dadsbongos

[dadsbongos]

hii can i ask pavel bf hcs pretty pleasee i am soo in love with him….

kinda just general fluffy ideas that ignore the various plot implications of pav actually having a significant other

you two will not organically meet, pav sees you and thinks you’re perrrdy and then amasses schemes and flowcharts and data on how he can best introduce himself to you so you’ll like him

in his head, as you’re first meeting, is basically computer code for him to find the most charismatic version of himself to make you swoon

Pavel “if smile and nod = true then kiss” Yudin

but to him its justified because he reasons his feelings are honest

he is kind of a menace tho, he ACTS very polite opening doors buying flowers, even paying your tabs

his words though… oh god he’s terrible

pav is kinda THE “i only like my partner” trope guy cuz he genuinely cannot stand talking to people that irritate him, and most people that aren’t you irritate him

openly passive-aggressive to people that interrupt his time with you

he’s also prone to just saying bizarrely horny shit out of nowhere, you’ll be on a nice date :3 a cute dinner :3 and he goes

“I like this wine, it makes me want to suck your cleavage.”

“Your hands are cold, should i warm them with my testicles?”

i also have a personal hc that he HATES unfamiliar men unless they’re visibly timid/scrawnier than him 

so he SEEMS like the jealous type at first, but his absolute disdain over you hanging around other men actually has nothing to do with jealousy he just hates mfs

speaking of: pav isn’t very jealous at his core, he figures anybody who wants to leave him will so he’s not going to embarrass himself by clinging onto someone who doesn’t want him 

however, he lovesssss jealous partners, that’s one of his toxic traits

pav loves the possessiveness and passion, being shown that he’s important to you is soso vital to him

he doesn’t actually want to be controlled and chained down, but he likes pretending he does and teasing the idea so you’re sometimes forced to play the crazy s/o when you’re… not lol

goes out of his way to say to his lil bunker buddies “oh yeah, might not wanna read this letter, my love is kinda crazy. kinda out there. a little unhinged, even, they can get super intense.”

and then your letter is just like “hi honey hope you’re sleeping well :) love you lots and keep doing your best!!”

he is VERY affectionate also -- whenever he’s home he’s clinging to you constantly

you’re cooking? he’ll be hugging you from behind

you’re reading? he’ll lay on top of you

he has to go back to work? you should come with! he’ll sneak you in :3 the bremen army will never even notice you’re there!

wants to get married so you can hurry up and move in the family housing, but also doesn’t want to get married in case you’re tied to him for his extreme treason

#pavel yudin x reader #pavel x reader #pav yudin x reader #pav x reader #fear and hunger x reader

[dadsbongos]

Daan x fem!reader smut pleaseee?

not super proofread :3  697 words  i think this takes place in an au where instead of elise, daan meets you :P and no termina lol

