#i want him in a washing machine on high spin cycle

[mueslicrumbs]

who's got you blushing like that

[revasnaslan]

i’m rewatching death note and i forgot how quickly light descended into cackling mad rants about how he should be the sole arbiter of justice while writing down pages upon pages of names in the death note

[cedarxwing]

Absolutely FERAL over the hannigram privacy room scene...

Will is SO disgusted with Hannibal. From his perspective, either:

a) Hannibal thinks Will and everyone else is stupid enough to believe the copycat killer murdered the bailiff.

b) Hannibal is playing dumb to screw Will over in his trial, ensuring he'll get the death penalty.

c) Hannibal killed the bailiff but didn't do it properly on purpose to sadistically dangle Will's freedom in front of him before snatching it away.

Meanwhile, Hannibal looks sooo pathetic. Sad wet cat can't fool Will the way he could in S1 anymore. Ugh, step on him, Will. Squash him like a bug.

Hannibal's doublespeak here is insane.

"I wanted to dispel your doubts once and for all." <- Obviously, Will's first thought is that Hannibal means, "I want you to believe I'm not the copycat killer." That's the biggest "doubt" Will has about him, after all. But that makes absolutely no sense in this context, because how does a copycat murder happening while Will is in prison help prove Hannibal's innocence? It's doesn't! The opposite, in fact!

So we get a beautiful "what the fuck" moment from Will as he tries to figure out what Hannibal could possibly mean. Is Hannibal admitting that he did kill the bailiff on Will's behalf? Or does he only mean that he wished the secret admirer could be mistaken for the copycat, so that Will won't doubt that Hannibal is trying to get him out of prison?

"I want you to believe in the best of me, Will. Just as I believe in the best of you." <- Line that makes me want to throw Hannibal in a washing machine on a high spin cycle, because how does he always string words together into perfect optical illusions? He sounds like he's still trying to convince Will that he's innocent, but he really means, "I want you to believe that I have the best intentions for you." And to a normal person, "believing in the best of Will" would mean believing in his innocence, but of course Hannibal means that he believes Will is really a killer deep down inside. UGH.

But this is the moment that really does it for me. When Will won't play along with the bailiff lie, Hannibal throws a TANTRUM. Looking away, fidgeting, complaining that Will's locked away in prison like he's a toy his parents put on a shelf too high for him to reach. This line omits some sentences from the script, boiling them down to this momentary emotional outburst:

He's goading Will, trying to get him to participate in the "alchemy of lies and truths." Whispering, "Jack and Alana are no better than Kade Prurnell, lying about your sanity because they think you did it. They don't want you to walk free like I do. I'm willing to say whatever (or kill whoever) it takes to get you out of here."

And it works. Will ends up dropping his insanity defense. Is he so sick of prison life that he's willing to risk death for a slim chance at freedom? Or does he trust that Hannibal will do anything keep him out of the electric chair? The night after his plea of not guilty is ruled invalid, alone in his cell, is Will anticipating his own execution or the judge's?

Bonus points for Hannibal's pretty pink paisley tie and matching plaid suit. Babygirl dolled himself up before visiting Will. 💕

[loquaciousquark]

My dog is getting old. This has happened to everyone in the history of the world who has ever loved a dog.

It's my turn, horologically speaking, to watch age catch up to him. I keep trying on the grief to see how it fits. Today I'm more sanguine; today I'm remembering the good days and the good years. The lump in the throat still hurts.

It's hard for him to stand up now on the bad days. Especially in the evenings, especially when a few hours ago he'd flung himself wall to wall with joy when I got home from work; and especially first thing in the morning when he wakes stiff as a board in the hips. On the good days he can still take the four stairs up to the living room in one light-speed jump when he's on a tear, though he trusts the kitchen linoleum much less than he used to. Today's a bad day. Yesterday was worse.

There's a faint discolored patch on my quilt where he sleeps. Right side, foot. It took half a decade to show up, and every few months I give it an extra soak in a bleach-filled bathtub. It still never really goes away; besides, he puts it right back on. Not tonight, though. Tonight he sleeps in the front room, because the stairs up to me are too hard. He watched me go up tonight without him and his tail drooped so low it touched the floor. He's only been mine eight of his eleven years, but I was there when he came home the first time, when he was exactly eight weeks old. I held him up in one hand like a waiter's tray and it was easy. He's ninety pounds now and I can't help him much at all.

German Shepherds are prone to hip dysplasia. Half-breed, half-hipped, I'd hoped, but on the bad nights he struggles to get up on those back legs like he's heaving ballast off a sinking ship. The husky part of him just seems to make him shed and yell, especially when I'm late getting home. I'd hoped for a little more time from the mix, maybe. But maybe not.

He's finally gotten used to fireworks. Thunder's mostly all right now, unless it's very bad. The washing machine is a new terror; sometimes I forget until it goes into the spin cycle and he lifts my legs off the ground trying to crawl under me. He eats books when he's anxious, when I've committed the temerarious crime of coming home and leaving again in the same day. Cold Mountain is nothing more than shredded cardboard and a few strung-together chapters, a sacrificial lamb to preserve Catherine, Called Birdy and Holes. The Private Patient died years ago.

He didn't want to come indoors tonight. The dryer was going, almost as bad as the washing machine, and there were stairs between him and bed. He let me coax him in at last, because I can't lift him and can't push him, and he made it clear that when he stiff-leg trotted inside he did so because he loved me, not because he wanted to. I sat with him while he found an acceptable patch of rug in the front room; I cooed and petted him and gave him a treat he didn't earn. He still whined when I left and looked like he wanted to get up, but didn't think he could make it.

He's getting old; it's his turn. His muzzle is turning white and his eyes have gone cloudy with cataracts. 2+ nuclear sclerosis, maybe -- probably all a little blurry, that's all. No PSCs, no cortical spoking; central vision's honestly probably fine. The vet keeps saying dogs adapt well. He can certainly see the stray cat who keeps lurking on my front porch. I'd like them to be friends, but a week ago he got out and chased her off like a bullet from a gun. His hips were good that day, and adrenaline covers a multitude of sins.

I have a picture of the first time we took him to get a Christmas tree. He's sitting and looking up and his head isn't even high to my knee. I remember watching him tear around the dog park lap after lap after lap, the single mixed greyhound out of fifteen or twenty dogs the only one who could keep up with him. I have pictures of him at the end of nearly every lecture I give; lately I've been tripping over them like rocks, stony little griefs worked loose from a streambed when the water moves too fast.

I'm thirty-five years old. I keep thinking that every dog who was alive on the planet when I was born is dead. Most are long dead. My dog has meds to help, which is comforting. I have a vet who will help me put him to sleep in my home, his home, when the time comes. Two to four years, she guesses, maybe, if he doesn't get cancer. When I watch him struggle to stand up I wonder if that's not too long for kindness.

It's a very human thing to miss someone before they die. Dogs don't do that. They live in an endless now, like a kid in a yellow summer. Now, I love you. Now, it hurts -- now it stops. Now, I love you.

I want that for us for what's left, for whatever one two three four years we have. When it happens, I want him to die in no pain, looking at me holding him where all his toys are, his favorite rope, his purple pig, his leash, his tennis balls. I want him thinking nothing but Now, I'm tired; now, I'm happy.

The empty place at the foot of the bed hurts tonight. The grief stings and bites, worse because I know I'm borrowing it ahead of time, because he's asleep fifteen feet below me, warm and full, even if tonight's a bad night and the stairs are too hard. I have to sit in it, though, just for a few minutes. Try it on for size. It's his turn, I keep thinking, and mine. Everyone who has ever loved a dog has done this before me. Now, I love you. Now, I miss you. Now, it hurts.

[aidoneuswrites]

"𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒"

ㅡ cw: pre kenjaku , hurt comfort, panic attack

ㅡ a/n: commission request from my friend, i hope you guys enjoy !

The life of a sorcerer was never easy and anyone to talk as if it was, never had been a true sorcerer. It was a demanding and life-sucking job. To some it was what got them out of bed in the morning, their own motivation to keep going and to grow for themselves and those around them. It was a badge of honor in which they held high on their chest. That feeling of promise and responsibility to help the cities less fortunate. Being a sorcerer was like being a hero and as all the shows and comics will show you, the hero holds the biggest grin of pride on their face. They never ask for words of gratitude. Never ask for anything in return other than a promise to be safe or more cautious in the future. 

But is that truly fair ?

Why is it that those blessed with the power and strength of a sorcerer have to lower themselves to those of the unfortunate. They’re not special and yet we treat them as if they deserve anything and everything. So when do we draw the line ? When will it be us sorcerers turn to benefit ? 

The hands of justice and shitty reality tugged back and forth at the dark haired student as he sit at the edge of his bed. 

EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE . . .

Was this truly all he was good for ? Is this going to be his life over and over again ? An endless cycle of putrid disgusting curses being consumed by him and only him. All that weight weighing on his shoulders as he continues to lose himself physically and mentally. When will it all wash away from the sorcerer's mind just as he washes away the exorcized souls that are consistently digested.

Will this path curse him as well ?

Scattered around his room were clothes in disarray, half empty soba noodle cups, sticky half finished vending machine coffee cans that, all together, emitted a rather muggy and sour smell encasing the small space. But to Geto, did it truly matter what was or was not in the room ? It’s not like he would be around much longer. 

After his talk with Yuki he was sure he knew what needed to be done. Sure he would miss Shoko and Satoru, but for the better of the curse society ties needed to be cut. Even more so they weren’t even here or have the knowledge of what’s going on. 

Once again Geto was being pulled by rationality. A part of him didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to go down the path of a true “only sorcerers” society. Maybe things would change for the better. Maybe it would get easier just after it got worse. It has to. Because if it doesn’t - if this is truly how life will go is there ever going to be a just world to live in ?

The tugs of justice and reality turned into heavy pulls. The sorcerer's mind was spinning into chaos as tears filled his eyes. As some false sense of stopping the spiral the Geto gripped tufts of hair into each hand and yanked down, the mental weight of it all forcing him to fall to his knees. Chest tightening as his entire body began to tremble and a wave of nauseating chills encased him. A numbness spread to his fingertips as his grip tightened. The sorcerers breathing became sporadic as he inhaled the familiar revolting smell of his room. It felt like he was once again ingesting yet another rotten soul. Flashbacks flickered in his mind.

  EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE.

An anguished cry belted out of Geto, tears rushing down his face letting any and all emotions that were once forced down, out for no one see. No one to hear, but him. In only seconds Suguru knew no one was left to help, no one to steer him away from the hollow-hearted path that is probable to come and yet a part of him wished - god he so desperately wished - that his ivory haired companion would burst through that door and embrace him. Embrace him the way he always craved, yet never yearned to reach out for. An embrace so strong and unyielding that would wash away all evil from his mind. All to be left would just be him. 

Them .

Pessimism rotted his brain.

But how could someone like me ask for something so undeserving.

A doomed siren call of yearning. Every part of the sorcerers soul wanted, needed , Satoru. As if without him the air within his lungs would deplete and there would be nothing but a husk left of Suguru. 

Without a black sheep how could one truly distinguish the golden sheep. Without darkness there would be light.

Above all else, without Satoru there would be no Suguru.

As torment plagued his mind everything fell silent. Only a low hum echoed his brain as the floor conjured and twisted below him. He was truly spiraling out of his own control.

Because of his own clouded state, it never brought to his attention that he wasn’t alone. 

Stood in front of him was a pair of slick, low heel shoes that were custom to the school.

“. . .ru..”

“ Oi. . . guru..”

The hum soon began to die out.

“ Suguru. . .?”

The familiar voice eventually made it to his ears. Along with the audible voice, Suguru realized he was face to face with him as well. Two arms stretched out as they held his shoulders. In a daze Geto could make out the face of his ivory haired friend. What usually lied on his face was that stupid smile, but a new one took its place. His friends eyes were furrowed and pupils shaky as they darted back and forth to follow his own. As if he was trying to search for an answer in his eyes. An answer to all the screaming, the purposeful seclusions, to the empty promises he had given him when asked if everything was alright. 

It wasn’t and it hasn’t been for a while, but was that really all so bad?

“ Suguru what happened? I heard you scream. What the hell is going on !” Gojo burst out in alarm. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to raise his voice, but something wasn’t right. Something needed to happen and now . 

His throat was torn from earlier. Any word that followed came out warn and fading. The urge to collapse and let everything take over, was seeming like the easiest solution to it all. To just let go.

His body felt heavy and dead, at this point he was just a walking corpse. But every time his mind would come back to reality all he would see was him . Somehow that made everything just a little better. It gave him hope, but it also crushed him. 

“I. . .cant” weakly words of defeat poured out from his lips. There was plenty to look at in the mess of his room, anything but his eyes. The look of pity on everyone's face once you finally spew out admittance to your flaws and fears. 

They’re all the same.

Satoru was now sitting on the floor across from his friend. He knew that the words would form eventually, just a matter of when. All he could do was be there for him at this moment. 

Reaching his hand out to the tired friend, Satoru placed it atop of his. A form of reassurance to show that he wasn’t alone and he never will be.

Upon the contact a feeling of disgust insued through Suguru’s body. A wave of anger and resentment flooded his brain. Not to the person before, but to himself. 

This wasn’t right! He shouldn’t be here! Why is he here?

Though part of him longed for the situation, the part that revolted at it grew stronger. He could overcome this on his own, without Satoru.

DENIAL.

“Don’t touch me!” his arm flung as he slapped the gentle hand away from his own.

He felt bad for everything he did and what he’s about to do but, according to the raven haired sorcerer, this is how it should be. 

