love into your skin, reminding you how much her heart belonged to you too. her lips meet yours in a soft press and she sighs as she pulls you against her body to ground herself.

she could feel her heart clench with the force of her love for you, she was never going to let you go again.   

how could i forget you? when you build house for my mind? and you no go, go outside and you no go, go. i miss me and you. but all i have is memories of you. but that just wont do tonight.

ஜ

[keresnotceres]

Ghost, Soap, & Gaz: Tattoo Parlor

SYN: headcanons if you (their lover) were a tattoo artist

[sfw] cw(s): needles.

GN Reader! this is actually fluff!! (mostly) enjoy dovies <3 (p.s it’s been a hot sec since i wrote for these mfs so i’m sorry if they’re ooc 😔🫶)

Ghost hadn’t planned on getting any more tattoos after his half-sleeve, he barely even made plans to get it retouched. However, if you asked, he’d absolutely let you ink him.

He’d have restrictions on what you could put on him; he likes his tattoos to be cohesive — to have a personal meaning. But if you came up with something he liked, he’d have no qualms sitting still while you did your work. Is particularly drawn to Fine Line and Blackwork styles of tattooing, but, again, if you come up with something he really likes, he’d let you put it on him regardless of style. (He might be really picky if it were a watercolor style tattoo, though). Is down for matching tattoos but will be damned if he’s asked to explain it when talking about the rest of his tattoos.

I like to think he’d like watching you tattoo yourself. The pure concentration on your face and the whirring of the needle creates a pretty calming atmosphere for Ghost. Do NOT let this man pick out your tattoos though. He will absolutely try to make you get some ugly ass army tattoo and you will have to convince him why you shouldn’t do that to yourself.

Gaz, while he doesn’t have any tattoos to show for it, wouldn’t be opposed to having some. Put him in coach!! He’d be excited if you told him you’d come up with a design you think he’d like/would look good on him. Would probably be a champ when it comes to actually getting the tattoo; he did tense up a bit at first due to the unnatural sensation but ended up calming down after the first half hour or so.

Intrigued by Neo Traditional tattoos, but would probably settle for anything as long as you were confident in the style. Though I do think he wouldn’t like the Patch style of tattoos. Something about them just creeps him out and he cannot explain it. I feel like Gaz is also the type to not choose a tattoo on a whim; he’s another guy to need it to have some sort of meaning behind it. For example, Gaz is the type of person to get a tattoo that is a representation of someone he loves. However, despite his sentimentality, he wouldn’t get a date or writing tattooed on him. He would be very picky if it came to matching tattoos. He doesn’t want it to be sickeningly sweet or anything but he also wouldn’t want it to just be dull and boring. Trying to find something that suits his tastes would take a lifetime, probably.

Does not like watching you tattoo yourself. Is scared of accidentally making you mess it up so he tends to stay out of your way when you’re inking yourself. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to pick out tattoos for you, though. He actually likes doing that! Let him do it!!

Soap will absolutely let you tattoo him, he’s just a little wary of the tattoo gun at first. He’s watched other people get tattoos, hell, he’s watched you tattoo yourself more times than he can count; but there’s just something about having it done to him that makes him squirm a little bit.

He finds that Blackwork style tattoos draw his attention the most, but if you were to present him with a pretty good Old School tattoo, he wouldn’t say no. He’s difficult to focus with, though. He likes to chat you up; whether it’s just striking up conversation or flirting with you non-stop, he’s chatty. At least it’s endearing that he wants to talk to you. Soap isn’t particularly keen on the idea of having matching tattoos. He is, if anything, aware. He knows that, if things were to go wrong between the two of you, he’d have a reminder of you until he could get it covered. If he was KIA, you would have the memory of the two of you immortalized on your skin.

Surprisingly really good at picking out tattoos for you to give yourself or get done. He always manages to find something that will suit your personality or blend well with the rest of your tattoos if you have a menagerie of them.

[loupy-mongoose]

I had an image come to mind that evolved into a comic idea. But it got too long and convoluted for a comic, so instead I wrote it into a little one-shot.

It's so long, though, that I'm going to put it under a Read More. There are no spoilers or anything, it takes place in present day, after Rosemary was brought into the cast. It's only hidden for the sake of saving space.

However, I do want to warn that it contains high emotion/anxiety, which I know may upset some people. So if you're one of the people sensitive to that, be aware.

Anyway, enjoy, if you choose to read. ^-^

~~~~~~

Once again the bed wobbled and creaked as her husband adjusted himself, fruitlessly fighting for sleep. Curled around her twin children, nestled into the blankets and bedsheets, she could feel the waves of anxiety flooding from him. Inwardly, she sighed as she wondered what she could do for him.

Coming up with something, she mentally reached out to find Lav's mindfield.

Lav?

She felt the energy waver.

Are you awake?

The energy rippled into a pattern of awareness. I am NOW, came the slightly irritated response.

Akoya's ears fell back in guilt. Sorry, stupid question.

Is something wrong, Mom?

...Your dad's really anxious and hasn't slept yet. I wanted to take him out for some air. Would you mind keeping an eye on the twins?

Akoya could feel her daughter's energy surge as she became more active and aware. Of course! You want to bring them here, or me come in there?

I'll bring them to you. There's more entertainment for them if they wake up and can't get back to sleep.

The night was pleasantly cool, despite summer's firm grasp on the region. A breeze danced through the trees and grass, giving the two human figures reprieve from the hold of the heat.

Akoya once more felt guilt prickling her skin, feeling unusually exposed due to her current lack of fur.

He had agreed to this walk, obviously hoping as she did that it would help his overactive mind mellow out. But as she plodded steadily at his side, hand in hand, she noted him making heavy use of his cane.

Clearly his legs were acting up.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea...

Before she could think of something to say to abort the walk, he stopped. His hand that had been in hers rose to his face, combing through his hair as he often did when fighting stressful thoughts. Sighing, Akoya placed hers on his quivering shoulder.

I-I'm sorry.

She was startled that it was his voice apologizing, and not hers.

I... I sh-should be over this, shouldn't I?? His voice was high and raspy with emotion. I shouldn't have these d-doubts... I was f-fine... Wh-why...?

She felt tears well up in her own eyes. She placed her cheek on his shoulder. You don't need to be sorry. We both know how it is. Sometimes it just... comes back, you know? Her words felt flat to her.

It's been five years!

Akoya jolted away from him as his shoulder tensed.

I should be over this! I should be able to accept it by now! He started pacing, no longer using his cane. Why can't I accept what happened and just... live!? I've been given a chance at a life I would've relished as a child! Why c-can't I just live it!?

Her heart ached for him. It was hard for her to figure out what she could say when he got this upset. One thought crossed her mind, but she was almost certain he wouldn't like it. Especially now.

But maybe it would help him in a different way.

She took a deep breath. Maybe you should try one of these therapist people.

As she expected, he turned to her. His eyes shone with a strange light. A mix of fury, and... hopelessness...

Oh? And tell them what? "Yeah, hello, I have a lot of anxiety. Why? Well, let's see, I have two young children and a younger niece who can be flattened with one wrong step. My oldest daughter is meeting up with a superweapon. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget that I'M NOT WHO I SAY I AM!"

By now it was clear he wasn't speaking to her. He was just speaking. He had to let out his thoughts... not for the first time.

I haven't been... For five years... For NINE years...

Likely not the last, either.

I've been living a lie for nine years...

His breathing was coming in sobs, and tears streamed down his face. His voice was tired and lost.

I... I'm not... I'm not Randall Linden.

They stood in silence for a moment. Akoya's blood was chilled by his words. Every time he reached a place of contentment, she hoped that it was the last time. That he had finally moved past it

Everything about him was Randall.

Why couldn't he just see that?

But she bit her tongue. She knew it was selfish. She couldn't see the inner workings of his mind, even with her Psychic powers. Minds were too complex for that.

But she never dared let the thought settle; What if he isn't Randall?

Still, she let herself ask him. Then who are you?

Although their eyes met, the man in front of her stared past her. His gaze was utterly lost and defeated. This was a question she knew he wrestled with many, many times in the last five years.

If he wasn't Randy, then there was only one other option, right?

He transformed. The long Mew form floated where Randy had once stood.

Mo.

He gazed at his hands, his tear-soaked eyes looking more tired than ever before.

...But he wasn't Mo either.

He had tried to find the Mew's old memories. Many times tried, many times failed. More often than not, leaving him with a nasty headache.

Mo was gone.

Akoya approached the broken Mew. Gently she took him in her arms, hugging him close to her neck.

So who did that leave?

Together they stayed as the sun began to rise. She held him as he sobbed into the collar of her shirt.

Every bit of her wished he could see what she saw. He was Randy, through and through. She had accepted it long ago, no matter how weird and unfortunate the circumstances had been.

He had the same sweet heart, the same brilliant mind.

But his soul seemed to be shattered.

And Akoya had to face a grim question.

Was it shattered beyond repair?