warnings - p in v, unprotected, femdom aura (fem reader btw), PATHETIC man as he should be, hints of daan being an unstable wench

~~~

“You’re precious this way,” you twirl a finger in the doctor’s short hair.

“Miserable?” he squeezes your hips tighter despite the huff.

“Flustered,” you coo, working your hand down the smooth slope of his throat. Your fingers bob at his groan of protest. 

“I have to be up early tomorrow, you know that…” his face is quickly growing red. However, the way his eyes are darting from your lips to your breasts to the apex of your thighs pressing snugly onto him tells you he doesn’t actually care that he has to be up early tomorrow.

But you do love to tease, “Oh?” you pout, shifting onto your knees and off Daan’s lap, “So, I should move then? Best to let you rest, right?”

“Well…” he whines, almost pathetically, and rolls his eyes while pulling at the tight collar of his shirt with one hand, “I never said that.”

“Aw,” you wring both hands around the back of his neck and angle his face to press your lips on his, “Do you want me, darling?”

“I live to want you, my love.”

You kiss him again, “Right answer.”

Daan can’t even weasel his way back to your shared bedroom before you’ve worked off his ugly plaid trousers. And he has no room to so much as slide off the couch before you’ve fished his cock free. Flushed red and soft and curving into your warm palm.

Puckering your lips, spit foams and dribbles onto the head of Daan’s erection, it twitches at the cooling agent. Brief, wet respite before you charitably slot him into the crease of your thigh -- only long enough tug your panties to the side and yank up your skirt, but even that feels comparable to eternity of suffering. 

“Hurry,” he snips, bucking up into the sweltering plump of your thigh, only to quickly soften his tone, “<i>please</i>...”

“As I said,” you coo, kissing up Daan’s neck, “You’re precious this way.”

He whines into your mouth, lips slippery with want and legs tight with desperation, once you finally concede and sink your pelvis to his. His cock basks in the velvety scorch, and Daan makes his appreciation known with even thrusts up into you. Intentional to not only meet your rocking, but initiate contact as deep as he can carve.

Daan latches onto the hem of your shirt and rips it up and over your head, teasing his thumbs against where the fat of your tits spills over your bra. His teeth dig into the plush as he croons and whines about your pussy. <i>So good, tight-- fucking warm. Gonna ruin you for anyone else. You’re mine, right? You’re mine.</i>

It’d be strange to hear if he weren’t whispering it into your soft breasts like he’s afraid to be negated. 

“All yours,” you confirm, curling both arms around his head and pushing him closer. Your thighs suction to his sides -- desperate bouncing cooling into pathetic grinds. 

Daan, however, forces you to keep moving up and down on his cock. His hands strong as he manhandles your movements for his own pleasure, but he is a gentleman so he reaches between the sweltering core of your conjoined bodies and circles your clit. 

“I want to feel you cum on me,” he professes, thrusts speeding up -- rapid jerks to fuck your juices out of you. Reveling in the downright degenerate sound of your wet cunt spilling and sucking with his every drive inside you, “You’re so wet, darling. Is that for me? It is, right? You’re so wet for me?”

Needy hands pull and squeeze at your pliant flesh, his cock twitching as he leaks broken moans. Soon he’s sputtering hot cum inside you, forcing your hips to still right against him. And continuing his gentlemanly pattern, Daan uses his grip on you to force you to swish back and forth. Your clit brushing the hairs at his pelvis. Even as he softens, Daan kisses and licks and begs for your own orgasm.

“Please,” he pants, “Need to feel you cum, darling. Let me feel you.”

Daan truly is the best for you when he’s like this: flustered and red and begging.

#daan x reader #daan fear and hunger x reader #fear and hunger x reader #fear and hunger fanfic

[dadsbongos]

I hate doing this, but so many costs associated with being evicted (storage units, waste removal, hiring vans, fuel etc) and the price of groceries and bills, I’m really really struggling this month. If anyone can spare even just like, $2, that’s $2 I can use to buy milk. Please do not give money you can’t afford to spare, and look after yourselves. Don’t feel guilty if you can’t help. I love you all.

PayPal.me/mantorokk

#boostie

[dadsbongos]

manipulate, mansplain, manslaughter <3 the todoroki family / also if the quality is garbage just clicky the pic pls cuz tumblr is sabotaging me

#endeavor bnha #bnha fanart #bnha spoilers #bnha #mha #shoto todoroki #toya todoroki #touya todoroki #dabi #dabi fanart #todoroki family

[dadsbongos]

hoi just testing somethin :3

[dadsbongos]

ur writing has damn near completely changed over the course of these 3 years, and in a srsly in a fantastic way. It’s way more mature than it used to be (excluding the smut its still fcking amazing)

also happy late birthday!!!

:DD THANK YOU‼️‼️ i was like... just thinking about how wildly different my writing is now compared to when I first started posting. I'm glad to hear the massive improvement is noticeable lol :3 and actually... if anyone remembers the very first smut piece I ever posted, no you don't (WIPE IT FROM YOUR MIND)

And thank you for the bday wish!! I'm excited every year I get closer to being a leetle old lady

#i like rereading my old posts just to feel that pure cringe

[dadsbongos]

literally couldn't stop reading this, i was SO invested the whole time its amazing

𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞) —

pairing: dabi + f!reader

word count: 4381

cw: getting to know each other (against your better intuition), flirting, bad flirting,some explicit language but nothing too bad, no quirk AU, dabi commits a crime or two

summary: In which Dabi meant to text Toga instead of a random stranger. But these things happen, and you were never one to shy away from troublesome men. This whole thing is told entirely through text messages.

a/n: check out my AO3 for different formatting! :)

Mar 02  10:07 PM

Unknown: Grab bleach while you’re out Unknown: And paper towels

You: who is this??

Unknown: So funny

You: u got the wrong number my guy 

Unknown: Shit Unknown: You don’t happen to have some bleach at your disposal rn? 

You: try the convenience store You: where’s the body at, anyways

Unknown: Ohara street by the fitness park, you should come check it out

You: sounds enticing You: i’ve always wanted to be on a true crime podcast

You: sort of expected myself to be the alive one though

Unknown: I was taught that women tend to be smart about stranger danger and stuff Unknown: You're out to prove me wrong

You: how’d you know i’m a woman? 🤨

Unknown: U sound cute Unknown: And men don’t listen to true crime

You: that’s so sexist You: and correct You: you'd do numbers on reddit

Mar 03 00:16 AM

You: hey don’t leave now

Mar 03 00:34 AM

Unknown: Had a body to take care of

You: you didn’t wait for me? :(

Unknown: … Unknown: Are u fr

You: ofc not You: i don’t hang out with edgelords

Unknown: Whatever u r probably boring anyways

You: entertaining enough for u to keep texting me

Unknown: We all have our moments of weakness 

Mar 03 01:09 AM

Unknown: So wyd

You: you don’t have anybody else to bother?

Unknown: I do Unknown: I want to bother you tho

You: damn, what’d i do to deserve this

Unknown: Is that a complaint

You: i have uni tomorrow and ur buzzing keeps waking me up

Unknown: Mute your phone, stupid 

You: can’t mute unknown numbers

Unknown: Save this one then Unknown: Or block me idc

You: what name should i put it under

Unknown: Dabi 

You: lmao i knew you were an edgelord

Dabi: Stfu

You: good night to you too

Mar 03  07:58 AM

You: fuck

Mar 03 3:56 PM

Dabi: Did you miss me that bad 

Mar 03 4:32 PM

You: i overslept and am blaming you entirely

Mar 03 5:19 PM 

Dabi: Sucks to be a useful member to society

You: why what do you do

Dabi: I'm actually a bit of a part-time freelancer, you regular uni folk just wouldn't get it

You: freelancing around ohara at 1 in the morning sounds like the truly fulfilling purpose we all long for You: did you just get up

Dabi: Hey now  Dabi: Yes  Dabi: I’m still in bed technically, looking at the ceiling fan is so interesting when I don't want to move a muscle

You: you are everything I am jealous of

Dabi: I promise you it’s not that good 

You: first time a guy’s been honest right away. i applaud u

Dabi: Omg no way 

Mar 03 5:40 PM

You: no way what

Dabi: No way you said something witty 

Dabi: Maybe you’re fun after all

You: i’ll have u know that deep down, i’m just a fragile being trying to make it thru this bitch of a world, running on fumes and caffeine all while chasing a childhood dream that i'll never be able to reach anyways because of my parents' expectations of me crushing my soul

Dabi: Damn, being vulnerable already 

You: your turn

Dabi: I’m not sad. My life is great and my parents never expected anything of me

Dabi: That was a lie 

You: so you’re a liar

Dabi: I suppose I might be

You: that counts as being vulnerable. i’m so proud of us. &lt;3

Mar 03 9:12 PM

You: you probably have daddy issues

Mar 03 11:34 PM 

Dabi: Mind your business 

You: so i’m right

Dabi: Nosy sounds more like it

You: that’s a yes then

Dabi: When I tell you he SUCKS so bad 

You: LMAO You: i’m guessing you don’t particularly like your family then

Dabi: It's not the type of stuff I'd tell anybody, especially not to some nosy individual whose number is one or two digits off

You: alright i’ll stop digging You: wait how old are you You: am i talking to some 50 y/o dude You: please no

Mar 04 00:02 AM

Dabi: Chill I’m 48

Mar 04 00:06 AM 

You: say sike right now You: if u rly are then i’m half your age

Dabi: You thought Dabi: Are you actually 24 tho

You: give or take a few days lol

Dabi: When’s your birthday 

You: do you want my social and tax numbers while we’re at it

Dabi: Stfu I wanna see if I’m older 

You: 🤨 You: it’s at the end of this month

Dabi: Baby 

You: are u flirting with me or insulting me

Dabi: Can’t I be doing both 

Mar 04 06:30 AM

You: love me a guy who can multitask You: did you ever get your bleach and paper towels

Mar 04 11:11 AM

You: it’s 11:11 make a wish

Mar 04 2:02 PM

You: my wish is that you’d commit to a humane sleeping schedule

Mar 04 2:59 PM 

Dabi: Anybody hear sum 

You: i heard you’re a lazy bitch You: who doesn’t even do his own grocery shopping

Dabi: Maybe I do. Maybe I got the bleach all on my own like a big boy

You: X

Dabi: What's that mean

You: X for doubt You: it’s a meme

Dabi: Here I thought we were about to get spicy 😔

You: ew

Dabi: I was joking  Dabi: …unless 

You: has anybody ever told you that your flirting is immaculate

Mar 04 7:10 PM

Dabi: What do you study 

You: are you trying to find out my location

Dabi: Let it be known I’m terrible at geography and if I wanted to stalk you I'd already be on it

You: that’s a consolation You: forensic science You: i actually can’t wait for the semester to be over bc my professor is one of the most annoying individuals i have ever had the displeasure of meeting

Dabi: So you do have bleach 

You: never said i didn’t

Dabi: What do I have to do to make the list of annoying individuals. What's my current score

You: we haven’t met You: and i’m not sure if i’d survive u

Dabi: You have a point, I'm super nice tho

You: bet You: are you handsome You: asking for a friend You: the handsome ones are usually more annoying

Dabi: I'll say I’m frighteningly unique-looking 

You: ...well played

Mar 04 10:09 PM 

Dabi: My boss is making me do errand work in the morning like I'm some kind of functioning human being with principles Dabi: The next piercing I’m getting is a lobotomy 

You: thought you were “freelancing”

Dabi: Freelancing only gets you so far. You'll understand when you're my age

You: can't imagine what the back pain must be like You: do you have a tongue piercing 👀

Dabi: Perhaps I do

You: u r so mysterious You: tell me an opinion 

Dabi: Mint ice cream makes my teeth feel weird 

You: that’s not an opinion 

Dabi: Alright, more foods should have mint in them. And coriander. I want to make things inedible for 80% of the human population

You: nvm keep your opinions to yourself 

Mar 05 02:26 AM

Dabi: I've gotta burn this number. Txt u in a few 

Mar 05 05:16 AM

You: what are you, some kind of druglord This message could not be delivered.

You: I knew it This message could not be delivered.

Mar 0512:03 PM

You: ayo are you still there This message could not be delivered.

You: this is only funny if you come clean right now This message could not be delivered.

Mar 05 4:16 PM

You: "text you in a few" minutes? hours? days? This message could not be delivered.

You: just know that if it takes to long i'll forget about u This message could not be delivered.

You: won't even miss u This message could not be delivered.

Mar 06 09:00 AM

You: hello is this thing on This message could not be delivered.

Mar 07 3:15 PM

You: my social security number is 6007 0023 6799 0324 This message could not be delivered.

Mar 07 8:46 PM

You: eggs, vinegar, panko, sprite, sliced ham, parmesan, deodorant sencha if they have the good one ground pepper, lemon juice This message could not be delivered.

Mar 08 04:44 AM

Unknown: Am I still the man of ur dreams

You: I'm killing you You: violently

Unknown: I was hoping softly Unknown: With your song

You: are these messages being monitored You: am i a suspect

Unknown: If they were, could I write that I'm a ruthless baby killer anti-government fuck the police pro abortion the prime minister is an idiot bomb. bomb at the airport, terrorism, detonate Unknown: I guess now they are

Dabi was added as a contact.

You: just when i thought i'd have to find another witty asshole with a tongue piercing

Dabi: Aw you missed me Dabi: Does my tongue piercing make me hot be honest

You: what are my chances of getting an explanation for the past few days You: are u a murderer fr, that would be so cool You: i totally didn't use our abandoned chat as a grocery list btw

Dabi: The only thing I slay is pussy 😎

You: somehow i have doubts about that statement You: animal abuse is no joke

Dabi: I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 100, if you guess it correctly I'll tell u everything

You: 69

Mar 08 08:21 AM

Dabi: It was 72 Dabi: Because you were so close I'll give u one free question. But I want another one in return

You: you're a dirty little gremlin who plays dirty little games You:: do i get to ask a follow-up question

Dabi: No

You: in that case You: which of the following activities did you partake in? 1.) vandalism 2.) drug dealing 3.) drug trafficking 4.) violent crimes 5.) violent crimes that resulted in the death of one or more individuals 6.) assisting someone in a violent crime 7.) assisting someone in a non-violent crime 8.) theft 9.) robbery 10.) hate crimes against a minority 11.) politically motivated acts of defiance 12.) consumption of illegal substances 13.) running and/or hiding from law enforcement 14.) domestic terrorism 15.) human trafficking 16.) money laundering 17.) having a good time

Dabi: What the fuck Dabi: What is this, a multiple choice? Dabi: 1, 4, 6, 7, 8, 13 Dabi: My turn Dabi: What's your favourite food

You: fr, just like that You: that's your one question out of everything you could ask? am i really that boring

Dabi: I ask what I ask

You: spicy miso ramen with minced pork You: can we go back to the part where you ran from law enforcement

Dabi: Don't we all have demons that we run from Dabi: Mine are just a bit more persistent

Mar 08 10:52 AM

You: i want another question

Dabi: If you come up with one that's not related to the past few days, go ahead

You: fine i'll take it You: have you ever been caught and gotten in legal trouble for one of your… dubious activities

Dabi: Yeah

You: …and?

Dabi: That's another question. Gonna trade?

You: fine

Dabi: When I was 16, two Officers Of The Law 🐷 caught me dumpster diving behind a 7/11 Dabi: The dumpster diving wasn't the crime but because it was on private property they charged me with trespassing

You: damn, that's a lot of truth from u in just two sentences You: i wanna know ur tragic backstory so bad

Dabi: You could try to get me all sentimental for the 6 minutes after really good sex before the post nut clarity sets in

You: uh huh, taking notes You: anyway. you get one question. think hard

Dabi: If you couldn't have minced pork on your ramen, what would your second topping choice be

You: you're impossible

Mar 08 1:27 PM

You: tori karaage or extra ni-tamago i guess

Mar 08 2:23 PM

Dabi: Doesn't the Karaage lose its crispiness if it's in the broth for too long Dabi: I wouldn't know

You: please let me recommend you a good ramen place, you seem like you'd need it

Dabi: You have no idea. Take me out

You: like romantically? or are you asking me to murder you

Dabi: I love surprises

You: i just laughed out loud in the middle of my lecture

Mar 08 7:18 PM

Dabi: Need your forensic expertise for a sec

You: …oh no

Dabi: It's a purely hypothetical scenario

You: alright lay it on me big boy

Dabi: If a 176 cm tall and 67 kg heavy person were to climb over a 4,60 meter high fence that has electrical wiring on it Dabi: What would the most likely way for them to die be?

You: this is not forensic at all You: how strong is the electricity You: is there a way to shut it off You: where would you hold onto the fence You: can it be damaged

Dabi: Not me, a 176 cm tall and 67 kg heavy person

You: where would THE 176 CM TALL AND 67 KG HEAVY PERSON HOLD ONTO THE FENCE

Dabi: The only points that provide decent grip surface are the hooks holding the wires in place

You: so the most likely way to die would be electrocution You: will that be all

Dabi: How would one determine whether the electricity has been properly shut off Dabi: In the theoretical scenario that you couldn't get close enough to hear

You: the 176 cm tall and 67 kg heavy person should tap the wiring from the bottom with the back of their hand You: that way their fingers curl downwards and not around the wire You: so the person won't DIE from ELECTROCUTION

Mar 09 00:08 AM

Dabi: Excellent Dabi: Gonna do some field research Dabi: Will report back in maybe a day

Mar 09 08:01 AM

You: i'm gonna be so mad if you die before you've had decent karaage This message could not be delivered.

Mar 11 6:10 PM

Unknown: So it turns out that the person did not have to climb the fence after all. Pliers are such useful tools Unknown: Thanks for the electricity tip tho

Mar 11 6:39 PM

Dabi was added as a contact.

You: you're so hot when you're alive 

Mar 11 9:14 PM

Dabi: Do u think I'm a catch 😏

You: judging by the way law enforcement is trying to get their hands on you, i'd say you're pretty slippery

Dabi: The slipperiest Dabi: You couldn't handle me

You: i'd trap you using cheese and a paper box  You: put you in a jar and turn you into spicy miso broth 

Dabi: Would you hold the jar tight at night and tell me everything's going to be okay 

You: of course 

Dabi: I'm liking this scenario 

Mar 12 01:07 AM 

Dabi: Ever thought about what Mint Karaage would taste like

Mar 12 01:23 AM

You: i need u 

Dabi: Tell me more

You: to shut your mouth

Dabi: Are you trying to romance me

Mar 12 07:15 AM

You: i'm actually so upset right now  You: can i vent

Mar 12 07:27 AM

Dabi: Listening Dabi: Am I gonna have to get the tissues out

You: you're not empathetic enough for that 

Dabi: How would you know 

You: call it a woman's intuition  You: i just need someone to bother about my hot girl troubles

Dabi: Let's hear it girl  Dabi: Men ain't shit 💅

You: damn right they aren't You: but unrelated to that You: i ran out of my medication a few days ago and thought if i stretched the remaining 3 pills to last me 6 days i'd be able to make it till the end of the week  You: now my doctor's office is closed and i can't seem to get an appointment anywhere You: and i'm super jittery and on edge and almost had a panic attack just trying to make coffee

Dabi: What type of medication 

You: Ativan You: it's prescription only

Dabi: Nothing is ever "prescription only" 

You: i'm not gonna try some experimential backalley drug You: just feel like dying rn

Dabi: Who said anything about backalley? You actually came to the right guy for this  Dabi: What's the name of the nearest druggery 

You: ...fukuju pharmacy

Dabi: So I've been talking to a Setagaya girl 

You: only moved here for uni, hate to disappoint if ur expecting a wealthy maiden 

Mar 12 10:02 AM

Dabi: Don't you feel like getting a snack from the vending machine  Dabi: Specifically the one next to the pharmacy  Dabi: A bag of skittles sounds nice, doesn't it?

You: ? ? ?

Mar 12 10:34 AM 

You: did you commit a crime for me  You: how did you get your hands on actual fucking Ativan this fast

Dabi: I don't kiss and tell

You: did you follow me home  You: is this how i die

Dabi: You make it so hard to be nice to you Dabi: What do you think I am, a creep

You: if you were here i'd suck you off so good rn

Dabi: Whore Dabi: (Respectfully)

You: lmao ur right You: thank you for real though

Dabi: Stfu

Mar 12 1:33 PM

Dabi: Do u like cats

You: yes

Dabi sent an image.

Dabi: Noodle thieving menace 

You: 🥹 You: that has got to be the fattest street cat i’ve ever seen

Dabi: He’s hella fast 

You: how does it feel to be the one chasing the culprit for once

Dabi: Not nearly as thrilling as being the one committing the crime 

Mar 13 00:00 AM

Unknown: Congratulations! You have been selected as an eligible member for a free trial of Osaka Daily Post. Unknown: If you would like information about your benefits, reply 'BENEFIT' Unknown: If you would like to stop receiving these messages, reply 'STOP' 

You: i know it's you shithead

Unknown: Your message could not be processed. 

You: this is the unfunniest you've ever been ngl

Unknown: Your message could not be processed. 

You: you're truly one of the most annoying individuals in my life

Unknown: Your message could not be processed. 

You: STOP

Unknown: LMAO you thought

Dabi was saved as a contact. 

You: i'm reconsidering if the tongue piercing is really worth it 😤

Mar 13 04:55 AM

Dabi: Any particular reason why you chose forensics 

Mar 13 06:09 AM

You: i've always admired criminals but been to scared to become one You: and if i know about psychotic assholes it might help me to steer clear of them, or so i thought

Dabi: Is it working

You: evidently not

Dabi: Use me in ur thesis  Dabi: I'll be your lab rat

You: nah you're more beneficial to me when you're not stuck behind bars You: what do you have me saved as in your phone

Dabi: I don't save contacts  Dabi: Especially not yours  Dabi: You mean nothing to me 

You: aww do you know my number by heart, that's adorable You: i'm kinda genuinely impressed at how persistent you are at bothering me, it's almost like you like me or smth

Dabi: No fr though lmao if anybody finds my phone you'd be on a list

You: do u delete these chats

Dabi: Always

You: that's so romantic You: admit it you're actually a softie

Dabi: Would that make you more interested in me  Dabi: Then I'm the softest 

You: what do i need to do to make you the hardest

Dabi: ... Dabi: There's absolutely no correct way for me to respond to that  Dabi: You've left me speechless 

You: 🥵🥵

Dabi: What's your worst quality  Dabi: Besides being an irresistible smartass  Dabi: *irritating 

You: was that a freudian slip You: you're so obsessed with me it's adorable

Dabi: Proving my point so diligently 

You: you don't seem like the kind of person who would use words like 'diligently' You: i'm rather talkative at times You: to the point where it gets unbearable to listen to me

Dabi: I never would've guessed

You: what's yours? You: besides the obvious

Dabi: Still putting up with you 

Mar 13 7:45 PM

Dabi: Wyd 

You: i burned my rice a little You: but it's edible

Dabi: Don't you have a rice cooker? Who raised you 

You: my very strict but sweet and committed grandmother who made the best teriyaki salmon in the whole world You: i'd kill another human being to eat her home cooked food one more time

Dabi: So your parents ain't shit either 

You: eh, they're alright You: they're Business People overseas and aren't around a whole lot, means i get my own place though You: so i can have visitors at any desired hour 😏

Dabi: Omg sick Dabi: Me next

You: it was implied

Mar 13 11:11 PM

Dabi: Ok but do u actually wanna meet up sometime  Dabi: No strings attached ofc 

You: i'm down

Dabi: What if I'm a creep after all

You: if anything, it means i won't have to attend my lecture about carbon dots tmrw

Dabi: I can't tomorrow  Dabi: What about the day after Dabi: I'll give u my credit card info if it makes you feel more safe, don't bother trying to buy anything with it tho, you'll be disappointed

You: you may not show it a whole lot, but are you actually a considerate person? You: the day after sounds good

Dabi: Preem

You: oreryu shio ramen, right by harajuku station You: about time you had some good karaage You: my treat You: unless that's too far away for u

Dabi: I would fly across the world for u Dabi: Yes Harajuku works fine

Mar 14 08:49 AM

You: how will i recognise u You: what do u look like

Dabi: As my dad once said. I'm impossible to miss 

You: i laughed

Dabi: Guess it was all worth it then  Dabi: Do tattoos scare you

You: i was gonna ask cause there's no way you got only a tongue piercing and nothing else You: stand there with your tongue out

Dabi: Shouldn't we at least get to know each other before 😳

You: don't get any ideas  You: i don't intend to fuck u You: ...for now

Dabi: That's a relief, I thought I might have to file a restraining order afterwards 

Mar 14 1:42 PM 

Dabi sent an image. 

Dabi: If u see this guy u can still run the other way 

You: hhh fuck You: are u trying to intimidate me You: how do you have so many tattoos but no bedframe

Dabi: Cut me some slack, I just moved into this place 

You: fair warning i'm not as hot as u

Dabi: Bet 

You sent an image. 

Dabi: Why do women always lie. I thought you were better. I thought you were different

You: 😳 You: i'm actually worse

Dabi: We're such a good match

You: don't get ahead of urself. u r still a guy with no bedframe

Dabi: Please shut up

Mar 14 4:16 PM

Dabi: To be clear I'm not bringing flowers or anything  Dabi: And I'm actually willing to let you pay this time lol 

You: you have such a unique way with words 

Dabi: A bit tight on money rn but I'll pay u back some other way 

You: can we make that the first line in our sextape  You: dw i said it's my treat and i mean it You: does that make you feel emasculated

Dabi: Who would I be to say no to free food tf Dabi: If there's a next time I can take you out for drinks  Dabi: Nothing fancy but an old friend of mine owns a bar downtown and his girlfriend mixes a killer mule 

You: if you're gonna poison me after gaining my trust over my favourite food i will be incredibly sad 

Dabi: Give me some credit here. I'm trusting u to not rat me out to law enforcement 

You: you're giving me ideas You: is there a bounty on your head

Dabi: I'm not that important 

Mar 14 9:44 PM

You: so you're just too good to get caught

Dabi: Both flattering and factually correct Dabi: For the record I've never harmed anybody that didn't deserve it 

You: thanks for clarifying  You: i feel so safe now 

Dabi: Anytime  Dabi: If you're having second thoughts lmk before 10 am so I won't spend time getting ready for nothing 

You: 10 am is crazy  You: u r so vain 

Dabi: Alright then I won't 😔

You: i take it back You: be pretty for me

Mar 15 5:30 AM

You: can't sleep 

Mar 15 7:12 AM

Dabi: How the turntables  Dabi: Are you alright

You: yes  You: it's the good kind of sleepless 

Dabi: It's fine if you're having second thoughts, I won't hold it against you at all  Dabi: Just texting like this is nice too

You: fuck no i wanna meet the man behind the screen You: the myth, the legend, the crimelord himself 

Dabi: I'm never showing consideration for ur wellbeing ever again 

You: should've ghosted me before i got attached

Mar 15 9:54 AM

Dabi: Last chance to bail gracefully  

You: you make it so tempting 

Dabi: Getting out of bed then 

You: it's not a bed if it doesn't have a bedframe

Dabi: Shut, and I mean this in the gentlest way possible, the hell your mouth

Mar 15 12:08 PM

Dabi sent a location pin.

Dabi: Is this the place

You: that's the one  You: be there in a few minutes 

Dabi: I'm waiting outside 

Mar 15 12:13 PM

You: omg i think i see u You: im shy

Dabi: U literally have so much blackmail material on me 

You: give me a second You: alright I'm coming over This message could not be delivered.

#crying over a full text format fic is crazy #so much character... so much personality... in text format #getting the ativan for her omg maybe romance is real #the antigovernment bomb rant part genuinely made me laugh #AND HE REMEMBERED HER NUMBER BY HEART #OH MY GOD #OMG #OMG HE REMEMBERED HER NUMBER BY HEART #romance IS real

[dadsbongos]

its my birfday what'd you guys get me?? :3

#one year older!!!! so exciting!! #naur birthday beer tho sad face

[dadsbongos]

dude ive been here so long i remember cryptic date anon

it was you

no but that was.... ?? 3 years ago now..? You've been here so long we should get married

pls tell me in explicit detail what do you think about my changes in content and writing level over the years

#we should make out

[dadsbongos]

lesbians that kill each other‼️‼️💯🗣🔥🔥🗣⁉️🗣⁉️⁉️🗣‼️‼️💯💯🔥💪🔥⁉️🗣‼️🗣💯🗣‼️🗣🗣😍

#bnha spoilers #bnha fanart #my hero academia fanart #ochaco uraraka #himiko toga #togachaco #togachako #bnha manga spoilers

[dadsbongos]

me as a pokemon trainer is exactly the same as regular me but the government has to physically stop me from owning more gengars

patreon

#soo cute :((( #i dont even know pokemon like that but!!! #love this :3

[dadsbongos]

*conveniently ignoring the bnha manga* normal brothers ^-^

#matching bracelets :3 adorable #very normal and very wholesome brothers!! ^.^

[dadsbongos]

ur a SAINT for the funger fucking community 🙏🙏🙏 ate ur fics up SO GOOD ,.., literally living off of crumbs (im a d’arce fucker 😞😞😞)

THANK YOU!!! for such traumatized bitches gott damn are those funger characters kinda sexy

and i have more plans and schemes.... trust‼️

Pavel mostly, but also more funger 1 (d'arce included) hopefully soon!

#believe in me guys #doin my best

[dadsbongos]

I NEED MORE RAGNVALDR SMUT THIS MAN IS MAKING ME GO CUCKOO

you n me both you n me both you n me both you n me both like!!

warnings - randomly lost the spark for this at the end and you can… tell lol, not proofread, fem body, whiny pathetic big man with big tits >>>>>, unprotected piv but liek cmon… what is the protection in that era youre lucky rag’s washed

845 words

