Oh, Mother, the things I would do Sebastian's hands...
I would start on my knees, looking up through my lashes with fuck me eyes, softly kissing his fingertips and knuckles, nuzzling the back of his hand affectiontely as I slowly kiss my way to his wrist. I lick his radial pulse before kissing it passionately, sucking and nibbling, feeling it thrum against my tongue. I caress his forearm before giving it the same attention as I did his hand, rubbing my cheeks against it like a needy cat, feeling the rough, coarse hair against my face before I start mouthing along straining muscles. I trace the bulging veins with the tip of my tongue, gliding all the way up until they disappear beneath the inside of his elbow. Then I kiss his brachial pulse, sucking and nipping at the thin skin until I leave my mark before working my way down to his wrist again. I start to suck hungrily at his fingers, starting with his thumb, batting my lashes at him as I clean the salt off his skin, finger after finger, moaning softly until he takes my cue, hoping he'll force at least two digits down my throat so micro tears could wet my lashes as I fight against my gag reflex.
Imagine how I'd worship his hand when he's on the bed. :)
GOOD LORD SHOULD I LEAVE THE ROOM LMAOOOAEKFJASGH
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I can't stop thinking of Kyanako's Order of Attack au... there's something so moving to me about how things getting so much worse could be what finally causes Amane to get better -- seeing Fuuta dying may be the final straw of getting her to rethink her rejection of medicine. Been a while since I've attempted something whump-y, this was fun to work with.
Tw for mentions/contemplation of death. I don't go into detail about the cult but the doctrines are implied through it all.
Fuuta was not a big fan of dying.
When he imagined his own death, he always pictured it as something dramatic and fast. Action heroes going out in a show of explosions and gunfire. Fantasy characters meeting the shining end of a blade. Even when he accepted his place in Milgram, it filled his mind with images of gallows and electric chairs.
Whatever this slow, lengthy fever was, it was pissing him off.
He’d lost all sense of time. He could no longer tell which hour the prison bells were marking -- morning and night blended together. Dreaming and waking blended together. His head injury and broken leg and broken bones blended together. It was all just pain at the end of the day. He had nonstop visitors that kept him awake and asked him too many questions and prodded his injuries and made his head spin. Somehow, he was simultaneously alone every time he rolled over to talk to someone. Painfully, suffocatingly alone.
If Kotoko was going to kill him with those ridiculous emo boots of hers, she should have just done it. He was losing his mind here: devoid of all energy, suffering through broken bones and a cracked head, and boiling in an increasingly fiery fever. Maybe that was the reason he stopped commenting when he watched Amane pocket the medicine Shidou had left him. Maybe that was why he’d stopped following Shidou’s instructions himself. Even after losing an eye and taking a beating herself, Amane always looked at peace. He was tired of dealing with all of this. He wanted a bit of that peace.
Regardless of why, it was working. His fever had quickly gone from the biggest pain in his ass to the very thing that dulled his racing thoughts.
He awoke suddenly, or maybe he’d already been awake. He couldn’t feel anything in his limbs. There was only a breathless heat around him. He raised himself into a sitting position, looking for a drink. Moving his head felt like one of those glitching computer windows that leaves a trail of copies behind it. The room swam around him. His eyes moved absently around him.
Fuuta picked up the glass that someone had left him. His fingers were clumsy, and it immediately went crashing to the ground. He hardly heard the noise as it broke apart on the concrete below.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d just go get a drink himself. Shidou told him not to get up without help. But what did he know? Thinking of the man ordering him around only drove Fuuta to step out of bed even quicker. He cried out, pain shooting through his leg. That was right, it was broken…
Fuuta looked down, finding himself on the ground. It was so hot. Maybe this is what she felt, he thought numbly. Was it this slow for her too? Probably not. She had no regrets to fill the time like he did. The heroes got quick, beautiful deaths, and it was the villains who had to suffer the long ones.
He lifted his right palm from where it had caught his fall. The shattered glass on the floor had cut into it. Shattered glass? What had broken? He stared blankly at the blood dripping down.
He didn’t have the strength to raise himself up. He was burning. Why was he on the ground? Was he bleeding? He could barely breathe. What was he doing here, anyway? He just wanted to curl up and sleep. He was so weak... just to lie down... he wouldn't have the strength to get back up again. Was that such a bad thing...?
A voice caught his attention. His eyes struggled to focus on the figure who’d come running into the cell. He couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying, but he was happy when she pressed her cool little hands against his forehead.
He allowed her to prop him up next to the bed. She held onto his hand, squeezing it tight. Why was she holding it like that? That hand was bleeding. When did that happen?
Her arms wrapped tightly around him. He wanted to shove her away -- it was too hot -- but couldn’t. In his ear, he could make out her words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, Fuuta. Don’t leave me alone. I’m so sorry...”
As she pulled back, he recognized Amane. Her uninjured eye was filled with tears. Was she upset? He thought he’d been making her happy. He wanted to keep making her happy. He’d never made anyone happy before.
He opened his mouth to say something, but no words would come out. They all scrambled up in his mouth. He felt the cell swirling around him.
Amane raised her voice. She looked desperately upwards. “This can’t be --! This isn’t right!”
