#ramblingpug fanfiction

[liquorisce]

The Substitute, part 1

Pairings : EruRi, Rivetra (Shingeki no Kyojin)

Rating : T (at least for this chapter), with some angst, romance, and a little bit of shitty humour in the middle

A/N : I couldn’t write anything for Rivetra week and of late I’ve been having major Levi feels, so here goes. 

He’s always hated hospitals. He doesn’t understand the enthusiasm behind rushing the near-dying to this under staffed pit of chemicals and misplaced hope.

Shrouded in despair, It smelt of tears and corpses.

It reminded him of his mother.

…

Light eyelashes flutter soundlessly as blue eyes awoke in a drugged haze.

Levi hears them anyway.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he mutters, having materialized by the bed side, holding on to the tubes gingerly so that Erwin could sit up straight.

There’s a sharp, gutting pain in his left rib as he changes positions but serving in the Survey corps has helped him master his ability to mask his emotions.

Serving under Erwin Smith, a man who never gives anything away, Levi has become a master in reading these emotions, regardless.

“… The mission was a failure,” he says quietly.

A small smile forms on Erwin’s rough, chapped lips. It infuriates him.

“… No. We learnt something important.”

That even the Commander of the Survey Corps can be crushed in the hands of a Titan, in less than a fucking second, he thinks bitterly.

“… We cannot have freedom if we keep hesitating, Levi.”

And once again Levi understands the depth of the distance between them, the myopia of his vision, and the inevitability of his heartbreak.

“Keep this up,” he snarls, before storming out of the medical ward, “… and all I will have left is your dead carcass.”

…

It’s past midnight, and 3 bottles of whisky and his squad is engaged in conversation that he’s pretty sure makes sense to none of them.

“… She said she doesn’t want to marry me,” Gunther cries, with real, fat tears in his eyes, clutching his glass like it was his only lifeline. “She-she,” he stutters with a sob, “says that if I’m so hell bent on going beyond the walls and getting myself killed, she doesn’t want a future with me.”

Erd pats his back awkwardly and reaches to refill his glass.

“… It’s the sex,” Auruo declares. “Women will never say it to you straight, but it’s obvious that the sex isn’t good enough.”

“… Auruo!” Petra gasps, “I’m sure she,” –

- “… You’ve got to give it give it to her hard and fast. You can’t be a pussy in bed the same way you are while fighting Titans. The last woman I banged just couldn’t get enough of me, you know. She kept begging,” –

- “FOR FUCK’S SAKE. Just the shut the fuck up, you pig head,” Petra bit out, unable to take his self-indulgent sniggering any longer, “We all know that the only woman who’s ever given you the time of the day was your mother, and that’s because she didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Erd guffaws, choking on his drink. “Erd, stop drinking already, you’re piss-drunk and you know we wanted to save the last bottle for next time. We don’t know when we’ll get this luxury of time and alcohol again.”

“… The love of my life hates me,” comes a whine that nobody really wants to deal with anymore.

She sighs, “Gunther, you two obviously just had a fight. She’s scared, for obvious reasons. We all are. She’s just worried about you. You’re lucky you have someone like that in your life. Just go talk to her before we leave tomorrow, okay?” She squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“Now you idiots just go get some sleep already. We’ve got drills in the morning.”

“… You’re not the boss of us, Petra,” Auruo pouts, sticking out his lip in an utterly childish way that he will deny tomorrow, with all his sobriety, that he ever did.

“Well I am,” says a voice from the corner, a unique mix of faintly amused and beyond irritated, “and I agree with her. She’s the only one that ever speaks any sense among you loons. Now beat it. We’re done for the night.”

“… Ah, Captain, I didn’t see you there,” she says meekly, running a self-conscious hand through the back of her hair. “I apologize for being so noisy.”

The corners of his mouth lift up in a smirk. “… Don’t. It was entertaining.”

She feels the praise heat up her cheeks and turns away awkwardly. “W-wow, would you look at the mess we’ve made!” She bends and begins to pick up the bottles and glasses, “I’ll just finish cleaning this up and then go to bed, Cap,” –

- “I’ll help,” he says, and it takes a second for her to realise how close he is.

It takes another for that very same realization to completely screw with her head and cause her to lose her balance, letting the glass fall to the floor.

“… I’m so sorry,” she squeaks, utterly mortified by her gracelessness. There’s alcohol all over her white uniform shirt, shards all over the floor and under her hands, as she tries to lift herself off the floor -  

- “Slow down,” he snaps, “You’re fucking bleeding everywhere, Petra!”

She glances down at her palms and sure enough it’s oozing deep red. “… It’s fine,” she gulps, more as an affirmation to herself than him, “I’m fine, I’ll just,” –

He grabs her up by the arm and seats her gingerly on the chair, before heading to the supply cabinet. “Captain,” she starts, her voice still a little shaky, “I can,” –

- “Just sit,” he commands, in this voice that he rarely uses outside out of emergency Titan-related situations, the kind that says I’m your superior, so shut the fuck up and listen to me.

So, she does. He’s quite as he wedges the shards out of her skin, holding her hand delicately as she winces. The sting of the medicinal alcohol is a welcome distraction from his fingers on her and his ridiculously delicious proximately.

Ridiculous, because she knows she’s the only one harbouring these unneeded, pesky feelings.

“Be careful,” he scolds, his voice low, “… we shed enough blood as it is.”

It was the sombre, cold, hard truth. The SC were little more than a rapidly exhaustive resource.

She tries to shift his attention. “Why weren’t you drinking with us today?”

He’d been drinking by himself in the corner anyway, he could’ve just sat with the squad even if he didn’t verbally participate in their nonsense, like he usually did.

He takes so long to answer that she almost thinks he won’t.

“… There were some things on my mind,” he murmurs, finishing up the wrap on her bandage and standing up. “There, we’re done. Now you can go upstairs to your bunk, I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

He expects a protest, typical of Petra, but instead, “… Was it about the Commander?”

He swivels to look at her. “Why would you ask that?” He blurts, tone harsh.

“… Is he getting better?”

“They haven’t ruled out the chances of lower limb paralysis yet,” he states quietly.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to keep talking but he continues, “… maybe it’s better this way.”

“What do you mean?”

“… Maybe this way he wouldn’t have to go out there anymore…”

“Captain,” she says in a low tone, “he’s the Commander of the Survey Corps, he can’t just sit inside,” –

- “Exactly,” he snaps, exasperated, “how is he supposed to be humanity’s hope if he’s fucking dead?”

“Humanity’s hope…,” she hesitates, wondering if she’s pushing too far, “or yours?”

He narrows his eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

…

She’s afraid to say it. Not because Levi is her superior and speaking out of turn may jeopardize her career. Not because she’s afraid of him.

She’s afraid that the moment she does say it, she’ll know it was true.

“I saw you,” she whispers, “when you took him to the hospital.”

The fear, the anger, the helplessness.

“… You didn’t move, didn’t eat, didn’t look away from him, till he woke up. For 3 days, Captain.”

She had heard it when she lingered back a little longer because she was worried for him.

The broken, undeniable note of a sob.

“… You wouldn’t understand,” he murmurs, bitterly.

She didn’t need to see his ashen face to know it was true.

She’d known, suspected his feelings for the longest time.

Ever since she’d known hers.

“… You’re in love with him… Aren’t you?”

~TBC~

#eruri #rivetra #rivetra week #shingeki no kyojin #ramblingpug fanfiction #levi ackerman #erwin smith #petra ral

[liquorisce]

The SyaoSaku Shenanigans, Chapter 4

Short update because I’ve been overrun with feels thanks to the new anime. 

I know a lot of you have been asking for wedding night Syaosaku sexy time, but that will come. Don’t worry. You have no idea how much I value all your comments and suggestions. 

In the meantime, I present to you, a glimpse (Syaoran POV) of how it all started...

[You can read the previous chapters here : FF.net/Ao3]

The Beginning

Rated M.

Syaoran's been losing sleep.

 …

It's been driving him crazy for weeks.

It's just his imagination, he tells himself, because it surely can't be that Sakura's actually been wearing a new perfume, wearing her skirt rolled up 3 inches, and… is that lip gloss he sees on her small, delicious mouth?!

It's gotten to the point where Sakura - sweet, loving, girlfriend that she is - felt his forehead to make sure he wasn't running a temperature.

"Hmmm," she worries, "You don't seem to have a fever… But you seem so tired lately, Syaoran-kun. Is everything okay?"

No, he wants to scream, to the vast, unfair forces of the world, everything is most certainly not okay, because even though she just asked him a question, all he is - acutely - aware of, is the way her hand felt on his skin, how soft her skin is and would be in places that he is battling his mind to stay away from, and the fact that she was so close, he could literally smell her lip gloss.

Strawberry.

 ...

"I smell trouble in Paradise," Yamazaki quips, one day, after football practice where Syaoran has positively channeled his frustration. "What's up with you and Kinomoto-san?"

"… Nothing," he bites out, Yamazaki's sing-song voice doing its best to bring the agitation back to the surface. "I'm fine."

"… Sakura's fine." ... But damn is she fine.

"… We're fine," he stresses, sounding utterly, completely, contrarily stressed.

"… You know what they say about couples being unable to talk about their problems," -

- "Stop," he groans, not wanting to hear about the possibility of how in Ancient Egypt couples wrapped each other in mummification paper to solve their issues - or some other dubious information of a similar bullshit level, that he always ends up believing –

"It's just…" he hesitates, and for good reason, because one - he sincerely doubts he's going to be taken seriously and two - everything he says will eventually, with utmost surety reach Mihara's ears, and therefore, run the risk of reaching Sakura.

He doesn't want to worry her, after all.

But he's losing his goddamn mind.

"… I can't sleep," he confesses, not wanting to elaborate that his sleeplessness is entirely self-induced after that one mortifying morning, where he'd woken up with a strange, satisfying bliss, only for it to be ruined by the embarrassing wetness he felt at his groin.

But alas, Yamazaki was far sharper than Syaoran had considered, and far more experienced in these matters of courtship. It hadn't taken long for him to put two and two together. 

The glint in his astonishingly open eyes - Syaoran had never seen Yamazaki's eyes open outside of football and Chiharu's affectionate physical abuse - was terrifying. 

"Oh," he breathes, sounding creepily fascinated, "Dear, sweet Li-kun is finally growing into a man."

... Syaoran wholeheartedly regrets his decision to open his mouth to his sorry excuse for a friend.

"Not to worry," Yamazaki chirps, having snapped out of his eerie daze, "… I have just the thing for you."

He whips out his cellphone, only to seriously peruse something, his phone following up with an innocuous ping.

"I've sent you everything you need to make yourself," - he looks at Syaoran knowingly - "you know, feel better." 

"… Wait," Syaoran asks, sounding totally confused, "… what do you," -

-  "… It's not your fault, Li-kun," he whispers conspiratorially, "Sakura-chan really does seem to be getting more and more beautiful with every passing day." He sighs, dramatically. "… A true cherry blossom."

"Bastard," Syaoran growls, "Don't you dare look at Sakura that way" -

- "… There's no need to thank me! We men must to help each other out. Well then, I must be going now! Chiharu-chan must be waiting for me. Bye!"

And he literally, zooms out of Syaoran's reach before Syaoran can sock him for checking Sakura out.

…

It's only after dinner and his 'goodnight' phone call to Sakura that he gets time to look at the e-mail that Yamazaki had sent him.

From : [email protected]

To : [email protected]

Subject : Have fun! ^_^

pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=1679182456

P.S : Make sure to wear earphones and keep your room door locked.

P.P.S : I forgot, you live alone, so forget what I said above and go crazy.

Love,

Yamazaki

Syaoran's ears burn at the sight of the url. 

He knows what it is. 

Just because he's never been to the dark side of the internet doesn't mean he's been living under a rock all this while. 

He's rapidly punching Chinese curse words into his reply the same way he wishes he could punch Yamazaki in person.

But Syaoran is fifteen, tender and precious, and completely at the mercy of hormones.

... So he clicks on the link.

…

The girl is somewhat pretty - he does his best not to focus only on her boobs and also look at her face - and the clip is fairly short.

Syaoran figures five minutes of internet voyeurism isn't going to send him to hell.  