~~~

“You’re very close.”

“You’re more comfortable than the bed.”

Ragnvaldr snorts a laugh, eyes fluttering shut as he grins, hands winding tighter around your waist and squeezing the soft fat, “You’re obsessed with flattering me, elskede.”

“You’re worth the flattery,” you lift your chin and settle it between his collar bones to stare up at the man.

Auburn strands of hair burn like gold in the pouring sunlight, soft sage eyes gooey as they return your gaze. Morning birds sing outside the gaping window, fresh air chilling through the bedroom. Last night, you’d fallen asleep side-by-side only for the man to pull you atop his chest in the dark. Or maybe he did it as the sun first rose, staring at your lax face through bleary eyes; determined not to wake you. 

Wringing both arms under Ragnvaldr’s head, you pull your face closer to his and earnestly giggle at how his cheeks go ruby red. 

“Hm, blushing is a good look for you,” you dance the blade of your nails across his sharp cheekbones, feeling the warmth from his face lick over your fingertips, “So bashful.”

“Bashful,” he scoffs at the mere notion, “I’m the strongest warrior in Oldegaard, I am not bashful.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So, then, if I do this…” you sit up slowly, making a show of petting your palms down his chest and curving your back to push out your chest, perhaps -- just by mere coincidence -- grinding your pelvis into his, “You’ll feel nothing?”

“Nothing,” the tremble in his muscles says otherwise. So does the upward, smitten twitch of his lips. His hands tighten around your waist.

Ragnvaldr is as much a lovestruck fool as he is a warrior, he’s big and simple and so, so tender in your hands. 

“Do you lie to me?” you pout, and though he knows it’s fake Ragnvaldr is tempted to smear it off your face.

He beams up at you, a chuckle rumbling low in his throat, “Of course, I’m lying. Have you seen yourself?”

You shrug coyly and he laughs again. 

“Beautiful,” Ragnvaldr stretches his neck to press his lips to your neck, “So very beautiful.” 

“Now who’s full of flattery?” you tease as hands larger and bolder than your own peel off the gown you’d slept in; Ragnvaldr lifts his hips while you fumble off his trousers.

Warmth lathes up your spine, washing over your skin in time with the softness of Ragnvaldr’s palms. He pulls and squeezes the fat of your hips in appreciation as your slick envelopes his cock. Tossing his head back in a throaty whine, Ragnvaldr bucks his hips up -- settling both feet on the creaky straw and pelts to better thrust into you. Slow and thorough, he curls both arms around your waist and binds you both chest to chest; earnestly moaning at the squish of your bare breasts against him. Leaning his head against yours, Ragnvaldr lovingly molds his lips against your forehead.

“I love you,” he proclaims, “Love,” he whines, high and pitchy and snapping into the back of his throat, “My love, my good love, sweet girl…” he shudders under your hands, pace quickening, “Please, sweet girl, kiss me.”

You should’ve known -- if you weren’t preoccupied with whimpering and wailing his name, you’d probably giggle. Ragnvaldr loves to kiss during sex, no matter how contradictory his wrapping and hugging says otherwise. You have to wiggle up from his sweaty arms to worm your face by his, kissing along his jaw just to tease your lips against the corner of his mouth.

“Please,” the big man huffs pathetically, arms cinching tighter around your body and hips rocking the thin mat below you, “Don’t be cruel to me.”

“Rag’,” you croon, finally giving him the pleasure of your lips locked to his, now mumbling against him, “My precious man, big, big man. You’re so good to me.”

His face flames beneath yours, only growing hotter the longer you speak, “Uh-huh?”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, his cock driving harder into the spongy spot that makes you weep, “Fuck me harder, Rag’! Rougher, my love, don’t be gentle…”

“Uh-huh…” he nods weakly, and continues nodding against you -- skulls thumping dully in time with his fucking, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…”

Fire rips up the seams of your tangled limbs, scorching up the loose ends of the building knots in both of your guts. Ragnvaldr tears his face back from yours, groaning and crying mixes of your name and gibberish. Gibberish until he finally crackles out,

“Can I- !" he's broken by a shiver and moan, "Can I cum inside, elskede?”

He wriggles one arm off you and in between your bodies to flick wetly around your clit. You burrow your face into the bend of his shoulder, biting the meat of his neck to muffle your swelling moans. You snag your nails into his broad chest, his soft hair tangling under your fingers, spurring you for an eager reply.

“Yes, yes, yes!” you chant dumbly, decisively numb to everything except Ragnvaldr and the ecstasy he brings.

BOOM bomb explodes you DIE!!!

#ragnvaldr x reader #ragnvaldr smut #LMAO those tags arent real #god what am i #fear and hunger x reader #fear and hunger smut #the outlander x reader

[dadsbongos]

possession

6.5 k words // warnings - suicidal ideation/tendencies, gore/blood + body horror (miscarriage imagery), vomiting, implied cannibalism, geographical errors, not beta read, you wear skirt, not in canon

summary - Grief is ugly, you knew that. The hole where your husband used to be just keeps growing until you can't take it anymore.

