#sweating process and just left it there. And watched me mix the batter instead and i had to hurriedly dump the zucchini

[eudico-my-beloved]

I fucking hate my culinary class table group soooo bad i should be allowed to hit them with carrots i think

[sneezefiction]

embrace

Tsukishima x Reader - Scenario 

@belli-jelly’s event request: “#7 with Tsukki ❤️ thank youu!”

a/n: “embrace” with Tsukishima is such a soft idea. he just needs a hug and to feel loved n supported n stuff, ya know? i hope u enjoy!! <333

warnings: slight language, angst (but barely?)

wc: 1990

---

Tsukishima makes his ways through the apartment door, kicking off his shoes a little more forcefully than usual. The thunk of the soles on the tile embodies whatever vexation he’d been simmering in for the duration of the day. A weak, frustration-fueled sigh exits his body.

From the kitchen, you can already tell that something is off. He hasn’t called out to you with his usual, “Hey stupid, I’m home.” You hadn’t even received his typical text telling you he was leaving the gym. The tense silence seeps into the airspace as he makes his way toward you, Tsukki’s feet dragging with every step.

As he turns corner, you’re greeted by features taut with fatigue. It’s as though he’d been running on empty all day, barely making it home with only fumes of energy leftover.

Tsukki’s eyes were undoubtedly strained. The white, intense light of the gym combined with deep concentration kept him on high-alert with eyes wide open at all times.

His shoulders maintained a somewhat slumped position, losing an inch or two of height in the process. The mental weight of handling everything on his own had finally reached him physically.

This hadn’t been a good day, per se.

And if Tsukki had the energy to speak, he would probably tell you how much he would rather be in a month-long coma than experience that level of misery again.

But the hushed air remains and a bizarre staring contest takes place between you two instead of passing words. It’s hard to speak when you know that, deep down, words could never do his terrible days any justice. That even a thoughtful sentence or a well-intended comment would simply drown under Tsukki’s sea of thought, never resurfacing or coming up for air to be heard or understood.

He’s too exhausted to process even the shortest of loving dialogues. And you can tell.

So you sift through other possibilities.

Ways to calm him. To remind him that you care and want to look after him.

Should you make him dinner? He’s probably already eaten. Watch a movie together? No, the light would bother his tired eyes even more. Just go to bed? He would only continue to stir through his disappointments and be kept up by the throbbing of soreness in his legs.

As your eyes trickle down the length of his body, which is now leaning on the countertop as he takes a long sip out of his water bottle, you come to one final alternative…

But it’s always a bit of a gamble. A slight risk.

To touch or not to touch.

Would he lean into it like a self-satisfied, curious cat, tilting his lean body into your affectionate antics? Or would his brittle, biting character and miserable mood cause himself to crumble and fall away from the warmth and comfort of your smaller arms?

On one hand, you might experience your beloved Tsukishima’s gentler side. The one that held you as though he were a mama bird wrapping her wide-spanned wings around your precious form. Instinctively protective. A second-natured response to the way you circled your arms around his torso, tugging him into your field, requesting closeness and vulnerability. It could potentially get his mind off of the day and focus him on the here and now.

But on the other hand, Tsukki had a track record of off days. Jumping away from the soft glide of the pads of your fingertips. On those days, your embrace seemed to resemble that of a thorny, roseless bush to the wavy-haired blonde. The chance of him tugging away, leaving you drained and drooping, was higher than you had ever wanted to bet on. The possibility of him ending up at the opposite side of the bed seemed to increase after experiences like these.

And to be honest, you could never be sure if the touch-deterring wall he built up was to protect himself or you. Yet you always try to find ways to chip away at his salty, skeptical barrier without overstepping any fragile, unspoken boundaries.

It’s a simple concept. However, avoiding his sensitivities is an endless dance and is much harder than it may look. Especially at the end of a long day of pro-league practice, where sweat, sulking, and inferiority complexes don’t usually mix well.

But this was the only viable option left, so you get over your own worries and approach Tsukishima’s weary form. You stop just a few inches before him, his eyes dropping to meet yours. He was even more beaten down up close. The defeated expression he carried in tandem with his worn-out demeanor made you physically ache for him. 

“Tsukki… you’re not lookin’ too hot right now.” You let out a breathy laugh, slowly lifting yourself onto your tiptoes to brush a hand through his messy hair, testing the waters.

He doesn’t flinch away from your movements, so you sink back down onto the soles of your feet, letting your hand run down the side of his face.

“No shit, Sherlock. I don’t exactly feel great either.” He shoots back, but there’s a somber, troubled tinge.

Tsukki inches toward you, looking away as he tilts the side of his head into the palm of your hand. Your fingers cup his cheek.

Everyone knew how Tsukki acted when he was annoyed or angry. Snappy, sarcastic comments would be strewn in an almost poetic manner, kindly crushing those under his scrutiny. Many had seen Tsukishima after a merciless game, beaten and worn out. He would still have a muted fire behind his efforts and would carry himself with dignity, even if he didn’t feel confidence rise inside of him.

But gloominess? It doesn’t suit him. Not now, not ever.

And currently, he’s emanating a dreary, depressing sadness, like being caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella to shield you. It’s helpless and uncontrollable. Utterly humiliating.

You can practically feel the strain of the day radiating off of him. Tsukki had a tendency to wither slowly and cautiously. Not allowing anyone to watch as his snarky comments fizzled out and his sharp gaze gradually dull. By the look in his golden eyes, it was obvious that something in him had already snapped like an old tree branch. Battered and bruised by storm after brutal summer storm, finally shattering under the repetitive pressures of failure and imposter syndrome.

In the past, he had let apathy take over in order to not burden you. Withholding affection, thinking it would keep you safe from his sinking atmosphere when in reality he wished to drink in your tenderness. To fall under your grasp, sinking his head under your chin and lay across your chest.

But maybe it was all too much.

Too much to hold in. To carry alone.

“Kei…” At the use of his first name, he physically softens. Drawing his arms around your middle and clasping his hands behind your back, he gently rests his chin on your head.

“You can always lean on me.” You whisper into the fabric of his shirt.

Your words carry a deeper semblance. That you really are here for him. Physically, mentally, and emotionally ready to lift him up.

You picked a good time for physical touch because he only pulls you in tighter.

He’s pretty warm and smells like sweat mixed with deodorant and his cedar-scented shampoo. You grasp the cloth and squeeze him into you, making sure to keep him steady and balanced. His breathing falls into a gentle rhythm, almost as though he were falling asleep standing up.

“If you weren’t so lanky I would pick you up, but you’re a damn tree.” You sigh, poking fun at him.

The touches were cathartic. Healing. Authentic. Your lighthearted comments kept things comfortable, hindering him from drawing away due to feelings of unworthiness or self-consciousness.

“Wow, okay, bold words for someone who can hardly seem to pick up a bag of flour. You couldn’t hold me even if you were my height.” He snickers, tension releasing and adrenaline wearing off from the high-energy day.

You shift to look up at Tsukki, your chin gently pressing into his chest. He’s already staring down at you. You can’t help that a blush works its way up your neck and onto your cheeks, the warmth from his unusual touch sending you unwarranted fuzzy feelings. As much as you wished this embrace could be all for Tsukki, you’d wanted to hug him with all your might for a while now.

“Y/n… Honest question, so don’t laugh at me. Why are you doing this?” Tsukishima breaks eye contact, arms shifting to lean your chest more on top of his as he sinks a little deeper onto the counter, his back supported by the ledge.

“What do you mean by ‘this’?” You inquire, eyes still fixed on him, searching his expression.

“I mean... You know when things are going to shit. You know when I need something. A back massage, a slap to the face, hell, even a coffee sometimes.” He snorts, trying not to take his own question too seriously.

You’re the one to sigh now. Doesn’t he know how these things work by now? That being in a relationship with him meant more than insulting the daylights out of each other and going out to dinner? Apparently even Tsukishima lacks a lot perspective when it comes to loving another human being.

“You’re stubborn as hell.” You state plainly, your face going blank.

“What?”

“You refuse to see that you need help too sometimes, babe. Hate to break it to ya, but I actually like listening to and hugging you.” You break into a small smile.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He rolls his eyes at your confusing sentence.

“Are you that dense?” You express with mock disdain at his response.

“Tsukki, I’m saying that you don’t burden me! That I want to be there for you even after shitty days like these! You’re an absolute dumbass!” You snicker and your smile reaches your eyes, crinkling and squinting as his meet yours.

Instead of saying anything, Tsukishima rests in place, dumbfounded.

It’s true, you always were there for him.

Cheering at every game. Cooking dinner for him when you knew he would get home way too late and practically starving. Letting him rant relentlessly about losses and seemingly endless practices.

So why was it that only after breaking down in every way possible, he would finally let you see his most vulnerable thoughts and fears. That he would allow you to witness his exhaustion only once it had reached its peak. That it took Tsukki completely collapsing to let you wrap you arms around him.

And you both guess that it’s because old habits die hard.

Tsukki would always be Tsukki. A little too cold and relentlessly set on drenching others in his never-ending supply of sarcasm. Reluctant to accept help until it was already showing through the bleeding cracks of his figure and laced within his pained speech.

Because for someone so good at putting up and breaking through blocks, Tsukishima needed help with the walls that he had built up under his skin over the years. He needed to see that he couldn’t always protect you from his fears, but that you would be there to help him fight them. Or at least hug them away when it all got too much.

And as he presses a gentle kiss onto your forehead, you know it will be okay. Because embraces like these are what chip away at walls of fear. It’s the first step and you can already feel the tension crumble away, allowing warmth to surround the two of you. 

So you begin to remind him more and more that you like hugs. And he lets you hold him far more often, slowly but surely letting you deeper into his mind and into his arms. A much needed and highly welcomed addition to your everyday life.

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @miss-rin, @shou-kunn, @senkuwu-chan, @super-noya, @stcrryskies, @holaaaf, @sugacookiies

(comment or send an ask to be added to my general tag list) 

[mister-supernova]

Memories Lost

Part 1 - Part 2

Pairing: Hope Mikaelson x Reader

Before Malivore

I.

“Y/n L/n, please do not tell me that you forgot to add eggs to the cake mix.” 

Your eyes widen like a child who is about to be in some serious trouble by their parents. Now that you thought about it, something did feel off about the batter you’ve been struggling to stir for the past five minutes. 

You look up from your batter bowl to see Hope staring at you with daggers in her eyes. 

Yep, you were screwed. 

After gently placing your wisk on the kitchen table, you give the tribrid the best innocent smile you could, “Okay. I won’t tell you that, but I will tell you that we’re going to have to start over since there may or may not be a key ingredient missing from the mix.”  

As much as you wanted the smile to dilute the situation, Hope still pinches the bridge of her nose and runs her fingers through her hair, obviously more stressed out than ever.

Today is Commonwealth Day and some of Hope’s family members from New Orleans are supposed to be coming into town, one of which includes her mother. If anything you felt that you should’ve been the one who was stressed out. 

“How do you forget to add eggs to a cake mix, Y/n?” Hope asks, flailing the full carton of eggs around. She looked like she was on the verge of erupting like Pompeii. 

You decide to approach with caution, “Okay, okay,” you slowly reach for the carton and carefully take it from her hand, “Let’s not break the only eggs left in the fridge, yeah? We do need those. Let’s also take a steady breather for a second.” 

The two of you inhale one large breath of air together and then slowly breathe out. 

“There we go, Hope,” she’s still looking at you with a small amount of fire in her eyes, “Hey, I apologize for my idiocy. I honestly don’t know what you expected when you left me alone to make this, but it’s a minor setback.”

“That was the only box of cake mix we bought, Y/n.” Hope states. 

You fall silent for a moment to let that information sink in, “Okay, slightly more than minor setback,” Hope lets out a frustrated groan and moves past you, “We don’t have to make a cake, Hope. I saw a box of brownie mix in the pantry.” 

“Yeah, that says ‘Lizzie Saltzman’s Brownie Mix: DO NOT TOUCH’ in big black letters. In case you don’t recall, I’m not exactly in her good graces at the moment.” 

“Eh, name me one person who is in her good graces,” you shrug as if it’s no big deal and take the box out anyways, giving it a good shake, “Doesn’t feel like she put any jinxes on it. My arm has yet to fall off so therefore I think we should be safe.”

Hope gives you a look telling you that she’s still unsure of this. 

“Come on, I of all people know how much crap she makes you go through on the daily basis. What’s a box of brownie mix compared to torment?” You pause and think, ‘that’s probably a little much’, “Maybe not literal torment, but you get the picture. I’ll even take the blame if she starts asking questions.” 

“Are you kidding? She’d probably kill you if she found out.”

“That’s what I have you for,” you say matter-of-factly, taking a few steps closer to the tribrid until you were face to face, “What, you thought that I was your friend because I like you?” You ask in a playful tone, making Hope roll her eyes at you even though she was clearly amused, “Keep dreaming, Mikael-” her eyes widen and she covers your mouth with her hand before it’s too late.

You are the only student in the whole school who knows that Hope’s father is Klaus Mikaelson. It took many months of trust-building after your friendship began, but one night at the pier, Hope mustered up enough courage to tell you about her family history. 

She half-expected you to go running for the hills and leave her in the dust. Instead, you blew her expectations out of the water by having the calmest reaction she had ever seen. You thanked her for trusting you so much that she felt that she could tell you something not everyone knew at the time. 

She made you promise not to tell anyone to which you agreed to with a pinky promise. This moment has been the only time you nearly slipped up. Thankfully no one else was in the kitchen, but who knows who could be walking by. 

You raise an eyebrow at Hope, glancing down at her hand that was still covering your mouth. 

Hope quickly retracts her hand back, “Sorry. It was just, you know-” 

“No, that was my bad. Good save though... Marshall.” You say, followed by a cheeky wink. 

A tint of red flushes Hope’s cheeks as she gives you a thankful smile, causing your cheeks to warm up as well. 

You clear your throat and break eye contact with the tribrid, “Shall we get started?” You ask, raising the brownie mix up to your face, “Ass beating from Lizzie or not, I still wanna make a good first impression on your family, especially your mom. God knows you’ve probably dragged my name through the dirt every chance you had.”

Hope playfully rolls her eyes, giving you a small shove before giving in and pulling out a clean mixing bowl. “Fine, let’s just get this over with before we get busted.”

“Atta girl!” You grin widely before ripping the box open. 

There was no going back now. If you two were going down, at least you were going down together and you were getting a sweet treat out of it, too.

II.  

It was a beautiful day to be out at the Salvatore Boarding School for the Young and Gifted. The weather was your idea of perfect; sunny, breezy, and clear. 

Students were reading outside on the grass, the younger kids were playing tag, others playing Wickery, and you were getting your ass beaten by the world’s strongest tribrid.

This was your guys’ third round of sparring for the day and you had yet to win a single one. Just when you thought you had her arm locked behind her back, she whispers the incantation, “Dimiterre.”

Everything went by so fast that you didn’t have any time to think about landing on your feet. Instead, your back slammed against the small wooden pier after being flipped over the tribrid’s shoulder. It wasn’t fair that she could just chant any spell she wanted to throw you off guard. 

“Is that really all you got today, Y/n? This is just embarrassing.” She shakes her head at you like a disappointed coach. 

“I’ll make you eat those words, Mikaelson,” you grunt, feeling a new surge of energy course through your body as you jump back up to your feet, “We’re just getting started.” You smirk, wiping a drop of sweat off your forehead. 

Hope grins back at you, readying her position for another round of sparring. The both of you share the same look of determination, neither one backing out as you throw the first jab. 

Several more rounds pass. All of which ended with your ass hitting the pier as if it were some kind of magnet.

“You’re making this too easy.” Hope says triumphantly with a cocky smile. 

You huff out an exhausted breath of air, “I’m obviously letting you win, Mikaelson,” you use your arms to help you jump back to your feet, “I could easily take you down if I wanted to.” 

“Oh yeah?” Hope wonders, taking a step forward. She was a little less out of breath than you, but you could tell that she was playing it off just as much as you were. 

“Oh yeah. Why don’t we do one final round? This time I won’t hold back.” You challenge her.

“You seem pretty worn out for someone who was holding back.” She states and you pretend not to be hurt by her jab at your lack of combat skills. 

“Maybe that’s just to fool you into thinking you can beat me again,” you shrug as you watch her readjust her gloves, “Oh, and you can’t use your magic. Too much of an advantage.”

Hope’s mouth falls open and she shakes her head, “Then I’d be at a disadvantage. You’re like a whole foot taller than me.” 

“Come on, if it’s so easy you should have no problem pinning me down within two seconds of the round.” 

Hope silently thinks it over in her head, then quickly comes to a decision, “Fine. Loser buys milkshakes at the Grill.” 

You grin, “Deal. Prepare to pay up, Mikaelson.” 

After waiting for one of you to make the first move, Hope decides to sweep kick your legs at an unfathomable speed and knocks your back to the ground. 