He watches as she smiles up at the guy - his face isn't visible, but what role does a guy's face play in a porno anyway? - taking his thing in her hand, giving a few short strokes.

Then without warning, or preamble, she proceeds to stuff the whole, entire thing down her throat.

He watches in morbid fascination as she bobs up and down a couple of times, resurfacing for air, a thin strand of sticky saliva stretching between her mouth and the tip.

He's caught between the odd feeling of his dinner rising in his throat, and wanting to unbutton his jeans, because man is it getting tight in there.

There's a shiver that runs down his spine, that doesn't feel too bad to be honest, just guilty and a little bit shameful, and that just intensifies the feeling further.

He's certain he can't watch this any longer and he shuts off his cellphone in a panic.

Beads of sweat have lined up his forehead, his breathing heavy, the friction of his jeans getting impossible to bear.

Shower, he thinks, thoughts in a haze, wanting to strip himself of these clothes, hot, sticky and tight.

The cool air hits him first, followed by the steady stream of lukewarm water.

His breathing is loud, strained like the lower half of him.

He only touches himself with the intention to calm himself down, to make this strung-up, intense feeling go away, but it's like nature's passed down some kind of weird knowledge, instinctively teaching him to curl his fist around himself.

The feeling throws him off guard. It's crazy, the way he's instinctively jerking, gracelessly, with no rhythm, into his own palm, but it's a heightening, maddening rush of pleasure that he's never known before.

And he'd thought he was going to die of excitement when Sakura threw her arms around him and hugged him. He’d had no idea -

Fuck.

... Sakura.

It was a dangerous, arbitrary thought. And now it had sparked a series of unbidden images in his head - Sakura on her knees, gloriously naked, smiling at him, smiling at his -he needed to calm the fuck down, goddammit.

He shouldn't be thinking of her this way. 

... They hadn't even kissed, for god's sake! 

He'd always treated her courteously, looking after her, eating lunch with her, walking home from her… loving her.

... From a distance.

But this dark, suppressed corner of his mind reasons that it's not because he doesn't respect her that he wants her this way - he does, so much, and even more so when his mind wanders there anyway - to the sight of her taking him in her mouth, tongue laving up and down his length, her mouth warm and exquisite, he loses control.

It takes a minute for him to regain control of his breathing.

It takes another for the guilt to consume him. He'd beat himself up if he could, for thinking of Sakura this way.

It's a disgusting mess he's created in reaction to a truly beautiful image in his head, and he watches the water swirling it down the drain, wishing desperately, for it to wash his shame away along with it. 

~ TBC ~

Sorry for the abrupt ending! :P  Watch out for Sakura’s POV, coming soon!

Hatemail - for completely assassinating Syaoran’s character - and other comments are always appreciated in my inbox! <3

#syaosaku #cardcaptor sakura #cardcaptor sakura clear card arc #li syaoran #kinomoto sakura #ramblingpug fanfiction

[liquorisce]

I love your writing but I wish you’d update your fics sooner :( :(

Thank you for the compliment, lovely anon!  I’m working on my commitment issues. I’ll do my best to write more often. ^_^

#ramblingpug fanfiction #syaosaku #rivetra

[liquorisce]

Photograph (aka Put a name on it Part 3)

Pairing : Shishio Satsuki x Samejima   Rating : T (Surprise, Surprise)   Summary : This story is set before Shishio and Samejima start screwing, um, sorry, seeing each other. Part 1 | Part 2 | short extra For my darling Anon who requested protective Shishio. Forgive me if this isn’t what you had in mind.

  When Shishio is restless, he taps his feet. Or smokes. Or does both. He isn’t agitated enough for a smoke, a little perplexed maybe, but his feet are starting to hurt with all the tapping.   It’s ten minutes past seven, he’s finished his french toast, it’s not a problem for him per se - the school is only fifteen minutes away, and he’d make it with plenty of time to spare - but she should’ve been at his door at least twenty minutes ago, being impatient and helping him with his tie - of course it wasn’t couple like at all - and made it on to the train by now. Her workplace was a bit of a distance away and she preferred the lighter rush of the earlier trains.   Today, the extra toast he had made - not for her of course, but just in case, because she never has the time to make breakfast - sat on the stove, untouched. 

  It’s not like it was a  thing, but she hadn’t shown up last night for the  9 PM showing of F.R.I.E.N.D.S either. He didn’t expect her to come over, it’s not like they’d ever even talked about it or anything, but… It had slowly developed into a sort of natural routine that he hadn’t  ever questioned, and now at the first break of that routine, he found himself worried and anxious.   Had he said something that put her off? Had he offended her sensibilities somehow? It occurs to him that he’s bordering paranoid and maybe a little stalker-ish but upon checking Facebook, it tells him she was only active 15 hours ago.   He could check on her of course, she literally lived right next door. But what if she was busy? What if she was avoiding him specifically? The last thing he wanted to do was be a bother and jeopardize a relationship with the first woman he genuinely cared about in six years.   He heads out to the balcony for that smoke, because maybe he does need it now after all. Ruffling his hair in frustration, he wonders when exactly the equation had shifted, when it had grown from simply being neighbourly to something he now considered as a relationship. With a woman. That he cared about.   It is somewhere amidst this confused introspection that he glances in the direction of her balcony. He squints a little, adjusts his glasses because he’s sure he can’t believe what he’s seeing.   The sliding door to her balcony was slightly ajar, and a pale hand stretched out onto the floor.   Before he could stop to think about a plausible explanation, or even some gruesome rationale, he had already discarded all neighbourly boundaries and swung into her balcony.   And it was a good thing he did.   She lay on the floor, paler than the white flooring, almost ghostly white against the dark, damp hair that stuck to her forehead.   “… Samejima!” There was no use shaking her. Her body was like pallid marble set on fire. For a moment he felt somewhat guilty looking at her like this, where she was unconscious, vulnerable, her nightshirt having ridden up to expose the contours of her ribs.   He tries, as delicately as possible, to hoist her into his arms without waking her. But his worries were baseless, her face showed no indication of any awareness at all.   He is caught with more deliberation, as he hesitates outside her room, whispering, “Forgive me, Samejima,” for entering her room without permission. When he enters he is a little shocked, because her room is far from what he had imagined it to be. Not that he had imagined it of course, being in her room, with her, or anything else of that sort, but the chaotic mess in front of him was a sharp contrast to the image of her that his mind had construed.   It is at this point that he starts to feel slightly unwelcome, because maybe there’s a reason she’s never invited him over, maybe there was something she didn’t want others to see. Hastily, he pushes the assortment of papers and clothes and god knows what else, on to the floor, and lays her down as gently as he can.   She stirs slightly, when he covers her with the blanket, her body stretching to accommodate the warmth. There’s a kind of staccato about her, a melancholy that bathes her face, something so stark he wonders how he never noticed it behind her straightforwardness.   Her room is almost bare save for the mindless clutter of belongings he had just tossed to the floor, and her bathroom was no better. It didn’t make sense to him. She’d told him she’d been in Tokyo for the last one year. He’d seen her move in three months ago. Yet this place showed no more signs of being inhabited than a deserted apartment, her suitcase strewn open, clothes folded haphazardly on top, toothbrush sticking out of the side pockets. The whole picture screamed of a restless detachment, one he had never sensed in her till now, one that had never surfaced from behind her placid smile, and her impeccable formal attire.   He manages to fish out a towel, a small blush heating his cheeks as he maneuvers through her more ‘private’ category of clothing, and as he runs it in cold water, he wonders if there’s someone he could call, someone who  could take care of her. He remembers mentioning Yukichi, Suzume even, she’s met Tsubomi, he’s even talked about his grandma. But she hadn’t told him anything. He didn’t know - for sure, at least - if she was single, if she had friends… She had never even mentioned her parents! The wet towel manages to soak up some heat, and he can already see some blood back in her cheeks. Her mouth hangs open, and it occurs to him that through all their late night conversations and mindless squabbles on the way to work, it’s only been him talking, and somehow she’s managed to perfect the art of talking without really saying anything.   There’s a stinging sensation in him, somewhere, deep inside, and as he brushes the damp hair away from her forehead, he realises it’s an ache, a longing, to know more.   Slumping beside her sleeping figure on the floor, his eyes rest on the colossal mess of paper and tiny trinkets on the floor. There’s a drawing of Yona, the protagonist of a popular shoujo manga (that Shishio no doubt follows). It’s just a rough sketch, with some pencil shading, and a upon closer inspection there’s a tiny illegible signature at the bottom. For a moment he forgets the place he’s in, the situation and everything, and his eyes light up in excitement, when he spots the hand-written message on top saying “For Satsuki”.   She’d probably tease him right now, squeeze her eyes shut and joke about his smile blinding his eyes, but it falls short of just that, when his eyes fall on a tattered photograph that was just about hidden by the drawing.   It took a minute for Shishio to realise what he was looking at. It took a minute more for him to register the strange, clawing sensation in his heart.   It’s almost as if the picture was taken in another world, a parallel dimension, where the Samejima he knows was replaced by a younger one, slightly more girlish, long, dark hair cascading down her shoulders, a smile nearly thrice the size of her hesitant half-grin-half-smirk, that she sported these days.   There was something about the picture that rendered Shishio unable to believe that it was the same woman who lay behind him out cold, something that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. It was almost an innocent charm, a vivacity… Or maybe it was just love.   Because there she stood, white dress, flowers, and a beautiful smile hidden behind a veil, looking with adoration into a man’s eyes. It felt so personal, the look they shared, the way she held his arm, the ring on her finger… Shishio felt guilty for even looking.   The clock on his cellphone showed 7.45. He’d make it to class on time if he hurried. She was sleeping peacefully enough, maybe he could come back during lunch and check on her.   More than anything, he was overcome by an indefatigable urge to run from this room, from her… It felt like he had overstayed his welcome anyway.   He got up, his heart beating faster than normal, wondering if maybe he was the one with a fever, careful to sidestep the photograph on the floor, trying even harder to not look at it again. It was stupid really, but he just didn’t like it, didn’t like the fact that he had to be here, unwelcome, and chance upon it himself, hated even more that that she never told him.   He wants nothing more than to run out of the door and pretend he hasn’t seen anything at all… Till a pale, sweaty hand reaches for his last finger feebly, stopping him in his tracks.   “… Satsuki… stay.”   She motions for him to come sit next to her again, gesturing with her hands weakly. He’s not sure she’s aware of what she’s doing when he feels her hands, hot and a little sweaty, reach for his, bringing him closer to her.   “Like this,” she breathes, placing his hand on her head, and patting it softly. “… My mother… does this… when I’m sick…”   “… Ohh,” is all he can manage, because his mind is processing too many things all of a sudden - like the feel of her damp hair under his fingers, the fact that she’d brought up her mother, the wistfulness he’s sure he glimpsed under the fever induced haze of her eyes… and the almost - painful constriction of his heart.    …   Thud.   Muffled shouting.   Thud Thud Thud.   The noises rang loud and strange down the stairway of his apartment. He didn’t know what the commotion was. A little kid locked outside the house maybe?   Thud thud. The banging on the door grew louder as he climbed the stairs. It didn’t sound like the doing of a child anymore.   “… I know you’re there. Open up.” It was a man’s voice. And it sounded like it was coming from his floor.   An unsettling feeling of foreboding washes over him.   “… Open the door, Samejima.” Shishio’s heart almost stops.   She’s older than him - by just three months - and he’s never doubted how capable she is of taking care of herself, but there’s something in the man’s tone of voice that sends shivers down his spine.         His feet move faster, his heart thudding in his ears.   Shishio reaches his floor just in time to see him lean against her door and whisper, menacingly, “… I know you’re listening, sweetheart. Let me in. Or I will break your door if I have to.”   He’s dressed simply, yet powerfully, grey shirt, black trousers and a tie that screams money. Shishio’s green sweater and jeans wouldn’t hold a candle to it, but he doesn’t stop really stop to think. “… Can I help you?” he asks, his voice a stranger to himself.   “… I don’t think it’s any of your business,” the man replies with a polite, perfunct smile that didn’t help to hide the fury in his threatening gaze.   “… You’re standing in front of my door,” Shishio retorts, levelling his gaze, “I believe it’s entirely my business.” It wasn’t his door of course, but he didn’t need to know that.   There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he didn’t believe Shishio, like there was no way, he could be wrong. “… I would like to speak with her.” His tone is measured, clipped, but the tick in his jaw gives away his anger.   “I’m afraid I have no clue who you’re talking about.”   Doing his best to keep calm, Shishio moves to stand in between him and the door, inwardly afraid that if he lets him close, he might actually do good on his promise to break it down.    When he looks him in the eye, pale blue under a mop of startling blond hair, it strikes him that there’s something familiar about this man, something that he can’t quite place his finger on, like he’s seen him before.   “… Seeing as I can’t help you, I’d like you to leave.” His eyes narrow, and before he can say anything else, I add, “… Before I call the police.”   A faint smile plays out on his lips. Maybe the psychiatric facility would be a more suitable option for this guy.   “I know you can hear me,” he snarls, his voice low, but his gaze straight ahead, as if he could see straight through Shishio, “… you can’t hide forever, sweetheart.”   There’s something in the way he speaks, something so proprietary, that had Shishio clenching his fists involuntarily, like he knew she was in there, knew he would find her, knew everything that there was to know about her.   Most of all, he spoke like Samejima belonged to him.   And it made Shishio sick.   …     Watching from the corridor above as the blonde man exited the apartment building, this whole experience has left such a bad aftertaste that Shishio considers calling the cops anyway and providing a complete description of Samejima’s stalker, maybe even demand that he be arrested for harassment.   But first he needed to confront her.   There was something that had left him disturbed after last week’s incident, when she had fallen sick so suddenly, collapsing in her house only for a panicked Shishio to break into her house and find her sprawled on the ground hours later.   Her behaviour towards him hadn’t changed much, she still smiled at him the same, still criticised his French toast. But he couldn’t look at her the same way anymore. Not after knowing that there was so much behind that smile that she wore on the outside, so much she didn’t tell him.   He had found himself looking at her just a little bit more closely, trying hard to see the cracks that she hid so well.   The only thing that had changed was that one night after dinner and laughing too hard over Chandler’s jokes, she just casually hung her spare keys on his key stand and told him, “I’d like you to keep these for me.”   When he had looked at her astonished, she had simply smiled and said, “Surely the front door has to be easier than the balcony.”   He rings the bell well after he’s made sure her stalker is nowhere to be seen, because he knows she’s in there, she was supposed to have dinner with him ten minutes ago.   She doesn’t open the door, even after four bells, but it’s kind of expected really, there was a sinister, obsessed stalker at her door barely five minutes ago. He hesitates, because he’s not entirely sure if he should, but there’s a gut-wrenching feeling that tells him he needs to see her and it cannot wait till tomorrow so he fetches his set of keys and enters the house.   It’s so dark inside, he begins to wonder if she really is home after all. Turning on the flashlight on his phone, he can tell the house is just as barren as when he was in here a week ago, but now with no light, a crazy man showing up at the door, and a house that looked completely uninhabited, it was kind of eerie, to say the least.   “… Samejima?” he whispers, when his gaze finally falls on the faint outline of a crumpled figure in the darkness. It scares him to see her like this, like someone he can’t even recognize, frozen in terror, cheeks wet with silent tears, lips gnawed and bitten till it had drawn blood.   What happened to you, he wants to ask, and who the fuck, was that man pounding at your door?   But she’s crouched in the corner, curled into herself, shivering with all her tears drained out of her, and Shishio knows that the answers can wait.   “… Hey,” he whispers softly, turning off the light and taking her in his arms. ‘… I’m here.“ She’s stiff, non-responsive, but Shishio does his best to be patient, afraid that the woman who’d started to creep into his life, his every day, his thoughts, might literally fall apart in his embrace.   “He found me…,” she croaks, so soft, Shishio wonders if he’s imagining it. “… He found me… Again.” She chokes on a sob, and he hears the panic in her voice, the fear. “… I can’t do this anymore, I have to leave,” – - “… Shh!” He says cupping her face, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to acknowledge him, for once, trying to get through to her that she can rely on him, that she doesn’t have to face this – whatever this was - alone anymore, because he can’t bear the thought of her leaving, “… It doesn’t matter if he found you.” And he doesn’t think about what he’s doing, just lets his lips brush against hers, damp with blood and tears, and whispers, tenderly against her cheeks, “… I’ll protect you.”