@ghostlykeyes i finally finished the possession fic!! like months after talking about it!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve seen the funny things that grief does to people. Your father refused to rise from bed for five days when your mother passed. Your kitten would search the house for her mother every day when the older cat was no longer around. Your aunt bleached her hair and moved to the states when her husband served divorce papers. Your baby cousin faked ill for a whole week when his dog ran away. Your best friend admitted that when her brother died, she drove far out to the country and parked over train tracks… She admitted that she waited for an hour before driving home.

Yes, you’ve seen the bizarre and stomach-churning behaviors that grief can bring out from a person, but you’ve never seen something like this. And the most stomach-churning thing about it, is that you’re the one behind this.

It isn’t someone else you can psychoanalyze or rant about -- it’s your hands settling over the chilly doorknob. It’s your hands twisting around the knob. It’s your guest room that’s occupied by this… thing.

You release the metal as its cold exterior burns a hole in your palm. You step back, and you stay away.

…

When you were younger, you liked to draw yourself far into the future. Where your crayoned head would scratch at the sky, and you would have a car with a lumpy hood and mismatching tires. And, of course, your very own house with a grand front door: a welcoming, circular window, and a lemony handle meant to be gold, and thick mahogany wood. You used to be embarrassed by the squiggly lines and uneven shades when your mother would keep and display the dog-eared pages, but Mahito would insist. Mahito pressed the contractors how dire it was that the entryway to your shared home matched your childhood depictions.

So how strange it is that Mahito’s mission partner and close friend, Kento Nanami, stands in this grand, gaping doorway with a firm downturn of his lips. Tingling wells from the bottom of your gut, tangling with your intestines and latching onto each rung of your ribs. Thick knots lodge in your throat -- your questions choking you. You swallow them. You spit them back up.

“How…?”

Kento blinks, honey eyes dripping to the floor and sticking there, “I can’t tell you.”

Chunks replace the words in your throat, spittle wetting the inside of your mouth. You try to suck it all back, suppressing the bile, “Can I see the body…?”

Kento shakes his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “I can’t show it to you.”

“Is there anything you can give me?”

“I have nothing,” Kento mutters it, gaze finally flicking back up to your face, “Only my word.”

You’re uncertain of how to respond to Kento. Thoughts swiped off your brain, like a dreary mother clearing her counter of kitchen scraps into the garbage. There’s a thin film of powdery flour clinging to the surface, remnants of things you wanted to ask. Information you’d beg for. Details of the mission. The dreary mother blows hot air over the counter, scattering flour up into the air.

Kento reaches into his front shirt pocket, the azure material stretching around his hand. He pulls out a thin, bleached cloth with tattered edges and extends it towards you, “Well, I do… have this.”

It was once purple. The shade of sweet raisins. It was once part of his uniform.

“It was all I could grab,” he watches your face as you focus on the cloth being pressed into your palm, “If you need company, or the house is too quiet…”

“I know, Nanami.”

You survey the cloth, it barely takes up your palm with a stretched, floss-like texture at each side. So worn the purple is churning into gray. Or is it marinated ash? Or dried curse’s blood?

“I’m here for you.”

“I know, Nanami.”

Kento sends himself on his way, stepping back from your doormat with dirt clots following after. He crunches over them again on his trek down the front steps. Your stained mahogany door clicks shut gently, golden handle nipping cold at your flesh. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes through your home’s foyer.

Mahito’s frayed uniform strip is rough in your hand. Slim. Thin. Hardly protective at all.

Just as the door shutting, and the lock pinning it, your gasp makes rounds through the empty house. Quiet. It’s already too quiet.

You used to like that. Peace away from Mahito’s missions and cursed humans and terrible spirits and even…

Gaze falling across the vase displayed on a frail, dark wood end table, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with contempt. Every bright sunshine sheen and painted pastel flower petal aches like a knife in your back.

As you lift the ceramic vase, it’s thunking off the table fills your ears in the silent house. Too big. Too quiet. You hurl the decorative vase into the farthest wall and cringe at how overbearing the song of its shatter is. After the offending art piece is out of sight, the cloth in your free hand regains sensation. You can feel the tile under your feet again. You can hear the birds chirping outside like there’s something to hope for this spring.

Legs shaky and thighs burning from the stress, you rush towards the vase’s new graveyard and cradle the shards you’re certain won’t tear your hands apart. You feel your heart burn a hole through your chest. Its fire blares and feeds until the hole extends far into your viscera. Guilt seeps into place -- molding around your organs to keep them from collapsing into each other.

Kento’s gift vase is scattered around your knees. And you cry into the pieces you hold.

When the only surviving shred of Mahito cannot dry your face, you cry harder.

…

“I don’t know when,” you answer honestly. Shaking your head. Your nails rake into the stretch of skin over your thighs. So sharp it's as if you’re ripping right through your tights, but you don’t hear the telltale popping of fabric.

Though it’s louder in your boss’ office than at the house. That, you suppose, is one good thing here.

“I understand,” she nods slowly, hands folded calmly over her steel desk. A glass vase, tinged like precious jade, holds white lilies. You think they used to be yellow. You wonder when they changed, “Take your time. And drive safely, please.”

Wallowing eyes trail after you. Shame bleeds into that guilt pothole inside you as your coworkers watch you exit the building. For what, you couldn’t answer reasonably. Because, reasonably, there is no cause for such shame. You’re unfit to return to work. Your boss sympathizes. Yet, you feel that humiliation of eyes squinted and narrowed and curious all the same. It doesn’t sink when you’re in the parking lot, nor when you climb into the driver’s seat of your car.

You never liked taking public transport without Mahito to keep you company. And even then, he would often drive you home when he wasn’t sent away with work.

So you needed to adjust the seat upon initially settling in.

The memory of your clueless fiddling, unfamiliar with the layout of your own vehicle, makes your hands shake against the wheel. Your knuckles twinge at the stretch, and perhaps when you release your grip the leather of the steering wheel will have left indents. Your foot feels heavier than it used to, you think it drags the gas pedal down.

Surprisingly, the road is not clogged with cars. Vast asphalt paints the scene ahead, lined by inactive streetlamps and sagging telephone cables. You and the road.

You could let your foot sink. Find out how far down the pedal goes. You could ease the tension in your hands and let the steering wheel go altogether. You could turn on the radio and fall into a blissful, noisy sleep.

Slowly, you slip a hand off the wheel and reach for the radio knobs, slowly swerving the dial far right. You leave that hand off the wheel. Your foot slumps into the gas and your car jolts down the road. Waning wires transition into beams of black rod separated by blurry lamps. Tires jerk to the left and your heart bumps out of your skin, you now notice how unsteady your hand remaining on the wheel is.

But peeling that hand away seems impossible. No matter how you lift or pry, as though you’ve been suction sealed to the leather. A weight pressing your final tether firmly into the real world.

Your foot lightens on the pedal until you’re below the speed limit, and you return both hands to the wheel before gliding it over and off the side of the road. Between two street lamps, your car rests -- you keep the radio high. Better that than droning silence occasionally interrupted by birds and crickets wailing for carnal attention.

With the car immobile, you’re left to stare across the clear azure sun. As spotless as it had been days before Mahito left, and, perhaps foolishly, you’d taken that as a good omen. Now it just burns your eyes, leaving you to blink back welling tears: the tears do not stop, though.

No matter how hard you blink, they will not stop.

…

You no longer eat at the table. A shame because it was crafted by hand at Mahito’s pocket’s expense, but everytime you eat there you think of that fact. And you think of breakfasts ruined by his crude humor. And you wish you hadn’t let such minuscule words dictate those mornings. So, to avoid that chain of thought, you consume your measly meal at the kitchen island in the dark. And in the trash can immediately to your left is a crumpled sheet from your calendar -- the month of May.

(You’ve discovered your days go smoother this way.)

A collection of harsh thuds vibrate against the kitchen counter. Masamichi Yaga’s stern face igniting your screen, underneath are two buttons; one ruby and one emerald. Having never been a sorcerer yourself, the only reason Yaga ever had your phone number was for trivial matters. Occasionally, he’d use it if Mahito hadn’t answered his own phone. A sharp sting eats away even more of your insides at the thought. So, you swipe the ruby button.

You decline Yaga’s call.

Stubbornly, he redials your number. Again, you decline.

He calls again, so you decline.

He calls once more, so you decline.

When he calls for the fourth time, you blindly throw your phone through the kitchen doorway. The absence is bliss for a short-lived second before the silence is interrupted by a bang and shatter. You jerk against the counter, hesitation anchoring you there for longer than the quiet’s lifespan before you explore the living room. Finding your phone’s grim resting spot takes no effort.

It’s surrounded by ceramic that glints in the few, thin ribbons of sunlight poking through your slatted windows. Shards you should’ve picked up weeks ago, but the shame of having an unkempt home fails to inspire any cleanliness. You merely retrieve the cracked phone (screen flickering with a pale greenish glow at the bottom) and ignore the jagged pieces.

…

3:34PM

“What even happened?” Utahime cradles your extended hand between hers. Thin, cardinal lines are split into the delicate skin of your fingertips. Some are lighter in color, and some are much, much darker. She frowns and curls her fist around yours as if to melt the wounds back together with the warmth of her palm.

“My screen’s broken.”

Her deadpan stare slackens as soon as it arrives, she bites her tongue and quietly sighs through her nose, “I know that. I meant: how did your phone even break?”

Slipping your hand out from her grasp, you pick up the display phone to your right. Roughly the same size as your current one, but a cursory glance at the tag confirms it’s a (moderately) more recent model. Therefore, apparently, it must be double the price.

Before you can replace the phone on its stand, Utahime snags it without so much as a glance at the price, “I’ll get it for you. Save your money.”

“I hope that’s not pity.”

“You’re my friend,” she insists, but her words don’t make you feel any better, “So was Mahito.”

You nod slowly. Her oxblood eyes linger over your face, the attention spurs nausea gurgling through your throat. Saliva wells along the velvet walls of your mouth, throat burning, “What?”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Yes,” you blink away the faint throbbing in your stressed eyeballs, turning your head away towards the front of the store, “Yeah, I’m fine, don’t… just buy the phone, if you’re sure you want to.”

“‘Course I am,” she hushes herself, solely to avoid frightening you off. Like you’re some abandoned kitten soaking in a cardboard box under rain, “I can always come over, too.”

“Utahime.”

“I’m sorry.”

You let it go rather than try explaining the sore, tender, exposed nerve away. You cannot fathom how you would even begin telling her that you don’t sleep in your bed anymore. And, furthermore, you don’t wish to share the couch. Can’t even consider the notion.

Utahime bites her tongue harder.

5:30AM

The digital clock sitting beneath your television has lighting like olive’s skin, making it easy to stare at even in the pitch black of your living room. Without the hum of the air control, your dismal little makeshift sleeping quarters are even more still than in the day. Silence makes it hard to sleep. Thinking about how little you’re sleeping makes it harder to sleep. Thinking about how Mahito would usually wake you in two and a half hours for breakfast before he went to work made it impossible to sleep.

Maybe, if you squeezed your eyes tight enough then you could slip into an alternate timeline where you get to rest in your own bed. And after breakfast at 8:30, there is the shopping excursion to a marketplace you two frequent at night when he gets home. He likes to carry your bag.

But, oh, you will have to go alone in this timeline, won’t you?

And, oh, everyone will ask where your Mahito is, won’t they?

Sweetly, they will tease that he’s making you carry all the groceries home. Curiously, they will titter about his whereabouts. You will be forced to answer.

Will you lie? Or would that be too pathetic?

The alternate timeline is making your head hurt. The pit inside you gnaws further on its surroundings until you’re sure that your entire stomach is swallowed and torn and burned into sickness. You open your eyes again.

5:31AM

…

With how mousy your appetite has been lately, you barely notice when the back of your pantry becomes more apparent than its contents. Utahime, you’re sure, would be giddy to run such a tedious errand simply because it would mean that you’re still alive and capable of speech. Her current location across the country in Kagoshima argues back, though.

So you found yourself on the long trek to a new store with new faces at midnight on an otherwise abandoned railway. Nothing in the store roused much inside you, except for the ever-growing rot in your gut when you’re ashamed by how you wander to the alcohol. One of few things you’re certain you can keep down now is, ironically enough, wine.

You were never much of a drinker when-

You swallow hard and make for the selection of breads.

At least now you can hopefully rest in the night, however unorthodox the methods may be.

Does it matter at all? When you really, truly think about it -- as long as you’re sleeping, does it matter what puts you there? With a full night’s rest, you could finally be motivated to look through the piling mail. Or return Yaga’s missed call. Or get more bountiful groceries.

Will it be from this new place? Or your usual?

You could be energized enough to go anywhere, you suppose.

Anywhere tomorrow. Moving forward and upward and without Mahito.

Do you want that?

Does it matter?