She straddled your hips and placed her hands on both sides of your head, “Ha! Looks like someone’s- wha-” 

As quickly as she knocked you to the pier just now, you pulled her neck down to where her face is inches closer to yours, trapped her arm by wrapping yours around it, lifted your leg to trap hers and then rolled your body over to where you were now on top.  

Breathless and cheeks redder than before, Hope stared up at you in shock. If you were completely honest, you had no idea that move was going to work, but you were so glad that it did. For one, now you get a free milkshake and two, you’ve never had Hope Mikaelson’s face this close to yours before. 

Her legs were practically wrapped around your waist and your hands were holding her arms down above her head, making her face dangerously close to yours. It would only take one of you leaning forward for something to happen. 

Instead, you kept your cool, “Looks like I win.” you smile, also breathless, “I like cookies and cream, by the way.” 

III.

“So you do this… for fun?” You ask, sitting as still as possible on a wooden stool in Hope’s bedroom. 

It was a stormy weekend in Mystic Falls, so most of the outdoor activities were closed off until the rain cleared up, which didn’t seem to be happening anytime soon according to the weather broadcasts. You weren’t a huge fan of being alone during thunderstorms--you’d never let anyone know that--so you found yourself hanging out with Hope. 

Well, you were mainly watching Hope. She came up with the idea of painting a portrait of you sitting by her window to pass the time. Being that you’ve never had a portrait painted of you before, you thought this would be kind of fun. You didn’t expect it to be such a long and quiet process, but you definitely preferred this over being scared out of your mind listening to the thunder by yourself.

Hope hums a yes to your question as she concentrates on her strokes, “Can you look back out the window?” 

You sigh, turning your head to look outside for about thirty seconds before nearly falling off the stool because of the lightning bolt that crashed a couple miles away from the school. As pretty as it looked, being struck by lightning was still one of your irrational fears. 

“Are you sure it’s safe for me to be looking outside?” You turn back to look at Hope. 

“Y/n, I promise nothing is going to happen to you. Now sit still,” she says in a not-so-reassuring voice. 

You let out an annoyed huff, but you do you’re told and turn to face the rain covered window glass.  

“How long does it usually take you to do these things? Asking out of curiosity. Totally not because I’m losing feeling in my glutes.” You wonder, shifting in your stool.

“I’m usually quicker when my subject isn’t interrupting every five seconds and moving around like they have worms in their said glutes.”

You face her again with an over exaggerated look of shock on your face, “Is that some sort of degrading werewolf joke? That is extremely offensive.” 

She leans away from her canvas to look at you, her eyes squinted, “I’m part werewolf, too, idiot.” 

“You’re a tribrid. That’s different. One third of a werewolf doesn’t count, therefore your little worm joke hurts me more.” You stick your tongue out at her.

“Why am I friends with you again?” She’s trying her best to hide it, but you can tell that she’s resisting a smile.

“Because as sad as it is, no one else can make you smile like I do, Mikaelson.” It took a few seconds until she couldn’t help but reveal a very faint yet noticeable grin. She leaned back behind her canvas to conceal it, but there was no use since you already caught sight of it.

“Just shut up and look out the window before I cast a freeze spell on you.”

You wanted to make another snarky remark, but you knew your friend well enough to know that she was serious about casting that spell. To avoid being frozen in an uncomfortable position for God knows how long, you closed your mouth and relaxed your body before looking back out the window. 

IV.

“What do you mean you can’t dance? I’ve seen you do it all the time.” Hope asks, watching you from her bed as you pace back and forth in her dorm room.

“That’s me flailing my body around like a fool hoping it looks good! I don’t know what I’m actually doing!” 

Josie asked you--as a friend--to be her escort for her and Lizzie’s 15th birthday party. You’d only be dancing with her one time, but the problem was that it was supposed to be a waltz and you had absolutely no idea how to do that. 

“It’s embarrassing enough that she asked me to be her escort, I don’t wanna embarrass her even more for not knowing how to do a stupid waltz!” Hope rolls her eyes before having enough of your unnecessary freakout. 

She gets up from her bed to stop you from pacing, “Y/n. Just relax, okay? You freaking out is freaking me out,” she says, holding onto your shoulders, “I can teach you how to waltz.” 

Your body relaxes and a small wave of relief hits you, “Seriously?” 

“What? You think I can’t dance either?” Hope playfully asks, placing her hands on her hips as she tilts her head at you. 

“I’ve never seen you do it before,” you argue, getting a small smack to the arm, “Ow! Okay, I’m obviously kidding… sort of,” she smacks you again, making you laugh this time, “Okay, okay. Forreal now, I could really use your help.” 

Hope sighs, pretending to have second thoughts because of your teases. You don’t worry too much though because you know she wouldn’t leave you to crash and burn like that... at least you really hope so.

“Give me your hand.” She gives in, fitting one of her hands in yours. You grin as your other hand finds her waist and hers rests on your shoulder, “Make sure you’re relaxed, you wouldn’t want to look stiff as a board while you’re dancing.”

You nod your head, taking in a deep breath as you let your muscles relax.

“Also, always have your eyes on your partner. You’re more likely to be tripping on their feet if you keep looking down.” 

“That shouldn’t be too hard.” You say without meaning for it to leave your head. Hope bows her head for a second to hide the redness appearing on her cheeks.

After composing herself, Hope looks back up at you, “First, step forward with your left,” you follow her movements smoothly, “Step sideways to the right,” your right foot steps out, “Close your feet together, then step back with your right,” you glance down at your feet for a second which was your first mistake.

You slightly stumbled, but caught yourself when you put your feet back together. 

Hope chuckles, “What did I tell you?” 

“Hey, now cut me a little slack. I was doing pretty good for a second there,” you defend yourself before repositioning your feet, “What’s next?” 

“Step to the left, bring your feet together, then repeat it all over again but a little faster. You’re going to want to count one-two-three in your head to stay in rhythm,” you raise an inquisitive eyebrow, making her smile, “Okay, I’ll count out loud and you repeat the moves we just finished learning. Does that sound good?” 

You nod quickly, then she takes her step back and you follow, remembering what she taught you. Forward, right, together. Back, left, together. Forward, right, together. Back, left, together. The longer you two went on, the quicker you picked up on the moves and the more comfortable you felt. 

Eventually, you felt that you didn’t need to keep dancing with Hope, but it was hard not to keep going when you have the most beautiful girl in your arms right now.  

“Stop looking so smug.” Hope says, noticing the smile that appeared on your face. Even though she stopped counting, the two of you continued to flow around her room gracefully. 

“I’m waltzing with the big and bad tribrid. How can I not be smug?” 

It’s Hope’s turn to smile, but she gives you a playful eyeroll to counter the fact that she was enjoying this, “If you tell anyone I did this for you, you’re dead.” 

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare let anyone know you’re an actual decent person, Hope Mikaelson. It’ll be our little secret.” You wink at her, making her cheeks even redder. She moves her mouth to one side of her face to keep herself from smiling any wider. 

It made your heart flutter, seeing how comfortable she was around you. You got to see the vulnerable side of her that she rarely ever showed to anyone else at the school. It’s the small moments like this that you knew you'd keep in your heart forever. 

~

this one is more of a flashback situation in comparison to parts 1 and 2 and there’s some more happy moments since the first 2 were a little more angsty lol part 4 coming soon! 

taglist: @chicken-wang09​ @trikruismybitch​ @sodangtired​

[whoknowsbud]

Stand Mutation AU DiU

Again, this is FILLED with body horror and somewhat loose connections to the recent epidemic but they are there. There’s also a massive amount of angst around the Nijimuras.

See the first post & explanation here

Morioh is under a sort of quarantine. Due to not being contagious, it may be more of a research center, to keep research subjects in one place. When people start getting infected again (from the arrow, of course) there’s a pretty massive panic, from people assuming the virus must be evolving. So, aside from finding Josuke, the Speedwagon Foundation has Jotaro there to find who’s using the arrow.

Josuke is pretty much Crazy Diamond; his pompadour is basically a massive diamond helmet, with a heart-shaped front, a few thorny details from dad. Skin might be a little shiny, or sparkly.

Okuyasu begins as extremely feral and rather monstrous, but over time becomes more human. His form becomes smoother, until the infection becomes localized on his right arm. He has the common headlight eyes and his normal hair, but with the black mark covering above his eyes & reaching the tip of his nose, in addition to his scar.

Keicho is also fried, and is basically something of a human-transformer mix. Green camouflage body, bandages around his head, gun arm, helicopter blades in his back… Looks a little like something you’d expect to see if the Terminator had real flesh, with additional machine parts..

Koichi gains the common headlight eyes and starts turning green first. Following, not overnight but still fast, comes the beak, tail, and his lower legs become wheels. He does not lose any of his ability or evolve in the same way, but does change. As ‘act 2’, he regrows his legs (the wheels now his feet), his beak becomes more of a reptile snout, and he’s more armored. As ‘act 3’, he’s back to looking more human. The wheels are now just his heels (yes, heelys), and his tail is shorter.

Yukako… maybe fully made of hair? Or just the same as canon...

Tonio can just imbue his food with the sort of healing power. That or he grows the Pearl Jams on his body, which is very disturbing, so we'll probably go with the first. His power is extremely limited with this infection, which upsets him quite a bit. He can strengthen your body and all, but what can it do with stand shit? This isn't the flu.

Rohan’s arms are like heaven's door's hat; just the yellow lines outlining them. Depending on mood, desperation, & writers block, his sketchy-ness spreads more through his body.

Shigekiyo is a bunch of Harvests in a trench coat! Original Shigechi is essentially the ‘queen bee’ so to speak.

Mikitaka is an actual alien (cause fuck you, we do what we want). Planet was probably overrun by the virus, and he left to… either help other planets with it or prevent it or something… That or just. To find somewhere he can live a better life.

Tamami… probably just about the same, but creates locks on himself as well, for each victim currently affected - not because of guilt or anything, just to make sure they’re still in his control should they separate.

Hazamada is pretty much just Surface.

Akira is, basically, a toxtricity (amped, of course.) But yea, basically take RHCP, give it rocking hair and music ability, and there ya go.

Yuya basically sends his own feet, which gains a vague body to go with them.

Kanedaichi is SuperFly. A few bug decals on the tower maybe… He uses radio waves to communicate, and an unsettling doll to make himself known… Tickle me Elmo.

Terunosuke appears to be origami, with his face drawn on. Despite this, he can’t actually change his overall form.

Yoshihiro is probably the same as canon...

Kira’s mutation is much more subtle than most. His skin is pink, he has Killer Queen’s eyes, and very sharp and stiff ears. He hides most of this with makeup, contacts, and clips his own ears, to live under the illusion that he's 'just a normal guy'. When he feels stress, his face starts turning translucent, so you can see his skull - which reveals that his ears are more part of his skeleton. His hands frequently explode, and his sweat is explosive.

Stray Cat is just the same as in canon.

As mentioned earlier, the Nijimura’s story here is (I believe) even more upsetting than it is in canon. Though Angelo doesn’t happen, Josuke’s grandfather is dead.

Keicho finds the arrow, as he did in canon, but nicks himself in the process. He (somehow) hears the Speedwagon Foundation is looking for it and, realizing the arrow played a big part in the infection, panics. This makes his infection, which was already starting to mutate him, go wild. He turns feral in a different way than most; he guards the arrow, obsessing over it - like their dad over that ripped picture. Okuyasu, of course, tries to get through to his brother.

His body isn’t completely developed; the helicopter blades are half-stuck in his body and his gun doesn’t work. So, when Okuyasu tried to reach him, Bad Company only understands that someone is approaching the arrow, and attacks him… With the arrow. Fully aware of what the arrow did to his brother, Okuyasu is at peace with what’s going to happen to him. His only family is like this, and they don’t even remember him… How much worse could losing his own mind be?

The house is said to be haunted, so when Josuke and Koichi pass it, they stop to look. Koichi mentions, now that he understands a little of the infection, that he wonders if the ‘ghosts’ ‘haunting’ it are just more victims. Josuke realizes it's likely, and tells him to call Jotaro and wait outside.

Koichi calls Jotaro and does not wait outside; he goes in after Josuke, gets lost, and ends up finding the room Bad Company is in.

Meanwhile, Josuke’s struggling against Okuyasu, who may or may not be crying. Josuke realizes this guy really is a victim, and thinks he must be able to help. So, when he does take him down, he tries to fix this, only to feel terrible because this is another thing he can’t fix. But he can’t stay, because Koichi screams, so he has to run.

He finds the room, but it’s obvious that whatever attacked Koichi hasn’t left, and he’s worried this’ll go horribly wrong if he runs in, but if he doesn’t, Koichi’s probably going to die. This is when he hears the bass boost ‘bbbvvvrrrrrrrrr’ and he spins, ready to fight, but Okuyasu’s already erasing the space between them and Koichi, and now he’s in range for Josuke to heal him. Josuke’s not sure what’s happening, but it’s obvious Okuyasu isn’t going to attack. So, Josuke’s healing Koichi, and trying to figure this all out, “so do you… have a sibling here?”

He nods, looking at him with pleading eyes, begging for something. Josuke starts thinking aloud, “they must be infected, too… uh, you... want me to fix them?”

He's nodding so vigorously it looks almost painful, and this is when Koichi wakes up, and he shrieks because what the fuck is that. Josuke makes sure he's okay (Koichi's irises are turning bright yellow, but he can't worry about that right now), and has Okuyasu watch Koichi.

Okuyasu is surprised that he's being trusted like this; but Josuke's already ripping the door off the frame, holding it in front of him like both a shield and battering ram, and he's charging in.

Koichi is far, far too tired to move himself, so Okuyasu carries him away from the fight. But Okuyasu starts fidgeting, worried. He's hearing shots, explosions, and yelling, and there's a lot of smoke. Obviously Koichi's worried too, so they kinda sneak back over to get a look, and what koichi sees is... alarming, to say the least.

Uninfected, you don't see the full quality of his skin, and his helmet just looks like a weirdly solid block of hair. But now koichi's getting the whole picture, and… He's gorgeous.

His body is suddenly shining and sparkling from the armor, his skin almost glittery, and the massive diamond form encasing his head reflects light like a goddamn disco ball - it's all almost blinding

Sexuality crisis ahem so anyways

Josuke eventually gets Bad Company down, and he's trying to heal him, but the light suddenly comes on. They all know someone else is here, so Okuyasu - not wanting anything to keep his bro from getting fixed like he was - runs in to intercept the form coming fast, but Keicho's a little faster

But instead of going for the arrow, it's Okuyasu he targets.

Okuyasu and Josuke are alarmed at this; he'd shown that he only cared about the arrow, why do this? Why go after Okuyasu, before he even got the arrow back?

But Keicho's looking at him - even as this electric being's arm goes through his stomach, his eyes are focused on his brother.

"I act on my orders," he says, whereas before the only thing he ever said was "the arrow", "follow orders"... things like that.

Because Bad Company had been ordered to protect the arrow at all costs

But Keicho Nijimura did that to protect his brother

Which clearly worked against him but moving on

Okuyasu makes this cry, this wail, and Koichi can feel the hurt echoing in him and wishes he could've done something as the being takes the arrow into the light

But Josuke realizes there's a fuse box in here, and its being overloaded, and they need to get out right now, so he grabs the two survivors and jumps out the window.

He ends up being hurt pretty bad splinters of wood dig in his calves and his back, but he's gotta make sure these two are ok.

Josukes not sure if that actually helped, because he's crying so so hard now, and the three just sit there for a while

Okuyasu looks at josuke, crying, pleading... Josuke knows what he wants

"I saw it," he chokes out, "you should know.. Ididn't bring him back, I barely reached him… You did."

Jotaro spots the building when the room explodes and comes running, of course relieved to see these kids are sitting outside, safely... Well. Not dead. Josuke asks about Okuyasu.

"Yea that happened to me, he'll be fine. It's pretty common."

Then he sees Koichi's eyes are a little different and just fuckn grabs the kid and stares super close for a few minutes

Irises are yellow, but more important, the whole ball is getting kinda... segmented? Like... there are creases forming. W/e - they're slowly becoming headlights.

It's an uncomfortable minute for these children, until Jotaro lets him go and says (usual deadpan), "you've been infected."

Then jotaro sets him down and says, usual deadpan, "you've been infected." And Josuke freaks out, assuming he was the cause.

So, Jotaro has to explain that - no, the only way to become infected is if you or a (close enough) relative is injured by the stand arrow. Okuyasu jumps on the phrase, practically barking with desperation. Jotaro, having gone through a rather similar stage, figures it out pretty quickly, "you know about it… where is it?"

“Is that what that weird arrow was back there," Josuke wonders around, jumping when Jotaro focused on him, "well, uh… some electric thing took it… after killing this guy's brother."

Jotaro can't really do much with that, so he moves on, "alright, you three get to the Speedwagon building, I'm gonna do a walkthrough."

They agree, but Okuyasu's looking at the house & not moving Josuke & Koichi try to reassure him about keicho, while Jotaro just walks right in to investigate.

After a minute he comes out carrying Weird Frog Dad who's holding the ripped picture, "what is this." Okuyasu makes this "aa!" sound while the other 2 are Shook.

