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bandgie · 5 months

Note

Heyo~ not sure if you remember me, i did request before BUT i have a new idea 😈. SKZ react to you calling them by another boys name

a/n: hi yes I do!! I've been pondering on this one a lot and I decided to have both sfw/nsfw depending on the member :)

warnings! MDNI 18+, fem! reader, PIV, degrading (reader called slut), minuscule jealousy, mxm themes implied, daddy kink appearance, sense deprivation play, impact play, hate/jealousy sex?? (idk), face spitting

BANGCHAN!SFW - It's the little things in the relationship that makes you fall in love with Chan all over again. Just like this, lazingly laying on the sofa in his house watching a movie. When a particular scene comes and goes, you sit up and frantically look for the remote. "Did you see that?!" You ask, voice giddy with excitement. "Berry, help me look for the-Berry? What the fuck? I mean Channie, help me look for the-" but Chan is already laughing before you can finish. He's got his face scrunched up with his eyes nearly closed, upper teeth wide and white as he laughs. You chuckle with him, but you're more embarrassed than anything. Red with a twinge of humiliation as Chan wraps his arms around your torso and brings you close to him.

"Berry?! I can't tell if I should be mad or laugh." "Well, you're already laughing."

LEEKNOW!NSFW - It's because they act similar, you reason. Even as Minho buries his cock to the hilt, even as his bruising grip is absolutely going to leave marks, you can't help but subconsciously compare the rough behavior to Seungmin's cruel words. One of Minho's hands goes lower to rub at your swollen clit, further making you arch your back and shake. "Seung-Minho wait! Wait that's too much!" You didn't even notice your slip-up until you feel his hips still, until Minho stops moving long enough for you to open your eyes and look into his hazily. "Who?" He has an eyebrow up as he looks down at your wrecked state. "Whose name did you say?" It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts. You open your mouth to say 'minho', but you quickly remember the name you half-said. "I...I said Minho," you avert your gaze for a split second. Minho scoffs at your poor attempt to lie, narrowing his eyes before he smiles wickedly. "One inside you isn't enough huh? You want me to bring Seungmin in here? Make you moan his name with my cock in you?" You shake your head with tears building in your eyes, but your walls clamp down on his length at the idea.

"Fucking disgusting. Not even my slut, just a slut. No wonder you let me use you like this."

CHANGBIN!SFW - You decide to help Changbin with the dishes, being that he always does them when he's at his dorm. You're looking under the sink for the rubber gloves, eyes quickly scanning the dark cupboard before you give up. "Hey Channie-shit-Binnie, where are the gloves?" You straighten out your back and look to your boyfriend who only stares at you with wide eyes. "Channie? Channie hyung?" He questions in shock. You give him a weird look, eyes narrowing as you reply, "I meant Binnie. Your names' kinda sounds the same, ya know?" Changbin doesn't accept your excuse, his lips turning into a pout and his eyes gleaming in something mixed with jealously and feigned hurt. He crosses his arms against his chest and huffs, "Go ask Channie where they are." You sigh and walk over to your sulking lover, wrapping your arms around his neck even though Changbin turns to the side to avoid your gaze dramatically. "Don't be like thaaat," you whine, trying to tug him closer. You lean forward at press chaste kisses against his pouting lips. He doesn't budge until you move your lips to his cheek, his ear, then to the sensitive spot on his neck. Changbin giggles at the tingling sensation and finally caves, moving his arm to instead gently hold your face in his hand and bring you in for a proper kiss. He molds his lips against your soft ones slowly, letting you softly hum into the kiss before he pulls away.

"Fine. I left them in the bathroom. But I think I'll need more kisses to forgive you first."

BLONDE!HYUNJIN!SFW - Even though Hyunjin is a great deal taller than Felix, you can't help but say the wrong name when their hair is dyed the same color. Even in this instance where you're standing behind Hyunjin, quietly watching him paint his art to life. The colors swirl and mix in a way that brings the mediums together, and you can't help but compliment him. "That looks really good, Felix." His brush stops moving and Hyunjin chuckles before he turns to you, who's looking clueless as to what was so funny. Hyunjin giggles even more at your confused expression before he finally decides to give you a clue, "Felix?" Your eyes wide, "Oh! Sorry, I meant Hyunjin." He smiles when he sees your pretty face turning a blossoming pink. Maybe he'll use that color next.

"That's okay, my love. I knew what you meant. Come, sit here."

HAN!NSFW - It's not really a surprise when you let Minho's name slip from your lips instead of Han's. You're so used to them playing with you together, one in your mouth while the either is snug in your cunt. Han has you on the dinner table, legs wrapped around his small torso to bring him closer. You're panting in his ear, lips ghosting over the shell of it as you moan, "Min. So good Min." Han loves the way you whimper his name, his friend's name. It makes his hips stutter from your soft voice, groaning as he tries to not finish. "Min, huh? You miss our daddy?" You whine again, mostly from the lack of friction in your pussy. Still, you can't deny that you're quite accustomed to Minho's presence in situations even like this, "Mhm, I love my daddies."

"If you let me cum in your pussy like a good girl, I'll let Minho know how much his kitten needs him."

BLONDE!FELIX!SFW - You love holding Felix from behind, resting your cheek on his back while he cracks eggs and puts the yolk in the bowl of powder mix. He hasn't even put it in the oven yet, but you can smell the sweet batter in the air. You lift your head and peek around his shoulder to see how the process is going, "So far so good, Hyun." Oops! Before you have the chance to fix your mistake, Felix turns his head to you. His mouth is slightly agape with wide eyes, "Hyunjin? You tryna tell me something?" You can see his tongue poke from his cheek, a sign that he's either irritated or in a teasing mood. Judging from the smile in his eyes, you suppose it's the latter. You raise your hand to slap him on the shoulder lightly, earning a chuckle from your boyfriend, "Shut up! You two just have the same hair color." But Felix only smiles wider at your flushed reaction. "Mhm suuure. You're just saying that to make me feel better." You groan and tighten your arms around his slender body, "Nooo. You're my only one baby." Despite Felix being the one teasing you, his cheeks grow a shade of pink from the confession. It doesn't stop him from being cheeky though.

"Prove it."

SEUNGMIN!NFSW - Since the beginning of your relationship, you've always confused Seungmin with Jeongin. Through the time you've known them, it's become easier to tell them apart. It's rare that you say the wrong name, but it does happen on the rare occasion. It's terrible luck that it happens to be when Seungmin has you blind folded, depriving your sense of vision. The new play fills you with excitement, but also uncertainty. You feel the small paddle caress your thigh, sending goosebumps on your skin so violently it makes you shake. Then Seunmgin pulls the paddle off your thigh to smack the material against your ass. You whimper, lurching forward to bury your face in the pillow under you. The smacks used to sting at first, making you cry in a way that had Seungmin chuckling and mocking coo's. Now they bring pleasure, those sharp stings turning dull and making your cunt twitch as if it also wants to be hit. "Innie please," you slur, not even noticing how you've confused to two once again. "Gonna cum, wanna cum on your cock." Seungmin's taken back, almost doubting his own hearing, but you restlessly move your ass in the air side to side and whimper again, "Want Innie's cock." Maybe Seungmin should feel angry at you, but he only smiles at your dumb state. "Innie, huh?" He tuts, shaking his head.