It’ll happen anyway. Time will move anyhow, your only real choice is whether or not to fight the flow. You can be without Mahito and struggle or be without Mahito and scrape by.

Either way, you will be without.

Until you die yourself, potentially decades from now.

And suddenly, you wonder what you will do when May comes. The thought brings you to a full stop. Your heels click their final echo in the empty train tunnel.

Nothing, you suppose.

When May comes… you’ll be at home. Maybe? Or work.

Yes, you have to go back to work eventually, right?

But you won’t have friends over.

But what if they insist?

Because they want to drink and play games and be loud, and you’re their friend and it isn’t like you have any other plans. So why wouldn’t you have friends over?

(It’s not like you’ll be getting married.)

Your shoulders go lax, the glass wine bottles rattle together like dice, the haphazardly packed bread is crushed. Your eyes refocus, the little stick figures of men and women and the arrows and the directions plastered on tall boards hit you. They don’t leave. Your gaze drifts to the tracks below.

(You could jump in.)

Why wouldn’t you have friends over? It isn’t as though anyone will have an important mission the next morning.

You blink. You can hear yourself breathe. It’s obnoxious. It’s too loud and too soft at the same time. You feel your heart pump between your ribs. You feel each fiber in your bag’s strap pull on the soft skin of your hands. Burning away at your flesh.

Mahito usually carried your bag.

Your shoulders jerk back to life, the wine bottles clink and the plastic wrap over your bread squeals for mercy. You stumble on the height of your heels. The fibers nip sharply at your tender fingers.

Your breath is too loud. You hold it. You need to breathe.

Your breath is too loud.

So you scream to cover the sound. You wretch your eyes closed, your hands tighten around the bag and it burns again.

Mahito never told you that holding the bag hurt his hands.

You double over, suddenly nauseous.

You open your eyes and stare down at where the bag peels your skin. There is no blood; you think there should be.

(You could make it so.)

You stumble back again, but this time, when you regain your balance you let the motion sweep you away. The momentum carries you in a circle and you stretch out your arms to swing the irritating bag into the wall at your side. You hear the glass clang and chip apart. You see the dark plum stains blossom along the bottom of the bag. You watch the wine pool and drool from the seams, but you cannot hear the droplets over the shuddering, ragged breaths you suck in. And each exhale rings out as more of a throaty, feral groan than human huffed dioxide.

Swirling the other way, you bang the remaining glass bottles into the wall again and when the grapes have soaked halfway up the bag, you find yourself grinning.

A groan is interrupted by a giggle.

So much for a warm buzz. Alone.

(Alone.

Home alone.)

The giggle stops suddenly.

Alone now. And alone tomorrow. And alone in a week. And alone in a month. And alone in May.

And alone after May, too.

The festering rot carving into your guts claws up and up and around until you fear that all of your meat has been shredded through. Tighter and tighter, even squishing high into the shell of your skull. Bubbling, the rot consumes until finally -- it bursts. A sharp cramping in your stomach that shoots through your hip bones and all down your thighs.

You harshly drag the bag up above your head before hurriedly slamming it back down. The scattered glass shards tink and crash, only faintly dulled by the squished loaf. The wine leaks onto the floor.

You watch it seep out and you watch how the fabric plops with a wet little splash as you release the handle. You watch it dribble out on the smooth, albeit spotty floor. It soaks into the grouts and rolls smoothly to the toe of your heels.

You watch it merge with another tinted liquid.

Red. Mulberry, almost.

Your fingers dip into the secondary substance, and you note how thick it is. Yet slippery. Tracing your fingers through the puddle, you find it leading to your ankles.

Heart thundering up into your throat, you graze your fingers up the divots of your socks and along the plain of your calf. The red liquid is pushed into your skin, smearing along the smoothness. You continue to follow the trail up to your thigh and under your skirt, your hand is enveloped by warmth as you finally make contact with the source.

Your underwear is wet.

Your fingers are shaking when you unveil them to your eyes, they are shaking and coated in that thick, yet slippery, red hue.

The puddle grows under your feet. The mulberry overtaking the grape.

You aren’t due. You don’t…

You don’t think…

No, you weren’t sick. You weren’t aching. You and Mahito

It isn’t

It isn’t, no, not at all

You aren’t due at all

Your nausea swells and the sound of your own hurried breaths is quickly overwhelmed in your ears by the sound of your blood. By the cinching, hard drum of your pulse.

Suddenly, your knees buckle and your hands lurch forward with the rest of your body -- shooting out to the ground to keep you standing. Jagged glass scratches through the material of your grocery bag, raised incisions slowly blooming red. Your mouth is hot, and wet. Too wet.

Your stomach squeezes, throat loosening uncomfortably. It stretches around nothing, and the roof of your mouth tingles unpleasantly. You belch. Your palms burn worse than your fingers now.

(This never would’ve happened if Mahito had carried the grocery bag.)

Your stomach tightens again and your jaw snaps open, throat squelching as a rush of bile gushes through. It lands in the mulberry-grape mix, tainting it with a murky, pale swirl. The scent burns your nose and sends you rocketing back onto your feet. You stumble for the third time in your heels, but this time you do not catch yourself. Floundering on uneven footing before slamming your back harshly into the wall at your side.

Another groan shreds your throat, dredging up more acidic fluid to the full of your lips. You spit onto the ground. You can hear your breathing mix with the push of your blood.

Mahito would’ve held an arm out for you. He would’ve taken the bag. He would’ve gone instead. If he knew what was bound to happen in this tunnel, he would’ve just gone instead and you would’ve insisted he didn’t go alone and he’d pretend to put up a fight before you both would have decided to stay in and he would sleep next to you through the night and he would be there again when you woke up.

The mulberry juice has trailed after you. Trail thickening as it heads for your twitching legs. Your socks are red and squishy in your heels.

Both legs now engulfed with the bloody trickle.

For a moment, you forget yourself. You bring your hands to your thighs and cup the inside softness, blood ponds in the wrinkled depths of your palms. You scoop the blood upwards, as if to shove it back; return it to its place and erase this terrible night altogether. Somehow that makes perfect sense.

All you succeed in is staining your skirt.

A sharp twinge spikes from the joints between your legs through your abdomen, it pulls a rippling scream from the base of your chest. You crumple to your knees, skidding them against the floor. The blood beneath you is cool and sticky, quickly overtaken with the fresh flush leaking from your underwear.

Your hands shake, previous cuts bubbling with crimson of their own, as you curl them into the material of your skirt. When you subconsciously twist your feet at the siege of pain, that squelch of blood filling your shoes infests your ears again. Fitfully, you kick out your legs, flinging off your heels, before tearing your hands down the sides of your legs and ripping off the bloody socks. In their wake, you sear your nails over your skin and the path continues to burn even when your hands return to your pelvis.

Briefly, you consider the possibility that you could be crushing your own bone under the hefty pressure in your hands. When another wrack of cramping wagons over your pliant insides, all concern is tossed aside.

Mulberry vines its way up your body, clinging to your skin.

And later in the night, when you’re scrubbing ruthlessly against your skin -- attempting in vain to rid yourself of this catastrophe, you will give birth in the guest bathtub. A pulpy mess of blood and muscle strands will writhe and wail for you by name. It will call to you with Mahito’s voice and you will run because the familiar warmth in your chest at his song is overwhelmingly horrifying.

Yet, when you sit against the closed bathroom door, you hear nothing. For a moment, you’re certain you hallucinated during a genuine emergency.

But you creak the door open again, just enough to get an eyeful of the cornish yellow room before slamming it shut. A malformed creature resembling the top half of a medical dummy is wrapped in lashing strips of steaming intestine and exposed muscle. You wretch and scramble out to where you’d haphazardly thrown your purse over the couch in your rush to the nearest bath.

Wisely, you call Utahime over the police.

It rings and rings and rings until it boops and beeps into voicemail. You dig for Yaga’s number, when suddenly you hear your name again. More clearly. More enunciated. More obviously him.

So, you let the phone slip from your palm and ignore how it buzzes loudly and beams with Utahime’s contact.

The golden glow seeping from under the closed bathroom door slices your home’s darkness -- it flashes over your skin and illuminates your fresh, changed socks. Sweeps over the hollow of your open palm against the golden knob. Which jiggles noisily under your unsteady hold, rattling in its socket. You can barely hear the sound of your name repeated, smoother. More careful.

Deeper. Kinder. Sweeter. Lovelier.

You squeak the door open, just barely pressing the side of your face into the crack to glimpse upon the creature in the tub.

Soft powder blue hair that stretches down to a pale, naked chest. One icy blue eye and one coppery fire. Clean face bisected both ways by silvery, glittering stitches -- otherwise unmarred. Blood splatters and hand print smears still decorated the rim of the bathtub. You’re sure there’s a draining pool of crimson at the bottom, too.

But there’s Mahito.

He grins at you. His right front tooth sits slightly over the left, just like you remember. And he has an unnerving lack of dimples, like you remember.

“Are…?” you squint your eye into the bathroom -- the old bulbs buzz vaguely overhead, “Mahito? Are you real?”

Slowly, he nods. Inoffensively blue tresses gliding like silk over his shoulders, “I’m real, honey.”

Your knees shake, bones smashed into paste. The door opens wider with how you lean into it.

“Can I touch you…?”

Again, he nods.

Creeping across the frosty tile, you kneel against the porcelain tub before crossing one leg over the other into the wide bowl. Blood soaks into the padding of your fresh socks and hem of your oversized shirt. You skim your hand over the expanse of his chest, fingertips dipping over the divots and raises of his new stitches. Soft lashes of hair tingle under your skin. His muted chuckle rumbles through his chest at your glazed over, mesmerized state as your caressing moves to his arm.

Below his chest and arm are mush and guts tethering together with peachy, pink sheets of fat and muscle forming over the innards. You pinch yourself. It stings.

Mahito chuckles again, “See, honey? I’m real.”

It’s over half an hour later that you’re finally redialing Utahime’s number.

“Sorry, I was just missing Mahito, but… I went onto the porch and got myself together. I think I’m okay now.”

Utahime inhales sharply, and she’s speaking, but your focus is solely on the guest bathroom door.

Mahito waves at you sweetly.

You don’t sleep that night, but you don’t visit the bathroom either. You sit on the couch and ignore the voice of your dead fiance singing your name until sunrise. Only then, does the Siren song lure you back.

Mahito’s legs remain stumps, pulpy at the knees and sharp, jagged bones barely poking out from the mess. So, he remains in the tub -- where rot and iron are thinly masked by the sickly floral scent of cheap, generic brand air-freshener. Dried blood crusts against the bath with gushes of fresh, oozing crimson consistently re-wetting the porcelain bottom.

“Honey,” his fingers dance over the apple of your cheek, lids low over eyes that singe straight through your chest, “can you give me flesh?”

As if he can see every twinge in your heartbeat, he’s grinning at you as soon as you look into his face.

“What…?” your brows furrow, his own draw sympathetically -- grin snapping into a gentle frown, “What do you mean?”

“I want to be a full man,” he coos, “Just the way you remember. And I need flesh.”

“Okay.”

He nods sternly, “It’s exactly what you think.”

“Okay.”

,,,

You’ve seen the funny things that grief does to people. Your father refused to rise from bed for five days when your mother passed. Your kitten would search the house for her mother every day when the older cat was no longer around. Your aunt bleached her hair and moved to the states when her husband served divorce papers. Your baby cousin faked ill for a whole week when his dog ran away. Utahime admitted that when her brother died, she drove far out to the country and parked over train tracks… She admitted that she waited for an hour before driving home.

Yes, you’ve seen the bizarre and stomach-churning behaviors that grief can bring out from a person, but you’ve never seen something like this. And the most stomach-churning thing about it, is that you’re the one behind this.

It isn’t someone else you can psychoanalyze or rant about -- it’s your hands settling over the chilly doorknob. It’s your hands twisting around the knob. It’s your guest room that’s occupied by this… thing.

You release the metal as its cold exterior burns a hole in your palm. You step back, and you stay away.

Away, and nervous. So nervous it makes your limbs shake and twitch.

Kento hovers a gentle hand over your shoulder, “Are you sure you’ve been well?”

“I’ve just been… out of it.”

“I can understand why. I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry,” you wonder if that’s all he can say, “I can… Is there anything more I can do? Change the lights? Clean the glass in the living room? Replace your vase?”

“Just this,” you turn away, facing the turquoise of Kento’s button up. Physically incapable of staring him in the face as you continue, “There’s something wrong… seriously wrong with the bathroom… Just checking this will be okay, Nanami.”

“Anything,” Kento whispers softly, stepping around your cemented body to grasp the golden handle. He smiles down at you, despite the way you’re still unable to look him in the eyes -- he opens up to speak, but decides against whatever additional sympathies he felt indebted to, “Anything.”

