#without admitting how badly he does in small spaces

[viric-dreams]

Trying to sleep whilst simultaneously letting some potential lore scenes for future writing/art run in the back of my mind produces some truly unsettling results.

Under no circumstances would Roberts be court martialed for treason. Officer Beverley seems to understand this, but his logic is entirely backwards. Framed by the glow of the fireplace, Beverley leans back against the sole chair in his spartan lodgings and explains what he’s so sure is going to happen. If Roberts does not comply he intends to go to the London admiralty, to let them in on his missing time, the new player making waves in Anarchist circles, the lies at the foundation of his very existence. He seems to think that the Dark-Spectacled Admiral has the power to land him in political scandal.

His letters will never reach the Admiral. Roberts knows this with the same certainty that he knows the Dawn Machine burns in the Southwest. Beverley’s contact is the Voracious Diplomat. He’s trying to be cagey about it, but Roberts has seen the letterhead, shoved quickly into a drawer whenever they need the space on the desk to work. And the Diplomat would never let such a tidbit go to the Admiral, not when it’s worth so much more on Grand Geode.

Roberts was there for the Luminous Plot of ‘69. In fact, he had been the one to ensure that its perpetrators would never find a way to return from the slow boat, no trial, sham or otherwise. As he and the Commodore stood against the gunwhale and watched their cement-laden bodies sink into the Zee, the Commodore turned to him.

“You wouldn’t betray me, would you, Elias?”

The expression on his face is clouded, as if already playing through and wounded by the possibility in his mind. It feels like being thrown into ice water.

“Of course not, sir!”

The very idea is appalling. Surely the Commodore doesn’t truly believe it’s in the realm of the possible—not when the very idea makes his skin prickle. He’s the Commodore’s man, through and through, dedicated to both him and the Work.

The Commodore smiles, his golden eyes suddenly kind.

“That's what I thought. You wouldn’t do such a thing,” his hand reaches out to pat his shoulder, “Not from my most loyal midshipman.”

He can’t help but flush at the praise. Hopefully, the deck’s dim lighting covers it. But it hardly matters, for the Commodore turns away, gazing into the waves where they’d thrown the traitors not minutes ago. Roberts thinks the conversation is at its end when the Commodore starts again, eyes never leaving that fixed point on the Zee’s surface.

“If you did betray me, of course, I wouldn’t kill and feed you to the dawn flukes. That would be too easy of an end. Instead, I’d weld you into our smallest zub and ship you to Anthe. Who knows,” he shrugs, “you might just even have enough supplies to make it.”

He can’t breathe, his lungs are frozen in his chest. The image is all too real—trapped in that metal coffin, hardly able to move. Through the icy panic, all he can feel is the frantic hammering of his heart and the sharp twinge of the muscle of his left thigh, where the scarred skin puckers above it. The Commodore wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Right? He has to take a breath. He needs to respond. It’s been too long. His silence might be taken for suspicious.

“There’s no need for that, I assure you.” The words come out whole, though his voice is frailer than he’d like. The Commodore is studying him now. Roberts isn’t sure whether or not he can meet his gaze, what the Commodore might see on his face. After a moment the Commodore nods.

“I didn’t think so. But you never know.” With that, his mouth slides into a grin, demeanour changing like night and day. “We’d best get back soon. There’s work to be done back on base. I’ll alert the navigator.”

Roberts sees the hand coming soon enough to not flinch when it lands on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring shake, before the Commodore is off, already descending the ladder.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, chasing the claustrophobic phantasm from his mind. The Commodore is right—there’s work to be done.

Truth be told, he’s not entirely paying attention to the details of Beverley’s demands. He doesn’t have to, when he already knows he’ll agree to whatever he says. It’s clear as dawnlight what he must do. The Officer seems almost surprised by how easily Roberts acquiesces, but that surprise soon turns to barely-concealed delight as the scientific possibilities unfold before him. He’s already turned away from Roberts and back to the schematics, searching for a pen to record the newest thoughts.

It’s truly a shame, Roberts thinks, hand reaching behind him for the fireplace poker, to have to lose such a promising engineer. But treachery is something that the New Sequence cannot tolerate.

Beverley doesn’t even see it coming until the instant he brings the iron poker down across his skull.

[endofthelinegang]

the witchy type

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  thunderbolts x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  in a world frayed by shadows and war, each Thunderbolt finds an anchor in a witch whose magic threads through their wounds, memories, and buried humanity. love blooms quietly—in blood-soaked silence, stolen rooftop sunsets, and the spaces between survival and surrender.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

John walker found himself with a Hex-Witch (combat-based, sigil-driven magic; rooted in practical mysticism and battlefield protection)...

At first, John doesn’t trust you. Not because of the “witch” thing—he's seen weirder—but because you're not predictable. You fight with whispers and flicks of your fingers instead of fists, and that unnerves him.

You, in turn, don’t like his aggression. His All-American soldier act rubs you the wrong way—too much ego, not enough awareness of what lies beyond the veil.

But he learns fast. Starts watching the way you carve symbols into the air mid-battle. Notices how you keep him alive without him realizing it—redirecting bullets, hexing weapons to jam.

He's not used to someone fighting with him like that—quiet, efficient, terrifying in ways he can’t define.

Over time, he becomes protective of you in a very "I don’t believe in magic but don’t touch her or I’ll break your jaw" way. You make him a sigil to etch into his armor. He acts like it's dumb. But he wears it.

You hex his nightmares once. Just once. He doesn’t ask again—but he sleeps easier near you.

There’s tension between you two, like gunpowder and lit candles. Controlled... until it isn’t.

John isn’t used to falling for someone like you. You’re unpredictable, untouchable in ways that unsettle his soldier brain—but God, does it keep him up at night.

The first time he realizes he has feelings for you is after a mission. You get hurt—not bad, just bloodied—and instead of patching yourself up, you use the last of your energy to cast a protective sigil over him. He’s stunned. Angry. Confused. In love.

He pretends to hate when you tease him with “witchy” stuff—blowing out candles from across the room, making his gun jam when he mouths off—but deep down? He gets a little soft about it. Thinks it's cute. Will never admit that.

He brings you practical things as gifts: a new combat knife, a fireproof journal for spellcraft, a custom patch to sew onto your gear with a barely-visible warding symbol. He acts like it’s “just tactical,” but the way he watches you smile after? Yeah.

You enchant his dog tags with a small hex of protection. He says it’s pointless. But he never takes them off again.

He’s touch-starved, but doesn’t initiate often. The first time you reach out and thread your fingers through his gloved ones, his entire body goes still. Then soft. Like he forgot what it felt like to be held without being used.

When he kisses you for the first time, it’s after a brutal mission. You’re both scraped up, bloody, alive. He cups your jaw like you’re breakable, like your magic doesn’t terrify him half as much as how badly x~~~he wants to be yours.

He calls you “witch” like it’s a love language—gruff, protective, a little mocking. You hex his coffee in return so it’s always exactly the temperature he likes. Balance.

When he sleeps next to you, your magic quiets. And he does too. For once.

🥀 damn soldier 

The night hangs heavy, thick with fog that clings like a damp cloak, and the air tastes of burnt ozone and scorched metal—a bitter reminder of battles fought just beyond sight. Beneath your fingers, the rough concrete is cold and unforgiving, gritty with dust and flecks of ash you smear into a crude, jagged symbol. Your hands tremble slightly, stained with iron and the raw pulse of magic that hums beneath your skin.

John’s pacing nearby is a stark contrast to your stillness—boots scraping softly against cracked stone, breath shallow, the faint metallic clink of his dog tags whispering in the silence. His voice cuts sharp through the quiet, snapping like a whip. “You done whisperin’ to the dirt yet?”

You don’t meet his gaze. Instead, your eyes stay fixed on the symbol as your lips part in a slow, almost reverent murmur. “Almost. Unless you want to walk into an ambush and leave your bones scattered across the alley.”

He stops, jaw tight enough to see the strain beneath the skin. “I’m not afraid of a couple of mercs.”

“It’s not mercs,” you say, voice dropping, rough and low, the words coated with something older than him—an ancient warning. “It’s what’s riding inside them.”

The space between you shifts. The silence thickens, buzzing with an unspoken weight.

The final stroke of ash is barely a whisper as you finish the symbol, your incantation slipping from your tongue in a language older than any flag John’s ever fought under. For a heartbeat, the symbol burns a searing white-hot glow, then fades into nothingness.

John’s gaze stays locked on you as you rise, fingers brushing ash from your palms like shedding a second skin. “So what now?” His voice is rough, but there’s a hint of awe threading through. “You summon lightning? Melt their faces?”

“No.” Your smirk curves soft and dangerous. “Now, we walk in... and nothing will touch you.”

He finally meets your eyes—really meets them. The storm behind your gaze is fierce, but there’s something else there, something that threads through the tension and settles deep in his chest. “Why me?”

You step closer, the fog curling around your ankles like it knows to give you space. Your voice is softer now, but sharp with truth. “Because you keep stepping in front of me.”

His breath catches—a slow exhale, low and ragged, like he’s been holding it far too long. The rough edges of his voice turn almost tender. “Damn witch.”

You reach out, fingertips ghosting over the curve of his jaw—warm against the cold bite of the night. Your smirk deepens into something softer, a promise buried beneath teasing words. “Damn soldier.”

And for a moment, the fog parts just enough for two impossible people to stand on the same side—waiting to fight, to fall, to maybe… stay.

Yelena Belova finds solace in a Spirit Medium…

Yelena doesn’t flinch when she finds out what you can do. She’s seen too much to fear the dead. But she does flinch when she sees how it’s eating you alive.

You’re not flashy with your power. You listen to voices no one else hears. You light candles that burn cold. You disappear sometimes—drawn into the veil between life and death. She pretends it doesn’t scare her.

She watches you, silently. The way you close your eyes when you feel the grief around you. The way you speak gently to empty air. The way your hands shake after summoning something that didn’t want to be remembered.

You tell her the dead don’t lie. That they’re more honest than the living. She says, “Then I’m surprised you still talk to me.”

She brings you food when you’re drained. Tells you dumb jokes when your eyes go distant. She doesn’t say she cares—but she never lets you drift too far.

One night, you channel someone she lost. You don’t mean to. She doesn’t ask you to. But when it happens, she doesn’t walk away. She just... listens. Tears running down her cheeks silently. You never speak of it again.

She doesn’t believe in soulmates. But she ties a thin red thread around your wrist—“for protection,” she says. You feel the way it hums with her energy. You never take it off.

🥀  too much 

The motel room is dim, shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink, lit only by the soft, uneven flicker of a single candle perched on the battered nightstand. The wax drips slowly, a quiet rhythm against the stillness. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the worn, threadbare sheets—cool against your skin, rough with age—eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the peeling wallpaper and cracked ceiling, lost in the flickering light.

The scent of stale cigarettes and old coffee lingers faintly, mingling with the faint, earthy smell of sage burning somewhere deeper in the room—your attempt to cleanse the heaviness that clings to your bones.

Yelena leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the thin strip of hallway light. The leather of her jacket creaks softly with the subtle movement. “You’re listening again,” she says, voice low but steady.

You nod once, not trusting your voice.

“Anyone I know?”

You pause, swallowing the heaviness lodged in your throat. “No. A boy. Eight years old. Doesn’t understand he’s dead.”

Her expression tightens, jaw clenched, but you hear the slight hitch in her breath. “Can you help him?”

“I already did,” you murmur, voice barely above the candle’s sputter. “Just... had to let him tell his story.”

Without waiting for an invitation, she moves across the room, settling beside you on the bed with a quiet sigh. Her warmth presses against your side—steady, real. A balm to the cold edges inside.

“You take on too much,” she says, the words gentle but carrying weight.

“So do you,” you reply, eyes still tracing the dance of shadows on the wall.

A silence falls, thick and heavy, until she breaks it with a soft, tentative question. “What do they say about me? The dead?”

You glance at her, surprise flickering in your chest. “They say... you carry your ghosts well.”

She scoffs, the sound rough but almost tender. “Figures. Even in death, people lie.”

Your fingers reach out instinctively, brushing against hers—the rough calluses of a fighter meeting the softness of vulnerability. “Not to me.”

Yelena exhales—a breath caught between relief and something deeper, shaky but sure. Slowly, deliberately, she laces her fingers through yours, the touch grounding and electric all at once.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, eyes cast downward, voice steady. “So if you start slipping into some spooky dead zone, drag me with you. Deal?”

A smile tugs at your lips—soft, genuine. “Deal.”

The candle flickers one last time before settling into a steady glow. Outside, the veil between worlds seems to thin just enough to let the silence breathe. For now.

Bob Reynolds finds himself more than in love with a Threading Witch…

When Bob meets you, he doesn’t understand why the voices in his head go quiet around you. He’s used to fear, to internal war, to the Void clawing at his insides—but you’re like static turned into white noise. Not peace. Just... stillness.

