#He doesn't know himself he's never gotten the chance to know himself just drowned in self pity and developed a saviour complex

[ryndicate]

Seal It With a Kiss ⨳ Kishibe

"You want me to do this for you? Then tell me exactly what it is that you want."

notes: I came up with this idea for @akiniku back in like september when i was just beginning to sniff around the csm fandom for a favorite. Dom told me all about him and i fell in love and came up with this plot and *then* I read csm lol. 6+ months later, here we are T-T thanks to @cyancherub for reading through his characterization for me and for my past and future beta readers<3 (i know some of you havent gotten the chance i was just too excited) Idon’t know if i will ever be able to put as much love into a Kishibe fic ever again so lets try to appreciate this

warnings: female reader, longer than a drabble, alcohol, virginity loss + inexperienced reader, creampie, emotional manipulation, coercion but there's consent, age gap (like 30 years between them, fight me), trainee/mentor relationship, twisted savior complex, canonverse, piss (more about control than it is the kink)

Rules/BYF/DNI

Kishibe sighs. “That’s it for today.”

“Already?” You puff, sweat dripping down your temples, your blade lowering until the tip is pointing to the ground. “I could keep going.”

He sighs again, resisting the urge to rub the approaching headache from his temple. Kishibe will never understand the PSDH’s insistence of sending him all of their potentials. Their screening is usually decent enough to keep this type of student from beneath his weathered wings, but every now and then one will slip through. One like you. Earnest, hopeful, and far too willing to do the job. This ain’t the place for you, never will be. They set you loose on the streets and you’ll be some Devil’s next meal. 

But it’s not his place to care. Not supposed to be at least. Makima won’t even tell him which Devils you have contracts with—but again, he doesn't care.

Kishibe ignores your mumbled complaints about cutting your training short, sighing under his breath. “Gonna need’a drink after this.”

He’s unprepared for you to pop up at his side, tilting your head as you ask if you can come with him.

“Why?”

The question seems to put you off. “Isn’t it good manners to take your juniors out after a hard day?” 

Kishibe huffs at your coy tone, certain you’re just after a free meal. “That’s for juniors who’ve proven they earned it.”

That seems to put you off even more. “You don’t think I’ve earned it?”

“No.” His answer is short, clipped. Dark eyes watch intently as you deflate a little, that perpetually cheerful expression drooping into something he ultimately decides is an unsettling expression on a face like yours. He doesn’t care for it, unable to decide why. 

“How’s this?” He grunts, pulling a cigarette from his pack and lighting up. “I’ll give ya a week.”

“A week for what? You're not supposed to smoke inside, you know.” A sulky tone meets Kishibe’s ears, your eyes tracking his lips and the flare of the cherry as he inhales.

He ignores the snipe. “You get close enough to me to take one of these away—” a twitch of his fingers has flaky ash fluttering to the linoleum, “—and I’ll take you out for drinks. That’s how you earn it.”

The sparkle is back in your eyes in an instant. Your sword tips back into its sheath, coming up on his left to give him a smile. "You got it, sir! You'll never smoke again. Just watch."

Kishibe rolls a shoulder, suppressing a groan at your chipper attitude. I'm getting too old for this shit. "We'll see about that, sweetheart."

He's ignorant to the way the words make you pause, moving for the door, ready to get in his car and drive to his regular dive bar. He needs the silence of the drive before he drowns himself for the night. Well, not so much silence as the rattling heating unit, the rush of passing cars, and music so quiet one might question why it’s even on. It’s simply the beginning step of the ritual he’s come to find most comforting, or numbing, on this job. 

"See you tomorrow, sir?"

“Yeah.” He doesn’t even bother glancing back as the door closes behind him. 

The autumn air clears his head a little as he finally escapes the hallways of the office. A cold breeze whips at his hair, bringing old scars and memories to mind as it bites at his skin. Kishibe takes a final drag of his cigarette and lets it fall to the pavement. He doesn’t stub it out, pulling out the collar of his jacket to fight the chill as he disappears into the evening crowd.

“That is not how this works.”

“There’s no way this doesn’t count!”

“Give them back.”

“I said you’d never smoke again, didn’t I? I didn’t think you of all people would want me to go back on my word.”

Kishibe takes a careful inhale through his nose, closing his eyes for a beat and convincing himself he won’t kill any of his trainees. He’s sent you to infirmiry more times than he cares to count with these training sessions, to bring home the apparently wavering point on your young dumb invicibility complex, but he knows where the line is. So when he opens them, Kishibe fixes you with the same intent stare that usually gets his subordinates to straighten up, or clingy women out of his apartment. Dark, unimpressed, unwavering.

You are painfully undeterred.

“I had to get close enough to take them from you. That’s what you said.” You stand in front of him, at a regrettably smart distance, looking mighty proud of yourself as you clutch the worn white box carefully in your fist. After five straight days of utter and total defeat, you’d made your move on the car ride over this morning instead. 

“I said one, not the pack,” Kishibe drawls. “And you know damn well that ain’t the point here. Nickin' them from the car is not the same.”

You shrug, a familiar petulance beginning to saturate your tone. “Not my fault you weren’t paying attention. You said that kills people.”

Unprepared for the—still a smartass answer but—wisdom of your words, some of the intensity dissolves from his eyes. As if he really needed that reminder. He still has his doubts. 

“No arguing that,” Kishibe sighs, scratching his neck. “Guess you get what you wanted. Drinks on me tonight.”

A triumphant smile brightens your face, but it doesn’t last. The barest moment later you find yourself flat on your back on the training facility’s floor, groaning at the impact. 

Kishibe flicks his lighter, sparking his cigarette and taking a grateful inhale of sweet nicotine as he stands over you, impassive.

“But I’m still gonna make you earn it, sweetheart. Getting overconfident and lettin’ down your guard also kills people. Get up and block me next time.”

“Yes, sir."

He might have been harsher on you today than entirely warranted as he watches you wince and shift, trying to get comfortable in the weathered booth of his usual bar. But really, to go any easier on you would do you a disservice if you really are this hellbent on working in public safety. Part of Kishibe is hoping one training session—and soon—he’ll find your limit and you’ll realize you aren’t making the cut. At the very least he’d like you to settle for the civilian sector. Hell, Kishibe despises paperwork but he'd write your damn recommendation.

You’re peering around the dimly lit space. It's hazy with smoke, with a scent to match. He probably could have taken you somewhere nicer, but he really didn’t want to stray too far from his own comfort zone, so what the hell. This was your own idea anyways. 

“Are you even old enough to be in here?” Kishibe asks suddenly, catching the eye of the bartender and tipping his head. 

“I came of age a couple months ago.”

Kishibe cringes inwardly at your prideful tone. Fucking great. He eyes you as the bartender begins to edge out from behind the counter, watching as you glance around a little frantically for a menu. Shoddy place like this doesn’t really have one. 

Kishibe gestures between the two of you before the man has to cross the bar completely. “My usual. Double for me.”

"What's your usual?" You ask curiously. 

"Whiskey. Nothing fancy, just cheap and strong." 

"Oh."

The glasses are placed in front of you and you give what Kishibe sees as an awkward smile at the bartender as your fingers wrap around the glass. He takes a grateful gulp, unable to help but notice you haven't made a move with your own. 

"Not to your taste?"

"I don't know," you answer plainly, tilting the short glass and letting the amber liquid catch the light. "Never had it."

"Never had whiskey?" Kishibe hums, bored, taking another drink. The double is going fast. The familiar warmth has already settled in his chest, an old comfort. 

"Never had alcohol."

Sucker punched with that information, Kishibe pauses and swallows the last of his glass before setting it down and signaling for a refill. He's far too practised to waste a drop of a drink he's paying for.

"Why are we here?" It's a shrewd question, a shrewd tone. "If you've never had alcohol, why were you so insistent on going out for drinks? Isn't that something you do with your friends?"

Your fingers tighten on the glass, a small pout forming on your lips. "Didn’t wanna do this with friends. Wanted my first drink to be with you, s-sir." Embarrassment coats your features as your words stumble off at the end, and you return to examining your still untouched drink.

Kishibe's refill arrives, another heaven sent double. He's getting the faint inkling that something else is happening here and he's far too tired to pick the answers out of you.

"Lemme get this straight," he drawls, leaning forward and jabbing a finger at you over the rim of his glass before bringing it to his lips. "You wanted your first drink out with a tired old man instead of your friends?"

"You're not tired!" 

Your tone is scandalized, pitch rising high enough that it catches the attention of some other men seated nearby. The last thing he needs.

Kishibe scoffs, scar twitching as he fights a sardonic smirk. "Beg to differ sweetheart."

"You're not, you…you're—" your volume is back to normal, seemingly struggling with your words, and it's amusing if not slightly endearing. 

"Lemme know when you think of something, I'll be here," Kishibe mumbles, drinking again, content to watch you squirm. "You gonna take that first drink? You got me here, like you wanted. Might as well."

That small smirk finally fights its way onto his lips as you give him the barest of glares. He usually doesn't see that look on you until you've gone an entire session without landing a single hit. It's cute. 

"You're you. Don't gotta 'splain myself to you," you grumble, timidly lifting the glass to your lips.

"No, you don't," Kishibe rumbles in agreement, watching as you take your first swallow. 

To your merit you don't splutter or cough, but a grimace splinters across your expression as you swallow and stare down at the glass in mild disbelief. 

"This sucks," you announce firmly.

Kishibe barks out a short laugh and finishes his second drink. "I'll order ya something else."

He's reaching for your glass when you snatch it away from him. 

"No, I'll finish it. This is what you usually get?"

"Yeah. But take it easy, that's a—" Kishibe stares, a little defeated as you down the glass. "Tha'sa sippin' whiskey."

"What's that mean?" You croak out, your face scrunching up despite your efforts.

"It means you're getting a glass of water before I get you anythin' else."

"Why?"

You'll thank me in the morning, Kishibe thinks grimly, not deigning to answer. Along with the next few rounds and the rounds after that, he also orders your water and some food, feeling abnormally generous. Maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with your grumbling tomorrow at training. 

He can’t stop thinking how strange this is. It’s strange. You’re here in his usual booth, humming an odd tune while drinking his usual whiskey, when he’s here each night, usually alone. Kishibe feels the deep disturbance all the way to his roots, gnarled and twisted as they are. 

Watching your face twist up at the taste again, Kishibe decides to slow down with some soju instead. Your eyes are getting blurry and your hands have settled into some kind of nervous habit, picking at the edge of the table as you try not to look at him. He doesn't understand your insistence here. Here at the bar, or anything else. 

"Why are you doin' this?" He asks again, quiet.

You glance at him, blinking slowly as your gaze struggles to focus. Then you force a smile, sweet and pure as a Devil's heart. It's damn near chilling to see. 

"'Cause I want to, sir."

"Bullshit." He's looked into you. Your family is alive, financially stable. You're not like most rookies joining up for the pay or the revenge. And from being around you he figures you aren't the type to do this for status. So it doesn't make sense. 

Your smile fades. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. You're not cut out for this shit, kiddo. An' I think ya know it, too."

"It's my first night out drinking, how can you tell?"

"Don't play coy with me."

You stand sharply, unsteady, a look crossing your face that Kishibe can't read. Before he can speak again, you're sliding into the booth on his side. 

"Then ask me directly, sir." You whisper, trying valiantly to meet his harsh stare, before eventually losing your nerve and fixing your gaze on the table. 

Like Kishibe has any problem being direct. Fine then. He sets his glass down and turns his body to face you. "Why're ya training so damn hard to become a Devil Hunter when it's just gonna get you killed?"

Cheeks warming, you don't look at him again. "Every Hunter has their reason, or else they wouldn't be here. We don't gotta share them unless we want to."

Your words are halting, and slurred. Kishibe pushes your drink out of reach. A fifth of whiskey and bottle of soju between you both for your first night out was an oversight on his part, even if he had more than you. 

"And you're not goin' to tell me?"

Head dropping into your palm, eyelashes fluttering, you peek up at him. "Not unless you can tell me why you care."

Kishibe pauses. He's got plenty of reasons, but he's not uncouth enough to say them to you. 'Cause he doesn't want to be wasting his time prepping meat for the chopping block. 'Cause booze is expensive and sleep is precious. He doesn't get enough as it is and he's sick at the idea of losing more. 'Cause every time one of his trainees dies, it feels like a new scar cracks its way across the already trampled fragments of his soul. 

There's plenty of reasons he drinks himself nearly dead every night. 

Your fuzzy eyes peer into his darkened ones and seemingly run into the wall that you know he's put up. "Then it's better you don't ask, sir. It’s important to me, that’s all you need’ta know."

So much for direct.

There's a silence at the table after Kishibe gruffly orders another drink, his mood for the night officially ruined. This is why he doesn't socialize with coworkers. Save people by day, check out at night. He lives for one fleeting peace; he'd rather be drowning in booze and laid up in the arms of whatever woman will put up with him.

And all he has right now is booze. He flags the barkeep. "Bottle for the road."

You shift to look at him. "Are we leaving already?"

"Yeah. You've had plenty."

There's no complaint, but there's no mistaking the look of disappointment on your face as he takes your arm and helps haul you to your wobbly feet.

"What's that look for?"

"I was having fun, sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"Why?"

"Cause we're at a fucking bar. Sir is for work."

"Then what am I supposed to call you?"

"Just Kishibe."

He finally looks at you again and you're smiling and this time there's nothing to be unsettled about. "No honorific? You'll let me call you by name?"

"It's sir at work," Kishibe reminds, deadpan.

“And master in front of other hunters, I know,” you parrot cheekily, and Kishibe merely curls his lips in a temporary smirk.

“Damn right.”

"But not at work?" You prod, leaning into his frame heavily as the cold night air washes away the warmth of the bar.

"Then yeah, drop the honorific."

"Kishibe." His name leaves your lips as a wonder-filled giggle. The corner of his lip tugs further upward unwittingly in dry amusement. At least someone can salvage the mood for the night. 

You poke at the bottle held loosely in his grip. "Can I have some of that?"

He passes it to you. "You don't even like the stuff."

An impressive amount of the amber liquid disappears down your throat before you groan in disgust and pass it back to him. "Sometimes we do stuff we don't like 'cause we get something out of it."

Kishibe hums at that. "And what do you get out of it?"

"'S a secret."

"A secret, huh? You seem to have a lot of those." He drawls, keeping you upright when you almost fall again. Yeah, he needs to find you a taxi or something. Neither of you are driving tonight. It's a little annoying, he meant to stop at the convenience store to get another pack of cigs before going home tonight. The crumpled empty pack is still in his pocket—he hasn't had one since this morning and Kishibe can feel the irritation in his nerves. 

"What's your address kid?" He nudges you as the taxi pulls up, but your weight against his hip suddenly feels dead. "Are you—of course you are."

Kishibe's whole chest fills with his next sigh, and he quietly works to get you into the cab. The driver asks him where they're going and he actually has to think about it for a moment. He'd much rather prefer going back to his cozy little hideout, but it's a mess and much too small. Not to mention he absolutely does not want you knowing where it is.

Closing his eyes, Kishibe reluctantly mumbles out an address, and sinks even deeper into his bottle before the cab drops them off at the requested location.

He eyes you over as the elevator quietly ascends, one arm around your waist with yours around his shoulder to bear your weight. It's really no wonder you passed out, the scent of whiskey is just about crawling out of your pores. Between the two of you, Kishibe bets the elevator smells like a distillery.

The doors open into his “apartment”. 

He doesn't like sleeping here. The place is too big, ceilings too high, furniture too fancy. All those high windows and modern grays and whites. It's perfectly clean and perfectly lifeless, set up for him by the PSDH. He's sure some bright-eyed big shot hunter in it for the money and high living would get a kick out of the place, but for a man like him the space is just obnoxious. But since his studio isn't an option, and Kishibe can't be bothered with taking you to a hotel, he figures you'd rather prefer one of his guest rooms instead. 

Kishibe flinches and grumbles under his breath as the now empty bottle slips from his hand and clatters to the hardwood. You make a rather undignified snort as you startle to awareness. If one could call it that.

“Wha—” Your fingers cling to the sleeve of his jacket as you blink through the blur of your eyesight, struggling to find your footing. “Where’re we now?”

“My place.”

“You live here?” 

“Technically.”

He hauls you towards the kitchen, somewhat a struggle with your uninhibited desire to swivel your head and scan the place as thoroughly as you were presently capable of doing.

“Not what I pictured.” You wobble and right yourself, slumping against the marble countertop. Kishibe pauses, making sure you’re gonna make a dive for his floor before he turns to pull open the fridge.

“Yeah well, me neither.”

“It’s so clean.” That earns you a grunt. “And modern.”

“You tryin’ to say something, sweetheart?” He sends you a look that sends a hot wave of embarrassment across your face.

“No! ‘M just sayin’...”

“Yeah, whatever. Here.”

You take the water bottle he pushes into your hands and open it, halfheartedly taking a few sips to ease the simmer in your cheeks.

Kishibe snorts when you put it down. “Nuh uh, finish that.”

You take another sip, trying to placate him. “‘M not thirsty though.” 

Your eyes widen as he grumbles and steps closer, dark eyes narrowed. It’s impossible to muffle the noise of complaint on your lips as he tips the water bottle back, keeping your chin up with an uncompromising strength. "Tough. I said all of it."

The rough pads of his thumbs feel like fire on your jaw and he seems to have no idea how his proximity is setting you ablaze. You quickly swallow before you choke, or worse spill down your chin like a child. He doesn’t let go until you’ve finished the bottle—it’s impossible not to gasp for air as if you’ve breached the surface of a pool for the first time in minutes.

“Pretty good lungs.”

“I almost died—!” You wheeze, unappreciative of the joke, wiping your face with your arm.

“You were gonna be dead in the morning if you didn’t. Might as well get it over with.” Kishibe sets the empty bottle on the counter, unflappable.

“Hmph.”

You watch curiously as he grabs himself some water, noticing with a scowl that he doesn’t drink nearly as much as he forced on you. He reaches for a small bottle, rattling as he shakes a couple into his palm. “You’re not supposed to take those with alcohol.”

Kishibe gives you a dry look and pops the painkillers into his mouth. He can feel his head pounding already, his routine thoroughly interrupted. He can’t mentally check out with you still here, especially in this state. You look a little more solid now compared to your unconscious slump, but you’re still visibly swaying, blurred eyes drifting in and out of focus. Last thing he needs is for you to do something to yourself when he’s around. The paperwork for that would be the death of him.