“Don’t you understand that I don’t want your help? I never did!” his face twisted with anger and sorrow. Suguru couldn’t stop the words that spilled from his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to leap into his arms, never letting go. To tell him any and every concern, to finally rid himself of the rot that lay dormant in his brain. 

To be free of it all. But that was never what Gojo was made for. He knew he couldn’t lay it all on him. In a kind world Suguru could speak of all his troubles and be heard, really heard. He could find a path that would make this seemingly wrongful world just feel a little bit better. A world where he could stay with Satoru side by side until the end of time. Together they were the strongest.

And yet here I sit pushing all of it away.

“You wrong.” Satoru’s voice was deep and grave. Deep down he knew something was going on with his friend, but even the strongest can be rather dull when it comes to reading emotions. Suguru’s weight loss was the first sign, then the restlessness, until eventually he became distant all at once. Guilt embedded into the before speaking sorcerer. The signs became so obvious and the solutions even more so. He could have stopped this before it became how it was now. 

“I wasn’t there when you needed me most.  .  .” he began. Opposing his friend's demand, he leaned into Suguru’s shaking body, embracing him like he should have done before. Something he’s been yearning to do for years. 

“But I’m here now. So please. .” guilty tears began to stain his skin. “.. please let me shoulder your troubles and misery too.” 

It would be so easy to push away everything. To give everything up at Jujutsu Tech and lead a path of solitude. So easy to turn a blind eye to sentiment and justice. All it would take was one foot out the door who was once more waving its maledictive beckoning hand. 

The cold calloused hands of the cursed society held a path of disarray and loneliness, something Suguru felt is the only place he truly belonged. But a flower can not thrive in the dark. It requires care, warmth, and love - something Jujutsu Tech, Satoru, and Shoko all provided. 

And yet why does this now wilting flower want to walk into the cruel clutches of the neverending dark?

Lost eyes met with the hopeful blue ones before him as one last final call for help.

“Satoru. . .I’m terrified of what I’m becoming.”

ADMITTANCE.

The time finally came for the damaged flower to outstretch its roots before it wilts away for good.

With a torn voice Suguru spoke his final words of plea.

“Save me, Satoru.”

As the sun set the moon rose, engulfing the once scattered room in a faint glow. On a newly made bed lay two sorcerers, two friends, comrades, lovers . A gentle breeze escaped the window brushing through their hair and with a gentle hand the ivory haired boy tucked his partner's hair off his face. Like waves in the night's ocean their bodies rose and fell as a feeling of calm settled over them. 

A vow between soulmates was made that night.

To save one is to save the other.

Without Satoru Gojo there would be no Suguru Geto.

Without Suguru Geto there would be no Satoru Gojo.

And just as the sun always sets, the moon will always rise.

[the-fiction-witch]

Angel

Media - Some Dogs Bite Character - Casey Age up Couple - Casey X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - Sweet Word Count - 549

I paced around the apartment trying not to have a panic attack, Edgar crying in his high chair because apparently, he doesn't like bananas now even though he has been eating bananas since he was born, Mya was on the floor screaming and screaming and hitting the washing machine as she watches her teddy bear go for a wash after she dropped it in the potty, and just to top it off little newborn baby Sarah in my arms screaming about... I don't even know! 

I offered her food, Nope. 

I checked her nappy, Nope clean. 

I gave her her favourite stuffie and dummy, Nope. 

I tried to put her down for a nap, nope.

"I don't know what you want Sarah," I whined losing my mind with these kids, 

I cradled her in my arms as I threw away the banana and I tried to make Edgar a ham sandwich in the hope he would eat that, having to be careful every step I took dancing around Mya as she lay screaming on the floor in front of the washing machine, often spinning and kicking making me have to dance around her so I don't step on her, 

"Daddy! teddy!" She whines hitting my ankle,

"Oww oww, I know Mya, I know, teddy has five more minutes in the machine okay and then he'll be all better." I tried to tell her but she wasn't interested, I rolled my eyes and just accepted the hits as I finished Edgar's sandwich sitting it on the plate of his highchair, 

"DADDY! I don't like ham sandwich!" he yelled,

"You had one yesterday," I complained,

"Don't like it!"

I sighed, "What do you want?"

"Banana!"

".... okay," 

"Hello little ones," Her voice echoed out as the door opened and immediately I felt more relaxed and the room silenced, even at that moment the washing machine stopped letting out its little ring and silencing. 

ummm... peace.

She came through and set her bag from work on the table, she gave each of the children a kiss. "Ohh Teddy needs to dry now sweetie, you sit and watch him spin now and he'll be out for a big warm cuddle soon," she smiled getting Mya to sit nicely on the floor to watch the bear as Y/n put it on a dry cycle, "Ohhh that's a very tasty looking sandwich you enjoy it edgar," she smiled getting him to eat the sandwich, "oohh what's the matter little one ohh you just need a little nap don't you come here Sarah," she cooed taking the baby giving her the stuffie and dummy and setting her for a nap in the crib. "Hi Casey, how was your day?" she smiled kissing my cheek and immediately I could have melted into a puddle, but I hugged her tightly "Whoa! Hi,"

"Hi. You are... an angel." 

"I am?"

"Mhm," I nodded, "an angel sent from heaven. I love you so so so so so much," I peppered her with kisses,

"Awww I love you too Casey," she smiled so we shared a sweet beautiful kiss on the lips, "Can you handle them while I have a post-work shower?"

"I'm sure I can," I nodded, 

we shared another kiss and she headed off to the bathroom but the moment that door clothes, Crying began. 

"nooooo Y/n come back!" I whined, 

[aidoneuswrite]

"𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒"

ㅡ cw: pre kenjaku , hurt comfort, panic attack

ㅡ a/n: commission request from my friend, i hope you guys enjoy !

The life of a sorcerer was never easy and anyone to talk as if it was, never had been a true sorcerer. It was a demanding and life-sucking job. To some it was what got them out of bed in the morning, their own motivation to keep going and to grow for themselves and those around them. It was a badge of honor in which they held high on their chest. That feeling of promise and responsibility to help the cities less fortunate. Being a sorcerer was like being a hero and as all the shows and comics will show you, the hero holds the biggest grin of pride on their face. They never ask for words of gratitude. Never ask for anything in return other than a promise to be safe or more cautious in the future. 

But is that truly fair ?

Why is it that those blessed with the power and strength of a sorcerer have to lower themselves to those of the unfortunate. They’re not special and yet we treat them as if they deserve anything and everything. So when do we draw the line ? When will it be us sorcerers turn to benefit ? 

The hands of justice and shitty reality tugged back and forth at the dark haired student as he sit at the edge of his bed. 

EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE . . .

Was this truly all he was good for ? Is this going to be his life over and over again ? An endless cycle of putrid disgusting curses being consumed by him and only him. All that weight weighing on his shoulders as he continues to lose himself physically and mentally. When will it all wash away from the sorcerer's mind just as he washes away the exorcized souls that are consistently digested.

Will this path curse him as well ?

Scattered around his room were clothes in disarray, half empty soba noodle cups, sticky half finished vending machine coffee cans that, all together, emitted a rather muggy and sour smell encasing the small space. But to Geto, did it truly matter what was or was not in the room ? It’s not like he would be around much longer. 

After his talk with Yuki he was sure he knew what needed to be done. Sure he would miss Shoko and Satoru, but for the better of the curse society ties needed to be cut. Even more so they weren’t even here or have the knowledge of what’s going on. 

Once again Geto was being pulled by rationality. A part of him didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to go down the path of a true “only sorcerers” society. Maybe things would change for the better. Maybe it would get easier just after it got worse. It has to. Because if it doesn’t - if this is truly how life will go is there ever going to be a just world to live in ?

The tugs of justice and reality turned into heavy pulls. The sorcerer's mind was spinning into chaos as tears filled his eyes. As some false sense of stopping the spiral the Geto gripped tufts of hair into each hand and yanked down, the mental weight of it all forcing him to fall to his knees. Chest tightening as his entire body began to tremble and a wave of nauseating chills encased him. A numbness spread to his fingertips as his grip tightened. The sorcerers breathing became sporadic as he inhaled the familiar revolting smell of his room. It felt like he was once again ingesting yet another rotten soul. Flashbacks flickered in his mind.

  EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISEINGEST EXORCISE INGEST EXORCISE.

An anguished cry belted out of Geto, tears rushing down his face letting any and all emotions that were once forced down, out for no one see. No one to hear, but him. In only seconds Suguru knew no one was left to help, no one to steer him away from the hollow-hearted path that is probable to come and yet a part of him wished - god he so desperately wished - that his ivory haired companion would burst through that door and embrace him. Embrace him the way he always craved, yet never yearned to reach out for. An embrace so strong and unyielding that would wash away all evil from his mind. All to be left would just be him. 

Them .

Pessimism rotted his brain.

But how could someone like me ask for something so undeserving.

A doomed siren call of yearning. Every part of the sorcerers soul wanted, needed , Satoru. As if without him the air within his lungs would deplete and there would be nothing but a husk left of Suguru. 

Without a black sheep how could one truly distinguish the golden sheep. Without darkness there would be light.

Above all else, without Satoru there would be no Suguru.

As torment plagued his mind everything fell silent. Only a low hum echoed his brain as the floor conjured and twisted below him. He was truly spiraling out of his own control.

Because of his own clouded state, it never brought to his attention that he wasn’t alone. 

Stood in front of him was a pair of slick, low heel shoes that were custom to the school.

“. . .ru..”

“ Oi. . . guru..”

The hum soon began to die out.

“ Suguru. . .?”

The familiar voice eventually made it to his ears. Along with the audible voice, Suguru realized he was face to face with him as well. Two arms stretched out as they held his shoulders. In a daze Geto could make out the face of his ivory haired friend. What usually lied on his face was that stupid smile, but a new one took its place. His friends eyes were furrowed and pupils shaky as they darted back and forth to follow his own. As if he was trying to search for an answer in his eyes. An answer to all the screaming, the purposeful seclusions, to the empty promises he had given him when asked if everything was alright. 

It wasn’t and it hasn’t been for a while, but was that really all so bad?

“ Suguru what happened? I heard you scream. What the hell is going on !” Gojo burst out in alarm. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to raise his voice, but something wasn’t right. Something needed to happen and now . 

His throat was torn from earlier. Any word that followed came out warn and fading. The urge to collapse and let everything take over, was seeming like the easiest solution to it all. To just let go.

His body felt heavy and dead, at this point he was just a walking corpse. But every time his mind would come back to reality all he would see was him . Somehow that made everything just a little better. It gave him hope, but it also crushed him. 

“I. . .cant” weakly words of defeat poured out from his lips. There was plenty to look at in the mess of his room, anything but his eyes. The look of pity on everyone's face once you finally spew out admittance to your flaws and fears. 

They’re all the same.

Satoru was now sitting on the floor across from his friend. He knew that the words would form eventually, just a matter of when. All he could do was be there for him at this moment. 

Reaching his hand out to the tired friend, Satoru placed it atop of his. A form of reassurance to show that he wasn’t alone and he never will be.

Upon the contact a feeling of disgust insued through Suguru’s body. A wave of anger and resentment flooded his brain. Not to the person before, but to himself. 

This wasn’t right! He shouldn’t be here! Why is he here?

Though part of him longed for the situation, the part that revolted at it grew stronger. He could overcome this on his own, without Satoru.

DENIAL.

“Don’t touch me!” his arm flung as he slapped the gentle hand away from his own.

He felt bad for everything he did and what he’s about to do but, according to the raven haired sorcerer, this is how it should be. 

“Don’t you understand that I don’t want your help? I never did!” his face twisted with anger and sorrow. Suguru couldn’t stop the words that spilled from his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to leap into his arms, never letting go. To tell him any and every concern, to finally rid himself of the rot that lay dormant in his brain. 

To be free of it all. But that was never what Gojo was made for. He knew he couldn’t lay it all on him. In a kind world Suguru could speak of all his troubles and be heard, really heard. He could find a path that would make this seemingly wrongful world just feel a little bit better. A world where he could stay with Satoru side by side until the end of time. Together they were the strongest.

And yet here I sit pushing all of it away.

“You wrong.” Satoru’s voice was deep and grave. Deep down he knew something was going on with his friend, but even the strongest can be rather dull when it comes to reading emotions. Suguru’s weight loss was the first sign, then the restlessness, until eventually he became distant all at once. Guilt embedded into the before speaking sorcerer. The signs became so obvious and the solutions even more so. He could have stopped this before it became how it was now. 

“I wasn’t there when you needed me most.  .  .” he began. Opposing his friend's demand, he leaned into Suguru’s shaking body, embracing him like he should have done before. Something he’s been yearning to do for years. 

“But I’m here now. So please. .” guilty tears began to stain his skin. “.. please let me shoulder your troubles and misery too.” 

It would be so easy to push away everything. To give everything up at Jujutsu Tech and lead a path of solitude. So easy to turn a blind eye to sentiment and justice. All it would take was one foot out the door who was once more waving its maledictive beckoning hand. 

The cold calloused hands of the cursed society held a path of disarray and loneliness, something Suguru felt is the only place he truly belonged. But a flower can not thrive in the dark. It requires care, warmth, and love - something Jujutsu Tech, Satoru, and Shoko all provided. 

And yet why does this now wilting flower want to walk into the cruel clutches of the neverending dark?

Lost eyes met with the hopeful blue ones before him as one last final call for help.

“Satoru. . .I’m terrified of what I’m becoming.”

ADMITTANCE.

The time finally came for the damaged flower to outstretch its roots before it wilts away for good.

With a torn voice Suguru spoke his final words of plea.

“Save me, Satoru.”