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

A/N: I literally deleted this story by accident because i fucking around on mobile, and i deeply apologize. As always, I really appreciate anyone who has the patience to stick around to the end and stick with stories. xo

#shishio x samejima #shimejima #shishio satsuki #samejima #hirunaka no ryuusei #ramblingpug fanfiction #anon requests

[liquorisce]

The Golden Girl

Pairing : Jughead x Betty, Veronica x Archie, Riverdale

Rating : T

Summary : The mailman, Principal Weatherbee, The head of the Serpents, The boy next door, The Heiress of the Lodge Industries… Everybody loves Betty Cooper. 

A/N : So I’m back! After forever! With another fic! About a new pairing! SURPRISE SURPRISE.  

Everybody loves Betty Cooper.

.

.

.

 They're like Romeo and Juliet, society clawing at them from every side, destiny dragging them asunder, but she's got her arms around Jughead's neck and he's looking at her like the moon sees the sun, desperate and never enough, savouring the briefest moments in the light, and there's an undeniable pang in his heart that shocks him and maybe even reaches Veronica. "… Archiekins?"

The girl in his arms is beautiful, like the darkness that calls out to the wandering soul, and it enthrals him, keeps him entranced and his grip on Ronnie's waist tightens, but he wonders, just a stray thought in his head when he glances over at the blonde who grew up beside him - what it would be like to embrace the light.

.

.

.

 He's got the jacket around his shoulders, the comfort of the snakes around him, they're here to celebrate what he's dreamed of his whole life - his dad reforming his ways. He was proud of this, his Serpent-hood, the Whyte Wyrm, the community that they had together.

But when he sees her, tousled blond hair, wild and beautiful, spilling over her bare shoulders, shimmying across the pole, deep green eyes probing, seeking him out, telling him things he hadn't even allowed himself to imagine…

… And why not? For a second the possibilities of this life flash before his eyes. They could have this, they could have this, together - He knows Betty, he knows she loves him and -

- He looks up at her and it is disgust - at himself? - that reminds him that this is Betty Cooper, and Betty Cooper deserves more than a life in the snake pit.  

.

.

.

Issues, she called it. 'Deep - seated issues' that she could never possibly explain to the pure, big-hearted Archie Andrews. Those three words fell off his lips so easily, so contentedly, like he was blissfully unaware of the weight he had attached to them, the weight that was now crushing her heart.

.

They're seated in the school common room, Kevin with his ridiculous Santa hat and overbearing Christmas cheer, and it's Betty's turn to open her present.

It's like her smile goes on forever as she holds it - and Veronica's certain that the tiny package houses no Dior fragrance - and she chuckles softly glancing over at Archie, "… I think I know who picked my name based on these wrapping skills."

She watches the way they look at each other, cheesy, bright smiles glaringly obvious to everyone present as Betty shows off the record that they listened to when they were 5, their presence in each other's past stamped and inerasable. And Veronica knows that it's futile, that the more she lets herself think about this, the more she'll know that she doesn't even stand a chance.

It just makes the weight in her chest hurt even more.

.

.

.

 He meets her at Pop's, not by invitation but by chance. He's typing away at his computer, so many, many things to write about, and he doesn't ask her what he's doing and certainly doesn't try to be sociable in any way.

But she sits next to him, regardless. There are fries on the table and a milkshake she's delicately sipping. He is quite capable of working, undisturbed, whatever storm may brew right beside him and he's definitely not going to let the presence of a brooding raven-haired River Vixen distract him.

Besides, Jughead Jones has his own issues to brood over.

And he'd be damned if he ever admitted he felt anything at all like kinship with Veronica Lodge but right now, the air was thick with the same kind of anguish that reeked of the people whom he knew too well.

 So, he glances at her, once, maybe twice, the second time with questions in his eyes.

 "… Oh, stop," she snaps, but it's not really the sharp lash that ever hits out at you if you dare cross the Lodge beauty, but more of a tired imperative. "If you want to ask me what's going on, then just ask me, Jones. There's no need to stare creepily at me about this."

 It was a weak attack at his character that was easily ignored, so he proceeds. "Well. If you need me to ask." Because he was pretty sure, two more minutes and without him saying anything, Veronica would have started her tale without any prompting on his part. "What happened?"

 She takes a fry in between two perfectly manicured fingers. Twists it around, breaks off the tiniest portion and puts in her mouth. "… when I first came into town, I met Archie and Betty here, in this diner, looking like they were on a date." 

 She pauses, glances at him to gauge his reaction, but Jughead keeps it blank. He's an expert now, what with the years of schooling his emotions on the phenomenon that is Archie and Betty. "I was attracted to him. Since that very moment," she lets out a short laugh, bitter. "… I didn't even try to hide it."

 "But when I mentioned it in school the next day, Kevin was quick to educate me about one of the vital truths of this town. You know what he said, Jughead?"

 Jughead's not a fan of interactive role play games, and he's not going to play best girlfriend and ask her what she wants to hear, but Veronica is Veronica and she doesn't need him to.

 ' "You don't know? Archie and Betty are endgame," he said, like it was this unshakeable fact, that should've been obvious to any pair of eyes. And you know what the worst part is Jughead?"

 He doesn't, he really doesn't, doesn't know what could be worse than sitting here listening to his fears vocalised by his girlfriend's - he has no right to call her that anymore, it’s habit, desire, a gaping hole in his chest that she used to fit perfectly - best friend.

 "I knew, Jughead. I think I always knew. I knew that I loved Archie and that he may not have known it then, but he'd end up in love with Betty, and that I'd have no place in this messed up love triangle. But I still," her voice breaks off at this point, and she struggles to keep her tears in check, herself in place, because she can't be seen here, having a breakdown in Pop's with Forsythe P Jones the Third.

 But he knows what she's going to say. She still hoped. And really, how different is it from his own pathetic situation, when all he ever really was just an outsider? To this town, to their relationship, to Betty Cooper?

 "… I can't even hate her," she says, shakily, moments later after she's calmed down, slightly, "… How does one hate Betty Cooper?"

 Jughead's mouth quirks up in a small smile as he remembers a little version of himself, his best friend and the blonde girl next door, as he tried to convey his frustration with the amount of time she was taking up with Archie. But then she showed up, freshly baked cookies in one hand, her other stuck out towards him in a mark of friendship, and sat between them while they played video games. “… You don’t.” He shakes his head as he says softly, "Everyone loves Betty Cooper."

.

.

.

 He opens the car door for her, makes a show of his out of the ordinary chivalry and she laughs, maybe even blushes a little bit. "Thanks, Arch," she says, a little shy but beaming, a bright, warm smile.

 “… I’ve missed this,” he says, before he even processes the fact that he’s speaking out loud, before he’s even sure if it’s just her smile that he’s talking about or something else, as she locks arms with him in an age-old gesture of familiarity.

 “… We’ve had a crazy time, lately.” She says this lightly, reassuringly, a manner of reinforcing that the crazy was not the state of only her head.

 “… What I did last night,” he starts, “… I didn’t mean to,” -

 -  “I kissed you back, Archie,” she whispers, shrugging, because there was no reason why she did what did, but at that moment, she gave into the idea of cosmos, and kissed the boy she had thought she’d marry. But there were no fireworks, or hasty realizations, it hadn’t felt like anything, and…  

 They slip into a booth, and order their milkshakes one chocolate and one vanilla, and for a minute, it feels like time has been rewound, and it’s just a red-haired boy and the girl next door and all is as it’s supposed to be.

 But she takes a sip of her milkshake, and he looks at her, sitting across him, and all he can think of, is how vacant this booth feels, how quiet, how tasteless his favorite milkshake has become, without the girl who walked into this diner that one night, and turned his life upside down.

 Pop brings her the hamburger that she ordered, and she takes a bite, and feels her appetite vanish. It’s strange, Archie thinks, because Betty usually just sticks to fries.