You don’t look at him like the world does. You don’t fear him, even when you should. Especially when his eyes flash gold or his hands shake and he whispers, “I don’t want to break again.”

You tell him you’ve seen worse things than gods. That you’ve rewritten fate in blood. That theuniverse has cracks—and you live inside one.

Bob watches you work a probability hex once—make a bullet curve mid-air, miss him by a centimeter, and ricochet into someone’s gun. He doesn’t breathe for ten full seconds. “That’s not possible,” he says. You smile. “Exactly.”

You know how fragile he is under all that strength. You become his grounding tether. The anchor point in the chaos. The one constant that refuses to break—even when he does.

He once asks you what you see when you look at him. You answer without blinking: “Potential. To save everything. Or destroy it.”

And then, softer: “But I think you’ll choose right. Because you already did when you didn’t kill me.”

He tells you later, “You’re the only variable I can’t predict.” You kiss him like a question. He answers with a storm.

Bob’s a guy who’s seen hell and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty—emotionally or physically. He’s tough, abrasive, and quick to shoot down softness, but with you, that rough exterior cracks in unexpected moments.

Your threading magic feels foreign to him at first—too delicate, too precise—but he respects it because he can see how it calms you, how it can patch things even when bullets can’t.

When he’s frustrated or angry, you don’t push. Instead, you quietly thread a thin, warm line around his wrist or heart—something only he can feel. It’s subtle, but enough to ground him.

Bob rarely opens up about his past or his pain. But one night, when he’s too wound tight to sleep, you thread his fingers in yours and whisper a charm to untangle the knots inside him. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.

He’s awkward with affection at first—gruff “here, hold this” moments that slowly evolve into lingering touches and quiet, steady presence.

When you tease him about his bad luck or reckless attitude, he smirks and fires back with a joke—trying to keep things light, but there’s an honest warmth in his eyes.

Bob’s fiercely protective, not just of you but of your magic. If anyone tries to disrespect what you do, he’s ready to fight—no questions asked.

He’s not one for grand declarations, but he shows his feelings by small, consistent actions: offering you the last cookie, silently carrying your bag, or catching your hand when you stumble.

🥀 a star called the sun 

The sky above is too bright. Not metaphorically—literally. The sun’s harsh light bends lazily around Bob in swirling spirals, like the universe itself can’t decide which angle to hit him from. The air hums with warmth and a faint electric charge, the kind that makes your skin tingle just being near him.

You sit cross-legged on the weathered rooftop next to him, the rough concrete pressing cool against your palms. The sweet, tangy scent of pomegranate juices drips from your fingers as you casually pop a seed between your teeth, the crunch sharp and satisfying.

“People don’t usually sit next to me when I’m glowing,” Bob says, voice low and gravelly, eyes fixed on the city sprawled below, avoiding your gaze.

“Most people don’t see what I see,” you reply softly, watching the way the sunlight catches in his unruly hair, setting golden edges ablaze.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, skeptical but curious. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

You chew slowly, savoring the burst of tartness. “You’re like a prism. All that power, refracting off a million cracks. It’s not broken. Just... scattered.”

Bob exhales sharply, a short laugh like a gust of wind. “Romantic way to say I’m barely held together.”

You reach out without hesitation, plucking a thread of shimmering magic from the charged air between you—fine, silver, and invisible to anyone else but you. It twists and coils in your fingers like liquid light, a fragile filament of ‘what if’.

“You’re held together,” you murmur, your voice almost a caress as you thread the glowing strand around his wrist like a delicate bracelet. “And now... slightly luckier.”

He stares down at the subtle shimmer wrapped around his skin, a flicker of wonder crossing his face. “What did you just do?”

You grin, eyes bright with mischief and warmth. “Nothing dangerous. Just made sure your shoelace won’t ever untie itself again. Oh, and your next coffee will probably be free.”

Bob blinks, surprised, then lets out an actual laugh—short, sharp, and genuine, like the sound surprises even him. “You’re a menace.”

“Chaos is a lifestyle,” you shrug, leaning back on your hands, feeling the sun’s heat seep into your bones.

He watches you for a long moment, this impossible person who bends reality with just her presence and doesn’t run away from the chaos he carries. Something softens behind his guarded eyes.

“I like you,” he says quietly, voice rough but sincere.

You smile, a secret shared between just the two of you. “I know.”

With a playful flick, you toss him the other half of the pomegranate. He catches it instinctively, golden eyes wide in the fading light.

The sky begins to settle.

And somehow, today, the world doesn’t end.

Ava Starr is more than happy to accept a Temporal Rift Witch into her space…

Ava is startled by you. Not because of your magic, but because you’re never entirely present—or always toopresent. You’ll speak to something two seconds ahead, react before things happen. She doesn’t trust it at first.

You never try to fix her phasing. You don’t offer pity or solutions. Instead, you exist beside her, synced in a way that makes space for her disjointed reality.

The first time she phases and you don’t flinch—just calmly wait—it rattles her. You blink in time with her rhythm. Like you can hear the tick of the clock she’s stuck between.

You call her “constant,” and she nearly snaps at you. “I’m anything but.” But you smile, patient. “You’re still here. That’s constant enough.”

You’re quiet with her. Not silent—but slow. Gentle. She’s used to being weaponized, watched. With you, she’s just Ava. And that’s terrifying. And addictive.

You anchor her. Not physically—but energetically. With whispered words tied to the rhythm of her molecules, and fingers brushing just close enough to remind her she exists.

Eventually, you teach her a trick—a breath pattern, a focus phrase—that lets her phase intentionally for a few seconds longer. She doesn’t thank you out loud. But she sits closer after that. Just a little.

🥀for her 

Ava’s half-phased through a wall when you find her—her shoulder trapped in the crumbling brick, fragments of dust and mortar drifting down like slow-falling ash. Her eyes are squeezed shut tight, lips pressed thin, breath shallow and uneven like the fragile flutter of a dying bird.

You don’t panic.

You kneel across from her, the rough concrete cold beneath your knees, your voice steady and low, a soft anchor in the chaos. “You’re not stuck. You’re drifting.”

She grits her teeth, the tension pulling at the lines of her face. “Can’t pull back. It’s—loud. Everything’s too loud.”

Your fingers move gently through the air, weaving invisible threads of magic—silken strands of moment-to-moment, delicate as spider silk but strong enough to hold a fractured soul. You hum a slow, steady rhythm, a lullaby of time itself. “Then listen to me instead.”

She doesn’t respond at first—but you watch her chest rise and fall, slow and steady, matching the cadence of your hum.

“You’re here,” you say softly. “Now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Just now.”

Her jaw tightens. “I don’t know what that means anymore.”

You smile—soft, bittersweet—like a quiet promise in the dark. “That’s okay. I’m keeping time for both of us.”

Your hand inches forward, trembling slightly with hope and intention. Even though she’s barely real in this moment—half a ghost caught between here and elsewhere—she feels the warmth radiating from your skin, the steady pulse of your heart pressed into your touch.

Ava exhales, a breath that seems to carry all her fear and exhaustion. The phasing shudders, flickers like a weak flame caught in the wind—then stops.

She collapses forward, weight finally giving way as she falls into your arms, solid and trembling. Real. Tangible.

You hold her—not tightly, just enough to remind her she’s not alone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracked and raw.

“For what?” you ask, voice gentle like a caress.

“For not knowing how to stay.”

You press your cheek softly against her temple, feeling the rapid pulse of her heartbeat slow beneath your touch. “You’re learning. And I have all the time in the world to wait.”

She closes her eyes, sinking into the warmth of your presence. For the first time in years, she believes it.

Bucky Barnes and his Bloodhound Witch…

Bucky doesn’t ask what kind of witch you are. He doesn’t have to. The first time you say his true name—all of it—he feels it. In his bones. Like something old inside him recognizes you.

You don’t touch his metal arm without permission. And when you finally do, it’s not in fear or reverence. It’s to draw a sigil against the cool surface, something simple. Protective. A tether. He asks what it means. You say, “It means you come back.”

He watches you prepare rituals like it’s an artform—mixing herbs with blood, knotting thread, burning names into wax. He doesn’t understand all of it. But he respects it. Deeply.

You both carry guilt like armor. But you treat his gently, never demanding he "let it go." You say, “It’s part of your blood now. But it doesn’t have to rule it.”

The first time he bleeds in front of you, you catch it in your palm and don’t flinch. You whisper a binding—not to hold him, but to protect what’s already his.

He never says “I love you.” Not directly. But he gives you his dog tags. Lets you etch an old protection rune on the inside of his vibranium wristplate. Learns to breathe through your grounding spells when his nightmares get sharp.

And when he finally lets you write his name—James—into a charm of blood and silver, he does it with a nod. Silent permission. Trust deeper than words.

Bucky’s instinct is to protect and to run from pain, but your magic reveals things even he can’t hide—from the blood on his hands to the scars in his soul. He’s wary at first, but slowly he learns to trust your insight.

When he’s haunted by nightmares or memories he can’t shake, you softly trace a circle on his wrist with your fingers, weaving a quiet bloodhound spell to keep the darkness at bay.

His metal arm and your magic feel like two halves of a whole—steel and spirit—combining strength and intuition. When you entwine your fingers, the threads of your magic pulse along his metal like a heartbeat.

Bucky is rough with affection—gruff touches, a hand lingering too long on your back, a quiet hand squeeze when words fail. Your magic threads through those moments, making them more tender, more profound.

You’re the one who finds him when he disappears, tracking his trail through blood scents and spectral whispers. When you pull him back, it’s not just your magic—it’s your quiet, unwavering presence that grounds him.

He’s protective, but he lets his guard down enough to let you “read” him, sharing pieces of his past he’s never told anyone else. Your magic weaves those fragments together, creating a tapestry of healing.

Late nights, he holds you close, your fingers lightly resting over his chest where the metal meets flesh. Your bloodhound magic hums softly, syncing your rhythms, sharing a calm only you two understand.

Sometimes, when the weight of the world gets heavy, you let him lean on you. Not just physically—emotionally, magically. He feels your magic tracing protective sigils along his spine, a shield woven from trust and love.

Bucky may never say it outright, but in the quiet moments when your magic brushes against his skin, when your eyes meet, he’s saying the words his lips won’t: You’re my home.

🥀remember me, remember you

Bucky sits on the edge of your work table, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearm, the metal gleaming softly in the flickering candlelight. Shadows dance across the room, warm and intimate, wrapping around you both like a secret kept from the world. The faint scent of ink and iron hangs in the air, mingling with something more subtle—your own magic, electric and alive beneath your skin.

You stand before him, holding a shallow bowl filled with a thick mixture of ink and blood—a potent blend that carries both vulnerability and power—in one hand. In the other, a slender silver thread catches the candle’s glow, shimmering like liquid starlight.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, but steady.

He meets your gaze without hesitation—those haunted, storm-grey eyes steady and unflinching. “I want to,” he says simply.

You swallow, the weight of the moment settling between you. “Once your name is bound,” you warn softly, “it’s not just protection. It’s memory. It’s weight. A tether to who you were—and who you are.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I’ve carried worse.”

Carefully, reverently, you take the silver thread and dip it into the dark, viscous mixture. The ink coats the metal like a shadow, and you begin weaving, fingers nimble and sure. Each loop and knot hums beneath your touch, weaving layers of magic into the charm. Your lips part slightly as you speak, voice low and melodic—the cadence of your spell coaxing power into the delicate weave.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you murmur, each syllable rolling off your tongue like silk woven with sorrow, binding his full name into the spell.

The charm vibrates softly, a heartbeat in your hands, pulsing with quiet strength.

Slowly, you lift it and tie the finished charm around his wrist, just beneath the edge of his metal arm. The cool silver contrasts against the warmth of his skin, the thread shimmering faintly as it settles into place.

He watches your hands—steady, reverent, tender—like you’re handling something sacred.

“What does it do?” he asks, voice rough but curious.

“It remembers who you are,” you say softly, looking up to meet his gaze again. “When you forget. When others try to rewrite you.” Your fingers linger for a moment, brushing his skin gently. “It brings you back.”

Bucky’s eyes soften, and for a long beat, he says nothing. Then, slowly, deliberately, he covers your hand with his—flesh over flesh, rough against delicate—holding on as if afraid to let go.

“Thank you,” he breathes, the words rough and heavy with meaning, like it hurts to say, but it means everything.

A warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile—small, sure, full of quiet promise.

“Always.”

The candlelight flickers once more, casting long shadows around you, but for this moment, in this room filled with whispered magic and unspoken trust, everything else falls away.

