worseandworser

[worseandworser]

Hi, hi hi!! Saw your taking requests. Obikin prompt:

Alpha Obi-Wan and omega Anakin trying to get Anakin pregnant OR already pregnant Anakin driving his master to distraction that Obi-Wan Needs to put him on his cock at any moment

Heyaaa here it is, anon! I might have added hysterical pregnancy to it, but there's a lot of breeding kink

There are things about Anakin that Obi-Wan just knows.

Easily, effortlessly, perfectly — Obi-Wan just knows, it reveals itself to him like a curtain pulled to the side, like a book falling open on the last page he's read. Anakin has this way of being, of wearing his heart on his sleeve, then there is their shared bond, intact even after years of Anakin's knighthood, and thus sometimes it's not even a matter of choice. Obi-Wan just knows.

He makes good use of his ability, though.

For example, for the last month and a half, Obi-Wan has been practically forced to understand that Anakin's omega instincts are doing a number on both of them. From the overly-large nests to the increasing amount of food Anakin eats, from the uneasiness around strangers to the almost territorial protection of their shared quarters, Anakin has become a raging ball of hormones.

He is — and Obi-Wan knows — preparing for a child. A child that, unfortunately, is not real.

False pregnancies are not unheard of. Actually, they are quite common among omegas. They believe they are pregnant when they aren't, really; but that is usually for the more — oh, how should he say — more unstable omegas — those whose lives are dedicated to the prospect of bearing children and mating and becoming mothers.

Anakin is not like that, you see. He is a Jedi Knight, a General, and the Hero With No Fear. They are at war, for Force's sake, and there are better times to think about bringing children to the galaxy, so Obi-Wan is frankly surprised that Anakin, out of all people, would be getting morning sickness over an empty womb.

But how does Obi-Wan fit into all of this?

Well, he is the closest thing Anakin has to an Alpha.

Their arrangement is quite simple. Fuck when they can, fuck when they want — nothing more, nothing less. In a desperate attempt at self-preservation, Obi-Wan likes to treat sex with Anakin as something practical, almost clinical. They are both healthy, consenting adults who find release in each other's bodies and that is all there is to it. They don't have time to go around picking random partners, so Anakin has to settle for what's convenient. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan is glad to give him whatever he needs and to receive whatever Anakin wants to give. But let's not delve too deep into that.

The main issue is that Anakin has told him before that there is no one else. There is no one else sharing Anakin's bed. No other alpha.

So Anakin has been regularly having sex with a single partner while unmated and — that's Obi-Wan's theory: it might have tricked his body. Anakin is getting ready to carry a baby. To secure a mate? To fulfill some subconscious sense of duty? Obi-Wan doesn't know.

What matters is that Anakin is not pregnant, and Obi-Wan doesn't know how to bring that up.

"Ah, Force," Anakin moans.

Obi-Wan slides a third finger inside him and meets no resistance — just another gush of wetness. Anakin is on his back, pulling his knees to his chest, and the bed is covered in both his sweat and slick and it smells like paradise. It smells like filth, and sex, and Anakin.

Paradise.

Moving his fingers in and out, in and out; Obi-Wan has been fingering Anakin for some time now, and his forearm is beginning to hurt. But then he looks down, to the expanse of Anakin's muscled stomach, and forgets about the pain for a moment.

Oh, what if it was true?

Truth is, for the past month and a half, Obi-Wan has been expecting some shift in Anakin's scent. A sign, just a small one. If Anakin is preparing for his supposed pregnancy, then Obi-Wan is preparing to provide for his supposed pregnant omega, because as much as Obi-Wan hates to admit it, this whole hysteric pregnancy has been having such a great influence on him. He's been dreaming — awake and asleep — about Anakin's distended belly. He is proud of the large nests his omega makes. He thinks Anakin should be eating more. He has been anticipating the way their scents will mix into an indistinguishable mess.

But alas, Anakin never skips a pill. Hopefully. Thankfully.

"Obi-Wan," Anakin breathes out.

It drags Obi-Wan out of his depressing musings — back to the present, to the beautiful present, where Anakin is flushed on his bed, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, where Obi-Wan's fingers are being squeezed by his welcoming, warm cunt. Stunning, Obi-Wan thinks reverently, and his eyes search for Anakin's half-lidded ones.

"Yes, Anakin?"

He knows what Anakin wants, of course he does. But he loves to hear it, in that bashful way Anakin says it, tilting his face to the side and blush deepening on his cheeks.

"Fuck me…" Anakin whispers.

Obi-Wan smiles pleasantly. "Isn't that what I'm doing?" He pointedly shoves his fingers in. "What more could you possibly want?"

Anakin makes a strangled noise of pleasure and Obi-Wan almost loses it. He keeps his calm, collects himself, and crooks his fingers just so and Anakin gasps and clenches around them.

"Y-your cock," he chokes out. "Obi-Wan, fuck me with your cock."

Yes, Obi-Wan thinks gleefully, I'll fuck you with my cock, over and over, and I'll fill you up with my cum until you're dripping, until you're—

"Of course, darling," Obi-Wan says. "Anything you want."

Obi-Wan can't tell if it's the words or something he does with his fingers, but Anakin throws his head back and lets out a high-pitched whine. Whichever it is, Obi-Wan is proud of himself.

He pulls his fingers out and lines up his cock. When he looks up, Anakin is staring at him, lips parted and eyes filled with unbridled passion — Obi-Wan slides in, slow and steady, and watches as Anakin's breath hitches and his eyes fall shut. Lovely, Obi-Wan reckons, and when he is in to the hilt, surrounded by warmth and moisture and tightness, Anakin gives him a little gasp that is as adorable as it is arousing.

Anakin looks beautiful like this, spreading his legs out so Obi-Wan can fuck him with his cock. In fact, Anakin looks beautiful doing anything, doing nothing at all, especially in the past month, when Obi-Wan's instincts have selected Anakin as his own pregnant omega. Obi-Wan has to look again, down at Anakin's belly—

He begins to move and Anakin, somehow, spreads his legs wider — he feels like a furnace, except his cunt is gushing sweet-smelling slick and Obi-Wan almost regrets not eating him out yet, because if there is one thing he is sure of is that if Anakin is de facto pregnant, the taste of his slick would be the first thing to change. Obi-Wan moves, but he is thinking, imagining, shoving his tongue inside Anakin and lapping at the slightly different flavor he would find there, and then—

He looks at Anakin's belly. He stares at Anakin's belly, trying to find a bulge, even the smallest one, and his chest aches with disappointment. He punts a hand on top of it and finds taut muscles, he presses down and hears Anakin whine, long and drawn out, and squirm. Rationally, Obi-Wan is aware that he has done nothing wrong, but the alpha in him is frustrated even with a beautiful omega writhing beneath him, or because there is a beautiful omega writhing beneath him but that omega needs a thing that Obi-Wan hasn't given him yet and now—

"I wish you were really pregnant," he blurts out.

It's such a huge lapse of self-control that Obi-Wan freezes up. Terrible moment, with his cock still sheathed inside Anakin's cunt, and then Anakin stares up at him with wide eyes.

