#in god’s name I am praying he sounds like a real person and not a sleep paralysis demon

[its-malarkey]

Obsessed with how the quality of Shadow’s voice in the Sonic Prime trailer almost sounds like Ryan’s take on him in Shadow dub. Crossing my fingers for the Shadow we love and deserve 😭

[bakugoushotwife]

born sinner (part one)

pairing: crime boss!suguru geto x fem!surgeon!reader series content: blood, gore, realistic descriptions of surgery but like as accurate as someone with access to google has, angst, slow-burn, eventual smut, anxiety as a heavy theme, no curses!au, violence, guns, gang mentions and typical violence, religious imagery, etc. words: 8.5k a/n: omg omg happy new year! the gojo writer takes on suguru geto!! he's so challenging for me in the best of ways and i hope that his characterization is at least tolerable LMFAO!! i got this amazing idea from a gorgeously detailed outline from @antizenin who trusted me to bring her outline to life. i hope you love it!! part two //

the lights are entirely too bright in the meeting hall. it’s nothing compared to the lights in the OR that illuminate the vessels of a heart as you slice into it—finding the clot that caused the fourty-one year old mother of two to collapse in the middle of making breakfast. you saved her life, you save lives. you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon–and a top one at that, though you spent your residency flirting with general and neurosurgery, you ultimately landed on the heart of it all–literally. it was riveting work. it was satisfying work. you got to play god, holding the lives of everyone that came through the hospital doors in your hands. you got to be the one to repair the tear in their aorta, the one to physically pump their heart with your own grip. it was thrilling. until it wasn’t. until you couldn’t stop the bleeding or make the heart beat again. until being god of the emergency room meant sending some people to the afterlife, and realizing that you are no god. you’re just a woman with a degree and a scalpel and a crippling fear that you don’t know what you’re really doing at all.

that’s what got you here. the clock in front of you is just about the only thing to look at in this section of the hospital. the board meets here—the people that convene to discuss fates. it’s almost comically just that the long hallway before the meeting room was barren and hopeless–only the clock’s hands to tick loudly by in mock of you. 7:55 am. just five more minutes until you went from the god above it all to a simple beggar praying to be spared. you were no different from those you operated on. you’re suddenly very aware of how scratchy and hard your chair is, making you adjust and readjust to try to find some semblance of comfort in the last five minutes before judgment day. as a surgeon, you know just how out of whack your vitals are. as someone with a diazepam prescription, you know exactly what’s causing it, regardless of the MD at the end of your last name. shit, you forgot to take your pills again this morning—

there’s a faint sound of heels clicking against the cold tile floor in conjunction with the loud clunk, clunk, ding dong ding! of the clock that signals the top of the hour. it’s time. the secretary calls your name as if you’re not the only person waiting out here, and you nod without meeting her eyes. you know without lifting your gaze that hers is judgmental–like everyone’s lately. 

the problem with being god is that you can’t make mistakes without feeling the wrath of the people that once loved you and championed your name.

millions of thoughts race inside your head simultaneously: if you can’t handle the hardening stare of a measly secretary, how on earth would you be able to function under the eyes of the council, the real gods amongst men. they have the authority to revoke your license if you don’t figure out how to answer to them. the one case, the one incident, the one person’s life that ended because of your inability to handle such racing thoughts drives you to clutch at your chest now as you rise from your chair, back aching. 

“right this way.” she says without another glance, and you’re thankful for that reprieve. she turns, loud heels click clacking their way back down the hall at the same pace of your hammering heart. you love being a surgeon. you can’t lose that. you have to fight for it. saving lives is important to you! you just have to convey this. it’s not hard. swallow your fear and finally fight for something you want, put one foot in front of the other, you tell yourself. breathe in and breathe out—you have to get your sinus rhythm back to normal if you have any hope of getting through this. but it’s so hard when all your senses lie to you like this, the clock’s ticks still rattling across your brain—the long and dark hallway only stretching to be longer and darker before you. you know it’s impossible–just your mind playing tricks. or, more aptly, part of you knows that. but the other part starts to break out in a cold sweat once you finally approach the door. on the other side of the heavy oak were the group of people who would decide what your life was worth: do you get to stay a god amongst men, or will you be cast out like the devil himself? 

you can hear the different voices speaking in low whispers before the secretary has even pushed into the room. you know they must be speaking about you from the way their eyes dart all over your timid form in front of them as they shuffle their papers—reports of every mistake and triumph you’ve ever had laid out in front of them, reducing you to a datapoint. it’s a medical license hearing, but you feel like a freshly hit opossum standing before the vultures just waiting to pick your bones clean. maybe being roadkill was more freeing than this. 

this room is much darker than the lobby you waited in, dimly lit by reading lamps positioned to the right of each panelist–five total. three men and two women would decide if your mistake was enough to ruin your career. their desk towered above you, so much so you had to tilt your chin back to be able to take in their disgruntled, disappointed, and disapproving stares. your saliva feels like liquid cement when you go to swallow it down—though it tastes like bile.  

“good morning doctor.” the man on the furthest right says. he has the kindest eyes of them all, though your brain catches his deception. he’s just acting. the other panelists give you tight lipped smiles of greeting and head nods of acknowledgement. you clear your throat a little and give them a bow. 

“good morning, board of internal medicine. i’ve…prepared a statement?” you clench your jaw at the shakiness you can hear in your voice. it’s the older of the two women that nod at you this time. 

“you may present it.” she says, a drawn-on eyebrow raised expectantly. you swallow down that bile-cement flavored spit again, training your eyes on a hairline crack in the tile under your toe. it’s fitting. as time passes, this crack will widen and cause that tile to erode and crumble away. this meeting could be the crack in your foundation. the decision made here today could be the first domino of events to ruin the picture perfect life you’ve carefully put into place. 

“..hiroshi nakamura entered the emergency room on november twenty-third at 4:57 pm. he was suffering from an aortic aneurysm. as many of you are former surgeons yourselves, i know you’re familiar with the diagnosis. many of these go unnoticed. symptomatic pain is brushed off, and many times it’s too late to save them, the silent killer.” you shift your weight, doing your best to maintain eye contact despite the haunting memory. “nakamura-san was a patient of mine previously. he was diagnosed with arteriosclerosis three years prior, the exact date escapes me. it was in the summertime. july maybe. later that day i performed an endarterectomy to reduce the atheromatous plaque in his carotid artery. we kept him for the next three days for observation, his vitals improved and he was discharged with instructions to receive regular checkups. when he was brought back in…i knew immediately that the buildup must have returned, making it harder for blood to travel until it turned into a clot. when i opened him up, his pressure started dropping. he had an aortic dissection, which i’ve run into many times. but the size of nakamura-san’s was significant. i hesitated, deciding between a graft or a stent for treatment. i took too long to choose, and nakamura-san…bled out on the operating table.” you grimace, looking down at that cracked tile again. the line was shaped like a lightning bolt, its jagged curve leading straight under your shoe. you can feel your chest tighten, so you close your eyes and try to push back against the wave of emotion sitting in your throat. “i had to tell nakamura-san’s family what happened. his wife of forty years, his thirty-four year old son, thirty year old daughter, and twenty-eight year old son as well as his young grandchildren. i’ll never forget what my mistake has done to their lives, and i believe it is punishment enough.” 

you step back once you’ve finished speaking, heart still hammering away in your chest. the members of the board nod, seemingly unaffected by your words. the man in the middle of the massive mahogany table picks up his stack of papers, licking his forefinger before flipping through them. “how long have you been prescribed diazepam, doctor?” 

your blood stills. your anxiety was clearly well documented, and you knew it would be on their list of questions. “since i was a teenager, sixteen i believe.” 

he hums, eyes focused on the paper before him. “and how would you say it helps you manage your generalized anxiety disorder?” 

you would do anything for that ticking clock right about now, for this room is so quiet you swore they could hear your thoughts. “it helps considerably. i’ve stayed on it for over ten years now.”

“your prescription history is spotty. were you trying alternative therapies?” the younger woman asks, manicured red nails clutching your entire life between them via vulturous paper reports. 

you open your mouth to answer–no, argue–but realize that won’t help you anymore than the truth will. “no. i…had not.” 

she raises her brow just like the other woman did, except her eyebrow was real and also well taken care of. “so what happened? it seems like you’ve forgotten to pick up your medicine three times this year—one of which was during nakamura-san’s surgery?” you are a cardiothoracic surgeon, one that was considered proficient enough to pick her specialty. you are no fool. you can see the trap she’s laid before you even unmedicated. 

this is the end. all because of your busy schedule and long hours at the hospital. sometimes you missed pharmacy hours, other times you just forgot about it altogether, mind racing with diagnoses and cases that wait for you the next day. but that won’t matter now, you can feel it before you even answer. they knew what they were going to do before you ever walked in this room. “my business hours are usually reserved for saving lives at this hospital. sometimes i’m not able to make it to pickup.” 

“how long until your death toll matches that of your successes, doctor?” the final man at the left asks, punctuating their line of questioning. he shuffles the edges of his papers against the flat top he sits behind. “i think our decision has been reached. you’re no longer licensed to operate in this hospital or any other, effective immediately. take your medicine.” 

he has his doubts, but he supposes that is his nature. it feels strange to organize a meeting between two warring sides, hoping for a somewhat amicable and fortuitous outcome. hope is a foreign concept in this world, in suguru geto’s reality. he runs the west side of tokyo—keeping businesses running and funding local projects as well as controlling the streets with his biggest means of profit—guns for hire. he was a local historic monument. a ghost–everyone knew of him but pretended not to. everyone from bar owners to bakeries, lawyers and school teachers alike all under his influence, his pulse on the town. that’s how he knew the rival eastside head planned to make a move on his territory, and he’s been able to orchestrate a negotiation between them based on the opinion of his mentor and right hand man. 

traditionally, suguru would eliminate his problem at the source. there’s no need to play politics when you make your own rules. but he trusts wholly in his sacred few, the ones who have been with him since the beginning of his reign, and even before then. suguru’s best friend, satoru gojo was his best assassin and loudest mouth. choso kamo was a younger pup, but loyal and hardworking—very protective. and then there was toji fushiguro, the most valued of all. he’s shown suguru the ropes of this industry while still respecting and protecting him. geto entrusts his life to toji. if the man believes a meeting would be wise, then they’ll have the meeting. 

besides, there was no arguing with his logic. if they were able to pull this off, then his men will have free reign in the east, able to expand their territory into shinjuku, and have a working alliance with their only competition. so why was he having second thoughts? he blames satoru and his creepy blue eyes staring at him in the mirror he’s checking himself over in. 

“do you not trust me?” he asks the other man, tugging the top half of his too-long black hair into a neat knot. it reveals the long dragon tattoo that creeps up his neck, eyes glowing with anger at whoever looked. his own golden eyes flicker with unease as they survey the only person in the room. suguru hated how opinionated satoru could be at times, and valued it in others. though he usually didn’t know which way he felt until after the fact. 

the arctic-haired boy scoffed, kicking himself into stride from his previous position leaning against the wall. “oh i trust you. i just think it’s weird. i mean–toji’s so gung-ho, let’s slaughter ‘em all, and now we’re supposed to believe he’s become a diplomat?”

“i didn’t know you knew what diplomat meant.” suguru comments drily, sidestepping his friend’s critique of their teacher.

satoru shoves his round sunglasses back up his nose to conceal his eye roll. suguru was technically his boss—though he could get away with more than most. “hey, you asked. i just…have a bad feeling about this.” he shrugs–a knock at geto’s door causing both men to go on high alert immediately. satoru reaches for his weapon, always expecting an ambush. such is this way of life. 

“geto–sama, the car is ready.” the driver says from the other side of the wood, and satoru relaxes at the realization that it was just ijichi–a man so weak and cowardly that an ambush at his hands would be impossible. suguru releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding onto. he fastens the final button on his shirt, glancing over himself in the mirror once again. he wanted to appear polished and professional in his all black attire—and it worked. he seemed larger than life and as intimidating as ever. 

“perfect. i should get going.” he nods to his best friend–who, due to his abrasive and blunt nature, will not be attending this meeting. suguru adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, strapping his guns to his torso and giving satoru a tight lipped smile. the latter gets the door for him, mockingly saluting. 

“i’ll hold down the fort until you get back, boss!” he chirps, nodding to ijichi before making his way back to the data room. 

toji meets them in the car. it’s a bulletproof black bronco, a fitting vehicle to cart around a high-profile crime boss. suguru’s confidence is bolstered at the sight of his most trusted companion, and he genuinely smiles as he ducks into the backseat with him. 

“hey kid, big day.” the older man says gruffly, his gravelly voice making it sound like he were sixty years his senior instead of a mere fifteen. suguru was no child, and didn’t appear to be one either. the twenty-eight year old man towered over six feet, thick with muscle and riddled with scars of experience, but to toji—suguru was a helpless kitten. 

suguru hums, eyes already scanning for potential danger as the car rolls out of the garage. “big day indeed. you’ve spoken to him already this morning?”

toji claps his broad hand down on suguru’s even broader shoulder, chuckling. “we wouldn’t be headin’ out if i hadn’t. sukuna’s ready for us.” he assures, noting how strong and steady suguru looked. toji was proud, geto has grown quite bit from the scrappy little boy he once was. if he was nervous, he was keeping that close to his chest. 

“good. i think he’ll find my proposal beneficial for us both.” he nods, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. sukuna’s crew mostly pushed petty crime and even pettier drugs—suguru’s bunch could elevate their product and offer more riches for the notoriously greedy ‘cursed king’ ryomen sukuna. 

toji snorts a little, amused by his arrogance. “let’s hope so.” he nods, checking the rearview and windows before they fall into silence. 

the ride is smooth due to the expensive tires and ijichi’s careful nature, leaving geto plenty of peace and quiet to brainstorm all of the ways this could go down. he’s doing a genuine good for japan–sure, he has to break a few laws to do it, but the people of tokyo—well, his half anyway—are prospering. he hopes that even the arrogant man that ryomen is can see what banding together would do for them both. then, it could be just a matter of time before he can branch out into the rest of japan. 

there’s that word again. hope. he feels silly each time he catches himself using it. it’s akin to faith to him. something ideal in entirety, hardly true to the touch. he only believes in what he can see–things like optimism and god are lost on him, they are only fantasies. 

“ijichi! watch the right side—” toji commands gruffly, sitting up straighter in his seat to get a better look. suguru is grounded with a shot of adrenaline, leaning over to peer at the black suv hot on their tails. this highway is busy—civilians in their own cars without a clue in the world littered all over the roads at various speeds. it could be nothing–except geto knows better than to hope that the tinted windows on the car were meant to block out the sun instead of concealing identities. the large suv switches into the left lane, speeding up to catch them. “idiot! step on it!” he calls, and suguru draws one of his guns to be prepared ahead of time, a lesson he learned from the man sitting to his right. 

“is it one of sukuna’s?” he asks aloud, cocking his .45 as the first shots ring out from the vehicle beside them. they bounce right off his armored car, but one knicks the tire. geto curses under his breath, cracking the window enough to pop off a few returning shots of his own. the cadillac is impenetrable too–though he had hoped to flatten one of their tires in return or even get one under the hood. 

ijichi starts to lose control on the vehicle as the tire blows—just the metal rim scraping against the concrete with a deafening hiss. the bronco starts to fishtail, the car beside them only furthering the inevitable by nudging the rear quarter panel into the median ahead. “i’m losing it! we’re gonna flip!” ijichi cries out in panic, prompting suguru’s eyes to widen. 

there’s a loud crunch of metal on concrete before they’re airborne. geto feels a sense of finality wash over him as they turn, his seatbelt the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck. there’s another gross sounding scrape of the driver’s side scraping on the road briefly before they rotate again—heartbeat erratic. this is it. all of his hard work would end in a fiery car accident. he can’t even feel it as his head bounces off the window, only thinking about how satoru was right. he should have appreciated his friend more—he’s probably the only person who will mourn him when he’s gone. the roof caves in when they fall onto it this time, shrapnel scratching his face and making him realize they had stopped. they’re on their back–he’s hanging upside down, but he’s alive. he can smell oil and gas and the inevitable smell of fire, so his numb fingers fumble for the seatbelt’s release button. the car alarms are going off—and he knows if he doesn’t get out soon, the relief of being alive won’t even have time to sink in before it’s ripped away again. he looks around the car—toji’s door ripped off in the accident and his body nowhere to be seen. 

“goddammit–” he growls, clicking the button on his seatbelt over and over, unable to get free. there’s a million alarms going off—the car’s sensors, the airbags, the bitter hum of gunshots ringing in his ears still, maybe even faint police sirens heading this way. none as loud as the one in his head telling him that he had to get out soon–fighting until the button finally releases him and he lands with a thud on the sunroof portion of the now mangled bronco. he crawls toward the only exit, toji’s exit, grimacing at the sickening sound of crunching glass digging into his side as he drags himself through it. he thought dying would be more peaceful—that he would be ready for it, even if he hadn’t finished his work yet. in this business, there is no tomorrow, yet he found himself fighting for one. this wouldn’t be the end of him, some sort of voice in the back of his head told him so. it wasn’t his own, in fact he didn’t recognize it—but it made him take the pain and push forward, out of the car and onto the street beside. 

the sunset would be prettier under better circumstances, but he’s grateful to see it irregardless. his head hurts, and he can’t look around as fast as he wants to without getting dizzy, that ringing deafening his senses. he sees the cadillac–still on the scene– with a group of men huddled outside of it talking. 

he sputters out a cough, clearing his lungs of some of the debris he’s inhaled. it catches their attention—and all geto can process is a pair of dark boots stomping over rubber scraps and glass shards until they’re inches from his face and the legs attached are squatting down to get a better look at him. 

“eh, shoulda known you’d survive it if i did.” he grumbles, a voice so unmistakable suguru’s blood stills in his veins. the sole of the man’s boot shoves into suguru’s shoulder, kicking him to his back. “you trust too much kid. why would sukuna negotiate when he could just take from you instead? shame. you coulda been great.” he says, fumbling behind his back for a 9mm piece, the sobering click of the safety and familiar cock of the gun clearing out all the other noises. geto’s too devastated to speak—though he knows there’s nothing he could say. he lived through the accident just to die with the truth: his mentor betrayed him. 

bang!

getting shot doesn’t feel like you think it does. it’s white hot and instant, a blistering intensity that tells you you're dying. suguru’s hand flies to cover the damage to his chest, eyes wide in disbelief still. he must have already died and gone to hell. he can’t hear anything now but the ringing of the gun and toji’s sigh. 