Okuyasu's looking at Josuke, though he's already moving, but Jotaro stops him, "this can't be fixed." Josuke's like "but i gotta try" and does, and newsflash it doesn't work, but he sees the picture and fixes that and at least that's sweet

So, nearly on the opposite side of the emotional spectrum, the next day we see Koichi skating to school. At first he's very weirded out, tries to hide it, but then he realizes "wait. The town's full of infected people, this isn't that bad." His mother and sister, of course, freak out, but Koichi knows enough to explain it all and put them a little at ease.

Also he does not end up with Yukako, they both deserve better. Like, yea she probably still has her obsession, but it gets handled after the first time. It takes a little while for her to adjust to... not.. doing any of that. But they're both way healthier for it. Not cool or healthy to date your fixation or stalker

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

OKAY THERE I FUCKING FINISHED SOMETHING, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN GODDAMN MONTHS, IT’S SHORT AND POINTLESS AND IT DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE YET BUT IT EXISTS AND THAT’S WHAT MATTERS

basically this happened because @veliseraptor was doing the three-sentence-fic meme and I sent a prompt about Loki showing up at the final battle in Endgame and then decided I also wanted to write it because just maybe I could make it short if I kind of pretended it was a prompt fill for me also? not that I even tried to stick to three sentences. clearly. also her prompt fill did a lot more with a lot fewer words but more cakes etc., anyway it’s after midnight because I’m an idiot so I’m gonna throw this at the internet, go the fuck to bed, and make it look better tomorrow.

When the portals spiral to life out of nothing on the battlefield, Thor realizes he has utterly forgotten what hope feels like. The lurching sensation in his chest, the sudden heart-deep knowledge that just maybe things will come out right in the end, the first glimpse of light when the dark seemed to stretch forever—

           Actually, all of it is new, because if he’s learned one thing over the past few years (and then drowned himself in alcohol to forget it), it’s that he never knew true despair until he watched his little brother die, failed to avenge him, and lost half the tiny remnant of Asgard in the process. The other times he’s known loss—at least then something else was left, some comfort or purpose, not the howling nothingness that dogs his every step in New Asgard. But he’d forgotten, too, that there could be reason to hope.

           He feels it now, his chest expanding with the first full breath since his ribs cracked under Thanos’s fists, and still more portals open to reveal armies of the lost, alive as if they’d never crumbled to dust—

           And there is a tiny, foolish part of him that hopes just for an instant that at least one of his dead will come back to him somehow, that this miracle is for him too, even as he knows there are no more miracles for the dying house of Odin. It shouldn’t hurt, knowing it again, and it does anyway, in that tiny foolish part of himself that cherished its own hopes for less than a second. It hurts, like a weight on his chest, like Stormbreaker carving him open, and he crushes the rest of it before it can cripple him.

           He is glad for everyone who has now regained those they love. He is. He…will be. As always, the only thing left for Thor is the battle, and it’s enough because it has to be. He is not going to hurt himself further by searching the crowds for a dead man.

           So he almost misses it at first when a small new portal spins into existence just a few paces to his left, a portal with green light sparking at its edges, backed by the vastness of space and the rough surface of some barren moon or asteroid. A single figure steps through it—staggers, really, there’s almost no grace to his movements at all, and his face is too shadowed to make out, but—

           Thor wants to make himself look away, knowing it can’t be real. The longer he looks, the more he will allow himself again to hope, and this time it will destroy him when reality asserts itself.

           The portal winks out. Loki raises his head, ice crystals glittering in his hair and across his battered leathers, the deep blue of his Jotun heritage fading to a nearly gray pallor. He is cradling his left wrist, there is dried blood on his face, his neck is so dark with bruising the skin is almost black, and he is breathing and alive.

           He should go, Thor thinks distantly. Throw himself at Thanos and die fighting so he can wake in Valhalla and embrace his true brother there and never have to deal with the fact that this apparition cannot be real. It won’t matter anyway if he dies, not really, not anymore, and if Loki’s here to guide him home, that’s…well, that’s really not so bad after all.

           Loki takes an unsteady step toward him, then another, his eyes fixed on Thor. “I know, I know,” he says, his voice so rough Thor reflexively winces to hear it, “I’m late again. You don’t have to tell me.” He pauses. “You…got a new eye.”

           Thor swallows hard and decides, abruptly, to Hel with it. This isn’t real but he can pretend. “Gift from a friend,” he says, and then, voice cracking, “You are late.”

           “In my defense,” Loki says, “I came as soon as I could. I was a bit busy being dead. You know how it is.”

           “I really don’t,” Thor says. He is aching to grab his brother and never let go, but then the illusion will break, and he just wants to pretend as long as he can. “You look terrible.”

Loki actually grins at that—an exhausted and bloody smile but still a defiant one, and it hurts Thor to look at. “I’d say it takes one to know one, but all things considered I think we’re both doing pretty well.” He glances around the battlefield, expression tightening. “I suspect you have rather more to contribute than I do, at this point, but let it never be said that I didn’t try.”

           That sounds horribly like a farewell and Thor almost starts begging, no, I’m not ready, I can’t do this if you go, just stay a little bit longer so I can die well, but instead Loki flicks his good hand out to summon a knife. It’s slower to appear than normal, popping into existence with a flare of sickly green light, and he stumbles, swaying forward. Thor lurches forward to catch him, acting on sheer instinct, his mind a crucial half-second too slow to stop him from breaking the illusion for good—

           —and then his hands are gripping Loki’s elbows, his solid and pointy and very real elbows, and Thor’s whole brain seems to short-circuit. Loki’s head drops forward a little with a huff of something like laughter, and he lets Thor take his weight for a moment, breathing hard. “As I said. I don’t suppose you happen to have a healing stone?”

Thor shakes his head, wordless, and feels Loki shrug. He feels it. He feels the muscles shift under his hands, the chill of not-quite-Jotun flesh under charred leather. Loki is close enough now that Thor can smell him, blood and sweat and ice, the hot stink of fuel and scorched metal, alive. Alive.

           “No,” Loki says a little breathlessly, “I imagine you haven’t been able to make very many without me there to supervise, hm? No matter. I’ll manage.”

           “We didn’t expect a battle today,” Thor says hoarsely. “Brother…” Words fail him again. He can’t think of anything to ask that will tell him this is real, not just his shattered mind scrambling for a little comfort before the end.

           Loki raises his head, his eyes meeting Thor’s—red-streaked, an awful mix of natural Jotun coloring and the bloody results of burst blood vessels, but present and living, nothing of the dead blank emptiness that haunts Thor’s nightmares. “I’m here,” he says, and it’s exactly what Thor wants to hear, which is why he can’t bring himself to trust it.

           “Right,” Loki says after a moment, rolling his shoulders back with a wince he almost manages to hide and starting to pull away. “Shall we?”

           Thor tightens his grip convulsively on a surge of fresh terror, knowing Loki will disappear again the moment he lets go, and then abruptly realizes Dr. Strange is looking in his direction.

           More specifically, he is looking at Loki.

           Loki glances aside, following Thor’s gaze, and his expression sours at the speed of light. He smooths it out a little when Dr. Strange nods to him, and Loki dips his chin in return, but he still looks so disgruntled that Thor has to bite his tongue to prevent a burst of (probably hysterical) laughter. It’s the grimace that does it, the inimitably Loki way his whole face screws up in  displeasure, bringing to mind nothing more than a cat who’s just been forced through an unwanted bath, and it’s all real. It has to be real.

           Thor lets go then, hefting Stormbreaker. Loki does not disappear. His hand curls more securely around his knife and he steps into position next to his brother, natural as breathing. As they face Thanos side by side, Thor feels something inside him begin to mend, something he thought irreparably broken. Whatever happens next, for this one moment the universe has been set right again.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun rating: T+  word count: 3,015 summary: Trevor and Sypha never thought that vampires—even half vampires—could ever get sick but when Alucard succumbs to a fever during a rainstorm, they discover that there’s still much to learn about their friend. 

For @kamek 💛 Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

“You’ve been coughing for an hour.”

It hasn’t actually been an hour; or has it? It feels that way. Time flows differently when it rains as a constant, all-consuming mist. Things seem to go on for much longer than they really should. The annoyed hunter and his equally annoyed companion could have been working on their wagon’s broken wheel for as long as he just suggested, or a mere ten horrid minutes could have passed instead. Who can say in such miserable circumstances.

“You exaggerate.”

Alucard’s voice comes out not as smooth, dulcet tones but as a hoarse, ugly rasp. Rather than the words themselves, he coughs them out half-formed and pained. Trevor wishes he were in a better mood so that he could jest and say he sounds like his late grandmother whenever she smoked strong tobacco in her curved pipe. Instead they work in frustrated silence, not one inch of their bodies dry. At least Trevor does what he can to cover himself; Alucard doesn’t seem to care that his good coat and gloves with their gold embellishments are both ruined beyond repair. Nor does he notice how his long strands of hair stick against his forehead then tumble down his face like soaked rags.

A hooded figure in blue sits at the front of the wagon keeping a watchful eye on the road, though there isn’t much to be seen. Not long ago, she used to wait in anticipation for whatever creatures might mistake their caravans as an easy dinner consisting of one distressed damsel and her two manservants. A few steps closer then flames would fly, the blade of a needle sharp sword would sing, and Trevor would forgo his whip in favour of fists just for the challenge of it all.

Today she waits for the rain to stop and for the boys to stop fiddling with that damn wheel before one of them breaks a finger. They’ll survive one night with their transport incapacitated.

Sypha curls in on herself, using her robes as both dry shelter and a warm blanket; a way of giving herself momentary comfort. This personal method feels more familiar to her than the two men working tirelessly (and fruitlessly) behind her do. Most times it’s a failed effort, which is why Sypha has always preferred the company of others so that she doesn’t have to shoulder a sense, or rather, the responsibility of loneliness.

Alucard likes to be alone sometimes; Trevor is overly familiar with it as well. He grew up with loneliness like it was a childhood friend. Sypha can’t stand to be alone. It’s not in her nature nor in her blood.

Rain always makes her mind wander, often to places she would rather it stay away from. To distract herself from those sorts of thoughts, she tries listening to whatever Trevor and Alucard are saying to each other. Perhaps some of their usual banter or one upmanship they’ve become masters of. What she hears does nothing to ease her concerns. Trevor’s is the only voice she can make out clearly. Alucard barely sounds human.

“Keep… keep holding up… the wagon, you…” Every other word is interlaced with a chorus of dry coughs into his elbow. Trevor doesn’t want to know what comes after that “you” and Alucard has no energy to tell him.

“Fuck the wagon and the wheel. You need to drink something.”

“Why don’t you… give me a drink… from you…” Alucard keeps an arm over his mouth while his other hand steadies himself against the canvas covering. By drink, Trevor assumes he meant his blood, but Alucard’s worsening state already ruined any levity of his poorly executed quip. He watches how his friend sways from all sides, his head lobbing around as though it were a boulder attached to his neck. If Alucard weren’t coughing or paler than ever, he might be mistaken for a drunk.

And if Trevor were the same man he was mere months ago, he might feel some sick pleasure in seeing the sulky half-vampire prince like this—but that was then. A time he doesn’t look back upon fondly.

“Let’s get you inside.” He lets go of the wagon before it leaves any more splinters in his skin and places them on something he’d much rather hold instead.

“Let me go… we need to… fix and go…”

“You need to shut up before you run your throat raw and bloodied.” For once, Alucard is rather complacent in Trevor’s arms (he has no energy to struggle against him otherwise). Are half blooded vampires usually this warm? No, Trevor tells himself. This sort of warmth burns and hurts. As he helps Alucard into the wagon, Sypha joins them.

“What’s wrong? Did he injure himself?” Once inside, they remove their hoods and clear an area for a makeshift bed. Hay and blankets may seem beneath the Tepes prince but for Trevor and Sypha, they are luxury items.

“No. Stubborn ass just got himself sick. Probably from all that cold and rain.”

“I never thought that could happen to him of all people.” Sypha’s comment is one of both curious surprise and genuine worry.

“Well, we learn something new everyday.”

“Are we near any villages?”

“Not for miles.” Trevor isn’t even sure if he wants to leave Alucard in the care of a normal Wallachian healer. Too many risks, too many possibilities that he might leave this world the same way his mother did. “Can’t you perform a healing spell or something?”

“My magic can only manipulate elements like fire and water, not the human body.” Without thinking (and perhaps knowing), Sypha picks at the scars on her right bicep, healed by her own flames. “If I were a scholar of that kind of magic, I would be invincible and there’s no fun in that.”

“Garlic…” A weak voice interrupts. Trevor and Sypha turn their attention downwards at Alucard, eyes shut, struggling against the resistance of his own worn throat. “Get… garlic… echin… cea…”

“What was that last thing?”

“Ech… what?”

“Flower… purple petals…”

Deciphering Alucard’s request comes easier to Sypha than to Trevor. “Echinacea! It’s a flower that can be used for medicine. If we mix it with the garlic in a broth, it might help him.” Before Yrevor can come up with a cynical response regarding the lack of garlic and echinacea with the rest of their dwindling supplies, Sypha has her hood raised and a basket in hand. “I’ll go look for some in the woods.”

“Will you be alright out there?” Trevor glances through the canvas slit leading outside; the skies went dark minutes ago and the rain has picked up.

“Of course! You look after Alucard, I will be back shortly.” A quick kiss on Trevor’s cheek and a light caress across Alucard’s burning forehead before they lose Sypha to the outside world. The optimism in her eyes, the same kind that matches her tone, used to be so infectious. But Trevor is too distracted by the heavy drops of rain battering down upon their meager shelter.

--

Alucard’s breathing doesn’t occur naturally; what little air there is in his lungs forces its way out through trembling colourless lips. More strained whimpers than breaths. Like Sypha, Trevor never believed it was possible for him to be in such a weakened state he can barely lift his head. His eyes are shut tightly but he cannot sleep. Every time Trevor lowers a cloth, wiping away as much sweat as he can from his forehead and cheeks, he can feel Alucard’s unbearable warmth. It seems no amount of cold rainwater collected in a bucket will help bring him respite.

“Come on.” Trevor says, wringing out the cloth before repeating the same process, the only thing he can do for now. “You survived Dracula twice. A little cough isn’t gonna be the end of you.”

Alucard always has something to say, always some witty repartee or equally sarcastic remark. Never before has the sulky, brattish, beautiful half-vampire left Trevor in absolute silence. If it’s not through spoken words then it’s through gestures; a smile coupled with a raised middle finger that’s not to be taken seriously. Never before until now.

“You’ll be fine you dramatic bastard.”

None of this seems right, not to Trevor at least. Vampires never feel sick; they never feel anything according to the family bestiary. Only the agony of fire and consecrated steel among others. That side of Alucard’s heritage should offer him some protection against nature’s uglier natural causes. We learn something new everyday. This unwelcome discovery concerning their companion weighs heavy on Trevor’s confidence and fragile optimism. It’s not long before they’re both killed outright despite his best efforts.

“Sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. None of this is.”

On the surface, Trevor apologizes for nothing. Yet still, he knows he must acknowledge what’s underneath. Everything from the mounting frustration over that broken wheel, the worry he feels regarding Sypha’s whereabouts, and the misplaced anger that someone as strong as Alucard could succumb to something so stupidly human. Saying it all while Alucard is more delirious than a nun who has just found rapture might be cheating, but at least he can say it.

“I’m not good at this sort of thing. For as long as I can remember, I had to take care of myself and... it was always rough love with me. No one cares that you’re hurt or if you feel like shit, get up and keep moving. Probably not the best approach. To be honest, I panicked a little when Sypha told me to look after you.” Another pause and Trevor wipes his forehead again, only with more tenderness.

“I’ll do my best to treat you better than how I treated myself.”

Alucard stirs, shifting his head away from the damp cloth. Trevor backs off with the fear that he heard every single ramble he should have kept locked away in his closely guarded heart. A few strenuous groans later and he finally speaks.

“Blanket… Lisa gave me… water…”

Trevor discerns three words: blanket, Lisa, and water. He can give Alucard two of those; the third one might be harder. Scrambling from one corner of the wagon to the next, Trevor covers him with a second blanket and guides his mouth towards the opening of a leather water canteen.

“Come on, one more sip. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Sypha will be back soon and you’ll be right as rain.” They’re not lies persay, but Trevor still cannot say them with certainty. Before he has the chance to give him more, Alucard interrupts.

“Miss her… so much. No time… I never said… goodbye I never… said… thank you. For every… thing.”

Alucard’s eyes close even tighter along with his lips, as though desperate to hold something back. Something he’ll never let anyone see. Trevor places a tentative hand on his matted hair, drenched in sweat. A gesture of empathy or he knows what it feels like to never say goodbye to those gone from your life as well.

“Sleep. Just sleep.” A tall order to ask of him.