~~~

[hearthotchner]

i’ll change for you

— aaron hotchner

@my-mummy-dust

tw; death, suicide, death of a child, lots of crying, aaron is a meanie, child abuse, then, the usual criminal minds stuff

notes: this took so long to write 🤧😭 but i really do like it. also, i have no idea how the criminal minds writers write this kinda stuff, i felt so horrible for what i wrote about the victim ☹️

word count: 3.2k

tension in the precinct was so thick, it could be cut with a knife; no one dared to speak, not with the stakes this high. you all just put your heads down, hoping to make sense of this mess of a case.

in the beginning, it seemed pretty simple. but, then the case began to drag on, with the unsub taking a longer dormancy period between each kill, leaving you and your team like sitting ducks.

you profiled this — he was arrogant, cocky. he knew that anything and everything that happened, was in his control; you hated to admit it but, right now, it was true.

as the minutes went on, aaron was becoming more agitated. it was obvious this case stuck with him more than others, they were children, innocent, defenceless, children; of course everyone felt that way about cases involving kids, but you knew that it was different for parents. and, as much as you wanted to, you refrained from trying comfort him, knowing he wanted to be left alone.

he had all the giveaways: the way his brows were furrowed, the scowl plastered on his face, how his whole body was tense, with his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“i don’t get it. you said he was young, out of control, so why’s he taking a longer time between each kill? shouldn’t it be the other way around?” the deputy asked.

rossi spoke up, “yeah, it should be. these kinds of unsubs are always conflicting themselves in their profiles, it’s strange, but rare.” reaching for a few photos of the crime scenes, he continued, “look. you see all these? spilled milk, broken plate, unfinished homework.” he pointed at each picture where it was present, “he’s recreating something, that probably happened in his own childhood, and now he’s projecting it onto them, he sees himself in them, and feels he’s obligated to punish them.”

derek, fiddling with the pen in his hands, spoke next, “the trigger may have been something to do with a parent, and something as simple as seeing the first victim getting told off in a public place, like a park or mall, would prompt him to break into their home, and ‘punish’ the kid.” he shrugged.

“killing the parents is simply to ensure he doesn’t have his fantasy ruined, which is why they’re shot with a single bullet, through the skull.”

spencer takes over, “all these examples show how he is in control. however, his lack of control is displayed in the actual kill of the child. it reflects how, internally, he’s losing it.” he spoke with his hands too, raising them closer to his chest, at the world ‘internal’ “with each and every murder, it becomes more brutal, he beats them even after he knows they’re dead. it’s actually a huge escalation we see compared to the first, where he strangles the victim.”

“but why take the child this time? all the others were killed in their own homes. what makes matt different?”

“that’s what we’re trying to figure out.” rossi sighed.

all heads snapped to the front of the room, when the door was abruptly opened, revealing the officer who was slightly out of breath, “i think we got something. someone’s called the tip line, asking for you guys.”

—

“this is ssa aaron hotchner, with the behavioural analysis unit.”

the plan was to get him on the phone long enough for penelope to track him, and humanise the victim in his eyes, an ounce of empathy could save that boys life.

clattering and yelling could be heard from the other end of the line, shouts of “tell them!” repeated, over the loud sobs that escaped the child.

you couldn’t listen to this anymore, but you had to.

he was relentless, hurling insults toward him, and all you could do was sit there and listen.

looking over at your boyfriend, you saw him take in a deep breath, composing himself, before talking, “matthew’s just a kid, he doesn’t know why he’s there, or, why you’re mad at him.”

“oh yeah? he’s a spoiled brat, that’s what he is, and he fucking knows it! mom’s not here to save you is she?”

aaron tried to reason, “don’t do this. you’re doing the same thing to him, what they did to you, shouldn’t you be putting an end to this cycle? just bring matthew home, we can help you.”

sobs and begs for forgiveness grew louder over the line, “shut up!” you didn’t know who it was directed at, nor did you care. undoubtedly, it was the loud bang of a gun that filled the room, right before the phone was cut.

aaron sucked in a breath, hands beginning to shake slightly.

“penelope, tell me you got something.” morgan asked with desperation.

“yeah- i, uh, yes. it was a burner cell, pinged off of these three towers. i’ve already sent it to your phones.” her voice wavering.

“mom?” you whispered.

“what?”

“he said mom. garcia, could you check if matthew’s mother had any other children, around 20 to 25 years ago?” you hoped to god you were getting somewhere with this, if you weren’t, you doubted you’d catch this guy.

“o-okay.” there was a pause, as she typed, “yes. a son. eric watts. born in 1990, when elizabeth was only 16. he was put into the foster system, the day he was born.” she paused again. “his foster parents, brian and martha crawford, weren’t so kind, during his time with them: constant visits to the hospital, with broken bones, concussions — blamed it on fights, but, it wasn’t backed up. although, his school reported seeing bruising around his neck when he was younger once, but nobody ever did anything.”

“can you check if there’s a property, that has any significance to him? maybe, his old foster home? he’d need somewhere secluded.”

“um, yes! there’s a small ranch house in brian crawford’s name, just a few miles off the west tower, sending the co-ordinates now.”

wasting no time, the team quickly threw their vests on and piled into the two SUV’s — police units following closely behind.

climbing into the passenger side, you said, “this is probably his endgame. there’s no other reason why he’d change his plans, by taking matt to a secondary location, and have the courage to call — those insults were personal.”

“yeah. he’s jealous. upset. why did my mom give me away, but her new kid gets to live a happy and loving life, one i should’ve had. i don’t think it’s gonna be easy taking him alive.” rossi replied from the drivers seat, turning on the sirens.

—

when you turned the cars in, the lights and sirens switched off, so he wouldn’t know you’d be coming.

slamming the car door shut, you rushed to the front of the house, heart practically jumping out of your chest.

morgan kicked the door down, immediately turning to the left, while you went straight ahead, and JJ taking the right.

a series of hopeless ‘clear!’s was heard through your earpiece.

faint yells that were barely present before, got louder and louder, as you inched toward a white door. “i got him. in the basement.” you announced into the mic on your collar.

wrapping your hand around the cold metal, you swung the door open, gun aimed straight ahead, and quickly ran down the stairs, that creaked under you.

“eric watts! FBI! let the boy go.” aaron was stood right next to you, gun also aimed at the man.

“don’t! get away! i’ll kill him!” he was panicking, scrambling to drag matthew up by the collar of his shirt, holding the loaded revolver to the side of his head.

“eric. you don’t want to do this.” you spoke carefully, your aim not faltering. “we know what happened. your mom.. she was only a kid when she had you, she didn’t know any better, than to do what she did.”

“she let me suffer!” he cried out. “she lived her life happily, knowing i was out there, and she did nothing!” his hand began to tighten around the boy’s neck. “all those years! all those years, and she didn’t come! she got to play house with her perfect little family!” he spat, “while i was forced into that living hell she put me in!”

“killing these children isn’t going to fix it eric. they did nothing wrong, just like you didn’t. you need to stop this, so nobody else gets hurt.” it was working, you could see how his hold began to loosen. “let him go.”

a wave of visible emotion flew through him, as he looked down. horror, shock, disbelief, and, realisation, written all over his face. it looked like he had just woken up from a nightmare.

then, his whole body began to tremble, eyes brimming with tears, when he lifted the gun, to his own head.

a loud bang followed immediately after.

—

matthew was in bad shape.

aaron had carried his limp body to the EMT’s — praying he wasn’t too late. he needed to make sure he was okay, that he’d make it home back to his mom.

sometimes, his vision would change, at a glance, he saw his own son in his arms: all battered and bruised. it was an image that would haunt him for days.

“is- is he gonna be okay?” he croaked out.

“we don’t know, agent, he’s in critical condition.” they replied, shooting him a look of sympathy.

after telling them that elizabeth watts would be on her way to the hospital, aaron asked if he could ride in the ambulance with him. he needed assurance. closure.

—

“i’m sorry, sir. but we lost him shortly after he arrived.”

he felt like breaking down, falling to his knees, when he heard those words leave the nurse. but, all he managed to do was nod, with a solemn look on his face.

aaron didn’t have it in him to go to matthew’s room, to say goodbye — if he did, he may never rest easy again.

on his way to the car, he pulled out a little photo of jack he had in his wallet. seeing his son, always brought him comfort, made all his troubles go away, just for a moment. a small smile creeped up onto the fathers face, when he realised he’d be home to that ray of sunshine, in a couple hours.

—

aaron barely slept that night.

when he wasn’t seeing matt in the corners of his vision, he’d be visited by him in his dreams. the boy would cry, tiny hands gripping onto his shirt, demanding for an answer as to why aaron couldn’t save him; all he could do was let “i’m sorry” fall from his lips over and over again. why wasn’t he fast enough?

—

when morning came, you decided you had given aaron enough time. he was struggling. you couldn’t stand to leave him alone any longer, it wasn’t good for him.

in the short time people interacted with him, he’d get progressively more irritated — he was a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off.

you noticed, along with everyone else, how he’d stare off into the distance, face turned white, his usual blank expression laced with fear and guilt.

“aaron.” you spoke, breaking him out of his trance, “i know you’d prefer to be left alone right now, but i really don’t think you should be. are you okay?” he stared at you. “i think you should take some time off, you’re tired, and you’re stressed. maybe we could make dinner together? to get your mind off of it?” bringing your hand to rest on his, “and we can talk.”

“did you really just ask me that?” he whispered, gaze unmoving, “four kids, seven parents, and an unsub dead. multiple family members for me to answer to, for me to tell that i couldn’t save any of their children. and all you can think about is making dinner?” his brows furrowed in anger and confusion.

“what?” you asked, “aaron, you know i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then what did you mean it like? tell me.”

“i just wanted to help you-”

“well you can’t! stop trying to act like more than what you are, (y/n)! these people are dead, they can’t come back, and you want me to brush that off?!” voice becoming harsher with every word he spoke.

your vision began to blur at the edges, and your throat began to close up, “more than what i am?” you asked. “and what am i to you, aaron?”

“nothing.” he replied coldly.

having nothing left to say, you turned, not wanting him to see the tears that rolled down your cheeks, and walked away.

he didn’t do anything to stop you.

you knew this would happen, knew you’d be the one who’d be at the receiving end of his anger — what you didn’t know, was that he’d reveal the truth of what your relationship really meant to him.

it dawned on you then, that maybe his promises of love were empty. instead, they were used as a mere tool to keep you around, to fill the absence of a partner in his life.