 Their eyes meet and she opens her mouth to make small talk, to ask him if he wants some, but nothing comes out, and she's looking at Archie Andrews and his ginger hair, the boy she thought she'd meet at the altar someday, but the gears in her brain are stuck, where there's a boy with a beanie, and his arm loosely draped around her shoulder.

 “… I just don’t understand,” she says, her voice breaking towards the end, “I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

 - Fin -

#bughead #varchie #betty cooper #jughead jones #ramblingpug fanfiction #riverdale #archie andrews #veronica lodge #bad writing #sigh

[liquorisce]

Helloooo!! For the ask meme: number 1 and syaosaku! ^o^

SyaoSaku - Good Morning Kiss

Rating : T I guess?

A/N : Haha, I think I kind of cheated with this prompt, BUT IM SORRY, I just wanted to see my babes making out at the crack of dawn, ok?

Thanks for the request anon! Feel free to ask away, for any other number or any other ship! And let me know if you liked it. :)

This is kind of the continuation for the second chapter of my fic - The SyaoSaku Shenanigans, but it’s ok if you haven’t read that.

"...Aizawa-san, Tomoyuki-san, Kimio-kun… Aaaaand done! I think we'refinally done with the responses," she says happily, stacking theenvelopes at the corner of the table. 

"…Congratulations," he quips, dryly, scanning the long list ofnames, "We've successfully invited our entire Undergrad class,people from Daidouji's department, the entire cheer team, musicchoir, and a whole host of other people who I can't even remember."

"Oh,don't be a sourpuss, Syao," she says, swiping the list ofinvitees from his hand and folding it away, far from his criticalgaze, "besides, it was yourmotherwho absolutely insisted that she wanted a large wedding."

Andwhile Sakura's definition of a large wedding involved only friendsand family whom they knew on a first name basis, Syaoran's motherseemed absolutely scandalized at the thought of less than 300 hundredinvitees and the lack of paparazzi at her one and only son's wedding.

"AndI've told you over, and over, that we don't need to listen toeverything she says."

"…Yeah right," she snorts, "… I'll believe that, the dayyouactuallystart following your own advice."

Ignoringher jibe completely, he props up the pillows and calls, "Justcome to bed Sakura, it's 3 AM for God's sake! My mother's weddingplans can wait till daylight."

Heturns to look at her, just as she stretches, long limbs stretchinggracefully, small, pink lips trying to stifle a yawn, the strap ofher white camisole slipping down her shoulder and - Fuck.

Ithad just been two weeks and he was already staring at his girlfriend- no, Fiance-like a street lecher.

"…Calm down, Syaoran," he mutters, more to the rising bulge in hissweats, than anyone else, hiding it artfully under the sheets.

"Honestly,this is more tiring than I'd thought," she mumbles, slippingunder the covers next to him.

"You'regetting too stressed out," he murmurs into, draping a hand overher hip possessively. "… This wedding is supposed to be aboutus,"his hands move to caress the curve of her waist, tracing soft,soothing circles across her back, "… not what someoneelsewants."

"Butshe's," her breath hitches when his lips drift across her nape,"yourMom,I want to make her - Ah,Syaoran,"- his teeth nip at her ear, her last word nothing more than a softwhine, "… happy."

Hishands grow bolder, inching under her camisole, splaying across herribs. "… Turn around, Sakura," he whispers, his voicehusky.

Shepanics. She knows what he's planning, what he wants. "Syaoran,"she starts, hesitant, wary - because It doesn't help that she wantsit too-"We promised there would be no… that we wouldn't" - he'spulling her onto her side anyway, to face him -

"Oh,you know what your mother says! It's bad luck to… to do itbeforethe wedding!"

"…I know," he tries not to grumble because even though he did knowabout this ridiculous, superstition that required abstinence for theENTIREperiod from the Engagement to the wedding-his mother had made sure he was aware via an extremely awkward,painful skype conversation that involved Syaoran turning thebrightest shade of red that Sakura had ever seen on him - "… Ijust want to look at you, Sakura," he murmurs, brushing the hairout of her eyes, his fingers resting at her cheekbones.

Maybehe definitely did want to do a lot more than just looking, but hedoesn't say it, and he tries not to think it, but it's futile anyway.

"…Am I at least allowed to kiss you?" he murmurs softly, ambereyes drifting to her parted mouth. No, she thinks definitely, no, buthe's so close and he smells so good and it's not like they laid outfixed boundaries on what they can and can't do and - ".. Yes,"shebreathes, quickly, tooquickly, tooeager to take what he so keenly offers, "J-just a Good nightkiss, okay?"

Hedoesn't waste this opportunity, he kisses her without delay, withoutpretense, tongue sweeping across her lower lip and demanding entryinto her mouth. Her fingers clutch at his hair as she gasps forbreath, as he pins her beneath him with purpose, long body pressedagainst her smaller, tinier frame, his desire obvious as he pressesinto her.

She'snot sure how the atmosphere's changed so suddenly - from soft andpolite, to frantic - mouths wet and messy against each other, bodyrubbing against his, his knee between her legs, giving her thefriction that her body asks for.

Whenhe pulls away, he's far from satisfied but at least a little bitappeased. He finds her short of breath, flushed and maybe, just maybethesame kind of uncomfortable that he is. "T-that wasn't a goodnight kiss," she accuses, not sounding the leastbitaccusatory or the least bit like a complaint. There is satisfactionto be obtained from the knowledge that she is just affected by thisas he is, that she wantsthisjust as much.

Heflops onto his back, trying to control his own breathing, a smug gringrowing on his face. "You're right," he gestures at theclock across the room nonchalantly, now showing 4 AM, "it's agood morningkiss."

#syaosaku #ramblingpug fanfiction #li syaoran #kinomoto sakura #cardcaptor sakura #kiss meme #Anonymous

[liquorisce]

Hi Rambling Pug! I found your SyaoSaku fic, The SyaoSaku Shenanigans (I would tell you the site, but tumblr won't let me tell you where I found it LOL). Please finish it! It's great!

Haha, tumblr can be annoying sometimes. Thank you so much! It’s so nice of you to take the effort to actually visit my blog and tell me that you liked it ❤️ And “the SyaoSaku Shenanigans” is far from finished! I will update it as soon as I can. (I’m a master student and I’m struggling to find time though haha that’s why I take so long to update stuff)

#so nice #anon conversations #syaosaku #ramblingpug fanfiction

[liquorisce]

... too late?

Pairings: Makoharu, Rinharu, Free!

Rating: M (obviously)

Summary: Haruka’s had a lot of bests in his life. He’s been the best swimmer, the best painter, the best friend… and now, he has to be the best man.  

“… He’s been looking everywhere for you.”

Rin didn’t really have to say much more. Haru could picture it. Makoto’s brow crinkled, eyes wrecked with worry, for him -

 -“… With the kind of fuss he’s making, you’d think it’s the bride that’s gone missing,” Rin says lightly, eyes on Haru.

 He knows his not so insouciant remark has hit its mark when Haru’s eyes snap back at his, dangerously, emotions he wasn’t sure Haru was capable of, flitting through sea-deep eyes.

 But enough’s enough, Haru’s had his chance, and he’s fucked it up, and that gives him no right to ruin what could possibly be the most important moment of Makoto’s life. So the calm dread of purposelessness seeps back into him, draining colour and feeling.

Haruka is doing his best to keep the pain at bay, but it’s getting out of control, like the low tide, inching slowly.

 But it starts to prick Rin.

“Wake,” Rin grabs Haru’s arm - almost violently, “the fuck up, Haru!" 

It’s alarming how frail Haru seems all of a sudden, weak, defeated - desperate - "You don’t get to sit around crying about what ifs and what-could-have-beens,” and Rin has the satisfaction of seeing resignation on Haru’s features, “you’ve got to suck it up, and fucking be there for Makoto, you’re the fucking Best Man, Makoto fucking lov,” -

 … and Haru’s eyes grows wide because Rin is about to say what Haru desperately wants to hear - from someone even if it’s not Makoto but - 

-“… Haru! There you are!”

Rin’s hands are on Haru’s shoulders, and he’s bending down to where Haru’s sitting, on the ledge by the pool, looking into Haru’s eyes, which are blue tinged with gray where they start to mist over - and suddenly… suddenly Makoto wishes he hadn’t found Haru after all.

…

Later, after the vows have been exchanged, and ‘too late’ is a time that is long past, Haru’s pressed up against the body-length mirror of his hotel room, with Rin’s hands harsh on his hips, and teeth tearing into his lower lip, stopping him from gasping the name ’Makoto’.

Rin stops for a second, grunting, that there isn’t enough lubrication, and Haru knows he’s got a bottle in the left side drawer by the bed, but he needs this, needs it to burn, so he gasps, “No,” strained against the press of Rin’s palm against his throat, “… I want it to hurt.”

So Rin fucks him, hard on the couch that’s small enough only for Haru’s body, and when Haru jerks himself into his fist, alcohol bringing back memories of bachelor parties and drunk kisses that shouldn’t have been drunk, Haru knows he’s fucked - for Makoto.

Rin is gentle with him afterwards, reaching for the lube that Haru denied the first time around, and uses his fingers, slowly, spreading him out.  It’s too much for Haru, this kind of sweet that Haru doesn’t deserve, the kind of gentle that he only he wants from somebody else.

Haru cums to that thought, of that somebody else, his deep voice, and his large frame, as he holds him, cooing, “Haru,” as he plays Haru’s body like a well-loved instrument. 

Rin is weak to the small, desperate, noise Haru makes at the back of his throat when he’s close - breathing a name he hopes he heard wrong - and grunts as his breathing quickens, releasing into the exquisite tightness of Haru’s body.

“… Fuck,” Rin curses as he removes himself from Haru and slips off the condom, and suddenly Haru is too aware of just how much he’s fucking up.

Haru hands Rin his shirt, and it’s obvious what he’s saying, that they’re done now, that he should leave, and he knows he’s an asshole, but Rin knows better than to think this meant anything, so he swallows his silly hopes and buttons up his shirt.

There are a million things that draw Rin to Haruka, and things that draw Haruka to Rin, and one is that they understand each other on a fundamental level, understand when they see something they want, something they need to have.

The doorknob turns, and they’re almost fully clothed, but when Makoto enters, thinking that Haru would be alone in his room, it’s obvious to him that he wasn’t. “… I-I’m sorry, I should have knocked, I,” Makoto’s eyes flit briefly across the strip of bare chest, the messed up hair, Haru’s swollen, bitten lips, and he can’t stop his tongue licking across his suddenly dry lips.

“… I just, I just wanted to talk to Haru,” Makoto stutters, and he lets the hurt seep through his words, lets his eyes narrow to a point where it almost feels like betrayal.

But of what?

“… Makoto, wait,” Haruka calls out, hoarsely, and it’s almost like a movie when he runs out after him, panicked, like the forlorn lover that’s always just a moment too late.

It probably is too late, Rin thinks, but it doesn’t matter, it’s just a useless effort from his side as well.

Because Rin sees the way Haruka looks at Makoto, and he’s known it all along, in all the scratches on his back born out of Haru’s frenzy, and the tears that slipped through his cracked lips, because the name on Haru’s lips was never his, it was always two syllables more.  

He watches out of the window and sees Makoto, tall and beautiful and noble in his dark suit and definitively married.

He sees the confusion, the hurt, the glassiness in his bright, green eyes.

And Rin sees Haru - the same blue eyes and knobby knees and pale skin that had captured his heart at an age where he was too young to even know it -  finally, catching up to Makoto, hair dishevelled where his hands had been, dark red bruises burgeoning against his throat.

Perfect lips that had kissed Rin with so much desperation, now pleading apologies and possibly bleeding feelings.

And he understands, finally, the difference between himself and what Haruka will always want.

sorry.

#makoharu #rinharu #makoto tachibana #haruka nanase #ramblingpug fanfiction #matsuoka rin #free!

[liquorisce]

I NEED RIVETRA SMUT PLS I'M HORNY AT AND I WOULD DO ANYTHING

ANON! I HOPE I’M NOT TOO LATE. (Or if I am, I hope you found some amazing smut in the mean time)

But here it is. Please accept my humble offering. 