Obi-Wan curses. He wants to fuck Anakin, he wants to move but at the same time, he is not sure if Anakin would like that. Anakin, who is looking at him with an expression that mixes surprise and confusion.

"What," Anakin starts, "what did you say?"

At last, Obi-Wan removes his hand from Anakin's belly and begins to sit back. Anakin stops him by gripping his upper arms with bruising strength.

"Don't you dare pull out now," he growls.

"Ah," Obi-Wan says smartly. He is not entirely sure if he should apologize, or if he should say anything at all. "Do you… want to keep going?"

"Yes," Anakin is so earnest and unhesitating that Obi-Wan almost gives out a sigh of relief. "Kark, say it again."

"Say what?"

Anakin looks at Obi-Wan like he just asked the stupidest question in the galaxy. "What you just said!"

Obi-Wan's breath hitches.

"That… I wish you were really pregnant?"

Instantly, Anakin's entire demeanor shifts — he lets go of Obi-Wan's arms and his hands fall limp to his sides, he relaxes against the mattress, legs still spread out so beautifully, and his gaze…

It seems strangely distant and clouded.

"Is it… Is it true?" Anakin whispers, and it's so soft and so timid and so unlike Anakin, who seems to never shy away from saying the first thing that crosses his mind. "Obi-Wan, move."

Obi-Wan does. He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in. "Ah," he gasps, "It is."

"Tell me."

"Hm, I'd like to see you pregnant, Anakin," Obi-Wan says, and it feels very much like a confession. He moves his hips, again and again, trying to build a pace that is more rhythmic than the usual fast-and-hard Anakin prefers. It won't last long, not with Anakin's vice-like grip around his cock, but it feels good to feel a little bit in control right now. It's just dirty talk, Obi-Wan tells himself, and Anakin doesn't have to know how deep it goes. "Force, I'd like to make you pregnant, I want you with my child."

Anakin moans a deep, rough sound. It's beautiful, and Obi-Wan speeds up a little bit to reward him.

"Y-you should do that," Anakin says. He puts a hand on top of his own belly and looks up at Obi-Wan, his eyes shimmering with moisture and with that distant, glazed-over quality. "Some days it feels like you already did."

Obi-Wan gasps and leans down to kiss him because he can, because they can share that, and also because hearing Anakin say he'd like to carry Obi-Wan's child has satisfied some deep-rooted alpha need in him. He wants to bite, to take, and he kisses Anakin like he is claiming him in all the ways he hasn't before. In all the ways he tells himself he can't.

Their kiss is bruising. Open-mouthed, made of teeth and tongue. Obi-Wan fucks into him earnestly, hopelessly, and when their kiss ends, he hooks his fingers behind Anakin's knees, and pushes them upwards, towards Anakin's chest, so he can be closer, closer, closer — in turn, Anakin whines into his mouth. He whines, and whines, just a long, drawn-out sound that seems to never end.

"You want me," Obi-Wan says, "to fuck a child inside you, is that it? Is that why you've been begging for my cock every time we see each other, darling?"

Anakin nods. His mechanic hand cradles his lower belly as if to protect it, even when Obi-Wan starts pounding into him.

"Oh, I'll get you pregnant, Anakin, if that's what you want." Obi-Wan leans down to place kisses and bites over Anakin's neck and chest, and Anakin bites his lip to hold back his sounds. Obi-Wan lets it because it is definitely something he likes about Anakin — so responsive, so loud, all the time, with everything — that when he tries to hold it back, it seems so desperate and hopeless. "Dearest, I'll fuck you over and over, as many times as it takes, but I'll put a baby in you even if it's the last thing I do."

He bites at Anakin's chest and sucks a bruise, then another, and another.

"I want to see your chest full of milk, darling," Obi-Wan says. "You know that is going to happen, right? Your chest will grow, and soon enough it'll get heavy with the milk for our child. Our child, Anakin."

"Yes," Anakin breathes out, "yesyesyes."

"You'd be such a great mother, Anakin, I—" Obi-Wan feels Anakin clench around him, so wet and warm and molded perfectly around his cock. "The nests you've been making, darling, they are perfect— perfect for me to fuck you in them, and perfect for when our child is born, darling, you can take my clothes if you want…"

"I want," Anakin chokes out.

"What do you want?"

"Your clothes," Anakin says. He looks up at Obi-Wan through half-lidded eyes and an expression of perfect bliss. "Harder."

Harder is good, harder is easy. Obi-Wan realizes he wants harder too, faster, and he thrusts into Anakin with abandon. When Anakin starts demanding harder, faster, it usually means he is close, and Obi-Wan is an alpha — when his omega is pleased, then he is pleased.

"Are you going to come, darling? Clench around me, so tight like you always do? You know you'll feel so good I'll come too…"

"Inside, inside," Anakin moans. "Please, Master, come inside me."

Ah, Obi-Wan thinks, that's the plan.

"Of course, how else will I get you pregnant?" Obi-Wan says. "I'll come inside right now, and then again later. And again, and again. You need my cum, you need all of it so you can carry my child for me."

Beneath him, Anakin writhes and gasps, mouthing a string of words in Huttese and another string of yesyesyes, and Obi-Wan's rhythm starts to falter. Anakin is simply too much, he feels perfect and looks like everything Obi-Wan has ever wanted — he is Obi-Wan's chosen mate, even if they've never talked about it before, even if there is no bite on his neck, but he would be the mother to Obi-Wan's children and that is all Obi-Wan needs at the moment.

"C'mon, be good," he tells Anakin.

Just like always, Anakin's orgasm soothes the alpha in him — Anakin throws his head back and groans, deep and loud, limbs going stiff, then shaking with the aftermath as if it overwhelmed him. And it feels even better around Obi-Wan's cock, when he clenches over and over again as the tension is washed off his body.

Obi-Wan stops thinking. Now, he doesn't have to. He thrust into Anakin without rhythm, without any consideration for anything but his own selfish pleasure.

"Don't pull out," Anakin whispers.

"I-I won't," Obi-Wan gasps. "I've been waiting the whole night to fill your tight little pussy with my cum, you think I'll pull out now?"

Anakin squirms.

"Anakin, you'll just take it now," Obi-Wan says. "I'll come inside you and then I'll knot you and I'll keep every drop inside you so you'll finally get your baby. Would you like that?"

Without hesitation, Anakin replies, "Yes."

"Good boy," Obi-Wan compliments.

After that, the room is filled with his grunts, the sound of skin slapping skin, and Anakin's overstimulated little gasps. When Obi-Wan comes, it's in an overpowering and all-consuming rush of pleasure — it courses through him like lightning, and he spills inside Anakin with an embarrassingly high-pitched moan.

He hides his face on the side of Anakin's neck, shoving his knot as deep inside as he can, and he relishes in Anakin's sweet tightness. Underneath him, Anakin gasps again, opening up for him like he was made for it.

"Beautiful," Obi-Wan breathes out. "Don't move yet."

Anakin makes a sound that seems like a laugh. "Wasn't planning to."