"Poor baby, you won't be able to cum on Innie's cock. Not even mine."

JEONGIN!NSFW - He's been working out. Broader chest, thicker arms, larger legs. Jeongin hardly uses his muscles for show, they have great uses other than looking good. It's how he's able to hold you up against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist while he holds you from under your thighs. Gravity helps pull you down onto his cock, stretching you out deliciously as you dig your nails into his shoulder. His forehead rests on yours, a breath away from each other's lips in a way that makes you yearn for a kiss despite his tip already kissing your cervix. "K-kiss," you stutter. "Kiss me Binnie." The soft look in Jeongin's eyes change, turning into something dark. It takes you a moment to recall what you said, and when you do, you're nothing short of horrified. "Innie! Innie, baby, I'm so sorry! You're names' rhyme and you're always with him in the gym now-" Jeongin doesn't let you finish. You think you've fucked up big time before he snaps his hips up. You squeal at the sudden thrust, unable to fully recover before he's roughly pounding into you. Your fingers scramble for purchase on his neck, tugging on his hair and whining at the rough treatment. "Innie! Innie too much I-" Jeongin spits in your blabbering mouth, a sneer on his face, "Oh, so it's Innie now, huh? What happened to Binnie?" He spits on your face again when you try to answer.

"Binnie can't fuck you like this, can he? Binnie can't treat you like the dirty girl you are like me. You're taking my cock, and you're going to scream about how much you love my cock so Binnie can hear, okay?"

a/n: omg this was actually a little bit of a challenge! mostly cuz I think this trope can kind of get repetitive, hence why some members were sfw and others were not. hopefully i succeeded in giving each member their own little unique scene! feedback is appreciated~

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endlessthxxghts · 8 months

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You Better Jump... (1 of 2)

neighbor!joel miller x afab!reader || W/C: ≈2.5k

Summary: You wake up after a drunk night out to the lock on your door broken. The neighbor who lives in the same apartment complex as you offers to fix it for you.

Warnings: canon divergent (no outbreak) & mentions of Sarah but we don't see or interact with her (AU - she moved out, lives on her own). allusions to further sexual activity between reader and Joel, mainly fluff and flirting and embarrassing interactions that'll give you butterflies, an unhinged best friend (vulgar dialogue from said best friend), cellphone audio connecting elsewhere where other people can hear..., 18+ MDNI. F masturbation in a bathtub, Joel having incredible self control until he doesn't, making out... (I think that's it! As always, let me know if there's anything I missed that should be in here!)

Author's note: I intended for this to be a one shot, but I just know the next part will be pretty long. I still need to write up a few more details for part 2, but it will be posted VERY SOON! For now, please enjoy this. :)

PART 2 HERE (VERY NSFW, 18+ MDNI)!! || MASTERLIST

“Shit, I don’t even know which lock to get,” you mutter to yourself as you stand helplessly in the middle of the aisle.

You went to the bar last night, got a little too drunk for your own good, and when you woke up in the morning, your front door’s lock was broken. You genuinely don’t know how that happened, but you do know that you need to fix it as soon as possible, especially with the fact that you just moved in not too long ago and you live alone.

“Hey there,” a rough Texan drawl says, pulling you out of your thoughts. You look up to see a tall, broad man. Soft, brown eyes, a mustache and some scruff along his jawline. He’s clad in a dark blue t-shirt and some jeans. He’s handsome, and oh god, you’ve been completely gawking at him instead of responding. You finally meet his stare, and his eyes twinkle in delight, like he’s enjoying the attention you’re giving him. “Oh, hi, uh- I’m sorry, just kinda zoned out there for a sec,” you ramble on, trying to save yourself from the embarrassment.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “don’t worry about that.” He smiles, and you’ve never experienced anything more beautiful. “I, uh, couldn’t help but recognize ya, and overhear ya about the locks?” You give a confused look, and he continues, “I think we live in the same apartment complex. You just moved in a few weeks ago, right? I’m Joel.”

You are seriously so confused right now because you are so sure you would never forget if you had a neighbor that looks this handsome. And apparently all your defenses are down right now because you just fucking said that out loud.

You can see Joel’s cheeks and neck flush into a bright red, his hand shooting up to rub the back of his neck and the blush in your face follows. “Holy shit, I did not just fucking say that out loud,” you groan as you bury your hands into your face. You realize you still haven’t introduced your name, so you quickly squeak it out. He tells you it’s nice to meet you followed by your name, and he rambles on, “And I, uh, I’m flattered...you’re, uh, not too bad yourself.” Your head shoots up, and you swear your face cannot get even redder, but somehow it does.

He senses that you can’t handle anymore of this god awful attempt at flirting, so he saves you by continuing his original thought. “Well, what I was tryna say was- I overheard you sayin’ ya didn’t know which lock to choose? I’m pretty handy in the maintenance department, and I’ve helped a few neighbors in our complex with much more complicated than door locks. Maybe I can help ya?” You feel all the stress from your body completely fade away, and you absolutely take advantage of this beautiful man offering to help with your locks.

“Oh my god, really? I owe you one, thank you so so much,” you tell him. He smiles. “It’s no trouble at all, darlin,’” he says as he grabs the correct lock for the apartment complex, “this is the one we’d need.”

All you came here for was for the lock, but you ended up staying with him and having conversation throughout his entire Home Depot run. Turns out he’s a contractor, used to live in a home but since his daughter moved out he doesn’t find the necessity of having a big home for himself. He didn’t sell it though, he let his brother and his wife take it over. Very minimalist kind of guy.

You forget you two didn’t drive to the store together, so you’re almost kind of bummed at the fact that you have to separate from him. He bids you goodbye and says he has to run a few more errands. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two. Is it okay if I swing by your place then?”

You’ve been so entranced by his presence and your guys’ conversation that you forgot the entire reasoning behind why you began talking in the first place, and it’s heavily evident in your confused look. His lip quirks up again, “…to fix your door lock,” he adds, amused.

You mentally slap your forehead. Fucking get it together, you think to yourself. “Yes,” you immediately blabber out as soon as you realize you’ve gone quiet again. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

“Alright, darlin’, I’ll see you in a few,” he says as he shoots you a wink and begins walking in the direction of his truck, and there goes that nickname again.

Oh, you are absolutely fucked.

✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It’s a ten minute drive back home, and as soon as you get back in the car, you call your best friend and tell her what an absolute fool you made out of yourself.