He shrugs and nods for you to follow. “C’mon, sweetheart.”

You suddenly look nervous. “C’mon where?”

“Night’s over. Time for bed.”

You produce a shaky laugh. “What?”

Sweet fuck.

“You want a bed or the couch?” Kishibe takes applaudable effort to keep the exhaustion out of his tone. Honestly, you'd probably be better off with the couch, grateful for your mumbled little ‘doesn’t matter to me’. He's not sure of the state of any of the rooms, considering he's trashed them before. Whoever set the place up for him might have a cleaning service but he's never bothered to ask about it since he’s never here. “There’s blankets around here somewhere.”

Stepping into the living room he sees he’s right, a couple of soft looking throws draped over the back of a plush black sectional. You’re trailing close behind him, like you’ll get lost if you lose sight of him. 

“Sit.” Kishibe says tiredly as you circle around the edge of the sectional, looking around curiously.

You listen and he grabs the other blanket off the far arm of the couch, tossing it and one of the pillows towards where you’re sitting. The pillow lands at your side, the blanket haphazardly in your lap, are you’re just staring at him as he settles on the other side, shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting that fall to the floor.

“Get comfortable, go to sleep,” Kishibe grunts, closing his eyes.

“You’re staying in here?”

He doesn’t read into the tone of your voice, keeping his eyes shut. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t choke on your own puke in your sleep.”

“‘M not gonna puke,” you grumble under your breath.

Kishibe wills in a sigh, listening to the rustle of blankets and what he assumes is you settling down. Only to tense as the cushion near him dips under weight. He opens his eyes to see you sitting you next to him and his eyes sharpen.

You cut him off, seeming to sense whatever biting remark is coming. “I’m not tired. Not good at sleeping in new spaces.”

“Well you need’ta try.”

“Can we just talk for a bit?”

He sighs, but he doesn’t refute you, opening his eyes to give you a quiet stare. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

Relying heavily on the lingering alcohol in your veins to gather the nerve, you scooch closer to his position on the couch, dragging the blanket with you. “You’ve really never had anyone over here? But Himeno says you never spend your nights alone.”

Kishibe eyes you warily as you enter what he considers his field of personal space, your knees barely brushing against his thighs. “I don’t normally spend my nights here. And you can tell Himeno she’s got better things t’do than gossip about my personal life.”

“So you spend the night at their place then?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you really the womanizer everyone says you are?”

Kishibe glances up to see you even closer and shifts a little to give you a measured look, eyelids drooping in suspicion. “You really want the truth of that?”

“Yeah, ‘m hoping to hear something,” you murmur, heart racing as you place a hand on his abdomen. It stiffens under your touch, but he makes no move to stop you, so you toy with the button of his shirt. 

“And what’s that exactly?” Shock receding, his mind catches up and he grabs your hand, keeping it from tracing its upward path.

“There’s something I’m hoping you can help me with, sir.”

“Kishibe.”

“Kishibe,” you correct, cheeks warming as you finally raise your eyes from his chest to look into his own. He’s watching you so closely that you almost look away again, almost chickening out. 

His eyes are locked onto the way you’re chewing at your lip, waiting for you to say something more, hoping for anything that makes sense. When you don’t his patience thins enough to ask, “Well?”

“I-um,” you hesitate before your fingers curl into his shirt, mentally fortifying yourself, “I’ve never… I’m looking for someone experienced to- to help me. I want it to be you.”

There's a small pause as his whiskey-addled mind filters out the meaning of your words. Then, a small disbelieving smirk is half-formed on his lips when he scoffs out a laugh. “Ha, no, sweetheart. No, I don’t think so.”

He’s shifting to stand up off the couch when you panic. You’ve gotten this far! He has to hear you out, or you’ll never be able to look him in the eye again, let alone train under him. So before he can, you throw your thigh over his lap, straddling him. His hands flash to your arms in an iron grip, keeping your hands from wandering any further. He’s staring at you in muted disbelief, tense, as if he can’t quite believe you’re defying him. 

“Please wait,” your voice raises in pitch, but you’re almost whispering. “I can explain, please just listen.”

“What? Cute little student girl got the hots for teacher? Or are you desperately in love with me now, and can’t bear the thought of anyone else sullying your innocence?” he drawls out, the insanity of this situation finally allowing him to release the floodgates on all the ill manner he’s been attempting to keep back all night. 

Your face might as well be a space heater as you splutter in mortification at being seen through so easily, trying to find the words to refute him. “N-no! No, I wasn’t. That’s… That’s not…”

“You better clear this up real quick then, sweets, cause you don’t have long before I take it into my own hands,” Kishibe warns lowly, soft and dangerous, seconds from calling a cab to get you miles away from his apartment, and more importantly him. 

The hard-eyed stare he’s giving you now is nothing like the way he looks at you in training. Your heart sinks into your stomach at the thought that entertaining your feelings is enough to make him react this way, turning him into this colder version of himself that you barely recognize. This is not going the way you intended, but you can’t imagine that you’ll ever be in a situation like this ever again, so you take a deep breath and clear your expression of all deceit. “It’s not like that, but I really can’t think of anyone else to help me with this. It’s not for lack of trying.”

Kishibe eyes you, his grip on your arms not slacking. You glance down at him warily, and he’s like a bristling cat that’s making an attempt at trust. 

“So…? Will you help me?”

He mumbles eventually, still tense, “Why not Hayakawa? Or one of the other rookies, they’re probably better suited.”

You make a face. “The rookies are stupid, and Hayakawa-san is just too… stern.”

“I’m not stern?”

“That’s not the point!” You retort hotly. “Hayakawa just seems more like someone who isn’t interested in casual flings—”

“And that’s what you’re looking for here?” Kishibe cuts in drily, noting the way your mouth snaps shut. You shift awkwardly in his lap and he stoutly blames his nightly routine for the way his body is sluggishly perking to life. He might have the heart of a saint, but his mind is more like a devil’s… and he has eyes.

Oblivious to his internalizations, you grimace. You don't want casual anything so it's technically a point in Hayakawa's favor. But there's one big point in the younger man's (begrudgingly small) list of cons that can't be overlooked: he's not Kishibe.

“I’m looking for someone who knows what they’re doing,” you inform him, your voice softening. There’s a sort of vulnerability to you now that has the older man caving despite himself and listening more intently, watching you whiplash between assertive and shy for the nth time. “Someone I trust, who won’t take advantage of me. And… I don’t believe the whole sacred virginity schtick, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want my first time to be… I don’t know, special?”

Kishibe’s mouth runs dry, and this time he blames the alcohol. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Don’t say that,” you plead softly, leaning closer without thinking in your excitement. That wasn’t a refusal. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

He can feel your breath on his cheeks, his eyes bouncing between your lips and eyes for a moment before humming low. “No one else? A girl like you, having to settle for an old man like me?”

"No one has to know. Please, sir?" You plead quietly, with crystal notes of sincerity. It's a painfully sweet sound.

Kishibe reluctantly lets your arms slip from his hands and drops his own to loosely grip your waist, absently drawing a pattern on your hip with one finger. The heat of your body is filtering so thick through your clothes that he doesn't know how he didn't notice it until now. You shiver at his touch, and he tries to keep his expression neutral when you instinctively grab at his shoulders.

He shouldn't be considering this for even a second, but he is and he hates himself for it. You're a young pretty thing, and he's made a point to stop looking at young pretty things the way your touch is sparking him to, for going on years now. 

Carefully, one hand moves to rest on your stomach, caressing its way up over your covered chest, eliciting a soft gasp from you before it moves on and settles under your chin, firmly tugging it down to make sure you're looking at him. He's never cared for the way you can't look him in the eye, and he normally lets it go but he won't tolerate it tonight. If he goes through with this, that is.

Your eyes are wide, and glazed in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol for the first time tonight. Kishibe makes a low sound in his throat at the sight of it before speaking, a heavy, rumbling tone meant to ensure you're taking in every word. 

"You want me to do this for you?"

"Yes." Your breath catches as you damn near breathe the word out, your heart in your throat and a flutter in your stomach that makes you feel like you might fly away.

"Then tell me exactly what it is that you want." Fuck, he’s really doing this.

"I…" The hesitation must be clear on your face because his expression gets heated, a tiny smirk forming at the corner of his lips. You wouldn't have seen it at all if you weren't staring at them so hard. A quiet moan spills from your lips as he presses them to your jaw, not quite kissing, but dragging them up, warm breath tickling your ear. The center of your world quakes as he continues with that low, soul-quaking tone.

"Do you want me to treat you like a princess? Worship your body and make it all about you, take you to another world as I take you apart?" Kishibe marvels at the broken whimper you make as he grazes his teeth across your earlobe. "Or do you want me to be a little selfish? Show you pleasure as I know it, and change everything you think you know about carnal desire?" 

"Sir—"

"No," he warns severely, gripping your thigh in warning, pulling back to look you in the eye. 

"Kishibe," you correct yourself with a breathy whine that you hope doesn’t sound ridiculous. "Kishibe, I want you to choose."

"You want me to choose?"

"Th-that's why I chose you. You always- always know what's best."

That's so far from true, but in this realm of possibility, with you blinking those sweet little doe eyes down at him, Kishibe won't be the one to correct you. "...Alright."

"Then please take care of me." Please.

This time it's him who shudders. "Alright," he murmurs again, "Alright, sweetheart. I've got you."

He’s a little gentler this time as he tugs your chin down to him, meeting your lips in a delicate kiss that has all his nerves standing to attention in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. With other women, he has no reason to be slow or gentle. With other women, both parties know what they’re there for, but this isn’t like that. You aren’t like that. You’re young, and if you’re to be believed, untouched. Pure. And you’ve put yourself in his care, begging for him to remove that purity. He’s not sure he ever would have agreed to this if he were sober, so you lucked out. Or maybe this is what you wanted all along.

Kishibe groans softly as you timidly move to respond to his kiss, alcohol sweet on your breath. You at least seem to know what to do here, parting your lips and staying pliant as he learns how you taste, moving your tongue against his as he explores your mouth. He breaks for a moment, giving you a warning and enough time to stop him, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “I’m taking this off now.”

He waits, and when you do nothing but moan, he begins to pop the buttons of your shirt open, one by one from the bottom up, exposing your navel, and then the black cotton bra beneath. You kiss him deeper as he slides a hand up your spine, rocking your hips into his lap as he pulls at the clasp, undoing it in a practised move. The fabric falls loose, and he presses a hand to your sternum, forcing you to retreat.

Your lips are slick, a little swollen, but it’s the hazy look in your eyes that has all his attention. “You good, sweets? You even gonna remember this in the morning?”

“I will. I will, 'm promise. Please keep going,” you slur, not really giving him the best vote of confidence. 

“Take that off for me.” Kishibe tugs loosely at your bra, the cups hanging just low enough for him to get a peek at your areolas. His cock is straining in his slacks now, but he’s too invested for it to be uncomfortable yet. He meant it when he said he was going to take you apart, and he’s going to do it slowly.

You blink at him, and timidly slide the straps off your shoulders. Your movements are slow, but there’s less hesitance than he’s seen so far. It’s clear you’re more worried about his disapproval than any insecurities you might have. Good. 

“Good girl. Look at you,” Kishibe is quick to dole out the praise as soon as your tits are exposed, half for your confidence and half because they really are pretty tits. He’s reaching for them before even he can process what he’s doing. Your nipples are already hard, pulled taut and looking painfully neglected, either from your own arousal or the air. It could be cold in here for all Kishibe knows, but the air around him feels thick, heated and charged. He’d be suffocating if he weren’t so focused.

You take a shuddering breath as he holds them. His touch is so light, the pads of his fingers calloused and warm, stroking over the sensitive flesh. You want more, arching into his touch as much as you dare, still unable to shake the thought that he might change his mind and end this, but for now he doesn’t disappoint. Dazed, you realized the sharp gasp that bites the air is yours as he strokes the pads of his fingers over your nipples before tugging lightly, pleasure rippling hot under your skin.

Your head tosses back in a moan as he does it again, this time his lips brushing the curve of your breast as he pulls you forward, pressing your chest closer to his face. He sucks at the fat of your breasts, still gently tweaking your at your hardened nubs, working his way over, seemingly content to explore.

Pleasure moves hot and slow under your skin, but your mind keeps rocketing from one sensation to another, making it impossible to think beyond the man beneath you. His slick tongue moving against your skin, the heat and wet of it stroking over the edge of your areola, the rough pad of his thumb, the scrape of his blunt nail over the sensitive tip of your nipples, the same callouses gripping at your back, fingertips tickling the edge of your shoulder blade. 

“Quit it,” Kishibe grunts after a minute, and you realize you’ve twisted your hands into his hair, tugging him closer and trying to drag him to where it feels like he’s purposefully avoiding. 

“Please, Kishibe, please,” you moan, blissfully unaware of the minor tantrum you’re throwing at you grind down on his clothed erection. “Your mouth.”

“What about it?” He blinks at you lazily, taking the moment where you sit back to tug at the top few buttons of his own shirt, exposing the top of his chest and a peek of the dark hair that’s hidden beneath.

“Let… Let me feel it,” you breathe out after you’ve snapped your eyes away from that new detail.

The slow grin that spreads across his features feels like the first key in the series of locks that surrounds the man in front of you, a piece of him that he doesn’t share willingly. Something that has to be brought out, dragged out, a prisoner in a cage of its own making. 

“Be more specific, sweets.”

But he’s still the same man, he just exists in varying shades. You squirm for a moment, subject to self-consciousness, but the ache in your nipples, growing tighter in the continued neglect, wins out. You cup your own tits, pushing them out as you lean back down to him. “Want it here. Need to feel you suck on them.”

An appreciative gleam brightens dark eyes. “There’s a good girl.”

This time Kishibe leans in with intent, and you learn something else—your mentor is a goddamn tease. 

His tongue drags over your nipples before sucking, and your hands are tangled in his hair again before you can process it, a cry in a pitch you don’t even recognize torn from your mouth. The slick muscle flicks over the tip as his free hand comes up to roll the other between his fingers lightly. You’re shamelessly rutting into his lap now, senselessly chasing the pleasure boiling low in your stomach, and you can feel him moan against your skin at the friction.

You feel the scrape of his teeth, light and intentional, before he pops off and switches to the other. The treatment begins anew and you swear you might be able to come from this, the wet suction of his mouth, the tacky warmth as he tugs and twists at the nipple still covered in his spit. But Kishibe doesn’t let you, noting the frantic ruts of your body and beginning to slow his efforts, easing you back down.

“Wait—” Your complaint rears itself as your fingers twist into the shorter hair of his nape, trying to tug him closer the moment he pulls away.

“Easy, I’m not done with you,” he rasps, taking your wrists and gently detanging your fingers from his hair. 

You yelp as he grips your thighs and flips your back to the cushions, a strength you already knew he had from all the times he’s stomped you in training, but it surprises you regardless. There’s no time to pick through your thoughts at the display, because Kishibe is bullying between your thighs and capturing your lips in a kiss that puts the last one to shame. It’s possessive, it’s plundering; erasing any other thought from your mind except the way he feels against you. How immovable he feels, his hips keeping your thighs spread, his obvious arousal against your core, his weight against your torso—whatever isn’t supported by his forearm against the cushions, just what he chooses to give you—the scratch of his stubble against your face, the ones he lets overgrow because they shadow his jawline again in less than a day. 

You moan into his mouth as a hand slips between your bodies, pulling the button of your slacks and pushing a hand into your panties, the sound turning into a high keen as he drags his fingers through your slit. You know you’re wet, soaked even, but it’s still a shock to feel your own wetness as he pulls back out, slick against your mound before he’s free of your clothing, to see it shining on his fingers when he pulls back to give you a breath. You knew you wanted him, but to see how much would be mortifying if he knew the truth.

The glisten on his fingers goes unnoticed for a second as he catches sight of your wrecked expression, sitting back on his haunches.

“Oh sweets, look at you,” Kishibe chuckles, voice tight. “You’re a pretty sight right now, and you don’t even know. A sweet little mess. My sweet little mess, for tonight.”

Making a decision, he swipes his hands on the thighs of his pants and undoes his shirt, tossing it over the back of the couch, aware of the way you stare from beneath him. He's getting there in years, but the aches of this job refuse to let his body go soft. There's a thin layer of soft skin stretched across the muscles beneath, making the definition less pronounced, less assuming, but there's no denying the power behind them as he flexes subtly, smirking when your eyes track the movement. 

"Hips up," he orders firmly, his fingers already tugging at the waistband of your slacks.

Not needing to be told twice, you shift and raise your hips as he pulls them from your legs, panties and all. You're completely bare under him, and he's still wearing his pants, the button popped, looking like a god above you. His eyes are piercing, his expression set like marble. As he puts hot palms on your thighs, spreading them even further apart, you think about how attractive he looks when he smokes, almost wishing he had a cig hanging from his lips so you could see it. 

Kishibe is staring intently at your pussy, the hunger in him growing deeper as he watches the muscles twitch. "So no one's ever touched this, huh?" 

You shake your head, whimpering as he pulls your sticky lips apart. 

"You lying, sweetheart? Not even you?" 

Kishibe pulls back the hood of your poor swollen clit, stroking it lightly with the tip of his finger, dark eyes watching your face intently. 

The touch rips a gasp from your throat like ice had been poured down your back, tossing your pretty little head back into the pillows as your fingers twist at what little slack the cushions beneath you have. Kishibe feels the flames of hell crawl a little closer to his own flesh as his arousal flares dangerously at the sight. 

When you remain silent he prompts a little cruelly for an answer, slowly circling the throbbing bud. "Hmm?" 

"I've-yeah I've touched it. Sometimes." 

"Tell me." 

"Tell you?" You suck in a harsh breath as one of his digits teases your entrance, but pulls away. 

"Yeah, tell me how you touch your pussy at night. I wanna know how you play with yourself." His voice drones with detached amusement but his dark eyes are sharp, the sight making your skin prickle with elation to be the center of his attention.

“Usually slow,” you breathe out, moaning when he moves to your clit again. Two fingers press on the bundle of nerves and begin to rub back and forth in a steady tempo. 

