#this was written on a whim

[shushu3991]

My rotten brain totally wrote a crack fic inspired by THAT SCENE in the proposal… 😅

[blaiddydbrokeit]

I do find it hilarious that no one has asked for Dimitri headcanons because you all know that's my expertise. I can dissect him right down to how he swings his lance. I look at him and go "Of course I know him. He's me." Come talk to me about Dimi A. Blaiddyd.

[kaladinkholins]

We all already know Mizu and Akemi are narrative foils. But you know what? Lemme just say it, here's what I think:

Taigen and Mikio are foils.

Not necessarily to each other as individuals in the way that Mizu and Akemi juxtapose each other, but mostly in the contrast between their relationships with Mizu.

I've covered specific parallels between Taigen and Mikio in other posts I wrote; but as the number of parallels I'm noticing between them keeps piling up, I'm compelled to just compile them all in one post. So! This is, thus, the post in question.

First of all, let's look at their similarities.

1. Their status in society is the same. They are both samurai who lost their honour and have dreams of reclaiming it.

2. They are also both diligent as they strive to achieve this goal, they both care deeply about their work, but here as they begin to contrast, as the work in question and way they go about their goals is different:

For Mikio, his work is in taming and rearing horses; in order to prove himself, he must tame Kai—a willful and strong horse—and present it to his lord. For Taigen, his work is in sword fighting and martial arts; in order to prove himself, he must kill Mizu—a willful and strong swordsman—and present her dead body to his lord.

In the parallel above, not only are Taigen and Mikio contrasting each other, but Mizu and Kai are placed in comparison as well. And of course, Kai is Mizu's horse, and represents her. Which is why, when later, Mikio sells Kai off, it represents the way he is tossing Mizu (and their relationship) aside.

From there, the rest of the details of their character begin to contrast and juxtapose each other more clearly. So let's look at those differences, shall we?

Their backstory:

Mikio was a great samurai who was banished. A somebody to a nobody. Taigen was a fisherman’s son who rose to the top. A nobody to a somebody.

2. The first time we meet them on-screen:

Mikio is an adult. An older man. Mizu's superior in age. He is Mizu's to-be husband. A love interest. Taigen is a child. A young boy. Mizu's peer in age. He is Mizu's bully. An antagonist.

3. Their maturity and growth:

Mikio is mature, but stuck in his ways. Taigen is immature, but capable of changing and learning.

4. Their overall attitude:

Mikio is generally relaxed, easy-going and unfussy. Taigen is uptight, irritable and severe.

5. How they talk to and conduct themselves around Mizu:

Mikio is aloof, soft-spoken, and serious. Taigen is obnoxious, brash, and sarcastic. Mikio is quiet, speaking only when spoken to, even when Mizu turns to smile at him and shows openness to be near him. Taigen is loud, talking while others are silent, even when Mizu turns from him and shows no interest in conversing with him.

Mikio doesn't show much of who he is to Mizu throughout their marriage, despite their growing affection. Taigen openly shares his traumas and life story to Mizu during their brief alliance, despite their mutual antagonism.

6. Their external vs internal selves:

Mikio is calm, gentle, and considerate on the outside. Taigen is hot-headed, rude, and selfish on the outside. Mikio is cowardly and deceitful on the inside. Taigen is brave and loyal to a fault on the inside. Mikio tells Mizu that he wants to know and see all of her. But he scorns and betrays her, the woman he loves. Taigen tells Mizu that he wants to duel and kill him. But he endures torture to not betray him, the man he hates.

9. Their hair, a symbol of their honour:

Mikio's topknot is untied by Mizu during their spar. This humiliation occurs in private, the two of them alone in a rural location where no one can see them. Taigen's topknot is cut off by Mizu during their duel. This humiliation occurs in public, the two of them being watched by many others in the Shindo Dojo.

10. Their power dynamic with Mizu:

Mikio believes he is Mizu's mentor. He teaches her to throw knives, how to ride and care for horses, and about the tactical benefits of using a naginata. Taigen believes he is Mizu's equal. He views Mizu as a samurai like himself who received all the same teachings he did, and who possesses the same values.

11. Their perceptions of Mizu:

Mikio sees Mizu's feminine side first. He sees her as sweet and gentle, but also clumsy and incompetent. Taigen sees Mizu's masculine side first. He sees her as terrifying and deadly, but also strong and skilled.

12. The way they approach sparring with Mizu:

Mikio only spars with Mizu once. As the fight progresses and she is beating him, he tries to put a stop to it. When she teases/provokes him, he starts taking the fight personally and seriously, finding no enjoyment in it. Taigen spars and brawls with Mizu all the time. No matter how many times Mizu beats him, he doesn't back down. When Mizu challenges him with a chopstick, he is eager to compete with her and gladly rises up to the challenge.

Mikio and Mizu's one and only spar is a friendly match; Mizu is smiling and having fun while he grows increasingly frustrated. Taigen and Mizu's last-seen spar is a playful wrestling match; both him and Mizu are having fun and laughing.

Mikio cannot deal with Mizu being better than him, so he scorns her and walks off, avoiding her thereafter. When Taigen cannot deal with Mizu being better than him, he follows her to observe her moves and continues training in hopes to eventually beat her. After being bested by Mizu once, Mikio leaves her and sells the horse he'd previously gifted to her. After many times losing to Mizu and fighting alongside her, Taigen commends her and admits she is better than him.

13. When Mizu pins them down in a friendly spar:

Mikio sees Mizu's whole face objectively. Taigen stares at Mizu's mouth and eyes.

Mikio gets angry when she kisses him, throwing her off of him and snapping at her, calling her a monster. Taigen gets aroused, apologising, so she pulls herself off of him.

14. Mizu's blue meteorite sword is a reflection of her soul. She believes most are undeserving to face it, let alone hold it. And on that note:

Mikio is the first person (chronologically) that Mizu fights against using her sword. Taigen is the first person (we see on-screen) that Mizu fights against with her sword. Mikio is the first person (chronologically) to ever hold her sword, as she passes it to him, letting him wield it. Taigen is the first person (we see on-screen) to ever hold her sword, as she passes out, and he picks it up and carries it for her.

15. Then, last but not least, in Fowler's fortress, when she is drugged and in pain, she hears Ringo's voice in the dungeon. She then follows it to an open cell:

Mizu first sees Mikio as a hallucination, the sight of him haunting her and causing her to lose her grip on reality. Her eyes glow a surreal blue to represent this. Her Mama appears then and says Mizu's name accusingly.

Mizu then sees Taigen, but he is real, the sight of him a relief and grounding her back to reality. Her eyes return to their normal blue colour to represent this. Taigen looks at Mizu weakly and says her name softly.

Then, later, when facing Fowler, her revenge awaiting her, she instead chooses to follow her conscience (represented by Ringo's voice in her mind), putting aside her vengeance for a time, in order to save Taigen.

So that's basically all the ones I've noticed so far, but even then, I feel there's already so much that forms a contrast between these two.