#anon conversations #anon requests #rivetra #levi x petra #ramblingpug fanfiction

[liquorisce]

Thinking out Loud, Part 1

Pairing : Eren x Mikasa, Armin x Mikasa (SnK/AoT)

Rating : M 

Warning : Sad stuff ahead because I’m a sad person. 

Summary : “Someday, when all this is over, when we have finally broken free of these walls,” he breathes, in the same wistful manner he does when he speaks about the endless ocean of the outside world, “I will marry her.” 

They sit by the fire, the entire lot of the 104th, watching the golden crackles of heat under the moonlight. Well most of them do.

Armin, instead, watches Mikasa, cutting the sparse food that they had managed to find and throwing it into the pot boiling over the fire. He watches her tug at her scarf and make sure it doesn't catch fire when she stands close to the coals.

The same old feeling he's known ever since he was a child begins to well up inside him, torrid and unrestrained, his eyes sparkling the most stricken adoration. The only difference is that now the words inside him struggle in their confines, beating their way to an escape.

“Someday, when all this is over, when we have finally broken free of these walls,” he breathes, in the same wistful manner he does when he speaks about the endless ocean of the outside world, “I will marry her.”

His words are so soft, so light, they are almost carried away by the midnight breeze but Eren hears them, just as he always hears everything that Armin dreams of.

He turns to look at him, but his confession is not directed at him, it is merely spoken as if it were an admission he wished would carry till the girl he gazed at.

Eren can feel his heart tugging in the most painful way, a creeping insecurity overcoming him. He should've known. That even though they have always been close, reading right through each other, always looking out for the other, there has always been a corner of their hearts too blind to notice a mirroring affection for the girl who had stood next to them in every second of their journey.

They had always shared the same hopes, the same dreams, the same fears but he wonders when this had happened, when exactly he and Armin had begun to share the very same love, nurtured carefully in secret, hidden away from each other. He laughs and he hopes his childish jealousy isn't too obvious. “Idiot,” he tries to joke, and Armin has the grace to look sheepish. “This is hardly the time or place to be thinking about marriage.”

“Don't listen to him, Armin,” Mikasa says suddenly coming up from behind them, “I doubt he thinks of anything apart from killing titans.” She shoots Eren a sarcastic look and he glares back at her.

A panicked blush shoots across Armin’s cheeks, wondering if she had heard the whole thing. He’d never be able to look her in the eye again if she was aware of his feelings…

“So,” she pipes up, handing him his bowl, “what's all this about you thinking of marriage?”

So she hadn't heard, after all. Thank god.

“I was just t-thinking,” he stuttered, eyes trained on the ground, “That it would be nice. Having a home to come home to, a family and all that...”

She doesn't say anything, just sips on her soup quietly. He knows how she feels about family, that there is nothing in the world more important to her than that six letter world. He could give her that, someday. He could give her everything, a family, happiness, his heart.

“Do you ever think about it, Mikasa? Raising your own family, I mean?”

She smiles, a small, precious thing of beauty that he could never get enough of.

“I already have a family, Armin,” she says earnestly, “I don't know what I would do without the two of you.”

But Eren sees the wishful flicker in her normally impassive eyes, he knows that she dreams too.

And he doesn't know why but it makes him feel just a little bit guilty.

..

The forest is dark and Titans aren't supposed to come in here, but they do and they are everywhere, ruthless aberrants slamming into everyone in their way.

The whirring sound of the 3-D manoeuvre gear resounds throughout the filtered darkness, mingling cruelly with the screams and deadly crashes.

Mikasa is careful not to expend too much gas, because she's been in this position before, she knows she must conserve it to make sure all her comrades make it safely out of the forest. Her eyes search constantly for ungodly flashes of green light, her ears seeking the rampant roar of a newly transformed Titan. She prays that Eren is practiced enough with his gear that he doesn't resort to shifting. It isn't that she is uncomfortable with his Titan form, just that it is a source of constant nervousness for her comrades and nervous soldiers are quick to drop dead like flies.

She cuts through each deformed deadly mass that stumbles towards her efficiently, keeping her eyes peeled for the rest of them, when she hears a blood-curdling scream, shrill and so chillingly familiar. 

“Eren!” The voice screams and she knows instantly who it is.

Her heart clenches in terror, the worst possible scenarios playing continuously in her mind as she races through the trees searching desperately for the source of that voice.

Please be okay, Eren. Don't die.

A mindless chant she repeats, over and over like a mantra, till she hears another scream that terrorises her to the very core.

“Mikasa!”

“Shit,” she grits out, because why was he screaming her name?

Was it already too late?

Was he just another bug the Titans squashed on their way?

The questions rattle inside her mind, her anxiety taking over as she almost crashes into a tree branch.

But when she reaches the golden haired boy who screamed so horribly, she is met with a sight completely different from what she had imagined.

In the smallest clearing in the forest, dangling from the mouth of the ugliest, most repugnant, swollen headed Titan she had ever seen, was Armin, legs stuck in its rapacious mouth. His only form of defense, his blades, had dropped to the ground ages ago and now he was left with only hope that one of his friends would find him.

Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes, the desperation in his screams rising with every second. It occurs to him that he is possibly the most Pathetic member of the Survey Corps, screaming for someone to come save him, but his life was more precious to him than some half-assed notion of dignity.

There were too many things he had to do, too many dreams he had to fulfil… Too much love locked inside him that he had yet to give.

With a whir and a dazzling display of efficiency her blade came crashing down on its neck, taking it down with one blow.

But when the Titan fell, its jaws snapped shut and she heard another scream, this one in vicious pain.

“Armin!” She can hear Eren, frantic, rushing to catch him as he falls out of the Titan’s mouth, bloodied and broken.

She is anything but prepared for the sight that awaits her, blood splattering on her face as his leg separates from him.

He screams, again, pain and anguish ripping through him at the sight of his leg fallen, broken on the mud beside him.

The scene replays in slow motion, every small detail sinking into her only now. Was it her careless blow that had snapped the Titan’s jaws shut? Was it because of her lack of judgement that Armin’s limb was hacked off?

She watches as Eren lays him down, trying to talk to him and her gear drops out of her clutches. Her legs move of her own accord,  and she trips over overgrown tree roots that she plainly didn’t see, wincing as her ankle twisted further as she ran.

But Armin screams and screams, howls of ear-shattering pain, his eyes hollowing out into an injured frenzy of fear. “Eren,” he manages, sputtering blood, “... Mikasa...” desperate, because Armin can feel the consciousness oozing out along with his blood. He grasps Eren’s hand with all the strength he can muster, whispering, “Er…n, promi… se…”

Tears leak out of Eren’s eyes, a habit, that much to his annoyance, he’s never been able to outgrow, but he takes off his uniform jacket and wraps it around his injured friend. “...Sssh, Armin, don’t speak, Mikasa’ll be here any minute, she’ll know what to do.” She’ll save you, is what he wants to say, because it was Mikasa, and she could do anything, but with each passing moment, even Eren was finding it difficult to believe it.  

“... You have... to tell her…” Armin chokes out, and amidst the fear, the blood, and the cold dread that had started to creep down his spine, Eren understands. He understands, because he knows, not only because Armin was his best friend, but because he sees that look, that desperation, and selfishly, enviously, has always pretended not to.

“... You tell her yourself,”  he says stiffly, even though he’s never, ever wanted him to, “If you love her, then stay with us and tell her yourself, goddammit!”

By the time Mikasa gets to them, Armin’s incoherent whispers have calmed but this is only scarier because his body is shivering, his temperature dropping down to an unnatural cold.

Ever since they were children, they had always been there for Armin, sticking up to his bullies, protecting him from their fists, how much ever Armin had loathed his own incapability to do so. But now, when the undisputable tendrils of fear swirled in

“Come on, man,” Eren chokes out, “You can't die on me. We haven't even made it out yet.” But he doesn't say anything, just looks upward with vacant eyes, the blue in his eyes turning duller by the second.

An angry tear slips from Eren’s eyes. “... I'll kill them,” he vows, just like he does every single day, but it’s weaker now, fading, along with dreams of mountains of fire, and endless blue, “I'll kill each and every one of them...”

Mikasa doesn't speak, she can't, the words catching in her throat and lodging there permanently, streaks of guilt streaming down her face.

“It's my fault,” she whispers, “I should have been more careful.” She tries her level best to rub some warmth into him but it doesn't work and soon even the shivering begins to stop.

“Stay with us, Armin, please,” she pleads, “please, you can't die. We need you.”

It's as if the life force is draining out of him along with the blood, and she rips off a portion of her shirt, tying it over his gaping wound. “Armin, don't leave me, please,” she whispers, hovering over him, cupping his face in her blood stained hands, shaking him to look at her.

She's lost too many people already, too much family, too many souls precious to her. She looks at the boy in front of her, real terror crushing her heart because Armin is too sweet, too precious to leave this world before her.

“... Please,” she sobs, tears falling from her eyes freely now, dropping like rain onto his bloodied face, “... Don't go...”

“Oi, Mikasa, you're squeezing him too hard,” Eren says hoarsely, trying to pry her hand off of his, because Armin isn’t moving anymore, and Mikasa isn’t willing to let go.

But she can’t take her hand from his, can't bring herself to detach herself from him, looking at his lifeless face with a frantic desperation, as if constant contact with him will channel some of her life force into him.

“... Mikasa, stop, please,” he begs, shaking her, because words aren’t getting through to her, aren’t getting past the empty catatonia that has taken over her.  “... It’s my fault,” she whispers, bloody hands clutching at her hair, “Eren, I…” and she looks at him, finally, her stare returning from the vacant hollow that had taken over it, tears streaming down and choking her, unable to believe the words in her mouth, “... I-I... killed him.”

Large, fat drops of rain begin to fall from the clouds and it seems cruel, like the Gods are trying to wash away the existence of their best friend, of the young wide-eyed boy who had taught them how to dream. 

It’s almost a blur by the time Hanji and Levi arrive, and Eren is too dazed to even pay attention to what Hanji is doing to Armin. 

His eyes have clouded over, and there’s a sharp throbbing ache in his head, the only thing he’s aware of apart from Mikasa, shivering, painful, broken sobs, buried into his chest, and it feels like he’s watching not one, but two of the most important people in his life die a slow death right in front of him.

TBC...

#eremika #arumika #ereminkasa #the shiganshina trio #ramblingpug fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

[liquorisce]

Love, Maya

Pairing : Lochan x Maya (Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma)

Rating : M (dark themes)

Summary : Sixteen years ahead, it is now Maya’s thirty-third birthday. They say time heals all wounds, but for Maya it is still open, smarting. Now, looking at the kids, all grown up, happy, she struggles to find a reason to go on.

Warning : This fic feat. copious amounts of angst, poor mental health, and character death.

The leaves have yellowed and the branches have bared their naked faces to the outside world.

If only I could do it like them, shed my graces so easily, say goodbye with a little bit of dignity.

“Maya, Maya!” Her slender arms squeeze me tightly, with the enthusiasm of a child. In some ways she still is, blonde and willowy, with a startling wide-eyed beauty that the world has grown to love. “... I baked it by myself, see!”

Her eyes are blue, sparkling as the ocean, and the edges of my heart crumble in apology for the pain I will put her through in the coming days. I want to tell her, prepare her for it, hold her in my arms and reassure her that she will be okay, that I had no choice, Willa darling, there was just no other way.

I manage to hold it in, and smile and blow out the candle but when my siblings sing a happy, gloriously inharmonious version of “Happy Birthday, Maya!” I am blinded by my tears.

I'm a cheat. A conwoman playing at the game of happiness and dragging her family in.

Suddenly, I am filled with an overwhelming rage.

It is you, that made me like this, Lochie. It is your fault that here I am, on my thirty-third birthday, in the middle of three people who love me deeply no doubt, but all I can feel is the stark absence of the love that burnt me sixteen years ago.

It's your fault that I am left with nothing more than bitter exhaustion, no more love to give, not to anyone who's here to take it anyhow.

I try to tune into their conversation. Tiffin is telling us about the new model he's seeing - Willa threatens him about hurting her friend - and Linda, Kit’s wife teases him good naturedly.

Kit’s son, Neal is sitting, pooled at his feet, playing with the new remote controlled car his Uncle Tiffin bought for him.