You can’t so much as squeak out a ‘thank you’ before he slithers out of your life.

…

“I’m worried. I don’t want to pretend I’m calling for any other reason, or that I don’t notice something wrong. You’re worse than ever, and I… I just don’t know…” Utahime sighs loudly over the phone, “I’m so worried.”

“I’m okay,” you’re itching to hang up, to more thoroughly monitor Mahito’s growth.

“Nobody’s seen or heard from you!” she cries, “And Nanami- we still don’t- !” she stops abruptly, “Nothing’s been the same since…” Utahime sighs again, quieter, “You have to be running low on money now.”

“I’m okay, Utahime.”

“Do you want me to stop by? I can come with more groceries…”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m coming by.”

You’re opting to refuse when two fingers poke into your side, Mahito grins brightly with a thumbs up. For a moment you’re left stammering into the phone, staring into scorching eyes. Ice and copper, like burning flame. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss into your cheek, just as he used to before leaving for work. Just as he did that morning, before you never saw him again.

Not until now.

Mahito kisses you again, skimming his hand over your temple and brushing back hair so he can soothe his lips there, too.

“Ah, okay…”

Utahime, much more excitedly, responds, “Oh! Yeah, okay! I’ll be there soon. With groceries!”

“With food,” you murmur back dumbly. Mahito nods against your face, soon after nuzzling into your neck, “Okay…”

Hours later, you will be on the other side of the house, desperately trying to scrub the sound of wet slurps and chews from your memory.

…

“Why do you stay in the bathroom?”

“It’s comfy,” he teases, stretching out his bare legs over the rim of the tub, “Why? Are there comfier places?”

“Our bed,” you should probably be more alarmed that he cannot recall that, but he tilts his head so pretty.

“Why don’t you show me then?”

Your eyes drift to the clots of blood and matted hair by the bath drain, blonde and raven black tangling together with crystals of bone flecked over the mess. You try not to look or think about it because you’re not so delusional as to think you can justify this.

Mahito tilts his head, grinning, “Hm?”

Or maybe you are.

“What’ll you think of the house…?” you murmur to yourself, “It’s different now.”

Mahito laughs and kisses your cheek, right below where tears well against your lashes, “When have I asked anything of you except yourself?”

He nuzzles into the warmth that spreads over your face and flows down your neck. When you grasp his hand and lead the man -- naked and rich with the scent of iron -- out of the guest bathroom to the dark hallway, he’s delighted. Down the hallway, are multiple gaping doorways with similarly unlit rooms. Both hands bite around one of Mahito’s as you take him into the master bedroom -- the one you used to share.

“It’s hard to see you in here,” Mahito makes no effort to lean away from your touch, though he does search for a source of light to flick on.

“Sorry…” you frown, dragging Mahito to the bed -- sheets messy and yet frozen cold to the touch. Shakily, you reach out for the drawstring of your bedside lamp. You clench your eyes as the bulb clicks to life, digging your nails into Mahito and praying, silently, that he’s still real. That the darkness hadn’t somehow fooled you so thoroughly into believing your Mahito returned.

His hand squeezes in return, you open your eyes. Mahito stares back. Ice and copper burns straight through your chest.

“Mahito…” his face creeps closer at your whisper, voice liquifying into a soft coo, “Mahito...” your eyes inch below his navel, to where any possibilities of him being a mere curse die, “You’re real? You’re back? Mahito’s back?”

“Mahito’s back,” he parrots, less affectionately than you said it, but he nods calmly nonetheless. He backs you against the mattress, your knees buckling so your back meets the springs. His eyes close and you’re tempted to claw them open again, “Don’t you want me back, honey?”

“Of course!” you cry hopelessly.

“Don’t you want to be happy, honey?” he slips both hands up your shirt and the ruthless buzzing in your heart numbs you to how cold his fingers are over your ribs. You open your mouth to question him, but he slots his lips over yours before musing into the sweltering air, “I want you to be happy.”

Beneath the raw blood, you can pick up hints of cedar wood -- how Mahito’s clothes smelt until you sucked the life from them, too.

“I want you to be happy, too,” you mumble against Mahito’s cheek. He’s so close you can’t breathe without inhaling him alongside oxygen. Your gut twists unpleasantly, and you will the knotting sensation down as Mahito nods into you.

“Of course, honey, I know you do,” he rolls his lips against the nape of your neck and sucks harshly where your shoulder begins. His teeth are sharp, you almost feel them stinging into your bone.

His teeth were never so lethal before, and yet you feel the indentation that revokes Mahito’s status as a curse. A penis.

As juvenile as it feels to have something of brainless flesh hold so much weight, you recall Mahito’s own words on the matter years ago.

“So, are curses like… naked?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrugged carelessly then, yawning soon after, “But they don’t have any,” he grinned at you, apparently eager, “Genitalia: to put it nicely.”

“None at all?”

“None at all. So it isn’t weird that they’re naked.”

(But his new stitches are so…

And, well, the teeth…)

His body itself is much colder.

The pit in your stomach returns as Mahito sears his teeth over your skin until he’s pointed over the ripe point of your pulse. Juicy and fat with hot blood. Mahito slips his hands over your sides again, as if to remind you of the softness he intends. It eases you.

“Will you -- well -- if you’re back…” you swallow, you suppose there isn’t a gentle way to ask this, “Will you ever return to sorcery?”

He shakes his head, long hair webbing over his shoulders and netting onto your chest, “I need to stay home. It’s safer at home.”

“Ah, okay,” you regret the question, momentarily fretful you may have offended him, “Will you be okay like this? Can you eat- can you eat food? I don’t think there’s anybody… else.”

His hands squeeze your sides, a soft sigh breezing over your neck, “That’s okay. As long as I stay with you, I’ll be okay.”

“Good,” sharp teeth pierce your neck shallowly, and this time Mahito’s hands do not rush to remedy the ache. But you push down the budding nerves and string your fingers through Mahito’s hair. It’s still as soft as you remember,

“Good,” he copies, with much less love than you said it with.

#morning reblog

[dadsbongos]

possession

6.5 k words // warnings - suicidal ideation/tendencies, gore/blood + body horror (miscarriage imagery), vomiting, implied cannibalism, geographical errors, not beta read, you wear skirt, not in canon

summary - Grief is ugly, you knew that. The hole where your husband used to be just keeps growing until you can't take it anymore.

@ghostlykeyes i finally finished the possession fic!! like months after talking about it!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve seen the funny things that grief does to people. Your father refused to rise from bed for five days when your mother passed. Your kitten would search the house for her mother every day when the older cat was no longer around. Your aunt bleached her hair and moved to the states when her husband served divorce papers. Your baby cousin faked ill for a whole week when his dog ran away. Your best friend admitted that when her brother died, she drove far out to the country and parked over train tracks… She admitted that she waited for an hour before driving home.

Yes, you’ve seen the bizarre and stomach-churning behaviors that grief can bring out from a person, but you’ve never seen something like this. And the most stomach-churning thing about it, is that you’re the one behind this.

It isn’t someone else you can psychoanalyze or rant about -- it’s your hands settling over the chilly doorknob. It’s your hands twisting around the knob. It’s your guest room that’s occupied by this… thing.

You release the metal as its cold exterior burns a hole in your palm. You step back, and you stay away.

…

When you were younger, you liked to draw yourself far into the future. Where your crayoned head would scratch at the sky, and you would have a car with a lumpy hood and mismatching tires. And, of course, your very own house with a grand front door: a welcoming, circular window, and a lemony handle meant to be gold, and thick mahogany wood. You used to be embarrassed by the squiggly lines and uneven shades when your mother would keep and display the dog-eared pages, but Mahito would insist. Mahito pressed the contractors how dire it was that the entryway to your shared home matched your childhood depictions.

So how strange it is that Mahito’s mission partner and close friend, Kento Nanami, stands in this grand, gaping doorway with a firm downturn of his lips. Tingling wells from the bottom of your gut, tangling with your intestines and latching onto each rung of your ribs. Thick knots lodge in your throat -- your questions choking you. You swallow them. You spit them back up.

“How…?”

Kento blinks, honey eyes dripping to the floor and sticking there, “I can’t tell you.”

Chunks replace the words in your throat, spittle wetting the inside of your mouth. You try to suck it all back, suppressing the bile, “Can I see the body…?”

Kento shakes his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “I can’t show it to you.”

“Is there anything you can give me?”

“I have nothing,” Kento mutters it, gaze finally flicking back up to your face, “Only my word.”

You’re uncertain of how to respond to Kento. Thoughts swiped off your brain, like a dreary mother clearing her counter of kitchen scraps into the garbage. There’s a thin film of powdery flour clinging to the surface, remnants of things you wanted to ask. Information you’d beg for. Details of the mission. The dreary mother blows hot air over the counter, scattering flour up into the air.

Kento reaches into his front shirt pocket, the azure material stretching around his hand. He pulls out a thin, bleached cloth with tattered edges and extends it towards you, “Well, I do… have this.”

It was once purple. The shade of sweet raisins. It was once part of his uniform.

“It was all I could grab,” he watches your face as you focus on the cloth being pressed into your palm, “If you need company, or the house is too quiet…”

“I know, Nanami.”

You survey the cloth, it barely takes up your palm with a stretched, floss-like texture at each side. So worn the purple is churning into gray. Or is it marinated ash? Or dried curse’s blood?

“I’m here for you.”

“I know, Nanami.”

Kento sends himself on his way, stepping back from your doormat with dirt clots following after. He crunches over them again on his trek down the front steps. Your stained mahogany door clicks shut gently, golden handle nipping cold at your flesh. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes through your home’s foyer.

Mahito’s frayed uniform strip is rough in your hand. Slim. Thin. Hardly protective at all.

Just as the door shutting, and the lock pinning it, your gasp makes rounds through the empty house. Quiet. It’s already too quiet.

You used to like that. Peace away from Mahito’s missions and cursed humans and terrible spirits and even…

Gaze falling across the vase displayed on a frail, dark wood end table, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with contempt. Every bright sunshine sheen and painted pastel flower petal aches like a knife in your back.

As you lift the ceramic vase, it’s thunking off the table fills your ears in the silent house. Too big. Too quiet. You hurl the decorative vase into the farthest wall and cringe at how overbearing the song of its shatter is. After the offending art piece is out of sight, the cloth in your free hand regains sensation. You can feel the tile under your feet again. You can hear the birds chirping outside like there’s something to hope for this spring.

Legs shaky and thighs burning from the stress, you rush towards the vase’s new graveyard and cradle the shards you’re certain won’t tear your hands apart. You feel your heart burn a hole through your chest. Its fire blares and feeds until the hole extends far into your viscera. Guilt seeps into place -- molding around your organs to keep them from collapsing into each other.

Kento’s gift vase is scattered around your knees. And you cry into the pieces you hold.

When the only surviving shred of Mahito cannot dry your face, you cry harder.

…

“I don’t know when,” you answer honestly. Shaking your head. Your nails rake into the stretch of skin over your thighs. So sharp it's as if you’re ripping right through your tights, but you don’t hear the telltale popping of fabric.

Though it’s louder in your boss’ office than at the house. That, you suppose, is one good thing here.

“I understand,” she nods slowly, hands folded calmly over her steel desk. A glass vase, tinged like precious jade, holds white lilies. You think they used to be yellow. You wonder when they changed, “Take your time. And drive safely, please.”

Wallowing eyes trail after you. Shame bleeds into that guilt pothole inside you as your coworkers watch you exit the building. For what, you couldn’t answer reasonably. Because, reasonably, there is no cause for such shame. You’re unfit to return to work. Your boss sympathizes. Yet, you feel that humiliation of eyes squinted and narrowed and curious all the same. It doesn’t sink when you’re in the parking lot, nor when you climb into the driver’s seat of your car.

You never liked taking public transport without Mahito to keep you company. And even then, he would often drive you home when he wasn’t sent away with work.

So you needed to adjust the seat upon initially settling in.

The memory of your clueless fiddling, unfamiliar with the layout of your own vehicle, makes your hands shake against the wheel. Your knuckles twinge at the stretch, and perhaps when you release your grip the leather of the steering wheel will have left indents. Your foot feels heavier than it used to, you think it drags the gas pedal down.

Surprisingly, the road is not clogged with cars. Vast asphalt paints the scene ahead, lined by inactive streetlamps and sagging telephone cables. You and the road.

You could let your foot sink. Find out how far down the pedal goes. You could ease the tension in your hands and let the steering wheel go altogether. You could turn on the radio and fall into a blissful, noisy sleep.