As the sun set the moon rose, engulfing the once scattered room in a faint glow. On a newly made bed lay two sorcerers, two friends, comrades, lovers . A gentle breeze escaped the window brushing through their hair and with a gentle hand the ivory haired boy tucked his partner's hair off his face. Like waves in the night's ocean their bodies rose and fell as a feeling of calm settled over them. 

A vow between soulmates was made that night.

To save one is to save the other.

Without Satoru Gojo there would be no Suguru Geto.

Without Suguru Geto there would be no Satoru Gojo.

And just as the sun always sets, the moon will always rise.

[mangoshorthand]

Flesh and Blood- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch8 (Hard Feelings Part 3)

SUMMARY: As Christmas approaches, everything between you and Five is perfect...until a destructive temporal anomaly gets in the way. Five is convinced another permutation of himself is to blame. Nothing's simple when you're in a relationship Five Hargreeves: could your loyalties be tested in a way unique to him? Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen

After a year of grief, Viktor told Five he needed a project. He found one.

Initially confusing chapter ahead. Proceed at your own risk

Chapter Eight: The Life that Is

Five's in the outbuilding, readying the Snowcat for tomorrow's journey. Although the handover point is only a couple of miles away, he doesn't want to take any chances. He's near enough that he could blink to your side in a second if a portal erupts. 

It's been so good to speak to Klaus and Lila again. You're looking forward to seeing Klaus tomorrow, even just from a distance. The idea of having some new stuff in the cabin is exciting too- something to relieve the burden. The idea of Sloane's care package is particularly appealing. 

You listen to the weather getting worse as your eyes grow heavy. It had been a fine day, but now you’re sure you hear thunder. At the flash of light in a snow-gray sky, you sit up, moving as fast as you can with your belly getting in the way. Staring out of the window, you struggle unsteadily to your feet.

There’s a swirling blue-toned storm in the sky. It’s a portal, but not one of the baby’s. There’s no pain and it’s at least fifty feet away behind all the trees. It swirls more sedately and less like a washing-machine on a spin cycle. And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it vanishes. Is it the Commission? Could they have found you? You back up, eyes still fixed on the window, edging towards the back door and Five in the outbuilding. But then the front door flies open and Five’s standing there in a suit and shoes entirely unsuitable for the snow: his heavy coat, hat and boots are gone. You don’t have time to wonder when and where he managed to change clothes before he blinks across the room and wraps you tightly in his arms.

What-?”

He doesn’t reply, he only inhales deeply with his mouth and nose in your hair. When he exhales, it’s in juddery bursts. And then his shoulders heave.

“Five? What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

He’s crying and breathing you in, his tears wetting you and hands trying to touch every part of you at once. He's shaking as he kisses your face and neck again and again.

“It’s really you…it’s you…I’ve got you.”

"I don’t understand, what was-"

He cuts you off with a sob, his face buried in your neck. His skin is mottled with temperature: warm from his emotion with patches of ice-cold from the snow. 

"Fuck. Oh fuck. I've got you. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," his voice is muffled and more tears bleed from his eyelashes, running onto your collarbone.

You just hold him, confused but knowing that he needs you. You rub his back automatically and he holds you even tighter to him in response.

And then the back door bangs open and Five stands there too.

He’s the only kid crazy enough to be out here. It’s only 30 degrees or so but he whined until Diego had to give in. He could never hold out for long when Santi did that. He looked exactly like Lila.

Coat zipped high around his neck, Diego watches Santi’s breath fog out before him as he throws himself down the slide with a long whoop.

Watching from behind the waist-high fence surrounding the playground, he stamps his feet to keep warm. His boots crunch dried leaves into the hard ground.

At least this means Santi is likely to sleep tonight, Diego comforts himself. Maybe even give him and Lila a chance to fool around for once.

Santi’s cry is abruptly cut off and Diego looks up, suddenly alert. If he expects anything In the split-second it takes for him to absorb the scene, he maybe thinks Santi’s taken a fall and winded himself, but that’s not what’s happening here.

He’s just shot down the slide and should be landing on his feet, but he hasn’t. Instead, he’s suspended in midair. So is his fogged up breath, trailing behind him like an old steam train. 

Diego stares for a fraction of a second before vaulting the fence and heading towards his son. He freezes himself, however, when a voice sounds behind him.

“Hi Diego.”

Hand on a knife at his belt, Diego whirls around. Standing by a nearby tree, Herb waves awkwardly. 

“Santi’s okay. I just froze time for a couple of minutes.”

Diego looks at him disbelievingly for a second. He looks disheveled and distinctly careworn. Exhausted, even.

“What the hell are you doing here Herb,” Diego said, withdrawing the knife from its holster and pointing it warningly in Herb’s direction, “after what you did? You send a killer into my house, near my son?”

“I-I need your help!”  Herb says, frantically, hands held up each side of his face in surrender, “Come on Diego, there are at least two killers around your son most days and one of them is his Mother- what harm does one more do?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Diego growls, “you put him in danger.”

Herb blinks

“ I didn’t put him in danger. If Wynn had been able to carry out her contract that night, Santi would never have been hurt like that.”

Diego lets out a slow breath and chews the inside of his cheek.

“Please, Diego.”

 He lowers the knife. 

“You better tell me what you’re doing here Herb.”

Herb nods eagerly, 

“We got a real problem back at HQ. It’s your brother: he changed the timeline. It’s a catastrophe just waiting to happen.”

“Elaborate,” Deigo says, sternly.

“After Wynn failed, I ran the numbers again and they showed that matters were going to resolve themselves anyway: your brother killed his fiance and the baby trying to induce birth.”

Diego feels all the blood drain from his face. His old stutter returns.

“W-w-what?” he manages.

“And that was fine, ” Herb hurries on, “I mean, it was sad; it was really sad, but there weren’t going to be any more portals. But then Five- he must have been working on it all that time- Five traveled back eight years and wiped out that timeline. That means there are two of them somewhere in this timeline and the pregnancy can continue.”

Herb takes a deep breath, pulling in air to carry on with his frantic explanation:

“You have to tell me where they are. We have to stop this. Those portals are going to get worse and worse: destruction on a scale you can’t even imagine!”

Diego’s brain is struggling to take it all in.

“They’re far away from people,” he says, slowly, “and Five can stop them, anyway.”

“Not as the pregnancy progresses!” Herb says, wildly, “by the eighth month we predict they could swallow everything within a fifty-mile radius; even break the fabric of time itself! And that’s not to mention the paradox of two Fives running around.”

Diego shakes his head.

“Please!” Herb says, stepping towards him, “I need you to tell me what you know.”

Diego looks over at Santi again for a short second before turning back to Herb.

“Okay. I'll help. But you need to tell me that all again. Slowly this time.”

You wriggle free of the man holding you, looking between him and the Five standing at the door with fearful disbelief. As you take him in, you realize he looks different. Older. His skin, though still young, looks a little worn and he has a single gray hair at his right temple.

“What-?”

But the older Five just hugs you again.

“Okay, that’s enough,” the younger Five pulls him roughly off you, bringing a shoulder up to his face to scratch an itch there. The older Five breaks free of his grasp.

“Listen asshat, I haven’t seen her in eight years because YOU are about to kill her...tomorrow, if I got my math right. So excuse me for showing a bit of emotion.”

He scratches vigorously under his armpit and gives himself an intense glare.

“What?” your Five sounds dangerous, impatient.

“Yeah- that’s right. You kill her and the baby trying to play OB-GYN.” he keeps tight hold of your hand, “and I spent the last eight years working out how to fix your…my fuckup.”

He looks around the cabin disbelievingly for a second and lets out a peal of relieved laughter.

“I actually pulled it off. I can't believe it. Would you say I look about eight years older?”

But you don't answer: you're still computing what you heard a few seconds prior.

"We die?" you whisper. 

The older Five looks at you, all the mirth leaving his eyes like sand through an hourglass.

"Not if I have anything to do with it. Not this time."

You can read the intensity of emotion in his voice. His face has the haunted quality you associate with his regular nightmares. He tears his eyes from yours and addresses his younger self.

“We are not equipped to induce birth and deliver a preterm baby here. But, lucky for your sorry ass,” he shoots a dark look in his direction, “I got a plan.” He uses his shoe to scratch his shin.

“And why should I trust you?” says the younger Five.

“He’s you!” you say, incredulously.

“That's not good enough!" His eyes narrow even further as his tense shoulder scratches his cheek. Older Five's face spasms as he points aggressively into his doppelganger’s face.

“Well, I know how to keep the baby inside her until she’s fully cooked.”

“She?” you whisper.

Older Five looks away from his younger self to look back over at you, lip twitching.

Yes," he says, more softly, "she was beautiful." He lifts your hand gently and looks down at your fingers laced between his.

Younger Five clicks his fingers impatiently in the other’s direction, causing his brow to knit again.

“Let go of her and tell me how we keep the baby inside.”

You remove your hand from older Five’s and step a little way between them. He lets you go with regret but keeps his eyes on his younger self.

“It needs both of us.”

They stand with identical posture, hands in pockets and bodies tilted forward, jaws set. Through gritted teeth, the younger Five says,

“Bullshit. What’s your game, shithead?

"I'm trying to save her life, moron!"

"You've created a paradox," he says, emphatically, wiping sweat from his brow, "you know what that can do! You wanna trigger another kugelblitz?"

"I've had eight years! You think I didn't take that into account?"

The younger Five grinds his teeth as he steps forward aggressively. 

"And we had forty-five to work out the jump to 2019 and we still managed to fuck that up!"

As Older Five looks murderous, you hold out a hand as it dawns on you:

“Is this that…paradox psychosis thing?”

“No,” they say, simultaneously, eyeing each other with suspicion.

“And what was the first stage again?”

“Denial.” they say, together, and then scowl at one another.

 “He definitely has it," says older Five, "but I’m fine!”

“You’re the one scratching himself like a chimp,” says the younger.

Older Five grunts in frustration, removing the fingernails chafing his hair.

“How about you hear me out and then decide if it sounds like bullshit?”

Your Five shifts uncomfortably and lets out a wet-sounding fart.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Thank you,” says Five 2.0, “Now. We know that baby’s brain is firing all kinds of crazy stuff out as it develops, right? Hence the portals.”

“Right.”

Older Five turns to you, straightening his tie uncomfortably, “She’s projecting nonsense portals outside the womb because your body isn’t equipped to compensate. That’s why Lila didn’t end up with loads of placentas or whatever would have happened with Santi: because she’s powered, her body can cope.”

Younger Five scratches behind his ear, “We’d got that far, genius.”

“-And,” he continues, “if we can recreate that compensation using OUR power in a form we can place inside her, then the baby can throw out whatever she wants and be born when she’s ready.”

“I’m listening…so do we need to anticipate the convection or wave nodes before they happen?”

“No,” he scratches his leg, “we need to produce two portals with nice, steady vortices. Any frequency as long as they’re totally oppositional. Then we externalize them, confine them to this instance and compress them into one. Think of it like a sphere to go around the baby. And because they’re constantly opposing each other-”

“-It creates stasis within,” younger Five finishes for him, comprehension dawning, “Like a time-travel-proof forcefield? That’s actually a pretty good…”

“-it’s not a forcefield,"  he snaps, "this isn’t Star Trek, asshole. It’s a relativity suppressor.”

“I don’t understand.” you say.

Older Five turns to you, face softening even as he smacks his lips a little, trying to lubricate his dry mouth.

“It makes sure that time IN the womb matches time OUTSIDE the womb, no matter what she throws out. It will counteract her portals before they erupt. It should keep her in there until she’s ready to be born or until her brain is developed enough to stop spitting them out. Does that make sense?”

You nod. It makes enough sense, anyway. He smiles in return and reaches for your hand again.

“Hey! You just keep away from her.”

He scowls, reaches into his inner pocket, pulls out a notebook and throws it none-too-gently at his past self, who catches it just before it hits him in the chest.

“Here’s the math, dipshit.”

Your Five looks down at the equations, stripping off his coat.

“This is going to need maintenance,” he says, slowly, “it looks like it will degrade.”

“Yup. That’s the worst part. We gotta be roommates for the next ten weeks. Until she delivers. Just to be safe."

Five nods slowly and then says, “How do I know you’re not going to wait until she delivers and then off me?”

“You don’t, " he replies, "but you’re going to take that risk, aren’t you?”

They stare each other down, both shifting, scratching and breathing a little too hard. Finally, the younger Five gives a miniscule nod and says:

“Want to try it?”

“No, I came all the way here to talk about it. Why do you think I'm here?" snaps the older Five.

“I didn’t mean you.”

He turns his eyes to you.

“Your decision, dear one. It seems…logical to me, but this isn’t about me and him.”

You look at the older Five,

“Will it hurt?”

His mouth pulls down a little as he wipes psychosis-related sweat from his forehead.

"I don't know. I don’t see any reason why it should but I’ve not been able to test that part. All I've been able to do is practice shaping one half. Lila can only mimic- she can’t create them independently. No chance of an oppositional portal from her.”

You think for a few moments. If it’s this, death or more skin-ripping portals then this seems by far the better option.  

“Okay.”

Older Five squeezes your hand.

“If you just sit there on the couch, we’ll try to create one and then see about insertion.”

“This is still just theoretical,” says the younger Five, looking at himself with a mixture of scorn and anxiety.

“Then let’s get some practical experience,” he replies, with passive aggressive bite. 

They scowl at each other again as he continues.

“You create one, make it simple and steady and I’ll counteract it.”

You watch as both Fives take their braced stance, hands clawed and ready to summon. With a look of concentration, a flash of light erupts from Five’s hand, and a tiny portal appears before him. It’s not like the baby’s mad, sucking voids, it’s more sedate. There’s no sucking sensation coming from it, though it makes your stomach flip.