--

Sypha once read a book she found in the annals of the Belmont archive; a series of poems collected into a singular narrative originally written in Italian. She managed through the introductory cantos before pulling herself away from the temptation of distraction. There wasn’t much to remember from what little she read save for the first few lines.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark

For the straightforward past had been lost

As Sypha continues further into the woods, basket empty and soaked down to her bones, those lyrics prode at her thoughts like devilish taunts. She’s not lost, but she must admit that her trek through mud and prickly bushes has gone on for longer than she hoped for. Not even the poor little light emanating between her index and pinky finger is enough to withstand the downpour of rain along with the darkness of night.

Another outsticking root catches Sypha’s root, causing her to stumble forward. Though it doesn’t show on her face, her mind flies into a rage. How fucking hard can it be to find some fucking common plants in the middle of the fucking forest? If Trevor or Alucard ever heard her say that, they would be shocked into silence. Yes, she can explode a vampire’s internal organs into flames but god forbid she curse as much as her two boys do.

Sypha stops to catch her breath and refocus her thoughts. Anger is good, anger helps push her forward. It’s been with her since childhood, helping her survive, but this anger is directed at nothing. All it does is exhaust her more than the rain. It won’t make her dryer, it won’t clear a path through the dense foliage, and it certainly won’t make wild garlic and echinacea flowers magically appear in her hands. Sypha has to do that herself.

The light between her fingertips begins to fade but only because Sypha’s attention is somewhere else. She looks ahead and sees the same sort of light amongst the trees, dim yet noticeable against the monsoon. They float off the ground as graceful little flames of blue and form a path where there was none before. There they stay, patient, waiting for somehow to follow.

Sypha is very much aware of these tiny creatures. They have many names ranging from fairy lights to wil-o-wisps; frivolous, unassuming names that mask their true motives. How they lure lost travelers to their death for they too are the remaining souls of those who met their ends in nature’s grasp. A bedtime story meant to warn children about walking alone in the woods, but like most Wallachian stories, it holds true.

Sypha takes her first step along their path. She may regret this in the worst way but what else is there to do. The thought of Trevor and Alucard (Alucard especially) propels her, even if she is putting her fate in the hands of dead spirits.

A few more twigs and branches scrape at her wet cheeks. One foot begins to cramp up, causing a limp in her step, and yet she follows the lights nonetheless. At least she isn’t dead yet.

Sypha won’t die; not tonight. Upon reaching the end of the pathway, she finds herself surrounded by the very things she needs so desperately. For the first time, and what might be the only time, she’s grateful for Wallachia’s creatures.

--

Dreams, memories, and hallucinations all mean the same to Alucard. They meld together until he can no longer differentiate between reality and whatever his mind conjures up. He thinks he’ll stay in this one at the moment, for it’s a happy moment this time. Where everyone called him Adrian, not yet Alucard. Warm underneath a quilted blanket made by his mother and father, sheltered by the walls of his sanctuary.

A woman with the same golden hair as his leans over him and removes a stick-like device from his mouth. She examines it with a furrowed brow before placing something soft next to his head: a hand sewn wolf doll stuffed of downy feathers with glass eyes and a leather nose. “It’s a good day to stay in bed.” The woman tells him, rubbing his hot forehead with her soft hand. She smiles; always smiling in his memories of childhood.

After tucking him in and disappearing for only a moment, she returns holding a steaming bowl. Alucard does his best to sit up while the woman guides a spoonful of soup into his mouth then another. It tastes of garlic and fresh herbs; it tastes of a home that once was and might never be again.

“I think he’s coming to…”

The scene of Alucard’s bedroom fades as his heavy eyelids force themselves open. Sounds of steady rain tapping against stretched canvas fills his ears, mingled with two faint yet recognizable voices. His lips feel warm and there’s a strong aftertaste lingering on his tongue. Was it really just a wishful dream?

Another surge of watery garlic and herbs enters through his mouth, slowly and carefully, while a rough hand helps prop his head up. Without thinking too much about it, Alucard assumes the one feeding him hot broth is Sypha and the one holding him is Trevor. His train of muddled, foggy thought suddenly changes when he realizes that Sypha has returned. She was successful and they are all together. They are all safe.

“Don’t you worry, Al. We’ve got enough garlic and flowers to last us for days.” Trevor chuckles at the nickname he will no doubt force upon Alucard in the near future. “How in the hell did you find so much anyway?”

Sypha tells a little white lie. Neither of them need to concern themselves over the possibility of dead souls roaming the very forest that surrounds their wagon. “I must have gotten lucky.”

“Who mixed the soup?” Alucard asks, his voice much clearer.

“Trevor did.”

“... I can tell.”

Trevor’s grin is wiped clean off his face along with any sense of smugness. He and Sypha switch places with her assisting Alucard and him in charge of the stew. “I hope for your sake you meant that as a compliment.”

Alucard won’t say. But he does manage a smile of his own as he’s fed a few more hearty spoonfuls. He doesn’t grimace or spit it back out; a good enough sign.

“Now sleep for god’s sake.”

Alucard thanks both of them, though it comes out as a tired mumble before his eyes close and his still pale face relaxes. Trevor and Sypha stare at him before turning towards each other, nevertheless feeling a joined sense of relief. They watch over Alucard for a while longer, huddled together for warmth, weary yet calm expressions basked in shadows caused by the one lantern they managed to hang above them. Oddly soothed by the now gentler rain.

No one dares mention the broken wheel.

[se0kie]

love me— myg (m)

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, mild angst (if you squint), smut

undergroundrapper!yoongi, established relationship, boyfriend!yoongi

warnings: description of insecurity, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it baybees), fingering, blowjob, light nipple play, really really soft fucking

based on love by kendrick lamar feat. zacari

summary: shaken by betrayal and riddled with insecurity yoongi questions whether you deserve to be with someone like him. it’s time you showed him how much he truly meant to you.

you had gone looking for yoongi after he had stormed out of the underground rap club and into the alley beside the building. what was supposed to be a night of excitement and hushed expectations had swiftly taken a turn and become one of the biggest shocks you or your boyfriend had ever experienced. 

yoongi was an underground rapper, he also wrote songs that he would sometimes sell to people he deemed worthy. every friday he would go to the local underground rap club with his rapper friends namjoon and hoseok, sometimes to take part in the head to head battles and earn a little cash but mostly just to chill. it was rumoured that this friday there would be talent scouts in the crowd looking to sign a new rapper to one of their esteemed artist management agencies. yoongi hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it so he kept it hushed but told you to accompany him on this particular evening. he was to participate in a freestyle rap battle with one of the house favourites to hopefully convince the scouts present to sign him. 

you had faith in yoongi. not only was he a lyrical genius but he also had immaculate flow and could rap at the speed of lightning. you knew your boyfriend would demolish whichever poor sod that was stupid enough to challenge him. you obviously agreed to go and show support. but what happened at the club was something you would never have dreamt of in a hundred years. 

yoongi had been challenged, his opponent standing across from him red cheeked listening to yoongi diss the life out him. but as soon as yoongi finished and the other boy started his rhymes you could exactly see the shock on your boyfriend’s face. his lips had parted slightly and his face seemed like he had been slapped right across it. the boy finished and it was yoongi’s turn again but to your horror he said absolutely nothing. he stood there for a few seconds staring at his challenger and then as if suddenly realising that he had an audience yoongi looked across the crowd, latched his gaze at you and then chillingly at namjoon who was standing right next to you. his expression was something you would never forget, it was a look of absolute disappointment and fury. if you had the mind to look at your friend beside you, you would've probably noticed the look of immense guilt on his face but your priority right then was yoongi who had proceeded to shove past you and your group of friends and right out the exit of the club. namjoon had promptly left right after him, presumably to follow him and explain himself. 

you had yet to understand what had exactly taken place. you turned to hoseok with confusion written all over you and questioned him, “what the hell was that about hobi?” hoseok had an uncannily similar expression as yoongi’s. he answered slowly as if trying to calm himself, “Y/N the guy going against yoongi, his name is younghyun. he just used yoongi’s lyrics from his upcoming song against him. it was a project me and yoongi were working on together and the only other person to know of it was namjoon.” you let out a shocked breath at hearing his words, realisation slowly settling in. namjoon had sold out his two best friends? he had been a friend of yours for years and you trusted him with your life but right now all you could feel was disgust towards the boy and pity for your dear yoongi. you decided that worrying about namjoon is not nearly as important as looking for yoongi so you muttered quickly, “I'm gonna go look for yoongi, okay hobi?” and left without waiting for an answer.

and here you were overhearing yoongi and namjoon’s loud conversation in the alley beside the club. 

the voices were rather quiet but the soft breeze in the air was carrying it towards you enough for you to barely make out what they were saying.

“...how could you namjoon? I trusted you with everything, hobi trusted you with everything. how could you steal from your own best friends?”

“I'm tired of you two being in the spotlight all the time that’s why!” 

you winced at the venom in the younger boy’s words. had he always felt like that? was he pretending this whole time? you were distracted from your own speculations as the voices grew in volume.

“I don’t wanna be like you, hyung. talented but jobless, in love but can’t express it. you’re always broke, hyung. I can’t live like that. you clearly don’t care about your financial situation that’s just pathetic. nobody ever even pays attention to me even thought i’m the only one out of your group that actually wants to make a name for himself. your lyrics can earn so much more for you, fame and fortune are waiting for you but you refuse to do anything about it. you live like a penniless college student and I don’t want that life for me.”

you felt as if someone had stung you. the insults heaping upon each other hurting you as if they were hurled at you directly. 

“when was the last time you took Y/N out, huh? when was the last time you spent money on her, showed her what a relationship is like. when was the last time you received a paycheck?”

“namjoon please leave.” you could hear the pain in yoongi’s voice. you knew how insecure he was, you knew exactly how much he worried about not having enough money and you knew that namjoon knew too. that’s why it hurt even more to hear him say these things. namjoon huffed in the distance and you could hear his feet crunching the ground indicating that he was walking towards you. you refused to look at him and instead chose to stare at the floor instead. he stopped when he reached you for a few seconds, it seemed like he wanted to say something but eventually decided against it and left. 

as soon as you were sure of his departure you half walked half jogged towards your boyfriend, when you stood in front of him you opened up your arms and your heart gave a little clench at seeing the soft tears adorning his full cheeks, his eyes glistening and lips pink and puffy. Another clench at how quickly he rushed into your open embrace and hid his face in the crook of your neck. this position was unfamiliar to you as it had always been yoongi comforting you. he was the strong one, the one who kept the both of you standing in the way of a storm. but you knew that right now out of all times yoongi needed you to be strong for the both of you, he needed you to be the pillar in your relationship this once and you would gladly do it again a hundred times, for him. you could feel his light shakes as he let himself cry in your hold, in his safe space. he let himself go in front of the one person he knew would never betray him

                                                       ~~~~

you had driven yourself and yoongi back to your apartment in your old and battered car. the long silent ride exactly what yoongi needed to process everything that had happened. you had let him have his space, you knew what kind of a jolt it must have been to find out that one of your closest, most dear friend actually did not love him as you all had been led to believe. 

you reached home and could finally let out a breath of relief at being in your safe space. somewhere you knew it was just you and your boyfriend and you could be alone with your thoughts. you walked into your small bedroom and pulled out a t-shirt from the little collection that yoongi always kept at your place, because of the sheer amount of time he spent in your house it only seemed practical. you handed it to him and watched him pull off his t-shirt and put on the new one. without asking, out of habit he passed you his dirty shirt. you accepted it with a small smile and discarded your day wear and pulled on the soft material. it smelled like yoongi, fabric softener, coffee and his cologne mixed with the musky scent of his sweat. you brought the neck of the shirt up to your nose and took a deep inhale, “stop that, you look like a crazed puppy.” you scowled at his words but your gaze softened almost immediately at his lighthearted demeanour. “are you feeling better, sweetie?” you couldn’t help but ask, you needed to know how he was feeling, the urge to envelop him in your arms once again and kiss every wound of his deepening by the second. yoongi gave you a small nod, a few moments of silence followed and then he started with a burst of words, “I know I probably can’t show you off to the world Y/N, i’m not good at expressing my emotions, i’ve always just relied on the fact that you would know that i love you, I won’t be able to buy you designer clothes and take you on expensive dates, you deserve it all and so so much more but I can’t give you the joys that money can buy. all I can do is love you. I will always look out for you and take care of you. Will you still be with me knowing that i can’t give you diamonds and mansions? Will you still stay by my side?”

you could feel the damned tears prickling at your ears but you couldn’t wait to tell yoongi what you thought, “I don’t care that you can’t buy me materialistic shit yoongi. I have never cared about that, but what you do give me is happiness, and my world stops every time you smile at me. you love me and I love you and that’s more than what I can ask of from the universe. i will love you even if you don’t. all i ask of you is that you trust me.” you bit your lip, all of this being way too honest and sentimental for you than you were used to but you knew that yoongi needed this confirmation. “I love you the way you are because you love me the way I am. I would rather live in rags beside you than in a mansion without you min yoongi. I love you.” you could see the emotions burning behind your boyfriend’s eyes. you closed the distance between you with a few steps and soon you had your lips on his.

the kiss started out chaste and sweet but as the frustration and pain from the happenings of the day boiled through the both of you, heat added to the negligible space between your bodies. yoongi’s hands previously on your waist had now slipped towards your ass and were cupping the fleshy cheeks. he gave one a squeeze and you couldn’t help but moan into the kiss that still connected you. his expert tongue swept across your bottom lip. silent. soft. asking for permission. you granted and opened up a little to let him slip his tongue into your mouth. your hands were at the nape of his neck, fingers playing with the soft hair that curled at the end. you were overtaken by the need to show this man how much you truly loved him. you turned yourselves around so that yoongi’s back was now facing the bed and slowly pushed at his shoulders, wordlessly asking him to lie down. you whispered, “lay back and let me love you.” yoongi smiled softly and gave you a nod. you sat down on your knees, yoongi’s thighs in between the space of your parted legs. you fumbled with the zipper of his jeans and somehow managed to get his pants entirely off. the soft glow of the moon was the only source of light and you took a few moments to appreciate the gorgeous man you had the honour to call yours. his shirt long gone and the pale smattering of fine hair on his stomach shining in the glow of the night, highlighting his toned pecs. “you look so gorgeous. my heart belongs to you, yoongi.” you bent down towards his crotch and got his boxers off, his half hard cock slowly rising at your warm touch. you fondled his pretty dark pink balls and swept at the drops of precum forming at the slit of his head. 

you gave his cock a stroke and gingerly gave it a kitten lick at the top. “ungh Y/N baby please stop teasing.” yoongi moaned. you loved that about him, yoongi was never afraid of being vocal. you decided to end his suffering and took half his cock into your mouth. the feeling of the wet warmth enveloping his cock almost made yoongi cum right then and there, you were treating him so good. you hollowed out your cheeks and sucked at his dick like he was your own personal yoongi flavoured popsicle, salty and bitter and delicious. a few more sucks and you had yoongi tapping at your hand signalling you to stop. you gave him a few more licks to the pretty swollen head of his cock and finally released him from your hold. yoongi had sat up now and was at your lips attacking you with kisses, hungry to taste himself on your tongue. “lay down with your head on the pillow baby.” he was back to instructing you, the need to be close to you and pleasuring you building in his stomach. you did as he said and laid back on the bed. yoongi had come up to your chest and taken a nipple into his warm, wet mouth. the sensation causing you to arch your back. he suckled at your nipple and you could feel his hand make his way down to the waistband of your panties. you helped him take of the undergarment and swift as a cat he had his finger on your clit, giving it a tentative rub earning a string of moans from you. he teased at the outer lips of your cunt and played with the moisture gathering there. “yoongi please touch me.” you whined and whimpered for him to finally touch you the way you wanted to be touched. “patience, angel. I'll touch you, don’t you worry.” he made good on his promise and soon yoongi had two of his fingers shoved into your dripping pussy and eliciting sounds from you that would have made demons blush. he pumped your cunt with a few expert strokes, bumping against the rough, spongy spot he was more than familiar with. the outcome of years spent together. one stroke, a second, third, fourth, fifth and then suddenly he stopped. you let out another pathetically needy whimper. “why’d you do that I was just about to cum?” he lets out a chuckle and says, “I want you to cum on my cock baby. I can only go once tonight I need you around me when I do that.” you nod dejectedly and open up your legs, blunt and bold. you want his cock inside you and you will have it. 

yoongi crawls over you, hands on either side of your head and cockhead positioned at your red, leaking opening, waiting to swallow his length. he bends down to your face and kisses you, disctracted by his actions you’re taken by surprise when he enters you in one swift motion. your jaw goes slack and you moan into his mouth. “mm yes oh god i feel so full yoongi. i love it when you’re inside me baby, i love you so much.” “i love you too angel, so so much you have no idea. is it okay if i move now?” you nod in assent and in a matter of seconds you’re turned into a moaning mess. yoongi’s length is pistoning in and out of your sloppy hole but as rough as he is down there that much more soft is he in your kisses. his right hand is at your breast and fondling your nipple. you’re unable of stringing together coherent sentences so all you do is moan and whimper and revel in how good yoongi is making you feel. he rolls your nipple in between his fingers and he has his mouth down to your left tit, he takes it in between his lips and swirls his tongue across the hard peak. this added sensation along with his long hard stroked at your cunt builds a string of red hot pleasure in the pit of your belly that snaps when he flicks his tongue over your stiff bud. you’re cumming, hard, and clenching around yoongi’s dick. yoongi can’t hold himself back anymore. knowing he’s made you cum he now lets go and spills his warmth deep into your pussy and slumps down onto you, holding himself up with one hand to not crush you under his weight.

you try and catch your breath after the invigorating session and you’re met with tens of sweet utterings sent to your ears. ‘i love you’s and ‘i’ll never leave you’s making their rounds. “angel you did so good, you treated me so well, i love you so much.” you blushed at his praise and replied, “i love you too sweetheart. if i don’t have you i have nothing. always remember that please.”

you snuggled into yoongi’s chest and he pulled you as close as physically possible. you had each other and you loved each other. everything else could be dealt with as long as you were in each other’s arms. that was all the comfirmation yoongi needed.