I give into a little whim and take a picture of this moment, wanting to freeze the togetherness, the reassuring normalcy - regardless of the way Kit eyes me uncertainly, as if he knows, sees the cracks waiting to splinter - of this moment. I want to bring this to you, Lochie, a snapshot of the life that should've been yours.

I hug them all, together, as they are about to leave, tightly, tears pooling in my eyes because this is the last time. Willa’s warmth, Tiffin’s laughter, Kit’s concern - he's almost like you, Lochie, with all his worry, but only almost - I close my eyes and let myself be bound to this, because it is the last time I will be able to feel it.

I love you, I tell them quietly, fiercely, because later, when they feel hurt and betrayed by my selfish actions, I need them to know that I still loved them.

Kit hangs back, under the pretense of having to use the bathroom. “... Wait for me in the car. I won't even be a minute,” he tells his wife, as he hands over his son.

When he enters the kitchen, I can almost feel the tension in the air. “Maya,” he says softly, “Are you… okay?”

I'm unable to turn and face him. It's as if his voice is imploring me, begging, to be of importance. My hands begin to shake.

If only I could tell him, explain to him, that there's nothing he can do, nothing left to be done really, because there's nothing left of me, to give, I have given them all my love, and now I feel squeezed dry with nothing more than an acute pain sharp in my chest, a tiredness overcoming my whole body, my existence reduced to little more than an irrepressible yearning for someone I lost a long time ago.

Can't you see, Kit? I have to go.

“I’m really proud of you, Kit,” I tell him, facing him, dredging up one last smile, “Lochan would've been too.”

As he walks out the front door, the sunlight catches the tear glistening on his cheek.

When I am alone again, exhaustion overcomes me.

Did you see them Lochie? Sitting around the table, laughing, smiling, like they've never known anything horrible in their lives.  

I wrap my arms around myself, and the weight of the silver bracelet digs into my wrists. As I trace the exquisite lettering on the only piece of you that you have left me, I have never felt more of a disgrace.

Here I am, alive, breathing, stealing the love that should have rightfully been yours.

It's you, Lochan, it's all you, you're the reason, we made it this far, why any of us even had a second chance at life. You made it possible, and now you're not even here to see it.

The worst part, is that sometimes I think they feel the same way, that they know who is responsible, who's always been responsible for any good in their lives, and they try to tell you, through me.

Sometimes I fear they see you in me, Lochan, and I'm almost beside myself with envy.

I want to see you too, Lochie.

But I am too tired to do this anymore, too tired to carry the weight of two people in my strained soul.

I am old now, and it seems the evil seed of complacency has begun to germinate within me, selfishness an entity that grows with you.

I've done good, Lochie, haven't I? Haven't I done what you wanted?

The children are so happy now, they're not even children more, they're bright beautiful stars, that have found their trail to blaze.

Willa is grown now, twenty-four, tall and willowy, and her beauty is no longer just ours to see.

Tiffin, is headstrong and talented, every bit what his coach had predicted out of him, and a small cult of Tiffin-worshippers has developed in the city.

Kit... Well Kit is barely the Kit from when you fought with him. He has grown the most, I feel, more than even me. He has a family now, one who he is completely devoted to, a pleasant, gracious wife and a little boy, dark haired and light eyed and it is a resemblance that breaks my heart whenever he comes to me.

Their residence, as expected of a school PE teacher, is modest, not much more than the house which we grew up in, but the aura is a striking contrast.

It is a warm little house, just like it's inhabitants, and unlike ours which screamed secrets and despair, there is not one corner that doesn't scream love.

Sometimes it is I that feel out of place, me that feels like I weigh them down, holding them back from their true potential.

It is my smiles that dampen theirs, never quite reaching my eyes, never shining from within.

No more.

A strange mania is settling down on me; I can sense it. A vivid buzz, an energy I haven't felt in years, sweeping through my body as I rummage frantically through the cutlery drawer.

It's my birthday, Lochie, and you aren't here to give me anything.

So it's only fair, I think, that I gift myself something.

I make my way to my little place, the one that I shared with you, all those years ago, the one that I hoped I would share with you forever, and the little spring in my step is real.

It's been years since I visited this little clearing, but thankfully, it has remained untouched. I never came back here because it had ceased to be my secret place to me, just a rush of memories, of you, of me, your dark hair, and your cracked lips, and the way they felt, rough, urgent like there was nothing else but the here and now, that we were free and in love, and there was nothing that could ever feel more right.

This is all I can think of as I reach into my coat pocket and feel the grip of the meat knife. That I want it, I want you, I want to feel that reckless thrill of being alive. And the only of way feeling that is with you, Lochie… Even if it means being dead.

The pain is cathartic, the blood rushing to be freed of its veined cages, and I can feel its abandon, pouring swiftly out of me,  it's happiness as it runs from my body.

It's a numbing, overwhelming sensation.

Already I have begun to feel, a small part of me - the part that is still alive,constant, the one still aware of the burn that has consumed me - feels guilt for not saying goodbye to the little ones.

But the rest - this part that I know much better, the one that died so many many years ago - feels a rush of excitement.

You have to understand, Lochie, that today I am happy.

Today, I have hope.

That when I open my eyes again, I will see you, your eyes, your hair, your lips.

I will see you, Lochan, and that is all I'll ever need.

A/N : … There’s hardly any fanwork in this fandom and it depresses me. Therefore, I write depressing stories. 

 I deserve all the hate mail. *hides*

#lochan x maya #lochan whitely #maya whitely #forbidden #ramblingpug fanfiction #tabitha suzuma

[liquorisce]

The Wrong Shade of Green

Part 1

Pairing : Makoharu (Makoto x Haruka, Free!)

Rating : M (just to be safe)

This fic feat. The Tachibana twins growing up, Ran’s first love and discussion of Ren’s sexuality, unresolved angst between the bishies, implied smut, flashbacks of college, and a (slightly tragic) day at the beach.

...

They sat together on the sofa, one head of dark olive locks hanging till the middle of her back, and another, a short crop of brown.

“... I don’t understand why you’re watching this movie for,” he feigns a tally on his hands, “the twentieth time.” Or why I’m being forced to watch this with you, he wants to add, but he knows that’s a pointless question. “You practically know all the dialogues by heart!” he exclaims as she recites yet another passionate declaration about marriage along with Jane.

Ran ignores him completely, her eyes glowing dreamily at the wedding set on screen. “What is up with you girls and weddings,” Ren mutters under his breath, having made up his thirteen year old mind against the humdrum of flowers, champagne and black-and-white.

She drags her gaze away from the screen and narrows her eyes at him. “Why are you boys so against weddings?” she asks, accusation dripping from her tone.

What evolves, ultimately, is a staring contest, and Ren, to his credit, tries, he tries his level best to keep up, but his sister could stare anyone down, even the President.

“... Wait,” she gasps, moments later, looking absolutely horrified. “What if Haru-chan hates weddings too?!”

…

“Ran,” he hollers, banging on her door, “How long does one take to get ready?!” Ren stands outside her room door, surf board in hand even though he doesn't know the first thing about surfing, in burger-patterned swim trunks.

“We’re just going to the beach, why is it taking so long,” - the door swings open, and his eyes pop, at a loss for words. “... Right. I guess you are ready.”

She might as well have worn nothing else apart from the grin that tugged at her features. Her hair hung delicately till the small of her back, just a few inches above her hips upon which a patterned purple sarong was tied. Hours and hours of competitive swimming, following in the footsteps of her brother - and his raven-haired friend mostly - had kept her in perfect shape, long, toned legs, and washboard abs the perfect amount of feminine.

She wore a matching bikini top, and a pair of Ralph Lauren shades above her self-assured grin. “... Haru-chan’s coming with us,” she whispers to her twin, when he still looks confused, because he's only seen ever seen her in sports swimwear till now.

It takes a few moments for him to understand what she's actually implying, and when he does, his eyebrows furrow disapprovingly. “... He's nine years older than us,” he points out to her, as if she weren't aware of this fact, as if this wasn't a part of the appeal in the first place. “And besides, he's onii-chan’s best friend. He probably just thinks of you as a little sister.”

Her cheeks stung in embarrassment at Ren’s words. “Then I'll just have to make him think otherwise,” she tells him decidedly, when they've reached the beach and they can see two figures approaching them, one, the broad-shouldered, large hearted figure who's pampered them their whole lives, and the other just a little bit smaller, raven hair that had grown longer than she had pictured over sporadic Skype calls and Facebook images, now held up in a tiny ponytail, and the blue eyes that she had fallen in love with way, way before she could even comprehend the concept of love.

“Someone's become a big girl,” Makoto teases, ruffling her hair, a pinch of brotherly concern at his sister's clothing well-disguised in his affectionate tone. Ran blushes, and looks up at her beloved Haru-chan, and sees him smile back, a free, easy, beautiful thing that he never did much of back when she was a kid, as he hands her a popsicle.

They sit together for a while, and she struggles with her popsicle, unable to keep up with the rate at which the icy confection was melting. Her tongue darts out slyly, licking at the sugar trail running down the side of her palm, first checking to see if anyone's eyes were upon her. Haru’s weren't of course; he only has eyes for the water.

For the first time, Ran felt a twinge of jealousy for the great blue.

...

Makoto is speaking to Ren about high school, the importance of getting good grades and the conflict of being a fifteen year old boy who is slowly starting to identify as gay. Ran watches as her little brother - littler than her by exactly one and a half minutes - stutters about how all his friends have girlfriends but he's never even spared a second glance at them, and decides it’s best to leave the two alone, so she drags Haru into the water for a bit.

“It's wrong,” Ran mumbles, hiding his face between his knees, “I know it's wrong, but I like him, he's more than just a friend,” -

“Ren,” Makoto says, gentle, always soothing, “There's nothing wrong in being gay. There is no right or wrong way to love somebody.”

“That makes sense, but…” Ren hesitates, unconvinced, “I don't know, onii-chan. You've never had a girlfriend, have you?”

Makoto remembers when he was nineteen and fresh into college, when he first realized just how persistent girls could be. He remembers Nanao-chan from the literary club, with the cute smile and the big glasses, who would always exchange book notes with him, up until the point that he told her, as politely as he knew how - it was Makoto, after all - that “Your friendship means a lot to me, Nanao-chan, but I really cannot return your feelings.” He had apologized profusely for good measure, and beaten himself up with his own guilt for “leading a girl on”, but she had refused to even look him in the eye from that day forward. And that, was the sad, pitiable account of experience Makoto had with girls. Which was surely not what his little brother wanted to hear about. “... Not really.”

“Then… Are you, you know… Like me?”

Makoto frowns, unhappy with Ren’s red-faced shame in the whole matter, because he really wants him to understand that the bullies in high school who tease and shame you into going along with their shallow, bigoted beliefs were actually just that… Bigots.

"I understand being 15 is tough and confusing," he says, watching the waves ebb, "and honestly love never ceases to be." His voice wavers a little here, because he is probably the worst person to be giving advice to his little brother. Ren doesn't know it, he's always thought of Makoto as this older, stable, more mature presence in his life, but he has no clue how torn up Makoto is inside, even now, when he is twenty fucking four, how his heart almost stops at the memory of his first kiss.

Not the awkward one he placed on Nanao-chan's lips, which was technically his first, because she was expecting it and that's the advice everyone gave him, that when you're standing in front of her door, and her eyes are closed, chin turned up unexpectedly, you just had to make the first move.

But that hadn't felt like a kiss, like want and guilt, and dissatisfaction because how much ever you consumed the other person it just was never enough.

It had nothing on the edgy feeling of a little too much teeth, and the smell of chlorine sharp against your senses.  

It just wasn't Haru, and so it automatically didn't count, because that's the memory that bubbles up in his mind, unbidden, of the day right after his technical first kiss, under the locker room shower.

Haru had been angry with him, distant with him ever since Makoto had told him what happened the previous night. It didn't make sense to Makoto, and he hated it, hated when Haru drew away from him, and all he could do was wait for him, like the shore waits for the water to ebb and draw in, helplessly, with no power to even call for him.

It hadn't make sense to Makoto when Haru lashed out at him; he had only asked what was wrong. "Really," Haruka had snarled, "After all these years, you still need to ask me what's wrong?"