What makes it especially incredible about these juxtapositions is that Mikio was Mizu's husband, the man she had fallen in love with, the one person she had ever been intimate with, the man who made her begin to accept herself, to put down her desire for vengeance and instead live a life of peace and happiness.

So for Taigen to have so many parallels with him... Do you see what I'm saying here!

Not to mention that Mizu clearly already has some burgeoning attraction to him, as indicated by how she thinks of him when asked about her desires. And Taigen clearly has shown interest as well (see: him getting a boner after their spar, him holding her hand and telling her, "We're not done yet.").

And on the topic of speculating future possibilities of this relationship, this post by @stromblessed has pointed out yet another parallel between Taigen and Mikio:

Mizu promises Taigen to meet him for their duel in autumn. Mizu fell in love with Mikio and duelled him during autumn.

With all that said, I do believe Mizu and Taigen's relationship is definitely hurtling towards something. But whether they will actually end up together in a sustainable relationship and have a happily ever after? Well, that is a whole other story; we'll just have to wait and see.

[gojoed]

A HOUSE THAT SMELLS LIKE HOME. | gojo x reader. | 2k words

He was a hard working man. 

Following the words of the elder people he disliked immensely, and doing their bidding. They had been running him down to the bone even more these past few weeks. Gojo was a person who didn’t like showing his fatigue but it couldn’t help but show itself without his permission.

His usual quick and irritating quips were slowing down, only offering a smile at times. The bags under his eyes had grown increasingly more apparent with each night, barely a few hours of sleep before the sounds of his phone waking him up and demanding him to go to work.

And Gojo has been living off of sweets for the past few days. Not that he normally doesn’t do that but the time saved for lunch with you or his students were cut short as he was yet again sent off. And dinner was no exception. A half eaten plate would become more of an occurrence with him rushing through the door. 

You decided enough was enough when you came home one day. All the lights were off, the structure was silent on the inside just as it was on the outside (you lived in a calm neighborhood close to the school.)

The only light source were the streaks of sunlight peeking through the slits of the curtains, most of them closed; some of them were left open to let the house get air. And one of those streaks of light seemed to land on a head of white hair. 

Gojo was sleeping, if you could really call it that. His whole body took up the entire couch, with a blanket roughly thrown on himself. His work jacket was left laying on the floor, he must have gotten home not too long ago then.

His snores were clear and loud, he only ever did when he really was tired. Getting closer to him and leaving your things behind at the door, you could now see that not only was he snoring but also drooling onto the cushions. Poor thing was exhausted.

You ran a single finger across his forehead, lightly removing his hair from his face and tucking it as best you could behind his ear. You let another finger join the other, running them along his jawline to down his neck. He didn’t stir from his sleep. Gojo never settled as a light or deep sleeper. At night it varied, where one night a single creak could make his eyes snap open or where even the loudest of shouts couldn’t wake him up.

And the tired Gojo Satoru that was left at your kind mercy was deep in sleep, off in dreamland. You worried for him, not that a curse could leave him for dead but that his own disregard for his own wellbeing could end up killing him. He always put others before himself, taking care of his own; even if to others it didn’t seem like that. 

And that worry only peaks when you hear a soft buzz on the floor.

Thankfully it wasn’t enough to wake him up, so you quietly took his phone out of his jacket without stopping your fingers from playing with the ends of his hair.

It was one of the higher ups again, practically demanding that Satoru had another job to do.

Anger rose up in your body, but you didn’t let it control you. Only sending a message reading ‘He won’t be taking it’, you shut his phone off. Was it a little harsh? Just a bit. But they deserved it, Gojo was not a machine. 

He was a human, with needs and wants, just like any other person.

Standing up, you fixed the blanket that was roughly covering him up and went to change. You thought about waking him up to take a bath, but he needed sleep. 

So you took a loose shirt of his and a pair of sweatpants and set it over to where he was sleeping. He was still drooling, still snoring, only having shifted a little. Good. 

Next was food. Gojo had been living off of unhealthy food for some time now, so something soft could help settle his stomach from the contrast of street food and an uncanny amount of sweets. White curry, which was a favorite of his ever since he went to Hokkaido and tried it, seemed to fit for tonight.

Chicken katsu would be accompanying the curry, since he needed the protein. 

Roughly an hour into cooking you felt long arms circle around your torso and tighten. It nearly gave you a heart attack, the arms pulling you slightly away from the stove where you held chopsticks and chicken was cooking on the heated pan.

“Shit Satoru, give me a warning next time.”

“Potty mouth.”

His head was resting on top of yours. He was taller than most people, so his neck was slightly arching downwards. No doubt giving him a bit of pain, but it seemed he paid no mind to it.

“Whatcha cookin’, honey?” 

You hummed, “Chicken katsu right now, we’re eating white curry tonight.” 

It was Satoru’s turn to hum, burying his face now into the nape of your neck, giving it small nips. You leaned backwards, bumping into him as if to say ‘quit it’. He knows you didn’t mean it harshly, so Satoru only hummed again and faced towards the food on the stove.

“It smells good.”

“Yeah?” 

“Definitely, yeah.”

You both stood there, silently appreciating each other as it had been some time since you’ve spent time like this. Satoru ends up softly swaying the two of you side to side, playfully pinching at your skin that his hands could reach. 

“Yknow, it felt nice to wake up to the smell of your cooking.”

That comment made your smile falter just a little bit. Knowing his past, you knew he had grown up with barren walls and very little happiness. The clan where he had gotten his name did not treat him with love. The only smell of food he would ever get was the food that was delivered to his room. No one to eat with, no one but the four white walls that enclosed his room. 

But with you, Gojo had learned things. He learned that dinner was not a time of silence, but a time of noise. The clinking of tableware, the sounds of voices conversing. And the feeling of contentment hanging and infecting the air. To him, a house that smelled like home was one where he could find you cooking.

Taking a deep breath in you calmed yourself and told Satoru to go take a bath,

“But I'm hungry.”

“The rice is still cooking ‘toru, so go take a bath in the meantime, ok?”

“But what if I don't want to take a bath?”

“Satoru, you stink.” The tone of your voice being playful.

“I do not! I smell great, for your information.”

And he did, even with the days of only showering quickly and hastingly going to bed he still smelled good. Like rain water, and something deep that just smelled like him. But if fatigue had a smell, you would say it was lingering on his body.

“Doesn’t matter stinky, now go bathe.”

He whined, but reluctantly began pulling away from the heat your bodies created.

“Promise you won’t forget about me?”

“It's hard to forget you, Satoru.”

“I’m going away to bathe, all alone, it’s scary when I'm all alone.”

“Want a kiss to stay safe then?”

That made him smile ear to ear, taking your chin and letting his lips clash softly with yours. Satoru kissed gently, he kissed roughly, and he kissed as if he was putting his whole heart and soul into it. And he did. Everything he did to you and with you was everything to him. 

Giving your side a hard but playful pinch, he left you with a sore spot and went over to the bathroom to bathe (taking the clean clothes you left near him). 