[ineffablegame]

I imagine you'll get a few of these, but may I request Ineffable Husbands for either 1. a sweet kiss or 17. a love bite? Thank you!

Heads up, this gets a little naughty. ;)  Also published on my Ao3.

Taste

Crowley has never been one for eating.

Oh, he’s tried a number of times over the millennia, but no amount of effort can make him derive joy from the act.  He can’t quite tap into the endorphin rush Aziraphale so relishes, and the thought of a lump of mashed-up organic matter sitting in his belly, slowly chewed into pulp by acidic juices before moving down to the plumbing, as it were… well, it all makes him get a bit queasy.  Drinking is one thing, mostly made tolerable by alcohol, but eating is quite another.

No, Crowley is not a one for eating.  But he does love tasting.

“This is absolutely delectable,” Aziraphale murmurs, licking a dollop of tiramisu off his fork. Sitting on the other side of the table, chin propped on the heel of his hand, Crowley watches intently.  The angel cuts off another piece of the dessert and pops it into his mouth with an appreciative hum.  “Utterly divine.”

It’s obscene, really, the way Aziraphale eats.  The little sighs and moans, the pink flicker of his tongue, the rapture that toes sacrilegiously close to religious ecstasy.  It should be classified as public indecency.  The angel should be locked up.

Crowley can’t stop staring.

“Give it here, then,” he says, pleased when his voice emerges in a convincing charade of insouciance.

Aziraphale sets down his fork, eyebrows arched.  “Really?  I thought you didn’t care for… well, this sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” Crowley says. “But you seem to be having a grand old time with that tiramisu, so…”  He trails off, hand outstretched.  Aziraphale hesitates and he smirks.  “What? Scared about swapping a little saliva, angel?”

Aziraphale hands over the fork and nudges the plate across the table.  The tips of his ears have gone strawberry shortbread-pink.  “Of course not.”

Crowley laves his tongue over the tines.  He is glad for the concealment of his sunglasses, for as he licks up traces of dusky coffee and feather-froth mascarpone, he keeps his gaze fixed on Aziraphale. And when he tastes it at last – a trace of fresh apple and unsullied desert air, the angel’s taste, a six-thousand-year-old savor of Eden – his eyes slip shut.

-

It becomes something of a game, chasing Aziraphale’s taste.  Crowley tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing better to do, now that Armageddon has been cancelled and Adam Young has decreed that Messing People About should be kept to a minimum.  It’s boredom, it’s Hellish mischief, it’s the latest sally in Crowley’s eternal battle against his Adversary.

Most of all, it’s a pity, because Crowley has learned enough self-awareness to see a list of denials when he’s the one writing it.  Fortunately, he also has just enough of a sense of self-preservation left to keep on denying.  Peter the Apostle could have learned a thing or two from Crowley.

He starts small. Crowley might prefer to terrify his houseplants into verdant beauty, but he does know gardening.  For a temptation to truly work, you must plant the seed, tend the soil.  With patience, care, and just the tiniest infernal nudge, you can reap a bountiful harvest.

“Funny, how humans worked that out,” Crowley remarks one day, as they sit in a posh little café in Mayfair.

Aziraphale licks a smudge of crème brûlée off his spoon and sets it down, cocking his head.  “What do you mean?”

Crowley waves a hand at the dish.  “Well, how, way back when, some brilliant bugger thought, ‘huh, what happens when I add heavy cream and sugar and egg yolks together and torch the top?’  It’s clever, that’s all.”

Aziraphale considers the cracked crust of his dessert.  “Well. I suppose I never considered it.”

Crowley says nothing more on the subject, but he doesn’t need to.  He can see the light of curiosity burning in the angel’s gaze long after they leave the café.  Seed planted.

Later, giddy with his own sense of spontaneity, Aziraphale invites Crowley to the little flat above the bookshop.  They walk into the kitchenette, Aziraphale bubbling with excitement, Crowley feigning confusion.  The angel gestures to the ingredient-laden table with a flourish.

“What’s all this?” Crowley asks, perfectly aware of what it is.

“Ingredients!” Aziraphale exclaims.  “We’re going to try baking!”

Crowley affects a long-suffering groan.  “This is pointless.  We can just miracle biscuits onto your plate, and besides, I don’t even like—”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale says, “but this is more fun!”

It’s a simple recipe for chocolate biscuits.  Well, it’s simple in theory, at least.  Aziraphale and Crowley have never bothered to learn how to bake, not with the power of Heaven and Hell at their fingertips.  They soon discover the trials of eggshell in the batter, whisking too quickly, and goodness, Crowley, are you certain you greased the pan?  The first batch looks more like charred lumps than biscuits, exiting the oven in a putrid cloud of smoke, but Aziraphale will not be deterred. They start a second batch with infinite care.  Crowley is so preoccupied learning how to break an egg without getting shell shards in the bowl that he almost misses Aziraphale raising the spatula to his lips for a languorous lick.

Almost.  But not quite.

“These will be better,” Aziraphale says, certain in a way that means the biscuits will be delicious even if they mucked up every direction in the cookbook.  As he turns to put the pan in the oven, Crowley snatches up the spatula, still smeared with chocolate batter, and steals a taste.

And there it is again – hidden beneath sugar, butter, flour, chocolate – the faintest trace of apple and garden air.  His eyes close and a sigh gusts out of his chest.

“Crowley?  What on Earth are you doing?”

Crowley startles, the spatula slipping from his fingers.  The utensil tumbles to the floor in a spatter of chocolate.  “Ngk—nothing.”

Aziraphale slants him a dubious look.  “Were you tasting the batter?”

“Maybe,” Crowley mumbles.

The angel’s lips stretch in a grin.  “You’re becoming fonder of food than you let on, dear boy.  Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul.”

“Shut it,” Crowley grumbles, stooping to pick up the spatula.

When the biscuits are done, Aziraphale takes a bite and declares them to be scrumptious.  Crowley wouldn’t know.  Compared to the taste of angel, they are dirt in his mouth.

-

It becomes a ritual for them, the baking.  Aziraphale claims it calms him after a long day at the shop, that he likes making things with his hands.  They actually become not-rubbish at it, churning out batch after batch of increasingly complex biscuits before graduating to other sweets. Bars follow the biscuits, and are in turn trailed by tarts and pies and cakes.  Despite Aziraphale’s insistence on doing things the proper way, miracles join the mix as often as not, a spice no kitchen in the world could replicate.

Crowley becomes adept at stealing tastes of Aziraphale.  He hoards them, pilfering used spatulas, bowls, and stray spoons.

Time passes.  When you are immortal, time does that – slips through your fingers like flour through a sifter, each dust-fine speck a day, a week, a month.  And then, years later, Aziraphale invites Crowley over to work on a lemon curd cake.

“Curd’s almost done chilling,” Aziraphale says.  “How’s the batter coming along, my dear?”

“Nearly there,” Crowley says, preoccupied with folding in the whites.  “Oven up to temperature?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He snaps his fingers and the oven chimes in agreement, a whoosh of hot air filling its belly.

Crowley lifts a skeptical eyebrow.  “That’s cheating, angel.”

“Oh, hush.  I’m only speeding the process along.”  As Crowley slides the pans into the oven, Aziraphale opens the refrigerator and lifts out the dish of chilled curd.  Crowley turns to watch, frozen, as the angel dips a finger in and lifts a yellow dollop to his lips.  Pink lips, pink tongue.  A divine sigh.  “Perfect.”

“Stop that,” Crowley says, voice thin in his ears.  “You’ll eat it all and we won’t have any for the cake.”

“Oh, tosh,” Aziraphale says. He dips his spit-slick finger into the curd, and Crowley should be mortified, he should be disgusted – but instead he’s striding forward, body leagues ahead of his mind.  His hand shoots out to close around the angel’s wrist.  Aziraphale makes a noise of protest.  And falls silent.

Crowley lurches back, the tang of lemon curd and angel skin leaping on his tongue.  Aziraphale is staring at him with wide eyes.  “Angel, I’m, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, already reaching for him.  “Oh, Crowley.”

-

Aziraphale is still trembling, still panting like he truly needs his lungs when Crowley lifts his head. He crawls across the angel’s naked body, smearing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the way – the crease of his thigh, the mound of his belly, the center of his chest, the column of his neck.  Aziraphale shivers out a laugh at the brush of Crowley’s tongue on his skin.  “Stop—stop that, you rogue.”

“Nah,” Crowley murmurs, rasping his teeth to redden the skin, memorizing the savor of his sweat. “Never.  Love how you taste.”

Aziraphale’s fingers thread through his hair, soothing and inciting at once.  “Come here, then.  Let me taste myself on you.”

Crowley shudders and tilts his head up for a kiss.  He has never been one for eating, but this is a hunger he will never sate.

[the-tormented-writer]