“meh–just to be sure.” toji yawns, scratching his head with the barrel before turning it back to suguru’s chest. 

bang!

it hurts to breathe, but he has to gasp for air either way—bleeding out on the pavement below. the ringing in his ears is replaced by tires spinning out—signifying that the rival crew had left before the cops could arrive. suguru holds his crimson soaked hand up above his face, clenching his jaw. the pain was hitting him in waves, the clawing feeling of glass embedded in his skin mixed with the burn of being shot, the inability to take a deep breath and his growing weakness, he really was dying this time. 

no. 

that voice again. he’s annoyed by it, but intrigued. why? why not give up? he asks himself, coughing despite the excruciating pain it puts him in and the wetness that seeps out of his mouth—something even he knows is blood. 

there’s so much life to live. fight. revenge, love. there’s more for you. 

he stares up at the pale outline of the moon hanging in the sky, growing brighter as the sky darkened. revenge. that was something he’d like to see. he didn’t know about the rest of it–but was confused by this…guardian angel of his. is this god? he was a born sinner—far away from anything holy. this must be an imagination of his—yet it was motivating enough to get him to move again. they wrecked just outside of harajuku. he knew of a dive bar under his business portfolio that he could try to get to–he could hang on until satoru found him and got him to the hospital, though that was a whole new set of problems. he had to get moving, the ringing of sirens getting closer by the second. 

his vision is blackening and he doesn’t even know how close he is to the bar. his breathing is ragged, everything screaming and aching, body telling him to give up but that voice urging him to keep going. night has settled in fully by now, and he’s thankful for that cover. this area of town is avoided by anyone with good intentions, hence its emptiness at this hour. it couldn’t be too late, 8 pm at the latest, but the only traffic moving through this district are giggly college students and no good drug pushers meeting up with customers in the dark. but it’s reassuring to him, it means he’s getting closer. that’s when the reminiscing hits him. he’s able to see some bright flashing lights—a telltale sign that the bar was just ahead. the shelter of the alleyway gives him some reprieve. maybe if he stops just stopped for a second to catch his breath he’d be able to get to his feet and walk inside, or just getting a phone call in would be enough to save him. he thinks about satoru, how he’d come running as soon as he picked up the phone all while cursing him out for not listening to his warnings sooner. he feels embarrassed that the only person he has to think about is his sarcastic best friend, left to wonder if things would be better or worse if he had a family to think about instead. the last thing he thinks about is that mysterious voice calling out to him to stay awake—but his body is done fighting. all is black. 

what better way to end the worst day of your life than getting shitty at the shittiest bar in town? there were probably lots of better options, like conserving your money since you didn’t know where your next source of income would stream from—but that was tomorrow’s problem. tonight’s problem was drinking your sorrows away next to the attractive man buying all your drinks. he was tall and his hair was spiky to look at but you knew it would be soft to the touch–or maybe that’s the vodka talking. his smile was more akin to a smirk rather than a genuine grin. he was trouble. but trouble was buying, so you’d keep batting you lashes and whining about your sorrows so the shots kept coming. the top-shelf vodka the man offers each time is working to its desired effect, numbing the ache in your heart and the bickering thoughts in your brain. it almost cloaks the mildew scent in the air—rose-colored glasses making the nasty blue carpet and hideous wood paneled walls of the bar look like a dream come true. you finally feel light. you almost forget about the man eyeing you like a predator in wait to your left, consciousness floating high in the clouds. 

you used to hate drinking. as a surgeon, you need a clear mind at all times. who knew when you’d be called in for an emergency case. well, needed. plus, you’ve always been an angry drunk, overly emotional and yelling constantly. it wasn’t a pleasant sight. not to mention the hangovers, ugh—your long-term psyche had always beaten out the short-term pleasure, but tonight you owed it to yourself to feel as bas as possible tomorrow. that’s why the clouds clear—your light-hearted joy short-lived as the bartender slides you another shot before muttering. 

“that’s your last one, doctor.” he tilts his head down, used to serving your fellow surgeon friends when you did have a well-timed night off, though he’s never seen you drunk as the most responsible member of your group, you were always designated driver. not anymore, you’d be lucky to get a text back from any of them now that you were disbarred. maybe that’s what actually makes you mad instead of being cut off. it’s the realization of all the things you’ve really lost–-including the right to drown your sorrows out with a swollen liver. 

“what the fuck?? and i know ya heard me talkin’...not a doctor anymore!! so let me have my vodka, i deserve it!” you whine, stretching your upper body over the scratched and chipped wooden bar keeping you from jumping across at his dumb stupid fat neck—

“no can do, miss. you’re over served as is, ‘s my job on the line.” he shakes his head, eyeing the man next to you to get you under control, assuming he knew you better than a few hours of tipsy talking. you scoff at his insinuations–both that you’re too drunk to handle yourself and that this wallet has any sway over your motor-mouth. 

“don’t look at him—fucking look at me! i’ll kick your goddamn ass, you know that?” you’re fuming. this is the proverbial straw that broke the hypothetical camel’s back. after the day you’ve had, you’re surprised it took this much to get you this rowdy. how much was one person meant to take anyways? venting out your anger would help you plenty, you think to yourself as you lift your knee up, prepared to crawl over that wooden plank saving that man’s life. 

“security!! come get ‘er. she’s wasted.” he scoffs, taking your shot away and making your blood boil even more. “they’ll get an uber for ya. take it easy, doc.” he shakes his head, making you feel remarkably judged all of a sudden, every eye in the place was on you as a guard even bigger than the man next to you drags you off the bar as carefully as he can. you don’t make it easy, kicking and screaming out despite the burning sensation in your cheeks.

“you’re scared of a girl? that’s fucking embarrassing!” you bellow to cloak your own, getting tossed on your feet gently— outside of the dingy building. 

“come on, little lady. let’s get you a ride home.” the security guard says, another one of them making their way outside as some sort of backup–like you were some genuine threat. you scoff, folding your arms. 

“fuck off—don’t need your shitty help, i’ll get home on my own!” you kick his shin, throwing your hair over your shoulder before marching off into the dead of night. 

in one of the worst parts of town. 

the cold shocks you awake, the fear putting you on edge and pushing back the drunkenness that fought so hard to claim you. every rustle of the bushes, each twig snapping has your head on a swivel. you just need to make it to your car, though it was daytime when you foolishly parked it a few doors down to avoid the traffic of drunk people leaving later in the evening. you’ve already made half the distance, the connecting alleyway just up ahead. 

you don’t make it two hundred feet before everything hits you again—and you’re bawling at your own stupidity. you should have made time to pick up your pills. you wouldn’t have to be worried about being kidnapped or murdered in the middle of the night if you had just taken your medicine. your life if over—and you couldn’t blame anyone but yourself. you’re a mess. you’re nearly gasping for breath already—the dark alley mocks you with long shadows reflecting from the moon and stray cats that hop out of the dumpster just to make you fear the worst. you wipe at your cheeks, desperately sniffling to try to regain your senses, eyes aching from the downpour. you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not being followed, entirely too focused on what’s behind you to notice the log in front of you—you’re sent flying over it and towards the pavement. luckily you take the impact on your shoulder, nothing more than a shocked, “ow–” leaving your lips before you realize you’re not hurt at all thanks to your coat absorbing the brunt of it.

it’s just another strike of your famous luck then, something annoying enough to inconvenience you on a day chock full of them, but not enough to take you down. you push to your hands and knees, looking back towards the offending log—only to realize it’s breathing and has long dark hair strewn about its head. you gasp–the fog muddying up your senses clearing instantly at the realization that this was no log, but some severely injured man! you can hear his struggling breaths, springing into action immediately. it’s nearly second nature to you as you push his hair out of his face and away from his neck. it’s much too dark for you to make out specifics–but his chin shines with something you can only imagine is blood, the same wet liquid pooling in front of his torso, the man laying on his side in an almost fetal position.  

“sir–can you hear me?” you try, placing your fingers where his heartbeat should be. it’s weak and much too slow, but it’s there. you can save him. “sir what happened to you? what’s your name?” you ask loudly, trying to get him to wake up. you groan when he doesn’t respond, blindly fumbling around for the wounds. your heart is racing, any slowness from the alcohol was killed by the adrenaline consuming you now. you gasp out again when you feel glass shards and bullet holes, a good fifteen minutes away from home even if you step on it. you’re not sure if this man has fifteen minutes left in him—the reasonable part of your brain telling you to call the emergency line to get him helped. though, they’d take just as long to show up despite how serious his wounds are. “you’re gonna have to help me a little, big guy.” you groan even louder, trying to put him on his back. it would jostle him less and was the only shot you had at getting a man of his size back to your vehicle on your own. 

you swear you hear him chuckle, but perhaps you were still a bit tipsy. you grab his hands, trying to be careful of the one riddled with glass, situating them in your own at the best leverage point. you’re strong—you can do this. you need to feel useful again–and this man needs to be saved. he’s so heavy, nothing but dead weight as you tug him along behind you. you have to bend a little and pray that your legs can make it to your car, just a final push to get to safety. 

you’re grateful when you see your mom-mobile waiting for you. this was your ambulance, and you were running out of time and the strength to keep pulling, gnawing nervously on your lip. what if he died anyway? what if you couldn’t save him at all, and were only chasing highs you’d never feel again? 

no. you’re skilled. if you couldn’t save this man then… the truth was that no one could. so determination overrides your anxiety for the time being, and you pop the trunk of your sporty suv, looking down at the man with a heart sigh. “okay–i can do it. what are ya, 200, 220?” you muse, squatting down and fixing him over your shoulders as best you could—a fireman’s carry of sorts. your hips and thighs should support you more than your exhausted arms, so you heave up with a strangled grunt. you throw him in a little harder than intended, grimacing. “sorry!” you huff, circling to your driver’s side. at least he’s in, even if your arms are jello and you know you’ll have to get him in the house somehow. you aren’t even thinking about how his blood will stain your tan interior—the rush of saving a life quieting any background noise in your mind. “you gotta hang in there. hang in there, please.” you mumble, weaving through traffic. 

you back up as close to your garage as possible, trying to think ahead for anything that could make this easier on yourself. you throw the car in park, hurrying to get him out of the back. he’s running out of time, and a surgical god you may be–but there’s only so many miracles you can call in. you get him in the same hold from earlier yet you let his feet touch the ground, muscles burning at the exercise. you have to breathe in short bursts, crushed by his heaviness, adrenaline helping you accomplish something you normally wouldn’t be capable of. you stumble with him, still half dragging him. it’s a battle you’re worried you might lose, but you get him on your dining room table, splayed out like a gurney. then you’re prepping your OR, getting the lights on, all the tools and dressings you would need, and most importantly—scrubbing in. infection would kill him if you weren’t careful now. 

“you stumbled into the right hands, mister. or well…i guess i stumbled over you–but you get the point.” you roll your eyes at yourself and glove up, stretching the vinyl over your fingers and flexing them, all part of your pre-op routine. you get your first good look at him then. he’s terribly hurt, it really is even worse than you thought. bullet holes and all this blunt trauma–he must have endured something horrific. but beneath all the bruising marring his olive skin, you can tell that he’s a beautiful man. his inky hair gleams under your bright dining room lights, somehow looking silky despite the tangles bunched up throughout the mane. you sigh, turning your attention to the blood soaked shirt he had on–two perfectly round entrance piercing his front, but no exit wounds. in his case, it was probably saving his life, those bullets possibly lodged in important arteries—scary, but better than bleeding out. he’s already lost quite a bit of blood–and it’s not like you have any history on him to know what type he is. there’s no time to worry about tests–you’d have to get your emergency stash of o negative. it was universal–your own blood that you kept on hand in case of the worst. it looks like this is it. you flawlessly install the iv, watching the slow stream shoot through the clear iv catheter and into his body. it helps with his paleness after a few minutes, and you smile in relief. this was a good sign. you rip his shirt with the last remaining strength you’ve got left, buttons flying to expose extremely bruised ribs and those gaping bullet wounds. “this isn’t gonna feel great, i’m sorry.” you grab your cheap bottle of house vodka, taking another shot from it to steady your nerves before pouring a decent amount over his chest. “i have to get in here—i’m happy you can’t feel it–now, anyway.” you take a deep breath and reach for your scalpel. you decide to perform a sternotomy—cutting between his breast plate to the web of arteries beneath. “i can see the bullets. you’re gonna make it.” you whisper, more encouragement for yourself than for him. your retractors keep his chest open for you wide enough for you to get your forceps in, aiming to pull out a bullet out of a vein close to his heart. “it missed the aorta. you’re actually really lucky.” you chuckle humorlessly.

you wedge your forceps in and take a deep breath. it’s not the aorta, but it will spew blood anyway. “not my preferred method of grafting—no catheters here but. i gotta fix it somehow.” you growl a little in annoyance. you have to squint and move slowly, but you’re able to repair the first leak with a shifty little graft. you’re onto the next one, dropping the offending metal into a bowl—complete with a little clink. “we’ll get you to the hospital just to check my work, yeah?” you sigh, hoping that this would be good enough to save his life. your hands steady over the second bullet, and you repeat the same motions as before. you’re relieved at the sight of his heart literally beating underneath your working hands, knowing that he’s still fighting for his life. you remove the second one and get out of his body—sewing up his chest, letting the blood bag refill his own supply until the bag is drained. you push some saline to clean out the line before hanging a bag of morphine, the pain this mystery man would wake up to would be excruciating. 

once you’re done with the intense life-saving measures, you sit in a chair to pluck the glass from his skin and apply ointments to the road rash on his face and arms. it takes another hour or so of work, but you don’t mind. it’s strangely relaxing to feel like you’re doing your job, and it’s so rewarding when you check his pulse every ten minutes to find it getting stronger and stronger. you hate that you hadn’t invested in a stat monitor, having to check his blood pressure the old fashioned way, but that looked like it was perking up too. you grin, proud of yourself. losing your license didn’t mean you lost your touch. you decide to get the glass and rubble out of his hair, pulling it back away from his face for a second time tonight. you take another lengthy look at the man you’ve saved, still grimacing at the ugly bruises and scrapes when something else catches your eye. the man had several tattoos that seemed unremarkable at first, different dark lines tangling into patterns you didn’t recognize. but the dragon creeping from his collarbone to peek over the collar of his shirt—it’s a yakuza trademark. this man wasn’t a poor soul caught up in a tragic accident—this was a dangerous man. you just saved the life of a war-monger, countless lives ended due to his line of work. part of you wants to open his chest back up and make your grafts fail—but the other part of you wants to feel the success course through your veins when he wakes up. besides, what makes a surgeon and what makes a gang lackey? is it a good childhood? morals? options? who’s to say this man had killed anyone? god knows you wouldn’t want to be judged based off of a few sneak peeks. you sigh, piddling off to your room to get him some new clothes. 

it’s invasive, changing a stranger. but you’re at fifth base already right? saving his life gave you a get out of jail free card, even if he was in the most dangerous crime syndicate in japan. you get his matted jeans off, making yourself look up at the ceiling in modesty and respect. you shimmy the plaid pajama pants up his body–thankful that your ex never came back for his stuff. you decide against wrestling a shirt around all the bandages on his arms and chest—knowing you could hurt him just as much as you’ve helped. you decide to try your luck one last time, pushing your table the short distance to your living room to let him rest on something more comfortable than the cold marble slab. it’s an easy shove to get him onto the couch, and you finally take a deep breath and sigh it all out. success is sweet–surgery is exhausting. you pull a little blanket over him, setting hourly alarms to check on your patient until he wakes. 

he wakes up to the smell of something cooking. the light pouring in from the curtain makes him squint–definitely a sharp adjustment from the darkness that consumed him before. he hears a woman humming a few rooms away, only furthering his confusion. he didn’t die? but how…he didn’t call anyone, and he knows no one in that area would willingly bring the sirens in to help him–and where exactly was he? all of these things hit him at once, but nothing harder than the deep ache in his bones. he couldn’t describe it, something so sharp and throbbing he could hardly get his body to obey his mind’s orders to move. 

sitting up is pure hell. every red flag and stop sign goes off, making him grunt in agony. but he knows he has to get going–get out of whatever trap he’s got himself into. he doesn’t recognize the room–for all he knows, sukuna’s men followed him and have him here to torture. 

but that woman’s voice, he knows it. that doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap still. the humming stops, and footsteps pad closer until a bright face pokes into the room, an ‘o’ shape forming on her face before she enters–complete with a plate of food. 

“you’re awake–” you gasp in surprise. you had just come to do your rounds, deciding that eating with him would help you better watch out. you weren’t expecting him to already be up and at ‘em, he must be very strong. though you still notice how rigid he’s holding himself. “you really should lie down, you…” he cranes his sore neck, flashing you a glimpse of that black ink. you suddenly remember just how dangerous he is, and he looks like a dog backed into a corner, narrow black eyes sizing you up—distrust all over his feline features. 

“who do you work for?” he tilts his head to one side, and your brows furrow in confusion, oh–he was worried you worked for a rival. you shake your head, eager to defend yourself. 

“n-no one, no one right now!” you blurt out, anxiously shifting your weight foot to foot. you look down at the breakfast in your hands, holding it out for him to take instead. “here! eat, as a sign of my goodwill.” 

he analyzes the plate, then looks back up at you–peacocking his shoulders back and hissing at the pain the stretch brought him. now you know just how weak he is—and he can’t make another target out of himself. “i hope you know i will have you killed if you’re lying.” 

despite the way his glare makes your skin crawl and the hair at the base of your neck stand up, you can’t help but laugh at that. “i wouldn’t lie. i saved your life, why would i waste my time?” you shove the plate out further, basically putting it in his hands–one still heavily bandaged from dragging himself through the wreckage. 

he takes the plate from you. if he’s shocked by that, he doesn’t show it. he only watches you as he eats your food, grunting in pain every so often. you took the iv out while he slept, not sure how he’d react when he woke up to wires. “i uh…i have medicine…for the pain.” 

“who are you?” he returns without a second passing. he takes another reluctant bite of food, stomach growling in thanks. 

you tell him your name, stealing a few glances at the heavy furrow of his brow. “you were badly hurt. i am a doctor..so i helped repair what i could. you should recover. i imagine you need to lay low?” you ask with a raised brow, betraying your intellect. he knows you must have some idea of who he is. “you can stay here as long as you need. you might want to shower–but you’ll…probably need some help.” 

his expression shifts before your very eyes. his clenched jaw and steel brow relaxes into a soft look of…gratitude? truthfully, he was baffled. a doctor stumbled upon him, realized that he’s a criminal, saved him anyway—and now offers her home? he almost worries about how naive you really must be—but he owes you a debt he can never repay. you have given him a second chance—made revenge possible when he had given up completely. “thank you, little ebi. i will take up your gracious offer.” he nods, smiling kindly. 

you smile, heart going awol inside your chest. it was the right thing to do, he was injured and needed to be cared for. you’re a doctor who suddenly has a lot of time on her hands. it means nothing–but that you still have empathy left in you. you know you’re close to shaking, but you turn to leave before it can show. “i’ll grab you a change of clothes. don’t move too much until i get back.” you hum, and he hums in acknowledgement. 

he’s rather polite for a yakuza, his refined calmness even in the most dire of situations rubs off on you easily—you hold your head high as you pilfer through the tote of clothes your ex left behind, trying to find something for the big scary man in the living room. you finally decide on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. you even nab some of those painkillers you offered earlier, hoping to ease that stiffness he carries himself with to mask his suffering. 

but when you get back to the living room the only thing waiting for you is the empty breakfast plate and a few hundred dollar bills—your curtains blowing in the harsh wind. your heart sinks for an unknown reason, and you tell yourself it’s because your patient wasn’t dressed for the cold.

[emphistic]

For the Better

A/N: dont feel like proofreading; i would say sorry, but im not

<- series m.list

You answered just before the last ring sounded, and forced out a “Hello?”

A familiar voice came from the other line, saying your name with great enthusiasm. “Hey, you! I almost thought you weren’t going to answer.”

Giving a nervous laugh, you sat yourself down on the couch and prayed to God your social battery hadn’t run out yet. “Naoki, what’s up? Aren’t you supposed to be working at this time?” You did a once-over on the wall clock, validating your assumption.

“I called off of work, I wanted to see you today.”

You blinked. “Oh? You didn’t, like, check if I was available before doing something so rash as leaving work? I mean, what if I wasn’t free?” 

Naoki paused for a second, before replying, “I assumed you were free after seeing your car outside your complex. Though I may be wrong, I don’t peg you as the sort of person to call an Uber when you have your own vehicle.”

Your mouth opened and closed, but a response failed to come out. He’s at my building? you thought. You didn’t remember giving him your address, and it would be more than weird for him to ask Eileen for it instead of you. Besides, you two haven’t heard from each other since the night at the bar. 

“You’re here?” was the only thing you managed to say.

Naoki hummed in agreement.

“But—but how do you know—?”

“Your address? Trust me, I don’t. I just coincidentally recognized your car while walking around, that’s all. I, Naoki Ito, am far from a serial killer,” he laughed.

“Well,” you said, “that’s good to know. . .”

You eyed Sukuna across the room from your spot on the couch. He couldn’t hear your phone call; you didn’t answer on speaker; but he did look like he was wondering who was keeping you for so long.

“Anyway, if you are free, I was hoping you could show me around the city? I’ve seen some nice restaurants, but I’ve yet to try them.”

You silently wondered why he didn’t ask his cousin, but you didn’t think more on the subject besides that. “That’s . . . not a bad idea. Sure, I’m free.”

“Really? That’s great! How can we meet up?”

“Are you near my complex?”