He wraps his legs and arms around Obi-Wan to pull him closer, and Obi-Wan tries to get as comfortable as possible — knotting in this position is not ideal, but Anakin is a strong man, surely he can carry a bit of Obi-Wan's weight for a few minutes.

And then—

—silence.

Cold realization and dread settle in the pit of Obi-Wan's stomach. They'll be stuck here for some time now.

"So," he starts, refusing to lift his face from the side of Anakin's neck. "This was intense."

"I want you to bite me."

And the neck is right there—

"Anakin—"

"No," Anakin says. He clings to Obi-Wan, nails beginning to scratch his skin. "You said it was true. Did you lie?"

"Of course not—"

"Then, bite me," Anakin demands. "You don't have to do it now, it can be later, as long as you do it."

Obi-Wan noses at his neck, presses a soft kiss there, and feels Anakin shiver. "We must talk first."

[worseandworser]

Hey! I read the first two chapters of your royed hanahaki fic on ao3, saw you're looking for a beta, and migrated over. If you're still looking, I'm open to helping out! I think your take on the plot is really interesting :) if not, i'm getting back into FMA after a 10+ year break and happy to find folks active in the fandom!

heyyy!! yes i am looking for a beta!!! I hope my reply did come too late, but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3 Is it okay if I message you?

[worseandworser]

the fool with the slowest heart

want a drabble? hmu!

Ship: mizu/taigen

Rating: Gen

Warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, angst, taigen whump

read on ao3

Taigen wakes up in pain. It is not excruciating, but it blossoms over his limbs slowly, surely, like ink sliding across paper. It starts with his face, then his torso, his ribs, his legs, his arms, his fingertips. 

His fingertips—

It comes back to him suddenly. An onslaught of memories makes his eyes snap open and his lips part in a gasp. His throat tightens. His voice dies before he can speak. Unmoving, silent, and confused, Taigen searches the room for an explanation — his nails , he remembers, and his fingers twitch on the ground.

"Don't move," comes a voice to his right. "You're safe but don't move yet."

Taigen looks in its direction. Even moving his neck brings a dull ache to his spine and terrible images to his mind — he can break, he reckons, with the barest of gestures.

Where are we? he means to ask. All that comes out is a groan of pain.

"Don't talk either," Mizu warns. 

There is pain — there is what he sees. Mizu is leaning towards him, kneeling on the floor next to him, and then, in a blink, a palm rests on his neck. Warm, calloused. Taigen cannot breathe.

"Your fever has gone down," he says clinically. "If you stay still, I'll get you water."

It is not the promise of drink that acquiesces Taigen, he knows that. The words, the command — that is more than enough, it allows him to relax once again, allows him to sag on the floor and rest .

Mizu looks like— Taigen is not entirely sure what he looks like.

He looks like something Taigen wants to look at.

Slowly, as if to not provoke a beast, Mizu stands up. He walks within Taigen's watch, toward a clay pot in the corner of the house they find themselves in — and Taigen wonders, for a second, where are they, where are they, where are they — but the panic dies as quickly as it rises. Mizu told him he is safe.

Mizu brings him a glass of water, and it is then Taigen realizes how thirsty he is. A rough feeling in his throat as it closes up, and his tongue feels raspy in his mouth; such a delicate sensation to notice under all the pain. Kneeling beside him once more, Mizu slides his fingers under the back of his head.

"Tell me if it hurts."

And it hurts; the barest of motions, just the gentle push of Mizu's hand to support his head up. Taigen feels it to his feet, like a jolt, like lightning, yet he doesn't say anything. It hurts, it hurts, but something in his chest hurts way more — the kindness, he reckons, the care. Mizu brings the glass to his lips, slowly and steadily, and Taigen can barely drink: his heart has hammered its way up his throat. Suddenly, Taigen is embarrassed of his weakened state, embarrassed of the water spilling down his chin. Embarrassed of the pain he feels in front of a man who seems to not feel the same for him.

"Don't move," Mizu says, and brings Taigen's head back to the floor.

[worseandworser]

a boy with the sky in his eyes

Taigen dreams of blue.

He is unsure of what exactly he dreams of. The sea, the sky, lagoons and rivers under snow, the brightest of moonlights, sharp ice, a reflection on a blade — he dreams and wakes up, panting and gasping. He wakes up from what feels like a nightmare, as if he had seen beauty so grand he couldn't possibly grasp it, his eyes burn and his body curls up on its side. Taigen is in pain, he realizes, but it sounds like a distant, foreign thing; the overwhelming weight of what he witnessed in his slumber distracts him.

"Ah," he sighs, and brings a hand to his chest.

His heart pounds against his rib cage, a restless bird attempting to flee; all the air leaves his lungs and for a moment, he is scared he won't have the strength to breathe in again. But he does and, in a large gulp of air, he lets his eyes snap open.

Unlike his dream, reality is the color of amber. The fire, flickering in Master Eiji's forge, illuminates the room and with it, the world shines bright orange and red and yellow. Taigen takes another deep breath. Visions of his dream still flash and dance in front of his eyes like ghosts. Like demons. He thinks of a boy with the sky in his eyes and it ties a knot around his throat.

He stares at Mizu's back, clothed in dark blue, and stays very, very still.

Taigen believes no man should ever dream so incautiously. However, for the past weeks, his mind has been plagued and poisoned. He shuts his eyes and sees, the waves, the clouds, the moon; he opens his eyes and sees, the softest blink of Mizu's eyes. Taigen dreams of blue and it holds him like a hostage, it pins him down by the wrists and curls its lips in a sneer. Taigen dreams of blue and wakes up yearning for it.

The night is quiet, almost silent, blanketing Taigen in the safety of loneliness, and so, he stares at Mizu's back. Up and down, up and down it moves, each breath as light and smooth as the last, and Taigen reckons Mizu is unmovable. He stares at Mizu's back. His gut clenches, his heart hammers — there is not a moment of peace when Taigen sees blue. And it seems that lately, all he sees is blue; it chases him in wakefulness and sleep, and he can't escape from its torrential presence.

"You're awake," Taigen whispers.

Mizu does not move. A very restless stillness.

"You make a lot of noise when you wake up," Mizu whispers back.

Taigen wants to reach out because Mizu is deliriously near; every inch of him calls for it, from the tip of his toes to his last strand of hair, and so his body aches from more than mere wounds. He has never felt this way and he is painfully aware of it. There is a thorn in his side, a bleeding gash that has been taking too long to heal — it has blue eyes. Mizu is so, so close, an arm's length away, and Taigen leaves it that way because that is the distance men should keep from each other.

"Bad dream?" he asks.

Mizu does not turn to look at him.

"I do not dream."

And Taigen believes it.

"I dream a lot," he confesses.

"Then go back to it," Mizu whispers.

I don't want to, he wants to say. Why should he dream of blue when there is blue right by his side? Turn around, he wants to beg. But men shouldn't dream so incautiously, thus Taigen never speaks a thing.

Instead, he stares at Mizu's back, clothed in dark blue, and stays very, very still.