“Like this?” Kishibe murmurs, watching you closely.

“Slower,” your voice breaks an octave higher as he increases the pressure just a little, readjusting to what you now realize are instructions for him. “Y-yes, mm, like that…”

“Good. How about your fingers, hmm? You do that slow too?” 

You can feel yourself dripping down to the couch as his voice drips across you like honey. “Yeah, at first.”

“One to start?” 

“Fuck!” A keen tears from your throat as he slides the first digit in, abandoning your clit, the thick, calloused digit pressing in to the hilt with zero resistance.

“Or do you start with two?” Kishibe watches raptly as his middle joins his pointer in the rippling warmth of your cunt, the broken sob leaving your lips sending a irresistible wave of want tearing through his body. The way your hips grind into his touch, chasing more of him is enough to let him know that you can take more, but he lets you stay here for a moment, using his free hand to stroke over his confined cock as you writhe beneath him. 

It’s not hard to find the right angle to stroke your slick walls, curling his fingers up into the spot that has you tossing your head back with what almost sounds like a mournful wail, as if you’re just realizing that you’ve never really given yourself real pleasure before. Kishibe isn’t sure if you have to be honest, you haven’t said, but he isn’t concerning himself with that. He’s too focused on the way you shy away from his touch when he presses his thumb to your clit again, as if you can’t take the combination.

“Oh?” It’s almost a coo, delight pulsing in his veins. “Not like that huh? That not how you do it?”

“I can’t, I can’t—it doesn’t, n-never like this!” It almost sounds like you’re pleading with him, your eyes wide as you stare at him, a thick haze of shock and bliss covering your irises that Kishibe is losing himself in, pumping his wrist, tempted to add a third finger just to see what sounds you’ll make.

“Told you I’d change everything you think you know about pleasure, sweetheart.” He pulls his digits from your pussy, relishing in the whine of protest. And if he’s being honest with himself, there’s a bit of a power complex rushing through him, to be able to control your pleasure whether you think you can handle it or not is too alluring. It’s the thought of making you scream, nothing barred, as he forces ecstasty on you that you don’t even know exists on that has him pushing off the couch which a groan to finally free his cock, shucking his pants off, the liquor leaving him a little unsteady. 

“Sit up for me.” 

You do as he says, confusion scrunching you expression as he settles between your legs, his knees protesting only a little as he shifts so that the plush carpet isn’t dragging uncomfortably against his skin. A little yelp stays in your throat as he tugs you to the edge, spreading your thighs wider and positioning your hips up to expose your pretty pussy. He’s only a breath away, the scent of you thick, kissing distance really, when you slur out some nonsense that sounds questioning, but he can’t say he actually catches any sense of syllables from you.

“I’m thicker than most so you need this,” Kishibe grumbles, nipping at your inner thigh as you squirm and glaring you into submission, “But even a man with a pencil dick better be doin’ this for ya, so don’t accept less.”

Before you can come to terms with him on your knees before you, your mind fizzles out as his tongue swipes through your folds, and his groan vibrates deep into your core. If not for his hands keeping your thighs spread, you would have wrapped them around his head. His nose nudges at your clit as his tongue presses into your clenching pussy, and you can’t stop the garbled sound of pleasure as he laps at your walls, your head tossing back against the couch cushions as he eats you like a meal. It’s surreal, it doesn’t make a lick of sense but oh god you don’t care. The sounds of him slurping at your cunt makes your cheeks burn and you force yourself past your self consciousness to look down at him, the skin of your knuckles stretched tight as you curl them into shaking fists, trying to wrap your mind around the sensations. 

Kishibe flattens his tongue over your clit, and meets your gaze with a wicked gleam in his eyes as he slips a finger into you, savoring the way you clamp down right away, giving a reedy mewl. He can’t help himself any longer, one hand closing around his dick and beginning to slowly stroke himself, trying to go slow, to ease some of the pressure and calm himself down. He adds another digit, and sits back as he begins to work you towards your finish. 

“Should’ve done this in a bed,” he mutters under his breath, the scent of your pleasure thick, feeling mildly guilty as you tremble through your long awaited awaited high. Even his first encounter had been in a bed, traditional.

Kishibe hisses into your thigh as your fingers twist so tight into his hair that he’d snap at you if he were anywhere but here. Here with his fingers sweeping over your clit, watching the way your muscles ripple and tense, an obscene amount of slick and cum dripping onto his couch, and damn it why are you so easy to spoil? Why is he letting you practically rip the hair from his head as your hips jolt and jump, pleasure taking every ounce of your control away from you. There’s a wet sound as he finally pulls his fingers from your cunt, and you slump against the cushions, a looking so beautifully fucked out that it’s a damn shame you haven’t actually been fucked yet.

But that’s what you came here for, and Kishibe will not be the one to disappoint. He pushes to his feet for a moment and drags your hips until you’re both on the couch comfortably, and lets himself sink between your legs, his dick hot and throbbing against your inner thigh. It’s weeping precome and there’s a shivering sense of relief to know that his patience is finally about to be rewarded. 

“You still with me, sweets?” Kishibe murmurs softly, leaning over you, letting his lips drag up your throat in a possessive trail of teeth marks and bruises. “You ready for me?”

The prickle of his overgrown stubble brings you back down a little, and you moan as his tongue swipes over the indentations left in your flesh. “That was—” you gasp at a sharp dig of his teeth under your jaw, hips arching towards him as you feel the weight of his dick between your slick folds, thoughts flying from your mind as the thick tip of him slides over your oversensitive clit. “Oh fuck, Kishibe please. I need y- I need it, oh god.” Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he really is going to ruin you. You can’t imagine anyone else ever making you feel this good, so overwhelmed but so hungry for it.

“Good fucking girl,” he whispers, and your body lights up as he shifts back a little, the head of his cock pressing against you and easing inside your desperate walls. He grins as your arms wrap around his shoulders, lips searching for his as your hips try to squirm deeper onto his cock. He meets you in a deep kiss, but he grips your hips firmly, sliding deeper into your clenching pussy at his own content pace, groaning into your mouth at how hot and wet you are. So tight, so so tight, that he can’t stop the juvenile thought about being sure you were a virgin from flitting through his mind, but he lets it go, not about to sully this experience for you with his own pussy drunk stupidity, closing his eyes and falling deeper into the kiss, forcing you to slow it and calm down for him, echoing your whimpers with tiny groans of encouragement.

His thrusts are as steady and measured as they can be with the way your walls suck him in, pussy lips stretched wide around the thicker middle of his shaft. Every time he pulls out he can feel the way your body is trying not to let him go, and every sink home is accompanied by a shaky little exhale from you that sets a fire so deep in his gut that Kishibe is sure the whiskey is the only reason he hasn’t fallen to pieces yet. You’re so pretty and needy sprawled about beneath him, so sunk to pleasure that you’ve resigned to just taking what he gives you and it’s addictive. His cock throbs as he listens to your mumbled little slurs about how good it feels, and he has to pause, breathing deep and hard as he wills down a sudden and fierce urge fill you with cum.

Kishibe chuckles as he sits up and you let out a whine of disapproval, but a slow roll of his hips changes your tune immediately. You’re sucking him in greedily, your clit swollen and damn near begging for attention. He brushes it gently with the back of his knuckles, hissing as you squeeze him in response, getting impossibly wetter around his length. “Doing so good for me, how are you feeling?”

“More, want more.” It’s barely intelligible with how breathless you are, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes down your temples. Your face is so sweet, so open, trusting and needy and suddenly Kishibe can’t find it in himself to draw it out on you any longer, is done handing out pleasure piece by piece, as if he were passing out candy to savor. He wants to pour pleasure over you, wants you to drown in it, to fall so deeply into it that there’s nowhere to surface to, lost in an endless sea.

One strong arm slides under your hips and pulls you up into a better position, fingers digging into your hip as Kishibe begins to fuck you in quick, steady strokes. His forehead is pressed to your chest, cheek in plush of your breast as he controls his groans, a dark satisfaction choking out the last tendrils of guilt as your fingers desperately weave their way back into his hair once more, cradling his head tightly to your chest. There’s no more irritation; the sharp sting feels like a fucking prize, knowing that the price is an overwhelming pleasure that he can feel through you. You feel so good around him, responding so well to his movements, angling your own hips and moving back into his thrusts, that he can’t stop a continuous stream of curses and praises from melting into your skin.

“You’re doing so fucking good for me sweetheart, so good. Squeezing me so tight, wrapped around me so perfect. You feel good? Everything you fucking wanted, hm?” He bites at the flesh of your chest as you tighten around his dick, goosebumps rising visibly across your skin.

You feel like a live current, so electric and buzzing with energy and it feels like there’s nowhere for it to go, zipping up and down your body only to return, shivering and sparking deep in your belly. You try to articulate that this is way more than you ever thought you could ask for, but all that comes out are bitten hiccups of his name and yes and please please please.

Kishibe is more than happy to oblige, grunting and groaning in his throat, way past the point of feeling guilty that you’re losing your virginity on a goddamn couch, too caught up in your drunken slurs, more from pleasure than whiskey.

He grins as your fingers clench around his bicep, scrabbling as you gasp out, "Ohh, nngh—Sir wait, wait! Please I'm gonna—" 

"Go ahead, sweetheart." Kishihe groans, feeling the rippling constrictions of your sweet pussy drag him closer to the edge.

"No, I'm—I'm gonna pee! Please." 

Kishibe’s s head picks up off your chest immediately, and his thrusts stuffer. "Yeah?" You watch panting as his eyes sharpen, hips coming to a full blessed stop. You feel a bare moment of relief before its ripped away and he's moving again, fucking you a little faster than before. "Then go ahead." 

You give a wordless cry, shame and pleasure clamoring in the shrill note, your head shaking back and forth in denial. You can't hold it, not if he does that. 

"No?" Kishibe feels like the Devil himself as he shifts his angle into a grind, still fast and controlled, watching your features twist as you keep fighting to hold it back. "Am I not making you feel good?" 

"Sir!" Your whine draws the title out, panicked, but your knees dig tightly into his hips, your body at least betraying you. Kishibe works a hand under one of your thighs and presses it towards your chest. One of his palms drags down over your tits, stroking down your stomach to put a gentle pressure over your pelvis. Your eyes fly wide and a moan is forced from your lips as the awful urgency thickens, bliss flooding close to the surface. 

"If I press here you won't be able to stop it." 

Kishibe's stare catches your glazed eyes, dark and hungry. His orgasm is approaching steadily now, pleasure whispering selfish instruction in his ear, and he's unable to help but listen. "You'll come so hard it won't matter anymore. What's a little mess for some pleasure, hm sweetheart? If you want it just tell me." 

Your breath catches. His dick keeps hitting that spot in you that makes it impossible to think rationally. He's making you feel so good, goading you in that voice of his that you've worshipped fervently night after night in your apartment, a pillow as your altar. 

The voice in your head is screaming no. It's pee. He'll think you're disgusting and you look up to him so much. You don't want him to associate you with something like this, to so thoroughly debase yourself. But he's making you feel amazing, his cock bullying all your softest parts with undefinable experience. You've heard the gossip about how your mentor likes to spend his nights, but how are you supposed to complain when he's making you feel like this? And he's the one saying you can p— 

"Get outta yer fucking head and come for me, girl." Kishibe growls through his teeth, palm pressing down firmly, calloused thumb spreading over your neglected clit. 

You shatter and cry out, clutching at him tightly, no room for apologies as you tear red lines down his back. Warmth gushes against his pelvis, but the hot shame holds no candle to the blistering pleasure crackling across all your nerves. Listening to Kishibe groan and curse, the feel of him breaking down into something more genuine as his hips snap roughly into yours in chase of the bliss you’re already neck deep in, you’ve never felt more satisfied. He finishes inside you with a deep grunt and your insides flutter again at the milky warmth, your leg curling tight around his ass because you want all of it, you don’t want it to end yet.

But finally, his cock twitches one last time inside you and begins to soften, and Kishibe collapses on top of you with a little puff. You’re damn near ready to purr in happiness at the full weight of him across your body. His cheek rests between your breasts, but you’re unbothered by the scratch of his stubble as his breathing gets deeper, steadier.

Both of you are covered in sweat, cum, and other unspeakables but you’ve never been so comfortable. His softened cock slips out of you, and one of his arms slips under your waist and you feel your heart thud unevenly as he moves to his side and pulls you closer. His head is still buried in your chest, your one leg tangled between his thighs and your other draped over his hip. His eyes are closed, breathing deep and you find it in yourself to cautiously run your fingers through his hair. Kishibe gives a soft, sleepy rumble of contentment and you glow.

The feel of his hair between your fingers is the last thing you remember before the most luxurious drag of sleep tempts you into its clutch of darkness.

You wake somewhere you don’t recognize, your head thick and pounding awfully. You blink slowly in the low lighting and try to sit up, but your head spins and the pain increases so you let yourself fall back with a low whimper.

You turn on your side, fingers curling into the soft covers over you. Last night had been amazing, but you’re certain you had passed out on on the couch, and as you peer around the curtain-darkened room, it’s easy to tell it’s not the same. You don’t remember being moved; you’d like to say you would have woken up if someone had, but even you can smell the alcohol seeping from your pores. 

Heart pounding unevenly, you try to calm yourself. You’d been dressed in a soft pair of boxer briefs and a tshirt far too large for you, and while you still feel a little bit sticky, you honestly had expected far worse—someone had tried to clean you up. Your heart starts to race now, fluttering and far too fast at the idea of Kishibe taking care of you. Those are a lot of extra steps to take for someone who preached respectable distance. 

“There’s painkillers on the nightstand.”

You finally manage to sit up at the promise of pain relief, seeing the foil tablets and a glass of water, and glance at Kishibe in the doorway, looking about as disheveled as you expect you do. He’s in a loose tshirt and a soft, worn looking pair of sleep pants, blinking sleep and liquor from his eyes as he peers in at you. 

“I’m gonna shower, you should too. There’s towels in the bathroom there.” He nods his head deeper into your room and you see another doorway, probably leading to the bathroom. “And you’re out of luck on breakfast. All the place has is coffee and water.”

Your stomach gives a displeased turn at that, desperate for something to offset last night’s alcohol. Before you can say anything, not even so much as a thank you, Kishibe turns and shuffles down the hall. 

Slowly, you ease out of the bed and gratefully swallow down half the water before even glancing at the pills, but your screaming head does make sure you toss them back as well, before you peek down the hallway your mentor had disappeared down. You hear the sound of running water and follow it, wandering through the doorway to the room he obviously slept in last night, the bed an unkempt mess of blankets. The door to the bathroom is closed, and there’s already steam filtering through the gaps.

Letting an uncharacteristic determination carry you forward, you open the door and begin stripping off your clothes.

“Get out, sweetheart.” Kishibe’s voice sounds tired and distant, filling you with nerves that you refuse to let show on your face as you ignore him slip into the shower.

He’s working soap through his hair, leveling you with a deeply unimpressed look that would have sent you skittering before last night, before he called you his sweet little mess, before he called you good fucking girl. You take a deep breath and speak your mind.

"I want that again." 

His response is flat, immediate. "Not gonna happen." 

"Why not? Was it not good?" You look embarrassed and distraught at the thought and Kishibe heaves a sigh. 

"How good it was has nothin’ to do with why we can't do this again." 

“So you regret it?”

Kishibe isn’t sure where he stands on that yet. “Didn’t say that.”

"But then..." 

"But what? I told you this was a bad idea didn't I? You should've chosen someone else. Anyone other than me." 

You get a little salty at that. "I might be younger than you," Kishibe gives a sardonic huff "—but I'm still old enough to make decisions for myself." 

"Old enough to make your own decisions, huh." 

You shift under the water as he gives you a tired stare, his gaze sharpening into something more contemplative, glinting dangerously. 

"So you're saying you want that again?" Kishibe questions calmly. 

"Yes," you whisper, uncaring if it makes you sound desperate. 

"If we do I've got some stipulations," he warns, voice low.

"Like what," your breath hitches as he leans closer, the water getting hotter against your back as he reaches past you to adjust the temperature. 

"Well for starters," he grumbles, "I don't have any interest in going to your place. It's here or nothing." 

"Fine." Your response is immediate, relief coloring your tone that you're not being immediately shut out. 

"And this arrangement will be temporary, no matter how long it goes on," Kishibe continues slowly, his fingers coming up to pinch your lips together, cutting off whatever you were opening your mouth to say. "I'm not the kind of man that would treat ya like you're nothin'. I'm gonna tell you you're sexy when I've got you under me and I'm gonna clean up whatever mess I make of you, so I need to know you're not going to confuse common decency and respect with love, got it?" 

You nod slowly, struggling to wrap your mind around the weight of his words. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, you just want more of whatever you can get. It's just a crush, maybe you'll figure out how to squash your feelings somewhere down the line. So you get a little hurt along the way, so what? You're not entirely sure how any of that is a problem and why he looks so serious.

"Anything else?" He hasn't spoken for a minute, but you can still see deep thought etched into his expression.

Kishibe glances at you, soap dripping from his hair down his neck. "Yeah, one more thing."

It's the most damning thing. Makima herself would be proud of him for this. This kind of thing is more her style, but he's already made it this far. 

"Ya have to join the civilian sector."

He senses more than feels you stiffen behind him, closing his eyes and beginning to rinse his hair out as he waits for you to speak first. He's not blind, not anymore—after last night he'd really have to be to not understand the way you've been looking at him, probably since the beginning. Kishibe doesn't know how he didn't see it sooner, probably willful ignorance. But his eyes have been opened and he can't unsee it; you're a brat; you wear your heart on your sleeve, and for whatever reason…its flag is flying his colors. So he's going to use that, and you can thank him when you survive the year.

"Join the civilian sector?" Your voice trembles.

Kishibe glances down to see you chewing your lower lip. "Or quit. Find a cozy desk job somewhere. Either works."

"Why?" Your demand is fierce but it's weak; you look like a scruffy little kitten that needs shelter but too scared to come out of the rain. Kishibe can see you crumbling already, making his final stab. Why you'd want him this bad is beyond him, but dirty tactics have never been beneath him. 

"If we're doin’ this, you're going to be available to me when I want you. Otherwise I can find others, like I've been doing. Finish up in here, and I'll make some coffee. Might as well go to the office together."