[miange1]

could i request lost prince gojo who ran away but got lost and now once to go home?

and while trying to find his way back he saw a water nymph(who's the reader? male btw)

and reader lures him in and makes him stay(sexy times)

ik nymphs are girls but shhhhh

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 — lost prince

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pairing: gojo x nymph male reader

summary: gojo is a prince, he ran away due to an argument and then he found that he was lost. then he found you

genre: smut

TW: male reader, loneliness, running away, arguments, reader is described to have longer hair(not the type), seducing, slight water sex, praise, luring , manipulation, grabbing , obsessive behavior, gojo wears bandaged blindfolds

note: it took me forever to figure out this color thing bro yall don't understand. also reminder, i NEVER proof read. EVER. so if there are spelling errors don't point them out because i won't fix it

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the argument rang through his head about a thousand times. he hadn't even meant for it to escalate, all he wanted to do was go out for a small walk without fifteen guards crowding his personal space. the man could barely jerk off.

"just for five minutes!"

his father would tut, and shake his head.

"no, satorou. there are things out there you just can't handle."

he would shout back, groaning in agitation. "what does that even mean! tell me, what's out there that's so bad?"

his father hadn't said anything after that. so, he decided to check out for himself. he wasn't even so sure how he got past the guards, the maids, the butlers, he was simply that determined to just have a five minute walk on his own.

but then it got a little darker, and he was lost..real lost. he had gotten lost in the woods, trees and cob webs hitting all over his face. he didn't want to admit, even to himself that he was scared. it was getting cold, he was hungry, he didn't know what to do all on his own. a few times he almost caught himself calling for a maid, forgetting that he was still lost.

he leaned up against a tree, his eyesight blurry and all he could truly see was his breath huffing in front of his face. then, he heard it. heard you.

that beautiful humming, it was gorgeous. now, it wasn't an exact song or exact lyrics. but it was beautiful. he urged himself up, going to where that singing was. he peeked around behind a tree, seeing a beautiful pond. and then a man, a man whose skin seemed to glow even in the setting sun, his hair wet and glistening as it cascaded into the ponds waters.

then you'd stop, your head turning. your eyes..oh, those eyes were gorgeous weren't they? your eyelashes long and curling up beautifully around the shape.

your lips curled into a soft smile, your little giggle just as soft. your body turned, and you'd let yourself walk to the edge of the pond and lean onto the grass. your finger curled in a come here motion, beckoning him. everything about you pulled him to you, but that was just it. he staggered forward, falling onto his knees in front of you. you seemed just as lonely as he did, just as needy.

he wanted to touch you, so badly. your skin looked like the cure to his hunger. your arms moved up, your nails tickling his skin as you cradled his face.

"what is this?" you'd ask him, your fingers coming towards the bandages at his eyes. "let me see your eyes," he couldn't stop you, he just couldn't. he felt the bandages along his face loosen, then fall onto the ground. you cooed, with a little click to your tongue. "aren't you gorgeous, hm?" his body swayed, before he caught himself. he was going to get in that water.

he'd move your arms from his body, his own hands ripping his own clothes off and his buttons flying off. he'd kick off his boots, slip his pants off and he'd get himself into the pond. his hands were all over you, impatient. he'd feel you flinch, not even backing away– "don't leave me." his voice broke though.

the air felt like a spell, and your scent was just causing it and making it worse. he was gripping you in all sorts of places, your waist, your arms, thighs, ass. whatever he could reach he wanted it to be his, all his.

your hands came to his chest, then caressed upwards.

he took a moment to take it in.

one moment.

two moments.

three was enough until he threw himself at you. the water splashed, his lips on yours, his hand drawing to your neck- then squeezing. squeezing to keep you there, to send that message that you didn't belong to anyone else.

"you're what i've been waiting for..where have you been?" he didn't even know your name, didn't have to , he could learn it after. his fingers curled at your waist, clutching and then hoisting you up so your legs could wrap along his waist.

"promise you'll never leave.." he said, nipping at your ear whilst his fingers spread you open to slip inside of you. "promise me." you had gasped, feeling him slide inside. "i promise.." you wiggled your hips, as if trying to get him balls deep inside you. he wouldn't let you do all the work, what kind of gentleman did that?

he moved you back, then plopped you back down. "keep hanging onto me," he'd move himself forward to match the pace. your arm slinked over his shoulder, your head falling back as well as your mouth.

"oh– yes, so perfect.." he kept that, kept that in his mind. you said he was perfect. the water beneath your actions splashed, making the claps and skin slaps much more dramatic and your bodies overly wet. his head ducked beneath your chin, biting and slurping kisses dramatically at your neck and collar bone.

"you feel so good,"

"don't stop,"

"i need you."

he stopped, his eyes coming to meet yours. both of your breaths are heavy, mingling as your lips got closer and closer.

he'd flopped you over, having your fingers clutch the grass at the edge of the pond. he could do this forever..he would do this forever, because who would ever want to leave this? leave you.

[psformybss]

hey, back again. btw LOVED the last one.

this request is for hidden vows (im obsessed with the series)

yn gets stormed by paparazzi and drew tells them to bakc off this happens 4 times so much that it affect yn and it just has to be stopped so they do something about maybe his team or drew personally

thanks lovely xx

Under Watchful Eyes

series masterlist

warnings: mentions of paparazzi, anxiety, mild harassment, protective behavior, emotional conversations, established relationship

an: im so glad you loved the last one, i hope you like this one too 🫶🏼

════════════════

They were supposed to be in Los Angeles for a few months, just long enough for Drew to finish shooting, maybe squeeze in some meetings. They had a plan, one that left plenty of space for beach mornings with Teddy and quiet nights on the balcony. A way to stay them in the middle of a city that demanded to be watched.

At first, it worked.

They kept to themselves, slipped in and out of coffee shops, found tucked-away restaurants no one seemed to care about.

Drew told her once, back when he first started seeing his name on billboards, that the trick was simple.

Keep walking.

Ignore it.

Let it roll off you.

The first time she got spotted alone, she remembered that.

It was a Sunday morning.

She had Teddy with her, leash in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other.

When she heard the click of the shutter, she stiffened but didn’t stop.

“Hey, Mrs. Starkey, smile for us!” a voice called.

She kept her face forward, her pace steady. Teddy, sensing her tension, stayed close to her side.

Her heart raced all the way back to their rental apartment, but she made it through.

When Drew came home that evening, she mentioned it in passing, a small shrug to brush it off.

He kissed her forehead, murmured, “You did good, baby.”

And she believed him.

For a while, she managed to shake it off.

Until it happened again.

This time she was alone, just a quick coffee run a few blocks away. She stepped out of the shop into a wall of cameras.

Two men this time, lenses flashing, voices sharp and quick.

“Where’s Drew?”

“Are you guys fighting?”

“Pregnant yet?”

The questions were personal without being cruel, but it was the way they boxed her in that made her skin crawl.

She kept moving, head down, remembering Drew’s voice in her head.

Still, when she got back to the apartment, her hands were trembling so badly she spilled the coffee across the counter.

She wiped it up before Drew got home, but the knot in her chest stayed.

It came out later over dinner.

They were eating takeout on the couch, Teddy sprawled at their feet.

“You sure you’re okay, baby?” Drew asked, nudging her with his foot.

She hesitated, poking at her food.

“I hate being watched like that,” she admitted finally.

“I can handle it once or twice, but it feels like they are… waiting for me now. Like I can’t even grab a coffee without someone watching.”

Drew set down his container, giving her his full attention.

“You don’t deserve that,” he said quietly.

“I don’t care what anyone says, being with me doesn’t mean you signed up for this shit.”

“I’m not weak,” she said, needing him to hear it.

His expression softened.

“I know you’re not. You’re the strongest person I know,” he said, leaning in.

“But strong or not, you’re still mine to protect.”

She swallowed hard at that, blinking quickly.

He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering against her cheek.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Promise.”

A few days later, they went to dinner together, thinking it would be safer if they stuck close.

They were laughing about something stupid when the flashes started.

Three men, cameras up, voices rising over each other.

“Look this way, Drew!”

“Is your wife jealous of your co-stars?”

“How does she feel about all the kissing scenes?”

Drew moved fast.

One hand slid around her waist, pulling her tightly against him, shielding her from the flashes.

He said nothing at first, just leveled a look at the nearest guy that could have stopped a moving car.

“Move,” Drew said, voice low and dangerous.

There was no shouting, no scene. Just a command. And for a second, they listened.

He tucked her into the car, slamming the door closed, the sharp click cutting through the noise.

Inside, she pressed her forehead against the window, heart hammering.

Drew reached over, pulling her hand into his.

“I got you, baby,” he said quietly. “I got you.”

Her fingers curled tightly around his. She breathed in the familiar scent of him, the safety he wrapped around her so easily.

“I hate feeling like this,” she said when they were pulling out of the lot.

“Like I have to think about every step I take.”

“You should never have to,” Drew said. His voice was hard in a way it rarely was with her.

“You deserve to live your life without looking over your shoulder.”

He meant it.

Within the week, things started changing.

The paparazzi sightings slowed. Some of the more aggressive photographers disappeared entirely.

When she asked Drew about it, he only shrugged, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Handled it,” he said simply.

What she did not know until later was that Drew had moved his team into action behind the scenes.

Threats of harassment lawsuits were sent out.

Certain agencies found themselves banned from events, their access quietly revoked.

A few meetings with local security firms had made it clear that if they wanted to keep working in this town, they would steer clear of Drew Starkey’s wife.

No statement. No drama.

Just quiet, unwavering protection.

Exactly the way she needed it.

There were still moments.

Small things.

A flash across the street.

A man pretending to scroll through his phone a little too close to where she and Teddy sat outside a coffee shop.

But the pressure had lifted.

It was not perfect, but it was livable again.

And the difference showed.

One night, they sat on the balcony, Teddy snoring at their feet, the city buzzing soft and low beyond them.

Drew leaned back in his chair, one arm draped around her shoulders.

“You’re getting your spark back,” he said, voice low against her ear.

She smiled, feeling it too. That lightness that had been missing for weeks.

“You made it possible,” she said, turning to kiss his jaw.

He caught her chin in his hand, pulling her closer.

“I would do anything for you,” he said, so simply it rooted into her bones.

“Anything.”

Teddy snorted at their feet, shifting in his sleep.

She laughed softly and tucked herself closer into Drew’s side, the city humming, the world feeling wide and open again.

Not because it was easy.

Not because it was perfect.

But because it was theirs.

And they had fought for it together.

════════════════

taglist: @maybankslover

[digitaldaydreamm]

would you maybe write about the things rafe does for unspoken claim reader that she doesn’t really notice or see? Small acts of love or service she literally doesn’t notice or maybe just takes as a given?

rafe x childhood friend!reader

headcannons 4

masterlist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

★ He always makes sure your car has a full tank of gas and checks the tire pressure, using excuses like “I needed to grab something from your trunk” — but really, he just wants to make sure you’re safe and never stranded.

★ Your favorite snacks, drinks, and little comfort foods are always stocked in the pantry at Tannyhill. You think the housekeeper remembers, but it’s Rafe quietly writing down mental notes every time you mention a craving.

★ Anytime you’re walking together — on the street, at a party, or through a crowded room — Rafe naturally shifts so he’s between you and anything that might bump or push you. It’s instinctual for him, even though you never really notice how protective he is.

★ That charger you complained about being frayed? The tangled necklace you gave up on fixing? A day or two later, they’re replaced or fixed, sitting in your bag or on your nightstand. Rafe never mentions it; he just watches you smile when you find them.

★ He remembers every tiny, throwaway comment — that old movie you mentioned wanting to rewatch, the artist you said you missed listening to — and without saying a word, he puts them on the TV or car playlist the next time you’re together.

★ You never hear about it, but Rafe will shut down anyone who talks badly about you when you’re not around. He doesn’t make a big scene; he just gives them that dark look and makes it very clear you’re off-limits. Then, he’ll come back to you and act normal, hiding the fact that he’s been defending you.

★ On nights when you get home late, if he knows you forgot, he’ll quietly swing by and turn on your porch light or check that your front door is locked. You think your parents do it, but it’s him.

★ And for those late nights you go over to Tannyhill he makes sure the light is on and that there's space for you to park your car close to the front door that he leaves unlocked just for you.

★ When you split food, he always gives you the bigger slice or lets you take the last bite, acting like he wasn’t hungry anyway. You think he’s just being polite, but really, he just wants you to have the best of everything.

★ He checks your location on the app more times than he cares to admit — not to control you, but because it calms him down knowing exactly where you are. He never says anything; he just smiles when he sees you’re safe.

★ On nights when he’s restless, he’ll drive past your house — just to make sure the lights are off, the cars are in place, and everything’s okay. Then, he goes home feeling better, knowing you’re safe under his watch, even if you don’t know he’s doing it.