“BITCH,” she screams, gasping for air at how hard she’s laughing, “I can’t fucking stand you, oh my god, I’m crying.”

“You’re such a bitch,” you tell her, while tears are also streaming down your face, attempting to catch your breath. “Dude, I swear, once you get a good look at him, you’ll see what the fuck I’m talking about, and you’ll see my reaction was VALID to such a beautiful looking man.”

She stays on the phone with you for the rest of your little drive, and ends your guys’ conversation with, “In all seriousness, though, you better jump on that di-”

You gasp out and yell her name, “OH MY GOD, you��re done. Goodbye.”

She cackles, “Update me later, babe. I love you.”

“I love you more, you fuckin’ menace,” you say as you park.

✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Your next few hours are filled with you absolutely stressing. You know Joel is just coming to fix the door, but you can’t shake away the nerves. So you spend the first hour absolutely deep cleaning your apartment.

You still have about maybe an hour left, so you decide to try and calm your nerves some more with a quick bath. You quickly undress and give yourself a quick wash in the shower to wash all of today’s dirt before you set up your bath.

Filling up the tub, you throw in some lavender scented bubbles and light your favorite cashmere vanilla candle, the combination of the scents immediately relaxing you. Maybe a little too relaxed, though, because as you sink deeper into the tub, your body can’t help but continue to rise in heat at the thought of Joel. Without thinking, your eyes slowly close and your hand drifts closer to where you’re aching the most.

You start by drawing soft circles on your clit, pulling soft little mewls from your throat. The thought of those big rough hands pushes you to move a little faster, and the thought of that scruff rubbing against your inner thigh pushes you to dip your middle and ring finger into your entrance, pumping in and out with such a need you haven’t experienced in a while. The sounds coming out of you now are high pitched and whiny, and you can’t help the way your body writhes against the bathtub, sloshing water out the sides.

Your hips are grinding up against your palm, stimulating your clit while your fingers hit that velvety spot that drives you absolutely mad. You bring your other hand up to your mouth as a reflex to silence your sounds, but an image flashes in your mind that it was Joel’s hand over your mouth instead, and that’s what ends you.

Your eyes clamp shut, head thrown back, spine completely arched, and all you can see are little white fireworks behind your eyelids as your orgasm breaks you, the lukewarm water feeling hotter than when you first drew the bath.

You sit there for a moment to catch your breath, willing your body to work since the man you just touched yourself to should be here in any minute.

You dry yourself off, putting your hair up in a towel and dressing in some gray sweat-shorts and a tank top, not caring to completely doll your figure since he’s in your home after all. Right as you finish up your skincare, you hear a knock at your door. You take one more look at yourself, and you’re still absolutely flushed with a hint of that orgasmic glow, but you can’t bring yourself to care. If he can make you cum like that with just the thought of him, you’re absolutely gonna take your best friend’s advice from earlier.

✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You open the door for him and immediately the heat you tried to save yourself from is back, tenfold. “Hey, darlin’,” he says with a smile. The nickname makes the butterflies in your tummy flutter harder than before. You give a sweet smile back. It’s his turn to melt, but you don’t clock it as easily as he can with you.

He steps inside, a little closer to you, and immediately he falls to his knees. You watch him, wide-eyed, as he pulls out a few little tools from his back pocket, and suddenly you realize you were holding your breath. Here he is, wasting no time getting started on fixing your door for you while you stare at him like he’s giving you a strip tease, all because he got down on his knees.

You clear your throat, trying to regain your composure, and you offer, “C-can I get you anything to drink? Water, coffee, tea?”

He looks up at you, and he cannot get enough. Your flushed cheeks, the way your body language shows your excitement and nerves all in one, your towel lopsided on your head. So goddamn beautiful, he thinks to himself. Again, it’s his turn as he zones out in his thoughts, but this time, you do notice, and you can’t help but feel a sense of confidence shoot down your spine at the fact that you’re affecting him just as much as he affects you.

Your smirk grows the longer he stares, and finally he realizes what’s happening, and his face goes tomato red. He’s pretty sure no one has ever seen him blush this much since he was a teenager. “Some water would be wonderful, sweetheart, thank you,” he says, thanking whatever God in existence that his words were coherent and not a blubbering mess like his brain.

“Coming right up,” you say, and make your way into your kitchen, thankful for the little private moment to yourself. As you grab Joel a cup and fill it with ice and water, you feel your phone ring in your pocket. It’s your best friend. You bring your phone to your ear, hitting the answer button on the way up.

“Hello?” you repeat several times before you hear your best friend, but not through your phone. Forgetting the water for a minute, you scramble to the living room, where Joel is right next to, to hear your best friend coming from your living room speaker: Hello? Can you hear me?? I said did you jump on sexy neighbor’s dick ye-

You hurriedly end the call and throw your phone across the room. Your heart starts to pound even harder when you see Joel in your peripheral view, still working hard on the lock, but he is definitely in the proximity to have seen and heard everything. You quickly turn back to the kitchen to grab the glass, purposely avoiding Joel’s eye.

Quickly you grab the glass and place it on the little table near the front door. Joel sits back on his haunches for a moment and takes a long gulp of the ice cold water. Too amused at the display that happened moments ago, he can’t help himself when he says, “So… sounds like ya got your hands full with that friend of yours, hm?” He looks up at you with mischief in his eye.

And just like that, any sense of confidence you had at having the upper hand over this Texan man went down the drain. You completely fumble. “Oh- I- yeah, my best friend… Did you hear- Fuck, no, of course you heard, I-”

Joel pulls himself up to stand at full height, now towering over you. He brings his pointer finger and thumb to your chin, pulling you to meet his eyes while also pulling you from the hole you keep digging deeper. You immediately shut up. He has a crooked grin plastered on his face when he says, “I didn’t hear a thing,” followed by a wink. You can feel your knees wanting to buckle. You breathily squeak out an okay and he assures you with another okay in response. You two stare into each other’s eyes for a moment before Joel, without thinking, says, “Let me take ya out to dinner.”

You slowly pull away from his grasp, afraid you’re invading his space even though he just asked you out on a date. He takes it as a sign of discomfort and immediately creates an arm’s length of space between you. “I-I’m sorry if I overstepped or made you uncomfor-”

“No, Joel, hey,” you cut him off quickly, stepping slightly closer. “You just surprised me, that’s all. I’d love to go to dinner with you,” you beam up at him, your bottom lip wedged in your mouth to ease your nervousness. “I just pulled away because I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything,” you quickly add.