Despair crosses your features, and Kishibe lets the silence do the last of the work, stepping out of the stream and reaching for a towel. He makes quick work of drying off and getting dressed, bones aching for coffee. Curiosity pangs deep in his nerves as he wonders why killing yourself in Public Safety is even worth that expression, and why he’s equally as important as whatever it is. He tries to put it out of his mind and fails, fingers tapping on the expensive countertop.

As the coffee percolates, Kishibe hears the water shut off and the mental image of you stepping out of his shower flickers through his mind, ghosting along the memories of the way you felt beneath him last night. He tries and fails to admit to himself he’s not coming out entirely on top in this situation.

When you finally slip into his kitchen, dressed in your crumpled uniform from last night, you’re no longer wearing that brokenhearted little face, and Kishibe braces himself for whatever little pep talk you managed to give yourself while he was gone. He pushes a mug towards you and the sugar he somehow found while he was waiting. 

“I have my own stipulations,” you grumble finally, accepting the mug without looking at him, spooning sugar into it. He wants to wince at the shriek of metal on glass as you stir, but he doesn’t.

“If I have to quit the hunter society to be ‘available to you’, then you have to be available to me.” Your eyes are a little heated as they finally meet his, and Kishibe gives a noncommittal hum. “Meaning you don’t get to sleep around. Just with me.”

Ah. Makima would be proud of you too, Kishibe muses to himself. He decides to let you feel that victory and puts on a show, feigning annoyance. He drums his fingers on the counter and gives you a dry, measured look. “What, sweetheart, want me to get tested or something?”

You rise to his bait, snapping a little. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”

“Fine.” He shrugs and sips his coffee. “Maybe you should too, since you’re so worried about my health.”

Embarrassment burns your cheeks at the thought of making that appointment, but you push through it. “Fine, I will. I’ll be needing to get on birth control anyways.” The barest hint of shock flickers through his expression before he slams it back to its usual tired smirk.

“Anything else?” He asks, sarcasm barely kissing the edge of his tone.

Your thoughts scramble to all the things you’d listed to yourself in the shower but with him looking at you like that, bemused, confident, smug, you forget most of them. You latch onto one thing and give him a glare. “I get a key. And I can sleep here whenever I want. I’m not waiting outside in the cold to be your booty call.”

Kishibe gives you a look and starts to pull a pen out of his jacket but changes his mind. He watches all the bravado and irritation drain from your expression as he steps into your space, melting into something else, something expectant, electric. He pretends he doesn’t see it, pretends that his blood doesn’t pick up at the sight of it, and whispers the passcode to the apartment, so close to your ear that he could bite it. Could.

He pulls back and listens to your shuddering exhale, tilting your chin towards him. “That’s for you only. I don’t give people access to my personal space, got it?”

You nod dumbly, eyes wide and body hot as his dark eyes flicker to your lips.

“Then I guess we gott’a deal, sweetheart.”

#kishibe x reader #kishibe smut #csm x reader #csm smut #chainsaw man x reader #chainsaw man smut

[grandlinedreams]

Omg, i like the way you wrote Law get treated by reader. So i was wondering if you can have Law in middle of struggle? Like, he was already on his bed but he keep his eyes opened when he was super tired. And he keep thinking dark thought or dream. Maybe at that time, reader was away or came into his room later to comfort him 👀

But if you don't wanna write similar scenario, ignore this ask wink

Hiya!! I'll never turn down a chance to write Law stuff when he gets the comfort he deserves!! I hope this is to your liking, bb!!

[Heads up!: mentions of nightmares/anxiety, set between zhou/wci and wano]

Some days are better than others. There are weeks where he doesn't think of Corazon or his family at all ㅡ and almost thinks he's finally learning to let it go.

And then he catches a glimpse of something ㅡ the feathered collar of his own coat around his neck, patches of his skin that are a shade or two lighter than the rest, a tickle in his throat that won't go away ㅡ and he's drowning again. They seep into his skin, sticky and heavy and dragging him down until he's gone days without sleep because he doesn't want them to follow him into his dreams.

Tonight is one of those nights. Maybe its for the fact he has more people he has to be responsible for the safety of right now, people depending on him to be stable, to have an answer for everything.

And then there's a tiny voice that notes how much colder his bed is right now, absent of another body ㅡ you. It'd been a quiet discussion of you going with the Strawhats to retrieve their cook, mostly because with you tagging along he can trust they won't get into too much trouble ㅡ he hopes, anyways.

But he feels your absence more acutely right now, moving from his bed to his desk and retrieving your vivre card from where he's tucked into a drawer in his desk. It inches slowly and steadily, and he's tempted to follow it instead of continuing on to Wano. But he knows bettet, and he also wonders when exactly he'd gotten so soft.

It's all your fault. You, with your kindness and boundless patience, strong and dependable ㅡ but he can't hate you for it. Could never hate you for it.

Knowing sleep won't come easily and desperate to at least try, his attention turns to the transponder snail on his desk. He listens to the 'purururu', ready to back out the longer it takes ㅡ and then he hears your voice.

"Law?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No," you answer, and he can hear you shift, the creak of wood and distant sound of wind and ocean. "I figured they needed sleep, so I'm taking over watch for right now."

"You need to sleep too," he says, brow knitting, and your laugh in response has butterflies stretching their wings in his stomach.

"Is that why you called? To scold me?" Your tone sobers for a moment. "Everything is okay, right? I didn't think you'd run into trouble after Zhouㅡ"

"Everything is fine," he answers. Truth be told his guests are getting on his nerves a little, but he isn't going to say that. "I just...miss you."

In the brief gap of silence that follows, Law grapples with the sudden fear that he's too much. Too needy after so long of not allowing himself to be. Too demanding.

"I miss you too," comes your soft reply, washing away that burst of fear. "You can't sleep, can you."

It's dangerous that you know him so well even now, but still a comfort. "Maybe," he answers, listening to you sigh.

"Go lay down." When he doesn't answer, you press further. "Just do it, I have an idea." He debates for a moment before he complies, carrying the transponder snail with him.

You listen to the sound of blankets rustling, the creak of the mattress ㅡ and when it stops, you speak. "Close your eyes, and I'll talk. You don't have to sleep, but just listen, okay? Let your body rest."

"It'd be easier if you were here." It's a quiet admission, one that hadn't come without lots of patience and reassurances that you won't disappear on him, won't leave without a fight.

"I know," you answer. "But we'll be back together before you know it." You adjust to get comfortable yourself, watching the pale break of waves on the horizon. And then you begin talking.

It ranges from what's unfolded on the Sunny during your stay (you'll try not to take the Heart Pirates and their brand of natural chaos for granted anymore) to more general observations, then to stories of your childhood.

It doesn't matter what you talk about because when you finally pause, you can only hear the soft cadence of breathing from Law's end rather than the hums and scoffs he'd been answering with. He's asleep ㅡ at least you hope he is, keeping your voice soft as you whisper, "Sweet dreams, Law. I love you."

And you resume your watch, at peace with the sound of waves and the sound of him sleeping.

#ㅡmine. #one piece x reader #one piece scenario #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #ㅡanswered. #–ml: law.

[stygianoaths]

Luke Castellan and his team of godkillers but they don't kill with weapons stained with ichor, but with the illusive Mist that warps the mind of mortals so easily, it shakes their faith.

In eons past, these mortals revered the Olympians with offerings and prayers daily, told their stories that inspired fear and awe all the same. It was something the pantheon had gotten hooked on, something more addicting than the ambrosia and nectar the texts had waxed poetry over. And the council of twelve did their damn best to keep it around. After all, there was no other high out there that can compare to the feeling of being in control, of being powerful.

But like any high, it wears off, sooner or later.

So that's exactly what happens.

Alabaster C. Torrington, with the help of Dr. Claymore, "discovers" new texts that discuss Greek gods that have never been heard of before; gods who are kinder, wiser, more trustworthy, than the ones everyone has come to know in this era.

It's interesting, how the origins of these gods and their lives seem to have no relevance or connection to the other pantheon and its history. No Titanomachy or Gigantomachy to speak of. There are a few parallels, but they are pleasant, like the love stories of Dionysus and Ariadne or Pygmalion and Galatea. Otherwise, it's like an alternate timeline of its own, where every god present is named a god for a reason.

It's fake.

But the mortals don't need to know that. For what's false, if persisted in, would become true anyways. Furthermore, it isn't like a new pantheon will harm any of them. The lucky ones with clear sight may win the heart of a deity who would actually see them beyond their fleeting mortality, who would care for them.

It takes a while, though, for the mortals to adjust to this suddenly newfound information. They are stubborn creatures, Luke knows, who tend to fear the unknown and new. Yet the youth crave it like bears after a beehive laden with honey. With time, they'll come around, he knows. Maybe he might not be there to see if the plans work out for himself, but someone would, and that's all that matters to him. He just needed to be the one to start the movement.

Luckily for him, he doesn't have to wait too long.

The faith spreads through idealized modernized takes on the mythology, as silly as it sounds. It's very of the era, isn't it? Books are being published on these gods who endure hardships and come out irrevocably changed but for the better. Ethan flips through one by an author under the pen name S.J and devours it in three hours. It reads nicely and he wonders when he'll get a chance to meet the main character of the story, and ask her if the myth holds true. It is, obviously, but it's different hearing it from a god. The fanfictions are even better, but Lou Ellen Blackstone gets drowned out by Alabaster's "lalalalala" before she can start talking about the recent one that was updated a few hours ago. Eh, so what if it's a little spicy?

Nonetheless, the new band of believers grows, and it's like a sucker punch to the gut for the Greek pantheon.

Apollo comes to camp and drops to his knees before his own cabin, surprising the campers. He looks terrible. Dionysus had already looked miserable, but the children attributed that to his sour personality. And, as usual, no one noticed the girl by the hearth who had disappeared weeks ago. But Apollo, golden boy Apollo, well, he has eyes that are sunken and sickly yellow, matted hair, muscles shrunk, and hands that shake as if they are beyond his control.

"They're killing us," he whispers to Lee Fletcher, "all of us."

"What do you want us to do?" Lee asks. Apollo coughs into his fist and looks down to see a smear of gold staining it.

A nosebleed. Gods don't get nosebleeds.

His children, gods bless them, are trying to heal him, but to no avail. It's kind of funny, how on any other occasion, such an act would have been annoying. If the solution was to simply heal, don't you think he would have tried that? But, weak as he was, he felt touched. Loved, even.

But love wasn't always enough to save another. He, of all gods, should know that.

"Can you write?" he asks. Lee scratches his head.

"Write?"

"Stories. Poems. Songs. Anything."

"Um, no, not really. Dyslexia kicks my ass, and you know archery is more my thing. But Will does sometimes. Healing is his forte, but I always see him writing something in a notebook, though that could just be medical notes, now that I think about it-"

Apollo disregards that last part and begs Will Solace to take up the pen and fight back. It's their last hope. If nothing is done, this camp and its children will become all that is left of the Greek Pantheon, for textbooks and website links are not enough to keep the faith going, especially if left to collect dust or rot in an archive.

"Write us new myths. Stories that can happen now, that we can make happen. Redeem us, so that we can live. We'll do it. We'll do any of it," Apollo begs.

"Anything?" Will asks. Apollo nods.

"Anything."

The Fates looked at each other from above. How time has changed. In the past, battles were fought with swords. Now, they had to be fought with words.

#inspired by that concept of 'downsizing' apollo mentions in TTC #where people basically killed helios and selene off by associating apollo and artemis with the sun and moon respectively #like if their existences are based on the faith of the people #then when you shake that foundation #the building comes crashing down #also the mist is something that applies to all pantheons iirc in the riordanverse; it's a layer in the duat for the kane chronicles #so essentially anyone who has control over the mist aka sense of reality is one overpowered motherfucker (looking at you torrington) #anyways #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #riordanverse #luke castellan #alabaster c torrington #alabaster torrington #ethan nakamura #lou ellen blackstone #lee fletcher #will solace #apollo #dionysus #hestia #moirai #the fates #dr. claymore #i've tagged everyone except for one character #the author S.J #can anyone guess who that is? ;)

[maochira]

(omg u can ignore this if u want i just wanted to interact with another fellow Dad! Ego enthusiast)

Just thinking about Dad! Ego and how he distances himself away from his child constantly due to Blue Lock and is always ignoring them and then the child has enough. Once Dad Ego has time to start spending time with his child again, they start purposefully being aloof and ignoring him to give him a taste of his own medicine and maybe even considering someone else as their father figure (Noel Noa… 👀). A whole punch to the stomach—

Like imagine how confused and hurt he’d be like ‘why is my child avoiding me?’

I actually got a super similar request like this last week!! Just haven't gotten around to writing it,, so before I let this one get drowned in my inbox, I'm doing it immediately after seeing the notification LMAO (also to the other anon who requested something similar, I'll write that later or tomorrow <3)

Requests open! - dad!Ego masterlist - regular masterlist

Tags: gn!Ego's child!reader, reader is a teenager, for logic purposes Ego is a bit older and I guess Noa as well?, a bit (a lot) of angst you guys know what I like to write

-during the entirety of the first until the third selection, up until the beginning of the Neo Egoist League, Ego was busy all the time. He never took any time off to spend with you and would send you away if you asked to talk to him

-that led to him neglecting you and not being there for you when you needed him. He also stopped telling you he was proud of your achievements and in general, he just became very emotionally absent towards you

-Ego was so focused on Blue Lock, he didn't notice how much damage that did to you

-when the Neo Egoist League started, Ego finally less work to do because the other coaches would be the ones occupied with the players instead. Sure, Ego still had work to do. But it became significantly less than before

-and out of nowhere, he tried being the nice and caring father he was prior to Blue Lock again. But you were scared of him switching back to only focusing on Blue Lock again, so out of self-protection to not get hurt like that another time, you were cold and absent towards your father

-it confused Ego, and he really tried putting more effort into you. But you were too emotionally absent towards him to give him another chance

-to improve your own soccer skills, you often joined Bastard München's training, and that's how you got somewhat close to Noa

-occasionally you were alone with Noa, and that's when he would ask you questions about your father. It doesn't take long until you open up about the way you've been neglected by Ego for the past months

-Noa doesn't really know what to think about that, but he has some sort of parental instinct that wants to be there for you

-Noa becomes a father figure to you. He's careful to not act like an actual father, but he does treat you more gently than he treats the Bastard München team

-after a few weeks, Ego sits down with you to properly talk about what's been going on. He intended it to be a calm conversation to fix things, but it escalated into a huge argument

-you and Ego have never had an argument as big as this before. But all the bottled-up frustration and pain inside of you is just too much to keep in now

-it's something you definitely regret at some point later, but you yell at Ego about how Noa is a much better father than he's been in the past month. And sure, in some way that's true, but Noa never intended to take a proper father-role for you

-hearing that is like a punch to the gut to Ego. He yells back at you, but not for long. After that he actually can't handle looking at you anymore, so he sends you to your room

-Ego thinks more about the way the last months had been. And he realizes you're right. And he also realizes the part about Noa is probably right as well. He hates himself for failing as a father like this, but he has no idea how to fix this

#bllk #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x you #bllk x you #ego x you #ego x reader #jinpachi ego x you #jinpachi ego x reader #ego jinpachi x you #ego jinpachi x reader #ego jinpachi #jinpachi ego #blue lock headcanons #bllk headcanons #noel noa #blue lock noa #blue lock ego #bllk ego

[tboygareth]

wip wednesday snippet from ch2 of greatest hits

ch2 coming to ao3 this upcoming saturday

“Hey,” Steve says. He’s laying on his side, facing Eddie, his cheek smushed against the pillow as he looks at him. Eddie looks back, feeling a little like he’s drowning; Steve’s face is in shadow, his hair haloed by the lamplight behind him. “On a scale of one to ten, how weird was it?”

Eddie sighs. So they’re really doing this. Talking about it.

“I dunno, man, it was…” Thrilling. Humiliating. Insanely hot.

“Kinda hot, right?”

Hold on. Kinda what? 

“Steve -”

“You were into it.”

“Are you making fun of me right now?”

“No,” Steve says with a laugh. “C’mon, man. You were into it. I was into it. It’s only gay if you make it gay.”

“Yeah, I think me being gay kinda makes it gay, Harrington.”

There. He said it. It’s out there now.

“Oh,” Steve breathes.

“Yeah. Oh.”

“I mean. You know I don’t - you know I’m totally cool with that. Because, like. Robin.”

“This is a little different.”

“Sure, but…” Steve isn’t looking at him. “Not necessarily in a bad way.”

“Listen, I can go sleep downstairs. If you want, like, some space or whatever.”

“Don’t be stupid. I told you. It doesn’t matter.”

“Not even after…?”

Steve smiles. He finally looks up at Eddie, turning over onto his back and curling an arm behind his head to see him better. 

“Nah. Makes more sense now, though. Why you were so into it.”

“Now you are making fun of me.”

“I’m not, I swear.” Steve smiles at him again, but this time the energy behind it is different. It makes Eddie’s heart race, makes him want to run. “We could always… do it again.”

They shouldn’t. Eddie really should put a stop to this, if for no other reason than to save his own fucking sanity. He half lost his mind the last time, and this time, if they do it again, it will be with the knowledge that Eddie is doing it because he likes it. There’s no way this is normal, just something that guys do.

Eddie remembers, vaguely, the time he and Gareth found Gareth’s dad’s stash of Playboys; it’s been years ago now, when they were still in middle school. They’d been just a couple of boys in the throes of puberty and Eddie had still been trying to parse out exactly who he was. That had never progressed any further than uncomfortable giggles about boobs and bush.

That had been nothing like this.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Eddie doesn’t put a stop to it. He doesn't say no. He doesn’t tell Steve, I don’t want to be your experiment, because it’s a lie. He doesn’t say, I won’t be able to keep this platonic, because it’s true.

Steve reaches behind himself to click off the lamp, and they are plunged into darkness.

Eddie can’t help but think he would be taking advantage of Steve if he gives in to this. Steve should think about it, he should examine why he enjoys masturbating with other guys. They shouldn’t do this, not when Eddie has more skin in the game than Steve does. The mattress moves a little as Steve shifts on the bed. It’s so fucking quiet in here Eddie wonders if Steve can hear the way his heart is pounding, the way his breathing has quickened.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s it like?”

“What’s… what, like?”