Naoki hummed, “I’m outside this three-story building with some blue graffiti on the side of it. Dolphins and waves and y’know.”

“Oh, I know where you are. I’m going to get ready, you can just stay put for me, right? I’ll head there in, like, ten minutes, tops.”

The call was quickly ended, and you told Sukuna you would be leaving. 

“You know, I haven’t asked Naoki what he thought of macaroni and cheese, yet. I’m thinking today’s the day, and, if he says ‘yes’, well, it’s needless to say I’ll be spending the rest of my week praising whatever gods bestowed this blessing upon me.” You smiled to yourself. “Anyway, I’ve got this great idea that I think you’ll absolutely love.”

“Shoot,” said Sukuna.

“I’ve been thinking about the possibility of Naoki being interested in me. And, honestly, I think it would be great if I set you up with Eileen. I’m not sure how to feel about her flirting with you despite thinking our relationship’s real, but, if all works out with Naoki (as in, he likes macaroni and cheese), the four of us should totally go on a double date some day. What do you think?”

“Fuck no.”

“Seriously? I think my idea’s genius.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Yeah, well, the not-genius part about your idea is the fact you’re trying to get me to date some annoying ass bitch you call your friend. Besides, she is not my type.”

That was . . . definitely not the response you were expecting. “Harsh, much?” you said. Yet, you couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips. Sukuna was always so vulgar; it was a bit amusing.

It was a simple, casual outing for two friends that were checking out the city. Thus, you didn’t spend much time throwing on an outfit; you dressed solely for the comfort of a day that was to be spent walking around. So, it didn’t take long for you to meet up with Naoki. And, just as he said, he was leaning on a wall covered head to toe in graffiti. He waved you over once he noticed you, and from there, you two began the day.

“You look nice,” he said, upon looking you up and down.

“You don’t look too shabby, yourself,” you laughed. “So, where’s your car parked?”

Naoki looked a bit confused for a second, as if your question was an absurd one. “Car?”

“Yeah, you drive, right? The nearest restaurant is pretty far. I’ve been complaining about that since the day I moved here. And, if that wasn’t strange enough, there are so many grocery markets here. Like, not everyone is a chef,” you scoffed.

It made you think of Sukuna, who was probably back home. Watching Pride and Prejudice by himself, and complaining about God knows what. He was always a good cook. So, even before you two got into this dating arrangement, he was frequently spending a lot of time at your place. You always laughed and called him your private chef, but he might as well have been.

“Yeah, so, about that, I . . . don’t have a car, actually. I get around places by either taking the bus or walking. Daily exercise, am I right?” joked Naoki, but you didn’t laugh, and just merely nodded.

“We can walk to this restaurant I know, it’s a twenty minute walk, but we can manage. And,” you turned to look at Naoki, “on the way, we can get to know each other better. I think it’s a nice plan, it’ll distract us from how bad our feet will ache by the time we get to the place.” You laughed.

“Good idea,” said Naoki.

His agreement came fast, you almost weren’t expecting it. Sukuna never deliberately said ‘yes’ to you or agreed to any of your ideas. He was more of an actions guy than a words person. He could say ‘no’ and yet still pass you the remote. He could tell how ridiculous you were, and yet still indulge in your little mischiefs every now and then. Like, for instance, the time you told him about your supposed curse. He went with it, despite obviously not believing one word you spoke about it.

“So, do you have any hobbies? Play any sports?” you asked, once the both of you made it to a crosswalk.

“Ah, I’m a big hockey fan. I’m from Los Angeles, so I like the LA Kings and all that. But I don’t play, no, I’ve never been able to join a team.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dunno, to be honest. Can’t say I’m surprised, though, I’m pretty sure I would fall right on my butt as soon as I got on the ice.”

You laughed. “Oh? So you’ve never been ice skating?”

“Nah. You?”

You nodded. “It’s super fun. My first time was on my thirteenth birthday. I went with . . . a friend. Yeah, my friend taught me how to skate.”

It was a hard memory to forget. Your first birthday as a teenager, you went ice skating with none other than Sukuna. Yeah, he played basketball, but he also used to play hockey. He was a devil on the ice, you knew, because you often went to watch his games. But when you two went together, he acted like a saint as he helped you on the ice.

You did drag him down a few times, courtesy of your lack of skill and prominent unfamiliarity on the rink, but he was a good sport about it, merely laughing with you and playfully bullying you just a few times. Despite the cool weather at that time, the memory was warm, and always gave you a cozy feeling just thinking about it. You wondered when you would next be able to do something like that.

“That’s nice. Maybe we can go some day.”

“Uhm, yeah. . . We’d probably have to wait until it gets colder, though.”

Naoki agreed. “What about you? Any hobbies?”

“I like to bake. I have a friend who has a major sweet tooth; she’s always trying out my new recipes and giving me feedback, y’know?”

“Like a taste tester? I bet she only ever has good things to say about your baking.”

You snorted. “You flatter me. But, I wish I could say the same thing about my cooking. The only thing I can make is mac n’ cheese.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing. I can’t cook anything even for the life of me. I DoorDash more often than not. Chicken sandwiches get me going.”

God, you could practically hear Sukuna yelling at you, “Your skin looks like shit. You need to start eating something more healthy than that crap you call buldak ramen.” Sukuna cared about health more than anything. And always poured his blood, sweat, and tears into making you meals that were not only tasty, but also beneficial in ways you didn’t even know existed. He never ordered in, and always made sure you were only rarely eating junk food. If Sukuna was listening to Naoki talk right now, he would probably kill himself.

You were about to say something in reply, when, completely out of the blue, you felt a drop of water on your head. You were planning on ignoring it, but then, it happened again. And, by the looks of it, you weren’t the only one who noticed something was clearly off.

“Did you—Is it raining?” asked Naoki, immediately putting his hood over his head.

You weren’t wearing a jacket, or anything of the sort, to be honest: and you knew, if you stayed in the rain for any longer, you would probably catch a cold. You couldn’t help it when your mind drifted to the fact that, if Sukuna were here, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he offered you his sweater. He always did, after all. It was like second nature to him.

“I think so,” you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. “It looked pretty sunny this morning, though.”

Naoki nodded.

“Hey, I saw a small shop on our way here. They have umbrellas, I’m pretty sure.”

And that’s the story of how you ended up sharing a rainbow polka dot umbrella with Naoki (spoiler alert: it wasn’t as romantic as you had imagined). The end.

Just kidding!

Because you and Naoki had already gotten rid of, like, twenty-five percent progress on your journey to the restaurant due to having to make a pitstop in order to acquire an umbrella, the both of you decided to just go back to your apartment, and eat there, instead. It was the most logical choice, of course. Plus, it would give you another opportunity to hang out with Naoki, or, in other words, show him around the city.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Naoki, upon entering the apartment. He looked at all your furniture like an alien touching down on Earth for the first time, which, yeah, is reasonable. Since it was his first time being here. But, nevertheless, it did make you a bit self-conscious when he stared a little too long at your collection of apparently “abnormal” looking coasters.

“Yeah, thanks. So,” you began, walking into the kitchen with Naoki at your tail, “what do you think of having macaroni and cheese, right now? It’s a cold day, as of lately, and this cheesy goodness will warm you right up.” You laughed.

“Sure, that sounds good. I love mac n’ cheese.”

At this, your eyes widened, and so did you smile. “Really!? I mean . . . really?”

“Well, yeah, it’s an American comfort food. Disliking macaroni and cheese where I’m from is like disliking pasta while being Italian, I guess.”

You hummed. “Alright, then. So, it’s settled? We’ll have macaroni and cheese?”

“That’s fine by me. Say, do you need any help making it?”

“Actually, I do! You can help get the ingredients. Uhm, we’ll need . . . butter and flour, milk, and cheese (of course); you can choose which one. While you’re doing that, I’ll take care of the noodles and boil them. Oh! I almost forgot; but you can pick out what seasoning you like. I have tons.”

“Got it.”

“You have something right here,” Naoki said, wiping some flour off your cheek.

“Oh,” your cheeks warmed, “I wonder how that got there.” You laughed nervously.

“Uh huh. I mean, I’m the one making the roux,” Naoki smiled. “If anything, I should be the one covered in flour.”

“Oh, wait, you kinda are. Hold on.” You giggled to yourself as you pretended to wipe some flour off Naoki’s cheek, when in reality, you were actually drawing a smiley face on his cheek, instead.

To your disappointment, it didn’t take long for Naoki to figure out your ulterior motive. “Ha, this doesn’t look like you got all the flour off, silly,” said Naoki, looking at himself in the mirror beside the sink.

You grinned, shrugging. “Oops.”

“Hey, uhm, just curious, is your boyfriend home? I mean, wouldn’t it be weird that you’re making macaroni and cheese with someone who isn’t your boyfriend?”

You paused in your work. To be honest, you hadn’t given it much thought, but Naoki was right. To some degree. Sukuna was your boyfriend, but your situation was a little different than that of an actual couple’s. But, now that you think of it, where was Sukuna, actually?

He didn’t have any plans for today; at least, none that he told you. Sukuna always went to the gym on Wednesday and Friday, and took today, Sunday, as his rest day. (He usually just stayed cooped up in his room and played video games.)

“Ah, Sukuna and I actually don’t live together. But, he comes over, and stays over so frequently that he practically does live here, I guess. I have a spare bedroom, and he’s kind of a freeloader.”

“So . . . he’s—uhm, is he . . . homeless?”

You blinked, before laughing out loud. This was the first time you had ever been rendered speechless by a man. Homeless? Sukuna? When Hell freezes over, maybe.

“No. No, God, no. He’s not homeless.”

Naoki looked a bit embarrassed for asking his absurd question. “Oh, uhm. . . Forget I even asked that, then.”

“Don’t worry about it, Nao. Wait, can I call you that?” You thought it was a cute nickname.

“Nao? Oh, sure, yeah. You can call me whatever you want.” You could see a faint blush on Naoki’s cheeks.

-

It was the next day after your “date” with Naoki when you invited Sukuna over for drinks.

“—Did you know bees don’t make a buzzing sound by themselves?” you asked, before taking a sip of your white wine. You thought Chardonnay was a good choice for the casual occasion.

“Why would they—What do you mean? Are you insane?”

“You know, like, the annoying buzzing you hear when bees are near? Apparently, it comes from their wings as they flap. Isn’t that crazy?”

Sukuna furrowed his brows. “You didn’t know that before?”

“I thought they were just saying ‘buzz’. Didn’t think it was from how fast their wings flapped.” You shrugged.

“You make Yuuji look like a rocket scientist.” Sukuna sighed, setting his glass down on the railing of your balcony.

“Well, sue me,” you raised your hands in the air. “Anyway, I’m really glad you took my suggestion yesterday.”

Sukuna looked at you with a weird expression on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know? It’s okay, you don’t have to always have such a big ego. Admitting that you thought my idea was an excellent one is not as bad as you think it is—”

Sukuna cut you off. “Hold on, what idea?”

You frowned, was this guy serious? “The Eileen one?”

“When did I ever indulge in your Eileen idea?”

“Yesterday, silly. When I got back to the apartment early—because it started raining—you weren’t there. Because you took my idea and hung out with Eileen. Do you remember now?”

“I . . . wasn’t gone yesterday because I was with Eileen. And, also, I never was with her.”

You cocked your head to the side. “So, where were you, then?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Sukuna turned away from you, hiding his face. “None of your business.”

“Oh, come on. You know you can tell me anything. And, if you were out smoking weed or something like that, it’s okay. I wouldn’t ever be surprised about that.”

“How low do you think of me, seriously? God, I was just picking Yuuji up from practice, and then we went and saw Human Earthworm 4. There, you happy now?”

You smiled, patting yourself on the back for being able to get an answer out of Sukuna. “Very.”

From his standing position on the balcony, Sukuna looked up at the moon in the inky, dark sky above. The moon always reminded Sukuna of you. Bright, beautiful, and so, so far away. The eight billion people on this very Earth were all like the stars in the night sky. All unique, with their own stories to tell.

When someone looks up at the sky, they see different stars than the person beside them. For there are simply too many to count. And yet, Sukuna just wished you would look at him.

You two had been through thick and thin together while growing up. You spent countless hours during the summers talking and laughing together. So why, why won’t you just give him the same attention? So many stars for you to look at, and yet, your eyes would never be in the direction of him.

Maybe it was for the better. If they were, you would’ve found out that Sukuna was hiding something from you. Did you actually believe his lie? You must be so gullible, he thought. Sukuna never picked Yuuji up from practice, and he sure as hell never watched that stupid movie.

Years ago, Sukuna quit smoking, because you worried for him. Yesterday, Sukuna Ryomen picked up a cigarette again.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Sukuna out of the blue, but you didn’t hear him, simply too busy looking at all the other stars in the sky that caught your eye.

“Hm? What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

It was silent for a few moments. Just the distant sound of crickets, and the wailing of the wind. But besides that, it was just you and Sukuna. You two were the only people outside on a balcony, and even then, your attention was somewhere other than the man beside you.

“I’ve . . . noticed something, Sukuna. As of lately. Nao is—”

“You already have a nickname for him?”

“I—” You didn’t know how you were supposed to reply, so you didn’t. “Nao is, uhm, he’s basically the complete opposite of you, y’know. It’s kind of funny, actually. . .” 

You couldn’t bear telling Sukuna that, despite being on a date with another guy, your mind constantly drifted to the thought of him, and him alone. Why was that? you asked yourself, but you had no response.

“Isn’t that something.” Sukuna’s tone sounded indifferent, and even though his sentence was a rhetorical question, it sounded more declarative than anything.

You nodded. “Hey, so. . . I found out Naoki likes macaroni and cheese. And I was just thinking, maybe it’s time we start seeing other people?”

“Can I ask why?”

“Well, for one, the curse is probably lifted now.”

“Yeah, but just so you know, there’s no reason for us to stay in contact now.” Sukuna didn’t think he would be able to go on living while being constantly reminded that you were making macaroni and cheese in your kitchen with somebody else.

“What? You mean, like, there’s no reason for us to continue this relationship? We can just stay friends. Y’know, go back to the way we were before.”

“We’ll just stay friends, and continue kissing in the dark? We’ll just stay friends and continue watching sunsets together? We’ll just stay friends, and continue sleeping in the same bed despite the fact you have a spare bedroom I could use? I know who you pretend I am. And if we start dating other people while still being in this arranged relationship, or whatever name you want to call it, we’ll just be technically cheating on each other. Isn’t that right?”

You knew this relationship was far from real since the moment the idea of it was even proposed. But to hear Sukuna suggest you two break up because it would be the most lawful decision? There was a pang through your heart that you didn’t know the reason for.

“. . .But what if the curse comes back?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sukuna looked almost irritated, and he definitely sounded like it, but he felt more like he was going crazy. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin. “Oh, right, of course. The curse. I’m here to lift your curse.”

“I just think it’s better to be safe than sorry. We can stay in this relationship together without kissing anymore while we date other people, and it’ll continue to be, like, a token of luck for me.” You tried to appear optimistic about everything, but even the brightest smile shined less than the sun.

Sukuna looked utterly defeated, his voice soft as a feather as he spoke. “For you. . . A token of luck, for you.”

A token of luck. After all, Sukuna would be anything for you.

Only love could drive a man like Sukuna mad. Only love.

[respectthepetty]

This is gonna sound very weird but I hope as we go on with the show you won't stop making posts about how much you love Ming's toxic ass cause they make me laugh and I'll need them when in the future I'll feel the urge to somehow strangle Ming through the screen. No pressure but please help a girl in need if you can!

You're writing to the person who is openly praying that Ming gets worse (amen), so I am not one to call others weird.

Something about those who live in a glass house shouldn't throw stones, you know?

Because, once again, I want Ming to be awful to Joe, and only Joe, which I know is kind of weird of me, but I'm just too happy to care.

A few people have commented that Ming will get worse, and I'm giddy from the mere thought of it, so I'll be here all season being unhealthy about Ming's behavior.

Because in the first episode, he was awful, which I LOVED, and I don't think some people really see just how bad he was simply because he is being played by Up, which was a brilliant move by casting, so I love that the show directly told us he is a nightmare, and we could judge all his actions accordingly.

Regardless of Tong's fake personality, Ming just showed up at the set without any warning and ambushed Tong at his job

Ming only wants to eat alone with Tong, and it's of course because he likes Tong, but he even hung up on his sister mid-conversation after she threw him a little welcome back surprise (sidenote: I think he and his sister might be similar personality-wise because her call while Tong was eating with Ming was convenient)

Ming doesn't tell Joe his name or how he got Joe's number

He called Joe drunk and obviously pissed off, then snapped at the staff for being shocked by his behavior

He doesn't tell Joe he thinks of him, but instead reversed Joe's statement to point out that Joe thinks of him

He doesn't compromise

And none of these have to do with sex and Ming wanting to fuck Joe because he looks like Tong because Ming's toxicity isn't just about sex.

This is about how meek Ming is around Tong

Compared to how aggressive he is with Joe.

Pushing Joe down and standing over him, which in the heat of the moment doesn't seem like much.

But Joe took Ming to his house because Ming told him to. Joe doesn't eat instead opting to watch Ming eat. Joe lets Ming spend the night because Ming asked. Joe gets on the bed because Ming tells him to. Joe goes to Ming when called. Joe bottoms because Ming wants him to. Joe does everything Ming wants.

With Tong, Ming can't control anything, but with Joe . . .

Ming's gonna control everything.

Or at least that's what I'm hoping!

So I'll be here all season, cheering every single time Ming does something truly fucked up because he is going about his issues in the worst way by trying to exert dominance on a stand-in of Tong since he is weak for the real Tong until he ends up regretting it once he loses Joe and tries to replace old Joe with new Jo which restarts the vicious cycle that began this entire shit show in the first place! *deep breath*

God, I'm so happy!

[ponder-the-orb]

Common Ground

Pairing: Fem sorcerer Tav/Gale, (named elf tav: Ciri)

Word count: 2K

Summary: I just really wanted to write a drabble that involved some sorcerer/wizard bickering.

***

“Shit.”

The sewing needle jabs into Ciri’s finger and a single drop of blood oozes onto the material in her other hand. She stares at the stain, a poppy blooming amongst the dark green fabric of her robe. Her only robe. One of perhaps five things she’d managed to cling to her person as a tentacle plucked her from the crowded road at Baldur’s Gate and promptly threw her into this mess. 

She shoves her finger in her mouth, the tang of rust and salt spreading over her tongue as she throws the robe to the muddy bank at her feet. It’s hardly ruining it further. Despite her poor attempts at needlework it’s still riddled with holes thanks to an acid coated arrow that had been shot by a more competent goblin this afternoon. They’d promptly felt the sting of her flames after that.

She rubs her bare arms, adjusts herself on the log she’d made her perch for the evening. It’s a dim spot at the very edge of this makeshift campsite, her patch of stillness amongst the reeds and silt of this unknown riverbank. She stares at the flat mirror of the moon on the water’s surface and lets herself fall back into the same fantasy she’d been repeating for the past day: this could be any other job, any other group of hired swords she was stuck with in order to fetch some expensive trinket or kill a wandering band of monsters. Easy. Normal. A few days of work before she’s hunting down another gig in the next town.

Her seconds of calm abruptly shatter as her other campmate squirms in her head. The parasite. Fat, angry and days away from making her a mind flayer. Until recently they were just flickers of imagination, stories of teeth and tentacles used to scare children and intrigue professors, not the solid wet beings that had stared at her with such malice on the Nautaloid.

She presses her temple. She’d already spent far too long wondering if she’d look exactly like them if whatever is protecting them vanishes, about how much it will hurt when her skull splits and blood spills from every shaking orifice. A soul extinguished like a match against a hurricane.

She presses harder, trying to drown the image out with the sounds of the camp: the grind of the Gith’s sword on her whetstone, a hearty laugh from that monster hunter desperate to find his infernal target, the solemn whisper of the shadowed cleric praying to whatever God she thinks will help them. 

She grunts as it squirms more vigorously, almost like it enjoys sipping the taste of her ebbing sanity.

“Is the little one ruining your peace?”