What Happened To Us

Summary:Unrequited feelings can only go so long unaddressed. Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: little bit of smut. Words: 4,174 A/N- been awhile since I've done a one-shot. Sorry if there's any spelling errors. Your jaws ache from how long you've been clenching your teeth. Sighs and moans release from you periodically yet you still feel empty, and at the moment, the sex you've desperately wanted on a whim was now a fleeting thought that had landed you into your current position. You refused to open your eyes and look upon the person sweating above you, "You're gonna take this dick like a good girl," he whispered roughly turning you over on your unmade sheets while the wind blew through your bedroom curtains, on this cool afternoon. His breath was warm, making you turn away from the side of his face close to yours, flaring your nostrils from the smell of leftovers on his tongue. You refuse to kiss him, you won't. He's not what you want. He muscles flex in his arms and legs. He bit his pink lips, looking over the expanse of your back, smoothing a thumb over your ribs. "I....need.....a break," you huffed between breaths as he pushed into you from the back, as slapping noises of flesh on flesh continue to fill the air. Your tail curled slightly against the base of your spine, throbbing with every thrust into your dampened pussy. With your body deceiving you, you moved your arms forward, leaning back on your elbows to push yourself up, failing when he swiftly grabbed an arm pinning it to your back. Unable to hold yourself up, you fall forward into the mattress, "Cmon, we aren't finished," he spoke sucking a deep welt onto your neck as he continues. It hurts. It's no longer feeling passionate. Like something out of a fairy tale or an romance novel. The pressure, his teeth biting your flesh, the discomfort is a well needed distraction. You shut your eyes, once more. Tighter, so tight if anyone else were to see you it could be mistaken for pain. All you want to want to see is a pair of sky blue eyes staring back at you as deep as an ocean. Instead you'd know, the set of blue watching you was the wrong shade. Steadying your breath, inching your face to the side, trying to shake your hair free from your face you begin seeing white from behind your eyes. "As much as we are enjoying this... " you crack open an eye, adjusting to the light around you, "let's take five ok?" He slows, letting go of you completely. You move your arm around to your side, easing your body up. His member slides out of you with a grumble, sweat and cum stick to your thighs and ass. He takes another glance at your sweat covered back with a sigh, walking around to the other side of the bed. He's clearly annoyed with your games, but he knows he should stay silent. He's still hard, his thick cock glistening from the light cascading in. With a smug look on your face, you pull your fingers through your hair. Clearing your throat and a quick adjustment of your skirt you rub a stray tear threatening to escape the corner of your eye," so Bucky, what do you want to watch tonight?" Life hadn't always been like this. Things had been happy. Well maybe HAPPY is not the correct term.... tolerable? Yes. Everyone knows your story: freak from a circus is recruited by the Avengers. For months you were given a challenging time. What left the other members of your team appalled was life for you. You had always been treated differently like a stranger in your own flesh. Your skin color was different from most, not to mention a long tail protruding from your back end didn't exactly have children lining up on the playground to be your friend when you were young. But, by god- you were smart. So instead of people calling you names to your face, they settled from doing behind closed doors. Your parents tried their best. Truly, they did but only so long could they take the ridicule. So, thinking you were doing them a favor- and yourself, you ran away at sixteen. Once in a while when you're feeling low, and you're alone- your mind wonders if they even looked for you, and for how long? Did they find you one night in the big top? Saw the smile painted on your face and decided it was for the better? That you were better off? Would you have even recognized them? Would you now? When the others, the carny folk, came upon your knack for knowledge they helped you in anyway to attend school wherever you travelled. Still doing tricks and hanging from rafters at twenty three, you felt it as time for a change. A gentleman in a fine suit requested to introduce himself one evening after a show. He looked over you from the brim of his glasses, followed by a red headed woman and a man shoving handfuls of carnival corn into his mouth. Thinking back to the night that changed your life makes to laugh. You were more entreauged by the guy shoving food in his face than what the smooth talker with the shades was offering: Come and work for him- with him, that they need someone with your 'mutation' and acrobatics. You shook your head at first, handing his shiny business card back to him. He removed his glasses as the others gave you mixed signals. The three exchanged glances with each other, and the man you've come to know as Tony chucked, "sweetheart this is a once in a life time opportunity! Are you sure you'd want to so hastily disregard my offer? I mean, I've heard I'm a pretty cool boss," "Mr. Stark, I've been in this business for a long time. If I've got a chance to get out I'm going to do something not involving my tail. I know your kind, you see a pretty face with a flexible body and suddenly with some sweet nothings you wanna come and take me off somewhere, that it?" You crossed your arms over your chest, "I'm more than what I appear to be. Not to boast but I've gone to college and I'm pretty smart. Hell if you were gonna waltz up in here you've gotta be offering me- something.... Life changing." The red head smiled, offering her hand to shake,"Natasha Romanoff. I believe we're going to get along just fine." --------------- And that's how it all began. And boy, were you wrong about Tony Stark. He was a stand up guy, a bit of an asshole but funny nonetheless. Natasha and that guy who was stuffing his face that night- Clint Barton, became your new family. They weren't perfect but what family is? They try which is more than can be said for most. So with tears and help from Mr. Stark, you were moved into the Avengers tower in under a week. And you thought carny life was difficult. The day you officially moved in was also someone else's. He awoke you in the night, making you fall out from your bed. You still weren't use to sleeping on an actual bed, hitting the solid floor knocked you from your dream state. You rubbed your shoulder letting out a small whimper. Another crashing and muffled screaming vibrated through your bedroom walls. You scrambled to your feet unsure if you should wait or check it out for yourself. Biting your nails, you closed the door behind you with a bat in hand. Your tail swung from side to side, as your long socks made soft scratching noises on the hall carpet. Making your way down a few doors you arrived at the ruckus. The entryway doors were wide open and you could hear whispering from inside. Peering around the corner, you saw two men. A blond one was on top of the other, forcing him to the floor. The other was speaking a language you didn't quite understand but remember it from your travels. You didn't know what to do, so you did what any person would do in this situation .... "Now let me get this right Miss Y/n, you came upon Steve appearing to hurt Barnes here and thinking you were helping, ran inside and began to repeatedly hit him with said baseball bat?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Stark-" "Well first, call me Tony. Mr. Stark was my father. Secondly, I must commend you on your weapon of choice-" "Tony-" Steve places his hands on his hips. "That being said, this is kinda my fault. " Bucky huffs, "Isn't it always-" "Hey now, I didn't get a chance to introduce you to the rest of our band of misfits! Steve Rogers." Tony pointed to a battered blond, "and James Barnes." Tony stopped standing beside a tall brunette man. "They live here as well. In fact they recently came back from a mission and Barnes here struggles with, you could say night terrors amongst other things. Steven here was just making sure that he didn't hurt himself in the process." "I'm so sorry," you managed to squeak out in a small voice, "I thought you were hurting him and I didn't know what to do-" "It's fine. He's fine. Cap, Tell her it's fine." "It's nice to meet you. And don't worry about it, I heal pretty quickly you just got me by surprise. You can really swing that bat. " You nervously smile, looking at the other man walk towards them, "Why is she on my floor, Stark?" "Look, Frosty don't get your panties in a twist, it's only temporary-" "You know what I could have done to her?" Bucky steps towards Tony, his fists clenched. "But you didn't-" "Her blood woulda been on your hands," "You totaled the other floor Barnes! where am I suppose to stick her? In the lab?" Tony questions, looking from one man to the other. "You know what I'm capable of!" Bucky yells. "We have safety percautions!" Tony retorts. He turns away from Bucky, opening his mouth to address you. "I've never met her, in my eyes she's a stranger, something I can't-" "Hey, I've said I'm sorry!" You begin, "Just don't argue, not on my account. You're right, I shouldn't have come to your room. I thought you were getting hurt. Again- Steve, is it? I'm so sorry for any pain I caused you," you briskly walk between the three heading towards god knew where. You wanted to get back to your room, move your chair in front of your door and go back to sleep. *look at you making friends already* You thought. Pulling your covers over your head, a soft knock on your door grabbed your attention. You cracked it open, confused why James Barnes was on the other side. "Hey I'm. James... but everyone calls me Bucky." He was rubbing a hand down the arm that looked like it was coated in something. "Well. It's nice to officially meet you. Again I'm-" "No need to apologize I've just had... something's have happened in my life that I'm not proud of. And often I'll have -" "Nightmares?" "Yeah. You could call them that." "Try to stay away from the darkened places of your mind. Dr. Banner reassures me that nothing good comes from them." "Yeah he's good people. He's gonna try and help me with them. I can't really control myself sometimes, so Steve comes and...He helps me. Him and Sam. You'll probably meet him tomorrow. I'm sorry I scared you." "You didn't scare me." "Well if I did I'm sorry." "Oh ok. Well I'm glad you're- for the most part, ok." He stood there for a moment, "So uh.. you have a tail?" "Yeah, and...you have a metal arm. " -------------- That's how you wound up here with your limbs currently tangled with the infamous Bucky Barnes. You awoke, feeling Buckys arm pull you tight into his chest. "Hey, you ok?" "Uh yeah. Trouble sleeping, think I'm gonna go to the kitchen, grab a snack or some tea." "You want company?" "Oh no thanks. I'll be back." You slide on sandals as you softly shut the door behind you. Bucky turns over staring at the ceiling. He's unsure of what's nagging you but too exhausted to be bothered with it tonight. You're walking up more frequently now, spending more and more of your nights wandering around the tower. You tiptoe off the elevator, surprised the kitchen is already partially lit up. Steve has his back to you but hearing the soft ding of the elevator doors he already knew it was you. He smiled to himself, chewed a spoonful of cereal listening to your soft steps approaching him. "You're late." He smirked, picking up his bowl and slurping down the rest of the milk left over from his midnight snack. "Well I don't always plan to stay up to ungodly hours of the night but when I do, I'll make sure I notify you first." Smiling you reach over grabbing the box of cereal. "So, what's eating you?" Steve sits back against the stool, "not sure just can't sleep." He looks for any change in your expression, a wrinkle of your nose, softly nibbling your lip. *stop it* Steve mentally scolds himself, sucking in a sharp breath. "You? Don't tell me, carnival terrors? Fear of falling from one of those top ropes?" Steve chides, dumping his dishes in the sink. He knew he'd hear Natasha grumble about them in the morning. "Hardy har har, no." You roll your eyes, readying a bite, "Honestly? I'm homesick." You take a breath, "I didn't have a lot but what I did have was people that supported me. I just wonder what they're doing now." There was a small silence as Steve mauled over your statement, "You know that's good. I'm glad you had some positive people in your life." He smiled wide. You laugh, "What is it huh?" Taking a thumb you wipe off his milk mustache. He licked over his upper lip looking away blushing. That's all it took- a touch. It was then that Steve felt a spark. Not big but enough that could cause some damage. You both stood there looking at each other. Finally you mutually broke eye contact, Steve got a napkin and you returned to your slightly soggy cereal. "So." Steve begins with a clap of his hands, "What shall we do tonight? I've been playing video games with Barton and I've gotta say I'm improving." "Oh really?" You cock an eyebrow as he returns to his seat now across from you. "Or we can go to the roof, it's nice when you talk about the stars. You're so passionate about the consolations. " You can feel heat rising to your face, "It's sorta chilly tonight...we can do video games? I'm anxious to see how you've improved." Smiling you finish your snack as he stands when you do. He watches you intently and you can feel it. Is it your imagination? But You know when you turn around he'll still have that doppie, innocent grin on his face. You walk around him and he observes your every movement while you begin to push knobs and turn buttons on the Game counsel. "What game should we play... Sonic? Yeah! Like that's even a question!?" You speak out loud, resting on your knees. Lastly you mute the volume. Tossing Steve a controller, it knocks him from his thoughts of undressing you. He rubs his jaw unsure where that thought even came from. You're his friend, practically sister. He tells himself he's got to get more sleep. Laughing you land beside him on the sofa with a flop, "Hope you're better with a controller than that Steve." He smiled again joining in your joyous mood, following the line of your profile. Full of renewed energy and remote in hand, you both begin. You awoke groggy and in bed much to your disappointment. "Good morning," Bucky whispers, fondly looking upon you. For a moment he actually looks sincere. Maybe today there would be no argument between you, a girl can only hope. *oh darling it always ends in a fight. Don't be nieve* ---------- "What has gotten into you Y/n?! Honestly you're like a child!" "Really again with the name calling?!" "Buck I think we should just-" "Steve this is between me and her." "All you have to do hun is tell me things. Keep me in the loop but no you go off and make plans of change, direction and then we've got problems like these!" "Hey I tried to tell you but it's either your way or the highway. You don't even make an attempt to see anything from my point of view." "Oh my god! what is there to see?! We make a plan then we follow the plan. There's no room for improvising. Winging it is what gets you hurt or worse!" "So it's ok for you to do it but not me?" "It's just I'm more experienced in this department." "Says the guy with one arm!" "You know that's not how- just stay out the way and in the shadows like I tell ya." "Actually she can assist Sam.. like, they've been practi-" "Ok dad!" "Y/n! wait, you've been practicing tricks now? Behind my back?! Steve you can't be serious?! you've okayed this?!" "Well Yes. And I'm sure y/n's more than capable or-" "With what I can do, cap thinks it's a good defense maneuver." "So cap thinks this?" "He's captain ya know that's what cap stands for, genius." "What else does the captain think?" "You know I'm not trying to undermine your authority." "What the hell Steve! Undermine his authority?! I'm not his child or a piece of property?!" "Thats- That's not what a meant, I...We." "Just- fuck! Y/n, why do you have to be such a bitch all the time now?!" "Me. A bitch?! Fuck you Bucky! And Steve, really?! And to think I thought you were different." "Y/n, you know I'd never-" "Don't follow her Steve, she goes off and cries or beats the crap out of something and will have forgotten all about it by tonight." "Really Bucky? Today you've been unbelievable." "Ah c'mon Steve, you know y/n, she's... like a wild spirit. She's gotta be tamed-" "Seriously? Are you listening to yourself? The Bucky I know would have never treated a lady like this." "Well the Bucky you knew ain't here no more remember? " "I'm sorry I shouldn't have-" "Right. Tensions are high. I'm going to take a shower before debriefing, if you see y/n... yeah. Just. Tell her I'll be waitin ok?" Bucky knew he'd taken it too far this time. He would need to find a way to apologize for this. Steve nodded slowly with a pensive expression. He exhaled heading towards your favorite spot. His steps were steady as he opted to take the staircase towards the rooftop. He was hoping he could apologize for what he had said earlier. He didn't think like that at all but that's not the thought that drove him up there. You had been on his mind more and more. You've been around the tower for years now and with Bucky for two of them. So why now did your face haunt his dreams and your smile warm to his core? He was bought back to reality when he opened the last door heading to the roof. He smiled weakly seeing you had put a rock to prop the door open. If tony would have seen it, he would have given you a lecture about heating and cooling the rest of the city, even though it wouldn't have even made a dent in his bank account. Steve carefully replaced the rock after stepping onto the rooftop. You turned looking at him, your knees pulled up into your chest. You turn around acknowledging him and then faced back out towards the rising sun. "Let me guess. I'm finally going to hear one of your oh so famous mentor speeches. If so, just push me off the ledge now." He his brow dipped, aproching you cautiously shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "You know, about Bucky, he can be.. you know at times..- "Oh Steve." You face him standing on the ledge stretching out your tail while balancing on your toes. "If your whole lecture is going to be about how Barnes worries about me and this is just his way of showing he cares for me, just turn around and walk your self back to the elevator." Furious after the mission and in haste to get as far away from Bucky as possible, you still dawned your uniform. You loosened the collar removing your gloves meeting Steve's eyes. He was distracted at best, watching the early morning sun rays rest upon the outline of your uniform. "Actually I took the stairs." He turned pointing behind him. "I wanted to talk to you but I needed time to... gather my thoughts, you could say. " He signals you over making you roll your eyes. Huffing you made your way over, stopping mere inches from his face. "So let's have it, What are you in such a rush to say?" "First, I want to apologize for.. I don't mean-what I said, was wrong. That's not what I think or how I think about you and there's no way around it. And Buck well he's just a bit stressed from the mission and worried you'd be hurt and he's right, I should have told him, atleast checked-" "Told him? About me and Sam teaming up? Steve, I'm part of the team aren't I? Besides He's not my father, if you ask something of me I'll do it, without a moments hesitation. Not only as a teammate but also as a friend. I don't need someone's consent!" Steve swallows hard. He was fighting the urge to caress your face, the wind blowing cold making you wrap your arms around yourself. "Y/n- just, could we talk inside? You're going to catch your death out here!" "Oh Cap, I love it when you talk old guy to me," you smirk, "Don't think this distracts me from the topic at hand. Your friend is out of control." His neck became red, why were you flirting with him? Or at least he thought you were. "It's not old guy, why do you even call it that. I-" "Relax Steve I'm just pullin your chain. " He shook off his jacket draping it around you, "Oh yeah. Right." He rubbed your arms over the sleeves. "You know of all people he means well." "So, he sent his trusted cheerleader to glaze over his-" "I wouldn't say I'm his cheerleader though, he doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't know where you run off to at times like these but...since I do, I-" "Took it upon yourself?" You searched his eyes, "You didn't tell him where I go..." You look down biting the corner of your lip, "Steve, why are you really up here?" You whisper soft as your breath made small puffs of smoke appear. Steve stood still, unable to come up with a reason. The expression on his face was breaking your heart. You knew there was something he wasn't telling you. "I'm sorry but. I just want to be left alone. " you turned away, "Look." Steve gripped the edge of the jacket sleeve, he tossed his head back fighting with himself, "The truth is, I hate that you feel this way and I hate how Bucky talks and treats you, and I know you don't need this right now but I-" Before you could blink Steve's lips were on yours. They were soft and warm, the feeling flooded your senses. It's been so long since you've been kissed, really kissed, or even enjoyed it. He's tongue was warm against yours, feeling him explore your mouth. You open your eyes once more just to close them again. Your hands grip the back of Steve's elbows keeping him grounded there. Now about that little voice in the back of our minds, the conscience. That from time to time stops its droning whispering and begins to scream? That was yours now, screaming while every cell in your body felt on fire. You collided together in way that took away all doubt that things could ever go back to being the same. And as time stood still around you as quick as these feelings came when Steve pulled away from you, everything became silent once more. Your eyes shot open, looking around at your surroundings. Steve watches you with wide eyes and his heart pounding from his chest. Your phone vibrates on your hip. You both look down at the phone then each other. Now time was running low and the both of you had nothing but swallowed words and aching heads. This would not end well...

[evilrevan]

Fragmented

The good ending @christinedabae requested a long ass time ago. While it is a good ending for Reyva, there is angst and pain in this fic for obvious reasons. Can’t have a sugary sweet ending in tyranny, can we?

Light and darkness flickered in and out of existence, sweat trickling over her brows as her consciousness flowed between the two. Fragmented blurry images of her companions cuddled around, garbled words which sounded like Em and Lantry; faded with the dizzying sensations of unimaginable pain lacing her entire body, and the odd cooling sensation chasing away the feverish burning scouring every inch of her skin. Everything else came and went far too fast for her battered and bruised mind to process. From there time was nigh on impossible to discern. 

One second Reyvanna saw pinpricks of light shattering through the darkness, and then, a sea of consuming blackness swallowing up the faint rays of light. In the pitch black sea her consciousness ebbed and flowed like waves on the shore. 

Memories of being held against her will within Kyros’ domain plagued her. Thin razor sharp needles plunged through shallow, bloody tissue, vile bubbling liquid of swirling colors draining at a snail’s pace into her bloodstream as Reyvanna was forced to watch mutely, gagged and chained to the rough stone walls of her cell with not even an inch of room between her back and the scrapping brickwork. Twisted mocking words followed bouts of pain, rusted chains rattling as her body convulsed and reacted to the intensity torture. The bitter tang of copper flooded what little senses rose to the surface, floating atop the shifting mass of shadows and death, the edges tinged with the sweetness of color slithering through. 

Blurred images of figures crowded around her, her eyes finally picking out details in her broken state of being. Sound eluded her. A faint ringing in her ears drowning out any hope of deciphering if she was still within the clutches of Kyros’ minions or safe in the Court’s halls. Reyvanna didn’t hope for the latter. Choosing to succumb to the former in an effort of preventing Kyros from prying more from her bloodied broken body.

Strong and defiant. Unbreakable and resolute. 

A mantra she recited over and over in her head as her body endured starvation, chunks of flesh torn from her body, broken bones, bruised skin, and….

Darkness crept into the light once more, devouring all color and life rendering her in a state of floating… of never-ending pain mixed with horrors, she’d rather forget.

Beneath a wall of nothing, Reyvanna could hear the splattering of blood hitting the ground. A pool of crimson flickered behind her eyes- scarred broken legs dangling just above the pool. Limp and unresponsive. 

Blood-curdling screams filled the emptiness of perpetual silence. Warped and hollow they ceased to die off, the sharp earth shattering shrill tone ringing within her skull like a migraine, rocking the world as chasms split her skull asunder. Fire swept the back of her throat. A scratching dryness overtaking her senses as the screams continued. Reyvanna wasn’t sure if they were hers. 

Swallowing back the urge to cry out in pain as the fire began melting the worn parched tissue inside her throat, she remained strong. For two months they didn’t break her. Merely skin and bones shattered and bled. Her mind? It stayed intact. For as long as she could bear the pain. They wouldn’t be the ones to break her. To hear her screams of agony. To witness her beg and plead for the pain to cease, to savor the feeling of flesh and bone mending instead of running red with fresh blood and splintered bones breaking through the skin.

At the edge of the abyss, Reyvanna felt things prod and poke at her bruised and aching flesh. Unlike previous, instances, they didn’t maim her body. They were gentle and brief. A reprieve from the swirling vortex of blood, screams, and unending memories laced with the sweetness of death. She was blind and deaf to the real world for the longest time. Even the briefest glimpse of color was pried from her vision, darkness encapsulating all of what linked her to the outside world. It was maddening. Terrifying. But she endured. Letting the frigid blanket of darkness wash over dark, slick, and inflamed skin. 

A jumble of voices cowed withing her skull. Joining the chorus of unidentifiable cries of pain and anguish. Some voices were soft. Reyvanna strained to hear them above the din of fury and vulgarity lacing the more vocal voices in her head. 

“She still alive?” 

The choir of voices began to dwindle until only a few were left. Quiet and patient. Heinous and vile. 

“She’s still breathing. Lost her wrist and still alive. How far you think the Savage can go until she loses her mind?”

“We’ll find out when the bitch wakes up. Still got the rest of her left arm attached. Need to remedy that.”

As their voices faded into the cold abyss Reyvanna felt the hellish pain of someone slamming her wrist against the cold stone. Nails digging into her oaken tinged skin until thin rivets of blood came trickling down from the tears in the skin. Sharp teeth clenched the wad of foul smelling fabric shoved inside her mouth- mentally preparing for what was to come.

In the dimly lit prison, there was a glint of metal, a jagged rusted blade drawn in plain sight. The wielder pressed the dull blade just below the wrist, the blade sinking into the flesh at an agonizing pace. With the edge dull it took more effort to saw through flesh and bone purposely letting the sharp unimaginable searing pain ricochet throughout her entire body for as long as possible. Bloodied fingers curled up against her pain in sheer torment, shaking and tearing into the skin like the blade still sawing away at part of her body. Quickly she lost the ability to feel… anything. Even her fingers. Bloodloss mixed with shock and the horrid sight of flesh and bone splattering against the ground below drew her into the darkness.

There the pain stopped. For a time. When she awoke it was to the stinging of a metal gauntlet crashing against the side of her face, a woman and a man shouting at her to wake up. From the wrist, they moved to her elbow. Sawing off anything below the joint as they had with her wrist. She blackened out then too. The shock proving too much for anyone to handle. Least of all herself. When they slapped her awake again they sawed halfway up her arm…

“How shall I make you suffer in the sweetest way? Mangle your body until even he can’t recognize you? Tear out every single cursed tooth in your rebellious mouth? Sever your tongue so you can’t speak again? Perhaps all three?”

”It seems only fair I break his toy, as you broke mine.” 