[worseandworser]

soothing

want a drabble? hmu! don’t forget to check out the prompts

Ship: luckae/kaeluc

Rating: Gen

Warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, children!luckae, crybaby kaeya

read on ao3

The first sound always comes like a hiccup — Kaeya keeps his head low, hair covering most of his face, lips tightly shut. The only visible sign that he is trying so hard to hold it back is the tremors running down his arms until his hands curl into small fists around the knees he hugs to his chest. Diluc knows what this means.

"Kae?" he calls.

The other boy does not turn to look at him and remains seated by a grapevine. The grapes he had been holding spilled all over the ground and Diluc knows he fell, has heard it from across the yard and came running for him, so he doesn't understand why Kaeya shakes his head.

"It's n-nothing," Kaeya stutters, "j-just a scrap…"

Kneeling next to him, Diluc arranges his grapes in a neat pile on the ground. He leans in, trying to get a glimpse of the face hidden under the curtain of dark blue hair. "Let me see."

The second sound is closer to a whimper.

With some hesitance, Kaeya lets his knees go. There is a thin stream of red dripping down his left shin and Diluc winces at the sight of the wound — albeit small, any mix of blood and dirt looks nasty, and Diluc imagines it will hurt to clean.

"I—" Kaeya starts, and it's interrupted by another pitiful hiccup, "I lost the grapes."

After that, the sobs come free.

It never fails to set Diluc into motion. "No, no, it's okay! You just dropped them, they are fine!" Diluc picks up one of the grapes to show him. It's unscathed save from the dirt. "See?!"

Kaeya shrinks into himself, heels sinking into the ground as if he is throwing a tantrum. He hugs his upper body with his arm, the tears spilling freely, and Diluc's heart clenches at the sight.

"Kae, please don't cry!" he begs. He rubs Kaeya's wet cheeks with his sleeves, then stops the fresh tears from dripping down to his chin. "It's okay, it's okay, let's go back to the house and I'll clean the scrap for you! After that, it'll stop bleeding and I promise you it won't hurt anymore."

The answer he gets is a whimpered, hiccuped version of Luc, so he pulls his little brother into a hug. Somehow, that only makes Kaeya cry harder, and Diluc rubs his back, whispering a string of soothing words against the dark strands of Kaeya's hair. He kisses his temple, his cheek, his eyelid, and Kaeya hides his face against his shoulder and Diluc can feel the wetness gathering on his shirt but doesn't have the heart to complain.

It takes an abundant amount of comfort for the boy to calm down. For Diluc, nothing of this is a problem — he is the big brother after all, and father had told him that as the big brother he had to look over Kaeya and take care of him always. But most of all, he doesn't think he would ever be able to leave Kaeya to cry by himself, doesn't matter how often Kaeya does it.

When the tears subside, Diluc presses their foreheads together. Kaeya looks at him, half-guilty and half-tired, and Diluc smiles. "There, there. See? I will always take care of you, Kae," he says, "Now let's get you patched up, okay?"

Kaeya nods and Diluc treasures the small smile on his lips like it's the moonlight keeping the dark at bay.

[worseandworser]

i literally tagged it as royed and winriza, dingus. the only possible way to interpret this is with romantic connotations. don't be a coward!

Winry: I’m cold

Riza: here Miss Rockbell, you can borrow my jacket

Winry: Thank you!

Edward, at Roy: I’m cold too

Roy, putting on his gloves: Gotcha

[worseandworser]

return

want a drabble? hmu! don't forget to check out the prompts

Ship: royed (with alt!roy)

Rating: T

Warnings/tags: post-conqueror of shamballa, angst, mild hurt comfort

read on ao3

Edward came back. He came back. He refuses to think of the other word, the one that starts like le and ends with ft. It could work fine — he le-and-ft Amestris, he le-and-ft Winry, he le-and-ft his home — the connotation it carries is simply incorrect when it comes to certain aspects of his life.

So Edward came back, he came back to Roy. His Roy.

Roy who smiles at him, all dimples and eyes crinkling at the corners. Roy, who is thankful he is safe, has no qualms over showing it ("My love, my sun, where were you"), touches his skin like it's a page of his favorite novel, and asks no questions when it's clear Edward won't answer. Roy, who doesn't offer anything but pleasant surprise at the sight of Alphonse, who invites him for dinner because he wants to meet Edward's family, who promises to listen around and find them people who can help him acclimatize. His Roy.

His Roy is not Mustang. They might look and sound alike but Edward knows the difference. How could he not? His Roy knows exactly how many spoons of sugar he likes in his coffee and that he doesn't want olives in the food. His Roy sings in the shower, sleeps on the left side of the bed, and reads useless philosophical books. His Roy has nightmares he is afraid of, about a war that he too could not escape, and he reaches for Edward in the middle of the night ("Hold me, please"), and even though Edward is no good at this, it's thank you, my love, whispered against his skin, you are here with me.

Not Mustang, nothing like Mustang. And yet—

"He reminds me a lot of the Corporal," Alphonse confesses to him one day, away from his Roy's ears.

"Of course he does," Edward scoffs. "They have the same face."

"Not like that, Brother." And one thing Edward hates about seeing Alphonse's face is that he can see when he rolls his eyes. "I meant that they sound very alike, you know, when they talk about you."

And right then Edward has to pause. He grunts something that has Alphonse scolding him for his language, then pretends to read the newspaper and doesn't think about Mustang. Doesn't think about the sole inhabitant of a little outpost up in the North, with a smile that didn't quite reach the eye and a starless uniform. He doesn't think about Mustang at all.

***

His Roy owns a bar. Family business or something like that, and when he came back from the war he took over so his aunt could retire to the countryside and live the life of her dreams gossiping with the neighbors. The economy sucks but the place is always bustling — and when they met Roy made a bad joke about capitalizing on people who are too sad and traumatized to do anything but drink and Edward didn't laugh then because he came to the place to have a drink while too sad and traumatized. (And now Edward is not smiling nor thinking about how maybe all Roys like to personify a poised sort of moral bankruptcy and he could give Al a point or two but no.) That night, Edward comes over and the bar closes at two in the morning, after Roy himself kicks out the last drunken client, and the two of them go hide away on the second floor, where Roy lives.

By then, Edward is shaking with nerves — over what, he can't tell. But he converts every emotion into energy, and he is buzzing, burning, barely makes it to the bedroom in time. But he is gentle, loving, caring, because that is all he has ever gotten from his Roy.

Roy Roy Roy.

Mustang is somewhere else, sometime else, somebody else. And Edward couldn't possibly have left him there, because he had something to come back to here.

[worseandworser]

Winry: I'm cold

Riza: here Miss Rockbell, you can borrow my jacket

Winry: Thank you!

Edward, at Roy: I'm cold too

Roy, putting on his gloves: Gotcha

[worseandworser]

it’s cold (keep me company)

Ship: royed

Rating: T

Warnings/tags: post-canon BH, fluff, domestic, possibly the cutest thing i’ve ever written, Ed is 19yo here

"It's cold."

It takes Roy a full second to understand he has said it out loud. The only other occupant of the inner office, Jean Havoc, pauses with his hand on the door handle and shifts his gaze to the same window Roy has been staring fixedly at for the past minutes.