—

it had been three days, since you got back from the case — you and aaron hadn’t spoke. he was withdrawn, barely coming out of his office unless it was necessary, but you saw how red his eyes were, from crying or tiredness, you didn’t know.

you were torn. one part of you longed to go over to him, do anything just to get that look of despair off his face; another part of you wanted to avoid him like the plague. he hurt you, used you — yet you didn’t understand why you were still so drawn to him.

—

there was rowdiness in the bullpen, everyone deep in a debate about how one should cut their sandwiches, until a voice broke through, “(y/n). may i speak with you?”

of course now he wanted to speak, you internally rolled your eyes, genuinely appalled at how he’s handling this, as you walked up the stairs to his office.

“what did you want to talk about, sir?”

the title stung more than he’d like to admit, “don’t. don’t call me that.”

“then what do you want me call you?”

his words were quiet, almost pleading, “my name.”

“i don’t think that’s appropriate, hotch.”

“(y/n), please-”

“listen, if this isn’t about work, then we have nothing to talk about.” you headed toward the door, leaving him alone again.

this time, you missed the way his hand reached out for yours.

you made a beeline for the bathroom, ignoring the teams concerned looks, as you wiped the tears beginning to fall down your cheeks.

you didn’t know why you were crying, it was only the sight of him that seemed to bring all those emotions rushing back, you couldn’t help it, as the dam finally broke.

a moment after, you felt yourself being pulled into an embrace, the person rubbing their hand up and down your back, until you calmed down.

“what happened?” it was emily.

“nothing,” you sniffed, “it’s fine.”

“did hotch say something? you weren’t in his office long.”

“no, can you just get my stuff please? i’ll finish the rest of my work at home.” you sighed, wiping your eyes.

she nodded, giving you a soft look, “yeah, sure, i’ll drive you.”

she told you to wait by the elevator, whilst she gathered your things, and told hotch where she’d be going.

—

“thanks, emily, you didn’t have to do this.” you set your bags down.

“it’s alright, just get some sleep, okay?”

you wanted nothing more. so, when she left, you collapsed on the couch, turning something on the tv as background noise, as you fell asleep.

—

it wasn’t soon after, when you were woken by firm knocking on the front door. rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you sluggishly made your way over, the sound becoming louder, and desperate. you didn’t even bother checking through the peephole, which was why you were visibly shocked, when met with the sight of aaron there.

“please hear me out.” he begged, speaking before you did, “i won’t bother you again, if you do. please, just listen.”

you moved aside, letting him in.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, (y/n).” his voice completely different, compared to the last time you spoke with him — something that was so harsh, was now soft.

he was so unlike himself: hair disheveled, with raw emotion painted on his face — he wasn’t ssa hotchner, bau unit chief, anymore, he was aaron, and he was afraid. “i wish i knew why i said that, i really do, because it was far from the truth. i shouldn’t have said it, i know that, and i should’ve gone to you straight away when i did,” his long fingers twitched, itching to hold you, “and explained to you that it wasn’t your fault, you were just trying to help.”

with every word, you struggled to hold yourself together, because the look on his face broke your heart. the urge to be close to him became unbearable — so, you gave in. wrapping your arms around his body, and resting your head on his chest, the rapid beating of his heart, and scent of his cologne soothing you.

“i didn’t want you to be alone.” you whispered, voice breaking.

you were a sensitive soul, and aaron knew that, which was why he had never raised his voice at you, prior to that day.

“please don’t cry, it’s all i’ve been making you do these days.” he spoke, wiping the tears that you didn’t even know were falling.

“it hurt hearing you say that. i thought- i thought you’d been lying to me, this whole time.”

“i wasn’t. i’m sorry i made you think that.”

looking up, he tried to hold back his own tears. “i’m scared, (y/n)..” he breathed, “ever since that day, he’s been there, always asking me why i couldn’t save him, what am i supposed to say to that?”

you lead him to the couch, sat him down, and let him hold you, as he continued, “and i can’t tell the difference, between him and jack.”

then, he told you how he saw jack as the one in his arms that day. and how, one night, he was putting his son to bed, and the vision of matt flashed for a moment.

knowing it calmed him, you ran your fingers through his soft hair, as he cried.

“you need help, aaron. this job, it’s taking a toll on you. if you carry on like this, you’re going to lose yourself — you already are.” you wove your fingers with his, “but, you can’t be helped if you don’t want it, you know that, don’t you?” he nodded. “jack’s spring break is coming up.” you mentioned, “you should take those days off, it’ll be good for both of you. and, i’ll start looking for some therapists too, alright?”

he kissed your cheek, “okay.”

“if that doesn’t work, then we’ll find something else, and we’ll keep doing it again until we find something.”

it was silent after that. eventually, the two of you moved so that you were laying on his chest; you thought aaron had fallen asleep if he hadn’t mumbled, “you’re too good to me, i don’t deserve you, angel. i’d be so lost without you.”

“don’t say that. you’d find your way around, you always do — i’m just giving you a little shove.” you smiled.

[f1-disaster-bi]

Roy/Jaime fic idea: Jaime is super late to training one morning and everyone is annoyed because a huge game is coming up. Everyone is already out on the pitch when Jaime finally appears, but all anger goes out the window when he emerges from the tunnel still dressed in his street clothes, with a tiny little bundle cradled in his arms. Tartt Sr. had shown up just as Jaime was about to head in, unceremoniously presenting Jaime with his new baby sibling, paperwork signing over custody, and a hospital bag of baby essentials before he fucked off back to Manchester without a glance back. Needless to say training is cancelled that day, as everyone basically falls over themselves to help Jaime and the new little Tartt, especially Roy who falls into the role of protector and partner in the span of a breath.

Anon, I love you for this. I'm absolutely I'm love with this idea.

I have so many thoughts and emotions about it but for now....please have this little drabble I wrote about it (and that @f1-birb is trying to make me write a fic for)

"Is that Jamie?" "Fuckin finally man" "Wait...whys he dressed normal like?" Roy growls, turning away from where he was leading the second team through a drill to look towards the tunnel and sure enough, Jamie is there at the opening. He's dressed in street clothes, but that's not what catches Roy's attention. No. Jamie is holding what looks like something small and swaddled and Roy is moving in an instant. As he gets closer, out pacing Ted and Beard despite his knee, he can hear Ted calling for him to stop but Roy doesn't. He doesn't stop until he's standing in front of a very tense, very distraught and confused looking Jamie who can't tear his eyes off the baby in his arms that can't be more than a week old. "Tartt, oi, Jamie", Roy calls softly, not wanting to wake the sleeping baby, "where'd'ya get the kid? Is it...." "Is not mine...well he is, but he isn't", Jamie stutters, eyebrows pinched together, "Me dad, yeah? Showed up at me 'ouse and he...he had this babeh and he just left 'im to me. Says he's my brother and just leaves. Left me some papers, legally he's mine, but Coach...Roy....I can't" Jamie is on the verge of a panic attack, his distressed making the baby in his arms start to wake and Roy can hear the team murmuring behind him. "Jamie", Roy drops his voice low, knowing it'll catch Jamie's attention as he gently grabs the back of Jamie's neck, "breath" The touch has Jamie melting. He's stepping closer to Roy until his head hits his shoulder, and both him and the baby are shielded by Roy as Jamie's shakes. Roy keeps his grip gentle, thumb soothing the tense muscles in his neck as Jamie sniffles. "What's his name?" "Charlie"

"How old?" Roy asks, peering down at little Charlie as Jamie lifts his head from Roy's shoulder, and Roy pretends he doesn't miss the weight of it. "Ten days, his mum don't want 'im and me dad....well he'd rather drink than spend moneh on his kids," Jamie replied, adjusting his hold of Charlie and rocking him softly. "Ten days old and he's already better looking than you, that's a good start to life", Roy hums, watching as the joke gets a smile off of Jamie and little laugh. And that laugh is all the team need to come closer. Dani reaches them first, his grin so wide Roy is genuinely worried the kid is gonna split his face in half as he almost vibrates with joy. "Oh, oh, it's a baby. How beautiful, our Jamie is a dad!"

[kivaember]

looks you dead in the eye. yes. i wrote viv621 AC... groping... idek what this is. it's late and i should sleep but my brain was like WRITE THIS WRITE THIS so here you have AC petting. Enjoy(?).

When Raven had floated the idea to him initially, Rusty had thought it'd been nothing more than a strange joke.

It'd been on the tail end of a sortie, a quick and dirty job of crushing a Balam raiding party that had been harassing Arquebus supply lines a little too much. It'd been just MTs, but one had managed to get a lucky shot on STEEL HAZE, a wayward round lodging into the joint of the AC's left shoulder. It hadn't been enough to limit his range of movement, but it squatted in juuuust the right spot to constantly trigger his pressure sensors around there, a phantom sensation that twinged and jolted like minute electrical shocks down his arm - a pinched nerve.

It was a big drawback to being an augmented human, in Rusty's opinion. True, their high levels of synchronisation with their ACs meant they could move it as fluidly as their own body, respond as quickly as their synapses could fire without that deadly split-second processing pause that unaugmented pilots suffered from, but the big drawback was that this required their ACs to have delicate pressure sensors for their proprioception to fully translate.

Rusty had heard all the 'funny stories' of the early Gens accidentally having their ACs smack themselves in the face with their hands or tripping their own feet, complaints of feeling utterly numb and not knowing what their "body" (AC) was doing or where their limbs were. Pressure sensors were the answer, the AC's own nervous system, and through that their brains could translate sensations and signals in the only way it knew how: pain and pleasure.

That trapped bullet in STEEL HAZE's shoulder was definitely pinging pain, over and over, though. Enough to make him grit his teeth and his voice come out a little strained, and to have Raven inquire about his health.