“That’ll never happen,” he softly says. He steps closer again. “I’m sorry, but I- Shit, okay, I’m a gentleman through and through, but I-” he pauses for a moment, “I just- I really need to kiss you-”

You don’t let him finish his thought as you grab onto his arms and pull him into you, guiding both his arms around your lower back and guiding your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. It’s a battle of teeth and tongue, and the way your noses bump each other ever so often is enough for you to completely buckle. His hold on you is tight enough to keep you standing, but you truly don’t know how much more of this you can take with a certain bulge pushing into your lower belly. His one hand falls lower and testing the waters, he lightly grasps onto your asscheek. You moan into his mouth at that, and he takes that as your signal for him to fully grab you, hiking you up onto your tippy toes in an attempt to consume more of you. He breaks the kiss a little to give you some airflow back, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he brings his kisses to the side of your mouth, to your cheek, gliding down your jaw and neck, licking and nipping anywhere you give him access to.

You were right. It’s not quite exactly your thighs like you were imagining earlier, but the way his plump lips, mustache, and scruff feel along your neck is absolutely sinful and addicting, and…

Oh, you are absolutely fucked.

Author's note - extended: I hope you guys enjoyed this enough to tune in to part 2! The 2nd part will be very SMUTTY, so... ;)

EDIT: As of the new year 2024, I no longer do taglists!! Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs and turn on the notifications to be updated when new stories come out!!

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sariahsue · 5 months

Text

Wherefore Art Thou My(stery) Lady

When a failed attempt to let Chat Noir down easy ends with Ladybug learning his name, she does what any lovesick teenager would do: teases him mercilessly. Ch 1

Chapter Two

Plagg wasn't very encouraging when Adrien flopped onto the bed after patrol.

“What do you think?” Adrien asked him as he handed over a wedge of cheese.

“Eh,” Plagg said through a full mouth. One crumb escaped and bounced onto the carpet. “She'll probably say something about it the next time you see her. Nothing you can do about it until then.”

“That was helpful,” he said as sarcastically as he could.

“You're very welcome! I'm glad you finally appreciate all I do for you.”

Adrien climbed into bed, still fully dressed, and pulled the blankets over his head. Plagg's reaction was a good sign, right? If Ladybug was about to turn him down again, Plagg would try to comfort him, so that meant her reaction had been a good thing? Right? Or maybe Plagg didn't know either. Adrien buried his head beneath his pillow and tried, unsuccessfully, to get some sleep.

He tossed and turned as bright moonlight poured in through his windows. He was too restless to sleep. Not knowing was driving him crazy. Twice he got up, determined to at least run another patrol if he was going to be awake anyway. But Plagg hid both times, so there was nothing he could do except crawl back under his covers and wait for the sleep that wouldn't come.

When he got out his phone to check the time, Plagg grumbled loudly about the light from where he was perched on Adrien's pillow and threatened to hide again. Two hours. He'd been home for two hours already. What was Ladybug doing? Was she sleeping peacefully? Was she planning how she was going to let him down easily?

He was about to put the phone away when he got a text message from an unfamiliar number.

??? – I can't believe this! It's so obvious!

That sounded like the middle of someone’s conversation.

Adrien – I think you have the wrong number. ??? – Sorry, Adrien. I hope I'm not waking you up, but I really have to talk to you.

Okay, so it was the right number. This was hopefully someone he knew. But why didn't he have their phone number if they had his?

Adrien – Okay... Who is this? What's obvious? ??? – That you're Adrien! I can't believe I didn't see it before! ??? – Or should I say Ch--

His heart flipped. Someone knew his secret. They were going to blackmail him, and he was the perfect target.

??? – Wait. Are you alone? There's no one reading over your shoulder, right? Adrien – Who is this? ??? – Wait. ??? – Don't you have me in your contacts already? Adrien – Noooo?

“Plagg,” he hissed. Plagg didn’t respond, still fast asleep. His mind was racing. He should know who this was, which was a good sign. And they didn’t want to leak his identity, at least not immediately. That– that was also a good sign, right? His hands were sweaty on his phone from clutching it so hard.

Adrien – Who are you? ??? – Wow. ??? – I had to psych myself up all night for this stupid text. ??? – And I didn't even manage to give you my secret identity like I'd planned on.

There was a gasp, and it took him a second to realize it was his. Secret identity? It couldn't be.

??? – That's what happens when I take the coward's way! I could have just come over. ??? – But I had it all planned out. You’d know I knew who you were, and my real name would be right there in your contacts, and I wouldn’t have to confess anything to your face. ??? – It was going to be great, Adrien!

Another three dots appeared. She wasn’t done talking to him yet.

??? – I probably kept you up worrying. I'm sorry. I should have said something immediately. ??? – I'm probably not making sense right now either. Sorry.

The messages flashed across the screen at an impressive speed. Adrien didn't even try to answer them. Was that really Ladybug? It had to be. And she knew who he was, which meant that he'd really been the “other” boy after all. The dread he’d felt all night was replaced with tingling anticipation.

He had to check.

Adrien – My Lady? ??? – Hey, Kitty. ??? – ❤️

“Plagg!” he yelled. That got the kwami’s attention.

“Seriously, kid? I'm trying to sleep!”

“Look! Look look look! She loves me!” He thrust the phone in the kwami's face, but Plagg howled and flew off, yelling something about teenagers and idiots.

Adrien – I love you! So who are you really?!

He added a name to her contact while he waited for her response. The despair that had been pressing on him for days had completely evaporated in seconds. He wasn't even tired anymore. He was the boy!

Before she was able to type a response, he’d changed her contact name. Her response left him baffled.

My Lady – … My Lady – …

He stared at the two ellipses. Maybe… he shouldn’t have asked her for her name so quickly. Was she too nervous to tell him? Did she not want to at all?

Adrien – What’s wrong? My Lady – You don't know who I am yet. Hmmm... Adrien – Ladybug? My Lady – There are possibilities now. Adrien – Yeah, like the possibility of me asking you out. Probability, 100%. What do you say? My Lady – I was talking about the possibility of me teasing you. Probability, 200%. My Lady – Also, yes. I would love to! Adrien – Really?!

He wasn't entirely sure he was awake at this point. It seemed much more likely that he'd fallen asleep and was having a very strange dream in which Ladybug was admitting her feelings for him. (It wouldn't have been the first time he'd had one, but they’d never involved texting before.)

The rest of the house was dark and quiet, but his phone screen lit up again.

My Lady – Really! But– Adrien – !!! My Lady – You have to guess who I am first. Adrien – That's not fair! My Lady – :p My Lady – I'm someone you know from school. There's your only hint. Good night! My Lady – And for the record, I love you too.

She didn't text again. (If this wasn’t a dream and that message was still on his phone in the morning, he was going to print it out and frame it.)

He read through the whole conversation once again. There was one hint that she hadn't realized she'd given him. They were close enough to have each other's phone numbers, and close enough that she was surprised he didn't have hers. He was supposed to have it already.

She was so much closer than he'd ever realized.

Ch 3

---

Author’s note: It is important for you to know that I started this story years and years ago. Like, season one or two is when I had the idea. She got the phone number from Alya, but we didn’t see her talking on the phone with Adrien until after I started writing. So she had his number but he didn’t have hers!