Makoto hadn't wanted to ask, he never liked to intrude upon Haru's mental space, and for the most part he just knew. But he had been scared of knowing, especially then, and even now, because Haru's eyes were blue licks of flame that had scorched scars in his heart.

He had been afraid of knowing the wrong thing, because he wanted, he wanted so fucking much, and what if Haruka didn't?

But when Haru had slipped against the wet tiling, knocking into him, head so close to his, his heartbeat, fast and angry, Makoto could hear it - He just didn't know what happened, really.

It could have been Haru. Makoto wanted, desperately, to believe it was Haru, who tilted his chin upwards, eyes reflecting the desire he knew too well, but even after all these years, the fear has never left him.

What if - What if, that was just his imagination? God knows, he'd dreamt of it countless times.

He doesn't remember it too clearly, the details were foggy, the sensation had clouded most, just like the glass walls of the shower, where Haru had been pressed up against, his arms clasped around Makoto's neck - this he knew for sure, it wasn't a hallucination - holding onto him, pulling him closer to his lips. And Makoto had resisted, he remembered the thrill that had shot straight to his groin, when he heard him, heard Haru gasp his name.

He had never imagined that the sound of his name could be so erotic.

So Makoto did it again, rubbed against him, against Haru's hardness, biting back groans, because he wanted to hear Haruka want him.

But that was the last time he ever got to heard him, his half-cry, half-sob, that he had delighted so much in, because after they finished, quiet, panting under the hot stream of the shower, they never spoke of it ever again.

It's been five years since that incident, and there hasn't been a day that's gone by where Makoto hasn't thought about it, even though things have changed since then, and Makoto has a job, and Haru doesn't have too much time in between meets and training for the Olympics.

But when he does, he comes home, to Makoto, and that does things to Makoto, little tingles in his heart when he thinks about it like that and he almost asks Haru. He almost brings up that one day which he hasn't yet decided if he should treasure or be ashamed of, and by the time he processes it this far, Makoto's leaning towards the latter, anxiety overwhelming him. I probably forced him, he thinks, the image of him pressing Haru against the wall swimming before his eyes, he probably hated it, and he just wants to forget about it -

- "... Onii-chan."

Makoto blinks, becoming conscious of the pair of soft brown eyes boring into him. “You sort of spaced out there,” Ren comments, amused.

Makoto smiles sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “... What were we talking about again?”

“You were telling me about love.” This jolts Makoto for some reason, because he feels transparent suddenly, wondering if his little brother somehow knew everything, his shame, and that was the reason behind the smirk on his lips. “Ah,” he says, voice suddenly dry, nervous, “what exactly was I saying… about love?”

“You were saying it was confusing…” Ren narrows his eyes, looking at his big brother strangely.  “Is everything okay, onii-chan?”

“Oh no,” Makoto says, quickly, too quickly, the way he always does when something is, obviously, wrong, “everything’s absolutely fine.”

There’s an awkward pause where Makoto’s smiling too hard, too fake, and Ren is just staring at him, in total disbelief, but the moment passes.

“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that it’s okay. It’s okay to be confused and undecided. It’s okay to be unsure if you like boys or girls or if you like both.” Ren is a little embarrassed that Makoto has taken his hand, just like he always used to when he was little. He looks up at him, his cheeks red and indignant, but Makoto isn’t looking at him at all.

“It’s okay if you don’t know whether he likes you too or not,” Makoto’s voice is softer now, as if he were saying it to himself, his words carried only by the breeze. “Anything you feel is okay.”

Makoto thinks Ren doesn’t notice the way his eyes linger on Haruka as he speaks, but he does.

...

Ren’s comment about Haruka thinking of her as a younger sister, stung for a long time. Show him what you’ve got Ran, she pipes mentally, loosening the tie on her Sarong and letting it drop to the floor.

“Haru-chan,” she says, tugging on his hand, “Let's go deeper into the water!”

She's not even half as confident as she's supposed to be, she's never worn anything quite so bare, and she's positively shivering at the idea of Haru seeing her like this, but Haru - she isn't sure if this is a good thing - doesn't look at her any different.

He wades up behind her, when she's looking into the horizon, and whispers in her ear, “Boo.”

She startles and he takes advantage of this, pulling her into the water along with him. There's a hardly a moment and she doesn't see the wave coming but he does, and he's never inclined to get out of the way. She squeals, or rather tries, there's no sound coming out, only water, and all she can do is sputter, helplessly for air, while Haru thumps her lightly on the chest. If this were one of her class boys, she would have given them an earful, but it wasn't, it was Haru and he was laughing at her completely shaken experience, and her heart is shaken too but it's doing little flip flops just watching him, so she laughs along.

Haru looks at the shore, at Makoto, too see if he's watching their shenanigans in the water, and tries to signal to him to join them but Makoto doesn't look up from his conversation with Ren. A wave of disappointment courses through him.

“Let's go further,” Ran urges, pulling Haru, because they were chest deep in water, and he was starting to let go of her hand.

There's light humour in his eyes, as he turns to look back at her. “... I'm not sure you can handle it.”

She starts to protest, but he cuts her off. “Let's go look for seashells. Your brother has a thing for them.”

Rin would argue, if he were here right now, that this was a tendency akin to attention-seeking, that he was little more than a “baby crying out for Mama Makoto” but Haru has long since rejected that theory of Rin’s because it was appalling. He doesn't understand why he's thinking of Rin’s disgusting theories in the first place.

He moves back towards the shore, where the waves had washed up the sea’s newest collection of shells. Makoto has recently been obsessed with finding a conch, and Haru has a vested interest in seeing the way his eyes will light up, like a little green fireworks, cradling the conch in his hands and cooing that he “shouldn't have” when he gives it to him. He rolls his eyes, just picturing it, but it makes him feel decidedly warm inside.

He finds one, comparatively unbroken, but a lot tinier than he expected, and drudges up to Makoto.

“... Is this the shell you wanted?”

“What? Oh. OH. Haru…” Makoto’s eyes soften, just like he hoped it would, and Haru starts to feel a little big-headed, but Makoto smiles, indulgently - Haru knows that smile too well by now, Makoto uses it with everyone, all the kids in his class, when he's not really satisfied, but doesn't want to discourage them - and Haru frowns. “... This isn't it, is it?”

“No, not like that,” Makoto starts to say, but he can see the impatience flit across Haru’s eyes, “Well not exactly, but I love it, Haru, it's beautiful!”

“... Draw it for me.”

“Um. What?”

“Draw it for me,” Haru insists, slightly annoyed that he didn't get it right, “and I'll find it for you.”

“Haru, you don't have to,” - Ren giggles at this point, knowing the way the conversation will turn out - “I don't even think you get those shells around here!”

They're interrupted by a faint scream from the distance. “... Haru-chan! Look…”

They spot Ran, farther in the water than can be considered safe, waving her hands dynamically and trying to tell above the water.

“... Said… Handle it…”

Haru senses more than sees the alarm in Makoto’s eyes. “Ran,” Makoto yells, walking forward a little too fast, gesturing for her to come back, “That's a little too far…”

Ran makes a face but wades back, or tries rather, but the sea is unwilling to let go of the things it claims. Haru can't help but notice that she makes the same face that Makoto does, when she is scared.

“Haru-chan,” Ren says softly, voice trembling, “look…” And Haru begins to see the need for fear.

The water’s rising behind her, and Makoto’s made his way into the water, and Haru begins to run, yelling for Makoto to stop, that it's dangerous, because he knows how scared Makoto is of the ocean, even though he pretends not to be, but Makoto won't listen, and he reaches his sister, but so does the wave.

…

Ran opens her eyes first.

She coughs, spluttering out the last of water in her lungs, and Ren leans over her. “Ran! You're awake!”

“Don't cry, baka,” she croaks, barely managing the words.

Ren wipes away the moisture in his eyes furiously. “You're the baka, here,” he says angrily, “What the hell were you thinking?!”

Ran doesn't say anything, she can't, she just focuses on breathing, taking huge gulps of air till it burns her throat.  “Onii-chan, he- he went in, and…,” Ren just sakes his head, not wanting to think about the ordeal that just passed, “Haru- chan had to get you out, you know!”

“... Haru-chan, he… Came to save me…?”

Ren wants to roll his eyes, because she almost died back there, and this is what she's worried about. He wants to hold her and shake her out of her fucked up little daydream, because he's seen so much in the past ten minutes.

He'd seen how Haru had almost tossed Ran to him, once he had made it to shore, and had never taken his eyes off Makoto since. He had watched the small tear slide down Haruka’s cheek, silently, as he did his best to blow air into Makoto.

Ren is pretty sure he knows just who Haru actually rushed in to save, but Ran is fragile and shaken up and really doesn't need the heartbreak right now.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly, stroking his sister’s hand, “... Haru-chan saved you.”

...TBC

[A/N : If you’re reading, let me know what you think. :) ]

#makoharu #tachibana makoto #nanase haruka #free! #ramblingpug fanfiction #tachibana ren #tachibana ran

[liquorisce]

Prompt : Regrets for @tastefullyichihime ‘s erotic prompts writing challenge Jan 2016.

Pairing : Ichihime

Rating : M (mature themes)

Word Count : Approx 1300

A/N : This will be getting a companion piece really soon, half of which is already written. I just couldn't post it because of the word limit.

A big shout out to the lovely admins of this blog who give me a reason to write for this ship at least once a month. <3

It seemed the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

It was the same scene as three years ago, only this time the guilt has compounded within him, pooling in his gut.

Her eyes are as lovely as ever though, and it hurts him, pale grey luminous behind her tears, heavy, settling on the bay of her lashes, just like it was that first time he had set eyes on her, when they were ten years old and Orihime had to bear the cruel brunt of tragedy.

He hadn't known it then, but it was obvious now… He was ruined for her.

What pains him is that now, when he is so acutely aware of feelings that he had mashed up for way longer that he can possibly remember, that finally when he's pulled his head out of his ass, and the truth that has been gnawing at his insides since forever, the ring that rests on her finger was not his.

No, it doesn't hurt, it fucking kills.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, eyes quite unable to meet his, but nevertheless looking at him, because even she is afraid. Afraid that after this there's no going back to pretending everything was normal. There would be no way to look at him and behave as if everything were still under control, like the pieces of her heart which she had spent so long gluing together, hadn't scattered to the winds by a simple wave of his hand.

Her lips trembled as she spoke and he was an utter asshole, but all he could think of was how amazing they had felt on his mouth… And certain other parts of him that remembered her even more keenly.

“It's my fault… If only I hadn't... forced myself onto you, then we wouldn't be in this mess.” She looked completely stricken. “You wouldn't have to feel so guilty.”

Anger bubbled up within him, misplaced, half directed at her being so goddamn blind and the rest directed solely towards himself for letting her believe that she had ever forced him into anything. “... Is that what you think?”

Had she forgotten everything? Had she conveniently deleted from her mind the part where he shamelessly, hungrily - with his hands threading into her hair, pulling her flush to him - kissed her back? Had it completely escaped her memory that he had literally begged for her, for her to open for him, and let him kiss her everywhere?

“... I thought I had finally told you how I felt about you,” because he had, he had told her… Something, not exactly the most romantic of words, but told her, in not so many words that she had always, always been on his mind, like a thorn at his side, “I thought I showed you how I felt,” -

“... Enough, Kurosaki-kun!” her voice had begun to grow more hysterical, a note that he had never heard from her before, not from shy, sweet Inoue, “you're doing it again.”

She offers a shaky, watery smile. “Even now, all you're doing is protecting me. Saying things you don't mean just so that I don't get hurt.”

He looks at her stunned, wondering how in bloody hell she arrived at that conclusion.

“I'm done being selfish, Kurosaki-kun,” she murmurs, and he wants to laugh, loudly, at just how cruel the world could be, because it wasn't her at all, it was him, selfish all the way through, running away from hints that had glared at him his whole life, always afraid that somehow it would only end up with him getting hurt. That someday Inoue would see him for just how useless he really was, and realize she deserved better.

But when it came right down to it, when it was far too late, and they were far too drunk, the truth poured out of him like the sake they had poured into themselves. And he had said it, told her, that she had no business dating his friend, and how could she, how could she even think about it, when he was right there, when he had known her even before Ishida, had wiped her tears even before Ishida even knew of her existence.