[acidinduceddaydreams]

First Real Love with Skz

Skz x reader who was in a toxic relationship before them

Synopsis: In which you experience love, the real kind, for the first time.

Warnings: major tw for trauma in terms of mental and physical violence done by a significant other. Please don’t read if this triggers you.

a/n : this fic was my baby for a long time. Now it’s yours, please look after it. I pray it brings some comfort to you!🫶🏼

Chan:

He feels honored that you choose him to be apart of your life.

Doesn’t pry too much when you bring up your past. If you want to tell him you will and he’s content with that.

He finds you so incredibly intoxicating. He can’t believe that someone would ever treat you badly. He would fight tooth and nail to make sure you’re always happy.

Literally so in love with your more childlike/ whimsical view of the world now that you two are together. Your personality definitely changed for the better once you met him and realized that being safe should be a prerequisite in a relationship.

Minho:

Doesn’t ask about your past relationship much. Mostly relies on you telling him about it when you feel comfortable enough.

Absolutely at your service!!! If you’re having particularly unpleasant or difficult feelings or are in your own head he’s at your beck and call. Whether that’s cooking for you, feeding you (which you won’t admit you like) or even leaving you alone for a bit.

The babies (his cats) are by your side 24/7 to ground you and get you out of your head because “ they wouldn’t want their mom to be sad.”

Changbin:

Cannot fathom the idea of someone hurting you in any way whatsoever without wanting to beat them up.

Unlike Minho, Changbin will not leave you alone if you’re having a particularly bad day. He thinks you’re so precious so he will never leave your side even in a particularly bad situation.

Binnie gives the best cuddles!!!! I am 100% convinced. Cuddling is a must! It’s like free therapy. (He, himself is free therapy but wbk) his hugs and cuddles make you forget about what’s going on in your head bc binnie’s cuddles make everything better.

Hyunjin:

He’s appalled that someone could treat another human with disrespect and violence let alone you!

He’s your number one fan in everything you do. Celebrates your small wins just as grandly as the big ones. Oh you ate breakfast today. Suddenly your name and “I’m so proud of you” is all he knows how to say.

Paints with you. Yk when you put the canvases parallel to each other and paint something for the other person. Yeah you guys do that all the time as a grounding technique but also just as a way to show love to one another.

Jisung:

He’s so good at reading body language!!!!!! He is absolutely crushed when things like holding your hand or stretching his hand out to touch your cheek make you flinch, not because he’s mad or angry at you but rather at the person who ever dared to treat you this way.

Wdym personal space? Hannie’s never heard of it. He’s so good at getting you out of you head. He knows what triggers you and sometimes know when something will trigger you before you do.

He’s so attentive bc why wouldn’t he be when he has you to look after. This boy loves you so much and he shows it every day.

Felix:

Bakes for you!!!!!! Sometimes you two bake together but he usually does it in advance to you telling him you need a little extra love today.

So in love with you. Tries to show you the beauty that you are because you haven’t felt beautiful till you met him. “Oh baby you look even more gorgeous than you did yesterday, I didn’t even know that was possible.”

You remind him of sunshine and he reminds you of the sun. Clearly neither of you can exist without the other.

Seungmin:

He is super playful and witty naturally but he tones down the more mocking side for your particularly hard days. He loves you in ways that you didn’t know you could be loved.

On regular days though you two share a similar sense of humor. He loves that about you. Never lets it go too far though.

Absolutely a sucker for you. The boys tease him for being soft for you but he doesn’t care. You’re his baby and he doesn’t care who sees that.

Jeongin:

This boy is so whipped for you. He always listens to you even if what you have to say is something he has no idea about. It feels so amazing to have someone listen to you. To truly listen. He makes it look easy even though listening and not interrupting is quite hard.

He’s not a big fan of skinship but your hands are always within his and he loves it. He’s genuinely so feral for it but you don’t need to know that.

He’ll make sure to show you how someone treats someone they love every day. He’s so attentive and that makes going to him whether it’s with a problem or just to talk so easy because you know there’s no judgment from him.

[hermannsthumb]

Power outage and popsicles for the summer prompts...."dude, why not? They're gonna melt otherwise."

27. Power Outage + 30. Popsicles

from summer prompts meme here

i finished this & checked ao3 and realized that i techhhhnically filled a prompt like this a little while ago, but they're different enough it's ok. giving this a light M rating for some Suggestive Content because i tweeted about this concept and couldn't stop thinking about writing it

------------------------------------------

Look, Newt’s no stranger to a hot, humid summer, least of all a hot, humid summer that he’s left to tough out with nothing but the jankiest old window A/C unit in the world and t-shirts he’s badly modified with a pair of scissors to be a little more breathable. He got used to it back in Cambridge, where his apartment was the top floor of a creaky historic house built back before anybody really thought about things like central air or air circulation or living comfortably in general. But this is just ridiculous, man. Even if his broom closet of a bunk did have a window it wouldn’t be helping him much.

Yesterday’s kaiju attack took out the city power grid and most of the electricity to the Shatterdome with it. They’re not totally fucked, because relying on somewhere prone to frequent assaults from ten gazillion pound monsters to power local PPDC operations would be kind of an insane—if not, like, admirably ballsy—move, but the on-base generators they have as back-up are reserved for critical functions only: LOCCENT, the jaeger bay, and—well, yeah, basically that. Newt would estimate roughly twenty percent of base operations outside that are deemed critical, so whatever electricity is left is diverted directly to the mess hall refrigeration systems (so they can eat) and overhead lights in most of the common spaces (so they can walk down the hallway without falling down an elevator shaft or knocking over something expensive).

Basically, their little k-science team of two ranks comically low on that critical function list no matter how many complaints Hermann lodges with facilities about his precious little computers, or Newt does about the extremely necessary and much more important preservation of his kaiju samples. Under duress Newt will very begrudgingly admit this is not without some reason. It’s still annoying.

Hermann spends the first hour of the Black-Out trying to, essentially, pirate some of that diverted power (admittedly very cool of him) to get his computers back in business and cursing very loudly when it fails. Newt, meanwhile, thanks his goddamn lucky stars that it’s been a lackluster few weeks for kaiju harvesting and every viable sample he has is small enough to fit in some coolers with ice packs he keeps around for emergencies. Problem solved. They’ll want to hose them down before their next picnic so they’re not packing sandwiches in with kaiju guts—Newt’s kidding, mostly, Hermann wouldn’t be caught dead on a picnic with him—but it’ll work for now.

The main problem arises around hour two. On the average day it’s genuinely freezing down here, thanks to the lethal combination of the lab’s somewhat subterranean nature (stickin’ the geeks in the damp basement) and Hermann’s weird habit of keeping the A/C blasting so he can comfortably dress like he's strolling across Antarctica without breaking a sweat. With the A/C casualty to the outage, it doesn’t take long for the muggy humidity of the Hong Kong summer to creep up on them, and by the light of the comically large flashlight he’s very nicely holding for Hermann Newt watches it hit his colleague in waves: the exponential increase in handkerchief-swipes-across-forehead, the unbuttoning of his collar, the blazer shrugged off and tossed at a chair, then (egads!) the sweatervest following.

“Hold that still,” Hermann snaps when Newt lets the beam of the flashlight wander from the functionally useless computer he’s poking cables into to the scandalous display of button-down and wristbones he’s putting on right now instead. Talk about a strip tease. Newt ignores him and wolf-whistles instead.

“I’ve never seen you so naked,” he says. “This is definitely a new record. How many layers of pants do you have on? I’m guessing eight, nine.” He trails the light down one alluringly baggy slacks leg—because what is he hiding under there, man—and then back up to Hermann’s face. Hermann shields his eyes and recoils with a small affronted noise. His choppy bangs are sticking to his forehead.

“One,” Hermann says from behind his hand, “that is a completely inappropriate question to ask, and you are very lucky I’m used to that sort of thing enough by now to not file a complaint with Human Resources straightaway. Perhaps I will anyway. Two, that is categorically false. Please get that out of my face.”

“You’re right, I was being way too conservative. Ten pants?”

Hermann grinds his teeth together. “You saw me with significantly less clothing than this when you accidentally—allegedly—spilled a large amount of neutralized kaiju blood on me last year.”

The decontamination shower incident. Of course. How could Newt forget? Hermann looked like an angry wet cat in there, and Newt made a beeline for the exit the second he confirmed there weren’t any imminent biohazards and/or threats to Hermann’s health and/or threats to Newt's health before Hermann could get out and make one for him. Newt hid on the roof all afternoon.

A cold decon shower sounds pretty nice right now, actually. He wonders if the water in here is still running. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. “Which you’ve yet to apologize for,” Hermann continues, because Newt guesses they're still talking about this. “Get that out of my face.”

He tightens his fingers around Newt's wrist and yanks Newt’s hand back to shine the flashlight where he needs it, and, conspicuously, doesn’t address the whole pants question, which Newt assumes has to mean there’s at least three different things going on down there. Hermann strikes him as an old-timey long underwear kind of guy. The kind you'd see flapping on clotheslines in old cartoons.

A minute later he throws down the cables and hits the side of his computer with his cane. “Bugger,” he snarls, pushing himself to his feet. “I have work to do, and now I'll be behind by a whole day. This is completely unacceptable. I have submitted no less than four notices about the importance of—”

“Aw, no luck,” Newt says. He wipes his own forehead on his rolled-up shirt cuff. Would Hermann notice if he took his shirt off? It’s gettin’ hot in here, he thinks. Hermann’s temper is gettin’ hot, too, and he thinks if he doesn’t shut his mouth his foot might find out firsthand how that walloping Hermann’s computer just got felt. “Soooo, can I go now?”

He wants to take his shirt off very badly. And more importantly he has a hot—he means that very literally—date with a battery-operated fan and a minifridge of melting popsicles in his bedroom ASAP, and he’d like to get to the popsicles (and take off his shirt) sooner than later. “Fine,” Hermann says. He takes the flashlight and waves Newt off. "Get out of my sight, you wretch."

Newt’s bunk is darker and stuffier than the lab, if possible. His first order of business is to strip down to his bare chest stat before fumbling with the switches to his fan and the shitty little rechargeable nightlight he keeps on his desk. His legs are so sweaty that the denim of his skinny jeans is clinging to him for dear life, and it takes him twice as long to wriggle out of them. He succeeds, finally, flopping flat on his ass on the mattress in his boxers. After a few more uncomfortable minutes of wriggling he kicks those off too. Definitely a dick out kind of afternoon.

Tiny as it is, the fan feels fucking great. If Hermann wasn’t such a dick Newt would’ve considered inviting him over to bask in how great it feels with him. The popsicles are great, too, and mostly still intact, but—given the distressingly liquidy state of his little minifridge freezer—they won’t be for long. Newt unwraps two of them at once and eats them in alternating bites as quickly as he can without giving himself brain freeze. He’s just unwrapped a third when there’s a brusque knock at his door.

“Uggggh,” he says. “What?”

He rolls over on his side and squints at the door, wishing vaguely for some variation of x-ray vision to see who’s there or (better yet) telekinesis that could just open the door for him. He’s hot. And lazy. Basically, getting up and opening the door is at the very bottom of the list of potential activities he could engage in right now.

“It’s me,” Hermann says.

Pretty presumptuous of him, seeing as there’s a whole Shatterdome of me’s who aren’t Hermann that could’ve been at Newt’s door and who would totally love to enjoy Newt’s company, and frozen desserts, but Newt will let it slide, given ninety percent of the time the me in question actually is Hermann. He peels himself up from his sheets and shuffles over to the door to open it. “Yeah?” he says around his popsicle.

“Did you take my,” Hermann says, and then his mouth abruptly stops moving, and he goes a shade of red that’s impressively visible in the low lighting. “Oh,” he says.

Newt takes a bite out of the popsicle and swallows with a wince. Too cold, overly ambitious of him. “Probably,” he says. “I mean, whatever you’re missing, I probably took it. The sandwich you packed today, yes, your sticky notes, yes. I was hungry. For the sandwich I mean. Not the sticky notes. Didn’t you see my note?” By my he guess he technically means Hermann’s, because he wanted to do the polite thing and leave an IOU for the sandwich like a good little colleague but ran out of his own sticky note pads three months ago and keeps forgetting to order more.

“Do you want a popsicle?” he says. “I’m trying to finish off the box. I’ve already had two so far,” he sticks out his blue tongue as proof, “and I think I might get sick if I eat anymore after this. I guess I could just, you know, stop, but I spent a ridiculous amount of money on these, Hermann, you wouldn’t believe how much, and it would physically pain me to toss them out.” The snack food black market—hyperbolically speaking, it’s not actually a black market, just a handful of convenience stores who have managed to wiggle their way around rationing—doesn’t run cheap, and he paid for roundtrip bus fare on top of that.

“Er,” Hermann says.