She looks up and meets the dark eyes of the wizard she’d pulled out of a rock and regretted almost every moment since. Gale. Last she’d checked he’d seemed more than happy going on about some Waterdhavian recipe at the cooking pot and leaving her very much alone. A set up she’d hope would stay until morning. 

She drops her hands. “It’s not just the parasite right now.”

He ignores her surliness and holds out a bowl. “You should eat something. We have had quite a day.”

She takes it with a quiet thanks and tries not to shudder as a pungent scent fills her nose. Stew would probably be the closest approximation to the thick brown liquid sloshing inside. Given the lack of real food they’d been able to find so far, she’d rather not guess what the viscous lumps floating on the surface are.

“I’ll eat later,” she says, placing the bowl at her feet.

Gale raises an eyebrow. “Ingredients may be sparse around here but I promise you it’s more than edible.”

“We’re eating out of bowls we raided from a crypt. Trust me, I am not worried about the taste.”

He looks down at her crumpled robe on the floor. “You know, I can fix that for you.” He flexes his fingers and a cool white light begins to swirl in his open hand. “A mending charm can only repair one tear at a time but if you give me a few minutes–”

“No thank you,” she interrupts firmly, grabbing the robe and throwing it behind the log. She’s perfectly aware of how cold her voice sounds, but right now she’s approximately one annoyance away from running into the neighbouring forest and letting her flames overcome her. The taste of soot and cinder would most likely be preferable to whatever is swirling by her feet anyway.

The light in his hand fades along with his smile. She waits for him to retreat but he stands still, eyes drifting from her face to her shoulder. In naught but her thin undershirt, the patchwork of burn scars is completely on show, trailing pink and rough from her jaw and down her left arm. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks after a moment.

She shakes her head. “They’re decades old now.”

“Ah, you mentioned you were an adventurer before all this. Scars often tell the best stories and I am willing to bet that there’s a fine one behind those.” He takes a step towards her but seems to stop himself. He rests a hand against his chest before dropping it back to his side, something unreadable flickering across his expression. “But not one you need to share, especially to a near-stranger,” he quickly adds.

It’s her turn to raise an eyebrow. A wizard with a secret is hardly new. Every one she’d had the displeasure of working with had come with some kind of baggage hanging around their neck like a particularly garish amulet. Nothing she ever worried herself with and she’s certainly not starting now.

“No story here. It was just an accident.” She runs her thumb over the scales on her cheekbones, the only part of the dragon that manifested outside of her blood. “The fire magic presented itself when I was maybe eleven summers old and any child suddenly able to conjure flames is going to want to see exactly what they can do. Unfortunately I had not yet fully understood just what that meant.” The moment is still carved as deep as those scars in her memory: her room burning, skin screaming with pain as she tried to calm the flames tearing through the house, the look of fear on her family’s faces when she finally awoke and seen nothing else but black smoke billowing in thick sheets against the moon. 

“It was my first and most important lesson. Both fire and magic must be respected. Now only those I choose will burn… and occasionally my hair.” She runs her hand through the uneven ends curling around her chin. Hardly beautiful but she had given up caring how it looked after her mother had taken a knife and silently hacked off the charred pieces.

Ciri shakes the memory away, bracing herself for the inevitable. “Well go on then.”

“Pardon?”

“You are going to give me the exact same speech every other wizard who heard that story has. I cannot wait to hear which version. Usually it’s advice I don’t need on how to properly be one with magic. If I’m very lucky, it’s some haughty lecture about how sorcerers need to learn respect for the art and will never have true control of the weave because they are simply too ill-disciplined to try and learn.” 

Gale crosses his arms, his eyebrows drawing down into a flat line. “Well I had hoped that I’d come off a tad more gracious than that in our short time together. Exactly how many ill-mannered wizards have you come across in your line of work?”

“More than enough. And I’m sure a wizard of such considerable renown has more than a few pointers for someone so clearly not studied in magic.” She wags her finger in an exaggerated impression as she parrots his own words back at him. The condescension had been palpable in his tone when he’d made that assumption of her, only her aching joints from the Nautaloid crash stopping her from shoving him right back into the portal she’d pulled him from.

It’s surprising to her that this tiff had not come any sooner, all the more surprising when she’s met with a sigh rather than an overly-worded retort.

“I can see how that might have come across,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Forgive me, but I was… am… rather desperate to locate any archmages that might be a stone’s throw from here. Wizards are usually well connected.”

“And you just assumed I did not know any.”

“Well, do you?”

She can practically hear the snicker caught between his teeth at her stony silence.

Gods does she want to punch that smug look off his face.

He sits down on the log next to her. “I am more than happy to lecture you with such a speech if you’d like. I can probably make it last all evening if it would help to cement what I suspect is already a fairly set opinion of both me and the wizarding profession in general. And feel free to give the standard response about how we are all hermit elitists jumped up on power and far too preoccupied with outdoing each other rather than actually working on furthering the good of the arcane. I imagine you have some fairly cutting words about how, despite the superiority complex we all apparently hold, it just takes one good punch or two glasses of strong whisky to put us down.”

She hides her smirk, a little disappointed that more articulate sorcerers than her had clearly got to him already. “More cutting than that if you can believe it. I’m not sure your ego could handle it.”

He chuckles. It’s a soft messy sound, perhaps the first thread of such an uptight persona finally loosening. Ciri doesn’t hide her smile this time. It’s almost nice to find a wizard who doesn’t seem to have an immovable rod shoved up their backside. 

He turns towards her a little more, his voice dropping. “In my studies, I have seen first hand that there are countless ways to touch the weave, and while some may say that certain methods are more sophisticated than others –” his hands move in a precise square as he speaks, pausing only as he murmurs a quiet spell. “ –we feel its power equally.” A small orange flame ignites between them as he finishes. 

She watches it flicker for a moment before opening her own hand. Magic warms through her like a breath, an equally bright flame appearing in her palm.

When her eyes catch his again, there’s something different shining there, warm and content as he sits back to watch his creation. Reverence.

A feeling she knows all too well. 

Even when it’s shining on her own ruined skin, fire is still her. The raw force of her anger, the pulse of her passion, the magic singing in her blood. And here, small and tender as a heartbeat, her peace.

She watches him quietly, taking in the flickering details of his face as they brighten and dim under their joint light. There’s more gentleness to his features than she’d first gleaned, silver brushing through the hair by his ears, his eyes almost auburn in the light as they meet hers again.

All so very delicate. So… human.

It’s as she idly finds herself wondering if the paper-soft creases there are a product of laughter or stress that the world crashes back into the moment.

Some poor animal squeals in the woods beyond the river, both of them jerking upright and scanning the darkness for the source of the noise.

“Perhaps finding common ground is a better use of our time than trying to pick fights,” she murmurs when the quiet returns, quickly letting her flame whisper away in the breeze.

“Well common ground is often the foundation of a strong acquaintanceship. Who knows, perhaps there will be more to discover before we finally get these unwelcome passengers extracted.” His words are a little quicker than before as he dismisses his own fire and abruptly turns back towards the centre of camp. “With that in mind, we should probably get some rest soon if we are ever going to locate this missing druid.”

She follows him a step behind, stopping to throw a handful of kindling on the dying bonfire. She can’t quite place the feeling churning in her gut right now. Something far warmer than the dread that had been sitting there like a stone, soft and dense as smoke. 

She ignores the similar heat in her face, chalks it up to the sudden scream and firmly decides to leave it at that.

“So no lecture then?” she calls as Gale lifts the flap of his tent.

He pauses there, throwing an altogether more devious smirk over his shoulder before he lets it swing closed behind him.

“If you ask nicely, I’ll indulge you another night.”

***

(These drabbles are being posted as part of my ongoing fic Broken Horizons. Read on AO3 here)

[fullofgutsndopamine]

Sigh No More (This Is How It Starts)

TW: sex joke, heavy drinking, cursing, mention of past bad relationship

the hiccups give you away.

they always fucking give you away.

your best friend, angie, stands across from you, almost as drunk as you are.

she speaks over the rim of the cup.

“are you drunk?”

Angie giggles, the kind of giggle you can only accomplish when you’re drunk and the world is light and you have no real worries briefly

“No,” you hold out the o for an obnoxious amount of time, dropping your voice to a whisper, a conspiracy between you two as you grab her in closer, “Are you?”

she giggles. the world around her is brighter, the music louder, everything is funnier: “Yeah,” she giggles. “i am.”

which only makes you giggle more, “can i tell you a secret?”

your voice borders on a slur as she stands closer to you, and she can feel your hot breath on her ear as you talk:

“i’m drunk too.”

you two erupt into loud giggles, eyeing the small crowd.

Hasan stands in a half circle a few steps away from them, in a tight white tank top and tight jeans, practically painted on him, both that leave very little to the imagination

“Communism, you fucking idiot, is not the same as socialism and if i’m the first person to tell you that revolutionary idea then-“

Hasan swirls around the amber liquid in the red solo cup, not really feeling like drinking.

This is his third party this week and the fun that came with the parties quickly wore off by the end of the first one.

“Communism-“

“Don’t you dare say anything about Russia-“

A hard shove by his elbow and he whips around, ready to tell the fucker to watch where they’re walking, ready to put himself to his full height, to be the intimating hasan everyone knows he as.

“That’s my ex-“

He’s seen you before, sure. In passing-the school is small enough that as you leave your english class as he’s getting ready for a modern history class-has seen you in the classroom in the corner, doodling on the desk (that he definitely doesn’t make his own) but that’s the start and the end of how he knows you.

“Quick,” you’re slurring, “Kiss me.”

A smirk pulls it’s way on his lips:

“I usually like some foreplay before,” he’ll smirk, making himself taller, “like a fucking name-“

you roll your eyes, grab him by his tank top until your bodies collide into each other:

“Kiss me, you idiot.”

and you sound sober all of a sudden, your eyes full of what he thinks is borderline panic-so before he can stop himself, tell himself what a horrible idea this is, his lips are crashing into yours, warm and feel familiar, like this is where they’ve belonged after all this time-

Hasan watches as the guy-shorter,pink polo and backwards baseball cap for a team he doesn’t recognize, navy board shorts and fuck-sunglasses inside-pauses, like he’s unsure who this is, is debating on stopping or not and for a second you think you got away with it when you feel a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Babe,” he calls, making your lips part from Hasan’s. “Who’s this?”

And something about this, about asking who this is, rubs Hasan the wrong way as his lips part, his hand goes to your lower back. Acting who this is like he fucking owned you or some shit

“Anthony,” You sound sober again, and your voice borders on being smaller, like you’re scared of this punk in front of you, “This is my boyfriend. uh-“

You pray to whatever god exists that hasan knows to follow the lead, not make you look dumb-

“Hasan.”

He speaks and you hold in a breath of relief. Hasan hand hangs in the air, and Anthony huffs: “Right.”

Hasan snorts, his hand leaves the air and tangled back around your side, “Charming,” holds in an eye roll, “Heard a lot about you.”

So it’s a lie, doesn’t even know this guys name but he looks like a dick so sure-

“Hopefully all good.” Anthony shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Hasan takes some joy in humming, not answering the question.

“I should go-“

“Babe,” Hasan speaks, “I’m gonna get us a drink-“

and the bastard enjoys this, takes your head in his palm and turns your face up at him so you’re on your tip toes as he gives you a gentle kiss.

by the time your eyes open again, and you’re about to say something to hasan about enjoying this too much, anthony is gone.

Hasan stays by your side.

“I think you’re a fucking liability at this point,” Hasan sighs over a glass of water, “Drink some water.”

“not a liability-“ you slur, “think you enjoy-“

a hiccup erupts through your whole body, makes you jump.

“water.”

You take the water and he can tell by the way you’re staring that the room is spinning. his voice turns gentle, tangled his fingers into yours and slowly takes you up the stairs.

“This is my room,” he says, a bunch of lined paper decorate the door, looks like it’s done by various children judging by the way his name is misspelled and letters are upside down, “it’s messy, but you can have the bed.”

A twin sized bed is pushed in the corner. A desk is next to it, crowded with books some half open, others closed with food wrappers as bookmarks. Highlighters and pens are thrown around, along with multiple stacks of stapled papers, a pair of glasses on top of the mess.

“this tours?”

it doesn’t make sense and it’s hard to understand you through the slurring but he nods,

“Yeah,” he says gently, “this is mine.”

“your bed is small.”

he huffs as you gently guides you to the bed, lifts your feet up and swings them onto the bed, his fingers working slowly on taking your heels off.

“Yeah well, can’t afford better.” he snorts.

“You’re kind,” you say as he gives you some blankets, “to do this. you have people thinking you’re tough but you’re a softie.”

he rolls his eyes but his face is pink, “don’t tell others,” he says, “not everyone gets this treatment.”

“Yeah?” you sigh, curling into the covers that smell like him; pine and toothpaste- “What at makes me special?”

he laughs, knows you won’t remember this:

“Only pretty girls get this treatment.”

you giggle, like the drunk you are: “you think i’m pretty?”

your voice has a teasing sing song to it, obviously enjoying it and he rolls his eyes:

“get some sleep-“

“where will you be?” suddenly your voice borders on worry as you pop up, “are you leaving?”

he wonders if you’re like this every night, if the fear of sleeping alone keeps you up.

“I’ll stay, i’ll stay.” he says gently, “look. i’ll work at my desk.”

you don’t move and he rolls his eyes:

“i’ll be right here, close your eyes.”

and you obey and he’s two steps away before you open your eyes again:

“Hasan?”

he holds in a sigh, “yes, sunshine?”

it’s clear the sunshine is sarcastic but something about it makes it feel like butterflies are throwing themselves around your belly

“I can’t sleep.”

he holds in a sigh, holds in the obvious: because you haven’t tried.

instead, makes his way to his dresser, takes out some black shorts he practiced in the weekends with, an old shirt from his days on the debate team in high school-prays your drunk enough to not ask about it-

“Here,” his voice is gentler than you’re use to, and you’re the crying type of drunk so tears threaten to fall when he hands you a bundled up pack of clothing, “Put this on.”

“Is this a bad attempt to see me undress?”

He rubs his forehead, “Jesus fuck, here.”

and he makes a show of turning around, covering his large hand over his face. you half expect him to turn around like Anthony would, but he stays the whole time, barely fidgets.

“Alright.”

he turns around and red faced you’re settling into his bed.

“Alright,” he rolls his eyes, “Close your eyes-“

“You’ll be right here?”

you’re voice is a whimper, borders on pathetic.

“And i’ll be right here.”

You settle into the covers.

“Thanks, Hasan-“

he turns to say something sarcastic but you’re already passed out in his too small bed.

[c0rvusx2]

Roomies

Toji x GN!reader

Note: Small little Drabble lol. The Toji brain rot is real.

Genre: Crack/Fluff idk

Imagine it, [Name], a dimension hopper, accidentally bumps into Toji during one of his assassinations.

“Who the hell are you?” The green eyed man huffs, stuffing his weapon back into an intestine-looking creature. “Nooooo one you need to worry about, haha!” [Name] awkwardly chuckles, picking themselves up from the ground and scrambling away.

They swear it was an accident, stumbling over their words after taking a tumble from having their legs swept from underneath them.

“An accident? Do I look like I was born yesterday?” He snaps, adding pressure to the foot he had placed on their back. “Uh- no? But I’m not lying- fuck I can’t breathe-“ They wheeze out.

Luckily, [Name] being the incredibly intelligent person they were, accidentally let it slip that they weren’t from this world right before the buff man on top of them broke a rib. This raised several doubts from the raven haired man.

“Hah, funny joke kid.” He barked out a laugh, lightening the pressure before pushing back harder. They coughed, “Not- a joke. In… my bag-“ [Name] winced.

Without letting up his foot, he snorted as he bent down to grab the (f/c) and black colored messenger bag. His frown deepened a bit as his calloused hands began to shuffle through their belongings.

“The hell…?” He mumbled to himself as he eyed the strange items. The first thing he had grabbed was their wallet. In one of the slots was an ID card, the words and information that would normally be on a typical Japanese citizen’s ID were materializing, taking form into a name. “Akutami, [Name],” He raised a brow. “Akutami? Not my style but okay,” They mumbled, thinking that the ravenette wouldn’t hear. But of course, he did.

The other items held in by their wallet was a fat stack of Yen (which the bastard pocketed) and a house key? Peaking through each pocket he saw some other sort of money, a cell phone, and other useless trinkets. The man eyed the house key and had a moment to think.

“Yo kid,” He tapped his foot, the same one that was placed onto their back. “Not a kid,” They snapped under their breathe. The green eyed man huffed again, “Let’s make a deal, yeah? I don’t kill ya, and you let me stay at your house.” They turned their head, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “The fuck-“

The asshole unfortunately didn’t have a place to stay tonight, so it was good luck that he didn’t need to go through the hassle of hooking up with some bimbo to get a night of sleep. Long story short, they reluctantly had to bring the man along to their new house—which had suddenly appeared under their name in the records.

“So… what’s your name?” They called out, addressing him as he walked behind them. It took a minute for him to respond, and it almost made [Name] pray to the gods that a piano would fall from above and strike both of them to end the awkward silence. ”Fushiguro… Toji,”

[Name] reluctantly let him in, the hulking man squeezing through the entrance and glancing at the furniture. They whistle in awe, spotting a nearby coatrack and hanging their bag up. Toji plops himself on the couch, already flipping through the channels in search for some entertainment.

Time passes and they’ve settled into their new lifestyle, getting used to the Japanese mannerisms and the strange roommate. It was a lucky break that there was an extra bedroom (and they thanked the big guy at the top for most likely seeing into their future).

“TOJI, YOU BETTER NOT HAVE GONE GAMBLING AGAIN YOU BASTARD,” [Name] stomps out of their room, crossing their arms and frowning at the ravenette who was chowing down on some cup noodles. “God Dammit, it’s only 7 AM! Leave me be,” He grumbled, setting down his chopsticks in the cup to raise the volume on the TV. “I’m the one who pays for most of this shit, use your own money to gamble!” They snap back, snatching the remote and lowering the sound. “I didn’t gamble it,” he sneered, “I payed a prostitute with it,” “THAT’S NOT ANY BETTER!?”

“Alright, what do we say to the door dash guy this time?” “Absolutely nothing-“ “No, we say, “Thank you,” and then hand a tip,” “Don’t they already get paid? Do we really need to tip-“ “Yes because we have enough change,”

“Do you really need to drag me back home?” [Name] sighed, their legs dangling from Toji tossing them over his shoulder. He huffs, “If I didn’t, we would’ve been stuck at the animal shelter for 2 more hours.” ”I didn’t even get to choose!” “Believe me when I say we don’t need a pet.” There’s silence for a moment before a cheesy smile creeps onto their face. “Aw are you jealous that I’ll spend more time with the pet more than youuuu?” “Hell no!” He promptly drops you right on the spot.

Bro I don’t know how to feel about this 💀💀💀 Didn’t take too long to write but Toji feels so OOC 😭

I feel like I should’ve done more roommate content but I’m too lazy 💀💀 If it gets enough attention I might do Pt. 2.

Not proofread 🤡

[sillyguy99]

There is no fear in love

(Mafiafell Sans x Reader)

Chapter One: Rude Awakening

[Index | Next]

Notice:

(The reader has a nun name, meaning: a holy name given to be used by others in place of a real name, such as “Sister Magdalene” instead of just “(Y/N)”, in this specific case.)

(Also, if this work seems familiar, that is because this is the definitive version of Pray that you will not fall into temptation, since I merged various, similar plot ideas for a Mafiafell fic into one, in order to make the story more fleshed out + provide more consistent, weekly updates!)

• • • • •

       "Mom!"

       The watering can falls from your hand at the sound of that voice. It clatters and the little water left splashes your shoes as it hits the rocky floor, yet you can't care less about picking it up when you see Frisk running towards you, their arms outstretched, smile radiant, and eyes glossy. You push yourself off the ground, though with struggle as your legs shake and give in from anticipation. It takes a few more seconds of stumbling until you're finally able to stand up straight, and – by the time you do – they're already in your arms, their light weight barely making you budge regardless of your current, weak self. Everything around you: the garden, the fountain, the picnic table, and even your own body feel unearthly, and you're certain it'll all end the moment you take too long to blink.