By the time Satoru has returned, food had already been plated and set onto the table. A sight he would never grow tired of seeing. He happily slid over to where you were standing, leaning on the counter checking your phone. 

He reattached himself to your previous position, draping himself all over you and practically shielding you from everything else that wasn’t him.

“I’m back, did you miss me?”

“Terribly so.”

Satoru grunted and pulled you with him over to the table. Fighting against the monstrosity of a man would prove useless, you learned that out the hard way multiple times before. He let you go to be able to sit down, taking his own seat that was next to you. Why should I sit so far away from you, it’s better this way! Was his argument some time ago when Satoru said he wanted to eat next to you. 

His hair was slightly wet, you could tell by the water droplets that had caught themselves into his shirt. The collar being dotted with dark spots from his bangs. You decided to say nothing, as the sight of Gojo Satoru grabbing onto his chopsticks and anxiously digging into his food was something that could leave you content for days. But your growing hunger made your stomach make noise, so you followed after him.

“Mmm, I love the way you make this curry.”

“And after only looking at the recipe once.”

“Show off.”

“But you still love it.”

“Of course I do! White curry is way better than regular curry.”

“That’s only because you have an unhealthy affection towards dairy, ‘toru.”

“Hokkaido milk is amazing, are you- perhaps jealous?”

“Satoru, I’d have to be pretty weird to be jealous of dairy.”

The rest of dinner was eaten the way Satoru liked it, with you. 

Dishes had taken a little longer to wash, as a water fight ensued, with a plate almost breaking but being cleverly rescued by Satoru’s infinity. You had tasked him with cleaning up the spilled water on the floor while you dried the newly washed dishes and put them away. My new name should be Cinderella now, so cruel to me, my own spouse, he pouted. 

Well that was Gojo Satoru for you.

By the time the kitchen was cleaned, night had already fallen. No more sunlight peeked through the curtains, only faint moonlight and streetlights. Lights within the house had been turned on as well; a warm glow that emitted from them. 

And now, the both of you were in your living room, Satoru laying his whole body on top of you like a sheet. His head resting on your sternum while he faced the tv. You had placed the blanket he was using earlier to cover now the two of you. The tv was playing a movie, but only a few minutes in, not even twenty: you could feel Satoru’s breathing start to get even deeper.

You nudged him lightly, feeling a little bad about it when he jumped a bit and made his chin now rest on your chest to look at you.

“You wanna move to the bed now, sleepyhead?”

Satoru didn’t respond until after he yawned, complaining after you said he needed to brush his teeth.

“No, I don't want to. I’m comfortable here.”

“You sure, it’s bigger than the couch, baby.”

He hummed, moving his hand that tucked under him like a cat would and poked your cheek.

“I’m more than happy to sleep here, if it’s with you.”

Raising your own hand, you cupped his face. The face of the man you fell in love with, the man who bore himself to you.

“Ok, just don’t complain when you have back pain.”

“Dummy you ruined the moment.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Go to sleep, Satoru”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

He was a hard working man. But the best payment he could ever receive, was to be able to come back home to you.

[angelcent]

husband choso who comforts your daughter when she has a nightmare.

it’s past midnight when you’re woken up by the pitter-patter of small feet and hiccuping sobs entering your bedroom. you wake up first, but choso is faster, rushing out of bed to kneel down to your daughter. he doesn’t want to scare her so he gently inspects her, taking her tiny hands into his as he lifts her arm and checks for any injury.

tears are still running down the soft swell of her chubby cheeks when she wraps her arms around your husband and cries even harder into the crook of his neck. choso immediately scoops her up and brings her to your shared bed, all while soothing her and asking what’s wrong.

she had a bad dream that choso had died. the topic of death was briefly touched on in her class recently due to a classmates grandparent passing, so you’re not entirely surprised by this. still, there’s a shared twist in both of your hearts at this because the last thing you want is for your sweet girl to experience any hurt. especially choso, who is oh so protective of his mini me.

but choso is a good man, husband, and father—so he wipes her tears away with his thumbs and comforts her. you hold her while he reassures her that he isn’t going anywhere because papa is strong; he reminds her how he easily carries you on his back, how he brings all the groceries in by himself, and how he never loses against uncle yuuji when they box against each other.

once your little girl is soothed and her innocent red-rimmed eyes are heavy with sleep, he places her between you two and kisses her forehead goodnight.

[theopteryx]

working through the steddie brainrot 🥲

[souglias]

Jaded.

You've come to find that this word has made a place in you. Even possibly, it's become you. For a word that contains the name of a precious gem, it is largely undesired.

But enough of you has been broken by those before, and you've done enough damage unto others.

A lone tree in an almost barren garden. That's what you've resigned yourself to be. You will not search for love, nor will you surround yourself with love. Like a warrior out to war, you will clad your too-brittle heart with diamond armour. A stingy merchant you will be, unwilling to give away any part of yourself.

Yet with the light flick of his fingers on your forehead, a seemingly saturnine man makes a deep indent on the walls of your glass city.

Al Haitham is worming his way into that rock-hard organ people would say is your heart with his silent acts. It sets off alarm sirens in your body.

Thoughts of him keep you awake at night and this by itself feels like a threat to your safe zone. If you choose to love him, you will eventually lay yourself and everything about yourself bare to him. There is no one to say that he will hold them the way he handles out-of-print research books filled with priceless knowledge. Nobody can guarantee you he will not take the deepest secrets you've hidden away and point them at you as a weapon in the future. The cycle of hurt and being hurt will begin again. An earthquake rumbles within you and you toss and turn in bed to distract yourself from it.

On those same soundless nights, you also wonder about letting him have a more cardinal role in your life. His fleeting touches set your skin alight and you cannot cease the thoughts about a more prolonged contact. His eyes are a scene you want to relish in, and you find the self-imposed time restraint in admiring them slightly challenging to adhere to. With just the tap of his book on your head and a few candid words, he dispels all the baseless worries you hold so heavily in your mind.

Your mind wanders to a possibility where he would preserve you and everything precious to you. One where you would thaw and let your garden bloom with flowers.

You will find euphoria in the way Al Haitham's hair tickles your fingers when you run your hand through the strands. For the years you have left, you will find hope in his eyes that are of the same colour as the distant fluorescent mushrooms in the flourishing Mawtiyima Forest. When your walls can no longer hold, you will find solace in his secure arms that will safeguard you.

Al Haitham's arms will pull you up in the darkest of days. The sound of his constant heartbeat will come to soothe you on your toughest nights and will tide you over to see the first rays of light. His rare smiles will be yours and only yours to find strength in.

The seemingly saturnine scribe of the Akademiya will water the fragile seedlings when you bring yourself to plant them again. He will let the warmth of the sun gradually thaw its way through the frozen lake. If you will be his eventually, then there will be no rush.