“Okay! Now hold it!”

Younger Five’s face tenses as Five 2.0 summons a portal too, identical to the other, to your eyes at least.

“Now push. It needs to be round and fit together, so it holds itself in shape.”

Both versions of him push their arms outwards with effort, pushing the portals towards each other. You can see veins standing out on their arms.

“Smooth it- we want total amalgamation!”

Hands still splayed and tense, they both manipulate their portals: the energy appears to you like the texture of chilled butter: reluctant to mold without the persuasion of many warm touches. The older Five, clearly more practiced at this, smooths his into shape, like one half of a yin-yang sphere. Younger Five, using his movement for reference, eventually works his own into the reciprocal shape.

Breathing hard with the effort, older Five makes eye contact with his younger self. “Good. Now we need to push. There’s going to be resistance but it should fuse.”

They exchange a nod and, grunting with effort, extend shaking arms.

“Keep it steady!”

They work against the portals’ natural urge to repel each other, like the same pole on a magnet. One vortex or the other tries to become wilder, but each Five forces his half back to sedation each time it happens. Flashes of lightning-like energy fizzle between them. As both Fives start to sweat even more than before, the halves finally join, the final inch between them closing abruptly with a flash and buzz of static electricity. The orb contracts, expands and finally settles into smooth stasis at around two feet in diameter. The noise ceases and it revolves gently, like a planet.

Your Five looks to the other for confirmation, still tensed and ready to manipulate the orb as required.

“That looks good, now we gotta get it in.”

“How?” pants the younger Five.

“It should pass through her if we place it there.”

“You’ve had eight years and you give me ‘should’?”

"Sorry, I didn't exactly have a way to PRACTICE," spits older Five. And then he looks at you, nervousness replacing anger: “Do you want to try?”

You meet his eyes. They’re the same green you know, but something in them tells you how much extra suffering he’s faced.

“If I’m going to die anyway, then this is probably my best chance.”

“Are you sure? You trusted me once and…” he can’t finish.

“I’ll trust you every time.”

He shuts his eyes, looking pained, and takes in a deep breath.

“Then let's try.”

The younger Five looks between you, nods and decides to cooperate. They direct the orb towards you. As it meets your protruding belly, you find you aren’t scared.

“You okay?” says young Five.

You nod. At this final confirmation, they both push. You tense, ready for pain.

But, as it enters you, the orb only feels a little cold: pleasantly so. Despite their intense expressions, it glides into you with what feels like ease. Once it’s disappeared into your skin, it’s almost like it clicks into place.

The older Five kneels in front of you, “Feel ok?”

“Yeah..." you shift experimentally, a little disbelieving, "I can’t even feel it.”

You stand up and take a few steps around the room, half expecting the orb to be left behind where your womb once was, but when you turn around, there's nothing on the couch.

“I think we did it,” says the older Five, “but it will need us to maintain it. I think once a day, just to be safe.”

He lifts your shirt and the younger Five’s arm darts to stop him, but you bat him away with a palm.

Ignoring his younger self's objections, he runs his hands over your skin, “That feels good. You feel it."

He steps back and nods, scratching his neck hard as he does so.

Your Five steps forward, frowning, and holds your stomach too.

“Yeah…it feels…intact.”

All three of you spend a few moments taking in the success, both Fives scratching periodically. The baby kicks contentedly and you stroke a hand over the area. She's kicking you. You're having a girl.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03.  Here is a link to the whole series

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Honey-Sweet and Heavy

3zun extra for Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center - some of y'all were interested in how Meng Yao / 3zun fits into this universe and now, months after I answered the ask about it (I just scrolled to check, it was mid-July holy shit) I'm answering that question with fic! And I'm definitely not procrastinating my schoolwork, nope nope nope!

[Masterpost] [AO3]

-/-

JUNE

As is unfortunately common for Meng Yao’s Wednesday nights, the first thought he has at roughly 8:47pm is hands, hands, hands in a sort of… mildly obsessive loop that only ends when he forces himself to tip his head back enough to instead see (and think) shoulders, shoulders, shoulders . It feels like he has to tip his head back as far as it can go before he finally sees the guy’s face, but unfortunately he’s handsome enough that that’s not much better than drooling over his stupid massive hands, or his even more idiotically broad shoulders.

“Hey,” Gym Guy says, friendly enough around the way he can’t seem to ever talk like he’s isn’t two seconds away from getting pissed off.

“Hey. The usual?” Two loads for the wash. Pre-soak, hot wash, hot rinse, extra rinse on cold, spin dry. One load for the dryer, 80 minutes, extra-dry. No soap needed, he brings his own. Dryer sheets, yes, he never remembers to snag them from his house on his way out.

“Yep.”

Meng Yao has the change – in quarters, of course – for his $10 bill (minus a buck) and a couple of dryer sheets ready to slide across the counter before Gym Guy even pulls out his wallet.

“4 and 5 are free if you want, and you can throw it all in dryer 1 when they’re done washing. The others aren’t running as hot as they should, you’ll probably end up with some stuff still damp otherwise.”

As usual, Gym Guy thanks him with a gruff little nod (that Meng Yao tends to ride the high of for the rest of his shift) before he turns and hauls two enormous canvas bags of laundry through the dingy laundromat like they don’t weigh anything at all. Meng Yao watches him and wonders if the guy could bench press him. He definitely looks like he could, anyway.

Meng Yao allows himself roughly four minutes to watch Gym Guy as he bends over and loads armfuls of towels and a few random odds and ends of clothing into the two industrial-sized washing machines conveniently located straight ahead from the counter behind which he’s perched. Any longer than four minutes and he knows the likelihood of him being able to look away (preferably without getting caught) decreases dramatically, so he never allows himself to look longer.

When his four minutes (and extra forty-seven seconds, he’s had a hard day okay?) are up, Meng Yao regretfully looks away from the shift of Gym Guy’s muscles through his gray t-shirt advertising his gym and goes back to the busy work he’d assigned himself for the night, expressly for the purpose of distracting him from Gym Guy. Not that he doesn’t typically end up doing way more than his job description entails, of course, but Gym Guy is distracting enough that Meng Yao has to actually assign himself something in order to avoid making a fool out of himself.

He settles in to go back to his project with a little creak of the wood-and-vinyl stool underneath him, the clanking of quarters dropping into the metal collection boxes followed by the hum and slosh of first one machine and then the other helping to soothe some of the adrenaline-spiked energy humming under his skin.

So long as Gym Guy stays on the other side of the (admittedly very small) space and minds his own business, Meng Yao can usually tune him out about halfway through the wash cycle, if his task is engrossing enough. This late on a Wednesday night they’re usually the only ones in the laundromat, though every other week one of the nurses from the hospital in town comes in off her back-to-back graveyard shifts to run all of her scrubs through the same sort of sanitizing wash Gym Guy uses for his stuff. She’s cute, Meng Yao has noticed, and she’s always nice, if a little tired around the edges. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t noticed that Gym Guy never bothers flirting with her even when she’d shown tentative interest in him at first.

He’s having a harder time ignoring Gym Guy’s presence tonight, but that’s got more to do with being unable to concentrate as well as he usually can than anything else. Gym Guy is sitting where he always does in one of the too-small plastic chairs by the front windows pretending to pay attention to QVC playing on the small TV up in the corner, perfectly within the usual respectful distance he always keeps. Meng Yao’s just tired tonight, having interrupted his own sleep schedule, such as it is, to finally go and visit his father just on the other side of town earlier this afternoon before the start of his shift. The twinge in his ribs and his hip remind him that he should have probably decided to do it on one of his few days off, but then again he hadn’t exactly expected his father to have him thrown down the front steps without even letting him in the door of his house, either.

At least, he muses in relief, he hadn’t tried to go see him down at Golden Carp. Of course he knows now that his father probably wouldn’t have made such a spectacle out of him if he’d had so many witnesses around that aren’t his immediate family, but then again…a man willing to kick his own son down the stairs where anyone out walking their dog might have seen probably wouldn’t care who sees it anyway. (He supposes that if he had gone to Golden Carp at least there wouldn’t have been any stairs to send him toppling down, but hindsight’s 20/20 and all that.)

It’s just past 9 when the jangling of the phone ringing at the other end of the counter shakes Meng Yao out of his less-than-pleasant contemplation on his sorry lot in life. He winces as he stands from the stool to pick it up, the quiet clatter of the plastic handset against the base barely audible over the sloshing and chugging of Gym Guy’s wash cycles.

“Fitz’s 24-hour Coin-op Laundry,” Meng Yao answers through a hitching breath as his ribs – most likely fractured, he thinks – resettle. “How can I help you?”

Meng Yao has less than a second to brace himself and jerk the receiver away from his face for the sake of his poor eardrum before the owner of the laundromat starts shouting loudly enough at him that he senses Gym Guy’s attention shifting from the TV to him. Great.

He lets the tirade go on for as long as he can stand before he attempts to cut in and maybe, if he’s lucky, defuse the bomb that is his boss’s notorious temper. This time of night he’s probably at least a full 12-pack into his usual 24-pack night, though, so Meng Yao’s hopes aren’t high.

“Mr Jameson - Mr - I didn’t - Mr Jameson I promise it won’t happen again -”

Meng Yao sighs well away from the receiver and turns his back to the rest of the laundromat, the cord stretching across his chest with the movement. He tangles his fingers between a few of the tight curls in it and clutches hard enough that his knuckles ache ever so slightly.

Finally, there’s a long enough break in the vitriol for Meng Yao to hurry and attempt to explain, “Mr Jameson. As I said this afternoon, I apologize for being late. I understand that it created difficulties for Anne, it was not my intention to make her late to pick up her children from daycare. I had a..a family emergency that required medical attention, it won’t be happening aga-“

Meng Yao gives in and hides his eyes behind his free hand as his boss gains a second wind and resumes shouting, something about how that’s no excuse, that unless he’d broken bones himself there was no reason not to be on time (as if on cue, his ribs and hip protest the fact that he’s currently upright and standing on a hard tile-and-concrete floor). Meng Yao attempts several more times to cut in to apologize further, but in the end it’s useless.

He sets the phone down carefully on the countertop and takes two shallow, grounding breaths before turning back to the room at large. It is, mercifully, still only occupied by Gym Guy. 

Unfortunately, Gym Guy is looking right at him – glaring, actually – and Meng Yao ducks his head quickly rather than face that head-on. As quietly as he can he drags his stool and his filing project closer to the phone and settles down again, lips pressed tightly together around the possibility of a pained noise escaping his control. Meng Yao keeps an ear out for convenient places to demur a quiet, “Yes, Mr Jameson,” in between all the slights to his character and his (impeccable, unnecessarily driven, unusual) disappointing work ethic, but for the most part he turns his attention back to his project for something of a distraction.

Eventually, Mr Jameson’s tirade peters out enough for Meng Yao to lift the phone to his ear again and actually get a few words in edgewise. “I’m sorry for my…unsatisfactory behavior, Mr Jameson,” he lies through his teeth, “But please rest assured that I will not allow this to happen again. If you’ll excuse me, I have customers to attend to.”

Meng Yao returns the phone to its cradle before Mr Jameson can rally enough to start again and he closes his eyes in relief, hand still resting on the receiver as he exhales, long and slow just like Meng Shi taught him.

“That happen a lot?” Gym Guy’s voice is a low rumble under the sloshing of the washing machines and a too-chipper bottle blonde on the TV espousing the many benefits of a Casio label printer (“Look how easy it could be to label all your folders in just a couple easy steps!” If he had 90 bucks he’d buy the thing in a heartbeat).

“Me being late or Mr Jameson yelling?”

“The yelling. You don’t seem the type to run late.”

“The yelling, pretty regularly, yes, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. As for running late – I don’t. Ever . Today I just…”

“Family emergency.” Gym Guy nods like he gets it, like he knows exactly what happened despite Meng Yao not breathing a word of it to anyone at all. “No explanation needed as far as I’m concerned, especially if it’s not something you make a habit out of.”

Meng Yao blinks and tries to think of something clever to say, but between such a long stressful day and Gym Guy’s close proximity outside of their typical routine when he first arrives and Meng Yao can be prepared for it, Meng Yao’s thoughts are feeling a little too scrambled to be very clever at the moment.

“Right. Yeah. Thanks..?” Meng Yao trails off a little with a bit of a leading tone in his voice, and finally - after a frankly embarrassingly long time - Gym Guy seems to realize that they don’t actually know each other. He hurries to stick out one of his stupid enormous hands that Meng Yao has his little weekly crises over, and Meng Yao can’t be sure but it looks like his cheeks might be just a touch pink in the unflattering glow of the halogen lights overhead.

“Nie Mingjue.”

Meng Yao slips his hand into Nie Mingjue’s and absolutely does not have a second, slightly smaller crisis over how small his own palm is in comparison. That’s just the same crisis in a different flavor, it barely counts.

“Well thank you, Nie Mingjue.”

“Anytime.”

Gym Guy – Nie Mingjue, he mentally corrects himself, though he’s pretty sure he’ll always be ‘Gym Guy’ in his head – goes back to his seat by the TV set, Meng Yao returns to his filing, and just like that their usual weekly pattern resumes.

Right up until Nie Mingjue leaves a business card behind on his way out, with what seems to be a pager number scribbled on the back with the same shitty blue ballpoint pen Glenda down the street uses for her crosswords every Sunday evening.

-/-

“Let me get this straight,” Lan Xichen begins, poorly concealing a laugh behind his indulgent smile, and Nie Mingjue grumbles at him as he focuses on flipping a massive pancake with an expert flick of his wrist.