Hesitation for a moment, and then, “Guys. Y’know… sex…”

Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes at himself in the darkness. “I wouldn’t know. I, uh, I haven’t actually gotten the chance.”

It’s silent for a while, and Eddie is just beginning to think maybe Steve won’t try and goad him into this.

“Well, how would it, uh…” Steve trails off here, like he’s unsure of what he’s trying to ask.

Eddie puts on his most teasing, suggestive tone and asks, “Do you want me to explain the mechanics of gay sex to you, Harrington? Should I go into detail?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” It comes out a little muffled, like Steve’s got his face covered. Eddie laughs a little. It’s nice hearing him squirm. Feels kinda... powerful. “How did you learn if you’ve never done it?”

“Books, skin mags. The ancient Greeks did it all the time, apparently. They fucked so much there’s like, paintings on pottery and shit.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. The how is common sense if you think about it. Straight people do butt stuff all the time.”

“Oh, my god,” Steve says. He sounds flustered.

“You asked!”

tag list: @delta-piscium @matchingbatbites @rugbertgoeshome @outpastthebrakers @helixferrano

#wip wednesday #bee's blurbs #steddie #fic #greatest hits

[instantartific]

ও DJ SUBATOMIC SUPERNOVA x Reader Headcanons

This one was a long time coming but it's here!! As with the J one, the more direct stuff is under the cut! I really enjoyed this and had the ideas for a while, just never wrote them down.

Enjoy ও

✧

The only way you're getting close to him is if you somehow become a part of his routine. He likes patterns and is very adverse to unnecessary change, and if you're a part of his comfortable to-and-fro, you have the chance at getting his attention. If you're lucky, you'd see him about once a month. If you're really lucky, once a week.

He's very, very analytic. Analyzing people is the reason he so easily makes the distinctions between who he does and does not consider worth his attention; those first few seconds, a full thirty if he's intrigued, can determine whether or not he'll be willing to strike up harmless conversation. If you're lucky, he'll shrug part of his headphones to the side to better hear you. If you're really lucky, he'll take them off and fully turn towards you.

The first conversation you have with him, he'll spend the majority of it analyzing you more than being involved. He's distracted, yes, but by you—he'll even ask seemingly irrelevant questions for the sheer sake of weighing your answer. The second time around, or if he becomes satisfied during that first meeting, he'll be a lot more expressive or borderline content. Which isn't saying very much.

Most conversation that veers towards himself gets redirected or not answered in full. There's very simple things he'll answer (if he's in a good mood,) yes, but anything marginally personal will result in a non-answer or another question.

An example of this is that you will never know his "real name" in the same sense that you will never know the full extent of his life before this city. Whatever moniker you come up with that appeases him will suffice and all you need to know about his past is that he was raised far enough from this city that he could clearly see the stars at night.

Most of the time his expressed emotions are fairly dulled down. He's pleased, neutral, or furious. That's about it. It's rare that he'll show more than that.

Rare, at least... until "certain things he's quite unused to" consume so much more of his everyday life than he's ever been used to.

Certain things like... kindling bonds that he figured he'd never need to have again. After all, things like these are very, very distracting from his work. It would be difficult to do anything if all that sits on the forefront of your mind is someon—er, something else, no?

Emotions are sorted into categories. Whatever category this is is one he hasn't touched in so long he'd forgotten it was there.

And to some extent, it's one that he's... he's unsure if he even wants it. It's distracting. Admittedly, it is akin to a breath of fresh air, but he doesn't need that! He's perfectly fine with his work, with his purpose. He doesn't need anything to take him from it.

He doesn't need any distractions.

... But by the time he's willing to admit to himself just how far things have gotten, he's already drowning.

And by all the stars above, does he hate it.

He hates it more than anything else. Does that stop it by any means? No. No, it does not. But oh, does he wish it could. That would make his life far, far easier.

Because the way he loves is... it's almost chaotic and, arguably, almost as destructive as his implosions can be, though on a level much more psychological than physical. He loves to the extent of destruction and driving himself mad trying to figure out the "object of his affections" like they're simply a puzzle to be solved.

Which, to an extent, you are; you are an enigma that he simply cannot understand because, to his logic, the mere concept that you might "love" him does not make sense.

If it isn't somehow "proven" to him to be a kind of absolute fact, and it's something that he wants himself? He'll obsess over trying to prove it beyond hypothetical interactions, because

Even if it is presented as fact to him, it would... take some time for it to fully "click" together in his mind. It still doesn't make sense, but somehow it's... there's reason to believe it is true. Even if he doesn't exactly know what that means, either.

No matter how much he personally wants it to be true, if it doesn't click, he'll chide himself to no end for "misconstructing your intentions." The more he cares about the specifics of your "intentions," the more... erratic he'll grow to be around you over time.

And even then, there's so many different meanings to that one flimsy word, isn't there? Being as literal as possible, you just mean that you care about him to a great degree (which in and of itself is difficult for him to believe, but if it's true, he can't... dispute it, can he?) How is he supposed to know what you're actually referring to? You could mean that you simply greatly value the friendship you have, or that—

... If it isn't clear, you'd have to sit him down and spell it out to him in the most direct and concrete phrasing you can fathom to fully ease his conscience. Which would likely provide more questions that it'd be wise to be prepared to answer, unless you're good on your feet. The first of which being:

"Why?"

Why, because he has to prove you wrong. Because he doesn't want you to be. Because he feels like he'll snap if he can't make sense of this any longer. Because he knows how to answer that for you, but he needs to know how you would answer for him.

Because he needs to know if you mean it.

But... after that, if you can finally manage to get through to him... it would go a lot smoother.

Maybe he'd allow himself to finally enjoy this. Though, it'd take a while longer to figure out what that means.

#no straight roads #nsr #dj subatomic supernova #djss #djss headcanons #nsr dj subatomic supernova #ও ~ headcanons #djss x reader #x reader #again did not expect to be typing those tags but here we are. #ও ~ writing

[mermaidxatxheart]

Better Together Chapter Seventeen

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 4110

Warnings: if you haven't gotten it by now, violence and Poe. Bryce gets his just desserts

Series Master List

Poe

He doesn’t see his surroundings. Not really. He knows there’s a chair, which Snap is sitting in, exhausted from watching him. There’s a droid station, with one droid present, glaring at him to make sure he doesn’t cause any more disruptions. And there’s a door in front of him that he’s been banned from stepping through. 

He’s never hated a medical bay so much in his life. Memories flash behind his eyelids, so fast he almost can’t make sense of them. Seeing you fall to the ground, hearing himself scream your name. He can still feel the scrape of the twigs and leaves on his knees as he skidded to your side.

“Poe,” Temmin starts, but Poe hardly hears him. “She's gonna be okay,” he continues. 

Your face, when you saw Poe over you, will haunt him forever. You looked at peace, so content. He chokes and sinks to his knees. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Leia come through from the area where he isn't allowed. She looks distressed and he doesn't take that as a good sign. He can already feel his heart breaking all over again. Snap stands up, coming over to hear what she has to say. 

“General?” Snap prompts.

“It was close.” she exhales, closing her eyes. “Maker, it was too close,” she mumbles. “You can go see her, Poe, as long as you let her rest. She's not awake yet, but she will be in a few hours.” She waves him through the door and he bolts without a second look at his best friend. 

He finds the door and takes a second outside it to calm his nerves, take a deep breath, stop his hands from shaking so much. He presses the release for the door and it hisses open. He steps through, his eyes falling on you immediately. You're pale, but, other than that, you don't look any different. He realizes that in his mind, he pictured you with sunken cheeks, looking so close to death that with one good push, you would be gone. But here in front of him, you just look like you're sleeping. 

He eases into the chair next to your bed, reaching for your hand. It's cold. He squeezes it carefully, relief flooding through him as your fingers curl around his. 

“Maker. Y/N.” he sighs, resting his forehead against your hand. 

Light flickers into existence behind your eyelids. Burning bright and feverish warm; or maybe that’s the effects of the water still. 

Something hard and unforgiving is pushing down repeatedly on your chest, feeling like it’s trying to punch through your rubs. The repeated motion forces you to cough; forces the water out of your lungs. You twist your head and neck, expelling it onto the stone floor. 

Your eyes open slowly, blearily and painfully, to find two stormtroopers hovering over you. You try to think back, how many times did you almost drown in that well before it became too much? Five? Six? You’ve lost count. But why would they try to save you? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not as though they care about you.

Waiting until you’re done coughing and gasping, one finally speaks. “Can’t have you dying on us, yet, rebel scum. We still have plans for you.” Sunlight glints off something on his belt and you drop your gaze to see that it’s not his blaster, but instead, a set of keys. 

The keys to your escape? But now how to reach them? It’s not as though you have a lot of chances to get close. He grabs your shackled wrists, yanking you to your feet. The cold metal bites into your flesh, but it’s just another pain on top of an already insurmountable mountain. 

The idea strikes you as he’s hauling you to your feet. You stumble forward, maybe a little too dramatically, collapsing into the trooper. You snake the keys off his belt just as he shoves you backward. His partner forces you back into the well unceremoniously. 

You land hard on your shoulder with a cry. 

“Y/N!” Poe shouts. His voice echoes through the tunnels at the base. 

“I’m… here.” You cough. You’re definitely not okay, but you hear him. You push yourself upright carefully, trying to keep your noises to a minimum, which isn’t difficult. The water already started refilling. Your biggest challenge right now is seeing what you’re doing. 

The water rises fast, and soon is over your head. You hold your breath, determined. Fumbling with the keys, you manage to unlock your shackles. You kick off the bottom and they sink to the floor and suddenly it’s easier for you to float. You keep yourself pressed against the outer wall of the well, trying to undo your wrist shackles now. It takes you painfully long to send them to the bottom. 

Maker, everything hurts. The water stings all of your open wounds. Your hands are shaking as you try to climb the wall. 

The water actually helps this time, floating you up toward the grate. Treading water for that long is exhausting, but you’re so close to freedom, you can almost taste it. 

As soon as you’re able to reach, you have your hands through the holes, trying to find the lock. The water is almost covering your face and you’re still scrambling around where you thought the lock was. Finally, just as the water covers your mouth and nose, your fingers latch over the lock. 

You fumble to get the key in there, lungs burning as you run out of air. The key slides in and clicks open with barely a struggle. 

You brace your aching legs against the wall and shove the heavy metal gate open. Your head breaches the surface and you gasp for air. 

Just as you haul yourself out, breathing hard onto the floor, the water starts to drain. 

No! You pull yourself over to Poe’s well. 

“Poe!” You gasp. 

He’s hanging barely by his fingertips. His chocolate brown eyes are staring up at you in horror. You’re gonna spend the rest of whatever forever you have trying to make this up to him. 

“Hang on.” You plead. If he lets go, you’ll have to wait for the water to rise again and you might not have that much time before they come back. 

“I’m slipping! Y/N, I can’t hold on.” His voice breaks and you can see his arms trembling with the effort. “You have to run, get out of here.” He pleads with you. You reach for the lock and he drops back into the water, already halfway down the well. 

You look around frantically, but there’s no rope or anything. But you know where there’s a chain you could use. Back in the room where they kept you. 

You close the grate to your well, locking it back up so they’ll never notice you’re not in there. You vaguely remember the way back to those nightmare rooms. The first door you open is dim, it smells of metal and oil. It takes you a second to realize that it’s the armory. 

You grab two blasters, knowing Poe will want one as soon as you can get him out. Your goal, though, is to make it through and out without being noticed. The longer you go unnoticed, the better chance you have of making a clean escape. 

As you pass the first room, a glinting catches your eye. You pause, looking inside. Glancing around, you decide you have a minute, and there are plenty of places to hide, so you duck inside. In a little pile on the floor is Poe’s mother’s ring. The chain must have broken during one of the many beatings. 

You slip it into your pocket, promising to give it to him later, once you’re home and safe. After peeking out the door to make sure the hallway is empty, you make your way down to the room you were kept in. You gather up the length of the chain and begin to creep your way back to Poe. 

“Do you think we’ll be able to kill them soon? This is getting boring. They’re not talking.” The voice comes down the hallway and you freeze. 

Hide! You need to hide! Your brain is screaming at you, but your legs refuse to move. 

“Doubtful. KN-1477 really enjoys inflicting pain on the girl.” They’re getting closer. Your heart is pounding. If they catch you, you’ll never escape. 

Your eyes dart around, finding an open, dark doorway to your left. You dash through, pressing yourself back against the frame, making sure to stay out of sight. 

The voices and footsteps carry past you and down the hallway. You wait until you can breathe again before continuing back to Poe. 

The water is back up halfway. You drop the chain next to his well and lean over. 

“Poe!” You hiss, looking down. 

He’s treading water, not well, trying to stay close to the wall. He looks up at you. “Y/N?” He splutters. 

“Hold on. I’ve got a chain.” You unlock the grate and heave it off with immense effort. If only you had Poe’s bantha burger muscles. 

“Watch out.” You drop the chain down to him, twisting your end around your waist. 

“Got it.” He calls and you turn on the spot, using your body to hoist him to the top. You grunt with the effort until he hauls himself over the edge. The sudden lack of tension sends you toppling backward. 

Your breath gets knocked out of you, and despite knowing you don’t have time to waste, you can’t move. You��re aware of Poe laying a few feet away, breathing hard. You know he’s exhausted, too, but the hard part is just beginning. 

“Poe?” You gasp, trying to roll over to reach him. 

“You good?” He asks and immediately more guilt washes over you once again. He’s worried about you, even though this is all your fault. 

You drag in a painful breath and push yourself up. “We need to go.” You shove the chain over to the well, pushing it over the side. 

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“If it takes them longer to realize we’re gone, the longer we have to get away.” You push the grate shut and lock it, dropping the keys inside. 

You stagger to your feet and turn to him. “Can you stand?” You ask, hold out your hand to him. 

He slips his bigger one in it. “Let’s get out of here. Together.”

***

The silver chain usually around his neck is twisted through his fingers, tangled in a mess of chain and flesh. His cheek is smushed into his arm where he fell asleep on it hours ago. There will be a red mark spanning it when he finally does wake up. The delicate ring usually contained on the chain is on his pinky finger, just under the first knuckle. 

It took him ages to fall asleep, thoughts and questions and scenarios swirling around in his mind, chaotic and turbulent as he watched you. Finally, his mind had enough and switched off, letting him rest. 

BB8 chirps quietly in the corner, watching his humans. He hasn’t moved since Poe sat down, watching the struggle on his face. Humans are hard to decipher sometimes, but his humans have become so familiar to him. He registers the difference in your breathing, beeping again, trying to alert the man asleep next to you. 

The soft beeping is what wakes you up. Groggy and disoriented, the only thing you're sure of is Poe’s hand in yours. 

You lift your head, groaning a little as the room spins. You feel weighed down like something is sitting on your head. Poe jerks awake, blinking hard to clear his eyes. 

“Y/N.” he mumbles and you smile, pushing his dark hair out of his handsome face. He captures your hand, holding it to his face and you can feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders. 

“Love you.” you rasp, feeling his lips press against your palm.

“Love you, too, crazy girl,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours. “Don't ever do that to me again,” he whispers and you squeeze his hand softly. 

“Snap okay?” you mumble. It’s taking you a beat to get your mouth to unstick after sleeping for so long. It feels like years. 

“He's fine. Worried about you.” he inhales deeply along your wrist. “I'll let him in to see you in a minute,” he murmurs. 

You watch him, more strength coming back now. You’re more awake. There's something on his mind, you can read him like a book now. Something he needs to say or he won't be satisfied. You twist your hand in his grasp and cup his face so that he’ll look at you. 

“What are you thinking?” you ask softly. 

He's quiet for a long minute, eyes roaming over your face before he finally speaks. “I was actually just wondering the same thing about you. Back on that stupid planet, you could have been killed. What were you thinking?”

You lean your head back against your pillow, the effort to hold it up more draining than you realize. “I was thinking that I would do anything to keep you safe. I saw my nightmare coming true in front of me and I was willing to do anything it took to keep you in this world,” you say and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You think I'm not willing to do the same for you?” he asks, his voice rough and thick with emotion. 

“Poe, I never said that. I know you are. Even after you promised me that you wouldn't get into a fight with a stormtrooper, you did exactly that to save me. But at that moment, all I could see was you dying, and how I would have to live in a world where you didn't exist anymore. And that is a fate worse than death. I won't do it.” you tell him firmly. “If you go, I go.” 

He bows his head against your leg and sighs. “So, what do we do about this predicament?” he asks and you chuckle weakly. 

“Well, I guess we have to stick together forever and ever until we both go out in a fiery ball of stupidity.” you shrug, wincing slightly. 

“We are better together, anyway. You think you could handle a lifetime with me?”

“I've done it so far. I seem to be the only one who can,” you smirk over at him, and he laughs. “Besides. I really like you and you make my feelings go all squishy. So, why not do this forever?”

“Best thing I've heard all day,” he whispers. He lifts your hand, turning it palm up, and places something cold in the center. A delicate ball-chain with something heavier at the end. You open your eyes to see his mother’s ring looking up at you innocently. “I'll go let Snap in to see you.” he stands up and softly presses a kiss to your forehead before turning for the door. 

You admire the view of him walking away until the door hisses shut and you look at the ring in your palm. 

Forever.

***

Two weeks. 

That's how long you're forced to stay on bed rest. It's not so bad this time. Poe comes to see you every day. Sometimes, he'll even stay overnight, much to the med-droid’s annoyance. His mother’s ring hangs on the chain still, except it's around your neck instead of his. It's a simple gesture, but you don't need more than that. You don't feel the need to shout to the whole galaxy that you belong with him, to him; and him to you, with you.

Finally. Finally. You're free to leave the med-bay. You exit the doors to find Snap waiting for you on the other side. You tilt your head, watching his grin grow wider.

“You’re so weird, Wexley.” You mutter and he laughs, draping an arm around your shoulders and leading you through the hallways. 

“I know.”

“Where are you taking me?” You ask, your hand creeping up to the delicate chain around your neck. 

“To get your stuff. Poe has his room all set up, but he said he didn’t want to make assumptions about what you want.” Temmin explains.

“Oh. Right. And where is he?”

“He’s… out.” He trails off. 

Your eyebrows pinch together. “On a mission?”