—

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed it!! All likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

[canarydarity]

(mooooooooooore DL rancher angst. because what else am I good for </3 /j)

No matter how you looked at it, the knock was startlingly out of place; it was late, late enough that a truce-like state should have fallen over the players, late enough that no one would want to risk running into more mobs than they could handle; it was peaceful, they hadn’t accrued more than a single pair of red names so far, and he didn’t think they’d given Ren and Bigb a reason to come after them—at least, not more than anyone else had; it was also them, all season people had been coming and going from the ranch as they pleased, not an ounce of courtesy in sight. If someone really wanted to come in, they woulda just done it. 

So, all in all…a knock?

Tango was already up and halfway across the room by the time his brain had synthesized these as the reasons why. 

Behind him, Jimmy called a wobbly and worried “Tangooo?” 

“Just,” Tango threw a hand backward towards the bed in hopes of staving off Jimmy’s shadow until he figured out what was going on. “Stay there, for a second.” 

Like some cut-off had been reached, the second he was close enough to wrap his hand around the handle all haste had vanished—the feeling of urgency holding a negative association with his proximity to the door. He’d had the nerve to get up, to get himself there, but getting his hand to turn and push was an entirely different thing. 

The door not yet having been opened, the possibility of what was waiting for him on the other side yawned and stretched towards endless. In a way, not knowing but speculating was worse than just opening the damn thing and facing the one singular scenario that was, but that was why he struggled to do it. Schrodinger’s danger—this was stupid; Tango opened the door. 

No one was there. 

He blinked in the face of its emptiness for a moment. Of all the situations he had considered, absolutely zero of them included opening the door to nothing. The one definite thing a knock spoke to was the presence of someone—something. So, what, they risked the middle of the night in peace times to come to the ranch they all loved barging into anyway to ding-dong ditch? That seemed, like, a gazillion times more unlikely.  

Tango moved to shut the door, trying to shake off the adrenaline, the too-familiar feeling of someone else being a step ahead of him and bemused by it. He ducked to turn back to Jimmy, play the brave one, laugh it off in hopes Jimmy would follow, and then, he saw: just a glint in the corner of his eye, something small and shiny on the doorstep. 

A golden apple. 

Tango stared at it the way you’d stare at a car crash you hadn’t the chance to get out of the way of in time, the look a doctor had in their eye when they announced your prognosis was bad, abysmal, terminal. It was the brightest thing for yards—a glowing, unignorable fixed point; the kind of bright that in tree frogs usually indicated poisonous, the kind of glowy cartoonists made chemicals when they wanted you to know falling in would reduce you to bones. And it just sat there. 

“Tango,” behind him, the bed creaked. “What is it?” 

Urgency returned, and, with renewed purpose, Tango moved once more. Fear flooded his senses again—it hadn’t really gotten very far to begin with—but this time it was of a different breed, born from someplace else. He tried to both square himself in the doorway, block the view out, and regain nonchalance, affecting some sort of behavior that would convince Jimmy to just leave things be. “Nothing, don—”

But Jimmy was already behind him, and Tango wasn’t tall enough to obstruct his line of sight. 

“Oh.”

And it sort of felt like Tango had failed. Failed what he didn’t know but by the stone in his stomach he knew that he had. He tracked the feeling all the way down his throat and through his middle, getting hooked and snagging on his organs as it went, pulling them with it until he was completely out of alignment, rearranged all wrong; the moment where you opened a test booklet and realized you didn’t know a single answer. 

He shook his head, an aborted no becoming no more than a breath that passed his lips at just the right angle to whistle or whine. He bent down and picked up the apple, and, no sooner than he stood again, lobbed it down the hill towards the ravine in some effort to rectify even a modicum of his uselessness. The apple thunked hard into the dewy late-night grass, probably rolled somewhere out of the way; he didn’t know, he couldn't see it anymore—he’d have to grab it and dispose of it at some point, but he could do that in the morning. He had other things to attend to. 

Tango shut the door and turned to assess the damage. 

Jimmy’s arms were goosebumped where they were exposed—just his white undershirt left on to sleep in—and his head was tilted down, the top of it visible to Tango more than anything else, his hair not mused enough yet to be called bedhead though it was certainly a start. Tango took a step towards him, crowded him just a little, placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s waist, skin warmth bleeding through the thin cotton, and the other on the junction where his shoulder met his neck. Jimmy stayed looking down. 

Tango couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say. 

After a few seconds, Jimmy sniffled, pulled up one of his hands and ran it across his nose, mushed it into his cheek. 

“Hey,” he ventured softly, in the absence of any other thought. Jimmy only glanced up slightly. “Let's…go back to bed, yeah?”

If it hadn’t already been clear that all chances of sleep had been banished by the panic of a late-night knock, it was by the way they both responded to that statement by sitting on the side of the bed rather than lying back down. A haze had fallen over the room, a trance-like state prompting them to move in the way they thought they should, in the way it seemed they were being directed; their actions pre-determined, someone else's hand on the joystick. Robotically, they maneuvered onto the bed side-by-side, silence still reigning, eye contact (from one party) still vehemently denied.  

And it just…wasn’t fair. The way there was no period of wondering between the discovery and the understanding, the way Tango didn’t see the apple and question why it was there, but rather knew, innately, what was being poked, prodded at. He hadn’t stopped to doubt, he hadn’t been confused, and maybe that’s what was the most upsetting—not the presence of the apple alone, but the way the person who left it was confident its message would be interpreted without fail. The way Tango was complicit by letting it.

It was the fact that he hadn’t opened the door to a trap or an ambush, but to a taunt; the apple not left behind as some sort of distraction, someone waiting to break in the back while they looked out the front, but as something else entirely, something completely unrelated to the game and its progression. There were no hidden motives, no ulterior plans—only the sadistic amusement that came with throwing a rock into a pond just to see the fish scatter. It didn’t put whoever did it ahead, it didn’t force them to fall any more behind. It just was, and it was cruel. 

Jimmy was still silently staring at the opposing wall, the both of them not even bothering to pretend they weren’t dwelling, and the more Tango sat in the discomfort that had fallen over the ranch, the more he thought, the angrier he got. He couldn’t just be here anymore and not do a single fucking thing about it. He leaned nearly entirely off the bed in his reach for his shoes, shoved his feet into them without precision or care about their security, and was up, diverting on his way towards the door to scrunch the fabric of his vest and pull it off the back of the chair it rested on, before turning on his heel and then he was off—

He was stopped with a hand gripping his forearm in its passing by, came to with Jimmy shouting “Tango!” for what he knew likely wasn’t the first time. 

Tango looked. Jimmy hadn’t gotten off the bed, but he’d leaned forward to latch onto Tango and stop his campaign, his eyebrows raised in misery, his lips downturned in upset. He wasn’t looking away, just around; his eyes landing on the wall behind where Tango was standing, on the door that had remained quiet since they’d shut it again, on Tango’s chest, or his hand around Tango’s arm. It was the closest Tango had gotten to eye contact in minutes. 

“What are you gonna walk around in the dark ‘til you find who put that there?”

Yes, if he had to—if that’s what it took. But before he could even begin to open his mouth, Jimmy pled, “Tango…” like he hadn’t really been asking, like he’d been hoping saying it would confirm Tango knew that idea was nonsense, not that Tango had been meaning to try regardless. It begged for common sense, it betrayed its wish to concede. 