"Ah, well, one of the Balams got a lucky hit in, is all," he said breezily, trying to brush the whole thing off. "I think a round is stuck in my left shoulder."

«Let me look,» Raven offered, and Rusty didn't know why he agreed to it but he did, standing perfectly still while Raven's AC, STALKER, carefully probed the joint of STEEL HAZE's left shoulder, sending pulses of sensations ghosting along Rusty's corresponding shoulder.

It was a mingle of pain and something indefinable. Despite the friendly and approachable personality he presented, Rusty was unused to being touched. The only time he had 'contact' was when someone managed to get a glancing blow on STEEL HAZE, an echo of pain thrumming through him - encouragement not to let that happen again. Every touch made him tense, half-expecting pain to follow, and this presented itself as minute twitches and flinches as STALKER prodded and teased its mechanical fingers into the soft, delicate writing inside his shoulder.

«Does it hurt?» Raven asked.

"Just sensitive," Rusty said, his voice strangely taut to his own ears.

Raven said nothing more, and only minutes after that he found the trapped round and extracted it, that nervy, stinging pain immediately vanishing. Rusty rolled his shoulder, thanked him for the help, and turned to go, oddly flustered and feeling the need for space when-

«It can feel good too.»

Rusty didn't know what to say in response to that. He stared at him, and Raven stared back, the round pinched between STALKER's fingers. It was slightly flattened at the tip.

«I can show you sometime,» Raven continued, and flicked the round away.

"Um, sure, sometime," Rusty stammered, thrown by the offer, and tossed in his goodbyes before quickly leaving the scene.

Afterwards, when lying in his cot and rubbing his shoulder, still feeling the odd twinge, he dismissed the whole thing as Raven's strange sense of humour rearing its head at an inappropriate time. He hadn't meant it like that, obviously. It had probably been a comment on how field repairs weren't normally that painful or uncomfortable.

So he put the whole thing out of mind.

-

Actually, that was a lie. The whole thing lived in his mind rent free for days afterwards.

The memory of that ghostly sensation of Raven's fingers inside his shoulder joint haunted him, something so viscerally intimate yet alien that his mind simply didn't know how to compartmentalise it. He ignored it instead, throwing himself onto sorties despite the monotony of it all. He'd almost convinced himself he'd forgotten entirely about it until his path once more crossed with Raven's.

Another job. They were going to reclaim an oil refinery from Balam which was guarded by nothing but MTs. The Redguns being so few in number and overstretched meant that whenever they overextended their lines, their men were sitting ducks for the far more numerous Vespers and their deep pockets to pay for Raven's services.

It'd been overkill using both Rusty and Raven, but Rusty suspected Snail just wanted him out of the base. He'd been getting particularly surly as of late.

There'd been no lucky shots from desperate MTs, but a stray shot had detonated an oil tanker. Chunks of shrapnel had been thrown across the battlefield, and while STEEL HAZE's armour had deflected most of it, one particularly large chunk had somehow managed to wedge itself in the hydraulics of STEEL HAZE's neck. He couldn't turn his head in either direction without experiencing an incredibly unpleasant, choking sensation lancing right down his throat. It made even talking a bit of a breathless affair.

Again, Raven asked if he was okay.

"Uh, yeah, just... think some shrapnel's stuck in my neck," Rusty muttered, knowing he was holding STEEL HAZE too stiffly. He was fighting the base, animal urge to scrabble at his neck, but STEEL HAZE's frame wasn't built to accomodate that. He was likely to accidentally cause damage than do any real help.

«Let me see.»

Rusty stayed still as STALKER crowded into his personal space, unable to look at anything but STALKER's asymmetrical head right in front of him. STEEL HAZE's pressure sensors detected STALKER's fingers very gently probing at his throat, a phantom touch that made Rusty instinctively swallow.

In the bottom right hand corner of his HUD, where his vitals were monitored visually, he saw his pulse spike.

«There is shrapnel lodged in there. It's jamming the left-front neck hydraulic.»

"Mn," Rusty responded, and felt a tremor wrack up his spine when he felt STALKER's fingers dig into his- STEEL HAZE's throat. It had his breaths stuttering in his lungs, nerves firing with a sensation that was too intense to call merely pain or pleasure.

The shrapnel felt like it was being scraped through his windpipe, STALKER's fingers gently weaving through his vocal chords to reach it. Rusty found himself blinking rapidly, his gaze fixed on the bottom right corner, seeing his pulse spike higher, higher, his body unsure on what to make of such a visceral touch.

STALKER's questing fingers finally pinched against the edge of the shrapnel, and began to tease it out. Some sort of- noise left Rusty, feeling like Raven was running the sharp edge of a knife gently along his nerves. It was a dizzying relief when he finally yanked the shrapnel free, Rusty gulping in a deep, shuddering breath.

«Sensitive?»

"Wh- wha- huh?" Rusty coughed, trying to recall his pulse from the stratosphere.

Raven didn't repeat himself. STALKER flicked away the piece of shrapnel, but didn't move out of his personal space.

«You have some more shrapnel in your waist. I'll extract that too.»

"Oh... okay," Rusty mumbled, only half-listening. Adrenaline still fizzled through him, almost making him jump out of his skin when he felt STALKER's hand brush along the side of STEEL HAZE's Core, a metallic scraping noise as it trailed along the lip of its armour.

Raven paused, as if waiting for a protest, before it slipped its hand underneath the Core, where STEEL HAZE's waist joined with the Core block underneath the lightweight armour. It was a place that was rarely, if ever touched - by enemy fire or a melee strikes. Rusty genuinely thought there was no sensation there, but-

He felt it, a sensation like a hand was sliding into his guts and partway up to cup his heart against a palm. He went rigid in his seat, and something in STEEL HAZE's posture must've betrayed him, because STALKER immediately withdrew its hand.

«Sensitive?»

It took Rusty a few tries to remember how to talk. "Y-Yeah. One... one word for... for that."

Raven was quiet, the crimson light of STALKER's ocular feeds regarding him. Slowly, STALKER reached out again, but it didn't slip its hand back underneath the vulnerable spot beneath STEEL HAZE's Core block. The tips of its fingers gently caressed the very edge of it, pressing against where soft wires nestled beneath the overhanging armour of the Nachtreiher Core.

Rusty's body didn't know how to translate that sensation. He felt like Raven's fingers were idly stroking along his diaphragm - almost ticklish, stealing the air out of his lungs, not painful, but not pleasure, but some other intense third thing that had his fingernails leaving grooves in the arms of his cockpit chair.

«Does it hurt?»

If he said yes, Raven would stop immediately, he knew this instinctively. If he said yes, Raven would back off, likely apologise, and then they'd never discuss this strange, heady moment ever again. It was on the tip of Rusty's tongue, to say yes, but it didn't leave him. He sat there, quivering with an indescribable emotion, feeling STALKER gently stroke exposed circuits and Raven touch the very core of him, and mumbled some sort of half-garbled: "Nno- no, it's- sensitive."

«Bad sensitive?»

Rusty made an ambigious noise.

«Bad sensitive?» Raven repeated.

"No," Rusty breathed out, and bit the inside of his cheek when Raven pushed his hand higher - deeper - into him, until that 'palm-cupping-his-heart' sensation returned. His pulse spiked again. He watched the numbers shoot up, dizzy, and heard/felt the slight scratch of STALKER's finger stroking along the underside of his Core block.

It was- indescribable. The intense third thing again. Rusty's brain didn't know how to handle the feeling of a hand so tenderly, gently, cradling his insides - shrapnel inside his waist his ass how was any of this his waist - his pulse shot higher, beepbeepbeepbeep, a light blinked in the corner, yet Raven didn't back off and Rusty didn't tell him to stop.

He was so conscious, so conscious, of Raven's hand inside of him, of STALKER's hand below him, the slight vibration of that finger scratching along the bottom of the Core block, reverbing through military grade metal and making the cockpit quiver, of feeling Raven's finger gently stroke along the underside of his pounding heart, making weird little lights sort of flicker in his vision and the pulse numbers on his HUD go all funny and weird. Oxygen levels were coming back low. That was odd.

And as Rusty felt himself teeter towards something horribly intense yet amazingly new, STALKER's hand dropped away and Raven's hand left his insides. STEEL HAZE swayed dangerously.

«Very sensitive,» Raven said, resting a hand against STEEL HAZE's shoulder to steady him. «We should probably start small.»

"Wha." Rusty mumbled deliriously.

STALKER patted his shoulder in what could arguably be called affection. «Take a moment.»

Rusty did take a moment. Actually he took several moments, but once his wits returned from whatever zonked out plane of existence they had flown to, he felt nothing but self-conscious embarrassment.

"Uh, really sorry about that..." he mumbled as they returned to the rendevouz point, leaving the smoking oil refinery behind them. "I'm not quite sure what happened there."

«It's okay. It's intense the first few times,» Raven reassured him. «We'll just build it up. We can start with holding hands and going from there.»

"Um." Holding hands was... "That's really... tame...?"

«We'll see.»

-

It turned out holding hands was a little more intense than he thought it'd be.

[rorywritesjunk]

Let’s be one another’s present tense

Buggy ‘rescues’ you from an abusive situation, and after a less than stellar introduction, he has you audition for his crew to keep you safe. You want safety, security, and joining a circus seems like the best idea.

Rating: Soft NC-17 for this chapter. Warning: Communication is a THING. These two are trying. Buggy is mopey. They're working on it, okay. Talks of sex, some touching happens, Cupcake needs her man. A/N: Still dealing with relationship stuff.