“Just a small one. For Leia.” He assures you. “He’ll be back in no time.” He stops in front of a storage unit and opens the door. Inside are just a few containers of all your stuff. Everything you’ve ever owned and held dear; it all fits into these little boxes. 

“Did he say what he would prefer me to do?” You ask, looking up at the big guy. 

“Yes. But I’m not supposed to tell you until after you’ve made your decision.” He says. 

You sigh, looking back into the small room. “Can I have a minute to think?” 

He chuckles, patting your shoulder. “Sure. I’ll be right outside.” He steps out of sight and you twist your fingers together. 

Okay. Think this through. You basically pledged to be with him forever, he gave you his mother’s ring. That’s big, right? You want to be with him, to share his bed, to have him near you whenever possible. Why would he give you the option to have your own room away from him? 

You roll your eyes. Because it’s Poe, and he’ll always give you the option. Could you do it? Could you spend your nights away from the man who is so effectively putting you back together? Do you even want to try?

You know your answer. 

You poke your head back out into the hallway and smile at his best friend. 

“Ready?” He asks and you nod. 

“Ready.” He grabs two of the containers and you grab the other two, following him towards Poe’s room. 

He sets the containers on the big bed, leaving you to get unpacked. Poe has left space for your clothes in the dresser, giving you half. You fill the drawers, turning to the last box of stuff. Your things. You set them out on the dresser, the X-Wing Poe got you, a little trinket box that can tell the weather by the temperature of the metal, the precious things you’ve collected over the years. Reminders of friends you’ve lost, and ones you’ve gained. 

You stack the storage containers in the corner to deal with them later, lying down on the bed you’re going to share with Poe. 

There’s a knock on the door and you get up with a small groan before going to open it. Bryce is on the other side and he doesn’t look good. His face is pale, gaunt. There are welts on his exposed arms, one creeping along his jawline. His once bright eyes are dull. He’s sick with something. 

He moves to step into the room and you hold up your hand to stop him, careful not to touch him. “Y/N,” he starts, his voice weak and defeated. “I’m sorry.” He says. You believe him, probably. Or maybe you just don’t care anymore. 

There’s a wrench stuck in a boot by the door and you pick it up. He flinches and you smile to yourself, although you have no intention of hitting him this time. 

“Back out to the light.” You tell him and he does, giving you space to follow. 

You lift the wrench slowly, letting him track your movements. You slowly place the wrench head against his chin, making him turn towards the light. The welt isn’t just a welt. There are little white dots inside the raw, red flesh. The place where you have the wrench turns white under the light pressure. You lower the tool to his wrist, bringing it up closer for your inspection. 

“How long have you had the fever?” You ask, taking a step back. 

“I started feeling sick around the time you clocked me with the wrench in the hangar.” He admits.

“Did you sleep with anyone while you were off-planet finding me a surgeon?” 

“I-that’s not… what does it matter?” He snaps, but there’s no real fight in it.

“Have you slept with anyone since you’ve been back? I assume Nya. Are there others?”

“Why?”

“Any problems going to the bathroom?” 

“How did you know that?” He snaps. 

You try desperately not to smile. You would never openly wish such a horrible disease on someone, but since he brought it on himself, you can enjoy it a little bit. “Come on. Let’s get you to medical. And I’m gonna need a list of names of the people you’ve been in close contact with.” 

“How close?” He frowns, following you down the hallway. 

“Sexually, in their bed. Shared a towel with.” You shrug. “Hopefully they haven’t gone spreading it around.”

“What is it?” He pleads. 

“The King’s Eye. STD. Little parasites that get transferred during sex usually. They worm their way through the skin in your nethers and travel through the blood and tissues. It’s named as such because of some King or other a long time ago. Those little white pustules, the deep welts, the loss of bladder control.” You make sure to stay ahead of him so he can’t see your grin. 

“Am I gonna die?” He asks. 

You tilt your head, considering the question, maybe drawing it out longer than you need to to make him suffer. “Probably not.”

You turn the corner and push open the door to medical, standing well out of his way. He’s going to have to be shaved completely, hosed down fully twice a day with special medicated soap. He’ll have to wear a diaper for a few weeks until it clears up. 

You’re practically giddy. The droids start taking his clothes and you get the names from him. On the central desk is a paging system that transmits throughout the whole complex. You say the five names he’s given you, requesting them to come to medical.

Hopefully it won’t turn into a whole base-wide pandemic. That’s the last thing the resistance needs. But watching Bryce and Nya be humiliated like this, that’s okay with you. 

You wave to him as you head for the door. 

“You could enjoy this a little less.” He shouts. 

“Probably, but why would I?” You laugh and head for the mess hall, following your nose. 

You grab something small, feeling lighter than you have in days, and find your friends sitting at a table. You claim the seat between Beaumont and Snap, propping your feet up on the seat across from you. 

Beau squeezes your shoulder and you hold his gaze for a moment. 

“I’m sorry for yelling at you in my room before. You were trying to help.” 

He smiles widely. “Does that mean you need me?” 

“Always.” You turn to Snap. “So, when will Poe be back?” You ask. “He didn’t say anything to me about a mission. I thought we were still on leave.”

“You are. But he’s just running an errand for Leia, really. An old friend got word to her that he has a map to where her brother is. Skywalker apparently decided to pull a disappearing act.”

“Oh. Alright then. Seems easy enough. Who’d he take with him? Jess?”

There’s a pause where he shares a guilty look with Beau on your other side. “BB8.” He says quietly. 

“Just his droid.” You state flatly. 

“You said it yourself, it’s an easy mission.” Beau reasons. 

“So was the scouting mission we went on. Look how that turned out.” You huff. “I need to go to the lab, distract myself with cataloging those plants.” You rub your forehead and the tension around you mounts.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that.” Snap says awkwardly. 

“And why is that?” 

“Well, some of the guys were assigned to work on them while you were in medical. And it turns out they give off a pollen that induces paranoia. So, we burned them.” He gives you a tense thumbs-up and you stare at him. 

“What?”

“Yeah. So, good news, you’re not going crazy.” Beau chimes in. 

“But Poe didn’t feel anything I was feeling-he wasn’t paranoid and he was around them.” You frown. This doesn’t make any sense. 

“It gets absorbed through the skin. Dameron never touched them, so he wouldn’t have experienced it.”

“Oh.”

“But if you’re looking for something to distract you, you can help us in the hangar.” Snap suggests. 

“Fine.”

Chapter Eighteen

Star Wars List

@everythingisoverrated @bookishofalder @doctor-warthrop @acrossthesestars @waterpancakeao3 @generousrunawaydonut @eclipsedplanet @general-latino @marvelobsessiononastick @itsdameron @mads-weasley @rawrrimamonsterr @diaryofkali @mrsdaamneron @sabxism @fanfictionismydeath @rainlumos @jaxrando @fallinallinmendes @ninjarose23 @einno-arko @a-rose-of-amber @seninjakitey @impala1967666 @theslytherinwriter @musings-of-a-rose

#poe dameron #poe dameron angst #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron fic #poe dameron x reader #poe x reader #poe x you #reader fic #female reader #reader insert #x reader #starwars #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #star wars sequels #romance #mermaidxatxheart writes

[dark-side-blog3]

I’ve never heard of your OCs!!! If you’re feeling it, can you tell me ab them? Like, what’s their type, what kind of yandere are they, etc. I tried to search em but nothing came up so I guess they’re from the old blog lol

-Jojo

They are from the old blog, that is right! I've still got to update my tag post I've been using for searches on there-- but I'll post that and it should make it easier to read up on them! I'll reblog some stuff too!

I have two OC's and a third bastard child I never developed past like a couple of concept posts, and their names are Cyril and Dalton!

I thought it would be funny to name the idiot character "Dalton" Because of the insult 'dolt' -> 'dolt one' -> 'Dalton'.

And Cyril is named as such: 'see, here's eel' -> 'see, e're eel' -> 'Cyril'

Dalton came first, and he is a jellyfish merman based off the pink meanie jellyfish found of the gulf of Mexico. He has translucent pink skin that can change colours depending on what he has eaten, long messy hair, human hands, and a massive skirtlike membrane at his waist that acts as the natural fleshy cover for his thousands of thin tendrils-- each loaded with extremely painful toxin.

The venom is fast acting and makes your skin slough off from chemical burn damage, and if you don't treat the stings, you could potentially die from blood loss (not the venom itself). Dalton is dumb as a sack of bricks (inspired by the fact that jellyfish don't have brains), obsessive, delusional, and sadly for you: extremely affectionate, with a touchy disposition. He'll cling to you every chance he gets.

Dalton is so stupid that he cannot feel pain-- for most merfolk, walking on land is agonizing. Dalton can't fathom this, and just continues to beach himself until he can crawl, his fragile membrane and tendrils drying out and ripping, spilling vital goop as they shift into legs. Each step would be extremely painful, but Dalton can't understand what he's feeling, or what's causing it. And because he doesn't know walking is what's causing it, he'll continue to walk, searching for his "best friends" who must have gotten lost. Dalton believes that Cyril, and you, are his best friends. And you must have gotten lost on your way to find him again. So he'll go out and find you, and everything will work out in the end.

Cyril is a smarter, yet sadistic merfolk, based off of the electric eel found in South America's Amazon River and Oronocio basin. Cyril, unlike Dalton, is a freshwater merfolk, and is capable of being drowned in the brackish water Dalton prefers. And unlike Dalton, Cyril can comprehend the pain in drowning. As well as the pain in being stung by venomous tendrils, and walking. Cyril has chronic pain (as most merfolk do). If he can avoid walking, he will.

He has long, greasy black hair-- washing it does him no good, as getting wet just turns his body back into his natural form, which causes him to secrete slick mucus. His skin is opaque, unlike a jellymer. If he doesn't show you his true form, you might just assume he's a lazy but bougie guy, adorned in gold jewelry he's stolen from other's homes before having to flee the scene. Despite his inactivity, Cyrils' body is on the leaner side due to his high metabolism. He has no visible muscle, but who really needs that when you're an ambush predator that can stun others anyways?

Cyril has worked many odd jobs that helped him live a more lavish life than just hunting and eating whatever got close enough to the river bank. He's acquired a taste for grapes, sliced and microwaved. Any hot fruit would do, but grapes are his favourite. This has become an integral part of his lore, because once Cyril learns of fruit, and then heating the fruit up, and all the devices you can use to heat food up (not just fruit, though he thinks its the height of luxury), and where those devices are stored... It's how Cyril ends up breaking into his darling's home in the first place. They have shelter, water, and all sorts of devices with which to make hot meals. And he needs for this to be perfect is someone who he can force to fetch him things from other rooms once he finds the couch.

He probably doesn't even like you at first. You're just someone he's bluffing out of his ass to let stay here. Cyril will use whatever tactics needed to make you let him stay. He'll go the pity route-- he's a poor misunderstood man, kicked out of housing, turned down everywhere because people don't agree with his life choices... He just wanted to crash here for the night, he didn't know you were here, he thought you were on vacation and he could squat here.

If that doesn't work, he'll resort to threats. He doesn't want to hurt you, he wants to mind his own business here, but if you call for help or tell anyone he's here against your will, he will kill them and you, before eating you. As much as it pains him to walk, he'll trudge over to your bathroom with you in tow, to show you his transformation in your shower/tub. He's a dangerous monster, and you don't know what he can do! His long tail wraps around you, slime secreted from his skin soaking through your clothes, constricting your ribs as he slowly crushes you, before you get hit with a painful shock-- knocking you to the ground and convulsing with painful spasms. Life for you will be easier if you just do what he says. It's not like he's asking for much anyways.

And at first, he's not. He's just asking you to fetch him some food every now and again, or to refill the cup he's been using for water. To buy him a laptop so he can work from home-- this way he'll pay for his own food, and you're not against that are you? Unless you like him mooching off your budget.

Cyril slowly gets more possessive as time goes on. It's not that he likes you; he likes your things, and he likes making you serve him, and he likes hurting you when you do something wrong. That's completely different than liking you. And you were three hours late coming home the other day. Cyril had to get himself a glass of water. Scandalous.

And while he thinks of it, he's not really a good threat if you start thinking you can stay out of the house, and avoid him. How is he supposed to hurt you if you're not around?

He should add a new rule: You have to start staying home with him more, and you have to be in the same room. And if you don't... Then he's going to start breaking your things, changing your password on everything, texting everyone your compromising photos and destroying relationships...

And if you refuse to come home... Then he's just going to have to get up and go hunt you down. You may have forgotten he can actually walk from how little he does it, but if need be he can track you down to the ends of the earth. Eel merfolk have a heightened sense of smell, so Cyril can track you down.

Dalton may stumble upon either you or Cyril one day-- a terrible mix of fate, because the idiot has just been wandering following Cyril, and you know Cyril, which means you're going to all be best friends.

Dalton doesn't mind you doing your own thing, he just wants to watch. He follows you everywhere, forcing himself through doors that you'd closed until they bust down so he can watch whatever you're doing, holding your hand, a grip on your legs, or resting his chin on your shoulder. If you leave the house before he can know where you are, there's a chance he'll go out to look for you-- you must have gotten lost again!

But if he has faith you'll come back, then Dalton will spend his days exploring your home. What happens when he sticks his hand or face in your oven? In the freezer? Through the window? What if he puts your sheets in his mouth? What does your soap smell like? Taste like? Dalton wants to know. And he'll find out everything about you.

Including you. Dalton is clingy, but he's exceptionally touchy. It's not enough to have you next to him, he needs to constantly touch you. Holding your hand is a large part of his day. But his fingers will find their way to your gums to inspect your blunt teeth and bumps on your tongue. Your eyebrows. Dalton opens your eyes with his fingers as he stares at how your pupils shrink and grow in response to light or the air he blows onto them. Bending your fingers and legs as far back as they can. He doesn't mean to hurt you, Dalton is just curious.

Dalton and Cyril can maintain human forms if they stay dry, but if they get significantly wet, their body shifts back into their true forms. A full shower will have Cyril a writhing mass of a slimy tail. And getting caught in a thunderstorm will have Dalton crawling around, ripping his fragile bell membrane, ripping out his tendrils. And while Cyril can intentionally use his ability to shock you regardless of if he's in his true form or not, Dalton's tendrils are only a danger to you if he's soaked and in his true form... Something he rarely thinks to do. All he cares about is following his favourite people around and being close to them. But if Dalton ever gets in a body of water and you're in arms reach, he will drag you into the water, wrapping his tendrils around you, the pain making you pass out in the bloody water...

When you wake up, perched on top of his bell membrane, Dalton apologizes-- he didn't mean to hurt you! He just wanted to swim with you! He doesn't even know how you got hurt! Maybe you just need to be held tighter? A cracked rib is a small price to pay if it keeps you awake, and in his mind, happy.

As far as merfolk go, they're both disasters. As far as yandere's go, they're completely useless. You'd be better off with literal leeches than these two bleeding you dry.

#keep in mind my rules for how monster biology work may be different than other established canon. So like how I see cyril working is #not how the tweels from twst work. they aren't displayed to experience chronic pain. But I wanted one of my characters to have chronic pain #yandere mermaid #yandere merfolk #cyril my oc #dalton my oc #my writing! #yandere exophilia #jojo anon

[dramatisperscnae]

what doesn't kill you, dick? (more like 'who' doesn't kill you am i right?)

[Send for a lesson learned from trauma || accepting]

He was a child. He'd tried to do the right thing. Tried, and failed, and had everything ripped away from him as a result. He'd nearly died - Alfred told him later he'd been unconscious for days - and no sooner had he woken up than his world had been destroyed.

Destroyed, by the very man who'd saved it to begin with.

Bruce hadn't spoken to him after that. Hadn't even tried. The message had been painfully clear, as far as he'd been concerned: he wasn't wanted. Wasn't needed. He'd failed, and therefore he was useless. So why stay? What point was there in staying? Bruce didn't want him there; Batman didn't need a useless partner, and Bruce Wayne had never wanted a son.

So he'd left. He'd never belonged there in any case, had he? A circus brat living in a mansion the size of a small town? He'd always felt out of place. Just where he'd go he had no idea; he'd just left. Walked the streets. Tried to come up with a plan. Until he'd seen the news. Until he'd met Boone and his band of bullies. Met Shrike.

Falling in with them was arguably the stupidest thing he could have done, but where else could he have gone? Two-Face free, no place at Batman's side, a chance to get stronger, maybe get some revenge on the villain who'd nearly killed him? After all, it had been called the Vengeance Academy, hadn't it? And there had been talk of killing, of lethal blows and assassinations, but Dick had never really seen the truth of it. Not really.

Not until their mission.

Shrike had given them the mission. Find Two-Face, and kill him. Dick had even been looking forward to it, came up with a plan to get them around the dogs and inside. He'd been so close, had the monster at gunpoint, had his finger on the trigger, heard that harsh voice growl two words…

And realized he was still playing the man's game.

So he'd thrown the gun away. Bolted out the window. He couldn't cross that line; it would be the final betrayal of everything Bruce had taught him. And he had to tell Bruce about the Academy. Not in person, of course - he really did have no place at the manor now - but Bruce needed to know. Batman needed to know. And after that Dick would-…well, he'd figure something out. He'd have to. He might have gotten in over his head, but that was all the more reason he needed to keep swimming. Keep fighting. He couldn't let himself drown here.

#Communication #halekulan-i #concerning dick #[sure i coulda done the actual beating but #this seemed more interesting >w>]

[shoutaswhore]

TV - Shouta x gn!reader

contains: angst, a breakup (not with shouta), fwb type relationship (w/ shouta), mentions of heartbreak, mentions of virginity loss (shouta took readers v card), crying lots of crying, nicotine, vaping, old relationships.

wc: 1.8k

a/n: this is a totally self indulgent (would it be indulgent if its a sad thing?) piece. it's based off the song, TV by billie eilish.

You had gotten the message while at work. You couldn't even listen to the thoughts in your head that were telling you to keep yourself professional, you have to pretend it's not happening.

But it was impossible. You kept staring at the text the guy you had thought was your forever had texted you.

"I don't want to have to do it like this" it said. Then why are you doing it? You thought, over and over, those words spiraled through your mind.

"The door isn't closed." He kept saying, he promised that there would be a chance for a future.

Those words that were sent, saying that you were the cause of a horrible mental state, that he couldn't put himself through it anymore.