       "Words can't describe how much I've missed you, dear," you state, almost in a whisper when you fail to raise your voice, sorrow making it difficult to do without breaking.

       You hug Frisk as tight as the knot on your chest. Tears rush down, staining your arms until you hide your face against their shoulder and squeeze all your distress away. They feel fragile in your grasp, and fleeting, too – like letting go will cause them to crumble, then disappear. As much as you don't want to, you still begin to loosen up bit by bit until your embrace is a gentler touch, almost ghostly. Then, you pull back and wipe your face with a handkerchief you retrieve from your pocket, and offer your child another when you notice they're in a similar state, although not as bad as your own. Even if it isn't real, the last thing you wish is to let them see you somber. That's about the least you can do to make up for how many faults you've found while analyzing the reasons they went missing under your care.

       "hey, kid. where'd ya run off to? ya can't just-"

       Your arms act instinctively at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, these wrapping firm around Frisk again, like a snake with a hamster, minus the intent to cause any harm.

       "oh."

       The person behind that voice stands at the entrance of the garden, and – while you try your best not to – your mind ends up jumping to negative conclusions when you see just what type of monster he is.

       "Stay back!" Fearing the dream has become a nightmare, you close your eyes and squeeze Frisk harder, yet you soon loosen when they gasp for a breath. "And state your reason for visiting first."

       "well…"

       You hear footsteps, but you refuse to look at him.

       "i'm sans, one of your kid's friends from the underground," he says. "frisk told us they couldn't stay with tori, since they've got another mom up here, and now here i am. they gave me your address, we gathered some info to make sure you were still around, and then i drove us here. the rest of the convent interrogated me before they told me to go straight to the garden, so you can ask 'em if you're suspicious." There's a brief spell of peace and quiet as you hear him debate about something with himself. "sorry if this's kinda nosy, but…" There's a long pause in his words. "how does that work, exactly? you havin' a kid, i mean. aren't nuns supposed to be married to, uh, god, and not, well… a husband?"

       You scoff and feel your face form a glower on its own. "I'm not married, and Frisk isn't my biological child, though… I don't really see that detail as relevant to my love for them." Your fingers bury into Frisk's hair as you stroke their bangs away and kiss their forehead. "It matters not whether they're biologically mine."

       They shift, kiss your cheek, and push you aside, then tug at your sleeve persistently, insisting without a word for you to address the elephant in the room.

       You sigh, breathe back in, and open your eyes.

       It's impossible not to flinch when you take a better look at the monster: far less daunting than you were expecting, but still the most unnatural thing you've witnessed since having to interfere with a violent human at the front of the orphanage. The skeleton wears a black suit with hints of red, and the grin he carries appears shielded with dishonesty, contrasting with his direct and unwavering stare. Though the feeling of uneasiness differs from peering into the eyes of someone who has no fear of taking a life away, gazing into his irises still brings about uncertainty. You can't digest how detailed his body is, and how what little bones are exposed from his suit move in sync with each step he takes. It's like watching the most realistic, computer-generated creature in the real world rather than in film. What makes it a chilling experience is that he's actively acknowledging your presence, and that his irises follow your movements as you dust your clothes and fix yourself up after the messy hug. 

       He's not much taller than you or even Frisk, and yet...

       You feel small, and how broad his body seems contributes to that.

"They had gone missing three months ago, and I…" You bring your hands together and bite back another tear, then face the ground to avoid meeting with what looks like Death, but formally dressed. "I can't express how much I grieved over their disappearance." Momentary courage allows you to look at him directly. "Who are you to my child? And… Who is this 'Tori' person?"

       A chilly breeze of awareness arrives when you unclasp your hands and stare at your palms to see traces of soil smeared on your skin, most of it you believe is now wiped off on Frisk's attire.

       "Frisk!" you exclaim, eyes broadening as you look next to you. "I forgot I-"

       They're already standing in front of the skeleton, with their arms fully extended as they wait while he searches through his suitcase.

       He retrieves a full set of clothes, a hair pin, and a stuffed teddy bear, then pats their head before they run off inside the church.

       If you were jumpy before – even with the company of Frisk – now being alone with the skeleton leads to your body turning awfully rigid, and for a stiffer silence to build up between you.

       "do ya have some time to spare, miss?" he asks, zipping the suitcase closed and throwing it over his shoulder. "i needa talk to ya 'bout Frisk."

       This has to be a dream, at least.

       There's no way you're staring at a breathing, moving, talking skeleton who'd somehow been left in charge of sending Frisk off towards you.

       You should've known today wasn't real since the local news announced that a large crowd of monsters of all shapes and kinds had emerged from the Underground, like some sort of Halloween Horror film.

       "It's my first time seeing them in months," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "Of course, I do!" You stare at your hands again. "But... Could you allow me a minute to wash up?" Then, you glance at your uniform. "I've been gardening since early morning."

       Whether this is all a dream or a nightmare, you should at least look presentable for either outcome.

       "sure." He shrugs. "take your time."

 • • • • •

       You throw half a strawberry at a bird in your garden, lured by the sweet scents of the food you've set up on the table.

       It flies off back into a tree when it picks up the treat, and – when you're positive there's no other hungry animal waiting nearby – you throw the other half on the flowers and watch as the leaves rustle and stop when reaching the spot.

       Your next chore is to wash your hands by the faucet near the garden and continue setting up the rest of the table when you return.

       "ya know," Sans says, sitting on the chair you gesture him over to. "from what frisk told me about you, i was kinda expectin' a lady older than tori herself."

       You finish pouring tea to look at him and lift an eyebrow. "Pardon?" 

       Although left without an answer, you push on by arranging some shortbread cookies and thinly sliced fruit on a pair of ceramic plates while you wait for him to say something.

       He's observing your every move, and there's a limit to how much of that you can tolerate, but fear causes you to keep your mouth shut and carry on.

       "and it makes a lotta sense."

       "...Care to elaborate, sir?"

       Still being out in the garden is what has kept you sane this whole time. Were you in an enclosed space with the skeleton, you wouldn't have lasted a second. There's just something wrong about looking at him and being aware he's a living creature – that he has a human's level of intelligence, and that he's judging you for acting like an old lady in spite of being in your twenties. You want this to end, yet if this is your punishment for not being a good enough mother, then you're bound to push on. You just have to be patient. And you just have to try not to… widen your eyes every occasion you figure out anything new about him. The basics – while covered – are already overwhelming on their own, but actually seeing him laugh and joke around like any other human drives you mad.

       "you're makin' me tea, servin' me cookies, insistin' ya do every little thin' yourself," he says, touching a finger from his right hand with his left index finger for each observation he lists, "you're good with birds – probably other animals, too, and you're wearin' a type of dress only someone over her sixties would wear," he remarks, unwinding with a breath out when he shows all those statements take up his entire hand, "that's already five things, and i'm barely just gettin' to know ya. when did ya start out as a nun, anyway?"

       Porcelain and ceramic clink as you set what's now unneeded away and leave only the cookies, fruit, tea, and communion items out on the table.

       "Since my eighteenth birthday. It's been thirteen years."

       You prepare the communion, first by setting aside a piece of sacramental bread, and then a small portion of grape wine in a paper cup.

       "whoa." He whistles. "since that early?"

       You ignore his comments while you finish setting everything else up, the last thing being to bless both the food and the communion. You then stand up, pick up the tray with the bread and wine, and offer it to him. How fast your heart races makes it so that your fingers shake as you grab the bread.

       "Open your, um…" You frown. "How does your skull work?"

       "you can touch, if you wanna."

       Your eyes glue to his face, and inordinate curiosity fights with basic decency. He's a stranger, and yet he's being as casual as you would expect an old friend to be. You want to ask him to stop – that his existence alone as a skeleton is still something you're barely getting adjusted to, but common sense and more than enough years of your work in the convent have taught you better than that. Just as you're adjusting to him, he's likely doing with you and Frisk. Expecting him to act all formal would be rude, as would be him asking you to be casual around him. That's for friends, not strangers. Though if this really isn't some sort of Telephone game version of the classic Alice in Wonderland tale, then you hope you can both get used to one another later on.

       "I shouldn't." Your gaze stays on his face. "But, then again…"

       He chuckles, and his irises lighten up, something you've now associated with him being either happy or amused.

       "Are you sure?"

       "go wild."

       You touch his cheekbone and press your thumb against it. The texture's similar to semi-hardened clay, and you leave a mark on his skull, though it fades after a few seconds. Worry stays at the thought of hurting him, so you brush your fingers at that spot again, softer this time. 

       "That's…" You pull back. "That's... interesting?"

       He winks. "and you're great at describing it."

       You stay quiet and shake your head, at a loss for words for what you feel to be the third occasion today – and it's still only one in the afternoon!

       His teeth part as you move on to what you were doing. Despite physical contact, your heart's calmed down more, and you can stare at him for longer without questioning reality and science. With a long and steady breath, plus the reminder to keep calm, you pick up the bread again and drop it on…

       …his tongue (?), then watch as he chews it and passes it down with the wine.

       This is normal.

       You're not delusional.

       And the news report is completely legitimate.

       What you have to do is convince yourself to believe all that.

       "thanks for sharing a part of your world with me." He grins. "and for the blessin', too."

       "It's not much, sir." You smile. "I'm... only thankful you've brought Frisk here, safe and sound."

       His expression glooms on par with his posture. 

       Meanwhile, you set the tray back down and sit on the bench across from him.

       The garden feels too calm now, as if nature itself has sensed the monster's shift in mood. You're tempted to ask him directly about what's brought about such a sudden change, yet you know you're in no place to do that. Frisk is sleeping off the exhaustion from their journey in the security of their bedroom, meaning that asking them to do it is completely out of the question – not to mention, you don't want them to do the work for you, nor impose anything as complicated as this on them. Growing restless, you pick up a cookie from your plate and munch on it during your wait. The amount of time that passes on is sufficient for you to eat two more, and even drink your first cup of tea.

       "uh, yeah…" he says, mumbling. "'bout that…"

       His gaze lifts from the grass to your eyes. 

       "frisk might've technically... died a few times during their journey through the underground. the only reason they're still alive is cuz of how things worked down there. didn't wanna pull that sorta bandage off so quickly, but i figured you should know this first before they tell ya about their experiences."

       "...Wh- What?" you snap, standing up. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

       "afraid it isn't."

       The last thing you can register as anger overcomes your heart is the sound of the tea cup hitting the ground with a crash, sending shards flying across the floor.

       You march off towards him, stand in front, and point at the door leading out of the garden.

       "Get the hell out of my church, you sick-minded beast!"

       "please, let me explai-"

       "Get. Out."

       All you see is red as you lunge at the monster and grab him by his shirt's collar, lifting him off the chair.

       Him weighing no more than Frisk allows you to take him to the nearest wall and slam him against it.

       "...A bandage?" You cackle, disbelief manifesting through the noise. He doesn't struggle, so you pick that up as a sign for you to tug at him harder. "My child died, and you call that ripping off a mere bandage?" You press yourself against him when he starts to shift.

       "there's more i-"

       You cut him off again by tugging his tie along with the rest of his shirt.

       "Shut up," you shout. "If this is a nightmare, you're more than welcome to disappear and let me go back to sleep. I... I want you out of my damn sight the second I release you!"

[Index | Next]

• • • • •

Tag List:

@itsberrydreemurstuff

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Sins (Part 2)

Regulus Black AU

Summary: Original Request: i don't really have a fleshed-out idea on this nasty request but what about a smut fic on regulus but he's a priest. ik its insane but i thought of regulus black/paul atreides wearing the clerical collar thing and oh my god he looks so hot

Summary: (After being requested I'm making other parts to this story) After a disastrous end to their first meeting Regulus wants to fix everything that he's done wrong. Now the only question is, will you forgive him?

Pairings: Regulus Black/Reader

Link to Part 1

__

“You made your feelings clear.”

Regulus snapped up. From a cold sleep, your words woke up right up. Regulus groaned rubbing a hand over his face. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“What is happening to me?”

Regulus grumbled. It had been a little over a month since his encounter with you in the church. With each day he tried so hard to forget what he did but failed…miserably.

“Priests aren’t supposed to sleep with any good-looking woman that comes his way. I should have never also made her feel less than because she is a showgirl either. Y/n didn’t deserve the way that I treated her.”

Regulus thought as he looked at the bedside clock. It read 2:50 am. Is this what he was supposed to go through as a teenager and just missed the memo? If so, he suddenly understood his older brother a lot more.

All of the feelings that Regulus had been feeling since the first time that he laid eyes on you were a whirlwind of confusion. It had started with the sex-filled dreams which led to the two of you actually having sex. Now here Regulus sat with that particular day going on repeat in his mind.

“So this is sexual frustration or am I in love with her? Can I be in love? Of course, I can. I’m human even if I’m a priest? A priest…I don’t qualify for this job anymore.”

Regulus thought miserably. Getting out of bed, Regulus looked at his reflection in the mirror. The love bites that you had left on his chest and neck had healed but Regulus could point out exactly where they were. Everything about you, Regulus could vividly remember. He could remember just how you felt in his arms, how soft your skin was, the way you moaned his name, the way you felt like velvet around him….

“I have to stop.”

Regulus groaned. He considered praying for a moment but at the same time, it felt dirty. Praying to a deity for the return of a woman that Regulus was never meant to “know” was a surefire way to be struck down.

“But I haven’t been struck down…is this real? Is everything that I believed for years real?”

Regulus found himself questioning everything that he ever believed once again.

“I have to find her.”

(the next morning)

Sirius stood in his kitchen waiting for his new tea kettle to work.

“Any day now, mate. Remus said that you were supposed to be amazing and all that I have is cold water.”

The sound of the doorbell ringing pulled Sirius from his thoughts. He gave the tea kettle a final glare before going to the door and opening it. Sirius was surprised to see Regulus on the other side of the door dressed in…normal clothes. He also noted how on edge his younger brother looked. This was a far contrast from the normally well-put-together calm person that Regulus typically was.

“Uh…hi…so Regulus what with the outfit? Where is your priest outfit?”

Regulus immediately shook his head.

“I quit! Sirius, I need your help. I fucked up big time!”

Sirius moved aside to let Regulus inside before chuckling to himself.

“He said fuck.”

Sirius closed the door before going back to the living room where Regulus stood pacing around the living room. Remus had come in from the back garden and was watching Regulus clearly confused as well.

Sirius gave Remus a shrug before turning back to his brother.

“So…Regulus…you said fuck, quit being a priest, and are pacing my living room. Do you want to tell me…”

“I slept with a woman!”

Regulus nearly yelled. He put a hand over his mouth as if he was spilling some big secret. Neither Sirius nor Remus moved for a moment. Both stood staring at Regulus as if he had grown an extra head.

“I slept with a woman and I think I’m in love with her but I royally fucked up. I told her that it was a temptation and never should have happened. She was understandably upset and won’t speak to me now.”

Sirius held a hand up.

“So…you mean to tell me that you…YOU…slept with an actual woman?”

Regulus gave Sirius an exasperated look.

“YES! Please keep up!”

Sirius choked back a giggle before composing himself.

“And you are in love with her?”

Regulus nodded sitting down and putting his hands over his face.

“Yes…maybe…I’m feeling something. She’s all that I can think about. I can not get her out of my mind. It's dreams about being with her in an actual relationship and sex. It doesn’t stop! All that I can think of is her sweet voice and soft skin.”

Sirius glanced over to Remus, who was looking as shocked as he was. Neither of the men ever expected something like this to happen. Regulus was so deadest on being a priest and adamant that he was asexual. After years of keeping that stance up…it was easy for Remus and Sirius to believe him.

Remus stepped closer to Regulus.

“Regulus, you should breathe. Look, would you like Sirius and I to help find her?”

Regulus looked up as Sirius’ mouth dropped.

“Look, I was counting on him to get me into heaven. Padre! Salvation here!”

Regulus gave Sirius a cold glare.

“I don’t even think that I believe in God. At least…I’m not sure about anything right now. I had everything going along in my life than I’m derailed.”

Sirius sighed.

“Remus is right. Despite my salvation now being in question, your needs are greater than my own. What is the girl’s name?”

Regulus leaned back.

“Y/n.”

Remus came in, keeping his voice as gentle and kind as possible.

“And where is she? Perhaps we can go over and the two of you can talk rationally? Sirius and I can explain how you are. You’re a nice guy and just experienced something that you never planned on. You were in a corner and didn’t know how to react.”

Regulus groaned again.

“It's not that simple. She doesn’t live here. She’s in Las Vegas.”

Sirius’ mouth dropped further.

“What were you doing in Las Vegas? Do you have some secret life that I don’t know about?”

Regulus stood up and began to pace again.

“No, I have never been to Las Vegas. She has family here and came to a service with them. She’s a showgirl.”

Sirius had to sit down on that one. He couldn’t help the laughter that was coming out of him. Not only had Regulus finally been visited by the “sexual feelings fairy” but he was now in love with a showgirl. A showgirl was the definition of sex appeal.

“Reggie, this keeps getting more and more interesting.”

Regulus quickly grew annoyed with his older brother’s amusement at his torment.

“Do you want to help me or not?”

“Sirius, get a grip. Regulus, we will help you.”

Sirius nodded and got back to his feet.

“Well said, Remus. Sorry, Reg. Okay, let's find her. Remus is excellent at stalking people. To the computer!”

A few moments later, Regulus stood behind Remus and Sirius as Remus typed away.

“So her name is Y/n L/n?”

Regulus nodded as Remus typed your name in followed by Las Vegas, NV. It took a few more clicks for Remus to find multiple pictures of you. In some of the pictures, you were in your showgirl costume. In others, you were dressed in elegant dresses.

Remus turned to meet Sirius’ gaze as his boyfriend leaned back in his chair.

“Damn, Reg. She is pretty! I don't blame you for this. If she was some ugly hideous thing, I would be concerned but this girl…damn!”

Remus was busy typing away on the keyboard.

“Got it. I have her address. She lives with a woman named Mindy. That has to be her roommate.”

Regulus looked baffled by Remus’ methods.

“How do you know all of this?”

Remus smiled.

“Skills, my friend. I can find out anything about anyone. I took the liberty of booking us some airplane tickets. We should be going soon.”

Regulus suddenly became panicked. He was going to be finding you. What was he supposed to say? Would a simple “I’m sorry” really take care of this? Regulus couldn't say yes or no.

“What if she won’t speak to me? What if all of this is for nothing? I have thrown away everything that I have worked so hard for.”

Sirius reached out and gently grasped his brother’s shoulder.

“You’ll never know what will happen if you don’t try to talk to her.”

On the airplane, Regulus sat with his head down silently brooding. All of this was happening so fast that he couldn’t mentally keep up. He was partially mourning his old life. The life that he spent so much time in effort working toward. Something, however, told Regulus that you were worth every moment of it.

Even if he really didn't know you, it all seemed worth it. Getting to know you healthily seemed worthy of every moment of confusion. What if you were the one missing puzzle piece in his life? What if you were the “one” who could put everything he felt into perspective? You would be the one to prove to Regulus that love truly existed…

“I hope that love actually exists.”

Regulus thought as Sirius turned to him.

“Okay, Remus has put more together about Y/n. Her friend Mindy is a fashion designer. Y/n is her model. Dude, you weren’t kidding, this woman is stunning. Here watch this, you can stare at her moving.”

Regulus took the phone from his brother and hit play on the video. It was a promotion made for the woman named Mindy’s fashion portfolio. Regulus smiled the moment that you showed up on the screen dressed in an emerald green cocktail dress. Simply staring at you was enough to make Regulus’ panic calm. With each pose, soft smile, and lyric of the happy pop song playing, Regulus felt himself falling further and further over that cliff.

“I've learned to feel what I cannot see, but with you, I lose that vision I don't know how to dream your dream so I'm all caught up in the superstition I want to reach out and pull you to me.Who says I should let a wild one go free Trying to catch your heart is like trying to catch a star But I can't love you this much, baby and love you from this far Waiting for a star to fall and carry your heart into my arms That's where you belong in my arms, baby”

Regulus had never agreed more with a song lyric in his life. He played the video again simply to see you smile.