@mlbigbang

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #ml #love square #fanfiction

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jamesunderwater · 3 months

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Jily Microfic - Opponent

@jilymicrofics - feb 27th, prompt: opponent - words: 911 Summary: Lily might have a heart murmur, might have a crush, it's hard to tell, but she's definitely a feminist, and in case you were wondering, she doesn't care at all if another girl shows interest in James Potter. read the rest in this lil academic rivals to lovers series on my AO3, here! (and stay tuned as this is part 1 of 3 for a little end-of-the-month academic rivals finale ;D) Read Part 2 here & Part 3 here!

Lily Evans is a feminist – she’s obviously a feminist. She’s not about to treat another woman like an opponent just because the girl's got a crush on a boy Lily only mildly, maybe, a little bit – she isn’t even really sure she – likes. Especially not if that boy is James Potter.

(Again, she isn’t sure – it could just be a heart murmur, she’s looking into it.)

So Tamara Campbell told her friend Maritza Acebo who told Mary Macdonald that Tamara thinks James Potter is cute – so what? When Mary asked James what he thinks of Tamara, he only said, “She’s cute, yeah,” and that’s not exactly I’m going to ask her out this instant sort of language. And so what if he does ask her out? The only reason Lily has to care is if some ninny gets James Potter distracted from his studies, leaving Lily without a challenge.

Sorry, not ninny – she’s a feminist. Some girl. Some lovely, “sure, she’s cute” girl, who is probably of at least average intelligence but – it’s only a fact, nothing subjective about it – surely is no intellectual equal to James Potter, and probably only likes him because she thinks he’s some gorgeous quidditch star with sexy hair and a great smile. And, you know, it isn’t Lily’s fault that Tamara’s high-pitched laugh sounds like the laugh of a ninny. Maybe she shouldn’t squeal so loud the entire corridor hears her just because Potter told one stupid joke…

—

“Happy anniversary,” James says, a proud grin on his face. He’s standing in front of Lily’s desk in their office, bouncing on his heels. He’s sure this is an idiotic idea, but since Lily already thinks he’s a fool, James figures there’s no harm in trying his luck. And whether she smiles or just smirks and rolls her eyes, either expression will be better than the perpetual frown she’s worn the last week.

When Lily lifts an eyebrow, he brandishes a plate from behind his back, placing it before her.

“What’s this?” she asks him, her tone flatter than he’d imagined it would be.

“Lemon tart,” James answers, his smile wavering a bit. “It’s your favorite…isn’t it?”

She stares at the plate for what feels like a century, and James can’t make any sense of what’s happening behind her blank expression. Finally, she says, “Yeah, I like it fine,” her voice lifting forcefully.

James wishes he were being buried alive, or burned at a stake, or plummeting from three hundred feet in the air – anything besides standing here in this moment.

“Oh,” he manages through desert-dry lips. Clearing his throat, James attempts a recovery, his entire face on fire. “Well, I just thought – it’s been two whole months of being Head students together…” This explanation is going terribly. Is there a spell for turning the floor to quicksand? Can it be done non-verbally? “And we haven’t killed each other yet, so…” He forces a chuckle. “Thought we might celebrate.”

Lily looks at him then, finally, and the green of her eyes is wrong somehow. Too bright and too dull all at once. “Yeah,” she says, her lips down-turned. “Quite a feat.”

His heart squeezes in fear and warning bells chime loudly in his ears, but he asks anyway, “Are you alright?”

She clears her throat, and suddenly she’s standing and gathering her books into her arms. “I’m fine. Thanks for the dessert.”

She disappears in a blur of red, the lemon tart still on her desk.

—

It’s her own fault, really. She should have just said she liked the damn lemon tart. Why didn’t she tell him she liked the lemon tart? Lily stares across the Gryffindor table, where a few seats down James is watching Tamara Campbell giggle at a decibel only pixies could match.

This is the third day in a row she’s had lunch at their table, her blue tie sticking out amongst the rows of red. There’s absolutely a rule about students of other houses switching tables, Lily’s sure of it – and if there isn’t, there really should be. This is…this is fraternizing with the enemy, if you really think about it, given they’ve got a match against Ravenclaw in two weeks.

Lily grumbles in irritation. Two years ago she’d never have been able to say the quidditch schedule if asked. She’s been utterly compromised. Her Charms essay due tomorrow is only half-written; this morning, her potion was only the third best in class, and she hadn’t even cared about the disapproving look on Slughorn’s face.

Another giggling shriek reaches its crescendo, and she’s simply had enough. Leaving her plate hardly touched, Lily gets up from the table and heads for the door.

“Hey, Evans, hold on a moment–”

She barely muffles a groan at the sound of his voice, quickening her pace as she passes him.

James, with his spider-long legs, is beside her in an instant. “D’you mind trading patrols with me on Friday?” he asks, speaking to her like she’s a child on the verge of a tantrum, as he’s done ever since the lemon tart incident. “I’ve…got a…” He trails off, suddenly looking incredibly sheepish.

“Fine,” Lily cuts him off quickly to avoid hearing his bumbling explanation. Her anatomy’s gone all wrong; her lungs are in her throat, her heart is in her stomach, her brain's disintegrating altogether…

She leaves in a rush, eyes burning, unable to tell who she thinks is more stupid: James Potter, or herself.

To be continued...

#jily microfic #jilymicrofics #jily #jily fic #jily*#james potter #lily evans #jple #hp #my writing

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undercoverpena · 11 months

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ix. not his place. not your place.

javier peña x dea f!reader | chapter nine of nowhere to run

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers. no use of y/n. use of a nickname. mentions of smut. feelings. angst. anxiety. ptsd. love thoughts. word count: 6.5k.

AN: sorry for the wait, I got really in my head about it all, but thank you to @yeyinde who listens to me ramble about my writing woes and also to the brilliant @guyfieriii who tells me things my brain won't let me believe.

dedication: i dont normally do dedications, but a special one to @thelightsandtheroses because her love for this has made me want to keep chipping away, even if i lost my way. thank you for being such a light.

You’d love to say that you'd been his the moment you had stood in his office.

But you hadn’t.

You fought losing yourself in his brown eyes more times than you’d like to count.

Somewhere between his face being between your thighs and you riding him, you’d been sucked in—like a moth to a flame.

You’d been able to peel back the thrown-up walls, while he’d been assessing how to take down yours. Until the two of you are both standing in rubble, staring at one another more bare than you have been in bed.

“You have to work with Don Berna?”

He’s looking at you, swiping his tongue across his teeth. Your heart falling in your chest.

“Shit…”

“Indeed.”

The house of cards is floating down, haphazardly falling, ready to land and squash those who don’t get on the right side of it. You’re never sure if he is on the right side—not because of his past, but because they’re always one step behind.