“Must you?”

“Well yes, darling, because it’s a bit unclear. You went to do the gym laundry on Wednesday evening like usual, yes?”

“Yes,” Nie Mingjue agrees begrudgingly, with the feeling that he’s walking into a trap.

“And the same young man who always mans the counter was there, but he seemed like he wasn’t feeling well?”

“No, he looked like he was injured . He wasn’t moving right.” Nie Mingjue ignores the amused little hum Lan Xichen offers in response to that. (It’s not weird to know how someone moves! It’s his job to make sure he keeps an eye on how people are moving, to make sure that he can prevent injuries before they happen or else prevent existing injuries from worsening. It’s normal!)

“So he was injured, but you didn’t ask about it because it would be rude and possibly a little…alarming to tell him that you’ve noticed him moving differently than usual. That much I understand. And then he got a phone call?”

Nie Mingjue grunts an assent before he elaborates. “Sounded like it was Mark Jameson. Fucking hate that guy.” The pancake takes the brunt of his irritation as he flips it perhaps too aggressively onto the plate waiting next to the griddle. He places a few sliced strawberries beside it much less aggressively and turns to set the plate in front of his boyfriend where he’s perched at the bar counter, and the kiss to his cheek Lan Xichen gives him soothes him only a little.

“And this would be the Mark Jameson who makes a nuisance of himself at every City Commerce Board meeting, and is generally belligerent to anyone and everyone no matter the circumstances?”

“That’s the one.”

“I see. So Mark Jameson, the belligerent drunk who owns the laundromat whom you hate, called to yell at this very polite and wonderful young man whom you quite like – who always knows precisely what you want without you having to say it anymore after having only told him once before, nearly a year ago. And Mr Jameson berated him for upwards of 20 minutes within your hearing?”

Nie Mingjue glares daggers at the new circle of batter bubbling sluggishly on the only functional hot spot on the griddle, mildly pissed that it isn’t ready to flip yet so he can’t vent his anger that way again so soon.

“Yes. And then like I already said , Meng Yao told me that Jameson yells at him all the time despite the fact that every time I see him he’s doing exactly what it seems like he should be – and more! He’s always doing something to keep himself busy, not just reading a magazine or watching the TV to pass the time, even when it’s just the two of us in there and I clearly don’t need anything.”

“And so you offered him a job instead…to get him away from Mr Jameson?”

Nie Mingjue huffs and feels his neck heat up because, well…Lan Xichen does have a point in not being able to follow the thread from there. Because no, Nie Mingjue hadn’t.. quite ..offered him a job.

“I left my card,” he mutters and flips the pancake even though it’s still too early. Almost half of it sticks to the griddle he’d forgotten to grease between pancakes, but since he’ll be eating this one he doesn’t bother caring. “With my number on it.”

“The landline at the gym?”

“...My beeper.”

There’s a beat of silence save for the quiet sizzle of his pancake, and then Lan Xichen bursts into delighted giggles so infectious that Nie Mingjue can’t even be upset with him. It is fairly ridiculous after all, especially since he hadn’t even given Meng Yao the card directly but had instead just left it on the seat he always uses, the one with the best view of the TV up in the corner as well as the farthest from the counter to avoid possibly making Meng Yao uncomfortable when they’re alone late into the evenings.

He flips his pancake onto the second waiting plate and lets Lan Xichen douse it in syrup and whipped cream for him – their shared tendency to eat healthily is nowhere to be seen when they eat breakfast together at the Nie house (and need the extra calories anyway) – and thankfully then Lan Xichen is too busy kissing whipped cream and sugared strawberry juice from his lips to bother him anymore about his awkward attempts at getting Meng Yao out of what’s clearly a tough spot.

But then, come Monday morning, he discovers that for some reason it actually worked .

“Nie Mingjue,” Meng Yao greets him when Nie Mingjue shows up at 6:30am on the dot to start getting the gym ready to open at 7. He’s standing in front of the doors, hands clasped tightly together in front of him, anxiety written into every line of his body as Nie Mingjue approaches.

“Meng Yao.”

They stare at each other for a moment in the clammy early June humidity already clinging to the small of Nie Mingjue’s back before Meng Yao sucks in a sharp breath and sticks a hand out between them, Nie Mingjue’s business card pinched neatly between his first two fingers.

“Nie Mingjue, I’m flattered and everything but-”

“Come work for me.”

Nie Mingjue blinks as the half-finished rejection registers, and Meng Yao blinks up at him looking both similarly startled and just as uncertain how to proceed.

“Excuse me?” Meng Yao finally manages with his usual smile pinched into place. Nie Mingjue clears his throat and comforts himself with the fact that the Unclean Realm is the earliest business in the strip mall to open, so no one in this gossiping little micro-community he has to see on a daily basis is present to witness him already blundering his way through something that should be so simple.

“I can tell you work hard, and your memory seems pretty fucking good. Jameson’s an asshole who can’t see a good thing when he’s staring one right in the face, let alone appreciate what he’s got, so..if you’re interested…”

“A job,” Meng Yao repeats in a way that should probably be a question. Nie Mingjue nods just in case it was meant to be one even though it didn’t quite sound like it. “Here. Doing what, exactly?”

Nie Mingjue shrugs a bit and crosses his arms over his chest, though he drops them again instantly (Lan Xichen has told him it makes him look intimidating, and the last thing he wants to do is scare Meng Yao off). “Front of house? I run a few courses throughout the week, but it’s hard to find time to do all the administrative parts of it when I’m also running the classes and doing personal training sessions in between them. Members can pay their dues any day throughout the month, which can get tough to keep track of amongst everything else. I’ve got electricity bills and rent to pay, documents from the last…oh, ten years or so? that should really be filed properly…”

Nie Mingjue trails off into amused silence at the downright dreamy look that’s crept over Meng Yao’s expression. It takes a few long seconds – in which a single rustbucket car passes by on the main road off to the left already blaring something loud and grungy despite the hour – before Meng Yao seems to give himself a little shake and the dreamy expression is gone, replaced by his usual polite smile.

“I was under the impression that your brother assists you?” Meng Yao asks, and Nie Mingjue is once again impressed with his ability to recall even the most insignificant details he’d probably mentioned in passing months or more ago.

“Stick around and try it out for a week and you’ll understand exactly why I need you instead.”

That dreamy look slips back in for a fraction of a second before it’s gone again so quickly Nie Mingjue wonders if he imagined it. Between one second and the next, though, Meng Yao is once again holding out his hand, although this time there’s nothing caught between his fingers. Cautiously, mildly afraid of spooking him, Nie Mingjue reaches across the distance between them to shake Meng Yao’s hand a couple times.

“When should I start?” Meng Yao asks. Nie Mingjue can’t do anything at all to stop the smug smirk that twitches at the corner of his lips at the thought of telling Lan Xichen he didn’t actually fuck this up at all.

“Soon as you want? I don’t think Mark Jameson is the kind of bastard who deserves a two-week notice and it’s not like I’ll be calling him for a reference anyway, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

“I’d like to not burn bridges if I don’t have to, so I’ll at least work out a week’s notice, if that’s alright?” Meng Yao hedges, nervous around the edges. “And I’m assuming this isn’t another night shift gig-”

Nie Mingjue winces just a little and shakes his head, abruptly remembering that while his day’s just beginning, at this time of morning Meng Yao must be practically ready to pass out after a full shift through the night at the laundromat.

“Days, yeah. You don’t have to come in as early as I do if you don’t want to, though.”

Meng Yao hums without comment, but Nie Mingue thinks he can safely assume, even from the little that he knows about the other man, that he’ll be there every morning at 6:30, on the dot, just like him.

“And next week works just fine,” Nie Mingjue adds to be on the safe side. Meng Yao’s shoulders relax a little more and Nie Mingjue finds himself feeling a little smug about that too. It’s a nice feeling to know he can actually make someone feel relaxed (besides Lan Xichen, everyone else tends to get a bit…wary when he’s around. Even [or maybe especially] his own brother).

“Will you need an extra day or two after to get your sleep schedule switched around?”

“I can fix it quickly. I’ll be in a week from today.”

Meng Yao leaves just like that with a sweet smile up at him in parting, seeming…lighter than he has every other time their paths have crossed. Nie Mingjue watches him go with something like satisfaction tugging at the corner of a little smile of his own.

Lan Xichen’s poorly-concealed surprise (and his fond amusement) when Nie Mingjue tells him the news is only surpassed by the betrayed glare Nie Huaisang gives him when he tells his brother he’s being replaced (but that it does not give him an excuse to stop showing up at the gym entirely!).

-/-

AUGUST

It somehow always manages to catch Lan Xichen by surprise that the hottest days of summer are so late in the year. When June sweeps in on thunderheads and blistering winds after the cool rains of May it seems like that must be the hottest the days will become, sticky and threatening with rumbles off in the distance, felt more than heard. Or when July burns hot enough to turn the sky white and the asphalt cracks apart between puddles of shimmering heat, and the kids from the apartments down the street all dare each other to see if they can really fry an egg on the blacktop before Madam Yu or Lan Qiren chases them off with a round of scolding – surely those days are the peak of summer?

But then August comes, with its golden days that melt into molasses evenings, the sun rising in a flurry of hot winds and lingering high overhead for long hours, refusing to set properly until well after the fireflies have settled back into the rustling yellowed grass for the night and the trees are holding their breath, waiting for the brief respite of a hot sticky night before the sun burns overhead again.

Lan Xichen stands at the front windows of Cloud Recesses and looks across the foreboding expanse of the parking lot – that reminds him of nothing today so much as the griddle Nie Mingjue makes them pancakes on every Sunday morning – towards the squat bulk of the Unclean Realm Fitness Center with a sort of restless itching under his skin that he doesn’t think he can blame on the thin layer of sweat-salt dusting his back and arms.

“I’d like to have dinner at Lotus Pier tonight,” he tells Lan Qiren when his Uncle finishes locking up the safe in the back for the night. “I heard from Wangji that they made a big batch of liang mian for lunch and offered the leftovers to anyone who wants them for dinner tonight.”

Lan Qiren just nods and glares out at the heat mirages winking in the cups and dips of the parking lot that’s badly in need of re-tarring it’ll probably never see. “I’ll make some tonight with cucumber and sesame for you and Wangji to eat tomorrow, you shouldn’t eat anything hot with the weather like this.”

“Thank you, Uncle, that would be appreciated.”

“Hmph. Be home by midnight.”

“Yes Uncle,” Lan Xichen agrees easily. Perhaps most would think he should chafe at being in his 20’s and still beholden to a curfew, but anyone who would think such things wouldn’t have had Lan Qiren for a guardian as a teenager and known how short the leash could be. (Besides, he knows his Uncle can’t sleep until he and Wangji are both home safe, and the curfew is more out of courtesy to him and his sleep schedule than it is any desire to control Lan Xichen’s freedom too much.)

Lan Qiren offers another nod and allows Lan Xichen to open the door for him, heat billowing into the cold vacuum of the shop and heating Lan Xichen’s face. They live close enough to the Jianghu Center to walk to and from work, and so Lan Xichen lingers there at the windows until he sees Lan Qiren disappear across the street and around the corner, headed for their tree-dense neighborhood, and only then does he turn his attention back to the windowed front of the Unclean Realm – where he spots Meng Yao’s teasing glance through the door over the sign he deftly flips over to ‘Closed’ with a smile.

Lan Xichen does not, as a general rule, scramble . Lan Qiren raised him and Lan Wangji to carry themselves with dignity. They even both took ballet lessons as children to help with such important things as grace, and balance, and giving Lan Qiren free time three evenings a week to gossip with the aunties who run the Asian market down the street.

He does, however, hurry (gracefully) to finish locking up the shop and head across the parking lot to that beckoning gaze, the lingering heat of the day settling under his skin like the pleased flush already darkening his ears.

“Hello A-Yao,” he greets as warmly as the air outside as he shuts and locks the door to the gym behind himself.

“Hi Er-ge. You’re so…prompt,” Meng Yao teases him with a smile and a pointed tap of a sheaf of papers on his desk to align them. Lan Xichen can’t even remotely deny it, so instead he shrugs (gracefully) and offers up an unapologetic smile.

“Where’s A-Sang?”

“Jiang Cheng took him out for dinner and then they’re going to the arcade, I believe.”

“Didi’s been running his mouth off for weeks about getting the highest score in Dragon’s Lair, so Jiang Cheng told him he has to either do it again to prove it or else shut the fuck up,” Nie Mingjue calls through the open door to his office behind the front desk. “And we’re all very grateful.”

“I see,” Lan Xichen laughs with a lift of his chin and Meng Yao dimples up at him so sweetly that Lan Xichen doesn’t resist the urge to lean over the vinyl counter displaying the gym’s name and logo to press a shy kiss to his cheek. This… thing that the three of them are apparently doing for real – for the long haul – is still new enough that it sets his stomach fluttering each time he remembers he’s allowed to show such little affections, and judging by the way Meng Yao blushes he’s similarly shy but equally as pleased to be doted on.

He leaves Meng Yao tidying up his workspace for the evening and continues on into Nie Mingjue’s office to give his other boyfriend a kiss to his cheek as well, one that’s more comfortable, like coming home at the end of a long day, but no less thrilling for the mundanity of it.

“Hi,” Nie Mingjue greets, happy and soft around the edges, so Lan Xichen kisses him again on his forehead and lingers long enough to taste the salt on his skin. Their air conditioner has long since been fixed, of course, but Meng Yao’s administrative skills (and eagerness to help with any other tasks that need doing) means that Nie Mingjue is now able to teach classes all day long, and no amount of AC in the world can completely combat the sort of rigorous workout Nie Mingjue now gets on a daily basis.