“What if she thinks that I am some kind of nutcase? I mean, I had you two cyberstalk her and I’ll but turning up at her door unannounced. What if she thinks that I’m a creep?”

Sirius gave his brother a sympathetic expression. He knew that there was a very real possibility of this happening. Sirius only hoped that you would flattered by the fact that Regulus was putting so much effort into apologizing for how he treated you. If he has to, Sirius would talk to you himself and explain that Regulus left everything for you…could that not be worth some redeeming qualities?

“You won’t have to worry about him cheating. Regulus has never been into anyone like he is you. The man left the priesthood for you. Not many women can say that about their lovers. The man literally dumped God for you. He may have said some things that were really…cold…but that isn’t him. Regulus may play tough because that’s how we were raised. Could you please just give him a chance?”

Sirius had put that together for his speech if it came down to it. He was also positive that Remus could come up with something more profound as well.

“I don’t think she will. Granted, I don’t know Y/n but I would be totally flattered if some guy left something like the priesthood for me. Add hopping on a plane and showing up at my doorstep with a heartfelt apology…my panties would be coming off…now this is if I were a woman, okay?”

Sirius was happy when Regulus smiled at that.

“That makes me feel somewhat better and also totally uncomfortable at the same time.”

Sirius leaned back in his seat as the “fasten seatbelt” sign came on.

“Alsmot showtime, Reggie.”

An hour later, all three men stood outside of a townhome. Regulus stared at the doorbell as his heart raced. This was it! This was the moment that he would know if you would truly forgive him and give him a shot…or if he completely blew it.

“Reg, rign the doorbell man. It's like standing on the surface of the sun out here.”

Sirius grumbled from behind him. The Las Vegas heat was something that Sirius was clearly not used to.

“Okay, here goes nothing.”

Regulus replied before reaching out and pushing the doorbell. The moment that Regulus heard the bell, he could have passed out. Was it too late to run? Could he jump in a bush? The answer was no. Regulus couldn’t chicken out now. He coudln’t run to the priesthood anymore to avoid an uncomfortable arranged marriage courtesy of his mother. It was time for Regulus to stop running.

A moment later the door opened and who had to be Mindy stood on the other side. She looked between Regulus, Remus, and Sirius with a polite smile.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Regulus bit the inside of his lip before taking a deep breath.

“Hi, can I please see Y/n?”

Mindy raised an eyebrow before smiling again.

“I’m sorry, she isn’t home. Who are you?”

Regulus nervously scratched the back of his head. Would Mindy start cussing him out? Did she know what he did? Of course, she did. She had to.

“I’m Regulus Black. I uh…”

Mindy’s mouth dropped. The smile faded as she gave him a scathing look. Mindy knew all about Regulus. You had told her all about the event that took place in the church and how it felt right…until Regulus dismissed you like some common whore.

“Oh! You’re Regulus.”

Regulus nodded uncomfortably.

“I see you know who I am.”

Mindy nodded closing the door and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, I’m Mindy and yeah, I know who you are. You really hurt my best friend.”

Sirius took this as his cue to step up.

“Hi there. I’m Sirius Black. Regulus is my brother. Mindy, I apologize for just turning up on your doorstep. If you would just give me a few moments to speak to you, I can make all of this make sense.”

Mindy raised her eyebrow again. She was half tempted to go back in and slam the door. She didn’t have to mention this to you but something told her not to.

“Okay, you have five minutes. Come in. It's too damn hot out here.”

Walking into the well-decorated townhome, Regulus looked around the living room before nervously sitting down. Mindy came into the room not taking her eyes off of him.

“Okay, start talking.”

Mindy said. Sirius stood up.

“Mindy, this whole situation obviously isn’t ideal. I know that you are probably protective over Y/n but you have to understand that my brother isn’t a bad guy. You see, before, Y/n he has never been interested in anyone. That is why he was a priest. He never meant to intentionally hurt Y/n. He didn’t know what to say and was acting on sheer…”

Mindy nodded.

“I see. That is what Y/n said too. Even though she was hurt, she wouldn’t say anything too bad about you, Regulus. You should know that Y/n is a nice girl. I mean a really nice girl. She doesn’t deserve any games. She may be a model and showgirl but that doesn’t make her any less deserving for proper love.”

Sirius cut back in.

“Please remember You’re talking to someone who until a few days ago never had any interest in anyone.”

Mindy fought back a smile.

“Okay, look, I have a fashion show later tonight. I’ll give you one shot. If you blow this, you won’t get a second chance.”

Regulus’ snapped his head up as Mindy handed him a ticket.

“Be there by seven and bring her flowers. Daisy’s are her favorite, just an FYI.”

Mindy gave Regulus a small smile that told him he hadn’t exactly blown it.

“I won’t mess up again.”

Mindy nodded.

“I hope not.”

To be continued…

___

@geeksareunique @jessyballet @knreidy1 @justfinishthis @fific7 @dumbbunnys-safes @siriuslyceleste @mimisparkle12 @teletubiswszpilkach @spideyxalmighty @lucasfilms77 @readtomeregulus @i-love-scott-mccall @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @iluvthe-marauders @woohoney @abaker74 @regulus-black-223048 @saramaple @missgorldafirst @f4iryluvy @s-we-e-t-t-ea @panpride @bennyberry @gugggu6gvai @jag9000 @quinis @haroldpotterson @mentally-unstable-hoe @daddyslittlevillain @goldensunshineshit @padf00ts-l0ver @un-lovesherself @marichromatic @melaninnbarbie @ravenhood2792 @playmore-zeppelin @rubyroscoe1 @authoressskr @brokencasbutt67-writer @moldy-old-boot @summer-novak @hankypranky @rogue-nyx88 @shaylybaby2032 @emiwrites3reads @authoressskr @brokencasbutt67-writer @summer-novak @shaylybaby2032

[randonauticrap]

A Letter to Myself ~ Chapter 1

Series Description: A 1st person POV Isekai Ikemen Prince adventure told by me, your narrator. Not all true stories are believable, and not all true stories are real. I have changed my name and the names of anyone who inspired these characters.

Chapter Description: Liliana goes to sleep after another disappointing experience with love, and wakes up inside a very strange dream.

Chapter Title: Dream Truths

Triggers: Negative self talk; vague mention of fatphobia

There are few things in this world I love more than singing, sleeping, and daydreaming. They’re the three things that can always reset my anxious mind, and push out all forms of mental clutter, if only long enough for me to focus on the task at hand. That particular evening, the task at hand was wishing that my situationship (who, after I admitted I had feelings for earlier that day, told me he didn’t actually feel that way about me, and saw me only as a friend) had instead been one of the dashing princes in my favorite otome game. I think everyone could agree that they would never. But the quiet of the night threatened to envelop me nonetheless; this wasn’t the first time I’ve been fooled by pretty words and flirtatious kindness. It wasn’t even the second or third, and I’ve begun to wonder who the real problem is. Am I simply misinterpreting this behavior? Was my perception truly that terrible? I didn’t think so, since I could usually nail down just about anyone I met: what their struggles were, why they acted the way they did, and so on and so forth. In fact, it was one of the things I was known for in my friend circles - being a mind reader. 

But for some reason, when love was involved, my radar was off; or broken; or just flat out missing altogether. It was something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember; to be loved the way I love, but fate seemed to stand against me in that regard. What if I just wasn't meant to have my own love story? My heart clenched at the thought that plagued me over and over. It was no mystery that my body type was not one that was so popularly celebrated in many circles, and I'd experienced my fair share of backlash over it through the years. And while, thankfully, many women in this day and age were standing up and speaking out about it, I still received far too many judgmental eyes on me when I dared to eat in public; didn't matter if it was 4pm and it was the first thing I'd eaten since I woke up at 7am. 

So it should come as no surprise that the little voice in my head - that damn goblin - often added "overweight" to the list of qualities that left men… wanting, in regards to myself. But the laundry list was miles long by now, and not even the newest Whirlpool could scrub it clean. Besides, who could afford that much laundry detergent? Certainly not me. Not in this economy. 

Usually, I could stir up some comforting scenario with the handsome first prince and lull myself to sleep in his imaginary arms, but the trick wasn't working tonight. God, of course it wasn't. I had to be up in around 4 hours to go to rehearsal, and sleep had been evading me almost as much as men did. "Is sleep a man?" I pondered aloud to my quiet bedroom. "Would make a hell of a lot of sense." I grumbled under my breath as I reached for the Melatonin gummies on my nightstand. I popped two in my mouth and chewed begrudgingly until the almost-fruit tang flavor was gone from my mouth, then let my head fall unceremoniously back onto my pillow with a dull thud. 

Now my neck hurts. Of course it does.

I tossed and turned for awhile longer, praying the Melatonin would do its work, and at last, I felt the gentle tug of sleep calling the deep recesses of my brain. Thank God, now I can go see Jin. It was the last coherent thought I had before diving under, my subconscious brain taking over, my desires in tow. 

…

…..

…….

Birds. 

I was hearing birds. Is this a dream? Those birds don't sound like the birds outside my window normally do. Those sound like… what the hell is that? A weed wacker? It isn't Friday. Is it? This has to be a dream, there's no way I missed two days; I've slept for long periods of time, but never 48 hours straight, long. That's like, coma long. God, I hope I haven't peed the bed. 

I cracked one eye open slowly, noting the lack of crust around it. Thank God, I'm finally re-hydrated. I'd been dehydrated for pretty much my entire life, through no one's fault but my own, and I'd always wanted to be one of those girls who could tote around a cute water bottle the size of a milk jug and drink it all in one day. But alas, God had other plans when he made me. Maybe he was distracted, I don't know. But I had been trying to take better care of myself lately, so I guess it finally paid off! Hopefully this means no more headaches, and-

I opened my other eye to stare up at my ceiling. I wonder what ti- wait. "M'kaaaay, maybe I do have eye crust." I mumbled, rubbing my eyes with my index fingers. Cause that's not my ceiling. Have I gone blind? Oh God, am I blind?

I opened my eyes again and flicked my gaze around the room quickly. Okay, not blind. A relieved sigh petered out of my lungs, but it only lasted a second before I cast my eyes around the room again, in earnest this time. This is not my room. My head swiveled left; right; left again. Okay, so I'm dreaming. Damn it, I probably still have eye crust. I shook my head in disappointment as I sat up in bed. The room I was in was small; tiny, even in comparison to mine, which was saying something. There was a single painting on the wall perpendicular to my right, hung precariously on the dusty beige wall. It looked like a lush green forest with a river running through the center. Pretty. 

My eyes continued their journey right and landed on a small, rustic looking side table with an oil lamp on it, along with a well-worn book. On impulse, I picked up the book and stroked its spine while I read the words on the cover. "Liliana's Adventures" Funny. That's my name. Could my brain really not come up with anything better than this for a title? Jeez, and I call myself a writer. A sound between a scoff and a laugh escaped my lips as I set the book back down on the side table and turned my head to the left. 

There was a small table with two rickety wooden chairs and what looked like a sewing project neatly folded on the tabletop. Okay, is my brain trying to tell me to pick up a new hobby or something, or did I watch too much Lord of the Rings last night? I noticed that there was a simple mirror on the wall across from me that reflected the bland beige wall above my head, the door to the tiny room, and a single window, notched in the downward slope of the ceiling to my left. I didn't understand. Why did my subconscious bring me here of all places? And where even is here? I mean, it has to be a dream. I just "woke up" and the inside of my mouth doesn't even feel gross, and there's no way that's real. 

I pulled myself out of the small, stiff bed and padded over to the window, my feet bare on the chilly wooden panels. The most beautiful garden I had ever seen in my life sprawled out before my eyes way down below. Bursts of yellow, white, pink, and red lined a maze of pathways through the middle, and showcased the gorgeous flowers in bloom. Most of them looked like roses. Wow… now I understand the weed wacker. 

I could get lost tracing each walkway with my eyes, and apparently I did, because I didn't hear the angry footsteps stomping up to the door of my room until it burst open and an irate woman screeched through it. "Leisel, quit your dawdling, we are due in the kitchen in five minutes!" The door slammed shut just as suddenly as it had opened and I jumped hard, nearly knocking my head on the sloped ceiling in the process.  "Who the hell is Leisel?"

~

Tags for the Lovelies: @aquagirl1978 @rhodolitesroseforclavis @ikehoe @queengiuliettafirstlady @maries-gallery @nightghoul381 @judejazza @xbalayage @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @alvieeru @aria-chikage @tele86

[winterabrams]

writing 01: hellooo! i want to post my writings on here! this one is not a fanfic or based on any characters, other than the ones in my head. my default character names are christian + jane, for future reference!

there aren't any trigger warnings for this scene. it's based on a prompt by @whump-galaxy where jane cleans up christian's injuries. i'm always open to suggestions or recs that you want to see me write.

side note: i haven't exactly proofread this scene, since i just wanted to get it done and publish it here! in the future, i will obviously go over it and read/proofread to make it better. happy reading + please don't steal my work.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

“Hold still.”

Christian’s response comes out as a grumble. I’m not entirely sure that he’s even said anything, to be quite honest. It sounds like more of a grunt than a grumble, really. I focus my attention back on him, wiping his bloodied lip with a moist cloth. I, then, proceed to wipe his right cheek, which has been slashed somehow. The blood here is dried up, but he still winces when I swipe the red liquid away.

My guess is a bar fight, but I don’t think he’s in the particular mood to talk about it. Or talk about anything at all. Not that he ever talks about anything with me in general. So, really, what’s the difference? If he doesn’t want to answer the question, no one’s forcing him.

“What happened?” My voice comes out a bit more timid and shaky than I’d like.

He doesn’t respond, of course. Just stares at me like he’s plotting my murder. AKA, the usual.

I grab a gel ice pack from the freezer and press it to his bruised eye. It’s already turning black. Wonderful; just wonderful. Why couldn’t I have married someone who’s a stranger to violence? I’m not a nurse. I shouldn’t be cleaning up his face because he let someone else have their way with it.

I tilt his chin up, assessing the damage. Black eye, bruised face, blood seeping down his lips, and… is that dirt? How the hell did he get dirt on his face? Did he wrestle someone in a barn? Really, Christian? Really?

Just then I notice something. As I’m tilting his head to get a better look at it, his eyes flutter closed—no really, they flutter closed—like a butterfly. I can see the exhaustion seeping through his features in a way that I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to notice. I didn’t want to see that he’s human, just like I am. If you cut him, he’ll bleed. He’s not untouchable; no matter how much he claims to be.

His head relaxes in my hand and his breathing starts to even out. I place the ice pack on the counter beside his legs and continue wiping the blood off his beautifully bruised face. I enjoy the fact that he’s letting me do this without complaining. Without pushing me away. I kind of wish he did push me away. I don’t want to see him weak; it makes me feel things I shouldn’t.

“Bar fight,” he mutters underneath his breath.

I nod once. “I see. And what, pray tell, brought on this fight? I mean, I get it. You’re a naturally frustrating person. Who wouldn’t want to fight you? But, like, did you go to the bar specifically for a fight or did it happen randomly? God, please tell me you didn’t walk up to the biggest guy there and pick a fight with him. You’re smarter than that. Usually. Wait, is this about the argument we had yesterday? I told you—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he interrupts. “No, I didn’t go for a fight. It happened on its own.”

I press the ice pack back to his bruised eye, using my free hand to wipe some dirt off his forehead with my thumb. I feel like a mother bird, cleaning her child. And whoa, that’s not where I want my brain to be headed. Because I’m not a mother bird. I’m his wife. Sure, it was an arranged marriage and we’ve never really had a real conversation before, but still.

“Why is there dirt on you? Did you fight in the desert or something?”

“No,” he sighs. “It was a cowboy bar.”

I try to hold in my laugh; I really do, but it bubbles out nonetheless. “You, tough guy of the century, went to a cowboy bar? Did you wear a hat? Oh my God, did you buy some boots? Maybe wear a buttoned-up flannel? Did you—”

“Jane. Stop talking. Please.”

“Right. Yeah, okay. My bad. But did you?”

“No, I didn’t wear a Goddamn hat, or boots, or flannel. Can we drop this now?”

I nod profusely, probably too much. I definitely look like one of those bobbleheads. I’ll shut up. But there’s no way I’m not bringing up the fact that Christian went to a cowboy bar, like, every single time we have company for the foreseeable future.

Embarrassing him will be my new job. That’s what wifes are for, isn’t it?

I get distracted and start carding my fingers through his hair. It feels very tangled. I don’t even notice that I’ve dropped the ice pack until my brain connects the fact that both my hands are now in his hair, combing through the strands. Why is it so tangled? Doesn’t he own a brush?

“What are you doing?” His voice cuts through my thoughts. More specifically, the sound of it does. Deep, raspy, hoarse. AKA, the hottest way a man can speak. Granted, the hottest way Christian can speak is to not speak at all, but this is a close second.

“Hm?”

But he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts his head back, making no move to stop me. His breathing sounds ragged at this point and I can’t tell if that has anything to do with me or if I’m imagining the entire thing. Maybe this entire encounter isn’t even happening. Maybe I’m daydreaming again. Or worse, I’m asleep. Dreaming about him would be catastrophic for my brain. My thoughts are chaotic enough. I don’t need to confuse them even more.

“Jane,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

I’m scratching his scalp at this point. A rather intimate gesture, but I can’t stop myself from enjoying the quiet tenderness of the moment we’re sharing. He doesn’t seem so scary when he’s relaxed like this.

“Take the pack off?”

It takes me a second to figure out what he means. What pack? You expect me to think of anything but the way you’re relaxing under my fingers, Christian? You expect me to think clearly right now?

Then, I look down and notice that the ice pack I had dropped at some point in the last five minutes is resting on his lap. On top of his dick, to be more precise. And it’s cold. Which can feel nice there, I guess. It’s not like I haven’t experimented with that. But maybe that’s not what he needs right now.

I pull the pack off his lap and step away to put it back in the freezer. When I turn around, Christian’s standing directly in front of me. Of course, I slam right into his chest. Why wouldn’t I? Firstly, there’s my luck with, oh, I don’t know, anything ever. But then there’s the fact that he moved right in my way. What did he expect? I’m not a psychic. I can’t tell when he moves. He’s a ninja. My husband is a ninja.

“Thanks,” he grunts, like it physically pains him to say that one word to me.

“Yeah. No worries. I mean, you were hurt. What was I gonna do? Let you bleed out? I suppose I could’ve done that. Really, I would have no problem doing that. You’re very capable of taking care of yourself. I’m also very capable. I’m sure you’ve figured that out. Yep. So, I’m gonna shut up now. Goodnight.”

He grabs my wrist before I can make any move to walk away.

“I hate sleeping alone.”

I’m so shocked by the words, I have to pinch my arm to make sure I’m not dreaming. Nope. Not dreaming. And that hurt.

“Oh. That sucks. Really, that’s… unfortunate.”

He stares at me, dumbfounded. “Now is the time where you minimize your word count?”

My eyes widen. “Oh, was that an invitation? Do you want me to sleep with you? In your bed? I can do that, I guess. It’s just that the whole time we’ve lived together, you’ve never once asked me to, so I just… um, didn’t. Obviously, I have no problem sleeping with you. In your bed. Under your sheets. That smell like you. Not that you have a distinct smell. I definitely didn’t notice anything like that. Well, since we’re bringing it up, I might as well—”

His hand claps over my mouth.

“Stop talking,” he sighs. “It was more of a statement than an invitation, but you’re more than welcome to sleep in my bed. Especially after you… took care of me tonight.” He pauses. “Would you like to?”

I open my mouth to respond, but he interrupts me. Again.

“Nod or shake your head.”

I nod in response.

“Great. Just don’t kick me in your sleep.”

I push his hand away. “How do you know about that?”

“I have my ways.”

He then leads me to his bedroom, our hands intertwined together, which feels even more intimate than me taking care of his face in the kitchen.