Slowly, you slip a hand off the wheel and reach for the radio knobs, slowly swerving the dial far right. You leave that hand off the wheel. Your foot slumps into the gas and your car jolts down the road. Waning wires transition into beams of black rod separated by blurry lamps. Tires jerk to the left and your heart bumps out of your skin, you now notice how unsteady your hand remaining on the wheel is.

But peeling that hand away seems impossible. No matter how you lift or pry, as though you’ve been suction sealed to the leather. A weight pressing your final tether firmly into the real world.

Your foot lightens on the pedal until you’re below the speed limit, and you return both hands to the wheel before gliding it over and off the side of the road. Between two street lamps, your car rests -- you keep the radio high. Better that than droning silence occasionally interrupted by birds and crickets wailing for carnal attention.

With the car immobile, you’re left to stare across the clear azure sun. As spotless as it had been days before Mahito left, and, perhaps foolishly, you’d taken that as a good omen. Now it just burns your eyes, leaving you to blink back welling tears: the tears do not stop, though.

No matter how hard you blink, they will not stop.

…

You no longer eat at the table. A shame because it was crafted by hand at Mahito’s pocket’s expense, but everytime you eat there you think of that fact. And you think of breakfasts ruined by his crude humor. And you wish you hadn’t let such minuscule words dictate those mornings. So, to avoid that chain of thought, you consume your measly meal at the kitchen island in the dark. And in the trash can immediately to your left is a crumpled sheet from your calendar -- the month of May.

(You’ve discovered your days go smoother this way.)

A collection of harsh thuds vibrate against the kitchen counter. Masamichi Yaga’s stern face igniting your screen, underneath are two buttons; one ruby and one emerald. Having never been a sorcerer yourself, the only reason Yaga ever had your phone number was for trivial matters. Occasionally, he’d use it if Mahito hadn’t answered his own phone. A sharp sting eats away even more of your insides at the thought. So, you swipe the ruby button.

You decline Yaga’s call.

Stubbornly, he redials your number. Again, you decline.

He calls again, so you decline.

He calls once more, so you decline.

When he calls for the fourth time, you blindly throw your phone through the kitchen doorway. The absence is bliss for a short-lived second before the silence is interrupted by a bang and shatter. You jerk against the counter, hesitation anchoring you there for longer than the quiet’s lifespan before you explore the living room. Finding your phone’s grim resting spot takes no effort.

It’s surrounded by ceramic that glints in the few, thin ribbons of sunlight poking through your slatted windows. Shards you should’ve picked up weeks ago, but the shame of having an unkempt home fails to inspire any cleanliness. You merely retrieve the cracked phone (screen flickering with a pale greenish glow at the bottom) and ignore the jagged pieces.

…

3:34PM

“What even happened?” Utahime cradles your extended hand between hers. Thin, cardinal lines are split into the delicate skin of your fingertips. Some are lighter in color, and some are much, much darker. She frowns and curls her fist around yours as if to melt the wounds back together with the warmth of her palm.

“My screen’s broken.”

Her deadpan stare slackens as soon as it arrives, she bites her tongue and quietly sighs through her nose, “I know that. I meant: how did your phone even break?”

Slipping your hand out from her grasp, you pick up the display phone to your right. Roughly the same size as your current one, but a cursory glance at the tag confirms it’s a (moderately) more recent model. Therefore, apparently, it must be double the price.

Before you can replace the phone on its stand, Utahime snags it without so much as a glance at the price, “I’ll get it for you. Save your money.”

“I hope that’s not pity.”

“You’re my friend,” she insists, but her words don’t make you feel any better, “So was Mahito.”

You nod slowly. Her oxblood eyes linger over your face, the attention spurs nausea gurgling through your throat. Saliva wells along the velvet walls of your mouth, throat burning, “What?”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Yes,” you blink away the faint throbbing in your stressed eyeballs, turning your head away towards the front of the store, “Yeah, I’m fine, don’t… just buy the phone, if you’re sure you want to.”

“‘Course I am,” she hushes herself, solely to avoid frightening you off. Like you’re some abandoned kitten soaking in a cardboard box under rain, “I can always come over, too.”

“Utahime.”

“I’m sorry.”

You let it go rather than try explaining the sore, tender, exposed nerve away. You cannot fathom how you would even begin telling her that you don’t sleep in your bed anymore. And, furthermore, you don’t wish to share the couch. Can’t even consider the notion.

Utahime bites her tongue harder.

5:30AM

The digital clock sitting beneath your television has lighting like olive’s skin, making it easy to stare at even in the pitch black of your living room. Without the hum of the air control, your dismal little makeshift sleeping quarters are even more still than in the day. Silence makes it hard to sleep. Thinking about how little you’re sleeping makes it harder to sleep. Thinking about how Mahito would usually wake you in two and a half hours for breakfast before he went to work made it impossible to sleep.

Maybe, if you squeezed your eyes tight enough then you could slip into an alternate timeline where you get to rest in your own bed. And after breakfast at 8:30, there is the shopping excursion to a marketplace you two frequent at night when he gets home. He likes to carry your bag.

But, oh, you will have to go alone in this timeline, won’t you?

And, oh, everyone will ask where your Mahito is, won’t they?

Sweetly, they will tease that he’s making you carry all the groceries home. Curiously, they will titter about his whereabouts. You will be forced to answer.

Will you lie? Or would that be too pathetic?

The alternate timeline is making your head hurt. The pit inside you gnaws further on its surroundings until you’re sure that your entire stomach is swallowed and torn and burned into sickness. You open your eyes again.

5:31AM

…

With how mousy your appetite has been lately, you barely notice when the back of your pantry becomes more apparent than its contents. Utahime, you’re sure, would be giddy to run such a tedious errand simply because it would mean that you’re still alive and capable of speech. Her current location across the country in Kagoshima argues back, though.

So you found yourself on the long trek to a new store with new faces at midnight on an otherwise abandoned railway. Nothing in the store roused much inside you, except for the ever-growing rot in your gut when you’re ashamed by how you wander to the alcohol. One of few things you’re certain you can keep down now is, ironically enough, wine.

You were never much of a drinker when-

You swallow hard and make for the selection of breads.

At least now you can hopefully rest in the night, however unorthodox the methods may be.

Does it matter at all? When you really, truly think about it -- as long as you’re sleeping, does it matter what puts you there? With a full night’s rest, you could finally be motivated to look through the piling mail. Or return Yaga’s missed call. Or get more bountiful groceries.

Will it be from this new place? Or your usual?

You could be energized enough to go anywhere, you suppose.

Anywhere tomorrow. Moving forward and upward and without Mahito.

Do you want that?

Does it matter?

It’ll happen anyway. Time will move anyhow, your only real choice is whether or not to fight the flow. You can be without Mahito and struggle or be without Mahito and scrape by.

Either way, you will be without.

Until you die yourself, potentially decades from now.

And suddenly, you wonder what you will do when May comes. The thought brings you to a full stop. Your heels click their final echo in the empty train tunnel.

Nothing, you suppose.

When May comes… you’ll be at home. Maybe? Or work.

Yes, you have to go back to work eventually, right?

But you won’t have friends over.

But what if they insist?

Because they want to drink and play games and be loud, and you’re their friend and it isn’t like you have any other plans. So why wouldn’t you have friends over?

(It’s not like you’ll be getting married.)

Your shoulders go lax, the glass wine bottles rattle together like dice, the haphazardly packed bread is crushed. Your eyes refocus, the little stick figures of men and women and the arrows and the directions plastered on tall boards hit you. They don’t leave. Your gaze drifts to the tracks below.

(You could jump in.)

Why wouldn’t you have friends over? It isn’t as though anyone will have an important mission the next morning.

You blink. You can hear yourself breathe. It’s obnoxious. It’s too loud and too soft at the same time. You feel your heart pump between your ribs. You feel each fiber in your bag’s strap pull on the soft skin of your hands. Burning away at your flesh.

Mahito usually carried your bag.

Your shoulders jerk back to life, the wine bottles clink and the plastic wrap over your bread squeals for mercy. You stumble on the height of your heels. The fibers nip sharply at your tender fingers.

Your breath is too loud. You hold it. You need to breathe.

Your breath is too loud.

So you scream to cover the sound. You wretch your eyes closed, your hands tighten around the bag and it burns again.

Mahito never told you that holding the bag hurt his hands.

You double over, suddenly nauseous.

You open your eyes and stare down at where the bag peels your skin. There is no blood; you think there should be.

(You could make it so.)

You stumble back again, but this time, when you regain your balance you let the motion sweep you away. The momentum carries you in a circle and you stretch out your arms to swing the irritating bag into the wall at your side. You hear the glass clang and chip apart. You see the dark plum stains blossom along the bottom of the bag. You watch the wine pool and drool from the seams, but you cannot hear the droplets over the shuddering, ragged breaths you suck in. And each exhale rings out as more of a throaty, feral groan than human huffed dioxide.

Swirling the other way, you bang the remaining glass bottles into the wall again and when the grapes have soaked halfway up the bag, you find yourself grinning.

A groan is interrupted by a giggle.

So much for a warm buzz. Alone.

(Alone.

Home alone.)

The giggle stops suddenly.

Alone now. And alone tomorrow. And alone in a week. And alone in a month. And alone in May.

And alone after May, too.

The festering rot carving into your guts claws up and up and around until you fear that all of your meat has been shredded through. Tighter and tighter, even squishing high into the shell of your skull. Bubbling, the rot consumes until finally -- it bursts. A sharp cramping in your stomach that shoots through your hip bones and all down your thighs.

You harshly drag the bag up above your head before hurriedly slamming it back down. The scattered glass shards tink and crash, only faintly dulled by the squished loaf. The wine leaks onto the floor.

You watch it seep out and you watch how the fabric plops with a wet little splash as you release the handle. You watch it dribble out on the smooth, albeit spotty floor. It soaks into the grouts and rolls smoothly to the toe of your heels.

You watch it merge with another tinted liquid.

Red. Mulberry, almost.

Your fingers dip into the secondary substance, and you note how thick it is. Yet slippery. Tracing your fingers through the puddle, you find it leading to your ankles.

Heart thundering up into your throat, you graze your fingers up the divots of your socks and along the plain of your calf. The red liquid is pushed into your skin, smearing along the smoothness. You continue to follow the trail up to your thigh and under your skirt, your hand is enveloped by warmth as you finally make contact with the source.

Your underwear is wet.

Your fingers are shaking when you unveil them to your eyes, they are shaking and coated in that thick, yet slippery, red hue.

The puddle grows under your feet. The mulberry overtaking the grape.

You aren’t due. You don’t…

You don’t think…

No, you weren’t sick. You weren’t aching. You and Mahito

It isn’t

It isn’t, no, not at all

You aren’t due at all

Your nausea swells and the sound of your own hurried breaths is quickly overwhelmed in your ears by the sound of your blood. By the cinching, hard drum of your pulse.

Suddenly, your knees buckle and your hands lurch forward with the rest of your body -- shooting out to the ground to keep you standing. Jagged glass scratches through the material of your grocery bag, raised incisions slowly blooming red. Your mouth is hot, and wet. Too wet.

Your stomach squeezes, throat loosening uncomfortably. It stretches around nothing, and the roof of your mouth tingles unpleasantly. You belch. Your palms burn worse than your fingers now.

(This never would’ve happened if Mahito had carried the grocery bag.)

Your stomach tightens again and your jaw snaps open, throat squelching as a rush of bile gushes through. It lands in the mulberry-grape mix, tainting it with a murky, pale swirl. The scent burns your nose and sends you rocketing back onto your feet. You stumble for the third time in your heels, but this time you do not catch yourself. Floundering on uneven footing before slamming your back harshly into the wall at your side.

Another groan shreds your throat, dredging up more acidic fluid to the full of your lips. You spit onto the ground. You can hear your breathing mix with the push of your blood.

Mahito would’ve held an arm out for you. He would’ve taken the bag. He would’ve gone instead. If he knew what was bound to happen in this tunnel, he would’ve just gone instead and you would’ve insisted he didn’t go alone and he’d pretend to put up a fight before you both would have decided to stay in and he would sleep next to you through the night and he would be there again when you woke up.

The mulberry juice has trailed after you. Trail thickening as it heads for your twitching legs. Your socks are red and squishy in your heels.

Both legs now engulfed with the bloody trickle.

For a moment, you forget yourself. You bring your hands to your thighs and cup the inside softness, blood ponds in the wrinkled depths of your palms. You scoop the blood upwards, as if to shove it back; return it to its place and erase this terrible night altogether. Somehow that makes perfect sense.

All you succeed in is staining your skirt.

A sharp twinge spikes from the joints between your legs through your abdomen, it pulls a rippling scream from the base of your chest. You crumple to your knees, skidding them against the floor. The blood beneath you is cool and sticky, quickly overtaken with the fresh flush leaking from your underwear.