Nails raked across the underside of Reyvanna’s chin, a chill running along her spine as the voice continued to speak. Sweetly whispering in her ear of things to come…. of what would happen to her and Tunon.

“You are a false empress. A festering blight on all of Terratus in need of removal- diced and burned until there is nothing left to infect my world.”

“I wonder just how much he can feel after centuries of being devoid of humanity. Will he crumble when I present your shattered body to him, barely breathing as you struggle to cling to life for a few more precious minutes you can squeeze out?

 Would the puppet try and strike me? Will he submit? Or will he simply crack under what he can’t comprehend?”

“I guess we’ll find out together, false empress.”

Everything came rushing in like a dam bursting at the seams. Colors chased away the darkness- lungs heaving as fresh air filled them, inflating the organs to their fullest inside her chest. Breathing hurt. It was like a fire licked the insides of her throat, burning away the flesh as she struggled to control her own breathing.

Wildly wide eyes flickered side to side, up and down, and diagonally. Bright colors such as gold and red were muted in the dim light- a sole candle lit beside where she lay.

Then the pain came crashing. Everything ached. Everything itched. Some places Reyvanna couldn’t even feel in the midst of scathing pain scouring her body. Faint hints of blood remained on her tongue. Old blood. But there none the less. Slowly scents wafted in her nostrils. Pungent herbs and blood mixing in the air like a bad dream. It smelled different than when she’d wake. Blood, the metallic scent of iron, rotting flesh, and feces frequently greeted her senses.

Here it smelled clean. Fresher. 

Despite the hints of color bleeding into her eyes, painting a dark blurry image of objects such as chairs, bookshelves, and a single nightstand; there was little evidence to suggest she was free. Focusing on steadying her breathing Reyvanna felt something wrong with her chest. As if something had wrapped itself around the skin- compressing and soaking up beads of sweat tinged with the faint scent of blood. Half lidded eyes flicked to her torso spying a swath of white bandages dyed a multitude of colors ranging from crimson to a ghastly yellow-green color. The latter could be anything. An herbal poultice. A vile festering infection stewing in and around open wounds yet untreated.

Mentally preparing for the onslaught of pain Reyvanna tried to rise from the bed; creaks and groans echoed inside the eerily quiet room as the bed vocally protested against the shifting weight placed upon it.

Horrid pain shot up her spine. Flames of heat and what felt like being stabbed over and over again throughout her body, cascaded rapidly over her earthen skin, seeping deep into her very being until her very insides screamed from what felt like a thousand daggers stabbing into her abdomen repeatedly. She could barely breathe as her breath came out in ragged, hurried gasps.

Everything hurt. From the skin on her scalp all the way down to her toes- everything screamed out in bloody murder.

Above the chorus of blood, sweat, and physical strain something creaked. Something which wasn’t the bed’s doing.

Warily Reyvanna mentally kept track of what sounded like footsteps growing closer, the source of the noise emanating from whatever creaked and groaned from the corner of the room.

One. Two. Three. Fou- 

The noises grew closer with each beat of her heart. On principle, Reyvanna refused to look towards the source of the noise. Instead, every muscle, whether it screamed or bursting into flames, tensed. The pain was expected after two months of torture. The instinct to survive and bear the brunt of Kyros’ insidious machinations blocked most of the pain. It manifested when she was held captive by the Disfavored and it continued to hold fast even now. 

Breaking apart was never an option. No matter what Kyros threw at her. 

“You.. are awake.” Reyvanna froze in place, her dim eyes wide with shock and skepticism. Part of her yearned to turn her head to the left, to solidify the notion he was here with her. And not some ploy of Kyros. Something curled up within her throat, a lump filled with hope and joy. Reyanna swallowed it. Buried the feelings deep within as it left a swath of molten metal and ash trickling alongside the discomfort inhibiting her will to answer. 

Reason whispered she was fine. Safe. Survival dictated she should be wary of everything. That this place wasn’t safe. The two side warred inside the confines of her skull. Both providing valid arguments as the footsteps grew louder. 

“Empress?” Tunon’s baritone voice bounced off the walls, concern leaking from the singular word.

If this was some magical spell conjured by Kyros’ hand, she at least got his voice right. The way his emotions slid into his words ever so slightly. Teetering between propriety and casual speech when it came to her. 

The young archon didn’t respond. Listly listing to the sounds emanating all around her instead. She needed to know if this real. To know her heart wouldn’t fall to pieces if the spark of hope roared like a wildfire only to have it extinguished within the palm of Kyros’ metal palm. 

The sound of fabric rustling and the floorboards creaking drew her eye- a blur of black and red settled by her bedside- a white mask and a pair of familiar simply glowing gray eyes stared straight at her. Their stormy color made it impossible to know what the man behind the mask felt, kneeling next to her, a single gloved hand clenched around his gilded staff. Even in her weakness, she could see the rough chafing fabric crafted into the robes Tunon always wore. unyielding and unpleasant. He wore them to remind himself of his position. Of the struggle.

He didn’t deserve comfort.

Cut lips bruised black and blue pressed together. Words crawling from the depths of her stomach, where the lump resided, to the very tip of her tongue. The desire to reach out, to touch him grew stronger with him so near. But she hesitated.

Fear plagued her mind. The image of smoke slipping through her hands as she reached out to him, to touch his mask left her reeling.

This couldn’t be real.

The glove wrapped around his gavel, his staff, strained the material as he tightened his hold on it. As if fighting something unseen. “Reyvanna.” Tunon never shortened her name like others did, rarely used it even in private, only letting it slip when things grew serious. Like when she ordered him to stay as she headed off to fight Kyros...

Gray eyes shifted. Swirling in the eye sockets as they churned like the winds in a hurricane. So many things flashed within. A dizzying madness of emotions her brain couldn’t process. 

All at once Reyvanna could feel her desire to defend herself rise. Anger bubbling to the surface like the foam building on the ocean’s churning waves in a storm. Anger numbed the pain. Kept her sane. Kept her alive.

Sharpened teeth flashed behind the torment; lashing out to protect herself from being mentally ruined. “No! You are not real!” She hissed like some kind of wild animal. Her voice rising as allowed denial to run ramped. Fury swept across her sickly ashen skin, drowning out the smell of herbs and blood mingling together. Faint scents of Ceder and pine crept into the world. But she ignored it.

“Rey-” 

She cut him off before he could continue. “Quiet! I don’t want to hear anymore! I will not play your games, Kyros!” Like a cornered animal Reyvanna attempted to move from him, to flee from the bed but found herself unable. Sharp pains and the scent of iron-infused blood rendered her unable to move. This time anger didn’t save her. Merely covered up the wounds with a temporary bandage until something better could tend to them. 

Teeth dug into the flesh of her bottom lip. Something hot graced her lips. Something red. Her blood. Two months. Two agonizing months she suffered in silence. Endured the pain inflicted as if she deserved it. Never made a sound. Never gave them the satisfaction,

And now? Warmth flowed from the corners of her weary eyes. Tears. Pain. Anguish. Sorrow. 

Haggard eyes refused to look at what she considered a false image. An illusion meant to shatter her to her core. “Haven’t you had your fill yet?” Reyvanna whispered quietly, almost to the point she couldn’t even hear her own words. Yet he had. Tunon heard the way her voice trembled and cracked as if unable to bear stress any longer. Like a statue left to the elements, she was finally crumbling.

For a moment everything was quiet. Like the calm before a storm. Only, in this case, there was no storm bearing down upon her, no wildfire ready to consume all life in its path... only peace. 

Warmth touched the side of her face, gently passing over carefully placed bandages to protect and hide wounds still left open. With no strength left Reyvanna submitted as the warmth ghosted further down her face. The warmth rested upon her chin, slowly willing it to turn, along with her entire head, towards the figure still kneeling beside her still dressed in red, black, and gold. 

The first time her eyes fell upon him the mask was fixed to his face. The hood draped over the edges of the mask to conceal what laid around. No skin was shown. No discernable evidence to claim the man behind the mask was a living, breathing, human being capable of thought and feeling.

The second time there was no shield of white. The mask resting on the bed, the hood lowered and pooling around the back of his neck. Sharp narrow gray eyes stared back at her- weary and bone tired as she felt now. His high cheekbones cast shadows on his face as the singularly lit candle danced in her room. All of a sudden he didn’t look like he was in his forties. Here he looked as if he had lived centuries in strife, in war, in hell. His lips were pressed into a tight line. His entire face strained as pieces of his long dark brown hair fell over his eyes. Tunon didn’t brush them away. All he did was look at her.

It took only a moment to realize the warmth she felt upon her chin was his hand, the glove tossed aside in favor of allowing him to feel her as she wished to do to him. 

His pale skin contrasted with her dark reddish brown skin, the color of the redwood trees she used to climb when she was younger. The difference never bothered her. Never mattered.

Right here and right now, she couldn’t have been happier to see it. To feel his hand on her. To know this wasn’t some figment of her imagination or Kyros’ doing.

What was once held behind a dam burst open in a torrent of water. Unfiltered, raw, and uncontrollable. 

Tiny streams of tears became like rivers down her face. Tiny pitiful sobs erupted from within her battered body, lips mouthing ‘how’ and ‘why’ like a mantra. As if she still couldn’t believe it.

His pale fingers moved from under her chin, drifting upwards towards the streams of water cascading down her cheeks, wiping away some of the fluid with his thumb or forefinger. A small comforting gesture to soothe her where words weren’t something easily produced. 

Tired and drained Reyvanna willed herself to try and reach out to him. Her left side didn’t respond. Didn’t feel anything move when she tried. It was as if nothing was there. Confused flickered across her features, breaking apart the mixture of joy, despair, abandonment, anguish, hope, and anger eating her away from the inside. 

Only a glimpse was needed to break it. To wipe it clean and replace it with the memory of excruciating pain as the saw bit into her skin- shredding through flesh and bone at a snail’s pace in an attempt to ensure the procedure was as hellish as humanly possible.

What was once her left arm now was a small stump. The end bound in bandages and foul smelling herbs and salves to fight off infection. There was no elbow to speak of. None of the green patterns fading to black she bore in honor of her tribe. Nothing. Just ruined flesh. 

His hand pushed her face from the sight. Brought her attention to back to him as his features displayed something of remorse. Guilt. “There was more to it than what you see before you. It was heavily infected. The skin diseased and falling apart. If left it was bound to poison you...” Tunon’s voice was softer, kinder. Spoken in hushed tones as if trying to spare her the details of the unspoken. She used to have something there. But now.... nothing. With the loss of her left arm, she would no longer be able to use a bow, see the parts of her past etched on her skin in harmony, or to live out her days as she normally could.

Another thing Kyros took from her.

“How?” She questioned, not referring to her arm. Tunon regarded her for a moment, his expressions mixed. Reyvanna couldn’t decipher them even with his mask no longer hiding him from her. The ancient Archon considered the best way to respond. Parsing words together without breaking down himself.

“What do you remember?” His prodded carefully, cautiously. It almost sounded as if he was unsure. “Not... much,” Reyvanna confessed meekly, flashes and voices screaming in her head of events long past echoed in the silence which followed. In them, she saw him kneeling in the grass. His head bowed and his gavel firmly planted in the dirt submissively. Something cold and hard was clamped around her neck and her mouth stuffed with something repulsive. Blood and screams came after. 

A warped body of red fabric and metal laid in a pool of reddish-black blood. Kyros.

Swollen eyes widened in astonishment and shock. Slowly they shifted to match the look of terror mixed with fury glossing over her features. “Tunon you-.” She began, struggling to process the sudden rush of sensory, auditory, and visual overload washing over her. 

“I told you to stay.”

The Adjudicator’s face hardened. Resembling the mask of Judgement as if it were molded from his face alone. “I did as you ordered, Empress.” There was an icy tinge to his words. His voice resembling that of the court as he pronounced those who sought him out as innocent or guilty. Power leaked within, carried it through the spacious audience hall, through the doors of the court, and out into the streets. 

And just as it came- the edges began to soften. “You died, Reyvanna. Thrice.” Suddenly the young archon couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Four words. Four words uttered from his lips, his voice cracking and crumbling to dust as they came tumbling out shattered her. 

His hand upon her face trembled lightly. “Your heart stopped the moment you entered the court after the confrontation with Kyros. You suffered massive blood loss, several broken bones, lacerations, your left arm cut off, and a raging infection coursing through your bloodstream.” Again his facial features shifted into something else, something foreign to her as Tunon struggled with emotions he hadn’t had to deal with in the past. And thanks to her, his control was being tested. 

A fire lit up in his eyes, faint but growing stronger as the seconds ticked by. “The Sage suggested something. The use lightening to restart your heart. It worked. For a time. Over the past three weeks, you died three times.” Her head spun. 

But it didn’t end there. Tunon continued to speak, battling with his emotions as he tried to remain composed- and failing. “You-” His hand fell from her face as he tried to place his staff against a nearby wall. Reyvanna understood what he was trying to do. Ground himself.

With her left arm nothing but a stump, she reached out to him- pushing her body to it’s limits as she sat up to touch his face with her right hand. With him being so tall, even kneeling down, it proved difficult. There were mild protests n his behalf. Every single one of them quickly silenced when her dull sickly hand caressed his face running her fingers along his angular jaw, up over his cheekbones, and then sliding back down to the right side of his face. There it rested, soaking in the warmth and feel of his skin against her’s. With her fingers so badly injured, his skin felt soft in comparison. And she savored it. Drowned in it.

Later they would need to talk. When she was feeling better... when her wounds healed and she could walk on her own. But now she wanted to comfort him. For she wasn’t the only one wounded by the turn of events. Watching her die several times.... unable to do anything. 

A simple tug was all that was needed to bring him closer to her, leaning over her bed as she dragged lightly pulled his face towards her, pressing her lips gently onto his starving for more than just a simple touch. Tunon didn’t question it. Didn’t argue she needed rest rather than engage in something like this.

He sought it out as eagerly as she did. Two months apart. Two months of hell on both sides. They both needed confirmation this was real. 

What happens afterward is left to the wind. Smothered by the desire to ensure they both breathed the same air as one another. 

Reyvanna is the one who pulls away from him. Her mouth not even and inch from his as she stares as him warmly, “I am not going anywhere, my Imperator.” This was a promise she intended to keep this time. Gray eyes continued to gaze at her, conflicted yet softer. Instead of replying he initiated the kiss, his ungloved hand running through her damp, unruly, and curly dark brown hair. 

[jirouchan]

AFTG Valentine’s Exchange

A gift for @butterflieswith-puncturedwings for the @aftgexchange

I was not going to enter with a fic at first because I am not a very good writer (and English is my second-or-actually-third language) but the assignment got me the idea and I couldn’t resist. Hope you like it!

The prompt: Andrew, Renee, and Neil doing stuff together. Precisely, they cook. Somewhat. I dunno. (With little bits of side Renison and Matt and Dan and other Foxes and even mentions of bets, I tried to include at least some). Also, there are two Instagram entries to go with the text.

Available on AO3

The recipes I used (but I changed them slightly for the text’s purposes):

Espresso Martini Cupcakes

Ferrero Rocher Cupcakes

Neil looked at the disaster on the table. The recipe he found online said it was the easiest thing in the universe to do but Neil had somehow messed it up anyway. What he now has before him has chocolate all over it and some of the cupcakes crumbled the moment he tried to get them out of the pan. The only thing that stayed whole in those was the hazelnuts from Ferrero Rocher chocolate he put inside.

The worst thing in all that—Neil isn’t really sure what exactly he did wrong. He eyes the bag in the corner of the kitchen. Ever too cautious, he actually bought extra ingredients, and if he could ask anyone what went wrong without it making the team news he might be able to actually do it right the second time.

Neil looked at the disaster on the table. The recipe he found online said it was the easiest thing in the universe to do but Neil had somehow messed it up anyway. What he now has before him has chocolate all over it and some of the cupcakes crumbled the moment he tried to get them out of the pan. The only thing that stayed whole in those was the hazelnuts from Ferrero Rocher chocolate he put inside.

The worst thing in all that—Neil isn’t really sure what exactly he did wrong. He eyes the bag in the corner of the kitchen. Ever too cautious, he actually bought extra ingredients, and if he could ask anyone what went wrong without it making the team news he might be able to actually do it right the second time.

Kevin is in a beanbag watching a game on his laptop but his eyes follow Neil when Neil strides past him, hands covered with chocolate and batter under his short-cut nails. Neil doesn’t stop to explain. He only stops in the bathroom on the way because Allison would kill him if he damaged the new smartphone she bullied him (and, consequently, Andrew) into buying.

Among all the boys in the team, except Andrew, Nicky would most certainly indulge in something as sweet as cupcakes so he could be of help. But Nicky has that lack of brain-to-mouth filter and a whole team or even campus will know Neil is making cupcakes the moment Nicky hears of it. And although the times passed when Neil jumped at every bit of attention, he still does not enjoy being the center of it. Also, both team and campus include Andrew. Calling Nicky is out of the question.

Aaron has Katelyn to cook for him, and anyway Neil would never go to Aaron with this. Jarring comments, ridicule, and complete lack of help wouldn’t be worth the effort.