[megidonitram]

Everyone's Running From Something

(ch. 5)

A Baldur's Gate 3 University Professor AU

Rating: M

Quick Summary: Astarion and Gale are two University English professors precariously mentoring a troubled 19-year-old and falling in love.

💖Main Pairing : BloodWeave,(Astarion/Gale) 💕Side Pairings: Shadowheart/Nocturne, Karlach/Dammon, Wyll/The Dark Urge, Tav/Tav 💔Past Pairings: Gale/Mystra, Astarion/Sebastian, Astarion/Tav

<=Previous Chapter | Master List | Ao3 | Next Chapter =>

**Please see Master List Entry for Full Content Warnings**

⏰Chapter Warning⏰

Mentions of Child Abuse | Discussion of a Past Suicide Attempt | Implied Eating Disorder

The first day of class was overcast. Astarion woke up at 5:30 am and ran through his usual morning routine: make the bed, hot shower, work out- Mondays were endurance days: planks, crunches, lunges, and a 2-mile run-, cold shower, get dressed, morning coffee- one sugar, one stevia, no cream.

The mornings were when Astarion missed Lydia the most- not necessarily the banal domestic conversation, but the commotion of her in his house. Her inscrutable taste in music and the sound of her knocking around in the kitchen filled the void of silence in a far more alive way than the soft whisper-drone of NPR. It was also harder to fall back into old habits when someone else was there watching him.

His phone buzzed as he was finishing his coffee.

Speak of the devil, and she shall appear.

L: Hey, probably a stupid question.

Her name was still in his phone the way she’d saved it when they first met, as ‘Lydia 🖤😈’ and Astarion thought, as he did every time she reached out for something, that he should probably change that before the wrong person saw it.

L: Is there a purple and white cabochon earring lying around your bedroom somewhere? L: The last time I can remember wearing them I ended up at yours.

Astarion picked up his phone and typed a reply.

A: I know I have one of your earrings in my car cupholder.

A: I keep meaning to get it back to you. I’ll send it along with Wyll if you’d like.

She replied a few minutes later.

L: Absolutely do not do that. L: I’ll just run by your office L: God. L: You’re going to make the kids think I’m having an affair.

 Astarion read the text and put his phone down, intending to end the conversation, but then something clicked in his mind.

A: Hey. A: You worked at a DSS to put yourself through medical school, didn’t you?

L: ooOOOoo

L: You must REALLY need something if you’re willing to admit that sports medicine is real medicine😏😏😏

A: Answer the question, Silverwarden. L: I did. L: But I was an admin not a coordinator, so my knowledge is limited L: You might be better off talking to Isobel

L: She’s very nice! I can introduce you if you’ve never met! A: I’m an English professor, I’ve met the ADA coordinator. A: I need your discretion. A: Can you tell me why a student’s mental health deferment might get rejected? L: Is this about Xenia? L: It’ll be easier to explain if you call me.

Astarion checked his watch before he clicked on her contact information to call her. The phone rang a few times before she picked up. He heard a squawking toddler and the last snatch of her previous conversation: ‘…It’s just a student thing… Alright, see you tonight. I love you.’

“Hello, Mr. Goodman! Are you going to Vemo me a dollar, or shall I?” Lydia had an unhurried lilting voice, with a touch of a southern accent that made her swallow her ‘o’s and ‘t’s.

“What?”

“It’s a- never mind!” she huffed. “Have you consumed a single piece of media produced in this century? You fucking crypt keeper.”

 “Sometimes I have to review Jenevelle’s assigned reading choices for appropriateness.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He could tell she was nodding the way she did when he missed her point. “‘And so I Anal Douche While Kesha’s ‘Praying’ Plays From My iPhone on Repeat,’ I remember. She scandalized half the football team with that one.”

“The American Football team could stand to get scandalized more,” Astarion replied. “How are your little brats doing?”

As if on cue, there was another toddler squeal in the background. “Ruby took her first steps last fall, and Clem’s learning how to crawl exceptionally early, but I suspect you don’t actually care.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. “Why would the DSS reject Xenia’s deferment?”

“So that’s the thing: They wouldn’t. The DSS covers ADA accommodations for students with documented disabilities; a sudden injury would not be under their purview,” Lydia explained, putting on her lecture voice. “The decision to defer a student’s financial aid awards would go to the university’s finance board—I think? It may go to the board of directors.”

“That’s not what Raphael told me.” Astarion pressed his tongue against his canine until it started to sting.

“I know you're not going to like to hear this, but Raphael may genuinely not know,” and she was quite right; Astraion was going to be pissed if he found out he'd been bluffed into his current predicament. “Disability services is an incredibly complex field- both necessarily and unnecessarily so. It’s still pretty unusual for a student’s medical deferment to get rejected… Can I ask what your interest in this is?”

“I’ve found a channel to contest the decision, but I want to make sure it’s at least a somewhat viable option before I drag Xenia into more bureaucracy.”

“hmm… I knew you two would get along.” Lydia replied, quite satisfied with herself. “You have a very similar energy.”

Astarion sighed. He knew someone had referred Xenia to his sophomore survey class last semester; he'd just never figured out who. “I suppose we both have that ‘father used to beat me’ twinkle in our eyes.”

“Don’t put those words in my mouth!” Lydia exclaimed. “I meant you both have a similar…” She groped for the right words, “…surviverly quality about yourselves.”

“Will to survive?” Astarion corrected her.

“Whatever!” She snapped.

“Do you know why Xenia might have been rejected?”

“Speculatively?” Lydia asked.

“No, I’m asking you to read someone’s mind.” Astarion quipped.

“I answered your call in front of my husband for this, you know?”

Astarion sighed again. “If he’s not comfortable with you talking to your exes, he probably should not have married someone who fucked their coworker.”

“Do you want my help, or did you call me just to snipe?”

“Fine… please speculate. Why would someone’s medical deferment be rejected?”

“Well, if I had to guess… Xenia was sort of a high-profile get for the university. And given her history, I think it’s pretty safe to say that incident-” she paused as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say the next part. “-I think that incident last fall was probably a suicide attempt.”

There was a beat of grim silence. When the news came down, everyone had made that assumption, but no one was brave enough to put words to the thought.

Astarion hummed in acknowledgment. “So, you think the school rejected her medical deferment over bad publicity?”

“I think it would turn into a massive media circus if that got out, yes,” Lydia replied. “They may be trying to push her into dropping out.”

“Do you think it’s worth it to challenge?” Astarion asked.

“I don’t know,” Lydia sighed. “At the very least, it would probably be good to have as a precedent if she ends up having to sue the school… You could always just ask her what she wants to do. Poor kid might be too tired for all of this.” 

“Fair.” Astarion pondered her words for a moment.

“Can I help you with anything else?” She asked.

“That’s all for now,” Astarion replied. “…Thank you, by the way. You don’t have to stick your neck out for me anymore, you know?”

“I know,” Lydia replied. “I did this because I wanted to. You’re still my friend -despite everything, I care about you.”

She hung up. Astarion’s phone screen went black. The house was silent again.

***

Gale got stuck in horrible traffic on his first day and ended up arriving 30 minutes late for his morning office hours. He skipped past dropping his lunch off in the breakroom fridge and rushed straight to the office, absolutely mortified that he was so late for his first proper day of class. He was so frazzled he had to double back to grab his coffee from the car.

It wasn’t like there would be anyone there waiting on him- a grand total of one student who knew who he was-, but it certainly made a bad impression to show up late on the first day of class.

Astarion was both bemused and incredibly entertained as he watched Gale flit around their office like a very flustered tornado, trying to cram one hour of planning into the thirty minutes he had remaining.

“You’re going to be fine.” Astarion had assured him. “It’s syllabus week, no one’s expecting Judith Buttler.”

Gale still left for his class 10 minutes early -just in case his classroom had teleported to a different dimension since he last visited it. It hadn’t. It turned out the room was exactly where he’d left it at the end of a strange little corridor in the library, and in fact, there were already two students waiting for him.

Xenia sat near the back of the classroom, wearing the facial expression of a kitten that was being petted too hard, as a pinch-faced, red-headed young woman combed her fingers through the knots in her hair.

“I can’t believe you’re not embarrassed to go out in public looking like this.” The pinch-faced woman scolded.

“It’s ha-ard to brush my hair with my non-dominant hand…” Xenia’s eyes bulged out of her head as the woman pulled her fingers through a particularly difficult knot.

“Chk. I’ll put it in a braid then, so you aren’t struggling to brush it.”  She started dividing Xenia’s dark hair into sections no more gently than she’d detangled it.

“Hello Xenia, It’s good to see you again. How are you doing?” Gale asked as he set his satchel down behind the podium.

“Oh, I’ve been worse… I’ve also been better- Lae’zel, that hurts!”  She squealed as the pinched-faced woman, Lae’zel apparently, tugged the braid tight.

“Then sit still so it will end faster.” Lae’zel scolded her. “I have younger siblings that squirm less than you, and they’re still in diapers.”

“I guess you’ll have to work on instilling more terror in my heart then,” Xenia replied. She gripped the edges of her desk with white knuckles as Lae’zel wrenched her head back.

Lae’zel hummed as if that was a legitimate suggestion. “Yes, I think we would have a much stronger working relationship if you feared me just a little more…”

Lae’zel finally let go of Xenia, who let out a breath like she’d narrowly avoided being hit by a bus as she pulled a few face-framing pieces from the clutches of her new French braid. Lae'zel turned her sights on Gale- though he desperately hoped it wasn't because she was planning on braiding his hair, too. “You must be the new English adjunct.”

“Yes, I’m Dr. Dekarios!” Gale replied. “You must be Lae’zel? The athletic director speaks very highly of you.”

“As he should.” Lae’zel nodded like he’d just given her the correct answer in an oral exam. “You should know that I designed to take this course this semester because I thought it would be taught by Dr. Ancunín rather than Dr. Shadowheart. I will be quite displeased with you if your teaching methods are as frivolous and unstructured as Shadowheart’s.”

Xenia’s eyes went wide, and her mouth formed a silent ‘Oh’ sound as she looked back and forth between Gale and Lae’zel.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching Dr. Shadowheart teach, so I don't know how our teaching methods compare, but I will not deign to be frivolous or unstructured.” Gale laughed nervously.

“I think she is perfectly competent as a professor of literature, but she does quite poorly with the more structured elements of the genera. Dr. Ancunín does not fare much better, but he is preferable to Shadowheart.” Lae’zel explained as if Gale had genuinely asked her option. “You should know that thus far, you have not made a positive impression on me… you were quite late posting the syllabus.”

“My apologies, Lae’zel,” Gale replied, hand on heart. “I got let into my faculty account one week before the semester began.”

“Hm, yes.” Lae’zel considered his response. “This school does have abysmal technical support, so I shall let it slide this time.”

By that time, a few more students had filed in, and it was about time for class to start- or Gale was desperate not to hear any more unsolicited criticism of his colleagues. Astarion was right. The class went perfectly fine. He explained the structure of the course, and had everyone introduce themselves and state their major (he found out Xenia was there because she was a phycology major), before he explained the purpose of taking an upper level grammar and style.

“The purpose of learning advanced grammar is not to improve your everyday language… If the person you are talking to understands what you are saying, then there is nothing wrong with your grammar… Language should evolve to fit the speaker, the speaker should not evolve to fit the language… However, if you are going into a field like law or communication where you’ll be expected to use very precise language…”

It went by in a flash, and Gale could hardly remember if he got everything that he needed to into the lecture by the time class ended, but if anyone was unclear about anything, they didn’t let him know at the moment. He barely registers Xenia darting out of the room before he finishes saying, “Have a nice rest of your day.” A few people lingered to give him the heads up about things in their personal lives that might interfere with class, and one student wanted to know if he’d receive their letter of accommodation, but before long, there was a small congregation of people forming at the door waiting for Gale to leave so the next class can take over the space.

He walked back to his office with a spring in his step. He didn’t even mind that much when it started to pour rain, and he realized he had forgotten his umbrella in the car.

***

It wasn’t much dryer in the humanities building. Gale dodged around liner-less trash bins set up under bulging ceiling tiles dotting the hallway. In the break room, Karlach was holding a bookcase steady so Shadowheart could climb on top of it.

Gale paused and walked back to the breakroom to make sure he saw that right.

He did.

“Do you… need help with something?” he asked sheepishly.

“Nope, I think we’ve got it!” Karlach replied, ducking out of the way of one of Shadowheart’s heels. “Water pools in AC vents when it rains, so we have to bang on them a couple of times to make sure it doesn’t collapse.”

“O-oh?” Gale looked up and realized one of the panels of the overhead duct was swelling dangerously. “Shouldn’t we put in a work order?”

“Be my guest,” Shadowheart said. She precariously balanced on her knees, and Gale held his breath as the bookshelf wobbled underneath her. “But maintenance won’t get to it before the break room floods.”

She reached up and banged on the ductwork above her head, and the vent in the middle of the room started dribbling yellowish-brown water. Suddenly, there was a strange gurgling noise, then a thunk! as the panel popped back into proper shape.

“Great work, Jen!” Karlach whooped, holding out a hand to help Shadowheart jump down. They high-fived, and Shadowheart went about smoothing out her clothes, grumbling under her breath when she realized there was a massive run in her tights.

“This kind of thing happen often?” Gale asked.

“Only when it rains!” Karlach chirped. She checked her watch and immediately started towards the door. “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to get to my day job.” She gave Gale a friendly pat on the shoulder as she passed him. “If the vents start to flood again, it’s your and fancy pants’ turn to fix it!”

“I don’t know if that bookshelf will support either of our weights…” Gale balked.

“Not with that attitude, soldier!” Karlach called as the stairwell door swung closed behind her.

“You can poke it with a handle broom until it corrects; it just takes longer,” Shadowheart assured him. “I’ve got to go switch tights before I get to my next class. I don’t know if you’ve had the displeasure of meeting her yet, but God forbid Lae’zel catches me with a run in my pantyhose.”

“Oh, so she does talk like that to your face then?” Gale replied. “I didn’t know if I should-”

“Talks like what- never mind, don’t tell me!” Shadowheart huffed. “I swear, after everything I’ve done for that girl- I’ll talk to you later!” She turned on her heels and followed Karlach up the stairs.

Gale sighed in relief, ready to hold up in his office for a little while. He reached into the front pocket of his satchel for his keys only to find it empty. Cursing under his breath, he thumbed through the things in the main pocket, hoping he’d accidentally mixed them in with everything else- nothing. Finally, he pulled out his phone only to find a series of texts from Astarion.

A: You left your keys.

Then, a little while later.

A: I’m going to be out of office when you get back. A: Ask Mizora on the second floor for the spare key, good luck.

[toxictoad]

Okay so as promised (By me, to me) I am writing about Deimos!

He's by far my favorite Durge and the first essay length bit of this is JUST for Act 1. Acts 2 and 3 will be in reblogs at some point

Also who knows I might make a post about his days in the dead three at some point (Read; probably soon because this boy has rotted my brain from the inside out).

You know the drill by now. ADHD ramble under the cut.

Deimos wakes up on the Nautiloid with a specific set of items on him. I don't feel like opening a save just to look at the starting inventory, but the thing that matters here is the book Paladin Oaths and Their Tenets;

(Interesting thing- This book is nowhere on the wiki. I would put it on there myself but I don't understand how wiki editing really works)

This book, I kid you not, is the most important part of roleplaying Deimos for me. He wakes up with no memories, head pounding, covered in blood, but he has tenets, and he WILL follow them (He's Oath of Devotion btw).

In addition to the text of the book, I headcanon that there are little notes in the margins of the pages- doodles and little jokes. Just stuff you would do if you were bored and had an old book on you.

Waking up on the beach, his immediate priority isn't necessarily survival or taking in his surroundings, it's his fucked up brain. I think a lot of people downplay how goddamn TERRIFYING it is to not have any memories. Like I've had days where I was sick and couldn't remember anything, and it was genuinely distressing, and this is like... 100 times worse than that.

So he panics, a little, and goes through all the items on his person. He has armor and a Warhammer, and... this book. He reads through it, and his thought is "Okay, I'm a paladin. That's something" And he finds a symbol of Ilmater drawn in the book and goes "Okay, that's my god probably. So I know two (2) things about myself! Awesome"

Thing is; Deimos is an amnesiac with 8 intelligence. He can kind of guess what Ilmater's followers believe, but the specifics are lost on him. The result is the funniest paladin to ever paladin.

Just imagine you're like... Shadowheart. This dude saves you from a Mindflayer pod. He seems nice enough when he's not complaining about a headache, and he's a competent fighter. You ask him who his god is and he's like "Uh... Ilmater, I guess." And you're like "...Okay" because you're a secret Shar worshipper so you kind of get being weird about deities, but Ilmater is a very acceptable god to follow and you're pretty sure he's not lying, but then why is he being weird about it. This guy is extremely devoted to his tenets but he's not even 100% sure what they are. He makes every moral decision based off of a book in his pocket and a general idea of what paladins/Ilmater devotees are like that may or may not be accurate. He doesn't even know how to pray, but he's pretty sure he's supposed to do it. The only thing he seems 100% sure about is his name, but at this point, you wouldn't be surprised if he got it off of a roadsign somewhere.

He's so fucking weird.

Deimos is incredibly freaked out by the urges, because obviously. After Shadowheart the first person he finds is Gale, and their first meeting is wonderfully awkward because Gale is being himself and Deimos is distracted by the fact that he really wanted to chop off this guy's hand like 15 seconds ago.

And then... Astarion.

Look, Durgestarion is canon in my heart and you have to deal with it now.

Deimos is incredibly easy to manipulate but in the weirdest way possible. Basically, if you can convince him that doing something is morally sound, or even just morally neutral but you really want him to do it? He'll just fucking do it. The Gur scene was the first real test of this:

Astarion: Hey this guy sucks Deimos: No he doesn't be cool What's his face: I'm hunting a vampire spawn named Astarion Deimos (Internally): Hm... Astarion is Good... and hunting good people is bad... So hunting Astarion is bad... Astarion: Please can I kill him? Deimos: Yeah okay

(Note; Deimos' definition of a "Good person" is a person he likes and who hasn't done anything morally bankrupt in his line of sight. Astarion encourages him to do bad things but so does his brain so he just doesn't listen to either of them)

However; The Urges. My way of thinking is that instead of doing horrible violence and mutilation and cannibalism whenever the option presents itself he just does something funny and kind of rude (This is the only reason he has high approval with Astarion. Astarion is constantly getting him to do weird confusing shit for his own amusement. Baa-ing at the redcaps in the swamp? 100% Astarion's influence. Threatening a magic mirror? 60% Astarion's influence and 40% because Deimos is a little bit of a himbo and doesn't like it when things try to test his intelligence. He is not a riddle person).

I cannot stress enough how weird this man appears to everyone who meets him. Friend or foe everyone around who talks to him for more than five minutes is hit with confusion. He rolls up to the scene with Kagha and Arabella and ignores the Dark Urge, only to immediately go "Hey I'm a paladin I can cast judgment on things" (A thing he is not sure that paladins actually do but he says it with confidence) and instead of making any moral arguments he's just like "I don't fuck with you snake lady let the kid go." He has high charisma but only uses it for persuasion. Ragzlin is like "The squid man showed me ur face time to die" and he just goes "No, lol." Withers wakes up to the literal chosen of Bhaal in Ilmateri getup and asks what the value of a life is and he says "Idk it's based on vibes." Astarion convinces him that the extra supplies that keep appearing in camp are a result of his charm and that he's totally not stealing from traders and Deimos goes "Yes that makes perfect sense" while Wyll is losing his goddamn mind.

Pretty early on in the game I found a book (I'm pretty sure it's A is for Azuth and Other Gods 6? Can you tell that a lot of roleplay is based around books for me) That has Ilmater, and between this children's book and the general assumptions people make about him, he can guess that he's supposed to be a martyr. It isn't his natural instinct, but he takes to it surprisingly well (His fighting style is protection, by the way. It's useless in combat but thematically appropriate so I don't care). I also think that he would encourage Gale to ramble about Ilmater because the man is like Forgotten Realms Google and this is probably his most trustworthy source of information for a while. I think Deimos really likes Gale because he talks a lot and helps drown out the murder thoughts.