“Hello darling. Will I go get things set up out back?”

“Yeah sure, but there’s not much to do. The chairs are still set up from last time, just need the noodles from next door. A-Yao’s already got the Igloo under the desk stocked up, I’ll take it out when we’re done in here.”

Lan Xichen, pleased to have a task that’ll help keep him from distracting either of his boyfriends as they finish up for the day, heads over to Lotus Pier to snag the noodles Jiang Yanli had at some point this afternoon portioned out nicely for everyone in the shopping center in a small army of takeout containers topped with paper-wrapped chopsticks, and he makes sure to thank her as he snags the containers labeled for his family, the Nie brothers, and Meng Yao. She gives him a wave and a sweet smile from over the sizzling wok she’s dutifully manning despite the heat of the day, but in the interest of not distracting her during the start of the dinner rush he doesn’t linger for a chat like he otherwise might. As he crosses back over to the gym he’s pleased to hear the rattling and creaking of the deck chairs Nie Mingjue now keeps stashed outside the utility door for evenings just like this.

Lan Xichen rounds the corner of the building and smiles to see Nie Mingjue just getting settled into his preferred seat, a lounger that someone (probably the Jiang brothers during an ill-advised nighttime spree with Nie Huaisang) stole from the local pool. Wherever it came from, it now serves as a perfect place for Nie Mingjue to stretch out his tired muscles and soak up the honey heat of the evening to relax. Lan Xichen lingers just out of sight to watch Meng Yao smile at him as he perches in his lap to pass him a beer, the brown glass bottle already covered in citrine crystals, droplets of condensation reflecting the same sun that limns them both in late-summer gold.

“Ah, our beloved hero returns,” Meng Yao says happily when he spots him. “And with enough noodles to feed an entire army, Da-ge!”

“They’re not all for us, but I figured it’s no use bothering them twice during the dinner rush to fetch everyone else’s,” Lan Xichen answers magnanimously with a little slap to Nie Mingjue’s grasping hand reaching for the container marked ‘Teacher Lan’. He doles out the proper containers quickly, sets the rest safely out of reach of Nie Mingjue pinned under Meng Yao, and settles into his creaking chair with a happy sigh, more than content to enjoy their presence as they eat together in companionable silence.

Unsurprisingly, Nie Mingjue finishes his portion first. Lan Xichen watches in amused silence as he sets his container aside, drains his beer in a few long pulls with swallows that make his pronounced adam’s apple bob, and then sets that aside as well to leave his hands free to start feeling up Meng Yao almost lazily. Lan Xichen settles in with one leg crossed primly over the other, elbows on the hard metal arms of his pool chair, and smirks around his next bite to see Meng Yao pout and swat half-heartedly at Nie Mingjue’s shamelessly roaming hands.

“I’m eating , Da-ge,” he scolds, his wrist in front of his lips to attempt to stay polite while talking with his mouth full, and Nie Mingjue’s happy chuckling settles something deep in Lan Xichen’s chest. He’d worried when they’d started this that he would grow jealous after spending so long pursuing his best friend and having really only just caught him for keeps, but so far he’s only been happy that there’s one more person in Nie Mingjue’s life who can make him laugh and feel as adored as he deserves (and who laughs and allows them to adore him in return, as well). 

“I’m not stopping you from eating, A-Yao, and this is your fault for flirting with me all day when I couldn’t do anything about it anyway.”

“I was not flirting , I was picking up after your class of heathens left their pads and foam blocks all over the floor!”

“And how did you know which incident I was talking about specifically if you weren’t sticking your ass out on purpose to rile me up, huh?”

Lan Xichen laughs out loud then and leans forward, stands up just enough to duck in and press a conciliatory kiss to Meng Yao’s cheek while he grumbles half-heartedly and stabs his chopsticks into his noodles with more viciousness than they deserve.

Nie Mingjue doesn’t stop his wandering hands but Meng Yao doesn’t protest again, he simply finishes his dinner quickly and sets his container aside to turn and lounge back against Nie Mingjue’s broad chest properly with every visible effort to get comfortable, sinking into him and cracking open a water bottle to sip on carefully as dusk falls soft and purple-blue around them.

“Xichen, c’mere,” Nie Mingjue eventually mumbles when he finishes his own portion. There’s no question anymore about how they’ll all fit together – Meng Yao parts his legs enough to give him room to straddle Nie Mingjue’s thighs just above his knees, and then Meng Yao brings his legs back in to drape them over Lan Xichen’s thighs in turn, the three of them tangling together easily to the tune of the complaining creaks from sun-bleached vinyl straps and the metal frame of the chair. 

Lan Xichen ignores the furniture’s protest in favor of leaning in to kiss his partners indiscriminately, lips catching on and skating across sun- and blush-warmed skin. Meng Yao’s delicate ear. The tip of Nie Mingjue’s nose. Nie Mingjue’s lips first, then Meng Yao’s when he turns his head to seek him out for his turn.

He and Nie Mingjue have fit together seamlessly since the day they both realized they want to, but there’s something special about having Meng Yao between them like this, soft and warm and trusting in the hazy dark. The streetlamps out in the parking lot and down by the road click on with their low electrical fizzing buzz, but here behind the gym, among the plumbing pipes and their new hulking AC units now silent for the night to save electricity, there’s none of that harsh orange glow. There’s only the three of them in the slowly-oozing night, comfortable in their shadows and the sticky August gloaming, too hot to be so close but unwilling to part for long enough to let the breeze cool them into getting comfortable again.

Nie Mingjue’s hands skate up and down Lan Xichen’s back, his sides. Meng Yao’s hands tangle in his hair, cup the back of his neck. Lan Xichen kisses them both with lazy appreciation, his entire world narrowed down to the two men underneath him that he hopes know how much he loves them, even though Meng Yao is such a recent (but vital) addition to their relationship.

True night falls as they make out and they pay it no mind tangled up together, trading kisses and quiet laughter and anecdotes about their days all with the same ease in their first perfect August together.

-/-

BONUS

“It’s alright, A-Cheng, I promise,” Nie Huaisang wheedles as he unlocks the door to the gym and drags his newly-minted boyfriend (!) into the dark, absolute except for the squares of dull orange cutting through the gloom from the streetlamps out in the parking lot. He drags Jiang Cheng quickly, eagerly away from the front windows and further into the darkened building, more than confident in his ability to wend his way through the obstacles of machines and equipment without injury.

“You’re sure your brother isn’t here?” Jiang Cheng asks, dubious, and Nie Huaisang wishes the lights were on so his boyfriend (!!) could see him pouting at him over his shoulder for his lack of trust.

“I told you, he always goes straight home after he locks up! He’s always talking about responsibility and duty and ‘eating a hearty dinner’ and ‘getting enough rest’. So boring! But good for us now, I suppose, so maybe I can forgive him.”

“How kind of you,” Jiang Cheng says dryly enough Nie Huaisang doesn’t have to be able to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes at him.

“I know! I’m the best didi, aren’t I?”

“You’re something alright,” Jiang Cheng mutters under his breath, but he squeezes Nie Huaisang’s hand tightly and then brings it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles, which is just so unbelievably sweet that Nie Huaisang can forgive him his sass. (As if it isn’t part of what he likes so much about Jiang Cheng anyway.)

“Come on, we’ll just grab some soda and head out back, okay? No one’ll look for us out there, even if Da-ge does happen to come back out here for some reason tonight.”

“Sure,” Jiang Cheng shrugs easily, so trusting. Nie Huaisang squeezes his hand back and guides him through the gym, steals a few cans of Coke from the fridge under the front desk by feel, and manages to sneak a kiss when he straightens back up. He tows Jiang Cheng through the gym while his boyfriend (!!!) recovers from such a devastating surprise attack, and Nie Huaisang is so busy being pleased with himself that he wouldn’t have even stopped at the back door had Jiang Cheng not tugged on his hand and hissed a frantic, “ Wait, stop, A-Sang! ”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, bewildered, and then his eyes make sense of what he can see through the glass-paneled back door and he barely manages to stifle his yelp in the back of Jiang Cheng’s hand still laced with his own.

The space behind the gym is as dark as he’d expected it to be – he’d brought Jiang Cheng here for a reason after all – so the tangled mess of limbs and disheveled clothing looks a bit like some sort of eldritch Lovecraftian monster before it crystalizes into the distinct forms of his brother making out with not one but two men, who he quickly identifies as Meng Yao by his gray Unclean Realm t-shirt and Lan Xichen by his white Cloud Recesses polo practically glowing in the dark.

“Whoa,” Jiang Cheng breathes from over his shoulder, and Nie Huaisang finds he suddenly understands how Nie Mingjue feels every time he’s confronted with Nie Huaisang’s interest in erotica. There is nothing chaste about the way Nie Mingjue has his hands hiked up under Lan Xichen’s shirt or the way Meng Yao is rolling his hips in between the two of them, and Nie Huaisang feels like his face is on fire.

“Oh my god. Oh no,” he breathes, despairing. “A-Cheng…I think my brother fucks .”

Jiang Cheng snorts at that and releases his hand to swat his ass lightly. “Clearly. So…what now? Your place is clearly unoccupied considering what we’re looking at.”

Nie Huaisang swallows and tears his gaze away from the spectacle he wishes he’d never seen and momentarily tables his fantasy of burning the deck chairs Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian had stolen for him when he’d complained about having nowhere to sit outside to hang out with them.

“A-Cheng,” he whines, pleading. “This is a crisis !”

“A-Sang, you’re the horniest person I’ve ever met,” Jiang Cheng snorts, and now that Nie Huaisang has turned to look at him he can see just how hard his boyfriend (!!!!) is trying not to laugh at his torment. “What’s the big deal? That he fucks more than you?”

“Oh and if you walked in on your parents like that -” he jams his thumb over his shoulder towards the three out back- “You’d be totally cool and ready to do it with me two seconds later?”

Jiang Cheng’s expression twists in distaste and Nie Huaisang knows his point has been thoroughly made, so there’s no need to gloat about it.

“Ugh. Ew. Take me home, A-Cheng, my delicate constitution can’t handle this. I’m in shock. Shock, I tell you. Come take care of me.”

“You’re so weird,” Jiang Cheng mutters but takes his hand again anyway and they hurry to leave the gym – and Nie Mingjue’s shocking sex life – far enough behind them for Nie Huaisang to pretend he never had to witness it in the first place.

[miiracleboys]

usuri michiru is so important to me. he sucks so bad. i want to put him in the washing machine on high spin cycle and then leave him out to dry on a clothesline. i want him to have nice things, even as dubious as those nice things might end up being. i am going to put him in a blender. he’s a vicious, cutthroat little bastard but he’s also a sweetheart. he probably reads through terms and conditions and no one has ever been able to pull one over on him that way. there’s something wrong with him. i want to set him gently on a shelf for safekeeping. i want to put him in a toaster oven. you understand.

[rolandrockover]

Paul's Balls-in-the-Zipper Voice Pt. 3 of 10

Even if Heaven's on Fire's yodel intro was, as we know, only a small vocal exercise before the actual recordings, it does a wonderful job of getting you in the mood for what's to come.

I am of course talking about Paul's squeaky loudmouth voice, which in his defense could be considered essential in the hard rock and metal scene in the 80s, and therefore not fundamentally bad, but just the norm of the time. And with Paul Stanley, Kiss did much better, sonically speaking, to have him in the band than, for example, Mötley Crüe's Vince Neil, whose peak performance consists more or less of creating the timbre of a laughing bag caught in the constant spin cycle of a broken washing machine. Just to establish a relation.

In fact, I see Animalize as an important stage, or even a milestone, in Paul's ongoing climb to establish the retread of his own vocal identity. And we mustn't forget that he was working on several fronts at that time.

Heaven's on Fire represents a kind of middle ground in this case, and keeps the high-pitched revelations of the new Paul relatively in check, but when it does, it does so all the more, while at the same time keeping his old, classic 70's voice under control better than ever. But the pressure with which Paul virtually squeezes out the bridges, no matter how uncomplex the musical material, is unparalleled, and despite all my mockery, he must be given credit to a not too small extent. This key naturally continues unperturbed in the refrain, where it is supported by a multitude of other vocal registers to form a simple and dynamically harmonious sound of a perfectly saturated rainbow. It's simply everything you could wish for and borders on perfection. Possibly Kiss' best chorus, or probably their best produced chorus of the 80s. Live they never even came close to the studio version.

But you Can’t Always Get What You Want (1)

Side Note:

(1) That fits perfectly, because the upcoming episode of Paul's Balls-in-the-Zipper Voice will be all about Get All You Can Take.

Heaven's on Fire (1984)

[thetherolleroasterrie102]

High-res

WHAT IS AUTISM? PEOPLE THAT HAVE WON?