Your hands shake, previous cuts bubbling with crimson of their own, as you curl them into the material of your skirt. When you subconsciously twist your feet at the siege of pain, that squelch of blood filling your shoes infests your ears again. Fitfully, you kick out your legs, flinging off your heels, before tearing your hands down the sides of your legs and ripping off the bloody socks. In their wake, you sear your nails over your skin and the path continues to burn even when your hands return to your pelvis.

Briefly, you consider the possibility that you could be crushing your own bone under the hefty pressure in your hands. When another wrack of cramping wagons over your pliant insides, all concern is tossed aside.

Mulberry vines its way up your body, clinging to your skin.

And later in the night, when you’re scrubbing ruthlessly against your skin -- attempting in vain to rid yourself of this catastrophe, you will give birth in the guest bathtub. A pulpy mess of blood and muscle strands will writhe and wail for you by name. It will call to you with Mahito’s voice and you will run because the familiar warmth in your chest at his song is overwhelmingly horrifying.

Yet, when you sit against the closed bathroom door, you hear nothing. For a moment, you’re certain you hallucinated during a genuine emergency.

But you creak the door open again, just enough to get an eyeful of the cornish yellow room before slamming it shut. A malformed creature resembling the top half of a medical dummy is wrapped in lashing strips of steaming intestine and exposed muscle. You wretch and scramble out to where you’d haphazardly thrown your purse over the couch in your rush to the nearest bath.

Wisely, you call Utahime over the police.

It rings and rings and rings until it boops and beeps into voicemail. You dig for Yaga’s number, when suddenly you hear your name again. More clearly. More enunciated. More obviously him.

So, you let the phone slip from your palm and ignore how it buzzes loudly and beams with Utahime’s contact.

The golden glow seeping from under the closed bathroom door slices your home’s darkness -- it flashes over your skin and illuminates your fresh, changed socks. Sweeps over the hollow of your open palm against the golden knob. Which jiggles noisily under your unsteady hold, rattling in its socket. You can barely hear the sound of your name repeated, smoother. More careful.

Deeper. Kinder. Sweeter. Lovelier.

You squeak the door open, just barely pressing the side of your face into the crack to glimpse upon the creature in the tub.

Soft powder blue hair that stretches down to a pale, naked chest. One icy blue eye and one coppery fire. Clean face bisected both ways by silvery, glittering stitches -- otherwise unmarred. Blood splatters and hand print smears still decorated the rim of the bathtub. You’re sure there’s a draining pool of crimson at the bottom, too.

But there’s Mahito.

He grins at you. His right front tooth sits slightly over the left, just like you remember. And he has an unnerving lack of dimples, like you remember.

“Are…?” you squint your eye into the bathroom -- the old bulbs buzz vaguely overhead, “Mahito? Are you real?”

Slowly, he nods. Inoffensively blue tresses gliding like silk over his shoulders, “I’m real, honey.”

Your knees shake, bones smashed into paste. The door opens wider with how you lean into it.

“Can I touch you…?”

Again, he nods.

Creeping across the frosty tile, you kneel against the porcelain tub before crossing one leg over the other into the wide bowl. Blood soaks into the padding of your fresh socks and hem of your oversized shirt. You skim your hand over the expanse of his chest, fingertips dipping over the divots and raises of his new stitches. Soft lashes of hair tingle under your skin. His muted chuckle rumbles through his chest at your glazed over, mesmerized state as your caressing moves to his arm.

Below his chest and arm are mush and guts tethering together with peachy, pink sheets of fat and muscle forming over the innards. You pinch yourself. It stings.

Mahito chuckles again, “See, honey? I’m real.”

It’s over half an hour later that you’re finally redialing Utahime’s number.

“Sorry, I was just missing Mahito, but… I went onto the porch and got myself together. I think I’m okay now.”

Utahime inhales sharply, and she’s speaking, but your focus is solely on the guest bathroom door.

Mahito waves at you sweetly.

You don’t sleep that night, but you don’t visit the bathroom either. You sit on the couch and ignore the voice of your dead fiance singing your name until sunrise. Only then, does the Siren song lure you back.

Mahito’s legs remain stumps, pulpy at the knees and sharp, jagged bones barely poking out from the mess. So, he remains in the tub -- where rot and iron are thinly masked by the sickly floral scent of cheap, generic brand air-freshener. Dried blood crusts against the bath with gushes of fresh, oozing crimson consistently re-wetting the porcelain bottom.

“Honey,” his fingers dance over the apple of your cheek, lids low over eyes that singe straight through your chest, “can you give me flesh?”

As if he can see every twinge in your heartbeat, he’s grinning at you as soon as you look into his face.

“What…?” your brows furrow, his own draw sympathetically -- grin snapping into a gentle frown, “What do you mean?”

“I want to be a full man,” he coos, “Just the way you remember. And I need flesh.”

“Okay.”

He nods sternly, “It’s exactly what you think.”

“Okay.”

,,,

You’ve seen the funny things that grief does to people. Your father refused to rise from bed for five days when your mother passed. Your kitten would search the house for her mother every day when the older cat was no longer around. Your aunt bleached her hair and moved to the states when her husband served divorce papers. Your baby cousin faked ill for a whole week when his dog ran away. Utahime admitted that when her brother died, she drove far out to the country and parked over train tracks… She admitted that she waited for an hour before driving home.

Yes, you’ve seen the bizarre and stomach-churning behaviors that grief can bring out from a person, but you’ve never seen something like this. And the most stomach-churning thing about it, is that you’re the one behind this.

It isn’t someone else you can psychoanalyze or rant about -- it’s your hands settling over the chilly doorknob. It’s your hands twisting around the knob. It’s your guest room that’s occupied by this… thing.

You release the metal as its cold exterior burns a hole in your palm. You step back, and you stay away.

Away, and nervous. So nervous it makes your limbs shake and twitch.

Kento hovers a gentle hand over your shoulder, “Are you sure you’ve been well?”

“I’ve just been… out of it.”

“I can understand why. I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry,” you wonder if that’s all he can say, “I can… Is there anything more I can do? Change the lights? Clean the glass in the living room? Replace your vase?”

“Just this,” you turn away, facing the turquoise of Kento’s button up. Physically incapable of staring him in the face as you continue, “There’s something wrong… seriously wrong with the bathroom… Just checking this will be okay, Nanami.”

“Anything,” Kento whispers softly, stepping around your cemented body to grasp the golden handle. He smiles down at you, despite the way you’re still unable to look him in the eyes -- he opens up to speak, but decides against whatever additional sympathies he felt indebted to, “Anything.”

You can’t so much as squeak out a ‘thank you’ before he slithers out of your life.

…

“I’m worried. I don’t want to pretend I’m calling for any other reason, or that I don’t notice something wrong. You’re worse than ever, and I… I just don’t know…” Utahime sighs loudly over the phone, “I’m so worried.”

“I’m okay,” you’re itching to hang up, to more thoroughly monitor Mahito’s growth.

“Nobody’s seen or heard from you!” she cries, “And Nanami- we still don’t- !” she stops abruptly, “Nothing’s been the same since…” Utahime sighs again, quieter, “You have to be running low on money now.”

“I’m okay, Utahime.”

“Do you want me to stop by? I can come with more groceries…”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m coming by.”

You’re opting to refuse when two fingers poke into your side, Mahito grins brightly with a thumbs up. For a moment you’re left stammering into the phone, staring into scorching eyes. Ice and copper, like burning flame. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss into your cheek, just as he used to before leaving for work. Just as he did that morning, before you never saw him again.

Not until now.

Mahito kisses you again, skimming his hand over your temple and brushing back hair so he can soothe his lips there, too.

“Ah, okay…”

Utahime, much more excitedly, responds, “Oh! Yeah, okay! I’ll be there soon. With groceries!”

“With food,” you murmur back dumbly. Mahito nods against your face, soon after nuzzling into your neck, “Okay…”

Hours later, you will be on the other side of the house, desperately trying to scrub the sound of wet slurps and chews from your memory.

…

“Why do you stay in the bathroom?”

“It’s comfy,” he teases, stretching out his bare legs over the rim of the tub, “Why? Are there comfier places?”

“Our bed,” you should probably be more alarmed that he cannot recall that, but he tilts his head so pretty.

“Why don’t you show me then?”

Your eyes drift to the clots of blood and matted hair by the bath drain, blonde and raven black tangling together with crystals of bone flecked over the mess. You try not to look or think about it because you’re not so delusional as to think you can justify this.

Mahito tilts his head, grinning, “Hm?”

Or maybe you are.

“What’ll you think of the house…?” you murmur to yourself, “It’s different now.”

Mahito laughs and kisses your cheek, right below where tears well against your lashes, “When have I asked anything of you except yourself?”

He nuzzles into the warmth that spreads over your face and flows down your neck. When you grasp his hand and lead the man -- naked and rich with the scent of iron -- out of the guest bathroom to the dark hallway, he’s delighted. Down the hallway, are multiple gaping doorways with similarly unlit rooms. Both hands bite around one of Mahito’s as you take him into the master bedroom -- the one you used to share.

“It’s hard to see you in here,” Mahito makes no effort to lean away from your touch, though he does search for a source of light to flick on.

“Sorry…” you frown, dragging Mahito to the bed -- sheets messy and yet frozen cold to the touch. Shakily, you reach out for the drawstring of your bedside lamp. You clench your eyes as the bulb clicks to life, digging your nails into Mahito and praying, silently, that he’s still real. That the darkness hadn’t somehow fooled you so thoroughly into believing your Mahito returned.

His hand squeezes in return, you open your eyes. Mahito stares back. Ice and copper burns straight through your chest.

“Mahito…” his face creeps closer at your whisper, voice liquifying into a soft coo, “Mahito...” your eyes inch below his navel, to where any possibilities of him being a mere curse die, “You’re real? You’re back? Mahito’s back?”

“Mahito’s back,” he parrots, less affectionately than you said it, but he nods calmly nonetheless. He backs you against the mattress, your knees buckling so your back meets the springs. His eyes close and you’re tempted to claw them open again, “Don’t you want me back, honey?”

“Of course!” you cry hopelessly.

“Don’t you want to be happy, honey?” he slips both hands up your shirt and the ruthless buzzing in your heart numbs you to how cold his fingers are over your ribs. You open your mouth to question him, but he slots his lips over yours before musing into the sweltering air, “I want you to be happy.”

Beneath the raw blood, you can pick up hints of cedar wood -- how Mahito’s clothes smelt until you sucked the life from them, too.

“I want you to be happy, too,” you mumble against Mahito’s cheek. He’s so close you can’t breathe without inhaling him alongside oxygen. Your gut twists unpleasantly, and you will the knotting sensation down as Mahito nods into you.

“Of course, honey, I know you do,” he rolls his lips against the nape of your neck and sucks harshly where your shoulder begins. His teeth are sharp, you almost feel them stinging into your bone.

His teeth were never so lethal before, and yet you feel the indentation that revokes Mahito’s status as a curse. A penis.

As juvenile as it feels to have something of brainless flesh hold so much weight, you recall Mahito’s own words on the matter years ago.

“So, are curses like… naked?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrugged carelessly then, yawning soon after, “But they don’t have any,” he grinned at you, apparently eager, “Genitalia: to put it nicely.”

“None at all?”

“None at all. So it isn’t weird that they’re naked.”

(But his new stitches are so…

And, well, the teeth…)

His body itself is much colder.

The pit in your stomach returns as Mahito sears his teeth over your skin until he’s pointed over the ripe point of your pulse. Juicy and fat with hot blood. Mahito slips his hands over your sides again, as if to remind you of the softness he intends. It eases you.

“Will you -- well -- if you’re back…” you swallow, you suppose there isn’t a gentle way to ask this, “Will you ever return to sorcery?”

He shakes his head, long hair webbing over his shoulders and netting onto your chest, “I need to stay home. It’s safer at home.”

“Ah, okay,” you regret the question, momentarily fretful you may have offended him, “Will you be okay like this? Can you eat- can you eat food? I don’t think there’s anybody… else.”

His hands squeeze your sides, a soft sigh breezing over your neck, “That’s okay. As long as I stay with you, I’ll be okay.”

“Good,” sharp teeth pierce your neck shallowly, and this time Mahito’s hands do not rush to remedy the ache. But you push down the budding nerves and string your fingers through Mahito’s hair. It’s still as soft as you remember,

“Good,” he copies, with much less love than you said it with.

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk angst #mahito x reader #mahito jjk #jjk fic #jjk fanfic #mahito angst

[dadsbongos]

The devilish jester and the sweet ballerina