Title comes from “Crater Lake” by Lady Lamb

Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7 + Chapter 8 + Chapter 9 (NC-17) + Chapter 10 + Chapter 11 + Chapter 12 + Chapter 13 TAGLIST: @lostfirefly @neuvilleteismybby @fluffybunnyu @sinning-23 @the-angriest-angel @ane5e @fanshavegottensotoxic @honey-deerling

Chapter 13

The two of you took a ‘break’ from what you had been up to for a month, instead going back to more simple sex. Buggy still thought writing up scripts was the way to go, but you were neutral on the idea. While you understood where he was coming from as it was to make you more comfortable, it felt like maybe some of the fun and spontaneity was taken out of it, which you told him when he brought it up again one night, leading to an argument.

“It’s for your benefit!” He insisted as he held out the blank sheets of paper to you. “I don't want you upset again!”

“Buggy, I appreciate it but I don't think it's going to work!” You told him from your spot on the bed, refusing to take the stack from him. “Why does it have to be a script? Why can't we just write out some things that are not okay to say?”

“Becaaaaause!” He whined pitifully. “What if I upset you again? Baby, I don't want to make you cry!”

“If we talk things out we’ll be okay.” You sighed as he pouted at you. He looked silly, face still full of makeup, hair pulled back in his bandana, lips pouty as he looked down at you with the papers in his hand. He kept trying to get you to take it from him, which you knew if you did it meant the possibility of him wanting to write out extravagant scenes of sex that could either be incredibly cringy or incredibly arousing, you weren't sure.

“Okay, okay, here's my suggestion.” You finally said. “We can try it once and if it ends up working then great, but if it doesn't we don't do it. How does that sound, babe?”

Buggy stopped pouting long enough to think it over. He could win you over with the idea, he just had to make sure the first time was perfect. He didn't want to be the reason you cried.

“Okay, fine.” He agreed. “I'm going to write the most mind blowing sex scene for us, babe. You will be begging me to fuck you.”

“I kinda already do, Buggy.” You reminded him. “Frequently, I might add.”

~

You knew Buggy had focus when he wanted it and right now he was the most focused you'd ever seen him since meeting him and you were the center of it. He was laying on the bed on his stomach, kicking his feet as he stared at you with a stack of paper in front of him, scribbles, words, things crossed out were scattered across them as he chewed on the end of his pencil while you sat back against the headboard knitting a hat. It was evening, the two of you dressed down for the night with him in boxers and you wearing one of his shirts to sleep in. It wasn't worth sleeping naked in case either of you had to get up in the middle of the night for an emergency.

“Might as well illustrate what you wanna do, babe, since you've been staring at me for so long.” You said, not looking up from your project. “ What are you planning in that head of yours?”

“Oh, you'll find out.” He grinned, reaching over with the pencil to tap you on the foot lightly. “You'll love it.”

You glanced over at him, nudging his arm with your foot gently. He grabbed it and kissed the top of it before he returned to his papers.

“You like me being fearsome, so I gotta make sure I'm like that for you.” Buggy said as he wrote some things down. “And I love what you do for me, y’know, all that shit you say. The filth that comes out of your pretty mouth is so surprising, babe.”

“Aw, well, I'm glad I can surprise you.” You grinned, setting the knitting aside before stretching out on the bed in front of him, laying on your side as you propped your head up on your hand. “So, what do you have so far, Buggy?”

He looked at you, down at the scribbled pages, then back at you. “Nothing… yet! Art takes time, babe, you can't rush the process!’

“Okay, okay.” You chuckled softly. “Just let me know what you need.”

Buggy shrugged as he looked back down at his papers. He just wanted it to be perfect. He didn't want to see you upset like that again. He didn't mean to upset you that day; a month had passed but it felt like yesterday. He was determined to make sure you two could still continue what you had been doing but without anyone feeling put out. With a sigh he wrote some things down again before tapping the pencil against the paper.

“Would it help if you said out loud what you wanted to write?” You suggested. “I won't say anything, I'll just listen.”

He shrugged again, crossing something out again as he mumbled, “I just want it to be perfect.”

“Babe, I love you and I'll love whatever you write out, okay?” You assured him. “It's not like we’re going to have an audience, y’know, so don't worry.”

“Still.” He frowned and crossed his arms in front of him, resting his head on them. “Just want it to be perfect.”

You sighed and reached over to run your fingers through his hair gently. This was something you had been worried about, that he would stress about it more than he needed to. You got up and crawled over to him, pushing him onto his back before settling on his thighs. He looked up at you curiously, his hands moving to rest on your thighs as you placed your hands on top of his.

“Here's the thing, babe. I love when you fuck me.” You started to tell him as your fingers laced with his as you looked down at him. “You are sweet, gentle, and caring and I love that about you. And I also love it when you're rough and when you tell me all the things you'd do to me if only we had time.” You grinned down at him. You always loved seeing him under you. “Y’know, about making sure I can't walk for a few days, how you'd fuck me ‘til I'm seein’ stars and your name is the only one I'd know after you're done wrecking me.”

“Fuck, Cupcake-”

“Yes?” You pulled your hand free from his and reached down to touch his cheek. “I can stop if you want. Just let me know, okay?”

“Mm, no, no, it's fine, just…” He turned his head to kiss your palm softly. “Give me a sec, babe.”

You nodded, stroking his cheek softly as you moved your other hand to his chest, sliding your palm over his chest slowly, running your fingers through his chest hair, occasionally tugging at some of it. 

“I love you, Buggy.” You murmured as he nodded, taking a deep breath before he sat up suddenly, arm wrapping behind your back to keep you from losing your balance from his movements. Your hands went to his shoulders, steadying yourself as he pulled you in for a kiss.

“You fuckin’ better.” He growled, catching you by surprise. He grinned, keeping you close as you stared at him. “Aw, babe, did I startle you? You thought you had me all relaxed and cozy under you, thinking you were in charge.” 

“Yea, um-”

“Shh, shh, don't talk, baby.” He murmured, tightening his hold on you as his free hand moved between your bodies and between your legs. “This is okay, yea? Tell me this is okay.”

“You um, just told me not to talk, Buggy.” You assured him, digging your nails into his shoulders as his fingers dipped between your folds. You had opted not to wear underwear, just out of laziness, and you were glad you didn't. “But, um, this is okay, really.”

“Good.” Buggy grinned as he touched you, teasing you just enough that you were squirming in his lap. “What should I do to you, hm? Keep touching you like this, or should I watch you fuck yourself on my cock while I sit back and watch?”

“Oh fuck.” Honestly, you didn't care. He was touching you so carefully, fingers circling your clit, brushing over your entrance, the gentlest of touches, when really you just wanted him to get to fucking you. You let your head drop onto his shoulder, letting out a pitiful whine before he was tutting and shaking his head.

“No, no, I need to see your gorgeous face.” He scolded gently. “Cupcake, baby, do I need to back you into a corner to get you to look at me?”

“Gimme a second, Buggy!” You huffed at him, digging your nails into his skin as he pressed his finger in slowly. “J-Jus’ wasn’t expectin’ this.”

He grinned, his hand still while you took a deep breath. You didn’t anticipate this happening, but you weren’t complaining. You just wanted him to relax, to stop worrying about every little thing, and if him taking charge like this and teasing you until you wanted to scream then fine, you could cope with him slowly pushing his finger in, barely to the second knuckle, whispering to you how much he loved you, that you meant the world to him, that he was going to fuck you slow tonight, take his time for sure until you were a mess underneath him.

And he did pull his hand back to flip you onto your back, looking down at you. Buggy had no filter. He couldn’t stop himself as he looked at you, wearing his shirt, spreading your legs for him. He suddenly blurted out, “Will you marry me?”

That was not what you were expecting to hear.

[citadelsanchez]

Hii. I took a pause from requests and wrote up a lil something that was inspired by me playing horror games. So, I now present a (gn) one shot with your bf Rick where you taunt him into playing Outlast to test his fear level. Also slightly seggsy material in the end?!? 👀

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

"AHHHH," you cried out in fear, dropping your controller on the floor for probably the 30th time tonight.

You were playing Outlast in honor of Halloween season but weren't sure how many more scares your heart could take. Especially at 10 pm with the lights off. Your blood pressure was through the roof.

You were seated on the Smith's couch, waiting for your blue haired stud of a boyfriend to finish up his project in the garage so you two could spend time together. You were thankful that Beth, Jerry, and Summer all had rooms that were far away enough to not hear your panicked wails.

"W-whatcha doing there, Y/N?" You hear a feeble voice call and turn to see Rick's grandson Morty, who you were close with, walk in and observe your frightened state.

"Just uh, playing some Outlast. I wish I could say those were someone else's screams," you mumble. He sits on the opposite end of the couch and watches in silence as you try and progress to the next objective in the game, tip toeing around the asylum while the hairs on your entire body stood up on edge.

"Y-you got it, you can hide i-in that locker," Morty whispers, careful not to break your tense position. You bite on your bottom lip as your heart thuds faster realizing you missed the locker in the game and kept running away from the monster that was chasing you.

"Boo." A voice pops out at the side of your face and you let out a bloodcurdling scream and put your hands over your face, the controller thudding to the ground loudly as it flew out of your hands.

You hear the laughter of none other than your one and only asshole lover, Rick. He's pointing at your now livid face and holding his stomach.

"O-oh man, Y/N that was fuckin-fucking perfect."

"Geeezz Rick, you didn't have to scare Y/N like that. W-w-what if they had an actual heart attack or s-something?" Morty says.

"Well unlike him, I could actually survive one so I guess he uses me as a torture subject," you snap, crossing your arms and glaring at his tall frame beside you.

Rick rolls his eyes. "Wh-whatever biitch. Anyway, now we can go have aloOONE time," he responds, lifting his flask to drink before extending his hand.

You shake your head. "Since I know that I can't warrant an apology out of you unless you were responsible for my actual death, I have a better idea."