Matt said himself that he couldn’t cook a decent meal to save his life.

Dan could help, Neil thinks, but she and Matt have their Valentine’s date today and Neil doesn’t want to interrupt them. They don’t have a lot of dates, with exy and how messed up a team the Foxes are and all that.

Allison, aside from being a social media star and posting every moderately interesting thing happening around (and Neil cooking cupcakes is not just moderately interesting) on Twitter and Instagram, probably never really cooked, Neil ponders. Not that she can’t, per se, but Neil is sure she wouldn’t really enjoy the process. And she has Renee to cook for her.

Right, Renee. That is his best shot.

“Neil?” Renee sounds surprised when she accepts the call. “Is everything okay?”

“Er, yeah?” Neil answers, a bit puzzled. Then he tries to count the times he called Renee and comes out empty. He pushes the sudden guilt deeper inside. “Sorry to bother you but I might use a little help if you’re not busy? A cooking advice.”

He thinks this would result in a minute silence as everyone knows Neil never really cooks but Renee just ‘sure’s casually.

“Should I leave the room or you’re okay with Allison eavesdropping?” she asks instead.

Neil stalls for a second.

“Errr. If she promises to not say a word at least till evening...”

“She does,” Renee says without losing a beat, undoubtedly taking Allison’s phone and netbook from her. The loud “Hey!” is proof enough.

“So what happened?”

“I messed up some cupcakes but I don’t know what I did wrong. Can’t really try again before I find out?”

He knows he sounds more uncertain than he usually allows himself to. He can’t bring himself to care. This is Renee, after all, she’ll understand.

“What kind of cupcakes?” Renee asks.

“Chocolate ones” Neil answers the same time Allison shouts ‘That’s a stupid question, the monster eats chocolate like he can’t get fat’ from somewhere in the room with Renee. She really is eavesdropping.

“No, not the flavor. You used a cake mix, I think? So what kind. And also how the cakes turned out exactly,” she is silent for just a second before continuing. “Maybe I should come to your room and see? That would be more accurate. And I could supervise you.”

Why didn’t Neil think of it himself from the start?

“That would be great! I mean, if you’re not busy”

“I’m not. Be there in a couple minutes”

“Thanks, Renee” Neil says. He feels a bit more confident.

She murmurs ‘nevermind’ and hangs up and Neil heads back to the kitchen to get the extra ingredients unpacked.

Except when he gets there, Andrew is standing at the kitchen door observing the mess Neil left. Kevin stands behind Andrew, and Nicky, too, taps something with his phone and giggles. He beams instantly when he spots Neil.

“Awwwww, Neil! Were you making Valentine’s cupcakes for Andrew? You’re the best boyfriend ever!”

Andrew is silent. Well, Andrew is silent most of the time, but Neil learned to interpret his silence, both for himself and for the team (he has a lot of practice with the youngest members). This silence is unimpressed. Andrew’s voice is equally unimpressed when he turns to look at Neil.

“You’re a loser.”

“I thought you had classes,” is all Neil can say to that.

“Kevin called.” Andrew answers. “Said you’re trying to burn down the dorm. Probably was scared you’ll do it with him inside.”

Kevin scowls as he points at Neil accusingly.

“You left the oven on,” he says.

“And instead of getting me in my room, you called Andrew,” Neil answers, crossing his arms and scowling back at Kevin.

‘You spoiled the surprise’ he wants to say but doesn’t. Kevin just ‘hump’s and returns to his laptop.

A tentative tap at the door announces Renee, giving Neil an excuse to not stand there longer staring at Andrew’s back. Renee has Allison’s laptop under her arm and a bag in her hand at which Neil blinks in surprise.

“I thought you might not have some handy tools,” she smiles at him. The smile doesn't falter one bit when she spots Andrew. It never does and Neil is always infinitely grateful for that. Except, for a change, he would prefer it if Andrew was still in class.

“Hi Andrew. Will you join us?” Renee slides into a kitchen as if it is not strange at all for either of the boys to cook cupcakes with her in their kitchen.

To Neil’s surprise, Andrew follows Renee to the kitchen. That’s when Neil notices the bags in his hands. Didn’t Andrew come straight from class?

While Renee rummages in their fridge and lines everything she’ll need, Andrew deposits the bags on the cabinet and goes to wash his hands. Neil pokes into one of the bags to find oranges there, some tangerines, and other fruit. The second bag has alcohol—they run out of vodka a couple days ago when they celebrated a winning streak.

Andrew comes back dressed in his sweats and a t-shirt, the ever-present armbands covering his scars the same as Neil’s do but his sleeves rolled up. He pushes Neil to the chair.

“Sit there.”

Nicky is near Neil in a blink, with a stupidly delighted expression on his face and a phone still in his hand.

“I need a close-up of those!” he shouts and all but jumps around in delight. Neil imagines there is some kind of bet again on his and Andrew’s relationship and Nicky might have won it. Which does not prevent Nicky from being genuinely happy for them but is probably still true.

Andrew surely comes to the same conclusion as he shows Nicky out of the kitchen with a hand on Nicky’s face. Nicky still manages to get a photo of a disaster that is Neil’s attempt on cupcakes.

Renee separates the cupcakes on two plates, the completely ruined and the slightly better ones.

“You should throw them all out,” Neil says to Renee. She smiles at him and puts the plates on a windowsill.

“Most are still edible, just a bit messy,” she says. “If you want, I can take them to a charity dinner I go to sometimes. But I think they are not that bad.”

Neil nods to whatever Renee wants to do with the cupcakes and tries to stand up.

“So what exactly did I do wrong and where do we start now?”

“Oh, I think you maybe just put too much batter in some molds and too little in others,” Renee points to the crumbled cakes. “These ones got a bit overcooked and dry. And then you tried to pour chocolate over them before they cooled down so it melted too much. This is not a major mistake, you did great for the first time.”

Andrew snorts at that.

“What?” Neil turns to him, feeling irritated.

“It’s not that easy to mess up cupcakes,” Andrew says, putting two oranges on the table, then he points Neil back to the chair. “Sit there.”

“I’m making cupcakes with Renee,” Neil says. Andrew rolls his eyes and shows Neil to the chair. He points to the oranges and gives Neil a peeler.

“Peel.”

“What?”

“You’re making cupcakes. Peel.”

Neil’s puzzled expression is met by Andrew’s bored one.

“Orange zest adds to the flavor,” Renee helps. “It’s not necessary and is not often in recipes but it goes well with chocolate.”

As Renee starts to prepare the cake mix, Neil watches Andrew mixing some flour with milk before he takes the dish where Neil mixed whipping cream with chocolate chips and vanilla and he adds there some more of those too.

“What are you doing, Andrew?” Neil asks, finished peeling the second orange.

Andrew casts a side glance at him and points to the orange.

“Eat those. We don’t need them.”

Then he takes the mixer and Neil can’t really ask anything over the sound. Renee seems to understand Andrew, though, as she takes another dish too and separates the dough she made into two parts.

Neil feels stupid over the whole situation: he wanted to surprise Andrew with chocolate cupcakes covered with chocolate and with more chocolate on the top (he thought of Andrew the moment he saw the recipe) and now it looks like Andrew will make the cupcakes for himself by himself, if with a bit of Renee’s help. And Neil will only peel oranges. And eat them.

“Neil,” Andrew turns off the mixer. “Make strong coffee.”

“What?” Neil asks for what feels like tenth time in the last half an hour. Andrew gets a bottle of vodka and one of whiskey from the bag he brought.

“Espresso martini cupcakes. Except not martini,” he explains as he pours couple of spoons of both whiskey and vodka into one of the bowls with dough and into the cream he made earlier. Then he swings some of the whiskey right from the bottle before putting it aside. As he proceeds to mix one and then the other, Renee takes the peel Neil got off the oranges and grates it into the dough without alcohol.

Neil feels his nerves slowly calming at Andrew giving him orders. Andrew does not think Neil is all that unhelpful. It still stings a little that he couldn’t manage the cupcakes on his own but it’s okay. It’s not the last time.

So Neil makes coffee (stronger than they usually drink). Renee takes the mixer from Andrew and mixes the dough. Neil watches Andrew lick the cream from his fingers, reluctant to wash off even a bit of sweetness and alcohol. Somehow, from Andrew this does not look as lewd as Neil thought it would. But he still wants to lick it from Andrew’s fingers himself. He feels heat coming up his neck but with Renee in the room, he just chews on his lip and does nothing.

“Renee, you have coffee extract at yours?” Andrew asks when Renee turns off the mixer.

“Yes. Need some?” Renee turns to Andrew as Andrew nods, Neil trailing his movements from the corner of his eye.

They have the extract too, and Andrew must know this. Maybe Andrew noticed his hungry stare after all.

“I’ll go get it then,” Renee says and exits the room.

Neil hears the coffee pot signaling ready but he ignores it, instead making a step towards Andrew.

Andrew has some cream splatters left on his neck and near his left ear.

“Andrew, yes or no?”

“Yes,” Andrew turns to him with one eyebrow raised and he hisses silently when Neil drags his tongue from Andrew’s neck up. The skin is salty after a day and sweet from cream. It tastes uniquely of Andrew and Neil loves it.

They do not exactly have a lot of time before Renee comes back; they kiss like it’s their first or the last time and Andrew bites Neil’s lip when they part.

Renee’s approach this time is announced by Allison who strides in the main room and clearly heads for her phone. Her voice is loud enough for Neil to hear despite the closed door.

“What the fuck, Hemmick! I was the one who knew this first, how is it you who posted it?”

“The perks of being a family!” Nicky sing-songs.

Neil steps away from Andrew right when Renee enters the kitchen with a small bottle she hands to Andrew.

“What’s that all about?” Neil asks Renee as the bickering in the room continues, albeit a little quieter.

“Nicky posted a picture of your cupcakes on Instagram,” Renee looks somewhat sorry yet happy nevertheless. Neil wonders how she does that for only a second before her words sink in. Then he fishes his phone from his pocket.

The picture at the top of his feed is from Matt, actually. It’s a photo of a kid in a fox hoodie complete with ears and tail. The caption says “we need to buy this for neil!!”. It has several dozens of likes already and comments in a venue of “yes please!” from a team youngsters. Neil types “what the hell boyd it’s a kid’s costume!” before continuing to scroll.

Nicky’s photo is several exy-related entries later. Nicky got the very end of the plate with ugly cupcakes but he made some decorations on it, stars and hearts and glitter and wrote “BOYFRIEND OF THE YEAR!!!!!” there with an unimaginable number of happy emoticons. Neil scowls at the picture but can’t find words to comment. Despite the embarrassment, he feels delighted too. Of course, Nicky is just over dramatic like he always is but it still makes Neil feel warm and fuzzy inside to be called that.

He contemplates for a bit before finally posting a facepalm and “Please Nicky delete it”. He hears Nicky’s “NO I WON’T” from the room and then the same appears below Neil’s comment on the screen. Neil sighs and turns the screen off—he did try.

Andrew is mixing whiskey and vodka into coffee when Neil looks around, and Renee finishes mixing coffee extract into Andrew’s part of the dough it seems. She then turns around and asks.

“Neil, want to distribute the dough?”

“Is it okay?” he asks. That was one of the things he did wrong before, wasn’t it?

“Sure. Just use ice cream scoop to make them the same size.”

Andrew doesn’t seem to object as he stands near the cabinet and sips whiskey (this time from a glass) while Neil scoops the dough from one dish and then the other and puts it into cupcake moulds.

They don’t have enough Ferrero chocolates left to put both inside and on top of the cakes so they decide on top only. Then Renee puts two pans into the oven.

“Cream?” Renee asks as she puts the mittens off.

As Andrew pushes from the cabinet and goes for the bowls of cream he catches a hem of Neil’s t-shirt and tugs it for Neil to follow. Andrew shows the bowl with chocolate chips into Neil’s hands.

“You did this before.”

Renee takes a clean bowl and mixes butter and sugar there while Neil and Andrew stand together over the stove whipping cream in their cream bowls. They are so close that Neil feels the heat of Andrew’s body radiating from him stronger than the heat of the burner.

“You’ll burn it, idiot,” Andrew hits him lightly in the shin with his socked foot.

Well, maybe that heat is the oven. Neil gets back to whipping. His cream is ready in what feels like no time at all. But then Andrew finishes just a minute later.

They sit in silence while Renee finishes mixing and Neil digs out his phone again. The mention pops out on his screen. It’s a reply to his comment to Matt’s photo of a kid’s costume.

@aaronmminyard: @neiljosten you’ll fit just fine.

“Sometimes I think how Aaron can be this stupid when he’s actually really smart,” Neil muses out loud showing the comment to Andrew behind.

Andrew snorts. At Neil’s words or Aaron’s comment, Neil does not know. Maybe both.

Neil types “@aaronmminyard now you’re one to talk” and shows that to Andrew too. Andrew grunts. That’s some reaction.

Neil’s feed is mostly Foxes and some other players, and a couple exy-related magazines and shops with their own Instagram accounts. He scrolls through it mindlessly feeling Andrew’s fingers on his collar. Then his presence is suddenly gone from behind Neil’s chair and he moves to the door.

“You need a smoke?” Renee asks before Neil can.

Andrew probably nods and leaves because Renee sits down with a glass of water.

“You can go too, you know,” she says to Neil. “I’ll take out the cakes and they will still need to cool down.”

“No, I—”

“Neil,” Kevin calls standing in the door Andrew left open. “Watch the latest game with me.”

Neil looks Kevin up and down thinking. He’s not really in the mood for a game. He’s making cupcakes. And he wants to go kiss Andrew senseless. Or Andrew kiss him senseless. There are too many people in their dorm when he planned to drive Kevin out tonight and have the evening to himself and Andrew. A surprise party for two. Which, by the way, Kevin ruined.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.” He stands up anyway but turns to Renee. “You sure it’s okay?”

When she smiles kindly Neil strides past shocked Kevin into the room and then to their bedroom. On his way, Allison shouts to Kevin’s back:

“You owe me ten bucks!”

Andrew is at his usual place smoking into the window.

“So what was that all today?” Andrew asks after a minute of silence as Neil pushes himself to sit at the desk near Andrew’s legs.

“Thought I’d make a surprise,” he says.

“You know I hate surprises.” Andrew’s voice is low as he takes a drag from his cigarette.

Neil knows that. And he also knows what kind of surprises are those that Andrew hates. Neil looks down and swings his legs a little.

“Just a few cupcakes, booze, and some kissing and stuff if you felt like it. I thought I could be the one arranging us time alone for a change.”

“How were you going to get rid of Kevin?” Andrew casts Neil a glance as he exhales the smoke and inhales ones more.

“Push him onto Nicky. Erik’s working tomorrow, and the time difference is not favorable for Skype calls. They had their Valentine’s talk in the morning.”

Matt complained about that ‘talk’ to Neil when they were in the gym. Said Nicky woke him up and Matt had to escape to the girls’. And Matt and Dan aren’t going to be back tonight, too.

A silence that follows is filled with emotions.

“I hate you.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t kiss me.” Neil tilts his body back. “Now. Yes or no, Andrew?”

Andrew’s lips taste like cigarettes and he actually breathes some smoke into Neil’s mouth. He grabs Neil’s t-shirt by the collar too, to clash their mouths together. This is like those kisses in the kitchen, hungry and making Neil’s ears ring. He sucks on Andrew’s lower lip and gasps when Andrew’s hand slips under his shirt. Andrew is cold from being too close to the window in February but the cold only makes Neil’s skin grow hotter.

Andrew touches his forehead to Neil’s and presses his hand to Neil’s scars.

“Do that,” Andrew says and it sounds almost like murmur against Neil’s lips. It takes a moment for Neil to understand the words—he’s never getting used to Andrew kissing him like this.

“After we all eat cupcakes, yeah.”

When they get back it’s to find Renee’s almost finished decorating the cupcakes and everyone is gathering around with bottles and glasses. They get the freshmen who are in the dorms to share the evening and then Neil does deposit a drunk Kevin to equally drunk Nicky. Allison tells Renee that Nicky will have to hand her ten bucks too as they herd the underclassmen out leaving Neil and Andrew alone.

They don’t waste time on cleaning up the mess in the kitchen or in the room.

When Neil wakes up it’s to the sound of coffee brewing in the kitchen. He gets his sweats and follows the sound and the smell of coffee to find Andrew there finishing a cupcake.

“Did you even eat anything proper?” Neil manages around a yawn as Andrew pours coffee in two mugs.

Andrew is already dressed up to his armbands and a shirt. He looks sleepy but not as much as Neil.

“Cleaning duty is on you,” he says in way of answering. Neil casts him a sour look which Andrew ignores heading out of the room with his coffee.

As Neil drinks his coffee and estimates the scope of work he notices that his ugly cupcakes are gone from the windowsill. He doesn’t remember but he thinks maybe Renee took them after all.

(He is wrong. Messed up or not, chocolate cupcakes are still chocolate cupcakes and Andrew is not one for charity and sharing :D)