It broke you every single time you read it. Every word caused your heart to crack ever so slightly more than before. Until it was just a pile of dust in your chest.

You were unable to keep it together, you had to leave. Go anywhere but where you were. But you were stuck, stuck in this place where you had nothing to comfort you over this heartbreak.

-----

You got back to your dorm. Trying to stay away from anything that would even partly remind you of him. But it was impossible, your dorm room is filled with memories from the 9 months you spent together.

You look down at your bed and sigh, already feeling the tears forming in your eyes as you see the blanket he had gotten you for your 6th anniversary. And the matching plushies you have with him.

Even the small trinkets on your shelf, the things you had pinned on your wall and cork board. He is everywhere. You are unable to run from the past. Stuck in a cycle of looking anywhere and finding him and the memories of what was your everything.

Broken. You feel broken as you wake up the next morning. It doesn't feel real, was it a dream? You check your phone and then it all comes flooding back, your eyes are filled with tears. Unable to even read the words in front of you anymore.

The tears fell onto your phone, you were so out of it that you don't even remember dialing the number, you called him, over and over. Trying to get closure. But nothing came of it. He never once answered.

You try and keep your sobs quiet, running to the bathroom of your dorm room just so you can have some semblance of peace.

Turning the shower on so it would drown out your screams and sobs. You were always considerate of your roommates. But in this moment you couldn't think of anything else but the absolute devastation that was in your chest.

It's the worst pain you have ever felt, you think to yourself. How is this even possible. How could you let what was meant to be your forever break? All these questions kept going through your head. You know it was your fault. You won't deny it. Because it was your fault. And you have to be honest as to why you lost the person you thought was your forever and evermore.

You couldn't eat, how could you when he was mad at you? So you slept. day and night, as much as you could just so you wouldn't feel the heartbreak and overwhelming sadness.

------

It has been a few days since you got the message. It is still fresh, and every morning you wake up and see your phone its just cutting into the almost healed wound you have.

So you call someone. Someone you never thought you would talk to again. It's ringing, a few times more than you would like in your situation. But then he answers.

"I really don't want to talk right now, Shouta.." You speak softly into the phone, hoping he isn't able to hear the shakiness in your voice.

You had just been crying, hard. You had the TV on in the background, Survivor was playing. You had said to yourself that you had put it on because you liked the show, but you knew that wasn't true.

You watched it in this moment not because you liked it, no, you were watching it because you got to see other people suffering. Just like you were in this moment.

You didn't know who else to call. It was either stay alone in this broken state and unable to help yourself, or call your "Ex-Boyfriend."

He had never liked labels. Not even when he had you. So you were just his person, nothing more, nothing less. But you were fine with that. You didn't give two shits back then as long as you were waking up next to Shouta.

So you called him. Against your better judgement, you called the person who was always so cold towards you. He had never been able to explain his feelings to you, even after 5 years of being off and on. It was torture for you.

"Okay, kitten. That's okay." His soothing voice spoke through the phone. Your body was already filled to the brim with all these emotions, and him calling you that pet name that you haven't heard in so long made the dam break.

You are sobbing into the phone, begging him to come get you, telling him that you are so broken, that you fucked up. Because all of those things are true.

He is trying to calm you down over the phone but quickly realizes it's no use. He sighs and agrees to come get you.

You pack a bag quickly, unsure of what you need or don't need. Absolutely nothing feels real still. You are still hoping to wake up and see a message from him saying that he wants to try again.

And the words come flooding back, "Horrible mental state", "I don't want to have to do it like this", " The door is open for the future", "It was never enough" all these things came back like an explosion.

It was enough to bring you to your knees, you are on the floor sobbing, completely forgetting about the packing you had been doing a second earlier.

You are clutching your chest, right where your heart is. It feels like it's going to explode, you think, "This is it. This is how I die." because that is how bad this pain is.

Your don't know how long you have been on the floor, sobbing, screaming, clutching your broken heart. But you know it has been long enough for your throat to be raw and your sobs to be silent.

Your makeup is ruined, so much for your eyeliner being breakup proof, you joke. Saying you'll sue the company for false advertising. You try and poke fun at the situation, but it only makes you cry again.

You decide you should check your phone for a text from shouta. And sure enough, he says he's there. So you are grabbing your thing, earbuds, bag, phone.

Then you are off to try and get some semblance of comfort from the man who never showed you any sort of emotions. The only time he showed any sort of care towards you was when he was fucking you.

You get into his car, cursing yourself for letting yourself get back into his claws. But you don't even care right now. You just want to forget about how much pain you are in.

-----

His hands are on the wheel as he drives, he offers you a hit of his vape. And without hesitation you take it. You are way too stressed to say no to some nicotine.

The moment it hits your lungs you feel calmer, even with the tears in your waterline.

"He would have never let me vape..." You say in a hushed tone, "At least not if it had nicotine in it."

Shouta nods at your words, he doesn't know how to deal with your emotions, he never has. So you settle for him just listening and being there.

"Thank you.." You hand him back the vape, and he shakes his head.

"You need it more than I do right now, Sweet cheeks." He knows what he is doing with the names, but you don't stop him. You don't know if you want anything to happen, you aren't sure if anything is going to happen.

But what you sre sure of is, you have always come back to Shouta. He is the one who took your virginity, the one who showed you what sex was. He was your first for almost everything.

It's almost like he had trained you to always come back to him. Like a little puppy. You shooed that thought from your head quickly. Not wanting to think about the last time you two were together.

But your brain forces you to remember it. It all plays in your head, the night he said "nothing would happen" and you believed him. You had gotten into a fight with your boyfriend and needed someone to vent to.

You don't know why you went to him first, it's just always been your first reaction. To call Shouta when you need someone to comfort you.

—-----

The next thing you know you are waking up in Shouta's car. Apparently you had dozed off while he was driving. You still had the vape clutched in your hand, offering back to him with a sorry look.

"Thanks" He says in his usual tone, uncaring, unwavering. Just like he always has been. "What happened this time?" He prods at my still open wound.

"Shouta. I said I didn't want to talk about it." I'm stern, I really don't want to talk about it. Because then I'll start crying in front of him, and he never has known how to deal with me crying.

"Look, Y/N. I know you and I have our differences. And I know I've fucked up in the past." Finally he admits it. But that one sentence is never going to be enough for what he has done to you.

"And I know you have no right to forgive me. I can't even forgive myself for what I did to you. I wish I could take it back. I honest to god do, Y/N." He's lying, you think to yourself. He has to be. He just wants me for himself again.

But your heart doesn't know any better, your heart is broken and yearning for someone to pick up the pieces and to glue them back together. Because you know you can't do it all by yourself.

So you give in. Your brain is screaming at you to leave, to do anything but stay with the man who broke my heart over and over again.

You think to yourself, "I can pretend, just for the night. that this is real." And you do. You let him back in to put you back together.

Thank you so much for reading, if you liked it please reblog it and like!

#* ੈ✩‧₊˚ ʰᵉᵉᵈ ᵐʸ ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍˢ #🍥.my writing #bnha shouta #angst #shouta x reader #shouta aizawa x gn!reader #aizawa angst #breakup angst #vent writing

[melanielocke]

The Stars Collide - Chapter 11

This chapter is Alastair's POV, and it's a little heavy featuring suicidal ideation with some plans (but no attempt). The mentioned tv show is completely made up and doesn't exist but picture it as Bridgerton but everyone's gay or the last hours without the demons.

CW: suicidal ideation AO3 | Chapter list

Lucie and Cordelia left after dinner and Alastair retreated to the balcony, giving himself some time to think away from everyone else. He looked down at the ocean below him and wondered what it’d be like to jump. From this high, the impact itself would be enough to kill him. He’d barely escaped the sea today, but part of him wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t made it.

Still, drowning was not the way he’d want to go. At least jumping he imagined would be fast, but there wouldn’t be much of a body left for his family to say goodbye to and that was a thought Alastair found quite disturbing.

He’d been plagued by such thoughts often lately, the desire to just give up and end things. After all, what good had life ever brought him? As a child, he’d taken care of his father at his own expense, always covering up for his drunkenness and never getting anything in return. Father had hated him, had been so cruel when he was drunk.

Alastair had always been fond of ancient fairy tales and one of his favorites was the tale of Cinderella. The poor, abused girl had found her way to the ball in the end. She hadn’t gone looking for a prince, but she’d found one just the same, and with him her escape. People sometimes criticized Cinderella for waiting for the prince, for not getting out herself, but the truth was some situations you couldn’t get out yourself and that was hardly Cinderella’s fault. Alastair was not so different from Cinderella, he’d gone to a castle too, although for different reasons, and he’d found a prince of his own. He wondered sometimes if Cinderella had been happy in her new life. Maybe the prince had turned out to be yet another prison she could not escape from.

Or maybe Cinderella had been lucky and she’d stumbled upon a man like Thomas. Maybe she’d truly had her happily ever after with her prince, maybe Alastair could too. Maybe Thomas could still be his second chance. Except that Thomas didn’t love him like that, not the way Alastair longed to be loved.

Perhaps he could do it. It would be easy to climb over the railing of the balcony and let himself fall. There would be no way back, no changing his mind, but then it would be over. He’d considered different methods. Slitting his wrists, but then Thomas might find him. Or overdosing on medication but that would give him a considerable amount of time to change his mind and go to the hospital and Alastair didn’t think he’d be brave enough to go through with it. Nor did he have any prescription for medication that would make it easy.

He gripped the railing with both hands. No, he couldn’t do it. Not without leaving a note at least. Thomas and Cordelia should know why. Alastair hated himself for believing he might have another chance, that he could be happy someday. He’d loved reconnecting with his mother, he’d loved spending time with Cordelia, but then why did he still feel like this? Why wasn’t it working, why could he still feel Charles’ hands on him, still hear his voice? Why couldn’t he stop feeling scared and sick, or so numb he could barely be sure he was still alive? Why did he feel like a mere ghost of his old self? Maybe his mother was right and he should see a therapist, but Alastair found it difficult to believe talking to someone was going to fix this. Most of the time, his thoughts of hurting himself went away before he’d gotten to any plans, but he couldn’t say he ever felt good or happy.

Alastair stiffened as he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around to see Thomas.

‘You look like you’ve been caught doing something you’re not supposed to,’ Thomas said, his tone light.  

‘You startled me, that’s all,’ Alastair said.

‘The view is amazing, isn’t it?’ Thomas said. ‘I know my quarters must be smaller and less luxurious than Charles’ but we do have the best view. Nothing like looking out at the sea first thing in the morning.’

‘I guess,’ Alastair said.

‘Are you okay?’ Thomas asked.

‘Of course,’ Alastair said, a little annoyed. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘I’m not,’ Thomas said. ‘I mean, that’s to be expected. I was so scared when you got pulled under, I thought I was going to lose you.’

Thomas was kind, but Alastair wished he could also be honest. How believable was it that Thomas cared so much about him, was so scared of him dying that it upset him even now?

‘I’m alright,’ Alastair said. ‘You pulled me out.’

‘Yeah, I did,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you want to watch A Scandal in Court?’

A Scandal in Court was a tv show set in the distant past in a time where marriages such as his and Thomas’ had not been possible, only those between a cis man and cis woman and it followed a group cast of queer characters living in such a time period. While it sounded like something that would end badly, it was actually supposed to be a comedy. At times also frustrating since the characters were so bad at communication, but it was entertaining.

‘Sure, but I am a bit behind,’ Alastair said.

Charles had never liked it when he watched shows like a Scandal in Court, claiming it was beneath them, entertainment for the uneducated masses. But while it was hardly the best quality show out there, it was fun to watch, mostly because it featured a cast where everyone was queer.

‘That’s alright, I’ve been rewatching the show for when the next season comes out since I forgot so much. I thought you might enjoy it too.’

Alastair glanced once more at the balcony and the sea before following Thomas inside and settling down next to him on the couch. Part of him wished to sit closer to Thomas, to lean against him, be held like he was precious. Charles had never done that, had never been one for cuddling and he imagined Thomas would be if he managed to find someone he loved. Alastair wished he could be that person.  

Thomas talked a lot in between episodes of the show, Alastair noticed. He didn’t say much in response, just nodded occasionally, acknowledging his opinions. After today, he was too tired to go into much more depth, but he enjoyed listening to Thomas complain about the lack of communication skills between the different couples.

He decided to go to bed alongside Thomas, a little earlier than he usually did. He struggled with sleeping as he always did, but tonight wasn’t so bad. Lying near Thomas, part of Alastair was glad he hadn’t jumped.

Thomas spent most of the next day in his own office working. He was a translator of official, political communication, which Alastair thought was an interesting job. Alastair spent most of the day on looking through different master programs that fitted with the degree he already had. In the end, he decided to apply to three different programs, not sure if he would be accepted. He could always back out before the start of the semester. The master programs were all one or two years and Alastair thought he might be able to do a PhD program after.

With Charles, all his duties had been towards his husband. Charles’ work had been his work and Alastair had been relegated to a supportive role. And while Charles had initially chosen him for his intelligence, Alastair didn’t think he’d liked being confronted with how smart Alastair was. Charles had always liked to take credit. And it was fine, truly, but Alastair would enjoy getting back to his own studies, since Thomas did not need his support and assistance in his own work.

In a way, they fell into a pattern. Sleeping in the same bed while never touching each other, eating breakfast together. On work days, Thomas would retreat into his office while Alastair took care of the house and did their shopping. He was still tired all the time, hopefully that would be better by the time he could go back to university. He tried his hand at essay writing, something he used to do all the time but hadn’t in a while. It was another thing Charles had liked to take credit for, but he didn’t think Thomas would do that. He would sooner translate them in different languages to make what he wrote more accessible, and Alastair liked the idea of that. Everyone deserved to have access to important information regardless of what language they spoke, and corresponding with foreign courts in their own language was just respectful. He spoke his second language here every day, but he liked that Thomas could speak his mother tongue with him too. Charles never had.

A couple of days after the incident in the sea, Alastair started coughing. He felt miserable, feverish and couldn’t get much more done than lying on the couch, wrapped in blankets. He hated it, he hadn’t felt this awful in a long time.

‘Are you okay?’ Thomas asked when he came out of his office.

‘Just sick,’ Alastair said. ‘I haven’t been sick in years. I don’t know where this came from.’

‘Give me a moment.’

Thomas disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a thermometer, which he put in Alastair’s ear. Alastair tried to protest, but found he lacked the energy.

‘38,6,’ Thomas read from the display. ‘Seems you have a fever.’

‘I thought you were the one who got fevers,’ Alastair grumbled.

‘Yes, that’s why I have so many thermometers lying around. But considering I’ve heard you cough all morning you probably have a respiratory infection.’

‘Great,’ Alastair said. ‘Where did I catch this anyway? No one else is sick and I haven’t been out much.’

‘Could have been due to inhaling water,’ Thomas said. ‘Maybe you have pneumonia, but it’s probably a little early to tell. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. What do you need? Some tea? Sleep? Try not to overheat yourself, you might feel cold but you’re actually very hot.’ Thomas turned very red. ‘Not that kind of hot. I meant, that you have a fever. Not that you’re not… Never mind. Just try not to use too many blankets. And you know how the tv works, right?’

‘Sure,’ Alastair said, wondering why Thomas had turned so red after saying Alastair was hot.

Most likely though, Thomas just wanted to make it clear he wasn’t attracted to Alastair and Alastair hated that he wished it was different. He wasn’t quite sure if he loved Thomas, it was a bit soon for that perhaps. Thomas was gorgeous, for sure, and the physical attraction was definitely there, and he loved Thomas’ gentleness, his calm demeanor, his quiet bravery.

At first, it had mostly been about being able to please, because Alastair had believed that the only way this marriage would work was if he could please his husband in the bedroom. After all, what other redeeming qualities did he have? But now that he’d gotten to know Thomas a little better, he found he wanted to be with him. Not just sexually, though Thomas was exceptionally attractive, but romantically too. He wanted Thomas to love him. Foolish, he knew. Still, he let Thomas take care of him. He hoped he’d start feeling better soon, but the way Thomas cared for him felt so affectionate, so sweet and tender, and Alastair desperately wanted more of that. He didn’t realize how deprived of affection he’d been until now. In the past years he’d rarely been sick, but when he was Charles didn’t stay home to take care of him. Charles had duties, after all, he was a prince, he couldn’t just stay home. And Alastair understood that, Thomas had his own duties too. But even in his free time Charles would not have given this much thought, he would have just waited for Alastair to recover on his own.

‘I think we should see a doctor,’ Thomas said on the third day.

Alastair had only gotten more ill, his fever was higher and he had barely slept last night because he couldn’t stop coughing.

‘If it’s a flu, there’s not much a doctor could do.’

‘But it might be pneumonia,’ Thomas said. ‘In which case you’d need antibiotics. I think it’s worth checking out.’

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @life-through-the-eyes-of @styxdrawings @justanormaldemon @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @amchara @all-for-the-fanfiction @imsoftforthomastair @ddepressedbookworm @queenlilith43 @wagner-fell @cant-think-of-anything @laylax13s @tessherongraystairs @boredfangirl16 @artist-in-soul

#Alastair Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Thomastair #the last hours #tlh #the stars collide #cw suicidal ideation #fanfiction

[katwriteswitcherthings]

Title: Vi Moxt Miirik (Chapter Five - Also on AO3)

Prompt: Wuv: Sweet Confessions of Feelings

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Geralt makes a move. Finally.

Summary:

Our favorite lovable Bard is a little more than he let's Geralt know. Follow them through the years as he learns to let down his walls and show Geralt how beautiful he really is.

Chapter Five

Borch, Teá, and Veá fell to their deaths. 

Geralt was unable to save them.

The dwarves made camp. Yennefer set up her tent. Jaskier helped in the small ways he'd learned at Geralt's side. Geralt sat on a rock, overlooking the valley, contemplating.

What was the point of this? Truly? What was the point of anything in his life up to this point? What was the point in slaying monsters when people still died every day, to humans or the weather or accidents like a fucking bridge breaking?

"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice broke the stillness, soft and worried. He approached cautiously; Geralt could feel him hesitating somewhere over his right shoulder. Then, a gentle warm steady hand was on his shoulder, for just a moment. Then the touch was gone and Jaskier was perched on the rock next to him. "You did your best. There was nothing else you could have done."