He raises a brow at you and his lips curl into a frown. "Please do go on," he said in a flat tone.

"You're going to play it." You state nonchalantly.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Why not?" You say with a mocking tone as you lean forward, "Are you scared?"

He still stares unblinkingly at you. "No, I've wiped my ass with scarier real monsters than in your s-stupid game."

"Then what's the harm, old man? Just a few minutes is all I'm asking. Or daring."

"Y-yeah come on Rick, you-you won't even be able to play it" Morty chimes in.

Rick pinches the bridge of his nose and groans, sitting down beside you. You hold out the controller, eyes twinkling with excitement as he snatches it from you. With Rick being vehemently stubborn in every way, it was somewhat rare that he gives in to your wishes like this.

"W-whatever will make you two sh-shut the fuck up quicker" he says, eyes adjusting to the screen.

You begin explaining how to play. "So, to hold the camcorder up and turn on nig-"

"I've heard of the game, I think I can figure it out" he interrupts and you put your hands up.

"Alright. Excuse me."

All three of you have your eyes glued to the TV as Rick navigates the character through different rooms. You glance over to see his tongue slightly out in concentration, which you'd have taken a picture of, but didn't want to ruin the moment. Morty has his hands over his face in anticipation.

Rick found the keycard for the next room and walked the character in as the music spiked in suspense. You realize that he hasn't said a single word since taking over, which was an indication that he was already on edge.

The screen went even darker as the new objective popped up on the screen.

Exit through the showers.

Rick leaned forward a bit, as the character walked through the darkness of the showers with his night vision camera.

A sinister, burly man suddenly appeared out of the shadows as the character was walking and began fast walking towards him.

The sound of the controller thumb sticks swerving to change direction was heard as Rick quickly led his character the other way.

Rick let out a nervous "uhh.." as another burly man appeared from the other direction as the player now realizes they're trapped and must find a quick escape.

The character starts running frantically for a couple of seconds before ultimately being jump scared and snatched up by one of the men.

"FUCKKKK" Rick exclaims, jumping back. He can't hide the anxiety as his chest heaves up and down.

The room was silent for a second before you started cackling. "Look at your dumb lil scared face, Sanchez. Wiped your ass with scarier monsters huh?"

Morty joins in on your laughter. "W-wow Rick, not such a tough guy anymore."

Rick turns to you fuming, staring into your eyes menacingly for a few seconds before whipping his portal gun out. He shoots a portal onto the floor underneath your seat on the couch and pushes you into it.

You have no time to react as you fall through, landing on a soft surface which you realize is Rick's bed.

The room is pitch black but you sense his presence still, before you hear the sound of his belt snapping off along with another mystery metal clanking.

You let out a small gasp and clutch a pillow to your chest. You were no stranger to what Rick justified as a suitable punishment for your taunting behavior. You feel a mix of arousal and shame build in your body.

"We'll see who keeps the dumb lil scared face." He snarls into your ear before pushing you backwards on the bed.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii! Okay so I know this isn’t my usual type of story but I for this idea and decided to try something new! I have much of this story already written so hopefully I can give y’all quick updates for this fic! I appreciate all you loyal readers and especially you loyal commenters! You guys make my day and make me so grateful for getting to share my writing with such sweethearts 🤍🤍🤍.

I hope you all enjoy this fic, the storyline is little darker than my usual content, but it’s very much an on-brand Everlark story from me! I was inspired by videos of celebrity stalker stories. Also this is the first time in about 5-ish years that I wrote in the past tense. So forgive me if I slipped up here and there with that. The story begins in past tense and by the end of chapter 2 or start of chapter 3 it’ll move back to the usual present tense The Hunger Games is known for.

Thank you for reading and God bless you all 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

-

Summary : when a strange man comes to Twelve and begins to pop up unexpectedly wherever Katniss is, her and Peeta find themselves quickly in over their head with a stalker.

-

I’d never seen eyes two different colors before. That’s what struck me most about the strange man. I became accustomed to seeing people walk around with their skin dyed unnatural shades, with jewels implanted in their flesh, with feathers in their rainbow hair and eyelashes made of pure glitter. But I’ve never seen a person have one eye green and one eye purple before.

In fact, I’ve never even seen someone with two purple eyes before.

That was the first thing about him that gives me pause. His eyes. But not the last.

No. That was far from the last.

-

I was walking down the street the day I saw him for the first time. He wasn’t tall. Taller than me, sure, but not taller than most. Especially not for a man. Peeta could easily tower over him.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t feel afraid. Because for as long as I had my husband next to me, holding onto me, his muscular arm swinging our interlocked fingers happily between us, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb as we made our way into town, I had no reason to be afraid.

I was never afraid when I had Peeta with me.

And out in the woods, I’m in my element. In the woods, I know exactly who I am. I’ve always known where I belonged when I set foot among those trees. I’ve never felt afraid out there. And it’s not just because of the loaded bow across my back.

No, the woods were my first home. Before Peeta, before the games, before I was the head of my household, caring for my mother and sister, I was just a girl in those trees. With just my father by my side.

Until the last couple of years that was the only place I truly felt at home. I never felt like myself in a crowd. I never felt comfortable in my own skin when I was surrounded by people, when I stood in the town square, when I bought and traded in the market among the merchants and my schoolmates, when I sat in class as a child. Never could I let my guard down around people, aside from the handful that snuck their way into my heart.

But of course, if anyone could change my heart, it was Peeta. The boy with the bread, the one who showed me hope time and time again, who loved me unconditionally, who refused to give up on me, even when he couldn’t separate me from the mutt that haunted him.

Peeta taught me how to love, how to forgive, how to live again. He made me feel safe and comfortable wherever we were. He made me belong, no matter who else was around.

But maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. Maybe if I had felt a little more on edge, I’d have noticed the strange man, with the purple and green eyes, right from that very first moment on the street.

But that’s not how this story went.

-

Read The Rest On AO3

[hoolay-boobs]

MAAAARIIIIII

I need your help.

Ok so, How to write?

I told you that I write, right? Well actually I didn't write them properly. I wrote them in screenplay format.. Now I want to write them properly but I don't know how 😭😭 my mind is blank.. Even when I manage to think up on how to write, it's so shit.. I have so many ideas but I have no clue on how the heck am I supposes to put them out.. Do you have any advice? How do you usually write? Please help.

*casually implodes* alright. Okay. Excellent.

This just might be the best ask I’ve ever received. I’ve always wanted to teach others how to write, I’m really passionate about writing stuff, and I’m majoring in education in university rn, so I sure hope I can answer this well lmao

But, nevertheless, I finally have the opportunity:

✨ Mari’s Writing Crash Course that I may or may not have composed while tipsy: a short guide to novel formatting ✨

There’s only, truly, three factors that are the most noticeably important: Formatting, Dialogue and Writing Voice.

You said you’ve been writing in screenplay format? Immaculate. You’re already halfway there. If you know how to write ANYTHING (short stories, novels, screenplays) you already- hopefully- understand the basis of composing stories. Character arcs, plot lines, worldbuilding, etc. I’m not getting into ANY of that, bc your ask referred to formatting and formatting only. I gotcha luv.

The Step One: The Key to Novel Formatting

You’ve already written in screenplay format before. That’s great. You’re already, like, more than halfway there. I’ve tried screenplaying before, but I never got that far in. Not my best medium.

I’m assuming what you’ve worked on before looks like this (format wise, not content wise lmao)

Caps lock indication, space down, and dialogue.

Well here’s the neat thing: novel writing, while very different from screenplays, is much closer to screenplays with more detail:

Caps lock indication, italicized setup, space down, and dialogue.

OTHER THAN describing the camera angles, this has very similar content to a novel: describing portions (sometimes equal portions, usually not) of both dialogue and descriptions.

So! Remove the caps lock indication on who’s speaking, make that italicized setup into the flow of a paragraph, remove all the stuff on camera angles, and put that dialogue under quotation marks.

Now it looks like this:

OH WOW! IT LOOKS LIKE A NOVEL NOW!!

Don’t overthink it: you just take your same thoughts from your screenplay format, and then… transfer it. Piece of cake 🍰

The sub-category of Part One; Part One Extended I guess: Present or Past Tense

What tense do you want your novel to be written in? Present tense? Past tense?

I used to say, “ ALL books are written in past tense. Because as the reader, we’re looking into a story that has already been written. If a book is in present tense, that means the story is unfolding, that means the author is writing it while we’re reading it, and that’s impossible since we’re holding the copy of the book in our hands. NO books should be written in present tense 😡👎”

And then I opened up The Hunger Games and saw it was in present tense.

So it looks like I’m just wildly wrong about that.

I will say tho, most books are written in past tense. And that might, or might not, be more comfortable for the reader and writer. However, it is up you. Contrary to my former opinion, there is no right or wrong tense for your book to be in.

Here is a visual guide:

Once you pick one, though, stick with it. Jumping between past and present these, UNLESS it’s for any stylistic choice (character’s flashbacks, time travelling, etc.) will most likely be awkward to read.

The Step Two: The Importance of properly formatting dialogue

Quotation marks go THROUGHOUT a sentence.

“Why don’t you guys go look at my taco salad post” and “she said” is all ONE BIG SENTENCE.

“Why don’t you guys go look at my taco salad post.” She said. ❌

“Why don’t you guys go look at my taco salad post,” she said. ✅

Each dialogue before the end of the sentence completes with a comma instead of a period. Exclamation marks and question marks can be used in whatever dialogue format, since they’re tone indicators. There aren’t strict rules for tone indicators.

Commas and periods aren’t really tone indicators, so there’s a quick key on how to write that stuff:

Remember, if dialogue ends with a “she said” “she exclaimed” “she spoke” etc. etc. etc. it’ll be part of the same sentence. But, if dialogue ends with an action “she walked to the door” “she took a forkful of that taco salad” etc. etc. etc. it’ll be an entirely new sentence.