Chasing something, anything—everything.

One thing away from finishing it, from drawing a red cross over another photo.

It’s why you gnaw your lip, why your nail polish is picked off from your index, middle and thumb on the one hand, and one hand only. It’s what made you begin unravelling: the sight of your undoing evidence each time you stapled or picked up the phone.

Because… you like him.

Truly, like him. Could even, possibly, maybe love him.

And it makes you want to plead. Beg him to move closer, at least. Close the gap. Let you clutch him. So much said, without words being spoken. A soft glance, warm eyes and a kind smile—both given and returned.

“Don’t…”

But he does.

Taking soft strides to close the gap, hand reaching up to take hold of your cheek. You know he can see the fear shimmering in your eyes. It sitting in the pools that you try to blink away. Hiding your anxiety, how much you want to protest but choose not to.

You knew that was the thing with love, you could fight it, attempt to bury it, smother it in sex, whiskey and other destructive decisions, but it always cracked through. Always rose, standing in its flaming glory like a reborn phoenix.

“Javi. Please…. Please don’t….” Die. Leave me.

“Not a fucking chance.”

You let his forehead press to yours, eyes closing, managing to choke out, “Good.”

At some point along the way, before he’d gone to Cali, he had handed you a key to his place, and you had told him where your spare was.

Easy, convenient. Practical.

Those were the words you chose and the ones he leaned on. The two of you allowed them to be the reason you took the step, not because it made sense or felt right.

Doing so allowed the two of you less rigid plans when it came to meeting. It allowed you not to rush as he sat outside your place, not needing to tap his steering wheel as you flicked lights on and off, dashing across your windows. It meant you didn’t have to wait to begin showering or cooking when it was time to be at yours.

It also meant the two of you didn’t need to look in his mirror—just in case someone saw. Something he’s thankful for now, more than ever since your friends are back.

In the days before the attempt to take down Miguel, it felt right to be in your possession for many reasons. Leaving his pocket—all heavy and meaningful—and finding a home in your palm.

Because it also stood for something else.

Just in case.

The words linger, heavy and pulsing in the air. In case you need me for anything or shit hits the fan.

Both of them are things they should keep an eye on and consider. It’s in the air, how dangerously close they all were—how things were in place, yet no clear direction paving its way.

Then there was you.

You who has shared all that you have with him, but won’t answer him truthfully when he asks if you’re okay. You save that for your nightmares.

It’s another reason he handed you the key: a gesture, a promise: I’m here. So much so he hadn’t been sure how you’d react, watching you stare at it for a second before your fingers closed around it, and he felt able to breathe.

Then you’d smirked. Is this in case I need your signature, sir?

If his name hadn’t been shouted, he’d have congratulated you for it—slipped his tongue past your lips and tasted the coffee on your tongue.

Instead, he spent the evening signing his name against you. First, your neck, then your collarbone, before he wrote over and over with his tongue between your slit—carving each letter, gripping your hips, controlling them as they tried to meet him. One of his palms flat on your stomach, making you wait—

Paciencia, he whispered.

Blowing cool air over your soaked core, watching you write to wriggle, twisting yourself to meet him. Little pleas and begs leaving your lips, the same one that is more wit than honest.

It was different. The way you two fucked.

It had been for a little while, but that night it was noticeable, a shift ever present in the room—words sitting on the edge of his tongue as he captured kisses and swallowed your moans.

He missed it when your nails didn’t slide down his back; he craved the way you looked at him before you let go.

Things he hadn’t focussed on before, not with you or anyone else.

Then, there’s the morning when he wakes to find you next to him. Sometimes asleep, sometimes just waking the same as him—sleep-filled eyes washing him in beauty, warmth, and a future that feels like he could have it.

Though, Javi hadn’t expected to hear from you tonight—never mind seeing you.

Had assumed that you’d be catching up with Van Ness, the two of you have clung to one another in the office—some part of you visibly snapping back into place before him. He’d have been jealous if not for how you iced out Fiestl—a smugness sitting behind his teeth as he nodded at the three of you before faking a reason to hide in his office.

Your voice was barely a whisper when he picked up the phone, softly asking if you could come around—or whether he could come over.

Something you never ask, which is why he’s there in record time, finding your spare and sliding it in.

For saying usually, your door has a petulance for letting him in, the lock turns in with ease, greeting him with the darkness inside—all shadowed ornaments and streams of light from cars passing your window. Your curtains are limp, undrawn—not perfectly slid into their place as usual.

Nothing seems as it should be, not even how your place makes him feel. Usually, it wraps warmth around him, all hopeful—swamped with happiness. Your home feels cold and withdrawn tonight—like it’s at a loss.

The door clicks with a finality, placing the key inside the glass bowl with a chime, yet he doesn’t hear you call. Not a Javi, not a Peña.

With each heavy step he takes, he expects light to blind him—your hand over the light switch, smirk so broad that his mind automatically takes a photo of it. It never happens. His hand moves for his phone, the other motioning for his gun as he passes the open kitchen, living room and bathroom door.

His mind goes into overdrive, wondering if anything seemed out of place, if your voice had given anything away as he pauses outside the only one shut: your bedroom.

“Cariño…?”

He considers knocking, tapping knuckles against wood as a warning, as a sign when he hears silence. But he twists the metal door knob in hand instead, opening it, expecting to find emptiness—made bed, cushions placed at the head.

Javi finds none of that, removing his gun from his waistband to put on the side table—his phone following suit.

Because what he finds instead is lit by the occasional headlight and the weak stream of the streetlight. Cold ochre shimmering across balled-up sheets, used tissues and the broken mess of a person at the centre.

At first, he can’t tell if your eyes are open until a car slowly drives past—light reflecting from the walls and hitting your open irises.

He says your name uneasily, each letting falling consciously from his tongue as he moves close to the bed. Only receiving the lowest hum back from the duvet and destruction.

The mattress dips, your body unmoving still as his fingers find the string of your bedside lamp.

“I’m turning the light on—just need to see you.”

He wishes he hadn’t.

Black stains against usually manicured cheeks, tired, empty eyes staring into him—all forbidding as they wince and then land on him.

Javi knows shattered pieces typically cut skin, but his hand finds your exposed shoulder—coldness greeting him, sliding down the pads of his touch to his wrist and bones.

“Cariño.”

He says it differently, more a calling than questioning.

You blink, trying to erase your distress and pain—but it hangs all the same, like a banner, there all for him to see.

“You came…”

His chest tightens, something falling from within as he releases a feeble breath. He knew, suspected it for a while, that you weren’t okay. Not pushing, not knowing if his words could be ones that could heal you. So he said nothing, let silence do its thing between the two of you, as his thumb brushed your cheek. Wiping across spilt grief and fresh tears.

“What…”

You swallow it loud in the quiet—eyes furrowing before widening, as though hearing his words repeatedly.