He sounds confusingly confused over the offer. Historically, they eat each other’s food all the time, or at least Newt eats Hermann’s, but Newt has never been stingy when it comes to sharing his black market snacks with Hermann. It’s nothing new here. “They’re gonna melt, dude, why not?” Newt says.

Hermann is breathing hard and looking even more like the Gottliebian equivalent of a pin-up calendar right now: button-down undone to the collarbones, sleeves rolled up, slack cuffs rolled up, belt MIA, flush high on his cheekbones. And with his dumb little glasses to top it off, too. It’s working for Hermann. It’s working for Newt. He wonders, if he was to sabotage the lab A/C again in the near future, if it would be worth Hermann’s fury to see him like this again.

Newt sucks on the popsicle. Hermann suddenly thrusts an arm out, catching himself on the doorframe like he’s about to topple right over, and Newt realizes now that he’s looking a little sick in the face. The poor guy must be overheating. A wave of guilt instantly washes over him—Hermann might be a dick, but Newt really should’ve mentioned the fan thing, which makes him equally a dick for not doing so. Basically their dickishness is cancelling each other out here, which he thinks makes them both pretty stand-up guys.

“Okay, fine, you wanna come in?” Newt says. “I have a fan. It’s not, like, good, but it’s better than nothing. Also, obviously, popsicles.” A droplet of melted popsicle rolls down the stick and onto his fingers, and Newt licks it up. He gives Hermann’s sleeve a little tug. “Gotta say though dude, you’re looking preeeeetty indecent right now. I mean, forearms? My God, this is a military base, not a gentlemen’s club. Don’t flash me any sock garters, I won’t be able to take it.”

“I’m indecent?” Hermann chokes out. "Do you not—?!"

His eyes fall to Newt’s lips as Newt sucks the rest of the popsicle off the stick, and as Hermann digs his teeth into his own bottom lip, Newt thinks oh, man. He thought Hermann would be above the whole tragically juvenile popsicle=phallic thing. Very low-hanging erotic fruit. He’s almost disappointed in the guy. Newt can name ten different ways he could seduce Hermann right now, hypothetical success rate aside, that would be way more interesting. Newt chews on the wooden popsicle stick just to shake things up a bit.

“Okay, so are you coming in?” he says.

Hermann’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “Newton,” he finally says, and the next bits out of his mouth are a confusing semi-coherent jumble, “I am extremely—what I mean is, I’m not sure—the repercussions of it all, in terms of our working relationship—and loathe as I am to admit it, I do consider you my closest—though of course I find you exceedingly attractive, and I want to, only…”

“Um,” Newt says.

Hermann hovers in the doorway for another ten seconds, weirdly and uncomfortably silent, before shaking Newt’s hand off his sleeve. “I have to do paperwork,” he says.

He books it out of there.

Hermann’s a weirdo, no use trying to figure it out.

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 3: Misanthrapologist (1)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: Time for a sacrifice.

Author's note: This chapter was originally part of the upcoming one, but I decided it should be standalone, both because it is Hidan-centric and because of its contents. I plan on more installments with this song, and if I follow through they should overall end up more fucked up each time. In addition, please regard the notes and warnings of chapter 1 if you have not read it already. Song is Misanthrapologist by Will Wood.

CW for references to periods, being on your period. Also, Hidan, of course, does not reflect how a normal person should view a chronic condition and he's a bit of an ass about it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I wanna meet your maker

Shake him by his ensanguined damask lapels

Holler "Look what you've done, gave this planet a sun

And made a man to wonder if he's more than the sum of his cells"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It becomes impossible to hide, no matter how hard she tries. A flush face, tired bones, and overly sensitive heart make one very vulnerable, especially if those who judge know the reason why. The two Akatsuki don’t yet, and the performer hopes to mitigate it as much as possible.

Doesn’t keep Kakuzu from inquiring, though.

“Sick?” he asks abruptly, looking up from counting the tips made yesterday. It’s been half ten minutes, and the most she’s done for practice is hold her guitar to her abdomen and look pathetic and self-pitying. She fidgets from her seat on the rugged couch, embarrassed as hell.

“...A bit,” she admits.

“Will it effect how well you can work?”

She forces herself to shake her head “no.”

“Alright.”

And that’s the end of that on his end, but unfortunately, after much deliberation, the performer finds she must stand up. A violet eye cracks open from his side of the living room. It watches as she leans down closer than she’s every purposefully been to Kakuzu, and covered lips whisper in his ear. “...Hn,” the older one grunts, “How much?” She mumbles a number as Hidan’s mouth goes into a lopsided pursing. “Mm.” A few bills are dropped into her trembling hand. “Get a receipt.” Without even a look to the prophet, Jashin's disciple is gone; the nature of the whole thing leaves Hidan sour.

“The hell was that all for?” he inquires, praying hands still clasped around his pendant. Kakuzu doesn’t even look up.

“Nothing,” he responds, same tone as ever.

“Fucker.”

“Sure,” he dismisses.

Kakuzu gets the receipt he asked for an hour later, slip of paper in his hand from out of a bag the bard otherwise keeps closed up, lest contents see daylight. He grunts again. Couple cents off, but same bill amount-- decent enough guess, and he got all the change. She thanks him with a small bow and excuses herself up the creaky stairs. As soon as Hidan’s nose is in his space, Kakuzu shreds the paper till unrecognizable.

“OI!”

The old man hasn’t decided yet if this is funny or about to be supremely, unnecessarily annoying, seeing his partner squirm so badly. “Just don’t bother her about it.” Oh, how he should know that kind of talk will only plant ideas in Hidan’s head.

Ugh. People speak too lightly of this kind of thing, she laments in her head as she props herself up against a bedroom wall. “Sick” is the only way to describe the sensation. Her stomach curdles and insides burn. It’s like a vampire bit her and pulled out a cork at the same time-- just totally drained of energy. This pain is so bad her lips quiver as she frowns. The door is closed, but Hidan isn’t the type to knock.

“Oi!” Her eyes flutter open; he walked up without her noticing, somehow, so close she starts with his legs and works her way up. He continues speaking once the eyes lock. “The bastard won’t say anything.” A silver eyebrow raises. “The fuck is your problem?”

Oh. The woman’s cheeks get so red they begin to sting, her mouth feeling more like a squiggle than the line she tries to maintain. “I’m just sick.” The word “just” was a mistake.

“Dying? Fuck, you’re not contagious, are ya?!” Sounding bored with the former option and annoyed with the other. Urgently, the woman shakes her head. “So! What else is it then?!” Frustration loosens up in his expression as he comes up with the only option left. “...Chronic?”

…

…

She nods.

“Painful?”

Quietly, again she nods.

The expression he has is something you never want from Hidan:

Pity.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

'Cause you defy creation

I hate you, I hate you, I do

Hands to the night sky, praying you might die

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The preparations have been made for her mercy kill. Yes, Jashin has convinced him, Hidan needs to end this now. Despite being an immortal, he understood at least a little bit what Deidara was always on about-- the beauty of the end. Last breaths, a body draining till pale like a tipped inkwell, till it stains the ground around it. It was glorious. His disciple had even witnessed first hand! She listened to Hidan, eagerly, curiously; she always asked questions, ones that no one has bothered to since the Akatsuki swallowed him up. Yet...she doesn’t LEARN. The beauty of slaughter has yet to sweep her away in a tangible way, not just philosophical bullshit. The follower will never, ever WANT to kill.

And so it’s better to kill her now and not make anything more of it. Maybe Hidan misunderstood his lord, perhaps she was only to serve as a refresher to his faith, his excitement for the hunt. No more of a pointless existence being whored out for cash by his dumbass partner while he watches idly by. What kind of life is that for him to come back to, night after night?!

It’s time for a sacrifice.

“Uh.”

As she’s wont to do, the performer wrings her hands when particularly anxious about what’s to come. He’s certainly set...a mood…to warrant some tension, her corner of this dilapidated home swathed in shadow, shades down, door closed as a candle passes its light to the others while Hidan savors the burning wax bleeding down his fingers.

For once, he says nothing to even the slightest of words. His gaze concentrates on the fire till he sets the last one, light flickering in anticipation over his purple irises. It’s a sight to behold, someone willingly within his ritual circle. She’ll be good for something, after all.

“I think I complained too much,” she tries to backpedal with less urgency than she really should have, as he begins to prowl towards her backside. “It’s not...curable, per say, but it’s not something I can’t handle. If that’s what this is about,” she adds almost guiltily.

There’s no going back now-- in his mind, she’s a wilting flower, one he’d rather cut and frame for his savior than let decay into nothing at all, but damn if he isn’t curious still about whatever it is making her suffer so much. “Really,” he states, skeptical. His own shadow now doubles over the others, over-top her head. The shift from blades hitched to his spine to being wielded in front of him is unperceived from where she is, seated on the floor, thanks to the refraction of candlelight upon shapes making every one a blur.

“Hidan, I-- it’s-- it’s not a big deal. I promise.” The scythe pauses in place from the height of his swing, only being held by his own insatiable need to know what- exactly- has made her such a tragedy.

“If it ain't a big fucking deal, then stop dancing around and tell! Me! What! It! IS!”

His words come vicious and desperate, hardly contained before, and it makes teeth grit so much Hidan’s mouth begins to ache. Later, he will find, this passion surprised even him-- not because he’s incapable of passion- hell no!...it’s the reason behind it.

Jesus, it’s really going to be like this, huh? Breathe in...breathe out. Alright. It’s gone too far, she decides. He needs to know.

“I. I....period. I’m on my. Period.”

Static and white noise briefly take up the space of the voice in his head, the narrative he made no longer words but nonsense, drowned away. He shorts out, not moving an inch, like a guillotine still waiting to drop down.

“I’m sorry. It’s not a big deal, it’s really not! I can handle it, I have to. I’m just...in the bad part.” The part where she can hardly stand up, that is. Pathetic. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

The shadow of the blades shifts, slowly, surely, bit by bit, as his wrist lowers to his side. Ah, what sort of punishment was she going to endure? For making him go through...whatever all this preparation is meant for.

He walks around the circle, scythe still in his hands as he wraps his head around this. The woman is kneeling down, obedient to him, to his judgment. Her face is drained of color, hardly keeping her head up and not bothering to brush the hair out of her way. Hands folded, hands praying. Her eyes are wet, refusing to meet his own. Something occurs inside of him that’s less of a “click” and more like a sunrise: gradual, consuming, warming. It's foreign, and yet a part of him-- guiltily-- accepts it. Though he doesn't fully understand why, he is granted wisdom that this "condition" is not something he shall remedy.

After all, bloodshed is bloodshed.

“Ah. Well. Shit, then.”A small clink as he reattaches his red guillotine to his back. “Why didn’t you just say so?” Truth is, the performer had correctly guessed that he has a bit of a religious obsession with blood-- didn’t need Kakuzu’s advice to keep the subject private. God, but does she really have to feel so silly right now? That Hidan thought that he needed to do something to save her from it?! She’s...huh.

She’s flattered.

The woman sits lowered before him, and though as helpless as she is, damn if she isn’t curious.

“Did I really worry you that much?”

He quickly spits the taste of affection out of his mouth.

“Sorry.”

“...Shut up,” he murmurs.

“Sorry.” She shuts her eyes.

But just as soon they have reason to flutter open; they can only do so, of course, when she finds a gentle hand takes her own. Hidan’s fingers brush over her knuckles. It’s him, this time, that won’t meet her eyes, his own narrowed while closed lips try to seal in the little breath not lost. The chain around his neck rises over his head. The pendent is set into her palm, and then his own palms fold underneath it. Abruptly, the world is hers.

“We praise Jashin for this pain, for this blood. Thank you for our lives, as we are reminded of the mortal cycle. In life, we anticipate death. In death, we begin to feel alive. Thank you for blessing your disciple, lord Jashin.”

He’s never prayed out loud before in the time they’ve known each other, let alone for both of them. There’s a long pause; the assumption it’s her turn comes around. What should she pray for?

...She doesn’t know. But still, with this spectacle, she’s filled with something overwhelming, and it should come out. Instinctively, she leans down at the end of his prayer, and Jashin’s cold silver sigil is pressed to her lips gently, reverently. He’s foolish enough to look up at this moment and witness this kiss. For the first time, in all her pure, weary glory, Hidan sees he was wrong. He sees she is radiant. He sees she is beautiful.