What is Autism? It’s a loss of childhood. It’s a seven year old who desperately wants to come out of her shell and fit in. It’s an apprehensive little girl who just wants to dance like no one is watching, believe no one is watching & spin & spin without a care in the world. She wants to be free. Open to all without fear of over exposure. She cries, from deep within herself. What is Autism? It’s a loss of innocence. It’s an eight year old asking the man in the mirror questions because she has no one else who will talk to her or be her friend. So she makes up imaginary friends. She goes to school and hears the other kids tell jokes, pretending to understand their jokes, because she desperately wants to fit in. She laughs along too, but she feels there is a huge wall between her and them and she can’t break free. Can she not relate to the other kids? What is Autism? It’s a nine year old convinced that she lives somewhere far, far away from everyone else (in her mind). its being in her own little world. why is it that her existence seems so different & locked up? A prisoner without a key? Why must I continue to pace, one corner to the next, chiseling away at invisible barriers? She pounds from deep within herself. What is Autism? It’s a mask. It’s a ten year old in fourth grade with limited verbal skills. She constantly feels the eyes of judgment upon her. can she not learn? can she not break the pattern? hasn’t she had enough of this self she proclaims? she withers from deep within herself. What is Autism? It’s a lonely 11 year old who never gets invited out to parties or anywhere else. She hates it here. when the walls close & the voices of unreason come, the mind cycling through unwanted thoughts, over & over, some washing machine gone haywire, off-balance loud, uncomfortable rocking . She is a huge mystery to everyone around her, who have not even tried to understand her world. She wants to go to a place where the people speak that Same language as her. She cries from loneliness , and everyone think, “God, is she EVER going to grow up?”What is Autism? It’s a Puzzle piece that is quite difficult to solve. It’s a reserved twelve year old, a girl who cannot relate to her flesh-and-blood mortal friends while her mind rages with imaginary friends. She cries almost every night in desperation that someone will understand the invisible barriers she lives in & be the one to help set her free . The boy behind her has a crush on her, yet she never can look him in the eye. There’s not room enough in her brain for him. He courts her shyly, but she can’t read his social cues & she feels very awkward so boys become a sort of nastiness in her cluttered judgment. There is no room for someone else in her life, but she can’t tell him so. Her relatives say she won’t feel that way when she grows up.What is Autism? It is the stalker of a thirteen year old girl who should be on the ski team and going to dances. Instead she paces in a corner imagining that she’s on Little House on the Prairie, to escape a world which has failed to understand a girl with an intellectual disability. Back & forth the dreams go. One day full, the next day empty. Unbridled towering emotions surge through her. An ocean, a river-the continual rapids of intake. Equilibrium broken. Eternally waking on the high wire above the crashing falls. She breathes from deep within herself. What is Autism? It’s a fourteen year old dreading each passing moment. She now sees she has grown up enough to know that these anxieties and phobias, and her differences aren’t like those of everyone else. She works to bury the realization, resolves to pretend it is not, has not, and will not happen. She forces herself to be with people, just because she is tired of not fitting and she suffocates. She should know better by now, the world tells her so. the world dictates her wellness, how to be, what to say, where to go, whom to turn to, what to runaway from. Bombarding her with their fragmented answers they hold as truths. she watches from deep within herself. The verdict of the school psycholog

[kissporsche]

For knead, shake, washing machine: Tankhun, Kinn and Kim 😘

THANK YOU RENEE!!

Knead: Tankhun! He canonically likes massages right I think being kneaded like bread dough would be good for him, he deserves it

Shake: This is more difficult but Kinn. There were many times in the show I wanted to shake him and he might drop some expensive shit so it’s a win win

Washing machine: KIM. HORRIBLE LITTLE CAT BOY NEEDS A HIGH SPIN CYCLE TO CLUNK HIS BRAINCELLS BACK TOGETHER AND THEN HANGING OUT ON THE WASHING LINE TO THINK ABOUT WHAT HES DONE. He’s already a soggy mess spiritually, this just makes it physical

This game is fun. Send me more knead/shake/washing machine asks if you’d like 😁

[psycheshorror]

“Shut Up” Pt. 2

pairing: MCU!Brock Rumlow x reader

summary: Rule #1 of hookup culture: Don’t catch feelings. More plot than smut. Smut still included, of course.

authors note: Well this took me a hot minute but I wanted to continue our dear reader’s story. Reader and Brock have some self-work to do.

part one

The next morning you wake up to a relentless alarm on your phone and an empty bed.

Disappointment washed through your stomach and you tried to stifle it down with a sip of water, wincing when your hips adjusted against your body weight. If you felt sore now, you knew the bruises on your body would tell quite a story.

Flicking the alarm off on your phone, you squinted at the text message left by an unknown number two hours ago.

Meet later tonight?

You knew you were playing with fire the way the disappointment was instead replaced with utter joy at the fact that he wanted to see you again. You shouldn’t. Brock Rumlow wasn’t the kind of man that would treat you right; sure, in bed he gave you everything and more, but the absence of him left a chill in the sheets that was frankly, quite terrifying considering he had only spent the night once.

Brock Rumlow filled your body with molten lava and the next morning took it all away and replaced it with ash. And no doubt would he continue giving and taking more than you could handle.

Against your better judgement, you sent your response.

Yes.

The next three nights you spent with Rumlow, you could feel yourself breaking the one unspoken rule.

You were catching feelings, hard.

You couldn’t help it - the man was so damn beautiful. From the way he tossed his head back and whined when you were licking his cock to when he glared at you and growled when you dared to wiggle out of his grip mid-spank. He was intoxicating.

You found yourself with a black hole in your heart the morning after each “meeting”. He was a drug that came with a dangerous high and an even more lethal withdrawal.

This bed will never feel the same, you thought, fingers weaving through the spot where he should be.

Should be? you winced.

That wasn’t a good sign.

It wasn’t like Brock would ever start a discussion about feelings, considering the most you ever spoke to each other was during sex. His low, gravelly whispers of “Good girl,” as you came around his cock or the degrading name-calling that he knew you loved was as far as you two got.

It’s not like you would know how to bring it up even if he did stay the morning after. “Hey so uh, I know my vag and your dick have been well acquainted, but I was wondering if your brain would like to get to know my brain and go on a date?”

Yeah, no.

Taking the sheets off your bed and trying desperately not to huff the ghost of his scent, your phone pinged with a message. Brock’s name lit up your screen better than any Christmas lights on a tree could.

Won’t be around for a while. Mission overseas in progress.

You let out an breath of relief that you didn’t known you were holding. Space could be good. Maybe by the time he got back you’d come to your senses.

No need to ruin a good thing by asking for more.

Good luck. You typed out, hitting send and stuffing the sheets that smelled like him into the washing machine. The voice in the back of your head scolded you for replying, engaging. There was no need for that.

Clicking the “start” button, you stared into the machine, watching the dirty sheets spin through the water. As the rinse cycle began, you found yourself hoping that the memory of Rumlow’s eyes glittering with lust and praise would be washed away with it. Maybe with a little break, he could stop haunting you.

Your phone pinged again.

Don’t forget about me.

Your heart fluttered annoyingly.

Oh, fuck. This was gonna be harder than you thought.

🥀

Rumlow had never been a man that was easily distracted from a target, but during this mission, his mind couldn’t help but to wander.

Shallow breaths, the way your eyes bore holes in his when he made you orgasm, the curve of your satisfied smile afterwards.

Barely being able to register Rogers’ words in his ear as he shout out orders, Rumlow missed a shot at his target and it almost cost him his arm.

“Distracted?” Rogers grunts, knocking the gun out of the target’s grip with ease.

Rumlow finds himself knocking the target down onto his knees, securing his wrists tighter than necessary, growling at the man’s resistance.

“I’ve got some things on my mind,” he confirmed, twisting a sheepish smile on his face. Pulling the man to his feet and shoving him towards the rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team, he applauded himself for appearing friendly with the Captain, even with the pang of annoyance sitting heavy in his stomach. Any day now. He couldn’t risk raising any red flags.

Rogers let out a good-natured chuckle and patted his shoulder. He fought not to shrug the man’s hand off. Damn woman. He gets laid a few times and all of a sudden Rumlow feels like he’s in high school again.

“Hope it’s good things,” Rogers gave him a knowing smirk before catching up with the rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team.

Rumlow scoffed under his breath.

Good things don’t happen to people like him.

🥀

After two weeks of silence, you finally cracked and opened the mission file that Rumlow was assigned on. You couldn’t get over your pride to text him yourself - not wanting to come off needy, or demanding, so you did the totally-not-psycho thing and went behind his back.

It seemed like the file was taking years to download. Every second that passed, you found yourself wanting to close the window and just forget about it. You could get laid without his help. You weren’t the type to snoop around and wait for a man. Your finger twitched to click on the “exit window” tab but the file loaded before you could backpedal.

You frowned.

That was odd.

The mission file stated that he made his return 4 days ago - scrolling down, you found that his mission report was turned in 27 hours ago. Your colleague, Cal, must have been the one to process it during your day off.

You felt a familiar icy grip on your heart. Rejection. You could take a hint. Shit happens. It’s not like you two had an agreement. Or anything, for that matter. It was just good sex.

Closing the window, you tried your best to undo the furrow in your brow as Steve Rogers walked in with two steaming cups of coffee and a report tucked underneath his arm.

“Hey there, doll.” He smiled, lighting up the room. Setting your coffee down beside you, he handed you his mission report.

“Hi Steve,” you shyly glanced at the coffee, the scent hitting your senses and you couldn’t stop the smile spreading on your face.

“I’m sorry this report is so tardy,” he said, big hand rubbing the back of his head. You couldn’t help your eyes from wandering, first gazing at his golden locks that were the opposite of Brock’s dark tresses, and then Steve’s crystal blue eyes that presented a fondness that you weren’t sure Brock’s hazel ones could ever hold.

A pang of sadness struck your heart once again. Jesus, you were whipped.

“Is everything okay?” Steve asked, eyebrows knitting with concern.

“Oh - jeez, sorry Steve,” you laughed, realizing that you got so lost thinking about Rumlow that you had never replied.

“I’ve got some things on my mind.”

Steve had the strangest expression then - a flash of knowing - and he smiled with a certain kind of apologetic softness that you were confused by.

“I see,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your coffee, doll.”

And with that, he turned and made his way out. You deflated. Steve never made a hasty exit with you - normally he’d stay and chat and you both would forget that he was Captain fucking America and instead just a good dude hanging out with a friend. What on earth have you done?

“I hope it’s only good things,” Steve said, before turning the knob on your door. He looked back then, giving you another apologetic, boyish smile, and then promptly walked out and closed the door behind him. Fuck. He knew something.

Oh lord. Bang the hot commander of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team, lose the golden boy. The universe could be cruel. Then again, what did you expect?

And now you weren’t even sure if you were actively banging the man. You sighed, feeling foolish. A few nights of mind-blowing sex has made you weak. Glancing at the coffee, you took a sip, knowing damn well you didn’t deserve it.

Undeserving or not, the coffee was delicious. Damn you, Steve.

It would be another week before you saw Rumlow again. You tried to find another man - even successfully nabbed one at the bar near your apartment, but the sex was as disappointing as you feared it would be. You craved the submissive state that Rumlow could so easily throttle you in. Staring at your empty bed, you couldn’t help but to think that you were right about one thing: it would never feel the same.

You huffed, throwing yourself on your bed. Time for the next best thing.

Reaching under your bed, you found the handle to a hidden drawer. Upon opening it, you were greeted with one of your favorite sex toys - a hot pink Rabbit vibrator.

Alright, you thought. Nobody better to get the job done than you.

Slipping your pants and shirt off, you shuffled the pillows and settled into a comfortable position. Clicking the “on” button, you couldn’t stifle the giddy smile on your face as your core stirred with excitement.

Rubbing the shaft of the toy against your clit gently, you sighed and threw your head back, imagining Rumlow’s thick fingers sliding up and against your slit instead.

Adding more pressure, your toes curled and you let out a mewl of pleasure, remembering what it was like for his stubble to tickle your pussy whenever he went down on you.

You hated how fast you got wet at just the memory of your midnight rendezvous with him, when the man you met last night could barely arouse you.

Clicking the next setting, the vibrations became more powerful. Any second now and you’d be able to slide the toy in and chase an orgasm.

You whimpered, sliding your panties to the side and gingerly lining the head of the toy to the opening of your cunt.

“Well what do we have here?”

You yelped, instantly dropping the toy. Your eyes could hardly believe what you were seeing.

There Rumlow was, in full tactical gear, arms crossed with blown pupils and that signature shit-eating grin.

You swallowed. Your pussy quivered.

“I saw that,” he said, slowly walking over to the bed. He leaned down, placing both hands beside your ankles. You fought the urge to cover up.

“Why don’t you continue for me, honey?”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Picking up the toy, you inserted it with ease and moaned lowly, shutting your eyes and throwing your head back again.

You could hear Brock purr and it made your toes curl into the mattress.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Your head snapped back up slowly, shyly, and when your eyes met his you felt small.

Fragile. Horny as fuck.

“You’re so wet, honey,” he grabbed one of your ankles and yanked you closer to the edge of the bed. The same hand found it’s way to the back of your head, forcing your forehead to rest against his as his hazel eyes bore into yours. His other hand began pumping the toy slowly into your core.

You moaned and shifted, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze.

“Were you thinking of me?”

You felt your heart tighten. Caught red-handed.

You nodded.

“Poor little slut,” he cooed. “Can’t get enough of my cock,” he then unzipped his pants and set his fully erect member loose. Turning the toy off and throwing it to a corner of the room, you jumped when it made a concerning clatter against the floor.

“I’m gonna make sure you don’t need shit like that no more,” Brock said in a low, gravelly voice that made your resolve melt. You shook the feeling of being ghosted off and finally spoke.

“Then do it,” you challenged. He smirked devilishly and thrust into you, not giving you any time to adjust.

With that slight twinge of pain paired with the heavenly feeling of being filled, you swore you could cum right then and there.

Rumlow’s pace was relentless, needy, desperate. He forced you to look into his eyes as he drilled into you, large rough hand gripping the back of your neck while the other held your hip in place to stop you from writhing. You found your hands cupping the sides of his face, trying to hold on, enjoying the tickle of his dark hair brushing across the tips of your fingers with every hard thrust.

You’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in your life.