He smiles, knuckles resting on your cheek, thumb stroking the edge of a smile he misses.

“Talk to me, cariño. Please?”

More fall from your eyes, sliding down like rain droplets against dry cheeks and a sorrowful stare. If he could, he’d take it all from you. Urge the ball that clogs your throat to shrink—the one that lives inside you and has gotten matted with your soul. He’d do whatever you needed him to do.

Your eyes fall from him, landing on a spot—darkness blooming over the colour as they unfocus.

“I thought once you knew, it would feel easier. The same way I thought I’d be okay with seeing him back, Chris. Thought the distance would mean I didn’t hate him, but then I saw him and…”

More fall in single file, orderly.

Something tugging at the corner of his lips, because only you would have tears that fall in unison—that march down your cheeks and cut across your misery.

“Did you know that I didn’t have a nickname before her? Luna—the moon. Said it was because I only came alive at night. The name was just for us—that name. Threatened to punch someone back in the States for using it.”

Smirking, he watches as you blink. A river, cloudy with memory, scales down your face, tracing the outer edges of your nose and hanging expertly on your cupid bow.

It catches—whatever comes next.

Clings to the back of your teeth—rots on the tip of your tongue as he continues his ministrations on your cheek. Watching, studying—waiting for a cue, a mark. A sign.

“…I don’t mind some, but there’s something about him using it that way.”

You pause, the smallest of laughs slipping from your tight lips. “I wish you could have met her. She’d like you. You think I’m witty, but she was so much better at it. Barely needed to think. Always a retort—both in English and Spanish, always ready...”

The last word hangs, syllables dancing until they run out of steam and are swallowed by silence. His knuckles pausing on your jaw, clearing his throat, finding your eyes flick up to him.

They smother him in heaviness, so much so, it almost makes him crumble. The edges of him weakening, the knot in his chest that needs to make you smile constricting, wrapping further around his oesophagus—

“She sounds wonderful,” he manages to say.

Your face scrunching, a mix of agreement and anguish fighting in battle on who should show first—should prevail.

“She was.”

It wounds him to hold your stare, for the stinging edges of your grief to dig further into his spirit. Injecting more cause into his blood, more reason to keep fighting, pushing—hunting injustice until bars surround it.

When he blinks, he’s freed. Temporarily, but enough to think. To rest his palm under your chin, keep your eyes upon him.

“You think you can let me in, cariño?”

His eyes flick down to the sheets, the duvet wrapped around you, trapped under limbs.

It takes a second, one which spreads across space for far too long, but you nod. Shuffling awkwardly so a corner emerges—one he can lift and slide in.

Your blouse is gone, but the rest of your work clothes still adorn your frame. Javi’s shirt rustles as he seeks to bring you comfort—to find a way to pull you close without forcing you to flee.

“This okay?”

It’s tinged with nerves—draping between you as he finds you still watching him.

He'd have missed your nod if you were almost shoulder to shoulder. Only catching how the edges of white teeth bite down your bottom lip. Spotting the tremble before he sees the unmissable wobble as your eyes fill until they’re shimmering with a new wave that’ll crash down and coat them.

“Cariño—“

“Lune.”

He looks at you, takes it in. The look in your eyes, the way they burn unspoken emotions into him.

“French, I know. She had to make an adjustment, claim it back before we left. She didn’t let anyone, not even Ch….him. But, I think she’d let you call it me,” you whisper, all hiccuped and difficult.

Something unlodges inside of him, a thing which is determined to rid those two words. Because he suspects you’re thanking him because you don’t get this. Usually pushed, nudged to the edge until you devastate.

He kisses your hairline instead. Feeling you curl into him, head against his chest—and then he braces for the first shake, the eruption of shudders ripple from you to him.

And he clings, clutching to root you here—to him, with him.

“Javi…”

His fingers continue sliding up and down, feeling soft skin as your breath flutters across his cheek.

“Thank… thank you for coming over.”

He smiles, spreading over his lips before he can hold it back, opening his eyes to face you. “I’ll always come, cariño.”

“Prometes?”

“Promesa, baby.”

Javi rarely dreams of the after. But he has begun to.

You’ve stayed over at his place more often as of late. Easier, you’d tried to protest, and he never complained.

The thoughts the dreams leave behind knock on him more frequently, especially when the darkness slides over the two of you, when you’ve gone quiet before soft shallow breaths fill the space in his room. It there, sitting on his tongue, wanting to ask:

What are you gonna do when it’s all over?

A question which festers and burns—eroding a hole in his mouth and the back of his brain. It throbs more when he feels you curl against him, craving some form of touch before the two of you have to rise and pretend all over again.

It’s why he likes it when you stay. When he can start the day with his palm on your cheek, lips slotted over yours. Pulling you flush against him as you whisper his name into the air—not tired of him, not even close.

Because after it’s rushed, you need to do this or do that. The pretence needing to be kept up—him rushing to get in before you, more so now your friends are back. Fingers shakily doing his tie until you spot him in his kitchen, half-dressed, barely ready for the day, and your fingers smooth over his. Helping, shifting your hips against him as you loop his tie and knot it: the definition of a multitasker.

Letting his eyes take you in, he lowers his hands to your hips. “You keep doing that, cariño, and we’ll undo your handiwork in a moment.”

He likes the way you smile around him.

How soft it is, the sharp edge you’d once purposefully wrapped it in, now gone. Faded. Vanished.

“I could fuck you with your tie on, Peña.”

Javi knows that. Almost lets you prove it. Mouth opening to find words to say—

“You have a meeting, remember.”

Gritting his teeth, jaw sliding to the side, he nods.

Your fingers drop from the fabric as something sits in your eyes—a set of words that roll around that pretty head of yours he’s yet to decipher.

“You think you’ll come here tonight?”

Javi asks, hopeful. Not wanting to assume—not even with his spare on your keychain and most of your things in his bathroom. A smug look crosses your lips, making him leave ahead of you even harder.

“I’ll be here. Prefer your water pressure than I do mine and the hands that come with it.”

He tortures himself by sitting in your lingering perfume on the commute.

Fingers tapping on the wheel, thumb and index brushing in tight circles over and over as he parks his car, trying not to think of bubbles, water dripping down, you against the tiles.

Like most mornings, he notes how dull the place is when you’re not around before he picks up the metaphorical weights he carries. The ones stuffed with expectations, getting it done—passing the board with the photos he can see when he blinks.

Each minute until you arrive, the weight digs in. In the same way, it did before the night, he took you back—only being removed from his shoulders by your fingers and yours alone.

It’s the relief you provide that makes him flick his eyes up as he hears someone arrive, casting a glance through the blinds—all on edge until he sees you. Until he knows you’re safe—something prickling, pecking at him that you’re not.