Fuuta looked up at the ceiling. There was nothing there.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
She continued talking. Fuuta was too busy studying the ceiling. She was shouting. Or maybe crying. Fuuta didn’t like that she was so upset. Huh, had there been someone there? He surveyed the empty cell. What was he doing on the ground?
He looked down at his hand. The sheet from his bed had been pulled down and wrapped hastily around it. Why? His eyes felt sticky as he blinked. Everything hurt. It was so hot. What was going on? He was so angry. He was so scared. He wanted to cry. Why was he here? Why couldn’t he just hurry up and die already?
The next time she entered, Fuuta recognized Amane instantly. Her one hand pointed to him, the other held onto someone else. The second figure hurried over to him.
Fuuta was not a big fan of dying. Shidou reassured him he wouldn’t.
—
“You’re wearing the eyepatch,” Fuuta observed.
He was playing a dangerous game, drawing attention to it like that. He was too exhausted, and his curiosity won out over his better judgment. If Amane was going to explode with one of her typical speeches, he’d just let her.
She didn’t.
Amane’s hand drifted up to her eye. It had been hastily covered before, but now it was cleaned and wrapped in professional-grade materials. She simply said, “Kajiyama Fuuta. How do you feel?”
“Like shit.”
“But--”
“-- But I’m better, yeah.”
Amane nodded, her shoulders releasing.
“Oi, I haven’t seen you in a while. Not since…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. Shidou had told him what happened, but it was difficult to believe. He couldn’t quite trust his own memory of the night. No matter how much clearer his mind felt since receiving proper treatment, those days of fever still muddled together. He heard that Amane had up and switched her beliefs overnight -- she was now complacent about all of Shidou's treatments -- but Fuuta knew people didn't just change like that. He wanted to hear it for himself.
She lowered her gaze in shame. “I… I thought you hated me.” Her voice was steady. “As you should. I almost killed you. I accept any ill will you may feel.”
“I -- what? You’re wrong. You… it wasn’t…” He grabbed his head, grunting in frustration.
After standing awkwardly in the entryway the whole time, Amane took a few steps inside. She made it to his bedside when he finally collected his thoughts.
“It was your fucked up family or whatever that caused everything. They did this. And I went along and made things worse.” He looked away. His next words felt stupid to say to a little kid. He felt like the most pathetic, weak, loser. But it was too important not to say.
“They almost killed me. You saved me.”
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Derek the Doggo
Now, I've read a few Sterek AU fics where Derek has to pretend he's a dog/wolf and gets adopted by Stiles, who is none the wiser. Stiles usually talks to his "pet" in these as if he were talking to a person.
That's nice and all, but can someone PLEASE give me a Stiles that speaks to fully-shifted wolf Derek like a tumblr millennial raised on the internet? Like the single, poorly socialized, unhinged, expending-waaaay-too-much-energy-into-his-"fur-baby" dog-mom I know he'd be?
Like, Stiles holding up a mirror up to Derek and going "It you!"
Or, when Derek lays belly-up, paws to the ceiling, and stretches his toes wide, Stiles says sagely, "Ah, yes.The beans are coming in nicely this year."
Or Stiles putting Derek in a hotdog costume.
Or decorating his entire place with balloons and streamers and ordering an elaborate, dog-safe cake made of peanut butter and Milkbones to celebrate their one-month-iversary since the adoption.
Stiles hiring a professional baby photographer for a photoshoot.
Stiles setting up a Zoom call for Derek with another friend's dog, in which, Derek just sits there, looking awkwardly between Stiles and the other dog like "What exactly am I supposed to do here?", because he's a full grown man expected to have a "conversation" over videochat with a dog like they're supposed to bark back and forth about the weather or park recommendations or something.
Stiles making Derek a Twitter account and constantly posting as him in doggo speak (which he reads out loud, in a voice he imagines Derek would have, as he types). Like "Henlo! I is heckin good boi derk! Big anger! Much grump!" Or "No bork. Only O\m/O". Or "Mmmm hooman shoes omnomnomnom 😋"
And when Derek tears into things or misbehaves in an attempt to upset Stiles, he's just met with a psuedo-stern "Wuh-oh. Looks like Hurricane Derek strikes again. I hereby sentence you to 3 hours of cruel and unusual punishment!" Before being put in a cone of shame.
Bonus points if, after Derek shifts back, it turns out Stiles already knew he was a werewolf (maybe not the whole time, but definitely early on). He just wanted to see how far he could push things until the mysterious werewolf he had adopted finally showed himself and revealed whatever he was planning.
(If there is, by miracles of miracles, already a fic like this, recs would by greatly appreciated!)
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Something I love when it comes to Mario and Luigi’s room is that Luigi has a red tennis racket on his side of the room and Mario has a green book and green sticky notes on his side of the room. I don’t know why but I love that little detail
Oh yes! YES I feel you!!!
I can easily envision Luigi putting little green sticky note reminders for Mario on the cork board, or reading a book while Mario works at his desk before absentmindedly laying his novel atop the workspace.
I can see Mario coming in from a long exhausting day of tennis and casually leaning the racket against the wall on his brother's side of the room before settling in to play some videogames with him.
Mario and Luigi are different, but they aren't divided, and though they keep things relatively neat they are comfortable enough with each other that their stuff gets mingled.
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