And silently, unknown to her, he repents for the sin of doubting his lord.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Before I fall in love with you

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[cdsillylilyposting]

Fuckin

Whatever

I'm can't find anything funny in Lily's recent crap that I haven't already said cause it's all repeating shit, complaining at people who've asked her stuff (someone of which i think are people trying to get a rise outta her, stop that if you are)

I wanna ask, anyone if they play table to gamss because I've been playing TTRPGS for a while and just kinda wanted to be unfocused ranting

I've played a Lotta stuff

5e

3.5

3.0

Advanced Dungeon & Dragons (An old player let us borrow his books, really cool)

Pathfinder

Starfinder

Mutants and Masterminds

Call of Cuthulu

City of Mist

Cyberpunk Red

Cyberpunk 2020

I really like d&d tbh and played with multiple different groups of people I'd consider friends

The other games are also fun though with less exposure i will admit i bounced off city of mist the most, I DO really badly want to play a WoD game: Vampire or Hunter

Mutants and Masterminds has a mechanic a lot LIKE insperation from 5e but more integral not an optional rule; the best part is since it's ya know a comic/superhero setting with those tropes a villain might just ESCAPE

Now the book says don't over use this DUH but even then the idea might be annoying BUUUUT if you do something like that they get a heroic inspiration (as i recall called a hero point) since some comic book silliness happened if done well it can have fun villian team ups occur UH OH THE SHOCKER & SANDMAN ARE HERE... AND WORKING TOGETHER!!!

Fun stuff there are rules for tech and how powers interact for adjudication as well as simple sample villains and giant monsters to fight, it being roughly settable in a modern setting with no baggage about it being a mystery like Call does take some getting used to oddly enough but it is weirdly fun having comic shinenigans but it's your oc do not steal with fun rules and drama you can help construct as a group after all superhero comics (most of the good ones) are either soap operas or have fascinating themes and outlooks

Gimme that crunchy combat of Pathfinder or 3.5 and I will be happy, making properly strange monsters with properly fun crunchy combat

I think 3, 3.5, path & star is crunchy while 5e is punchy

3.5 is well i uh, set up... hmmm, ah I tumble to get passed the monsters reach without an attack of opportunity I only get one attack on my turn but haste is up with meta magic swift action bulls strength so take two attacks with my modified strength so I can make a full attack next turn and immediate action close wounds (no idea what class this person is lol)

5e can go, I step up within 5 feet attack attack the creature using my feat I disarming attack for one of my 3 attacks one with haste, and second wind as a bonus action. On their turn when they try to disengage i have Sentinel so with a reaction i can attack and stop them but with warcaster ill use shocking grasp getting advantage on the roll since he has metal armor and now they are stuck in the space

Both can be equally complex if you maximize your see but

3.5 has a lot more small modifiers conditions and situations that just aren't built into 5e a lot of fiddly bits flat footed fod example but in exchange you get not a million classes and instead focuses on a core and let's subclass and build off that

[the-void-writes]

[ CHALLENGE ] : after the receiver teasingly suggests that the sender is a terrible kisser, sender immediately and fervently proves them wrong with a long, passionate kiss that leaves the receiver taking back what they said.

@bloodlessheirbyjacques 👀👀👀

I kind of took some liberties with this prompt, but it was so much fun to do and I’m actually kind of happy with it, so thank you!!! I hope you enjoy these sweet times for Will and his friends.

Freaks of Preston - First Kisses

The whole mess had started with Kevin being his usual teasy self, joking about how Will was probably a terrible kisser. That was when Will admitted that he had never kissed anyone, so he wouldn’t know. Kevin was more than eager to have everyone test his skills, as he grabbed an empty bottle and put all their teammates in a small circle before Will could even blink. At the very least, they all seemed excited to play with him.

“Your spin, Will.”

His hands were already trembling as he took a deep breath and let the bottle fly. It came to a soft stop in Riley’s direction, and while their friends chuckled to themselves, Will felt his face grow warm.

“Oh, we don’t have to do anything,” he said. “You’ve got Tom, and I don’t want to make either of you uncomfortable—”

He lost his words as Riley leaned forward, briefly kissing his cheek. Thomas didn’t seem upset, at all. In fact, they gave Riley a high-five as he sat back down. Will couldn’t form proper words, and he felt the floor spinning underneath him, almost knocking him over.

“Sorry man,” Riley said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, you’re fine— I just—” Will sighed. “I’m still not used to it, that’s all.”

Riley smirked. “Maybe Colin should help you practice.”

Colin kicked at Riley’s foot. “Shut the hell up!”

He didn’t really sound angry, and Will could see the flustered smile he tried to hide under his hand. It felt nice, knowing that his first-ever crush might actually like him back. Now, the only step left was to act on it, if he could ever find the courage.

“You better hope we don’t get Will first, Col,” Kevin said as he took the bottle. “I’m tempted to just kiss him now. Can’t believe a cutie like him has gone so long without one.”

“Kev—” Will cleared his throat. “Thanks, I mean.”

Kevin lifted his glasses and winked at him with his badly-scarred eyes. He flicked the bottle and watched it land on Thomas, who smiled warmly as Kevin stretched himself across their circle to face them.

“Oh, this is also nice,” he said. “Hello, my little phantom.”

Thomas snorted. “Shut up.”

“Ouch— Do I get to kiss you, at least?”

“Yes, of course.”

Will was surprised to see Kevin go for an actual lip-to-lip kiss. Riley didn’t even step in until a few seconds had passed.

“Alright, Blondie, don’t get too comfortable. I’d still like some time with my partner.”

Kevin waited a few seconds before giving Riley an equally-long kiss. Will decided it must have been a three-person relationship, which was strange considering how Riley and Kevin still pestered each other. Jin groaned and nudged them both with her metal arm.

“Either get a room, or disperse,” she said. “It’s Sarah’s turn now.”

Kevin returned to his seat. “Someone sounds eager.”

“I’ll destroy you, string bean.”

Sarah, who had been sitting quietly on Jin’s left, laughed and spun the bottle. Unfortunately, it landed on the empty space between Jin and Riley.

“Does that mean we both kiss her?” Riley asked.

“If you guys want,” Sarah said. “I don’t mind.”

Jin pulled her close and kissed both of her cheeks. “You’re so precious.”

Riley opted for a simple kiss on Sarah’s hand, though it still made her giddy. Jin gave her one last kiss before taking her turn. The bottle landed on Colin, and Will could hear his friends failing to hide their laughter.

“Alright,” Jin said, “calm down guys. I won’t do anything too big— That’ll be Will’s job, right?”

“Why do you guys keep making that joke?” Colin said, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes.

“We’re not blind, Colin.” Jin gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. “You’re both burning up at the thought of it.”

Will looked away before Colin could catch him staring. He wasn’t sure if he could go through with it, given how hard his heart was pounding. It was the downside to never having a crush before— These new feelings were terribly overwhelming.

Riley took his turn next, practically cheering when the bottle landed on Thomas.

“Check out that luck, babe!”

He kissed Thomas even longer than Kevin had, most definitely out of spite. Will couldn’t help but admire how perfectly they fit in each other’s embrace, like matching puzzle pieces. They were so attached to each other that they were still kissing when Thomas did their spin.

“You’re gonna have to let go, Casanova,” Sarah said. “Unless you want me to kiss you, as well.”

Riley laughed and sat back down. “Go ahead, short stuff.”

Sarah puffed her cheeks at the nickname, but continued to crawl forward and gently kiss Thomas on their forehead. They smiled and squeezed her hand before she sat down.

“Thank you, Sarah.”

She giggled. “You’re too sweet, Tom. I don’t know how you ended up with such grumps.”

“Oh yeah?” Riley pointed at Jin. “How did a softie like you land a sports superstar?”

“You just answered your damn question,” Jin said. “She’s adorable.”

Kevin raised his hand. “Are we gonna ignore the fact that she called me a grump? The guy with the pink highlights?”

As they playfully argued with each other, Colin placed his hand on the bottle. Will watched as he neglected to spin it, instead turning it manually to face him. He smiled at Will nervously.

“They won’t notice, right?”

Will chuckled. “I guess not.”

“Are you okay with this?”

“Yes—“ He cleared his throat. “I mean, if you are, then sure.”

Colin laughed and took his hand, leaning closer until his nose was pressed against Will’s. They kept staring at each other, waiting for one of them to make that final step. To everyone’s surprise, it was Will who closed the gap between them, only for a second before he pulled back and hid his face in his hands. His friends clapped for him.

“Wow, look at you taking initiative!” Riley said.

“Go back to kissing your partner, Ry,” Will mumbled.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me twice.”

Will jumped as Colin held his shoulder. He had the most beautiful and serene smile on his face.

“Thanks,” he said. “I should have told you— That was my first kiss, too.”

“You—” Will slapped his hand against his head. “Oh god, I ruined it, didn’t I? It wasn’t even big or special!”

“Are you kidding? It was nice.” He laughed to himself. “Maybe we can try for longer next time.”

Will gripped his sleeves in embarrassment. “Yeah, sounds fun.”

Kevin grinned and grabbed the bottle. “How about one more round, then?”

Their friends all cheered in approval, and despite Will’s initial timidness, he was so happy to be shown love by all of his new friends.

///////

As soon as Will opened the door to Jason’s apartment, strings of muffled laughter came from the kitchen. His godfathers were standing around a single pot, taking turns to stir it carefully. Will tucked his shoes away and joined them.

“What are you guys making?” he asked.

“Oh, you know,” Jason said with a shrug, “just soup, nothing special.”

“It smells like chicken.”

“Right,” Henry said loudly. “Soup and chicken, just normal things.”

Will squinted. “Why are you guys acting like this?”

“No reason, dear.” Jason stirred the pot for the tenth time since Will entered. “So… how was your day?”

There was clearly a smile trying to fight its way onto his face. Will sighed as he realized what was happening: They both knew what had happened with Colin.

“Who told you—”

Jason spun around, unable to contain his grin. “Kevin did, he texted us everything.”

Henry ran over and tousled Will’s hair. “You really did it, sport! I couldn’t be more proud of you!”

“It was barely a peck,” Will said. “It doesn’t really count.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It sounds like you’ll have more chances to go all out.”

“Henry!”

Will hid his face as Henry laughed heartily. Soon, a thin hand fell on his shoulder and pulled him into a hug.

“Do you remember when you were younger,” Jason said, “and you said you would never get married because no one wanted to date you?”

Will nodded, remembering that small, heartbroken boy in Preston. A boy who had accepted that he had no future, until his wonderful new family showed him otherwise. He hugged Jason tighter, crying a little into his sweater.

“You’ve finally found someone who will love every single part of you.” Jason kissed the top of his head. “I couldn’t be more happy for you, Will.”

They were both scooped up in Henry’s arms as he lifted them off the ground.

“Same here, sport. You’ve more than earned this.”

Will held them both close, beyond thankful that both of his godfathers were in his life, in ways that his first father never would have been. Even at dinner, when they kept embarrassing Will with questions about his first-ever kiss, he was still so happy to have their love and support. Friends, family, and a possible new lover… Life was finally being kind to Will Shapiro.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Chris/Melissa + a kiss attempting to convince the other party to stay

Usual post-6B, PG-ish, also on ao3.

She doesn’t want to be alone tonight.

Melissa is… not in a state of crisis, she just doesn’t do crisis, but adapting badly. In hindsight it’ll probably be funny that she’s handling her new empty-nest status worse than she handled finding out that her kid was a goddamn werewolf followed shortly by a brief introduction to a few other supernatural species, but right now it is not, right now it is-

This was probably not the right time to try dating again on top of everything else she has going on, but the universe gave her a decent man who stands a chance of fitting into her chaos and she’s not going to waste that kind of opportunity.

Objectively, Melissa needs a distraction, and it’s good that she has this one because otherwise this would be the kind of overwhelmed where she’d find some delightful bad idea to screw and… she’s been with some real winners, she can admit that in the rearview, and who knows what trouble she’d get herself into without the boys around to prevent it, and-

Good thing she has this one, she repeats. Good thing she has a fabulously fucked-up tragedy of a man to untangle and maybe domesticate a little.

Not that Chris is just a project, exactly. That’s part of the appeal, but she’s also notoriously drawn to that level of damage, to men who handle situations competently and fluidly and then brood after and oh she did not know another human being could be so completely her type before she met this one and-

If there is one thing she’d completely change about him, one trait she is going to get rid of so help her if it’s the last thing she does, it’s how cautious he is with her.

It was sweet, before anything happened, when they weren’t sure what they were. Her past being what it is, it felt nice to be around a man who hesitated before touching her. But they’ve been involved for a few months and she’s not sure they’ll ever do anything past making out, and there’s a point where restraint crosses the line into repression, and-

She wants more. She’s not sure how to get it. That’s new and terrifying.

They’ve at least gotten comfortable with occasional evenings at the house – she’s used to having people around, he’s used to quiet, they compromise – and the realization that neither of them are good at whatever they’re doing. She suspects the dead wife was the only entanglement he’s ever had that mattered, or perhaps at all, and she’s used to more assertive dynamics, and good grief they’re worse at this than the kids are, and-

To have such complete control over a situation, Melissa thinks, is going to take a long time to get used to. But she can’t just be passive or nothing will happen. She has to…

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she wants, and maybe that’s enough.