Tango let out all the air he’d reserved for his returning argument as a heavy breath, almost a sigh, a huff. Its frustration was clear. He knew he wasn’t going to find them, he knew there was no conclusion to be had, he knew the joke had already hit and the moment had already ended. He knew that. But he also knew that complacency wasn’t the answer, and that Jimmy deserved to be fought for. 

He could’ve gone out anyway, walked around until the sun started coming up and all the mobs turned to ash—hell, he could’ve knocked on goddamn doors, inspired the same kind of fear in everyone else that a late night interruption in a game like this did them, and then demanded answers, no more Mr. nice guy. At least that way, he wouldn’t have had to lay back down, to have the conversation he hadn’t stopped thinking about since. 

But Jimmy said, “Can we just go back to bed? Please?” And knew it was a request that couldn’t be denied, knew the power in this interaction that being the victim afforded him, and knew how to play his cards to get Tango to fold. 

Tango took his shoes off, again, kicked them out of the way of the bed, gestured behind Jimmy with the hand that wasn’t being detained. Jimmy scooted backward on the bed, Tango’s forearm still in hand like the moment he let go Tango would dash immediately out the door, or dematerialize entirely, maybe; or even…run down the hill in search of something shimmering gold, and find himself unable to resist just one sweet bite. Tango followed him, nudged his shoulder until he complied and laid back down, allowing Tango to pull him closer as he did too. 

Jimmy still didn’t look at him. They were nearly eye to eye, only one pillow to share between them both, face to face in the dark; their foreheads leaning against one another, shifting away only to find each other again after any and all movement. 

Tango watched the sentence form on Jimmy's lips, watched his face rearrange throughout the composing of the question, the stringing of the words in a line, packaging them to be delivered. He swallowed as he awaited its transmission. 

“If it weren’t against the rules, would you…?”

And Tango said, “It is against the rules,” before that could get any further. The wrong answer. He knew immediately after he said it that it was, and he’d kick himself for it if he could any feasibly at all without getting Jimmy in the crossfire. He knew better than to give a non-answer, but he hadn’t been responding to the actual question, his first thought only stop—a futile hope he could head off Jimmy’s negative feedback loop by undermining it at its core. Another failure on his part. 

Jimmy closed his eyes, shook his head, “But if it weren’t—”

“No.” 

Tango placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s cheek, tilted his head back up towards his, but Jimmy’s eyes remained trained down. “No,” he repeated—he insisted. He didn’t need the eye contact to know Jimmy didn’t believe him. 

He leaned up and kissed Jimmy on the forehead, slid his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and held him closer, but neither of them fell asleep for a while.

[drenchedfireworks]

Whatever you do, do not think about Elain torturing Lucien by pulling all her hair off her back and over her shoulder, and asking him to tighten the strings on her corset.

Lucien, praying for strength from higher forces, has to block out her scent, the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers, her hair that's tickling the side of his face, her nape, the slope of her throat, the dip of her waist- so, so tiny and the curve of her ass.

When he finally (miraculously) manages to tighten and ties all the strings together, Elain turns and shyly holds a box up to him, the lid open and displaying the single petal shaped ruby pendant with the rosegold chain, the delicate piece being the first gift he'd given her when he officially started courting her.

Her request does not have to be voiced. Carefully, Lucien takes it out of the box and lays it against her chest, once again trying to keep his focus on the task at hand and off the generous view of her cleavage and the supple skin of her breasts that was accentuated by the corset. Once Lucien is done, he steps back to admire his handiwork and catches his mate's eye in mirror, noticing her mischievous expression. She loves putting him on the spot. Courting her before they accepted the mating bond meant he could not act on his baser instincts that were begging him to rip the corset off her and take her to bed instead of the dinner they were getting ready for.

That doesn't mean he doesn't get his own revenge. Months later when he can finally undo those strings for a change, he does so with deliberate slowness that drives Elain half-mad until she turns and pulls on his belt, her mouth scrunching up in exasperation while she tries to make Lucien go quicker, rid her of her clothes faster. And he does. Until all she's wearing is the ruby pendant, one he hooks two fingers in and pulls her up with to kiss her while he's buried so deep in that she can feel him in her stomach.

Later, Lucien decides Elain needs a matching crown.

[alienaiver]

"that's it. i'm removing you from the roster until you've stopped by the doctor."

you look at midoriya in disbelief. unable to keep yourself poised at his final decision, your shoulders slump and the exhaustion washes over you like a wave. he's seen through you.

it's been a year since your near-death experience with an all-too-powerful villain and while shinsou took great care of you during your recovery, something's been off ever since - you haven't been able to put a finger on it, though, so you decided to do what every self-sacrificing hero does: you powered through. until there was no power left to muscle your way out of it. and now it's become visible to others too. you have a feeling shinsou might've ratted you out, but you don't blame him. you'd done the same if it were him.

you get home in a daze and fall face first onto the bed. you don't wake up until you feel the weight shift and the warmth of shinsou's lips touches your cheek. but you don't have the energy to react with more than a hum. your eyelids are so heavy. there's a ringing in your ears but it's so constant that it just feels like a persistent buzz. shinsou says something as he settles behind you, arms wrapping themselves around you. for a while, you think there's silence but he says your name sternly in a voice he only uses when he knows you're not entirely listening to him. huh. you're mostly used to hearing it on the battlefield.

"i'm worried about you."

you sigh and hum, pushing yourself weakly back onto him, "'ve got a doc's appointment..... tomorrow."

he kisses the crown of your head, "okay... okay, good."

he's drawing soft circles into your arm and you drift away again. he wakes you when there's dinner and you perk up again slightly, but not enough to make him stop worrying his lip between his teeth. you fall asleep fifteen minutes into a movie later that night.

you put on your shoes and lock the door behind you, putting the keys in your pocket as you turn for the stairs at the end of the hall. you really wish there'd been an elevator in your building right now. as you walk down the steps, your feet feels heavier but you chalk it up to be your shoes. it's the sneakers you don't wear that often, but it's too cold for sandals today. you shrug it off and just concentrate more on walking.

the doctor goes through your symptoms with you but there's hardly any, you reassure her. you're just so exhausted no matter how many hours you sleep. she warns you that you may be sleeping too much. you agree with a laugh - you don't remember ever sleeping so many hours, having been an insomniac your entire youth. she does some blood tests and sends you home, saying you'll be called in when the answers are back.

the days that pass are all a blur. without your shifts at the agency, time becomes fuzzy around the edges. you don't have to get up, so you just stay in bed, since you've been told you need to rest anyways. on the third day you wake up to several notes on the bedside table, the bathroom mirror and the kitchen counter and fridge from shinsou with various reminders about eating and drinking properly and where he's stocked some snacks and prepped some food for you to reheat easily. you chuckle and shake your head at his antics. you're just tired, is all. the headaches comes with the job, you remind yourself as you try to gently massage out the tension in your neck to relieve your pounding head. he might be right about the water intake - you grab the cold bottle he's put in the fridge for you and brings it with you to the bed.