"Yeah," says Havoc, in an oddly somber tone matching his oddly somber expression. "It's cold."

With that, he leaves; the door clicks shut behind him and Roy picks up the last document he is supposed to sign. The day is almost over, it's better to hurry and be done with it instead of lingering and risking the wrath of a storm to come.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He parks his car a block away from home and judging by the darkening sky, he will regret it tomorrow. However, in the past month, Roy has been making an effort to live in the moment, and his current priority is getting his hands on a bottle of wine from the store just around the corner. Leave the worries for the morning after.

His street is quiet even on the busiest days. Apart from the residential buildings, it only has a small restaurant-café-bar, a tobacco store selling newspapers and used books, and a grocery store about the size of Roy's office in the HQ. Today, probably because of the weather, the first two are closed, and Roy is overcome by a small amount of panic. It only eases once he sees the bright-yellow Open sign, once he is making his way through the aisles filled with all sorts of food and beverages. Roy knows the alcohol shelf like the back of his hand and he settles for a bottle of neither-fancy-nor-low-quality red wine from a western winery, one he had tried on his own in the past.

Hopefully, his company will enjoy it in the present.

He pays and leaves with a bounce in his step, only furthering his suspicion that there is something strange about himself, if he says things without meaning to and then feels such glee over coming home after what has been a pretty ordinary day. The most uncommon thing about it is this uncouth wind.

And, he reckons, the man he faces as soon as he steps foot in his apartment.

Lazy and unhurriedly, Edward raises his eyes from a book to look at him.

"Hey."

The fireplace crackles loudly, its light painting the scene in a gentle orange hue and causing the shadows to waver, to flicker, to dance across the barren walls in an off-beat pattern. Roy's living room has always been rather empty and Edward sits in the middle of the floor, all gold and silver like some kind of precious ornament — his smile is warm, his hair is braided, and the red blanket around his shoulders makes him look like a ghost from the past.

When the words make it past Roy's lips, they taste stale, as if he's taken too long to say them. "Hey." The corners of his lips twitch, flicker for a second before he catches up with his body's need to smile and fulfills it. "How was your day?"

"I thought of making quiche," Edward says, the deflection awkward enough to make Roy swallow dry. "It's cold though."

Before he can ask what one thing has to do with the other, Edward places a hand on his left thigh.

Roy hangs his coat on the rack and leaves his shoes by the door, then makes his way to the fireplace so he can warm-up before going to get a proper change of clothes. Edward's gaze follows him through each step, and Roy basks in every second of it, makes a show of rolling up his shirt's cuffs and outstretching his fingers towards the fire, of leaning against the wall as naturally as it comes to him and the tired slump of his shoulders.

What a shame that when he looks, Edward is staring at the paper bag. The bottle-shaped one Roy left on the shelf above the fireplace less than a minute ago.

"It's alright," Roy reassures him. "You don't have to cook. I'm not paying you to do house chores."

"You're not paying me at all," Edward says, eyes never leaving the bottle. "Neither letting me pay for—"

"I think there is canned soup in the pantry," Roy cuts him off. "Unless we ate all of it on that day you were feeling lazy."

Finally, Edward turns to him again. As his bones realign under the precious weight of a glare, Roy smirks.

"Well shit," Edward starts, "why don't you do it for a change, then."

After a few passive-aggressive instructions, Roy departs to the kitchen to make do with pasta and some leftover tomato sauce. Even he can't manage to fuck up boiling noodles.

He leaves the food cooking after he decides he is absolutely done with the wool of his uniform pants, and that Edward is in a safe distance to either turn the stove off or yell for Roy to do so if the situation calls for it. His limbs feel sluggish, and as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom his steps are uneven as if one leg is heavier than the other.

He changes clothes, puts on something softer, darker, more human — the old slacks and cotton shirts he never expected to wear around anybody else, but after weeks living with Edward, it was only natural to succumb to a sense of domesticity. To look in the mirror, comb fingers through his hair, and think that's it in a manner that lacks the finality of giving up on appearances because it's not really about that. Roy doesn't know what it is though; he is not scared of it, just genuinely disinterested in the rationale behind it. Some things can just be, devoid of names or explanations. Edward has taught him that.

(Well, maybe he is scared. A little bit.)

Nonetheless, he goes downstairs to face his mistake — taking too long upstairs — and his punishment — watching as Edward waltzes off-beat across the kitchen: draining the water of the pasta, then setting up their plates with a caution Roy once thought beyond him, and offering Roy two identical meals that look and smell homey. Everytime Edward takes a step, he trembles. Roy still has a heart and functional hands, so he carries everything by himself.

"It's alright," he tells Edward, who looks almost heartbroken by the idea of letting anyone cater to him.

But instead of going to the table, Edward leads him back to the living room.

All in all, the place is oddly inviting. Warm, pleasantly lit, and the wine bottle almost strategically placed on top of the shelf. The sound of thunder comes from the distance and suddenly Roy remembers—

"It's cold," he says. "Indeed, it's better if we eat here." He thinks for a moment and hands the plates and cutlery to Edward. "Hold these for a second."

Their night calls for an impromptu redecoration. Roy pushes the couch across the room — which is easy, he has no coffee table nor lamps nor a carpet — as it is only fair that they sit comfortably next to the heat of the fireplace. Edward has the gall to frown, and Roy is certain the only reason he doesn't protest is because he can see Roy doing it for purely selfish reasons.

Roy still has to go back to the kitchen once to get them glasses and the corkscrew, and then, once he gets rid of the cork and pours them both a generous amount of wine, he settles down next to Edward.

Truth is, food tastes better with company. Wine too, Roy reckons, watching from the corner of his eye as Edward takes a careful sip, then the stretch of his arm as he sets the glass on the floor, and the flowy movement of his hair when he moves back. Sitting cross-legged on the cushions and pushing a blond strand behind his ear, Edward becomes a disarrayed grace: unconditionally ethereal yet completely human. He is quiet, focused on his food, perhaps too focused and Roy can feel a knee against his thigh but he doesn't want to comment. Surprisingly, Edward is fond of silence.

When Roy offered his home to him — wrong phrasing: when Roy offered him a place to stay temporarily — he had been ready to relinquish the peace and quiet. Edward, abrasive and careless, seems like the type who is as loud as they come and Roy figured he could welcome the change of pace because he had no other choice. Edward is jobless, for some reason unwilling to leave Central, and the least Roy can do is put a roof above his head. But what had sounded like an impulsive decision turned out to be this. Homemade meals, a couch pushed to the middle of the living room, and silence — occasionally superseded by banter or stimulating conversations because not even when he is rambling Edward manages to be boring. Edward is the perfect roommate, the more so for his culinary abilities, and if Roy forgets to ask about job and house hunting it's simply for the sake of keeping harmony.

Though he can admit to himself what he can't say to anybody else: truth is, food tastes better with company.

Edward, with his brilliance and his beauty, is the best company he could ask for.