Lies. He could have tried harder. Should have stopped them the moment the bridge was shown to them. It had been too dangerous, and Geralt had gambled with all their lives. 

'Borch was the one who agreed to the shortcut.' His mind tried to yell at him, but was drowned out by the self-loathing.

"Look, why don't we leave tomorrow?" Jaskier's voice was small, fragile in a way that he rarely let it be. "That is if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy traveling companion. We could head for the coast? Get away for a while?"

Oh. That hurt. Geralt couldn't help the small noise that escaped when the bard said 'worthy'. As if he wasn't a great companion. As if Geralt was. Their parting had been terrible after that fiasco in Bremervoord, but why did Jaskier think he was the one in the wrong?

No, it had been Geralt's fault. It was Geralt who was unworthy to be a traveling companion, not the other way round. He had gotten Jaskier hurt so many times already; could have gotten him killed. He… Geralt would never be able to live with himself if Jaskier died on one of his hunts.

"Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn't it?" Jaskier asked with a small laugh, before dropping his voice into something of an imitation of Borch's tone. "Life's too short. Do what pleases you."

As if a Witcher could have that. As if a simple Witcher could ever be worthy of a friend like Jaskier. As if a Witcher could love.

"Composing your next song?" Geralt forced the words out, throat tight with emotion. Jaskier let a pained noise slip out, unbidden.

"Just- Just trying to work out what pleases me." His voice shook. Jaskier had sung for kings three sheets to the wind and was barely able to stand upright unassisted and still his voice never shook.

What pleases him?

Why is Jaskier even here? He could be set for life in some fancy castle as a court bard. He could spend more than the occasional winter teaching at Oxenfurt. He could do… anything he wanted.

And he still followed Geralt.

Maybe… Maybe Geralt could have that, for a little while.

It would be selfish and cruel to the bard, to want this companionship. He'd tried to leave Jaskier behind so many times now. But the bard kept choosing Geralt, again and again and again. He tracked Geralt down, put himself on Geralt's Path, and walked beside him for as long as he could.

"What pleases me?" Geralt's voice was lost and confused, small and broken.

The sun was nearly set now, and Jaskier leaned forward slowly to stand, unable to take his gaze off the Witcher's face. Geralt finally turned his attention from the faraway valley to Jaskier's face, and the bard froze. There was no fear on his face or in his scent. 

Just Jaskier.

It would hurt, when the bard decided he had enough of the Witcher. But would it be worth it, to have this one night of what he wanted?

"Stay?" The word was whispered, barely more than a breath, but the bard heard it all the same. Jaskier smiled softly at him and nodded.

"All right." Jaskier settled back onto the rock next to Geralt, watching as the landscape went from soft gold and pink to the darkness of twilight. 

They didn't speak or move until the dwarves called that supper was ready. And if Geralt had laid a hand on Jaskier's thigh, palm up, and the bard had held back, grip tight and desperate; well, they were the only ones who needed to know.

#what about the bard #wuv the bard #jaskier #geralt of rivia #fluff #the pining pays off here #geraskier #for real now #my fanfic

[teamfortresstwo]

There is a symphony of sounds, from just beyond his thin walls of wood, just beyond his curtained windows. There is the deafening crash of waves, wearing away at boulders, the thunderous clapping of lightning, the echo of the heavy sheet of rain continuously splattering against glass, all music to a mind like his. His heavy hands take the kettle off the heat, and pour the now boiling water. There are two cups, and he is only one. The water splashes into the cup, boiling hot droplets making it's way onto his calloused palm, he does not care. He just shakes it off.

The smell of chamomile fills the room, the man lifts one cup up, gently tilting it in a circle, causing the liquid to swirl. He pulls the curtains, revealing darkness. Revealing the angry sea, threatening to take what does not belong to it, the angry flashes of light, speaking of fire and violence and fear, the rain falling down with not one ounce of kindness or remorse, or maybe it's just the way the clouds cry today, from anger and not sadness. Truthfully, he does not care.

He lets go, the heavy curtains falling over the windowpane again, covering the sight, leaving only the noise. He goes to his leather, cushioned, seat and sinks into it. Cup of tea in one hand, the other wanders to the neckline of his heavy, cableknit sweater. The wool is a little bit scratchy, but it is a dark blue, and it is warm and it is his favorite. His hand fidgets with a silver ring on a leather cord, a necklace or sorts if you will. Its, clear, counterpart sitting on the ring finger that is wrapped around a hot mug currently. He takes a drink too soon, coughing due to the scorching liquid running down his throat, but he reclines further into his chair, and he doesn't care.

The TV is playing some long documentary about something, he wasn't sure exactly what, a train maybe? He liked it either way, but the storm drowned out all the noise, rendering it pointless. Instead of turning the volume up he simply shut the television off, and sat in darkness. A book lay discarded on a nightstand nearby, and he had only gotten a few pages in before deciding that he hates it. Maybe he should have gave it another chance, but. He really didn't care.

Not long after, the tall man finishes his tea, not bothering to put his mug away properly, he gets up despite the comfort and leaves to his room. He turns to the mirror one last time before going into bed, his bright blue eyes look back at him. He looks tired, but content.

There is a faraway sadness that never found it's home in his eyes til now. The man runs his hand through his white hair, at chin length now, and he sighs, dropping his shoulder. He will wait for him, for all eternity, he says to himself, fidgeting with the ring on his necklace once more. And all eternity is the time he's got.

OooOOooOh okay this is so good and I’m so inarticulate rn but!!

I love how you word this so delicately but still removed from the scene, it adds to the vibe of melancholy.

And i like like, the cold vibe of it!! Especially since it’s contrasted with the moments of warmth!! And it also perfectly represents the lonely. He is comfortable and he is warm but it is so so cold.

Especially I like the moments of pain where Peter just brushes it away. That’s what really made it so lonely because the lonely isn’t truly content, simply apathetic. And I like that!! Like peter not caring that his shirt is scratchy or that he got scolded is so <333

AND THE LONGING!! That is also so so very lonely. Especially at the end, because Peter probably isn’t even sure if elias will die. Him saying he’ll wait for eternity could very well be true and it’s the first time we see him care in this fic!!

But the fact is, it’s faraway. He doesn’t know how to miss him in a way that’s not detatched!! And it’s like- you did so much with so little. The way he says he’ll wait for him for all eternity like it’s a promise, like he knows he’ll be alone for so long, and he’s put up this warm facade in this cold place and this should be what he loves-

But it’s not because he’s not here and if that ISNT THE LONELIEST SHIT-

#sorry I brain rotted over this

[painofhumanity]

NAME: Stefan Thomas Salvatore NICKNAME(S): Tom, Tommy, Stef/Steffy (by Damon) D.O.B: November 1st AGE: 17-23 (verse dependent) ORIENTATION: heterosexual SPECIES: human (main) FAMILY: Anthony Salvatore & Maria Salvatore (parents, deceased), Zach Salvatore (paternal first cousin once removed, deceased), Damon Salvatore (distant paternal uncle)

Trigger Warnings: parent death, manipulation, drug use

Stefan Thomas Salvatore grew up an only child with two loving parents. He would say his childhood was pretty uneventful until the day he was told his parents were dead. That day his quiet, normal life was turned completely upside down. He was taken in by his dad's cousin, Zach, and went to live in Mystic Falls in his family's old boarding house.

Still grieving, and adjusting his new life, Tommy didn't know what to think when a strange man showed up at the house who somehow knew him by name. Uncle Zach told him to go to his room, but he sat at the top of the stairs and listened to his uncle and the stranger--Damon--argue. Uncle Zach kept telling Damon he needed to leave, that this wasn't his Stefan--whatever that meant. He didn't get the chance to find out, though, as he heard yelling, and then Damon was crouched on the stairs in front of him, holding his face in his hands and telling him to "be a good boy" and listen to him. . .

Tommy doesn't remember any of that, though. He remembers a mean drunk of a father who would beat him and his mother, and his mother making excuses and covering it up, always telling Tommy not to go telling stories to people. He remembers growing up with an older brother who tried to protect him. He remembers that brother leaving home as soon as he was 18, promising to come back and get Tom when he could. He remembers his older brother drifting in and out of his life, and Uncle Zach being annoyed every time Damon showed up.

When he was 14, Tommy got high for the first time. One of the local boys thought Tommy--a depressed, socially anxious loner who hadn't even started high school yet--needed to loosen up and learn how to have a good time. Like a lot of kids, it just started with pot; Uncle Zach didn't like it, but he figured it was harmless enough, and Tom did seem to be a little more relaxed. But not even halfway through his freshman year, Tom had already moved from just doing pot every now and then to smoking regularly, and doing harder drugs when that wasn't enough to make the pain he was trying to bury go away.

It came to a head when Tom started flunking most of his classes (except for history and English, which seemed to be his favorites). Uncle Zach pulled him out of school and got him into an in-patient rehab for teenagers. By the time sophomore year started, he'd gotten sober and had his head on straight again. Uncle Zach started homeschooling him, though, rather than put him back in Mystic Falls High, because he was worried about the kids that had got him using in the first place would just help him get high again. Tom didn't love this arrangement, but he understood and didn't put up much of a fight.

One night, Tom was out for a run--because a large part of him staying sober was routine, and that included regularly working out--and he heard a crash nearby. He ran over a saw that a car had gone off Whickery Bridge, already mostly submerged in the water. He didn't even think about what he was seeing before taking off towards the river and diving in. He managed to pull out the girl in the back, but her parents were stuck, and they made it clear their daughter needed to be saved first. By the time Tom got her to shore and went back for her parents, they were gone. It didn't stop him from trying, though, and the teenager nearly drowned himself in his stubbornness to "do the right thing".

Tom never told anyone besides his uncle (and later Damon) what he did, saving the girl--that he only later recognized as Elena Gilbert--because he didn't want anyone making him out to be a hero, especially when (in his mind) he was the reason Elena and her brother were now orphans. Between his guilt at not being able to save Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert, and the grief for his own parents that had resurfaced, Tom ended up relapsing not long after. He spent the rest of the school year once again in rehab, then spent the summer convincing Uncle Zach to let him go to Mystic Falls High again, because he needed to feel normal again. That was how he ended up properly meeting Elena, and how his life ended up changing forever.

#{🌿} tom salvatore ; bio #//anyone who thought he'd stay a test muse was as big a fool as i was

[tigirl-and-co]

20. A boss you think is really cool

Hmmm... that's an interesting one! I'm gonna answer with a few different bosses, bc 'cool' could mean a lot of different things

Cool design + concept: Blizzeta from Twilight Princess (her 2nd form also has what's probably my 2nd fave boss theme of all time)! I also like the in-story context for her boss battle so much! (spoilers for Twilight Princess) We know already that the mirror shards are a corrupting force, and earlier we see that the Goron Chief was corrupted by the Fused Shadows. But here we see, via freaky ass cutscene, a character we liked get corrupted in front of us- it's no longer a generic 'beat the bad guy' boss fight, it's a 'saving the innocent' battle with personal stakes! and the cutscene that initiates her battle? Iconic. Everyone in the fandom knew NOT. TAKE. MIRROR. I also have an attachment to her for very personal reasons haha. But yeah her design fucks hard, I wish the combat was as interesting as the rest of her schtick.

Cool (I admire them): Cynthia from pokemon gen 4 are u kidding me I wanted to be her SO BAD as a kid. She wiped the floor with me so many times. I made a sprite edit using her as a base when I was like 12 and used it for an avatar. If I can remember the name of my old forums I'll post it.

Cool as in 'has stuck with me': Honestly a lot of the OG Luigi's Mansion ghosts are cool bc they're like... just people, and it's real wild that the first boss of this nintendo game is somebody's dead mom. But Bogmire stands out for being kind of surprise creepy. I think about it a lot. What's its deal. Yeah it's the personification of the house's misery or whatever, but what does that MEAN. I was like 5 or 6, playing this game, and I go to a hidden graveyard and knock on a big cool gravestone and initiate this battle. For little me, it was the right mix of creepy but engaging. I was nervous but not terrified. I would buy a Bogmire plushie.

Cool as in 'I look forward to it when I play the game': The darknut minibosses from both Wind Waker and Twilight Princess. Yeah the Wind Waker one isn't that tough now that I have a big grown up brain, but it's still neat, and WW Darknuts are my literal all time favourite enemies to fight in any game ever. I never pass up the chance.

The Twilight Princess one, though? Holy shit. I replayed the game like 2 years ago, and that bitch STILL kinda freaked me out! YEAH you can cheese him with the bomb arrows if ur a little bitch, but if you do a genuine bona fide sword fight? That shit's fun as hell. There's this unnameable dread when you first enter that room. You can feel in your BONES that that suit of armor is going to come to life and whoop your ass.

Cool as in most badass/dramatic: oh yeah it's gotta be the Wind Waker final battle. Everything about it RULES. (SPOILERS) You're having a desperate sword fight for your life, a 10 year old kid who left home a month ago vs an ancient warlock who was so powerful the gods themselves had to seal him away.

He won, btw. Like Ganondorf literally wins in WW. It takes KoRL stepping in to DROWN BOTH HIMSELF AND GANONDORF to prevent Ganondorf from getting his wish. So you're trapped in a room, water pouring in on all sides, against a man who... doesn't even hate you. He's just doing what must be done. He could have killed Zelda, but he doesn't. He puts his sword away and backhands her instead of running her through. He's 100% just playing out his destiny. You aren't the one who defeated him the first time, you're just some kid who was dragged into this by a ghost.

And when you kill him BY STABBING YOUR GODDAMN SWORD INTO HIS HEAD, he laughs quietly before delivering one of the most iconic lines in Zelda history. Like that whole battle, from opening cutscene to the final, is so intense. So fucking intense. I'm convinced they couldn't have gotten away with half the shit they do if the game wasn't so cutesy. Easy Teen rating.

Cool as in Best: WW Molgera is 10/10. The fight itself is fun and satisfying! Molgera has a KICK ASS design! It's a fantastic and mood-setting opening cutscene! The sound design on the boss is freaky in all the right ways! It's a UNIQUE boss battle! She's got the greatest boss battle theme in the whole goddamn series and I'll DIE on this hill! She was so scary I cried while watching my dad play when I was little, and once I got to her battle on my own I not only remembered her, it took me two days to work up the courage to face her, and I felt like an absolute fucking badass once I did! In that moment, I fell well and truly in love with video games. I was Link, a child facing down an ancient wyrm, terrified but pressing on.

Also, in the original GCN version of the game, the hitbox on her tongue doesn't go away when she starts flying, so you can hookshot it and force her back into the sand.

Thank you for the ask, doubly so if you actually read all of this haha <333

#ask #blackheart biohazards #LoZ

[luverofralts]

Now I’m curious how your and potentialfate-sims reading of the characters differ, so 1, 2, 6, 7, 8, 10, 12, 16, 25, 31, 34, 38, and 50 for Nathan

Nathan knows how to sew because of Dorhack's strange compulsion to force people to sew for him. Ian was driven insane by it, and Abe has the ability to sew clothing, but will never use the skill. Nathan is probably very good at sewing, but has no real need for it in his life. Aside from that though, Nathan's not big on crafting.

Nathan wears deodorant and maybe some aftershave. He doesn't really care what he smells like to others and hates romantic partners that wear overwhelming scents.

6. Nathan doesn't trust anyone but himself. If he were injured, I could see him going to Jorah because he knows that Jorah is too nice for his own good and he's sympathetic to Lucy's family. He might also go to Nickolas since they were each other's shadows growing up. Nickolas is more focused on building his own life now, which pisses Nathan off, so they'd probably just end up fighting about Nathan's life choices.

7. Nathan has a lot of fears that people would think are unusual, but not to him. He has a lot of fears about demons and his own sanity, but his greatest fears are about finding someone he cares about. If he falls in love or has a friend, then that means he's vulnerable to someone hurting that person, and he's terrified of it. He would really like to date Cindra again, but he's afraid of hurting her in any way. Caring about people makes him feel weak.

8. Nathan collects demonic artifacts and creepy occult books and charms. He and Roman probably have a lot of the same items in their collections, though Nathan can't afford or find some of the things Roman has.

10. Nathan regrets breaking up with Cindra and trying to be her friend, since she’s been in his wants ever since they broke up. He regrets showing his hand to Roman before he knew how strong Roman had gotten. That’s pretty much it, since he loves trolling people and anything someone else would have regrets over, he chalks up as a learning experience to avoid in the future.

12. Nathan dresses pretty casual, sometimes leaning into the bad boy image he hopes he’s projecting. He’s fond of jackets, tight pants and sunglasses.

16. Nathan does not want children. He half expects to die before he’s thirty, and wants to live as much as he can before then. Unfortunately for him, he has three so far in my play through, none of which he knows about and one of which he won’t learn about for years.

25.Not really. Nathan never knows where he’ll end up at the end of the day. Sometimes it’s his dorm, sometimes it’s at a random hookup’s place and sometimes it’s in the middle of a cemetery. No two nights are the same and that’s how he likes it.

31. Nathan would choose to be able to cast out demons most of all, but he wouldn’t mind being invisible. Both because he enjoys gathering intel for his crazy schemes and because it would remind him of the days he and Nickolas hid in the walls and spied on people.

34.Not well. Like his sister, Nathan tends to shut down the emotional part of his brain to function. Late at night, sometimes he finds himself feeling emotions and has to drown them out with his usual vices. He doesn’t grieve for his dad; he just ignores that his dad exists. He grieves for his chance with CIndra, but then sleeps with random people to forget her. Lashing out with words and violence usually gives him something to think about other than his problems.

38. Horrifying mostly. Dreams are where he interacts with the piece of Dorhack embedded within him, and where he processes his trauma and fear. He dreams about Roman a lot because of Dorhack’s interest in him, and he’s partly so interested in testing Roman’s patience because of his frequent dreams. Sometimes he dreams about Theo and how powerful he will be, making him hostile to his nephew for what looks like no reason.

50.My favourite thing about Nathan is his attitude and ability to adapt to any situation. He doesn’t care what happens to him and trolls people purely for his own entertainment. I like when he actually forms an attachment to someone else, but then has to immediately try to sabotage the relationship to maintain his emotional distance. He’s a lot like his sister, but darker and more unhinged.

#sims 2 #arkhelios university #arkhelios #nathan chun #ask game