"i think you should call and ask if they've gotten the answers yet." shinsou says matter-of-factly and you nod, "yeah, it has been a few days. but it's the weekend, right? i'll call on monday." and that ends the conversation.

monday comes but you forget to call, even if you've been determined to do so. by the time you remember, the office is closed for the day. you sigh heavily and fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. you prepare the apology for shinsou on your tongue before you drift off.

tuesday morning your phone rings - several times. you finally reach out and pick up, thinking it's shinsou.

"i do apologize for the wait. the doctor unfortunately had to take some time off last week, but we have your results. will you be able to come in today?"

you agree, dragging yourself up. there's more energy in you today, but it should've been way more given the intense rest you've been having. you put on one of shinsou's hoodies and a pair of sweats before you drag yourself to the kitchen to grab a bite.

turns out, you suffer from anemia. an intense, prolonged form and need medication as soon as possible. shinsou's livid when he comes home and gets the news, angry that it has been missed when the agency periodically keeps an eye on their heroes' health. you sit on the chair with your hands folded like a child being scolded and try to laugh it off, "come on now, hito. i just need to take some medication and i'll be fine. the usual blood tests the past year haven't covered that - even if they should, i know," you hurry to add, "but i'll be fine, i promise."

shinsou sighs and his whole body slumps, leaning against the table you're sitting by. you take his hand, "i'm okay."

he visibly relaxes but there's something he's holding back. you've been together since high school, so you can read him like a book. you squeeze his hand, "open up."

he clicks his tongue with furrowed brows before he opens his mouth, "you've had these symptoms for months. why didn't you tell me?"

you look at the ground, guilt written on your face. mostly, because you don't have a proper answer to give him. you don't know why you didn't - the symptoms had all been sneaking up on you, snaking their way into your body quietly and suddenly it'd just become so chronic that you'd normalized it. you let out an apology and he squeeze your hand back, "it's okay to not have an answer. but please, can we be mindful of things like this in the future?"

you smile at him, "only if you continue to make the little post-it notes. they're adorable - especially your small doodles of dogs."

shinsou hides his face in his hands with a groan, "they were cats."

[toburnup]

snooze button | by adure | steddie | rated E

Eddie wakes up to the feeling of fingers running down his chest even though he's alone in bed.

This hasn't happened in a long time.

(AU: Eddie feels the physical sensations when someone dreams about him).

[read on ao3] - dub/non-con elements (read tags)

[thatcrazycrowgirl]

“Come. How about you help me find something suitable, hmm? You’ve always had a good eye for color.” He then gave you a little smirk as you took a few steps forward and placed your hand in his. “After all, I want to look my best, in case I actually need to interact with anybody.” He gave you a wink and pulled you close to him. Despite the familiar anxiety you always felt when you learned that Arno had to head off on a mission, you couldn’t stop the corners of your mouth from turning up. In the meantime, your hands rested upon his bare chest, silently admiring the strong muscle of his pectorals. How you were going to miss the feel of his strong, sturdy frame against yours. His breath hitched when your thumbs lightly brushed over his nipples, making them perk up a bit. “Trying to make me late?” he attempted to jest, not sounding anywhere as smooth as he planned in his head. His own hands found their way to your waist. You looked up at him from under your eyelashes. “Like you’d complain about spending more time here than in that cold cellar your Brotherhood calls a home.” He smiled. “Touché.”

When you're trying to write a cute scenario involving helping Arno pick out an outfit, and it devolves into a semi-steamy moment of admiring his body instead... 😳😳😅

[kinyboo]

"Life could not be any better."

[flayedintheusa]

Hallucinogenics

// ao3 // Hallucinogenics - Matt Maeson: YouTube // Spotify //

They thought it would be funny. 

Every idea is always real funny, in theory. And, like, super smart pre-practice. A real brain-baby. Extreme intelligence. 

And then you’re standing in a hallway wondering why your legs feel like rivers, not quite sure what that means, only that it’s true. There’s no other way to describe the feeling of muscles turning into rivulets of water over stones, vibrating incessantly and wondering, if you dared to take a step, would you sink into an amorphous puddle from your heel to your hip?

The answer is no, you don’t. You do, however, feel the answering thud of every footstep reverberate through your body, all the way up your bones, crawling up your spine, giving your organs vertigo; the only reason the nausea doesn’t meet the proper brain waves is because you’re so focused on why you are moving and what you are moving to. Or through. 

The air feels like liquid— or at least like the heaviest steam ever endured from the post-practice showers. It’s thick, and Steve's lungs don’t expand enough anyway. They can feel the way his skin stretches on inhale— his abdomen, his chest, his back and shoulders— and they don’t like it. At least not right now. They’re very busy, his lungs, maintaining the pulsing of a heart that feels like it’s been wrapped tight to his spine with Saran wrap. 

There’s also, like, thirteen different colors he hasn’t seen before, and one of them has to leave because thirteen is a very unlucky number. 

The warp of the walls swallows him whole as he moves toward the living room, the beat of whatever is playing turning his brain from its current spiral-state into a drum-induced fuzz. His reckless heartbeat tries to keep pace with it, ignoring the plastic wrapped around it— how it tightens the walls around his lungs. 

The hall spits him out into the living room. Some people move quickly, others very slowly. Some not at all. None seem to notice him. He watches them, aware of nothing but themselves. 

The plaid of Nancy’s skirt extends into the space around itself, the yellow crosshatching lines leaning in to grip the pockets on Jonathan’s pants. He’s swinging his beer bottle slightly, and it lags on the back bow, the glint of it colliding with Eddie’s pocket chain. It slithers away from him, and Steve feels like he should let him know. It’s on the run. 

Steve glances up to look at him, with his long, feral hair and devil-horned shirt, realizing in the moment that noises are futile. His throat is lined with psilocybin; his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth like a suction cup to glass. When their eyes connect, Eddie lifts his hands into horns and widens his eyes, sticking his tongue out past his grin. His face swirls around in circles and Steve feels his own eyes widen at the spiral. 

There’s suddenly large, warm hands on both of his shoulders that instantly cause him to turn cold with shock, the immediate surprise slipping down his body like ice water, like the foam of a wave as it slides down the shore; he feels every part of himself as it cascades over him until the floor swallows it. The hands move his body to the side— out of the way of the hall— and Argyle’s large, closed grin appears over his shoulder, very close to his face. His eyes are hardly visible, and the blanket of his hair swallows him like a shroud. Like a funeral veil. Or Morticia Addams. 

“Do you feel it?” he asks, his face unmoving, the voice echoing under the music. It bounces around in Steve’s brain, lagging, deeper than it should be, synapses firing slowly. Argyle turns his face to the crowd in slow motion; he looks at Eddie, gives him a labored thumbs up, or maybe Steve’s just seeing everything like a fish in a tank. 