So they eat. So Roy is painfully aware of Edward's knee against his thigh. So their fingers brush when Roy collects his plate to put it away in the sink. So Edward tears his eyes away from the book as soon as Roy steps inside the room again.

And Roy is scared. He is terrified. He wants to stretch both of Edward's legs on top of his and place a soothing hand on the juncture of metal and flesh.

He grabs the bottle to refill his glass, then flops down on the opposite end of the couch.

A thought crosses his mind: he has no idea when getting what he wants suddenly became so difficult. But that is incorrect. It was never easy — he just didn't know what he wanted before.

keep reading

[worseandworser]

prompt masterlist

some are mine, some are pretty simple. feel free to reblog!

mostly for reference + if you want, send an ask with one of these and a ship!

1. "Leave."

2. "Everything you say just translates to 'I'm an idiot'."

3. "I promise."

4. "You promised."

5. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

6. "If it's love then why is it like this?"

7. "Please."

8. "I can tell you two versions of the story: the one you want to hear or the one you'll believe. Your pick."

9. "Talk to me."

10. "Beautiful, beautiful… but when you open your mouth, I want to kill you."

11. "Come home."

12. "No."

13. "I lied."

14. "I'm not afraid of dying alone."

15. "My love, I've come to accept that I would die for you, kill for you, give up everything if you asked. What actually hurts is that you wouldn't do the same for me."

16. "I don't understand."

17. "What do you want?"

18. "Even if you were the last person left in the world, I still wouldn't want this." "Actually, if I were the last person left in the world, you would be dead. So your point is…?"

19. "I'm not good with names and faces, but ever since we met I haven't forgotten how you look when you smile."

20. "It's cold."

21. "Can we pretend this never happened?"

22. "Breathe."

23. "It didn't hurt!"

24. "If you say so, then everything is fine."

25. "I don't like the way you take all the blame to yourself."

24. "I figured you would tell me when you were ready."

25. "Why would I wait?"

26. "One day, you'll look at me and see how bad you ruined me. You will be sorry but I'll be thankful."

27. "I've got ninety nine problems and the stick up your ass ain't one."

28. "Do you actually try to sound like a poet all the time or are you just a liar?"

29. "I wanted to hurt you. To be quite honest, I still do."

30. "I promise you, it's all right."

31. "Just smile and nod. It'll be over soon."

32. "Give me your hand."

33. "God would come down to the Earth and spit on your face before I could believe a single word you say."

34. "I don't care if others say it's wrong. I like it."

35. "You say what you like, you hear what you don't like."

36. "This place looks like hell. Are one of the damned or the devil?"

37. "It's the rainy season again. This time I got dozens of colds because you weren't there to remind me to take the umbrella."

38. "Don't touch me."

39. "I can't help but want to see you next to all the things I love."

40. "Bad days are bad enough without you trying to make them worse."

41. "Even when I hate you, I still love you."

43. "Easy, easy."

45. "Woah, drop the knife! I just got here!"

46. "Trust me."

47. "Thank you for your time."

48. "You can try to run, to hide, you can feign your death and move to another country. I don't give a shit. I'll find you and drag you back home."

49. "You cry, cry, cry, and then the next day you smile at everyone else but me."

50. "Hush."

[worseandworser]

royed drabble challenge: "disappear"

original twitter thread | @royedevents

roy and ed have a thing for each other's hands.

roy likes to hold both of ed's hands in his. to notice the difference in weight, texture, temperature. to look at them, mesmerized by how they look small yet strong and capable. in different ways. one silver, one gold.

ed likes to kiss roy's, gloved or not, over the back, the palms, each knuckle. he wants to show roy that he can love them as they are a part of him, even if roy hates his fingers for all the destruction they caused.

but most of all, they need to touch each other. they need to touch, and hands are made for touching, for feeling, for reassuring that none of them will disappear, for saying things that can't be said with words, for holding, for offering support.

so maybe it's not a "thing" — maybe it's more of a necessity.

[worseandworser]

New RoyEd Challenge - Weekly Drabble Challenge

Just like a good cheat meal, RoyEd weekly drabble challenge comes once a week and is bound to leave you wishing there was more.

Aaaaaanyway to get you familiar with this brand new challenge, I’m gonna have to explain how it works, right? Well, it’s going to get real complicated…………….. NOT! Lol this is very simple!

Once a week (every Monday mod time) a prompt word will be released. To participate all you have to do is write a RoyEd fanfiction that is inspired by the prompt word provided for that week. Your drabble can be anywhere from 200 words to a whole 10k fic, so no need to feel pressured about word count at all – just roll with your idea to wherever it takes you and have fun!

Fills should be posted to the challenge collection, and mention the word they refer to in the author notes. Please also be sure to pay attention to rating and any warnings should they apply, according to AO3’s rules.

So… are you ready for the first one?? Because here it comes!!

March 1st, 2021 word of the week is FLOWER. Go ahead and write your fics! The world is waiting to see what everyone comes up with.

[worseandworser]

lacking

Ship: shizaya

Rating: T

Warnings/tags: omegaverse with a twist, possibly OOC, alpha!Shizuo, sigma!Izaya (lol)

ao3 

Izaya Orihara had no scent. Nothing. Not a whiff of it.

Shizuo was taken aback the moment they met — he heard the sound of clapping, saw crimson eyes matching a red shirt and pitch-black hair, but he couldn't smell anything. He couldn't sense anything. The only feeling that boy inspired was a strange perception that there was something lacking about him. Shizuo could recall the growl forming in the depths of his own chest, the mind-wracking wave of rage tangling around his heart like a vine, and then jumping into a fight that would seemingly have no end. Izaya Orihara had no scent; just a smile. Cunning, knife-sharp lips twisted upwards. He dodged Shizuo's attacks and stood unfazed by the intimidating effect Shizuo's anger brought out in every single person he had met in his life.

Being an alpha implied heightened senses, and being Shizuo Heiwajima implied taking that to a whole new level. He could smell a beta — the soft, monochromatic buzz they exhaled — from across the room. Omegas or alphas — depending on the scent, from across the block. Shinra had once theorized that the range of pheromones Shizuo can perceive could be the cause of his temperamental outbursts, as if he was living in a constant state of emotional overload, or something like that. Shizuo didn't really pay attention, much less understand. Though he did get that Izaya Orihara was not alpha, nor beta, and much less an omega.

Sigma, Shinra had said. He can't release or be affected by pheromones.

That alone had sent Shizuo in another surge of anger.

And after that, he went back home and asked his mother about it.

She frowned at him. "Sigma? Do you know someone like that?" Then, at Shizuo's explanation, she shook her head. "Stay away from him. That kind of person is not to be trusted."

In the beginning, Shizuo agreed with her. Not only that, but he thought it'd be easy. No scent meant he wouldn't be walking around Raijin under the constant awareness of Izaya Orihara and pretending he didn't exist would be the easiest thing. It'd be the first time Shizuo wouldn't have to worry about the pheromonal shadow of a bastard who pissed him off.

But of course, Izaya Orihara had different plans.

* * * *

kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill

* * * *

The next morning, the asshole was hiding on the school's roof, arms splayed over the railing and the devilish smile plastered to his face.