THIS is what it looks like:

Also, not every set of dialogue needs to have an end quote to it. This is what that looks like:

I mean, you could but brackets in dialogue. But I just want to warn you: I read a book like that, can’t recall the author’s name, and it distracted me greatly from the characters, plot, atmosphere, etc. I’d stay away from that.

The Step Three: The Writing Voice

So what is narrative voice, anyways?

This is essentially how you form your entire story. The tone, emotion, and descriptions of your story.

I know, I know, the idea that every single word you use reveals your writing style might sound daunting, but trust me, writing voice comes naturally. As long as you let it come naturally.

Essentially: people who know you really well, your closest friends and family, who recognize your quirks, your colloquialisms, and your speech patterns, will most likely recognize your writing style. Because it will sound like you.

And that’s all writing voice is. Your own style. Even this answer I typed out for your ask, it’s in my writing style. It’s in my voice. It’s a blend of eloquent words, long sentences, and a dash of humour here and there. My novel, albeit sounding obviously much different than me making a post on tumblr, also sounds like this. To an extent.

You write like how you speak, even if you’re writing from a specific character’s perspective.

An example is Rick Riordan’s writing sounds wildly different from Becky Chamber’s writing. Even though they’re both talented and hard working, excellent writers. Every book looks different Every book sounds different. Every book feels different.

So, how do you find your own writing style?

Of course, a published novel of yours will sound different than your personal diary. But, those differences aside, they both have your voice. So let yourself speak, let yourself write.

Your story is going directly from your brain, to your laptop screen, or pen and paper, or whatever. Let yourself get into it. Sometimes I read what I’m writing out loud. Sometimes I don’t. Do not overthink your writing voice, or try to force your novel to sound more formal, or more casual, or more poetic, or more or less descriptive, or more wordy. Just let it be.

The more you write, and the more drafts you create, you’ll find your writing voice without even needing to search around for it.

There is a website called, I Write Like This. You can copy and paste passages of your writing, a few hundred words at a time if you want, and it’ll analyze your flow of descriptions, dialogue, punctuation, and match it up with whatever famous author your voice sounds similar to.

I copy and pasted my entire second chapter, a few thousand words, and this is my badge:

My writing voice is similar to our beloved @neil-gaiman . Of course, our writing voice is not identical, as no two authors ever are, but the flow of the writing, the mood, the tone, the energy… it’s a little bit on the same page.

The bonus step four: write shit 💩

You said you write shit?

Good.

Write shit.

This is odd advice to give, I know. But when I say write shit, I mean as a start.

If you had sent an ask saying, “I’ve NEVER touched a pen, paper, or laptop in my life, I don’t know how to write!!” I’d be… daunted. Not an impossible task, but a daunting one. Just slightly harder to get into, slightly harder to give advice for.

I’d much rather you write like shit than not write at all. The hierarchy goes like this:

Good writing >>> shit writing >>> not writing at all.

I can’t remember where I heard this from, but to quote, “you can edit a poorly written page, but you can’t edit a blank page”.

So go, my lovely Sana. Be free. Write all the shit in the world. Fill up your pages. Get writers cramp. Get writers block. Recover from writers block. Make typos. Make messes. Write glorious, delicious, silly, stupid, and beautiful things. Your first draft is not supposed to be perfect. The time will come for pristine, polished, ready-to-be-published writing, and you do not need to rush into there. At all.

Write shit 💩 New-writing is the most necessary shit in this world.

[imahyperfixatedbitch]

🎅A WENDIGO CHRISTMAS🎅

@untildawn-secretsanta

@lookimtryingmybest HI!!! This is my present for you this Christmas!! I hope you enjoy it! You'll get some good old nonsense in the end. I was planning to draw you something but I couldn't so I wrote my first fanfic ever for you! I hope you enjoy it!

You could call Josh the revengeful type. He was like, planning a super elaborate “prank” in order to finally avenge his sisters’ disappearance after the very infamous joke they pulled on Hannah. However, Josh had been doubting the usefulness of such a plan. It had started not long ago, after a call with Chris and Ashley, he started feeling bad about it. First he thought about Chris and Ashley:he had very mixed feelings about them. One part of him was jealous of Ashley, as he loved Chris, his childhood bff, but the other part kind of wanted her as well? Weird. Then he started thinking about his friend Sam, she didn't even participate in the prank, and lately they had been supporting one another. Then the final factor appeared: Christmas was near and his parents wouldn't even be here to celebrate it with him, and if his sisters weren't here either, what was the point? So he had an idea to solve both problems: what if he invited all his “friends” (he's not even sure they still are his friends) for Christmas? Then he could decide if he forgave them AND he wouldn't be all alone. Josh hated loneliness. So he called them all. And these kids apparently didn't want to attend the family dinner because everyone accepted.

Everyone was back at the lodge, the first people to arrive were Ashley and Chris. They came together and Josh could feel his “mixed feelings” about them rise the second he saw them.

“Hey bro! Hey Ashley!” He greeted them

“‘Sup”

“Hi!” he hugged both of them. Quickly afterwards an awkward silence settled in.

“Anyone wanna play dnd?” Chris spoke in an attempt to stop the awkwardness, and, I mean, it worked because now Josh and Ashley just felt despair.

“Dude please tell me you didn't bring all of your dnd stuff…”

“Uh…”

“I asked you if you had it before we headed out and you swore you only brought presents!!” Ashley joined in the complaints.

“Well, I mean, playing dnd IS a present!”

“Ugh…”

“So will you guys play or-”

“NO.” Their little banter was quickly interrupted by noises they heard in front of the living room.

“This bitch better get lost on her way. I can't stand her ugly ass.”

“Calm down Emily…remember we're all here for Josh today” Oh, another couple with issues. Hopefully they can fix them for Christmas, that would be like a hallmark movie. Matt and Emily entered the place, and immediately noticed how their three friends were looking at them.

“Oh, did you guys like, hear us?”

“Yeah.” Josh decided to be honest, but before any of them could really address it. A braided blondie came in with her boyfriend.

“Hiiiii” she cheerfully greeted and hugged everyone, well except Emily of course.

“This bitch-” Emily quickly interrupted herself when she saw the pleading look Matt gave her.

“Almost everyone is here, where's Sam?” Josh asked.

“Right here.” Sam was right behind him and just gave him the fright of his life.

“HOLY SHIT SAM WHY”

“Ha, I'm getting back at you for all the times you scared me” she playfully elbowed him.

After a while, the atmosphere was still pretty tense, no one was really doing anything. Sam took a look at Josh and noticed how he wasn't looking really comfortable. She decided to talk to him.

“Hey, Josh”

“Sup Sam.”

“Are you planning to do anything? Like, watching a Christmas movie, do you have a Christmas playlist? Maybe board games?”

“Uh, I mean I bought beers”

“Let me take charge for a while.”

Sam stood up and started assigning tasks to her friends, dividing them in groups (that she chose carefully).

“Okay so, Ash,Chris and Josh, go turn the electricity generator on in the basement, then we can get more light, no offense Josh, but these candles are not enough. Matt and Emily could start getting the table ready for dinner. Jess could change the decorations a bit, Josh, I know you love your favorite indie horror movie's Christmas merch but I think Jess could make everything a bit, uh, prettier. Mike and I could go searching for board games or anything that could entertain us tonight, okay?” Everyone nodded and started working on their assigned tasks.

“Why does no one want to play dnd!? It's so interesting!”

“Dude!”

“What!?”

“I'm shivering!” Ashley chimed in.

“Oh, do you want one of my flannels?”

“How many flannels do you have!?”

Josh clicked on a secret button on the wall,it revealed a closet full of flannels, there was like every flannel you could imagine. Red one, purple,pink, barbie flannel, horror flannel, flannels with fur on the sleeves, etc…

Ashley gasped “What the hell!? I'm actually impressed.”

“And I'm the weirdo because I like dnd. You're obsessed with flannels!” Chris shook his head.

“Flannels are useful okay!?” Josh defensively responded.

“Oh I like this one!” Ashley tried a green one on.

“Oh my god it was made for you! That's some high quality flannel dude.” Josh admired as Ashley spun around in her new flannel.

As they descended in the basement, Chris started working on the electricity generator while Ashley and Josh remained on one side, a bit away from him (they just finished bantering because Josh complained about Chris’ phone addiction).

“So…how have you been since-”

“Don't worry about it Ashley. I've been doing well, tonight I just want to have a good time with you guys okay? You and Chris mean a lot to me and well… I don't mean to get between you two because I see how you look at eachother you know? But I like being with you”

“Josh…we also enjoy every minute we spend with you”

“Oh-”

“What are you guys talking about?” Chris joined the conversation back.

“What are you talking about Matt?” Emily and Matt were only supposed to get the table ready for the dinner but surprisingly the conversation turned into Matt opening up about his insecurities on his relationship with Emily.

“Matt, you are everything I could ask for. And I've never been happier since we've been together and you better understand that! You're beautiful and you're just a great guy, so don't you dare deny it! And Emily's always right, thank you very much.” Matt didn't expect such direct praises from Emily, he just jumped to hug her as she hugged him back with a surprised look. Jessica passed by the kitchen and threw a disgusted stare at Emily and Matt.

“Emily don't do that-” Emily didn't listen to Matt as she kept walking towards Jessica at a fast pace. When she got near enough, she opened her arms and gave Jessica the warmest hug she ever received.

“Emily? What-"Jessica mumbled.

“I already lost a friend last year and I won't lose another one. I won't let that happen, got it? Especially not over a stupid guy named Mike. You may be a bitch, a huge bitch…”

“Woah”

“But you're still my best friend.”