He watches the taller teen’s shadow leave with a blur trailing behind it, like time struggles to keep up with the movement, and a new song kicks up. Eddie points at Steve knowingly as he sips his bottle, time apparently unwilling to slow for him as he moves about wildly, yet languorously. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics My cigarette burnt my finger  'Cause I forgot I lit it

He doesn’t know why Eddie’s smiling. He can’t hear it. Everything’s warbled except the hollow pulse of the strum; and that’s mainly because he can feel it. It demands him, swallows him up via the floor and unrelenting until it reaches the crown of his head. A body moves past him, a dark shadow, and he follows it with his eyes on instinct. It enters the passage to the kitchen, fairy and Christmas lights tacked carelessly to the ceiling to illuminate the dark. Some of them flash. It overwhelms his senses. The bar counter juts out into the living space, chairs littered about and caricature bodies taking up the seats like people in a painting. Ribbons float between them, and his eyes follow the spiritual amalgamation of mist to its source slowly. Not mist, smoke. 

At the edge of the bar, a cigarette sits limply between two fingers. Two fingers that belong to Billy Hargrove, who stares at him from ten feet away. 

Rippin' with my sinners  'Cause fuck it, man, I ain't no beginner

He’s smiling, teeth bright in the shine of the Christmas lights, eyes lidded and elbow propped on the back of his chair. Steve tries to understand which of the dark curls twined about him are real, and which are shadows. 

And then I crawled back to the life  That I said I wouldn't live in

The lights glint off of that faultless hair, some steady and some flashing, and the reds and blues and greens bounce back from the curls into his irises like a dented halo. His leg is stretched out before him, the other bent to rest his boot against the foot bar of the stool. He looks measured, and relaxed. Like composure with the backbone of a puddle. 

'Cause I just couldn't open up I'm always shiftin'

Steve feels the directness of his stare a little too deeply. He’s facing him fully, and Steve feels like, somewhere in the quicksand of his mind, there’s always some kind of game. He always has to match it. He lets his shoulder drag against the wall, steadying himself as he turns. He tilts his head against it, the leisurely hum of the music more prominent, and in an instant the sound opens up to him. Hargrove’s smile shifts, pinching his bottom lip between his canines. 

Go find yourself a man  Who's strong and tall and Christian

The following silence is loud. The word Christian lingers in the air between them, rests on these ropes he feels tethered to each of their chests, like some kind of mockery. He reaches a hand out slowly in front of him like he could swipe the ropes away, or at least follow it to find where it’s linked to him and untie it. Hargrove follows his movements steadily, studying, copying him like a perfect mirror. Steve wonders if that means he’s smiling, too. 

The sudden sound is loud, bright, like simply the entrance of booming noise has caused the sure, definite lines of solid things to bounce and reverberate and change color. He jumps. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics

Across from him, Hargrove’s body moves in a steady twitch, and Steve realizes he’s laughing. He suddenly jumps himself, visibly hissing as he throws his cigarette behind him. 

My cigarette burnt my finger  'Cause I forgot I lit it

The perfect timing of the lyrics, delivered by that grieving voice, makes Steve laugh too. To his surprise, Hargrove is still smiling when he resettles. When they connect again. His smile slowly closes, his eyes shuttering heavily, and he looks away to reach ever so slowly to the floor behind the corner of the bar. Steve watches the way the lights fight to rest on his hair, growing and flowing and dancing on a floor they grace for mere moments, with what other than enrapture. 

He leans back up with two bottles gripped into his hand, rests the cap of one on the edge of the counter and smacking it down, followed closely by the other. He looks at Steve again, hardly arching a single brow. 

Steve wonders if he can trust the rivers of his legs to move more than they already have. 

Drunken in Seattle Two more Xans and without a paddle I don't remember your face  Or your hair, or your name, or your smile

He’s sharpened up close. Almost too sharp. 

Steve can track the shadows as they grow over him, as he moves closer. How his hair becomes easier to discern from shadow to curl, how his lashes develop their own as they flit over his cheeks, which themselves become sharper as the lights stake their righteous claim above him. His tan, his freckles, his pores, his blush, his dimples, they’re all littered with a glow that seems… well, lovely, doesn’t it?

It’s hard to think he’s ever had any bite, here, glittering with the psychedelics in his system. Unbidden. Uncaring. Enamored. Enthralled. 

There’s something pulling on the ropes. He feels it viscerally. 

He finds a way to uncurl his fingers, feels every bone. They wrap around the bottle. The index finger of his other hand slides the bottle cap toward himself, spins it. 

'Cause I just couldn't open up I'm always shiftin' Go find yourself a man  Who's strong and tall and Christian

“Are you Christian, Harrington?” Hargrove smirks, slightly blocked by the neck of his bottle. The words are clearer than Argyle’s. They strike him, resound in his skull, lose definition the more he thinks about how they sound before he can even think to ponder what they mean. 

The bottle is cold in his hand. Wet from the cooler it was sitting in. He brings it to his lips, wondering how anything in the world claiming to be a drink can make his mouth feel dryer, somehow. “Don’t know him,” he says, sliding the cap toward Hargrove. “Heard he’s a pretty good doctor.”

Hargrove laughs. It’s a nice sound. He shakes his head, the mullet ruffles, he wants to touch it. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics

“That's miracles, not treatment,” he offers. Steve wants to ask if he’s Christian. He sinks his fingers into his hair instead. 

And then I crawled back to the life  That I said I wouldn't live in

His smile disappears. His eyes, as hooded as they were before, don’t shift. His lips part on their own accord, a small cave of risk that allows Steve to feel the uninhibited breath that falls past them and ghosts over the inside of his forearm. It’s softer than he’d thought it would be, Billy’s hair. The curls hug his fingers as they wrap around his digits, unfurling lightly as they move through to the ends. He twists them between his fingertips as he reaches their tips, the soft tug enticing Billy to follow. 

Steve leans closer, over the plane of the counter, and does it again. The stone sends cool pricks through his skin, taking the majority of weight he didn’t know until now was a task to hold up. 

Billy leans forward too, following the tug of Steve’s fingers. His body turns only slightly, facing Steve fully again; his elbows rest on the bar, eyes unable to cease their scour of his face. 

'Cause I carried on like the wayward son And now through and through, I've come undone

It seems to echo in Billy’s mind, based on the way he traces the word undone voicelessly. Steve traces his lips with his eyes as he does. The swell of his bottom lip. The curves of his cupid's bow. The gap left between them as he seems to stare at Steve’s own. The way his tongue darts out to wet it, catching on the dry skin and memorizing the way it pulls. He mirrors it subconsciously, and Billy’s eyes flash to his. 

And now I am just but the wayward man What with my bloodshot eyes and my shaky hand

Steve reaches the ends of his hair again, and he thinks of a time when he’ll be allowed to touch it after this. How it might not come. And that’s just… not something he wants to think about. He wants to think about the way it feels, silkily sliding down the joints of his fingers, softly slipping over their pads. The traces of his prints left on each strand. What it would feel like if… if—

He doesn’t quite formulate the thought before it happens, those freezing, ice blue eyes driving deep into his as he reaches up again. No sign of halting him. He pushes his fingers midway into the longest strands— the locks that cascade over his shoulder, resting easily on his collar bone— and winds them up over his knuckles, until they rest by the root, and tugs. 