"You sent that gang after me," Shizuo accused.

With an almost-perfectly crafted innocent expression, Izaya Orihara tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck, but the wave of pheromones Shizuo expected never came. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Shizu-chan."

Shizuo's hands closed in tight fists. "Don't call me that!"

"Ah, since you're asking so politely," said Izaya. "What would Shizu-chan prefer, then? I'm thinking of 'Beast'." He grinned. "Or maybe Monster."

After that, everything became a blur of red, red, red — and black hair tousled by the wind, and the silver gleam of a knife, and the chirping tone of taunting, and crimson eyes that followed Shizuo's every movement like they could eat him alive. And no scent.

Nothing. Not a whiff of it.

It was disturbing, distressing, disconcerting: how could someone who could not feel others, who could not assess their intentions or states, be so quick on his feet and escape Shizuo's grasp like he was made of butter? How could he dodge Shizuo's strength, surpass his speed, predict his strike before even Shizuo could know himself? How could Izaya Orihara, when he was lacking? How could Izaya Orihara know Shizuo Heiwajima, when Shizuo Heiwajima couldn't smell a whiff of Izaya Orihara himself?

He was always so close, Shizuo's hand reached just right next to the black middle-school jacket, and Izaya slipped away by the width of a hair.

And then he laughed, tilting his head to the side, and the sharp breath Shizuo would take as a reflex brought nothing but the scent of their surroundings.

* * * *

Over the years, Shizuo learned more about sigmas. They were rare, extremely so. Izaya had been the first one in Raijin in years. Perhaps, one of the few in the entirety of Tokyo. And just like Shizuo had noticed on the first day they met, sigmas are lacking — no pheromones, no glands, no receptors. If betas are considered to have mild, flexible scents, then sigmas have nothing to show. No pheromones meant they couldn't communicate normally, they couldn't sense you and your needs and you couldn't sense theirs, so all the books, and pamphlets, and late-night TV shows said the same: therefore they can't be trusted.

"I'm always alone no matter what I do," he groused to Celty, after one of his and Izaya's fights. "I guess Izaya is the same as me. That bastard probably doesn't have anyone he can call a friend."

Must be a lonesome existence, that of a sigma. If Shizuo, with his heightened senses and all, had such a hard time with people, he couldn't imagine what it would be like. To not have the confirmation that he wasn't unwanted — to not have the soft sweetness of Celty's scent, in that specific brand that spoke of companionship.

But yeah, that flea did not deserve an ounce of his sympathy.

He is nothing like you, Celty's PDA said.

Shizuo nodded, with an odd hesitation almost weighting his head immobile.

* * * *

One day, Shizuo had his nose buried in Izaya's neck, right where the glands should be, and Izaya still had no scent.

He smelled of skin, sweat, fancy soap, and shampoo. Coffee. The city's traffic. But all of those were neutral, they were supposed to be background noise to the idiosyncratic experience that Izaya Orihara should be but there was nothing. Not a whiff of it.

"Stop slobbering all over my neck," Izaya snapped. "If you bite me, I'll stab your eyeball out of the socket. But thinking better, with your monster healing, you might as well grow a new one in—"

So Shizuo moved back to his lips. To shut him up, of course.

Shizuo wasn't one to sleep around — or better yet, with his particular strength, he couldn't be one to sleep around — but he had tried before. Two omegas and a beta. With the first two, he had felt intoxicated, out of control, it was like losing his temper except that it was good actually, and both smelled like strawberry cake and sweet vanilla, mouth-watering and mind-blowing. The second was an unlucky drunk night, red-dyed hair and a loud, obnoxious laugh, and rain and saltwater and whatever nostalgia he could get from Raijin's library. They all had scents, strong ones, and Shizuo knew what to do simply by breathing in and following his instincts.

But Izaya — just like everything about him, this was also difficult. When Shizuo breathed in, he was left on edge. The oddity of the lack of pheromones struck him over and over, as it did every time they met, as if Shizuo could never be truly prepared for the lack of instinctual balance, of communication, of that irrational connection he had no idea he needed until he met someone who couldn't create it.

To guide himself, Shizuo had to pay attention to other signs. The hitch of Izaya's breath, the twitch of his hips and thighs, the gasps, the whimpers, the moans. The bossing around — Shizu-chan touch here, right there, yes, faster, harder, don't bite don't bite — the way Izaya clawed at his arms and back and chest and did exactly what he told Shizuo not to and bit down, right on Shizuo's neck, right where it mattered, where it would matter were Izaya anyone but himself. But all they got from the bite was blood, the smell bitter and heavy, sending sparks of heat down Shizuo's spine.

Shizuo growled and Izaya let him. Let him. His body bending to Shizuo without the need for words. As if Izaya could sense what Shizuo wanted, as if he could feel it, and accommodate it like he was made for it.

* * * *

In the aftermath, when they laid down on Izaya's expensive sheets, Shizuo curled an arm around him to pull him close. This time, Izaya didn't slip away, no; he hid his face in Shizuo's neck, nosed the bite he left there, and breathed in deep.

Shizuo's hold tightened.

[worseandworser]

hello ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

about

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drabble/ficlet requests?

[worseandworser]

dreamscape

Ship: royed

Rating: T

Warnings/tags: FMA ‘03, post-canon, hurt/comfort, based on some stuff i babbled about on twitter

read on ao3

It is not often Roy gets to indulge in a slow awakening. His standard is eyes open, get up, and it is standard to prefer that over staying in bed doing absolutely nothing. That is, nothing besides listening to his thoughts. However, this morning — is it morning yet? He can't tell, can never tell, his little outpost in the north is always too dark to tell, but this morning, he opens his eye and for the first time in years, he doesn't get up.

He's had a fitful night, sleep interspersed with flashes of wakefulness that only lasted long enough for him to take in his surroundings. Roy is used to it. It's how he has been sleeping for the past decades. What he is not used to though, is whatever is going on in his bed.

There is a weight draped across his stomach, a firm pressure curled around his waist. Roy's eye roams around the room, hesitant to settle on the golden crown of the head resting on his chest. Roy has one arm up and hidden under the pillows and the other hovering over metal, too afraid to touch the skin. At some point between the last time he woke and now, Edward threw a leg over his.

It's too much, he thinks, and at the same time: how dare he.

How dare this boy turn into a man, then show up on his doorstep unannounced? How dare he waltz into the house, making demands and shaking Roy out of his self-induced stupor? How dare he be here, how dare he be real, how dare he ruin Roy's nightly ritual of getting up to pace around the room in an anxious haze?

It's been years since Roy last shared a bed with someone, and in his memories, none of them clung to him like Edward does now, none of them breathed against his skin and sent startled shivers down his spine, none of them stayed until the morning.

None of them Roy loved as much as he loves Edward right now.

Love, love, love — the word keeps spinning around his head, even as his back and shoulders ache a little with the lack of movement. For someone as volatile as Edward, he is surprisingly still in his sleep, and Roy, for one, is not used to staying in the same position for the whole night, not used to staying in bed for the whole night either, but then love, love, love and so every time he opened his eye, he closed it again and counted Edward's breaths until he fell asleep again.