In all these times you’ve had sex with Rumlow, not once did either of you initiate a kiss. Whether that be another unspoken rule to avoid feelings, or the more painful thought of he simply didn’t want to kiss you, you’d never know.

He must have caught your longing glance at his lips because he growled and suddenly his mouth was on yours, stifling your heavy moans. Teeth clashing, it was as messy and rough as the sex but exhilarating all the same. His tongue slid in your mouth and he tastes like fire and smoke.

Brock Rumlow was seeping into you and consuming everything you had while he fucked you. You gasped for breath when he broke the kiss, only to capture your mouth with his again as he thrusted in harder. Hips becoming sloppy, you could tell he was close.

A large hand slipped down in between your legs and a rough thumb began rubbing tight circles around your clit. You cried. It was too much - the kisses, the sound of skin slapping skin, his breath hitting your face and filling your nostrils with his scent.

All you could touch, smell, taste, hear - all of it was Rumlow.

The coil inside you snapped, hard, and you nearly screamed when Rumlow finished with you, cock throbbing hard inside of you as his hot seed filled your cunt. The warmth of his throbbing member and his hot cum made your body feel like a temple - the pleasure he granted you made it feel worshipped.

You struggled to catch your breath as Rumlow claimed your mouth again, this time with a rough bite to the bottom lip. You whimpered.

He pulled out and for the first time, he didn’t lay himself down next to you. He promptly got dressed.

Your crashing disappointment battling the euphoria of the sex was enough to distract you from the fact that he wasn’t dressed in his standard S.H.I.E.L.D. gear. Or, for that matter, the fact that he wasn’t scheduled to go out into the field for the next three days.

You watched him leave with faux acceptance and calmness and choked down the frustrated tears that threatened to spill out. Jesus.

You were so fucked.

Pulling the sheets and comforter over yourself and positioning your back to the door, you didn’t see Rumlow’s last glance. Longing, desperation and a dash of self-hatred made the perfect cocktail in his eyes.

Maybe good things did happen to Rumlow.

But that didn’t mean he deserved them. He turned the door knob and made his silent exit out.

The last thing you remember is a singular tear spilling out and frustration drilling a hole in your chest.

That night you dreamed of Rumlow staying, and softly kissing you while his large hands caressed every inch of your body. Nose bumping yours, there was that fondness that you had seen earlier in Steve’s eyes that was now in Rumlow’s, but it looked different.

It looked haunted. Sad, even.

The next morning when you rose from your dream, willing yourself to ignore the tear stains on your pillow, you made a pact with yourself to end things the next time he came around.

[og-danny-dorito]

Hellboy Headcanons

it's MY blog and I get to choose the hyperfixation (also it’s yearning hours)

S F W :

- big man big man big man big man big man b

- i love big man v much, and let me tell u smthn it's not for no reason

- so, let's just get a few things straight, the dude is canonically 7 feet tall, meaning that he towers over pretty much anyone. on top of that's he's got horns, a tail, a big ass rock hand thing, and on top of it all a fiery temper. at this you may be asking yourself “danny, if the man hasn't like no redeemable qualities why do you like him so much?” unless you're here because you ALSO like him and know he has a lot of them. let me explain

- so let me start off with some simple facts; he LOVES cats. he loves cats so much so that he actually has a fuckton of them, as seen in the first and second movies (not the one directed by david harbor because i'm not even going to look in that general direction)

- in fact, he loves cats so much that he probably wants to go to a cat café. the issue is that his hulking figure would probably scare away any other patrons at the cafés, so sadly he can't go. as an alternative he just has a whole lot of cats. a lot of the time he'll find himself taking pity on the cats on the street and thus leaving out cans of tuna or cat food in places he might frequent

- he also has a pajama set with cats printed on them but NEVER tell him that it's cute or he may not make eye contact with you for a week

- ah, on that subject matter, he actually gets flustered pretty easily. the only issue is that it's not easy to tell when he does, and when he allows himself to feel like that. it's usually when he's sitting in his room and not really thinking about much of anything (aka: relaxed)

- you can tell by how his face somehow turns a slightly darker shade of red, and the frown and gruff grunt he gives as a response imply an almost evasive nature. he doesn't get how you can say something so innocent about him of all people, but regardless it makes him feel a little bit a somethin

- i know he LOOKS like he will crush your skull, but he's a huge softie. yeah, he comes back to the BPRD base looking like he just fought god bare handed and butt ass naked, but that doesn't mean he's a huge meanie. in FACT, if he really does like you that much he's probably going to treat you like the exact opposite of his stereotype

- he tends to be attracted to anyone who can make him laugh, which is pretty easy considering his biggest weakness is puns. yes, you read that correctly, puns

- catch this dude loosing his shit because you walked in to his room, saw his cats piled up on his torso to absorb his body heat, and said “Wow, looks like you've got a MEOWntain on you, Red.” seriously he won't be able to breathe for a good few seconds

- his laugh is pretty hearty and rumbles in his chest like a washing machine on spin cycle, ending with a dry heave. if you've cracked him up that much he will snort. tiny little piggy snort. and then deny it directly afterwards like a big baby

- he himself is a pretty funny dude, the only issue is that he's selectively funny. usually when he's relaxed and just chillin out he finds himself cracking more jokes than he normally would. making someone he likes laugh motivates him to make more jokes, especially if their laughter is contagious. seriously, he's weak against funny laughs he can't MAKE himself NOT laugh if you sound like a dying horse when you laugh

- he's also pretty affected by other people’s moods even though like 90% of the time he feels shitty. if you're in a good mood then he can't help but feel a little bit better. the positiivty is contagious and not even hellboy can resist it

- thus why he can't for the life of him resist any ounce of cuteness or innocence or impenetrable positivity. like, he just can't help but feel the immediate need to protect

- yeah he likes goth chicks (have you SEEN liz) but have you ever walked around with a literal ray of sunshine glued to your hip? cause big man can't handle the amount of joy it brings him to have someone so happy all the time next to him. it just,,, makes him weak

- that and he's a huge dummy for anyone who's smaller than average but also tends to be fiery and hotheaded like him

- like he doesn't even have a “type” appearance wise but catch him falling head over heels for a positive, firey, and outright goofy person to match his dry and dull attitude towards most things

- he tries to act like he's above it, but the man likes cute stuff. even when he gets caught red-handed petting a litter of kittens he'll just be like “what? never seen a demon before?” and continue with his activities

- if you do end up being his s/o you may very well be the person who has to take care of his wounds because he barely trusts anyone in the med bay to take care of him without trying to experiment or take weird samples without his knowing. that said, he really hates going to the doctor

- you'd be susprized how uncomfortable it makes him, really. so you're probably the one to actually make sure he doesn't fucking die

- it's rare he'll come from work unscathed. in fact, a good portion of the time there's a new scar to add to the count. when asked he'll play it off with some dry humor, barely addressing the fact that his muscles ache like hell and his joints are killing him. you'll have to pressure him into letting you take care of him, which results in a pout and grumbles of protest as he removes his shirt. if he has any injuries near his thighs he'll probably be really hesitant to let you take care of them until you've been with each other for like a month or so

- that and he lowkey would die of embarrassment if you were trying to tend to his thigh wounds and just saw how HUNG he is but i'm gonna save that content for possible NSFW headcanons in the future

- mans super gentle with his s/o, like SUPER gentle. he doesn't want to hurt them, honestly, and just leaving a small bruise from getting frisky or play fighting makes him feel like a fucking monster. in fact, it makes his self-esteem issues worse. he might not touch you for a while if you happen to get a particularly bad injury, on or off the field (implying that you work at the BPRD- if you don't he still feels like shit)

- which means that he probably would like some validation if he does start to feel like complete shit. his skin is thick from his experience over the years, but shit still happens and it always will. he's reminded every day that he doesn't deserve you just by seeing your visual differences. he knows he's a danger to you and the people around him, and it makes him want to avoid everyone. but some gentle words of affirmation and kisses all over make him feel 10x better. it isn't hard to get him out of a funk if he knows you love him too much to find disgust in him

- he doesn't seem very affectionate, but once he knows it's okay to touch up on his s/o like it's no tomorrow he will most definitely release all his touch-starved cravings and be attatched to you all the fucking time

- he's pretty much always holding your hand (although his hands are pretty big so he might just resort to having your and in his without linking fingers) or got his arm around you or, his favorite, having you sit in his lap. he tends to be pretty up close and personal with you if you're all about it

- the only real problems i can see with this are personal distaste or maybe the fact that he's a walking space heater. seriously, hellboy is quite literally hot as hell regardless of the environment, and turns his heater up crazy high. he thrives best in the heat and remains pretty much unaffected by all temperatures. he hates the cold because it makes the tips of his tail and ears cold, but that's pretty much all it does

- you could be in a freezer and the most discomfort he'll feel is that his ears are like a little 👌🏼 bit cold

- so yes, space heater, and it's great if you live in heat like he does. sleeping with him means you'll never get cold again, and since he takes up a lot of space in his bed it's very likely that you'll be sleeping on top of him or at least somewhat touching him. so win win for him, obviously

- he also likes to crank the heater up because it causes you to shed more clothes, probably leaving you in a tank top and shorts while a sheen of sweat forms on your skin and your hair sticks to your face. and if that ain't hot, he doesn't know what is (pun intended). he'll put it down if you ask him to though, begrudgingly. he just likes seeing you breathless is all- ow, don't punch his arm like that

- god forbid anyone look at you like that though. you're wearing something mildly revealing? hell no. there are some bad people out there with even worse intentions and he is not letting some asshole look at you like you're a piece of meat at a butcher's shop

- so obviously he's a bit jealous. well, he's actually a lot jealous, but he won't admit it. just like he won't admit that he was about to kill the guy that catcalled you while you were walking down the street. or that he glared down at the person chatting casually to you about your dress. or that he- you get the picture. he's very protective of you and wants everyone else to know, although it may be because of an inherent self-doubt that says you might leave him

- maybe one day you'll see that you've been dating a demon all this time and be horrified and scared of him, leaving him in the dust for good. it's probably best for you, he thinks, but you'd never do that...right?

- regardless, he's protective of you and thus gets jealous easily. one way to tell is that he tends to become somehow even more attached to you with the person in question nearby. if it gets bad enough he'll just scoop you up and leave, no questions asked. maybe for the sake of your pride and protecting your embarrassment he'll make up some excuse, but as soon as you can tell that he's following you around like a lost puppy it's clear to see that something is up

- if he's getting particularly annoyed though or just wants to tease you, he'll slide his tail up your leg and watch you squeak and jump until pretending he did nothing wrong. the only real way to one-up this is to pinch the head of his tail softly and watch him tense up and give you a look of betrayal because he's crazy sensitive there and gets super unscrewed if you mess with him like that

- of course, looking at him innocently and letting him go once he finally retaliates is always entertaining enough to do again. it may even become a competition between you two to see who looses it and gives out the quickest (spoiler: you're probably going to loose if your relationship is sexual- dude knows his way around the human body and WILL use it against you)

- but it's kind of cute how much he craves your attention, considering it seems he'll do anything to get you to stay by him most of the time. he hates being apart from you and hates knowing you could get hurt at the same time, so it's very likely that you'll have protection wherever you go (if you're in his line of work though he may consider making you his partner, but when he brings this up to Abe the fish man automatically is baffled that a person could bring this kind of reaction out of his stoic and dry-humored friend)

- now for my FAVORITE part; Miscellaneous Headcanons :

   he finds it hot as fuck when you wield weapons of any kind. like yeah you might be his soft precious angel and no one is allowed to touch you but him, but seeing you with a weapon of any sort makes him think about things he's guilty to even know to have though

  oh i forgot to add that he's probably pansexual but is more attracted to feminine body types. doesn't mean he won't fuck someone with a dick, but it does mean that he's a big dom and he likes tiny feminine figures so he's more well-rounded and comfortable with women

   calls you pet names all the time, including Doll, Kitten, Darlin, Sweet-cheeks, and maybe a shorter version of your name or a play at one of your defining traits (for instance, if your hair is red he might call you Little Red as a joke cause he's Big Red ahaha size joke funnyyyy). calling him a nickname in turn that isn't one of the usual like Sweetheart or Honey Bunches gets him blushing like he's got a fever. don't mention that to him though, or he'll get even more flustered (or do, your choice)

   tends to be super flirty with you for shits and giggles, but gets a little riled up if you hit him with an equally witty and flirtatious remark. a little bite never hurt anyone, and he enjoys it more than most

   he really likes spicy stuff, and is currently the champion of "The BPRD Fire-Eating Contest" which didn't involve actual fire from hell (opposed to popular belief) but rather various spicy foods from all over the place and even some from different realms. he won when he ate a concoction Abe made that involved multiple peppers that probably would kill a normal human if eaten all at once but just made Hellboy tear up a little bit and have a runny nose. anything else doesn't affect him at all, and thus why he puts insane amounts of hot sauce in food just to get a tiny sting from it

   his love language is physical contact

- and that's all! hellboy is an affectionate dude with a slew of insecurities. under those scars and rough exterior he can't help but feel his whole day brightened when he sees his s/o and/or best bud, regardless of his mood that day. as a goofball at heart and dad of a thousand cats, the guy is really just misunderstood. take a few minutes out of your day to get to know him over a beer or two and maybe you'll even get a new friend till the end of the line. once he likes you though, there's no way you're getting rid of this big teddy bear

[miiracleboys]

pros of fukuroudani vs mujinazaka getting animated: fukuroudani vs mujinazaka getting animated

cons of fukuroudani vs mujinazaka getting animated: i’m going to have to see people’s Takes™️ on my boy my pal my best friend my worst enemy usuri michiru :(