“... I'm really the worst, aren't I? Uryu-kun, he,” and it burns how she's comfortable with him, how she takes his first name so easily, “he loves me and here I am… Throwing myself on someone else. His friend, of all people…”

“Inoue…”, he places a hand on her shoulder, and he can tell that she is shaking like a leaf, sobbing into her knees, curled up into herself. “Please don't start doubting yourself like this…” He curses inwardly because this is all he could manage, and even though he wants to tell her that Ishida isn't the only one who loves her, he does too, even more, more than she could possibly take, but it gets shelved away, along with the millions of other things that remained unsaid between the two of them, growing and growing till the tension is too much and it just snaps, just like four nights ago, when it became too much to bear, and they had no choice, no other way to tame it, than to give in to the demands of their own bodies.

“You said it yourself,” she says softly, lifting her eyes, rimmed red and puffed, to look up at him, “That it felt dirty.”

And he flinches, caught by the harshness of his own words. “It's not,” - his voice cracks because he does remember saying it, - “That's not what I meant. I was just… Guilty... He's my friend, Inoue,”-

“... And my fiance,” she whispers, anguished, broken.

He doesn't understand why, he's known this fact long enough, was well aware even that night, when they both had tried their hardest to forget, but when she said it out loud, something within him snapped.

The cement parapet is prickly and uncomfortable, but he pushes her back into it anyway, catching her hands and pinning them onto it, scraping her knuckles raw but not really caring because he wants her to know how much it hurts, wants her to feel it.

And there are tears streaming down her cheeks and into his mouth, but she kisses him back anyway, and he licks them away, down her chin, to her neck, to the nape where he has an uncharitable wish to leave marks just so that Ishida would find them.

She moans, despite the guilt, and arches beneath him, and even though she knows she will despise herself for it later, when his fingers beg entrance under the hem of her skirt and between her thighs, she only leads him further.

“I can't… Stop…” he mumbles, in between kisses, frenzied because the guilt is still fresh, alive in his mind, but desire is a creature that has long since consumed him.

Because even if they were both bad people, even if this was wrong, nothing in the world had ever felt so right.

…

In the end, no amount of kisses could make parting easier. Because just like their love, the end was also an inevitability.

Guilt, it seemed, was a persistent enemy, and both of them had spent so large a portion of their lives in denial of these feelings, that it was too easy to give in.

“The only thing I regret,” she says quietly, as she lingers one step out the door and he stands watching, a safe, controllable distance away, brown eyes already bereft, “is that I don't regret anything.”

A/N : I can't even handle this angst, I don't know why I dump it on you guys...

#ichihime #kurosaki ichigo #inoue orihime #ramblingpug fanfiction #tastefullyichihime #bleach

[liquorisce]

My prize for winning @tastefullyichihime‘s erotic prompts writing challenge for the month of September/October, for my entry “Bound”. ^_^

... The blindfold was new, though.

It almost continually had her on edge, the smallest brushes of his skin against hers making her tremble in anticipation.

#ichihime #kurosaki ichigo #inoue orihime #ramblingpug fanfiction #tastefullyichihime

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Yay! If you can Shishio x samejima prompt- jealous shishio :)

Put a name on it, Part 2

Rating M : For all the bad things

This one is for my beloved anon-san, who has (hopefully) not given up on me yet. Forgive me if this was not the kind of interpretation you had in mind…

Warning : This fic feat adults incapable of dealing with emotions, implied past abuse, sex, and a heartbroken Teacher, whom we all love too much.

Throughout his life Shishio had never truly considered himself the jealous type.

Sure, he wasn’t without a streak of possessiveness, but he had generally gone through life feeling happy for other people’s fortune, and sad for their troubles.

But today, dressed neatly in a dress shirt, and dark formal trousers, hair long and neatly combed back, a strange bitterness creeps into him.

He knew it was wrong to feel this way, that it was a very important day for Tsubomi, and he should look beyond his own petty loneliness.

But it was hard to do, when she stood their with her partner, dressed in the sort of traditional attire he could have never imagined her in, blushing even, looking at her wife with tenderness.

He wonders if he will ever experience this, this joy of knowing that there will be one person by his side for the rest of his life. Someone whom he could wake up next to every single day.

And he knows he’s not supposed to, but the thought of Samejima comes rushing, unbidden to his mind.

…

The changes were subtle, unnoticeable to another but if Shishio were honest with himself, he would have considerable cause for worry.

He liked this… Thing, he had with her, her invading his space, rummaging around his things…

He liked it even better when he was invading her.

There were so many times he tried to make an honest effort, to give some sort of hint that this relationship could go to some place more meaningful than just sex.

But as sincere as his intentions are, they vaporize rather quickly when she shimmies into his kitchen, under the pretext of making dinner, wearing little more than a sweatshirt, her long legs so provocatively bare. He tends to remember little else apart from the fact that he wants her, shamelessly, undeniably, wants what she so willingly offers.

Sometimes he chastises himself for playing so safe, not raising his voice because it’s convenient, sticking to this arrangement they had agreed to. But he knows, in the tenebrous, more honest recesses of his mind, that it’s just fear, the inherent consternation of rejection, mostly because she seems so content with the way things are.

The conflict rescinds when he puts his hands on her and she puts her mouth on him, and everything is okay, resigning back to their safe space where everything is tried, tested, and there is nothing to hurt them.

Only for Shishio, this comfort has turned to the most twisted pain, straining desperately for something deeper.

This arrangement of theirs - he had been the one to suggest it, saying in a bland tone that he cannot even talk to her in anymore, that ‘he doesn’t want anything serious’ and her too-eager approval, for she had been burnt far worse than him - had become a shackle, and his heart had turned into a large, uncontrollable, winged creature, struggling to break free, grating and drawing blood.

Slowly, He found himself wanting more often than not to have her stay over, to break the walls between their houses and get rid of everything that separates them.

When he comes home that day - and she is waiting for him of course - the concept of “your house, my house” long turned insignificant for them - he kisses her.

It is a kiss so gentle, it throws her.

Before she asks him anything or discards it with her usual caustic comments, he says, “Haven’t you ever thought about it?”

She’s slightly annoyed that his lips are busy with something else apart from her own, but she answers him anyway. “About what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing to him and her, rather crudely, “us.”

She looks at him, blinks, and to her credit, she is actually clueless. He lowers his eyes, unable to say the next words when he’s actually looking at her.

“…A happy ending.”

It takes her a moment to comprehend his meaning. It takes her another to put some space between them. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“You know exactly what I’m trying to say, Samejima.”

She cringes visibly at the candor in his next question.

“What the hell are we doing together?”

Sleeping together, she wants to say. Having sex, if you hadn’t dropped a bomb like this. She’s even thought of calling him her boyfriend, but she knows that’s not what they had talked about.

“If this is about not seeing other people, it’s not like we ever even have time for anyone else,” -

Her blankness only makes his blood boil further, anger rippling under his skin, that she refused to see what is so plainly visible to him.

“Dammit, Samejima,” he cries, unable to manage the tumble of emotions within him, “I’m not worried about a bloody STD!”

The first dredges of fear start to slink their way across her features. The very thought of a conversation like this, with him - Yes, she’ll never admit it, but they’ve crossed her mind, fleeting, brushing past her like a touch of silver wind, tempting but impossible - has her twisted into knots.

“… Then?”

“I want you,” he says weakly, his head dropping to rest at her shoulder, “I want you all to myself, mine, everyday, every night, every morning, forever.”

Her breath hitches at the word “forever”, at the enormity of his confession and the commitment he wants from her. For a moment she thinks of giving in, of saying yes, of letting herself fall into this feeling she knows lives inside of herself as well.

“I love you,” he says softly, kissing her even softer, and the affection, the pure tenderness… grates against her like a knife.

She’s heard these words before, and she’s run miles just to get away from them.

She’s run for her life, away from the abuse that followed this proclamation, the bruises that were justification of ‘love’, of the sheer fucked-up-ness that made her say the same thing back to her ex-husband.

And she knows damn well she can’t do it all over again.

“… I-I have to go.”

She is out of his arms and out the door so fast, Shishio doesn’t even have the time to feel his heart splinter into pieces.

A/N : Sorry for the overdose of angst, anon. I’m going through a bad time (/breakup) and therefore, I am incapable of keeping my darling characters happy… for now.

I hope it’s not too bad! >.

- You can find my other shishio x samejima stories here - 

#shishio x samejima #hirunaka no ryuusei #ramblingpug fanfiction #anon conversations #shishio satsuki #samejima

[liquorisce]

good heavens shishio satsuki needs a happy ending. it's been months but i'm still not moving on from how hirunaka no ryuusei ended. i need something to quell my broken heart

Hello sweet anon! I know it’s been almost a month since you sent me this… Gomen, gomen, I hope you don’t hate me for taking so long!

Yes, I know the ending left us broken hearted for our beloved Sensei but the introduction of Samejima leaves me really hopeful that she will push him into moving on… Literally. 

…

He was brooding, as he did most days, and she knew it.

She knew the source of his lamentations too well, because it was always some version of the same thing.

Shishio Satsuki had more ex girlfriends than Samejima could possibly keep track of, and somehow, she just couldn’t comprehend the equanimity in affection he showered upon them all.

In some rational, tiny, often stepped upon part of her mind, there is a voice and it confesses jealousy because there aren’t really that many ex girlfriends either - just a couple - and maybe she just wants that affection all to herself.

It’s on days like today, when Shishio is lost in his morose musings - over one of the aforementioned ex loves, and Samejima suspects it is the young one - that the voice gets particularly wilful, screaming loud obscenities, begging to be heard.

She had long since stopped questioning his ridiculous attachment to the past - another place where they differed drastically, he cradled it, nurtured it, where she was only too willing to drown hers in bloodied waters she had no intention of visiting ever again -

She sighs, feeling this way really hadn’t been part of the bargain. In fact, their not-so-verbal agreement hadn’t included feelings, of any kind, at all.

It shouldn’t bother her that he had spent the entire evening drowning in his melancholy. Over another woman. 

But when she touches him, takes his hand, just to divert his perusal,and he doesn’t respond, she can’t deny the betrayal clawing at her chest, baring it’s fangs and demanding to be felt.

“I’ve had enough, Satsuki,” she says angrily, as she moves towards him, slowly, the last of her buttons coming loose, her shirt slipping effortlessly off her skin.

Her dark hair fell in waves down her shoulders, across her chest, covering her tempting curves.

He would’ve called her beautiful, and subconsciously, judging by his blatant reaction, his body already thought so.

But his eyes narrow at the cloth between her hands.

A familiar sushi print, one that pulled at his heart strings in the worst way.

“That’s mine,” he starts to say curtly, but she interrupts him. Her eyes flicker, light specks of indignation fixing her gaze to his, demanding that he return it with assonant vehemence.

His voice trebles down to a soft mumble, reaching for the tie with a calmness he really wasn’t feeling, at least not if the way his heart was a pounding was any indication.  "Let’s keep this aside.“

”I’m the woman in your bed,“ she murmurs, neatly, throwing the silk of his tie around his neck, drawing his attention to that fact, like there is nothing else in this world he is obligated to be aware of.

There’s an uncharitable thought, a fleeting one, where she considers this now-powerful tool in her hand, deliberates binding him with it, restraining him till she has him begging for her touch, till the very sentiment of any one else is effaced from his soul.

He stares at her slack-jawed, his mind melting into this space which knows only arousal and the slightest bit of fear, so roused it can barely deliver coherence.

The sex had always been amazing with her, but he had never seen her this way. Eyes, wild, angry, demanding.

"So look,” - she yanks on the fabric, hard, pulling him so close to her, her teeth graze the swell of his lips - “At me.”

And just like that, when her mouth descends on his, fierce and exacting, his body flushed with the exaltation that only she could give him, he is swept with the vague consciousness that maybe, just maybe, it’s not just his lips she held captive.

A/N : You can find my other shishio x samejima stories here.

#shishio x samejima #shishio satsuki #hirunaka no ryuusei #anon conversations #ramblingpug fanfiction #Anonymous