So Deimos keeps up the facade-but-not-really-a-facade of being a brave, kind, selfless person who puts everyone before himself, and he tells his companions that he has dark thoughts and impulses, but they tell him that it's normal, and who is he to question them? (Again, he is easily convinced by things in weird ways. He trusts basically anyone more than he trusts his own brain, right now)

...And then Alfira comes to camp.

OH BOY. Okay so I have done playthroughs where I knock out Alfira and kill the Dragonborn bard instead, but I've been trying really hard not to metagame in this run so sadly our lovely tiefling bard is no longer with us. Deimos' honest first reaction to finding out he gored her is... to laugh.

Not a happy laugh, mind you- He's horrified, but his first thought is that he's broken his Oath, and then that that is decidedly not the first thing he should be thinking after he killed an innocent woman. So he laughs at the irony, and then he cries, and then he vomits. He cleans the blood off his hands but not because he wants to hide what he did. He just thinks that if he has to feel the blood on his fingers for one more second then he's going to go insane.

He never really stops feeling the blood. It will always be there.

My party at this point was Karlach, Astarion, and Wyll, and... Ouch. I felt like physical pain the first time I played Durge and everyone was mad at me. I think Deimos has that experience, here.

He wants to cry but he knows that he doesn't deserve to be upset about this. He vows that no innocent will ever die at his hand again, and sequesters himself in the ruin with the magic mirror in it and prays. He doesn't know how,really, but something in him remembers what a prayer for forgiveness sounds like. He begs Ilmater to listen to his repentance. Deimos carries a permanent, bone-deep guilt, but this is the first time he feels it so keenly.

He must read his tenets a hundred times, that day. He asks Withers to bring her back, but he understands why he can't. This is a burn on his conscience. She's at peace now, at least.

He is not, but what he feels doesn't matter.

(He is still immensely relieved that his oath is still intact. Breaking his oath might as well be breaking Deimos, and there's no telling what he will do once he's broken)

But, while everyone else is horrified, scared, or maybe just annoyed with Deimos, Astarion doesn't hate him.

And, look... Deimos' moral compass is literally a book, and the book doesn't say that he can't like a guy who thinks it's funny when you tell kids they're gonna die. He just really wants someone to not hate him, so now his best friend is a guy with an extremely underdeveloped moral compass. I think he clocks pretty early on that Astarion is manipulating him. But also... he doesn't care.

Deimos has always been- pre and post lobotomy- loyal to a fault. He was loyal to his foster family until Bhaal made him kill them. He was loyal to Bhaal and Saverok and even Orin. He was loyal to Gortash and Ketheric. He is a paladin at heart, whether that be under Bhaal or Ilmater. He is loyal and dutiful and constantly wracked with guilt.

Guilt for disobeying his father. Guilt for caring about people. Guilt for his past. Guilt for his urges. He's catholic coded.

So just like he was loyal to Bhaal he becomes loyal to Ilmater. Just like he was loyal to Gortash and Ketheric (Yeah, I'm going there) he becomes loyal to Astarion.

And like, he sleeps with Astarion, and he doesn't mind it, and for all his manipulation they do actually like each other, and then the tiefling party happens...

And look... Deimos knows that Astarion is lying when he says "I love you." He knows and acknowledges that fact and he can fully see that Astarion is pulling his strings like a good little puppet.

...And he just doesn't care. He lets himself believe, if only for a night, that someone loves him, despite his hands that are stained with blood and death and secrets.

And he lets Astarion feed on him, and they travel through the Underdark, and Deimos tries to hold his broken brain together.

The Grym fight is a weirdly potent moment for him, because I think that's when it really hits his companions that Deimos... Just does not value his own life.

Because at this point my party was Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion. Astarion and Deimos lure Grym onto the crucible, and Astarion can disengage and jump away. Karlach takes out the last of the magma mephits, and Shadowheart is next to the crucible lever.

Deimos can't disengage, though, and he cast survival instinct on Astarion earlier. So he drinks a potion of superior healing, and he tells Shadowheart to pull the lever.

Astarion's "No, my sweet bloodthirsty friend!" UGH I love it.

But Deimos (barely) survives (Which in reality means "Yay I don't have to use a scroll of revivify" but I want my angst so shhh)

They long rest, and the next day it's up to the mountain pass. I... really don't have a lot to say about the Githyanki Creche? Except that I know that Deimos just follows Lae'zel's lead on this. He bows to Vlaakith, and he... mildly considers killing the Dream Visitor (Who, by the way, looks as close to Jaheira as I could make her look, because the boy needs a mom and the Emperor clocks that easily)

He also gets VERY angry about the Varsh's treatment of Varrl (That is a CHILD how DARE you. I wish there was an option to fight him without making everyone else in the Creche hostile I hate this man)

I turned on non-lethal attacks for fighting my way out of the Creche, because I think Deimos doesn't want to kill these people- For Lae'zel's sake, and for his own.

Okay so maybe I do have a bit to say about the Creche sue me.

That awful fight with the like death knights or whatever in the mountain pass sucks. I don't know why but it always makes me so incredibly angry. Maybe it's just because that was the first place I ever actually had a party member die idk. Not related to Deimos I just had a bad time.

Oh, the Elminster thing...

Unlike almost every Tav or Durge I have, Deimos understands Gale's want to sacrifice himself to save the world/earn Mystra's forgiveness. He's a martyr, after all. He doesn't judge- He knows that feeling. He tells Gale as much. He doesn't want his friend to die, but he wants his friend to feel like he has a purpose. (Semi-related; This is my first run where I'm free of the bug where Gale is in love with you no matter what, and his platonic Act 2 scene before the Illithid colony is just... So sweet? Like he just wants his friend to be there for him. I love that wizard. Yes I will watch the stars with you buddy)

But now we are on to the Shadow Cursed lands, and Act 1 is over. Wow, this was so long.

[depressedtheatrekiddo]

SCREAMING THE NAME OF THE FOREIGNER'S GOD!!

I am back with Hozier gender so while I was vibing with myself I just got this idea <3

I don't know what to say anymore, so anyways I hope you like it ✨💫⭐

. ° — ° — 🕯️ — ° — ° .

Steve Harrington wasn't a person of faith, nobody listened to their prays and screams, nobody helped her when he needed it.

So she only believed in themselves, only trusted his own strength to get out of her problems and used their bitchy attitude to hide and protect himself.

But now that their body was all bloody, forgotten and laying down on the floor of that damned dimension or whatever word the kiddos said. Now that they couldn't get up, her mind buzzy and cloudy, he tried to keep himself up and regulate her own breathing.

He already knowed she was going to die before going back there, they made her mind up, he understood what was going to happen and they already was in peace with it.

But now she was scared as fuck. He heard somewhere lost on their memory “Hey Steve, did you OD over there?” and the only thing she could feel about his body was the tears that rolled down their bruised face, mixing with blood.

And then she also remembered Dustin, Max, Erica and the rest of their kids.

Who would protect them?

Anybody could take care of them, but who would protect them? That was Steve's job. He had to do it. And now they left them alone.

The crying made his breathing irregular, they felt like choking, she couldn't. Not now.

Could someone talk with death? Could someone as stupid with that much bullshit on their veins convince death to let them live?

So they remembered.

And maybe it was pathetic. Very desperate from his part.

But it was all she had. So he hold into it.

“Pick a god and pray to it, it's all you can do now” they heard Erica when she was the DM of a campaign the kids did on summer.

So he did. They searched on his memory and found someone with blurry name, she didn't remember, and it didn't matter. The thing was she could see it.

Please, please— Let me get out or make it stop—

Because at least, if she had to die he wanted to make it end, but they couldn't kill themselves. He swear that to Robin five hundred nights ago.

“You can rest in peace soldier, I got ya from now on” And that voice sounded like music, not Steve usual taste, not pop or jazz, it was a little rougher, like a whisper but very loud.

Fuck it, he didn't know what it was but it make their bones tingle.

And they closed their eyes.

There was dark and then light. Her wounds covered in a rare thing, like slime or some weird shit. Keeping out the slime thingy, he was comfortable, like in a cloud, covered in silk and laying on a fluffly mattress. Dark sheets covering their body.

They couldn't see shit thought, her eyes didn't react at first, and he got scared. If they got blind who was he supposed to help?

The bats didn't got their eyes. He think so.

She tried to touch his eyes. He stopped scared to find a hole. Their hand stopped on their cheeks, touched little cuts.

“Your eyes are okay, you just been awake for a long time, I thought you would sleep a little bit more now that your body needed it.” That was the same voice he heard before.

“Am I dead?” Steve voice was a little shaky as she talked.

“You're not, just almost” The voice answered and Steve felt the weight of someone that just sat next to them on the bed.

“Can I ask for your name?”

“It's been a while since someone like you prayed for me” The voice told instead of answering.

“I do not believe in nothing” Steve muttered.

“I know” The owner of the voice had a smile on it face, if it had a face.

“Then why—?”

“Because you're just so—” The voice stopped, Steve sweared they could feel a smile “I’m Eddie”

“That's not your name” Steve whispered.

He heard the voice, Eddie, laughing.

“No, it's not” It stopped talking. “But it's my name for you, you must know I cannot reveal my real name”

“I know” She smiled softly. “What are your pronouns Eddie?”

“Oh, it and he are cool for me. What about you soldier? I don't think I got your name either”

“I go by Steve and Stevie depending on the day, they/she/he pronouns”

“Noted down”

“You probably knew it before I told you”

“You're right”

“How does it feel to die?”

“I don't know”

“You do, you were dead”

“I'm a god Stevie, I cannot die”

“Being a god makes you dead”

“Why?”

“Because you can be forgotten, that's worse than being death”

There was silence. Neither of them talked.

“You weren't forgotten”

“I know”

“They are probably planning to search for you”

“I know”

“You matter, and they wouldn't forget you, even if you died”

Silence again.

“Can I open my eyes?”

“You can try it”

“I'm scared to open them”

“Why?”

“Because I might not see”

“I can't clear your vision if you don't” Eddie muttered. “But I'll be here”

“Can I know what you're the god of?” Steve muttered.

“I guess, I can tell you just one of my many specialities” It said.

“Tell me then”

“I'm a minor god it probably isn't—”

“You told me I matter, so tell me”

“Theater”

“Sounds good”

They remembered the few times he went to a theater when she was little, to see his aunt singing. He liked aunt Lyria, she was kind and had a good voice.

Steve wanted to go see an opera again when they could get out of there.

“It is, beautiful, precious” Steve felt his smile and decided they wanted to try to see it with her own eyes.

So he tried. Their vision was still a little cloudy, maybe she just needed their glasses.

“Hi”

“Hey” Eddie smiled, and this time Steve saw it.

Maybe Steve Harrington didn't have faith in no one but themselves, but she was grateful, and keeping alive a god with their prays wasn't that bad.

Maybe he didn't believe in godness, but he did believe in goodness.

And it save them.

Maybe he believed in Eddie, not as a god, but as in Eddie.

In a “this is my name for you” way.

Maybe their eyes weren't seeing before and they are now.

. ° — ° — 🕯️ — ° — ° .

Hihi!! ⭐

Hope you like it <3 Just one thing before you go, you know the line "pick a god and pray" is something I had noted down on my notebook for storytelling, but I remember getting it from Pinterest or something, so if you know from who is it or something so I can give credits(?)

That's it!! Thanks for reading!! 💗

[courtneybriana]

2/7/21 8:33 pm + 6/21/23 5:52 am revised

— here’s the truth:

1. my parents were my first heartbreak. from the age of 5, i was aware of that and there was never a time in my life where i was not aware of it. i remember my 5th birthday like it was yesterday. it was the perfect day….until it wasn’t. divorce is death.

2. sometimes it feels like i’m slowly bleeding out in the street and no one can see me dying. everyone’s just walking by but no one is stopping to help. it’s like my pain is nonexistent…i’ve always been the person who never folds and figures it out on her own, or i’m simply perceived that way, so people seem to believe i’m never in need of anything…especially those who were closest to me. never in need of an apology, never in need of being checked up on, never in need of a shoulder to cry on, never in need of being celebrated or supported, never in need of being understood, never in need of more...i’ve realized…it’s like people think i’m never worth the love and care i’ve poured into them because i always seem to be just fine. i am just fine….because i’m the one who picks myself up every time.

3. these days i really miss my abuela…like a lot. it’s like once she was gone, nothing that made sense before ever made sense again. i miss her wisdom the most. there is so much i understand now that i didn’t understand then and i wish i could tell her here now in the earth realm. but that’s the irony of death…grief man. fuck.

4. for 22 years, i was against the idea that someday i might have a baby. me as a mom? never imagined myself as a muva or wanted that experience. at 24, i barely slightly welcomed the thought. maybe surrogacy? at 26, i smile at the idea that one day i may carry and have a baby born into this love and divinity with my partner. that alone is god and love, a love that i once thought i was too good. transmuted my pain into purpose.

5. in the last 2-3 years, i’ve come to realize a couple things. people never show up for me the way i show up for them. people don’t hold space for me the way i hold space for them. people don’t pour into me the way i pour into them. people don’t take the time to understand me as i do for them. everyone just leeches off my energy and takes until i’m drained of nothing and left to pick myself up by myself. so the solution has been simple: distance + acceptance. stopped pouring into energetic leeches because i’m sick of it and i deserve better. acceptance. i’ve stopped asking myself why and i simply poured more into myself, my craft and the ones who can easily and effortlessly water me as i them. if reciprocation and understanding aren’t at the table, neither am i. i’m attracting my soul tribe.

6. i used to wonder if God was lying to me; about my life + my purpose. he wasn’t. i have the kind of magic that can’t be named or recognized by soulless beings. the things i’ve worked for and manifested, the blessings i receive, the relentless and unwavering faith and self belief i have, the way God has transformed my life in more ways than i’ve ever prayed for or imagined…i am always so divinely taken care of it brings me to tears every time i think about it. thank you God, thank you Grandma, thank you to my spirit guides.

7. as i tap deeper into my inner child work, my childhood memories comes to my mind a lot these days. i can hear my abuela, mom, and aunts telling me to stay in a “child’s place.”

8. it took me six years after i thought i knew love to actually find love. real unconditional unwavering love. soft love. the only love that’s made me consider an idea of forever…if that even exists as corny as it sounds.

9. i’m a mystery these days. i’m very hard to read. i’m not as vulnerable to let you in as i have in the past unless i feel safe with you. i don’t really care to be seen or be in the mix. i see through all the bullshit and i dont really care to be around nggas cause everybody is pretending. don’t really care for meaning less conversation or to catch up. everybody is lying anyway. everyone is being fake. everyone is wearing a mask. no one is keeping it 100 with anyone or even themselves. shame + accountability no longer exist. the world is complete chaos and people are dying left and right. mfs hanging out for vibes and just to be outside but don’t even like each other and talking shit. it’s weird outside. bitches are weird, nggas are weird. no substance. no morals and values. no safety. everyone is moving weird asf. i can’t do the fake shit or the facades. we’re all living our best lives though, right? mfs ain’t bringing nothing to the table and i’m good, bro. in my own world always + forever. truly been getting back to the way life felt better social media because mfs are so lost in the sauce and i want no parts. it’s beneath me. i need to move.

10. fuck what people fail to realize. what i’ve learned is that people will always have their own truth of what they think happened based on their perception. so i’ll happily be the villain.

[wutbju]

Bob Jones III Plays Big Role in Operation of University

Dr. Bob Jones III is vice president of Bob Jones University -- a job which a fellow worker on campus says "he not only inherited, he merited."

It is a career that Bob Jones III had real qualms about -- he debated with himself and his God before he accepted it.

"After I graduated, I really felt I would prefer not being in the school -- it seemed too much like stepping into a ready-made job.

But the more I prayed about it and thought about it the more I came to believe that this was my job, to accept as a Christian -- the best way of perpetuating the ideals and the standards that my grandfather set up when he founded this university.

Young Dr. Bob, is perhaps, more like his grandfather -- both in big and little traits than like his father. It is evident both from conversational references to "my grandfather" when one talks with him and in his dominant interests.

Nobody is like Bob Jones, Jr. HAHAHAHA

Asked what gave him the most personal satisfaction in his work, he hesitated not a moment in replying, "My speaking tours. I like best to bring gospel messages, preaching as a minister and an evangelist," he declared.

Young Dr. Bob took his master's degree in speech from BJU in 1961, after receiving a B.A. degree in 1959. Then he did graduate work at Northwestern University and New York University. In 1963 he was awarded the honorary degree of doctor of literature by Pillsbury College, Owatonna, Minn., and in May, 1966, the honorary degree of doctor of divinity by San Francisco, Calif., Conservative Baptist Theological Seminary.

He didn’t actually complete a degree at Northwestern or NYU, by the way. He only took summer classes there.

CONSIDERED TEACHING

For a time he weighed as possible careers, teaching elsewhere or serving as a pastoral minister or a minister of education.

Next to preaching, young Dr. Bob finds his greatest satisfaction in "feeling a part of molding young people's lives. helping students over stumbling blocks ... helping them to meet spiritual problems. When I see these students blossom out after struggling with emotional and spiritual problems ... when they return and say ... after that conference with you my problems gradually disappeared, then I feel that this is the richest reward in the world.

"Even though I had hesitated to step into what might be called a ready-made job, I saw need for my involvement, particularly in the school's financial policies. This is a $30,000,000 business operated solely on faith. We have no denominational backing, no government grants, no foundation gifts. Our money comes in modest amounts from those who support us, and we manage through sound business practices. We need to establish continuity here."

(Bob Jones University's tuition is lower than average for the size of the campus and its varied curricular offerings.)

Once young Dr. Bob had accepted the family founded and administrated university as his career, he served on the speech faculty and then as assistant dean of men. He was named to the cooperating board of trustees and in 1961 was elected to the voting board.

ASSISTANT TO FATHER

Jones was subsequently appointed assistant to the president and served in this capacity until 1963 when he was named vice president. He is also a member of the board of directors of the Gospel Fellowship Association and Gospel Fellowship Missions, serving that organization as vice president of the board.

He has conducted tours of Europe and the Bible lands for parties of ministers, Christian workers and students.

While he has no involvement in the magnificent art gallery established by his father, he does the booking for the fine arts concert and drama series which annually offers top cultural opportunities for students as well as members of the community who take advantage of the limited number of tickets soon accepted the disciplinary standards and were the better for them.

"Some people sort of laugh about our "dynasty" out here, but I am convinced that a 'dynasty' is perhaps the only way a school can be kept to its founder's purposes. During its founder's life it retains its impetus and thrust -- and close family ties seem best suited to continue this," Dr. Bob says.

O RLY? So that’s why Pettit failed, yes?

LIKES WATER SKIING

Tall -- well over six feet -- and slim, young Dr. Bob radiates a warm glow, a personality trait he has twice inherited, from both grandfather and father, He enjoys water skiing, when he can find time, hunting near Ft. Stewart, Ga., where he has been shooting deer and wild hogs.

He waterskis? Huh.

Inherited from his father is his love of dramatics and his ability as an actor. He appears frequently in Shakespearean productions and other stage presentations at the university. He has also filled major roles in some of the productions of Unusual Films notably in "Wine of the Morning," and "Red Runs the River."

Both were internationally recognized and were prize-winners in their field. He and his wife, the former Beneth Peters of Olympia, Wash., met on campus and fell in love while rehearsing for a production of "Cyrano de Bergerac," in which Beneth was Roxane. Fittingly, they named their first child, a daughter, Roxane.

Two years later Bob Jones IV arrived. Interestingly, there have been exactly 27 years between each of the births of the second, third and fourth generations.

Asked about his children, young Dr. Bob declares proudly, "It's amazing how much Bob IV is like my grandfather -- he's already, the image of my grandfather."

Why do they always do this? I remember Mary Gaston insisting that Stephen was just like her husband. They always repeat this.

And it was in the tradition of his grandfather, with the same gentle and simple grace that his grandfather had terminated his final interview, -- that young Dr. Bob asked if he might be permitted to end the hour "with a little prayer."