"Are you awake?"

Roy feels the whisper on the naked skin of his chest.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "Every second I spend with you feels like a dream."

"Sap." Edward raises his head to glare at him. "I'm not one of your women, that you can woo with a few pretty words."

Roy laughs. Something dry but content, sad but complete.

"It's true," he says between a smile. He tucks a strand of very real blond hair behind a very real ear. "I dreamt about you. A lot. Often. Then tonight, whenever I opened my eyes, it was hard to tell if I was seeing reality or some beautiful fantasy."

Edward softens — his frown eases, the fierce glow of his eyes dims, he shifts to touch Roy's chin with his flesh hand and scratch the stubble Roy forgot to shave yesterday.

"I'm real," he reassures. "This is real. And you better get used to it because it's about to get more real, Mustang."

"Is that a threat?"

"Very much so."

[worseandworser]

keeping tabs

@shizayasweek

For Shizaya Week 2020! Theme: chases

Ship: shizaya

Rating: T

Warnings/tags: high school days, established relationship

Izaya read somewhere that humans are very good endurance runners — and he agrees. He could do this forever.

Not that he has any hopes of ever tiring out his prey like those ancient hunters. Maybe one day, when he has time to place enough traps to cripple the beast at least temporarily, but for now all he can do is lose Shizuo somewhere along the way.

Hiding behind Raijin's sports ground, there is a grove. An ill-maintained, poorly-watched grove that’d serve better as the setting of an urban legend than a gardening club, and though Izaya has caught some students sneaking in to skip classes or smoke or the usual unsavory things, it is rather quiet and empty. It makes for a good hiding spot, and even if Izaya would prefer a less secluded area, sometimes you have to take what you can get. He jumps over the fence, turning around to wave at his pursuer with a mirthful smirk.

"Stop!" Shizuo shouts from the distance, and Izaya chuckles.

Now give me one good reason to do that.

He spins on his heels and runs.

Twigs and leaves cracking under his feet, Izaya makes his way through the trees. Shizuo might have fallen behind but he is going to catch up soon, so the only place to go is up. He picks a nice tree, with a sturdy truck and enough branches for him to hang on.

From behind comes the sound of metal bending, cracking, being crushed under the hands of a monstrously strong high-schooler and Izaya can't help but grin. He almost wishes he could see it.

He perches himself on the tallest branch possible. From here, he can see the school's building, part of the sports ground, and the section of the fence Shizuo wrecked to create his Shizu-chan-shaped entrance. The leaves might provide Izaya some cover for now, but it's just a matter of time before Shizuo comes huffing following his trail, so now what he has to do is— 

The phone buzzes inside his pocket.

His heart skips a beat before he fishes it out. It's a cheap model, covered in scratches and dents and cracks across the screen. In simpler words: it is very much Shizuo's phone.

Bless Shizu-chan for being too stupid to even add a passcode. To kill some time, he goes for the texts.

hey hewajima-kun

it's takahashi riko

we did the english assignment together

Izaya knows that much. It's not like it's any secret. Regardless, he keeps searching through the messages, looking for something worth at least some teasing.

Their chat feels rather one-sided. She texts often, always with some questions that are more excuses than anything and in turn Shizuo replies with a simple "yes" or "no" or "i don't know". Takahashi Riko is… not much, really. An average girl with average looks and average life, hair always in a ponytail, and pigeon-toed. As far as Izaya knows, she is friends with the class president — and that's about all that is interesting of her, which says a lot. Now, he can also say that she is pretty annoying.

He snickers. Yes, Shizu-chan deserves her.

Monstrously on cue, the sound of stomps reaches Izaya's ears.

"That was slow," he scoffs, looking down at the boy glaring at him.

Shizuo's whole face is red, and Izaya is aware with a pang of disappointment that it's more out of anger than exhaustion. Three large steps and a frustrated howl, and Shizuo's fist collides with the trunk, shaking the whole tree from the bottom to the top.

Laughter bubbles up from Izaya's chest — he is pretty sure Shizuo could have broken it in half effortlessly.

"Come down," Shizuo growls.

"Later," Izaya says flatly, attention back to the phone and its more than boring collection of texts. "Shizu-chan, why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend? Wait, let me guess! Too afraid I'd warn her of how dangerous you are?"

Another punch. "Shut your mouth."

"Oh, I could do that, but then I wouldn't be able to give you my precious advice: you shouldn't hide your monstrous strength from the people you date, Shizu-chan, it's unfair. A healthy relationship is based on mutual trust, so it'd be terrible that you're tricking this innocent, precious girl! She has the right to know the full extent of the risks she is taking—"

The whole tree quakes for the third time and this turn Izaya has to hold himself steady against the suddenness of it.

"I said come down so I can punch your fucking face."

Izaya laughs. "Shizu-chan, learn how to take some constructive criticism!"

"I'm not dating her, asshole!"

"Oh, is that so? She seems to think the opposite. Look, she sent you a heart emoticon! And even invited you to that new café! Oh, that was yesterday… aren't you going to reply? Shizu-chan, that is awfully rude!"

This time, Izaya could swear he felt the tree cracking deep in his bones.

"Shut. Up. Come the fuck down!"

He turns to Shizuo as if he has grown an extra pair of heads. "Why?"

Shizuo glares at him, hands closed in tight fists. "I already said. So I can punch your face."

"Now, that's some flawed reasoning," he says. "Why would I come down if you want to ruin my cute face? I'm not stupid."

“Because. Give me my phone back."

"Judging by the state of your poor phone though, you shouldn't even have one. It has cracks all over! Couldn't you treat at least your own things with a bit more care?"

"Come. Down."

Izaya stares at him. At his expression of anger and frustration and offense all mixed together and deliberates for a second or two. In his hand, the phone remains quiet enough. "Okay."

Shizuo freezes. "Okay?"

Izaya nods.

Then comes down.

Or at least, tries to — he loses his footing midway through it, slips, and falls off the branch like some ripe fruit.

Shizuo doesn't get there in time. Izaya falls an awkward fall and inevitably feels a burst of pain course through his left leg, while Shizuo reaches for him and catches him in an uncomfortable kind of hug. He laughs either way. Loud and obnoxious, the only laugh that could fit a moment like this.

Then, trailing right after the laugh, Shizuo smashes his lips to his. Awkward and uncomfortable, just like the fall, and somehow Izaya's head still buzzes with whatever it is that he doesn't want to call anything more than excitement.

When Shizuo pulls back, he is scowling just like always. He can hold Izaya's whole weight effortlessly, and that's pretty useful when he is less one ankle and his brain seems to be short-circuiting just like it always does when they kiss.

"Why do you even do that," Shizuo asks, "if you know damn well it's not her I'm dating."

[worseandworser]

Day 1 Fic: romantic

Contributor: @aluinihi Day/Prompt: 1 / modern AU + “Would you listen for once?” Content Type: Fic Genre: fluff, domestic fluff Length: 327 Read it here!: romantic