It’s getting late-but-not-too-late, the part of the evening where he backs away because he doesn’t want to impose, because god fucking forbid he take up any space whatsoever – there is a distinctly separate persona she’s dealing with as a would-be partner, and it would worry her if she thought she understood it – and it was one thing when she wasn’t getting affection because she wasn’t sure she could find a partner who’d fit in with the chaos of her life but that’s not an issue, she’s on the edge with maybe the only person who ever could and dammit they’re both too passive and-

“Stay,” she says instead of letting him go, as she crosses the small distance between them and pulls him down to her level and she absolutely does not care if that’s uncomfortable. She’s used to height difference, which is to say used to standing on tiptoe and hoping that’s enough, but this is-

She likes kissing him, she knows that much, the combination of scruff and caution and something almost wild that she suspects he doesn’t even know he’s capable of. She doesn’t care for power dynamics but she suspects she’ll have to; she doesn’t-

“What are you doing?” he asks when they break for air, always the concern, always just slightly too much, always-

“I don’t want you to leave tonight,” she says, and she has half an idea what she wants and maybe that’s enough to get her through. “I don’t… just stay. On my couch or whatever. Don’t leave. Not yet.”

She hopes it sounds seductive like she’s never been and not desperate or frightened, and there’s still that worry in his eyes – just her luck, she’s gone and made herself something vulnerable that needs him – but he doesn’t say anything right away, just holds her like she’s almost breakable and dammit he’s making her like him too much and-

“If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, almost uncertain. “If that’s…”

“I’m not taking you upstairs. But this house is too quiet, and I’m not… I’m not you. I’m not happier this way.”

They’ll deal with that accusation later, perhaps, or more likely just let it go. She knows not to try to change too much, and she-

“If that’s what you want,” he repeats.

Melissa shifts her body closer and takes another kiss. “It is.”

[casspurrjoybell-33]

Wreckless - A story of a Boy - Part One

*Warning Adult Content*

Finnegan

Tristan is probably so done with me already but after I send him another text giving him a different arrival time, he still responds politely and the day is still a go.

Somehow.

I was worried about Emmett being out so much before we spent an hour looking at a house and doing an offer.

He tells me he doesn't mind driving the rest of the way which I guess means he really is feeling okay but I don't let him.

I have to admit, it's kind of fun driving this car when I know how badly he wants to.

Tristan apologizes as soon as I ring the bell.

"It's a MESS, please ignore it," he tells me, picking up a streamer from the corner.

"We had Angie's birthday party yesterday. Twenty-five fifth grade kids are apparently the equivalent of a small bomb. Don't worry, we cleaned the pool well, shocked it as soon as they left," he jokes.

Then he gets around to yelling at me, sort of.

"Was starting to wonder if you'd make it all but you did and I'm glad. Emmett, you scared the shit out of us on Thursday."

He holds his hands up, shrugs, and grins.

He's adorable.

"Sorry."

"He's promised me he won't do it again," I tell Tristan as we head towards the bathroom.

"Good. We have sunscreen, drinks and food outside. If you need anything else just ask," he says and then he's off, through the double doors and onto the deck.

We sneak into the bathroom together and change quickly.

Emmett pulls his hair up and I growl at him.

"Later, darling."

"Promises, promises. Don't get too much sun and get too tired."

That earns me a look.

We head out and he coats me in sunscreen and we all get drinks and lie in the shade while the sunscreen soaks in.

Peter and Emmett talk, probably about the wreck and I keep eyeing the unicorn float.

It's more pink than I remember.

"I'll let you play on it, don't worry."

Tristan is sweet.

Peter sighs.

"That's the third one. Lost junior yesterday and I spent all morning blowing that damn thing up."

"I keep telling you to order a pump," Tristan says, rolling his eyes.

"There are other things you can spend hours blowing, you know."

Damn, bold.

He looks like he's shocked that he said it and I know him well enough to know he is.

Word vomit, he calls it.

The boy seriously speaks without thinking fairly often, especially if he's relaxed and with friends.

Better than the other way around I guess.

Emmett reaches over and taps my chair.

"You should tell them."

Should we?

It's just an offer but since I offered a bit above asking with no contingencies, chances are good.

"We put an offer on a house, that's why we're late."

Tristan's mouth gapes open and he turns towards me.

"That's a hell of a reason. Where? Tell me it's close by?"

"Not far, actually," Emmett tells them and then describes the location much better than I could.

They're both excited for us, Peter especially so even though I don't know him quite as well and he is usually a bit quiet.

Maybe that's just in comparison to Tristan.

The house pleases him though, that's obvious.

The two big, burly men disappear up onto the deck and Tristan asks me all about life.

We talk about the beach and promise to get a house together sometime next summer... Wrecked be damned.

We know it may not happen and that's good for me because it's definitely little space.

I decide impulsively to tell him.

If he hates me, fine but I doubt he will.

Somehow I think it'll be okay and I'm tired of hiding who I am from one of my closest friends.

"Tris?"

"Can whatever it is... happen in the pool? I'm so hot."

I answer by jumping in and claiming the unicorn.

He said I could.

"What is it?"

"Do you know what 'Littles' are?"

If he does that'll save a lot of explaining.

"Are you being kinky? Like littles? Cause if you mean little league or little people I'm, well, yes. I know what littles are."

He looks at me and grins.

"Why?"

"Because I sort of am one," I mumble under my breath.

God this is scary.

Why is it so scary?

"I always wondered. How old are you when you are in little head-space?"

That's it?

No shock?

No grimacing?

No... anything?

"Um, seven or eight maybe. I'm not sure."

"Ah, so no bottles and diapers?"

"No."

"Hey, no kink shaming, Finn."

He smiles at me.

"So you really, really like the unicorn, eh? And Emmett is your Dom?"

"Yeah."

I'm bright red.

I am so, so embarrassed.

Like I could die.

Fall into a hole.

A whirlpool could develop right beneath me and I will die holding onto this float.

Not a bad way to go I guess.

"Pease, don't tell anyone, Tris."

"What about Peter? Can I tell him?"

"I don't know, I have to ask Emmett. Work, you know?"

Tristan nods.

"I get that but he won't care. So tell Emmett that Peter won't care and then let me know asap because you know me... I could just spit it out on accident."

I do know.

Shit.

"Emmett?"

This needs to be handled now.

[shipsgaysfordays]

oh fuckers did i find some shit to say about a thoschei interpretation of unknown/nth, yes, yes i very obviously did. so we’re gonna go through this line by line.

just to start with, this is going to be at least partially just headcannon’s and whatever. and i view that this song mainly relates to the master (koschei)’s perspective.

with that preamble out of the way, onto the analysis:

 You know the distance never made a difference to me

Already we’re gonna get into headcannon’s, because I hc that Theta left Koschei when Theta was stealing that tardis and everything. Both of them had had such a close bond and relationship and a part of Koschei feels abandoned in time and space with this soaring distance but there’s that shred of belief that they’re lives are so intertwined that the distance can’t make a difference. Eventually they are able to meet up again but this time instead of a physical distance keeping them apart it’s an emotional one, but again, it doesn’t make a difference to Koschei because by this point they’ve grown used to being without The Doctor.

I swam a lake of fire, I’d have walked across the floor of any sea

Though they wouldn’t want to admit it, but Koschei was devoted to Theta in a way that would damage themselves.

Ignored the vastness between all that can be seen and all that we believe

The vast expanse of the galaxy, all that can be seen that they’ve both tried to see. Also of course the vastness between what they believe to be right, the vastness between their morals. The fact that Koschei would rather look after themselves any day than sacrifice to save another, maybe because they’ve already sacrificed too much of themselves at one time? Idk.

So I thought you were like an angel to me

Theta 100% has a god complex, that’s why the Timelord Victorious is a thing, this idea that they have the moral virtue at all times as though they are heavenly. Koschei’s angel, Koschei’s better, the person she should strive to be like.

Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy

Jump from the end of the academy era to Missy and 12, the darkness and secrecy of Missy in the vault, her true colors and the small sense of goodness that she does still have coming to light.

If there were scarlet flags they washed out in the mind of me.

Now, yes this could definitely also be interpreted in Koschei’s perspective, such as my idea that Koschei has abandonment issues and the Doctor being quite flaky is a red flag to them but they ignore it.

HOWEVER this is like the one line that I want to read from the Doctor’s perspective, again from 12 and Missy in the vault. The red flags of Missy not being ready to go on a mission all washing from 12′s mind because he wants to badly for her to be good again and for her to help people. But it all plays a part in Bill’s fate.

Where a blinding light shone on you every night and either side of my sleep, where you were held frozen like an angel to me

Yeah, no, I’ve got like nothing to say about these lines. The blinding light thing does make me think of performance though, kinda like the blinding light on the 11th Doctor when he was at the pandorica and talking all that shit to the monster’s about how he’s gonna win because he’s the Doctor. Or maybe it’s more of a metaphorical blinding light, the whole angelic themes.

It ain’t the being alone.

Sha-la-la

Once again, the idea that Theta left Koschei on Galifrey to “fend for themselves against timelord society.” It wasn’t terrible for Koschei, but it was isolating for the one person she felt she truly knew to up and leave her.

It ain’t the empty home, baby.

Sha-la-la

Being left alone in their home (Galifrey) that felt empty without some light in the darkness.

You know I’m good on my own.

Sha-la-la

Koschei’s fucking lying to themselves, if we’re going by the sound of drums interpretation of the character, no, they are not ‘good on their own’ just, no. Their thoughts consume them on their own, but they can’t have Theta knowing that.

Sha-la-la, baby, you know it’s more the being unknown.

Again, that feeling of being abandoned by the one person who you thought knew and understood you best.

So much of the living, love, is the being unknown.

Throughout time and space The Master doesn’t make many close bonds, most of these beings have far more limited lifespan’s, so what’s the point of being known?

You called me angel for the first time, my heart leapt from me

Theta being the only one to have seen the good in Koschei, to not have simply seen her as a madman but to know them deeper and be able to see that there is some good there behind all the things that plague them.

You smile now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth

Of course I’m imagining Peter Capaldi’s smile, how could I not? Possibly the idea that Missy isn’t seeing 12 smile, but she’s seeing the smile lines, she’s seeing that 12 has found some sense of happiness, she can see pieces of it stuck to him despite him not wanting to show her that happier side of him--because he’s still angry for all that she’s done.

And what’s left of it, I listen to it tick every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me

Tick every tedious beat, like a drum beat? Like a *the sound of 4 drum beats over and over again, idk if I’m describing it well, like John Simm’s Master*

Anyways, what’s left of that smile is unknown to Koschei, they haven’t seen Theta smile in so long because they aren’t the one to make The Doctor smile. Those smiles are as unknown as any angel, as any goodness. But still the idea of that smile ticks in their head.

Do you know, I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you?

MOTHERFUCKERS, Missy tried so hard to be good until the Master and her were in the same premises, and then she had to really search herself and try to consider what was important during those episodes (World Enough and Time + The Doctor Falls) and some part of her still carried that goodness because y’all know what she says to her past self. “It’s time to stand with the Doctor.” and guess what gets her killed, what breaks her? This decision, this decision to ‘be good’ is what makes her past self choose to kill her.

That I’d walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you

Traveling so far, doing so much just to finally try to know the Doctor, but knowing and understanding the Doctor is what is their downfall.

It ain’t the being alone

As far as I can tell, across time and space, the Master never makes many significant relationships besides their friendship with the Doctor. Now this may be because the show and media is quite laser focused on the character of the Doctor, or I haven’t consumed enough Master specific content, but I choose to interpret this as: the Master could never find anyone who would ever be as important to them as the Doctor, no one they could understand as well, no one they could love as much, no one they would want to travel time and space for.

It ain’t the empty home, baby

And now the Master has their own empty home outside of Galifrey, but to them that’s just normal, it’s not the problem, they like their space.

You know I’m good on my own

Sha-la-la

Given the fact that Missy literally says to Clara “no, I’ve not turned good” (my god Michelle Gomez’s pronunciation of good has me on the floor, I love her so), yeah no, you’re not ‘good on your own’ you’re the furthest thing from it.