A small moan. 

'Cause I carried on like the wayward son And now through and through, I've come undone

Steve sighs. The opposite of a gasp; it leaves him softly, hot, in a quick breath. Billy’s fingers wrap suddenly around his wrist. His eyes—at some point having closed— flutter open. Lids heavy. Steve’s mouth feels dry for a completely different reason. He realizes he feels hot. Unbearably warm. Like there’s fire all around him, inside of him, and it’s consuming him at a much faster rate than he wishes to allow, wanting this moment to last forever. 

Those pools delve into him, and he swims. The lifeguard with eyes that look exactly like the water he maintains. He carries them with him everywhere, wherever he goes, and Steve drowns in them. Wonders if Billy will pull him out, if he’ll save him. Or if this is what being saved feels like. 

His fingers are tight around Steve’s wrist. Almost bruising. It anchors him, only slightly. To his detriment, it also pulls him in. 

And now I am just but the wayward man What with my bloodshot eyes and my shaky hand

His grip tightens again, tugging, and Billy leans further in. And he’s not sure who fills the space, but suddenly his lips feel the fire. A furnace of lit heat, as they move across Billy’s. Whatever the trip was before seems to narrow down into a fine tip, fitting on the head of a needle, as his brain zeroes in on this one point. The slotting of his mouth against his own, Billy’s hand reaching up into Steve’s own hair, tugging and trailing down as it brushes over his ear, holding his jaw tight and forceful. Like he’s afraid he’ll fly away. Dissipate into a mirage. 

They fall apart and come back together fast, needy, release and recapture, and Steve’s head spins. Billy Hargrove tastes like beer and cigarettes and cherry gum. He smells like smoke and mahogany and coconut and chlorine. He feels like timber and granite and silk and fire. He sounds like a dream. 

His tongue drifts out against Steve’s lip, and he hauls Billy in closer, opening easily, moaning softly as it swipes against his own. Positively laves it. He needs purchase, needs it like the minimal air he’s receiving, and needs to hold onto this because he’s never felt anything quite like Billy Hargrove’s mouth. 

Steve’s other hand slides up around his cheek, fingers lining the hairline at the top of his neck, tilts his head further to delve into his mouth, it’s his turn. He steps into his space, Billy’s palm tightening on his jaw as he eases back onto his stool. He takes his place between Billy’s knees, nipping at his lip, pulls it with his teeth. 

His other fist is wrapped into Steve’s shirt, his eyes glazed as he looks up under those shadow-cast lashes at Steve, too close, not close enough. There’s almost a question somewhere in the depths of his deep blue eyes, darkened by something discreetly impure. Something indignant. 

Steve feels his tunnel vision spiral. His heart rate is no longer influenced by the music. His lips buzz; they taste like cigarettes, like cherry gum, when sucked into his mouth. He takes the leap, leans in to what he wants. Swings his leg over Billy’s thigh, presses fully against him. Watches, feels, through his chest, his neck, his mouth, as Billy groans, and catches it as it falls past his lips. Hungry. Savage and feral. 

His hands sink into his hair, fisting it tight. Billy’s wrap around his hips like a vice, pushing him down, pulling him forward. 

“Fuck,” he groans. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics

Steve presses a thigh into him. Licking into his mouth, addicted from the first hit. His skin is a livewire. It buzzes everywhere Billy touches. His lips slide with purpose, press to eat him alive, consumption the only drive. His head spins, and Billy’s going to kill him. 

He always thought it would be from his fists. 

Not from the pure ecstasy of his mouth. His lips. His tongue. Driving him wild. Carrying him away like a tidal wave. 

My cigarette burnt my finger  'Cause I forgot I lit it

[compacflt]

Fully support your desire to cut down on the extras as they're already so long, but as someone who was also looking forward to the sickfic section and is sad to hear it's been taken out, I will simply have to ask you about it instead! First off the discussion of home in the snippet you shared was delicious - when do you think Mav started thinking of the house as 'their' home? And Ice taking Mav to the hospital has a lot of crunch there around how they're seen and how they act in public, especially if Ice was worried and Mav was kind of out of it. Do you think Ice would have taken Mav in to the hospital if he'd really been spiking a fever and decided he needed it? How would he explain themselves? And I suppose a separate, related question: who are their official next of kin/emergency contacts?

the reason i got rid of the sickfic is cause all those questions were answered better elsewhere in the extras ❤️

i was kind of annoyed that the house inconsistently appears to be the property of whomever the plot calls for at the moment -> another reason to cut the sickfic

Yes Ice would take mav to the hospital. it happens elsewhere LOL, maverick is extremely incident-prone

obviously a fun surfing injury with friends != the sickfic’s ice taking “a friend” to the hospital in the middle of the night for dangerous levels of illness-related dehydration… implies familiarity, intimacy above everyone else… the hospital staff would probably assume they’re together, yes, & i don’t think ice would challenge that at all, especially if he had to make sure all the paperwork was filled out right. just not worth the effort. “is there anyone else we should call for mr mitchell?” / “Um no. Just me.” Yeah i took him to the hospital at 4am bc i love him and im worried about him what r u gonna do about it 🤨 violate his hipaa rights? It’s 2009 gay people exist grow up🙄 hospital staff isn’t gonna tell anyone, so who cares

(Luckily for ice in the sickfic he didn’t have to take mav to the hospital)

the point of the sickfic was to establish a precedent for one of them voluntarily taking care of the other who is unable to take care of himself, to set up the parallel of maverick taking care of Ice when he Really gets capital-s Sick. but then i still can’t bring myself to write ice actually being capital-s Sick because i have some weird neurosis where i simply dislike thinking about ice (powerful guy) being helpless or incapacitated or, um, dead. so the mav-sickfic isn’t really relevant anymore because i haven’t written (and never plan on writing, besides that one half-assed one-shot) the corollary ice-sickfic. so the sickfic became the Nixed-fic ❌

And according to this wip wednesday snippet, they are each other’s emergency contacts. don’t ask me how that works or how they figured that out, idk. some stuff you do have to talk about for logistics purposes i guess. which is kind of the point of all the house-related/money-related discussions I’ve written throughout my fics—they Have to talk about the logistics because that’s real life. But they don’t INTERPRET those logistics or assign them a normative value.

for instance debriefing presents (maverick’s) death & taxes as the only two things that ever get them to actually talk to each other lol. logistics become a vessel through which they can talk about their situation without actually talking about it. The state of being each others emergency contacts might be a death-and-taxes discussion—acknowledging permanence without acknowledging permanence

[farrawayfromthere]

Beyond the Eye

Pairing: Kathryn Janeway x Seven of Nine

Summary: Seven requests quarters of her own; Kathryn feels bad about not having given her a room of her own years ago.