“Oh Emily” Jessica broke the hug to get a better look at her “I'm so sorry for what I did, I want to go back to how we were…”

“Jessica, I know you're sorry and that you're happy with him and I'm happy with Matt, so let's forget about this stupid feud over some stupid guy, and let's be besties again, I won't take no for an answer by the way.”

“YES” The girls started happily cheering for their friendship as Matt watched, proud of his girlfriend.

“Jesus, these board games are old.” Mike coughed because of the dust.

“Yep, they haven't used them since…”

Mike sighed “I think about that everyday”

“I know Mike, we've talked about it. And you know what I said, you're sorry, everyone is, but now it's time to move on, look at how happy Josh was when he saw us. This is how we can honor them: by celebrating the best Christmas for them.”

“You're right…”

“How are things with your father going by the way?”

“Oh you know, the same stuff as always, he acts like a douche and has those dumb expectations”

“Mh I see…”

“Let's stop talking about me. Let's talk about you, Sam. How are you doing?”

“Oh! Uh well you know, the same stuff as always. I have to take care of everyone again.”

“Yeah, you probably made me accompany you so I could talk about my problems,heh.”

“You got me there. I mean sometimes being the mom friend is tiring you know? You guys give me a lot of work. Helping Chris, Ash and Josh figure out they all have feelings for eachother is hard!”

“Oh yeah! Everyone knows it! Well, except for them. But you're right Sam, we should make an effort to get along better and you know, listen to your problems too.”

“Aw thank you. Nice talk bro!” Sam lightly punched his shoulder.

“Ouch!”

“Oops”

Everything was now ready for the perfect Christmas. The dishes were on the table. The Christmas tree was beautiful and the living room was shining with all the decorations. The lights were on and the lodge was warm. Sam and Mike had some movies and boardgames prepared for the night, and Josh's (odd) Christmas playlist was playing in the background. Matt, Mike and Sam were playing a board game, Jess and Emily were catching up and Josh,Chris and Ash were cuddling together on the couch while chatting about geeky stuff. Suddenly, the lights started flickering and finally turned off. Screams were heard (mostly from Mike). The lights turned back on, revealing a tall and pale creature standing in the living room. Our friends didn't know it, but it was a wendigo. The time stopped, it was like everyone was too stunned to speak, petrified. The wendigo opened its mouth.

“I don't want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need…”

Josh immediately recognised the beautiful singing voice.

“Hannah!?” The wendigo put a christmas hat on its head. “Yeah!”

“Where have you been!?”

“Long story short, I fell from a mountain into some mines and I ate a dead body to survive and now I look like that!” Hannah cheerfully explained.

“Hey you look just like the monster from my favorite horror movie! Cool!” The two siblings hugged.

“Wait a minute, Hannah. Where's Beth?”

“ Uh… JOSH LOOK SANTA PUT THE PRESENTS UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE!”

“NO WAY DUDE!”

Everyone ran to the tree. Each person got wonderful gifts from their loved ones. Emily got a new bag and jewelry, Jess got new clothes and makeup, Mike got an ugly Christmas sweater and he didn't know it yet but the next day Jessica would take him out to adopt a puppy together, Matt got some more material to practice sports, Chris got a new videogame, Ashley got a new book collection and Sam got some sweaters.

Josh decided that he would give up on his plan. He had the time of his life with his friends and he got his sister back. The rest of the night went wonderfully well. They danced, had a delicious dinner and played board games. Emily and Jess apologized and catched up with Hannah. They even sang together when they organized a Christmas karaoke. In the end, it was the best Christmas everyone could wish for. “Hey Hannah, have you ever played dnd?”

“Chris…” Josh sighed.

“Show me!” Hannah responded, surprising everyone.

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

Thinking

Police Plaza, Haven

Commander Trouble Kelp was tired. He was very tired. He was altogether too tired.

The moonometer on his office wall showed him that they'd been pouring over documents and plans for nearly six hours now - six hours after their typical day shift. There were precious few hours left to them before the simulated dawn cast its orange glow over Haven and they were expected to present their plan to the LEP Council.

The other occupant of his office, an equally tired Commodore Holly Short, silently rubbed her temples as she stared at the documents spread out on his desk between them. Her mismatched eyes were both red and tired, and even her auburn crew cut seemed to have lost its will to live until she let it get a few hours of sleep. Even like this, slumped over and clearly exhausted beyond measure, she was undeniably...

The commander cut that thought short. Nothing good could come of it. Certainly not at this hour. He didn't realize that he was still staring until Holly shot a glance his way, their eyes meeting for the briefest moment.

"Stop doing that," Trouble grunted, grabbing a file at random and rifling through its contents as if he had any idea whatsoever what he was looking at. "It's distracting."

"Doing what?" Holly countered immediately. "I haven't even said anything!"

Trouble waved a hand dismissively in her direction. "Just... stop it," he grumbled. The truth was that he didn't actually know what she was doing; he just knew that it had been distracting him for hours now.

Holly sat up, dropping her feet from where they had been resting on his desk. "What are you talking about?" she demanded sharply, her eyes now burning with frustration as much as with tiredness.

Kelp dropped the stack of papers. "I can't concentrate with you doing... that," he said, gesturing vaguely at her with an open hand. When her only response was to raise one eyebrow challengingly, Trouble groaned and rubbed his eyes with the back of his right hand. I can't stop thinking about kissing you, he thought.

It wasn't until he looked at Holly and registered the surprise on her face that he realized that he had been thinking out loud. He shut his mouth with a sharp click, wondering absently what the odds were of him successfully berating his body for this blatant betrayal as he did one of his subordinates for misbehavior.

"You can't stop thinking about kissing me," Holly repeated slowly, still staring directly at his eyes. Several moments passed in a tense silence. Then the commodore rose to her feet, planted her hands on the desk, and leaned down until her face was mere inches from his.

"And what, exactly, are you going to do about that?" she asked with a coy smirk, her eyes sparkling in a way that only ever meant trouble.

Trouble knew that they had somehow managed to enter dangerous territory with this new tone of conversation. They had work to do. They were in his office, in the middle of Police Plaza. Her breath smelled vaguely like that disgusting tofu burger she had made him order for her when he bought their dinner several hours before.

The list of at least one million reasons why he shouldn't rise to her challenge were still ticking off in his mind when he grabbed Holly by the lapels of her jacket, pulled her in closer, and did something about it.

-----

I'm not sure why these two have such a hold on my brain right now, but they do.

This comes form this excellent writing prompt.

If you're wondering what this great and important thing that they're planning is... so am I. It's a McGuffin Convention or something. I dunno. I wrote this at 3am.

[alitgblog]

volume V thoughts bc once again fusebox has got me intrigued

first of all omg wtf

I usually end up reading a few spoilers before I play bc I'm bored at work but don't wanna play the volume until I get back but I had such a busy day at work I didn't do that and wow ok I gotta avoid spoilers more often I was shook

so excess baggage was okay. like yeah makes sense we want the couples to be tense again before voting the couple superlatives thing, but also such a throwaway. (and also I talked about this in my post about last volume, but we have so many challenges in a row!! why)

since my MC did initially flirt with Oakley a lot more than Jin, I do think it's funny Oakley talks about how cool MC's secret is (like it's annoying fs but also something I've seen happen on love island to create small drama but then ultimately it's just talk so it's nice to have that happen here).

Also i was worried Oakley was gonna turn on us or flirt with us and abandon Emel, so I'm very glad he was just asking for advice. (I'm a big Oakley and Emel fan, what can I say?) I'd be okay if that led into a different storyline where you could pursue Oakley later, but with how fusebox has been making the seasons lately, once you pick you've made your choice and I do miss in for example s2 where even if you don't pick Lurik when they first become available you have a chance the next recoupling and it feels like it changes your route.

Jack is still mad at MC??

Couples game was fun. I wish fusebox formatted it so you discuss with your partner and then make a choice before everyone revealed their answers instead of people talking and explaining before the player picks their answer. Like we know the characters already, just let me pick and we can see who agrees.

Oakley's evening wear outfit 😍 best dressed boy fs

I of course could never bear to see Oakley and Emel go, but I surprisingly actually missed Sophie and Jack as soon as they left but like in a me missing Allegra and Miles/Jasper when they left. Like yeah they were irritating but they brought drama and I understand where Allegra/Sophie is coming from (and I support women's wrongs lol)

Jin going through his main character of S6 arc??? No but fr I can't imagine why the public would vote him out so he's either hiding something that's gonna come out when he gets back or he was voted most popular and is gonna come back soon. I hope it's not casa because (1) that already happened in s6 and (2) I want the chance to flirt around with new characters in casa lol. I've seen a few theories around and I have no idea which is true but if I could throw in another idea which is post casa, MC is finally with a bombshell, Claudia/Theo, or a casa boy and things seem good but Jin and Luna show up together as returning islanders and MC has to choose between Jin and her current LI.

It's so interesting for drama, like ik I'm here for it. But a lot of people like loyal routes so I hope yall are doing okay

I was like half hoping we could walk out with him even though of course fusebox isn't giving us that option but like I wish he said something like hey you just got here, enjoy your time at the Villa and I'll wait out there for you no matter what happens. just to explain why MC wouldn't leave. that being said, their goodbye was so sweet.

One thing that's different in the game than the show is the number of islanders present at once, which makes sense its hard to keep track of all of them (though they've done it before in s2), and it just is weird bc now the people in the Villa are MC (single), Claudia and Theo (who don't like each other), and Emel and Oakley (only one couple).

despite my complaint about the challenge thing this is great pacing/timing for a new islander. it's just a shame the screwed over Tyler coming in so soon after MC. I can't remember if I already wrote this in my last post but I almost wish he came in with MC and got a better chance.