Sha-la-la, baby

You know it’s more the being unknown

And there are some people, love, who are better unknown

If I’m reading this as Koschei singing, they’re referring to themself. They’re isolated and have spent so long seeing themself as the villain and owning that they’re the villain, so to them, he’s better unknown.

it took me like an hour to do a line by line lyric analysis, but i desperately needed to because i needed to

just had the realization that, despite listening to unknown/nth many many times, i have yet to listen to it with the ship thoschei in mind

so i’m gonna do that rn and i’ll get back to y’all if i have anything to say

[mazeinthemiroh]

hello!!!! i love ur work sm omg i’m so excited that requests are open <333 i wasn’t sure if they’re still open or not since your pinned says closed but if you did close them feel free to ignore this! anyways i wanted to a request a little skz reaction to their s/o complimenting them after they’ve had a tough day and are kinda doubting themselves? they’re the best boys and i refuse to believe otherwise

stray kids reactions to their s/o cheering them up after a bad day

genre: fluff, hurt / comfort

warnings: none

a/n: sorry i forgot to change my pinned when i announced requests were open 💀 my bad

chan

chan definitely has his bad days. and sometimes he feels like nothing, nothing will be able to lift his mood. but, to his surprise, you prove him wrong every time. without even meaning to, you will soothe his mind and somehow make his day better just by existing. just by being you. the natural praises that come out of your mouth when you talk to him make him realise his worth <3

minho

contrary to chan, minho doesn't have a lot of bad days. but that means, when he is faced with them, they hit harder than he would like them to. he really appreciates it when you're just there for him. when he's ready to talk about it, he will explain his frustrations. after this, you run your hands through his hair and tell him how proud you are of him. he would never want to admit it, but those words made him very emotional. you touched his heart deeply.

changbin

word of affirmation is important to changbin. when he comforts others, he tends to be very supportive with his words, showing that he cares whilst also trying to provide a solution. sometimes his own problems can't be solved. nevertheless, when you see him upset or sense he's worried about something, he really appreciates the praises and the words of comfort you give him. he realises, in these moments, how much he loves you.

hyunjin

hyunjin definitely relies on your words of wisdom and comfort. when he has bad days, he feels like there is a grey cloud following him, constantly there and something he just can't shake. even with loved ones around him, it's hard to shift out of his negative head-space. so when you leave your little words of encouragement ringing in his ear, telling him how well he did today, telling him how well he did always... he tears up. words such as these keep him going.

jisung

hannie can feel down about himself when he feels like he isn't doing enough. it hurts him, the idea that he should be doing more. the idea of being in a slump. he can't stand it. all he can think about is coming home and burying his face in the crook of your neck. and when he does this, you cuddle him close and praise him for how well he has done today. "you tried your best. and that's perfect to me." he will look up at you with shining eyes and whisper a 'thank you.' he is truly touched.

felix

unfortunately there are a lot of times when felix doubts himself. it can be quite disheartening to watch this sunshine boy talk badly about himself. he deserves to be praised because he doesn't give enough to himself. you recognise this and always try your best to offer sincere words of love and support. even if he might not believe your words at the time they are spoken, they will stick with him in harder times, and he will be grateful that you were there for him on those days.

seungmin

seungmin can get frustrated with himself if he isn't learning things as quickly as others or if he's not hitting the notes he wants to hit. you giving him compliments on these days, even if it's something small like 'you look handsome today', you know, something he hears every day, suddenly means a great deal more to him now that he's sad. you make him much, much happier.

jeongin

jeongin can get down about himself when he compares himself with others or makes little mistakes frequently. when he feels he isn't improving, his mindset can turn quite negative and he may feel disheartened. so he really does appreciate your efforts to lift him back up. it's nice hearing the good things he has done from the one he loves rather than his own negative thoughts.

[soleilnomoon]

May I request for traffy when he finds his s/o passed out in the middle of the hall

yes, of course; i love putting law in stressful situations! i had fun writing this so i hope you like it <3

866 words, gn reader (no pronouns), sfw

he warns you about your all-nighters; that you shouldn’t push yourself too hard, especially with how long the polar tang has been submerged. you often find yourself lightheaded, not bothering to disclose your discomfort to him for fear of retribution of some kind. and still, you don’t listen. if only you can push yourself a little more—be more than just the newest member of the heart pirates, someone of use to him. 

it eats at you, this feeling; the idea that you could ever be anything more than useless doesn’t register in your brain. instead, you berate yourself daily, finding that you’ve become sullen under the weight of all of your endless critiques. so you work—tirelessly. you barely take any meals, an action that he’s noticed with a permanent frown because of it. every time he wants to bring it up, you somehow busy yourself—a new book to read, notes to organize, things to discover; telling him let’s put a pin in that so frequently that he often says it before you do.

because he’s not the sort to pry without reason, he reluctantly lets you have your space; but as the hours turn into days, the days into weeks, his worry intensifies. it’s unlike you to roam about like the undead, bumping into your crewmates without noticing. he’s ghost-like in how he follows you around, silently motioning for the others to carry on as he observes you from a close distance. on a morning where everyone sleeps in, he washes up before seeking you out. he feels obsessive in a way; always longing, unable to reforge the connection that you once had, driven by the insatiable need to see if you’re okay.

and maybe when he puts his mind at ease, he’ll back off; but for now, he’ll take things into his own hands.

his booted footsteps echo around the hallway, bouncing off of the walls, rattling his nerves without consideration. when he takes the next corner and he finds you on the cold, metal floor, papers scattered about, ink stains on your wrist and fingertips, mouth slightly ajar, faintly breathing. his stomach drops, an irrational panic shooting through him before he sprints over to you. crouched on the ground, he rolls you onto your back, lithe fingers gentle as they prod around your body, checking for the tell-tale signs of a concussion.

you’re having such a lovely dream, one where he takes you to unspeakable heights, a small whimper shooting out of your mouth before you softly call his name out. at this rate, his frown will be a permanent fixture in his life. he brushes some hair away from your face, careful to not disturb you as you rest. you’ll never admit to this truth, but he’s right: you do snore. not that it bothers him—it’s proof that you’re alive. it gives you character, he said once in the middle of lunch; the memory comes to him now, a small smile tugging on his lips as he takes you in his arms. you used to complain that you were too heavy for him to carry you like that, but he shushed you and proved you otherwise each time. 

even now, as he makes the long trek back to his room, all he can think about is putting you on his bed and tucking you in securely. you stir in his arms, feeling fuzzy as the motion of his strides wake you up; instinctively, you reach your fingers out and graze his shirt with your nails, fatigue etched into your body, so you can’t say much—although you want to. badly.

“stop that,” he instructs firmly, glancing down once, dark brows furrowing as his eyes narrow at your. “i knew you’d run yourself ragged one of these days.” a tsk bubbles up in the back of his throat, but he does his best to keep calm and swallows it instead. there’s no need for him to beat a proverbial dead horse, so to speak.

your eyelids flutter, unable to properly focus your sight on him anymore, and feel the warmth behind his words. his room is essentially for show; lifeless still lifes, dark furniture, shades of blues and grays, a compact bookcase—he barely spends time in there; but for your sake, he will. in order for you to recover your energy uninterrupted, he makes sure you stay put and keeps his bedroom door locked.

“thanks,” you manage to say, voice soft, practically silent, the blanket wrapped around you cozily.

he opens his mouth to tell you not to thank him—that he should’ve watched you more carefully, that he should’ve asked you what was wrong sooner—when your fingers wrap around his snugly. he plans to sit at his desk while you sleep, but you silently urge him to lay next to you. the hesitation is brief and he hates himself for it. you continue to hold his fingers until he firmly pries them away from you. then, the mattress dips slowly and you feel the hard planes of his body against your back. his arm hangs around your waist protectively, his fingers gliding along your stomach playfully, the softness of your skin putting him at ease.

[sie-rui]

Hello! Can I request the unknown number with the haitani brothers?

❀ UNKNOWN NUMBER | TOKYO REVENGERS 🤍 haitani ran, haitani rindou 💿 female reader, second pov (you/your), tw: sexual harassment, implied violence, breach of privacy, stalking, established relationship, imagine 📅 august 25, 2021 🔗 masterlist ,, version: 01, 02, 03

some people need to understand that no is no, and that dick pics are very much not appreciated. the boys are going to make sure some people know that.

. . . HAITANI RAN

It was amazing how stupid people can be.

Ran knew that you were beautiful, he was reminded of it every single day whenever he sees you, whenever he thinks of you, whenever he has to fend off another asshole trying to pick you up. He just can’t believe that people weren’t getting the hit that you were his and he was yours and no one is allowed in between lest they want to face Ran’s baton.

Apparently, self-preservation skills get thrown out the window because people are always trying to get in between the two of you. It's amazing how Ran hasn’t gotten arrested for almost murdering more than then people at this point.

Not only does he get jealous easily but almost-killing people is starting to not get enough.

Just a little more and he might actually get sent back to jail, permanently, this time.

So when you come up to him, tears in your eyes, Ran just knew that someone was truly going to die tonight and he had to pack his bags and run away from the police. (Perhaps prepare some fake IDs as well.)

You soon find solace on his bed and when Ran wraps his arms around you, he finds that you were shaking badly. Your nose was red and pure genuine fear swallowed your eyes.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” He repeats, trying to keep himself calm when all he could see was red because who the fuck made you cry.

Ran feels the familiar shape of a device pushed to his chest and he looks down, snatching it from your finds as you gave it up with no struggle; merely pushing your head to the space between his neck and the pillow.

It was still vibrating, the phone in his hand.

He swipes it open, already knowing the password by heart, your anniversary.

The sight that greets him turns the red in his eyes to pure black.

“How long?” He murmurs.

Messages, and only recently, pictures were popping in your phone. Pictures of you walking home, pictures of you where you wore what you were currently wearing now. Before that were messages, questions about your address, your age, your sizes, things that one shouldn’t give up to a stranger.

You only shake your head.

Ran looks down at you, averting his gaze from the screen, in case he ends up chucking it across the room or slamming it on the headboard.

Maybe he should. He’d find a way to get you a new one, just to make sure this bastard can’t find you anymore.

Ran looks at you, small, afraid, shaking you. And thinks, he doesn’t mind going to that sick sick place if it means you’ll be living a life without any fear of anyone watching you or bothering you.

He runs his hand through your hair, soft compared to the burning uncontrollable rage crashing inside him and the tight grip he had on your phone.

And he whispers, low and dangerous and a tight smile on his face. “I’ll get rid of them for you.”

. . . HAITANI RINDOU

There is nothing in this world that Rindou wouldn’t do for you, even if he doesn’t like admitting it. Perhaps, outright murder is one of them.

See, despite him always acting as if he didn’t care, he truly does. And he’ll be damned if someone ever makes you cry or if one single strand of hair is messed from your head (unless it was him who did it; there are certain exceptions, this is one of it).

Rindou doesn’t get all yandere like his brother (“I do not!” Ran whines when his younger brother starts murmuring to himself and he manages to hear tiny parts of the silent conversation.), but he gets just as dangerous.

So when he saw you, looking at your shoulder with eyes blown wide, not in surprise but in genuine terror, Rindou was already cracking his knuckles.

Even from a distance, he could tell the way you held onto your arms wasn’t comfortable, grip tight and lightly quivering but not from the autumn wind. You bite on your lip uneasily, guarded.

Rindou plops down on the space next to you, the bench creaking at the sudden weight. You flinch, hard, almost jumping out of your seat and he couldn’t help but raise a brow.

Surely, no one in an opposing gang tried to target you, right? Rindou made it clear that you weren’t to be touched or else bones would be breaking and heads flying. Not even the bravest man wants to face the Haitani brothers’ wrath.

“Rin!” You exclaim, a shaky smile on your face and all he wants to do is wipe it away. He would rather have you just break down than even dare give him that kind of smile.

He squints, noticing the gadget in between your hands.

Rindou only stretches a hand out, palm upwards, awaiting the device while his other arm is on the back of the bench, safely wrapped behind you. Your expression sours, once more looking around and he chews at his gums, trying to look at the surroundings from the corner of his eyes.

There was no potential idiot. Just a couple or two a few steps behind, one with kids, the other with a dog. They were too far away from the both of you so he couldn’t tell the conversation but they were impossible to look suspicious.

Rindou snaps out of it when the warm device reaches his hand, already unlocked as you look at him with pleading eyes; not to stop him from opening it but for help.

He inches closer as you rest your head on his shoulder, silent whimpers in your throat. If this was any other situation, Rindou would have turned red from neck to the tip of his ears, already throwing himself away as if he was electrocuted.

This was not any other situation.

Not when the thing that greets him from your phone was an unknown number asking for your address, for your school, for your social media accounts, for pictures.

Tokyo is wide and vast, Japan even more so. Haitani Rindou is going to look for one person, no name, no picture, just a number, and he doesn’t really feel like giving up.

He shuts it down, slipping it inside his pocket and you watch it without any complaints, almost looking relieved that you could at least temporarily lose contact with that asshole.

“They better be ready because I won’t give them time to even scream when I find them,” he murmurs, hand on your shoulder, gently tapping onto it when he was already losing his mind at the thought of someone having the guts to even message you so desperately when you already had him in your life.

He wordlessly presses a kiss on the side of your head, already planning what to do next.