It’s worsened since you told him everything. Since he saw you in the centre of your bed, all broken and at a loss. A part of him was angry with himself that he hadn't tried to take the weight from your shoulders, hadn’t noticed how close you had woven yourself, how unspooled you’d become.

Worst of all, Javi wonders if there’s still a target on your back. Your face stuck up on some wall like the Godfathers are stuck on theirs, a thought easier to silence when you’re in sight.

He knows it’s because he cares, feels things. It creeps into his chest, unwrapping, unfurling—spreading its vines until they loop around his muscles and bones. Making him feel so much it burns a hole in his tongue, in his heart—

“Morning,” you say, file in hand.

His eyes lifting from the paper, watching you smile—body relaxing.

Your words linger in the air, all innocent, airy as though you hadn’t said it to him already two hours ago. Fingers in his hair, nails scraping along his jaw as he rocked his hips into you, filling the air with breathy mornings and right there.

He smirks, taking the file from you as you step into his office, beginning your usual morning rundown of his day, who has left messages, and what he hasn't done that needs handling.

It’s not until you begin talking about having a meeting yourself, that he forces his head to look up from the file, does he take you in. Eyes dropping down your frame, not able to help himself, until—

“—so I have to go—“

“Is that my shirt?”

You pause, words dying on your tongue before you softly begin to smile. “How would I be wearing your shirt, sir?”

“Are you wearing my shirt, cariño?”

Folding your arms, you shift your weight on the spot. His eyes scan behind you, spotting and noting that no one is within ear reach. Working out the probability of whether he has time to hook his finger in one of the belt loops of your trousers, pull you to him, shut the blinds and kiss you until your lips are swollen before duty calls.

“If I were wearing your shirt, it would be because I ran out of time this morning to iron my shirt because someone needed assistance with their tie. So if this was yours, it’s merely being borrowed.”

He swallows—something stirring inside of him.

Because you’re wearing him, here. Out in the open, around their colleagues. He’d be able to look out of his window and see you dressed in him, marked in him.

You’ve buttoned half of it, tucked it into the band of your trousers. His fingers want to trace the vest underneath the open buttons—take you in for a second, admire the way it’s styled so it looks less like him, and more like something new you’re trying with a pair of your trousers and heels.

Your confidence falters; he watches it—how it wrinkles out over your face. “Wait…Javi, do you mind?”

“Fuck no,” he says, more gruff. “Not one fucking bit. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

He shifts his jaw, staring at you, tracing his eyes up and down your body—knowing how each curve feels, how your skin tastes. “I’m not going to be able to fucking concentrate.”

“Wh… Javier Peña, do you like women wearing your clothes?”

“Not women. You.”

You pull a face, smirking. “Well, that’s good to know.” His brow arches, watching something glimmer in your eyes. “Because you have quite an impressive shirt collection, and guess what I like?”

Tracing his bottom lip with his thumb, he tries to stop himself from tracing his eyes up and down you. Hearing people come in, the office slowly springs to life behind you.

“What’s that, cariño?”

You lean forward, allowing you to drop your voice. “Knowing to take it back, you’ll have to take it off of me—once I get to yours, tonight, that is,” you whisper, soft and breathy, a hint of silk to each of your words as they slide into his ears. “Have a good day, sir.”

Failure was something he was being served more and more frequently.

This time, it was dealt to him when he’d allowed a part of himself to relax—to feel like they were close to a win—having gone from panicked to relieved when he felt Jurado’s wife against him.

Her all curled up, trembling. The scent of mud, sweat and something he assumed had once been perfume rotted into his nose as the jungle faded from view.

It’s why he allowed her the comfort she so desperately needed, giving himself the chance to feel the joy that he had managed to fix the mess he’d caused by not thinking of every single option.

Then, like grey clouds holding back her storm, there was a clap of thunder—Christina's eyes were then full of sorrow and fury, digging into him as though they were made of knives. Yet, it had been her words that did the slicing.

It hadn’t meant a damn thing, not accounting for a single thing. All of it, from listening in on her and Jurado to now, a giant waste of fucking time. The phone call confirmed it.

He was dead. All that chasing, the jungle—

Javi had intended to cool down before he headed back to the office. It had all boiled inside of him, unable to think straight, that was until his eyes landed on you.

Finding you at your usual spot, bent over, the low light making you squint. Your head lifts to glance at your screen before back down to the files on your desk, fingers rubbing at that spot on the side of your forehead—your tick, your tell.

Then you lean back, hand brushing over your face before landing your eyes on him. At first, he watches you relax, relief flooding your expression—likely due to the fact that he’s safe. You'd been forthcoming with how much you'd been worrying.

Then, a smile. One that is quickly swallowed by concern. It amazes him how quick and astute you are—lifting yourself, grabbing something without taking your eyes off him as he approaches, nodding to Stoddard as you clear your throat.

“Could—can I talk to you about a lead?”

He nods, swallowing. He gestures for you to lead the way as he follows you into his office. It isn’t until the door closes, wrapping his arm across himself and playing with his other elbow, does he see you throw the file on the desk.

“There’s no lead. I just… you looked like you needed to talk.”

It's instant, the way he softens. Looking down, letting himself feel the calming wave you cast over him without knowing you even do it.

The airport. The jungle. The call.

He’s not even sure where to begin.

“She thinks I’m a piece of shit. That’s… that’s what she called me.”

Slowly, you move to the mini-table-turned-bar as you pour a glass—one for you, one for him.

“And maybe, I am…” You extend the glass, his hand taking it as he nods, running his thumb over the top. “I mean, I get tunnel vision—and I just have to….”

He sighs, feeling you watching him, before it all comes out.

From the moment they reached the jungle to the airport. Your eyes not leaving him, likely seeing how easy it is for him to undo—how he’s coming apart, crumbling, pieces of him snapping off. The words keep coming and coming, the stress releasing a hold on his chest but doubling on his shoulders simultaneously.

It isn’t until he’s done, your silence, thick and loaded, does he even feel he needs to ask:

“Y'agree with her?”

He has to ask, watching as you undo the thought.

Studying your expression as he coats his tongue and lips in deep amber and misery. He used to drink to celebrate. Somewhere between Colombian takedowns and Escobar, it began as a way to stop himself thinking. Now, he’s unsure if it calms him, deafens things or just numbs him—or better, a concoction of the two.

You lean against the wall, wrestling with your thoughts. He can see it—the thin line that appears between your brow and the way your fingers dance along the crystal glass.

“I can… see why she’d think you were one.”

He takes a large sip, raising his brow. “Well... fuck, thanks.”

“You don’t—this doesn't work because I lie to you. We work because I’m great at feeding that self-deprecation you’re carrying around.”

He smirks, snorting into the glass as he watches you take your first sip. Not hissing or scrunching—sipping it like it’s water. Suspiciously so.

He hears you step forward, closing the gap, placing your hand on his shoulder, nudging him to turn entirely towards you. “You’re a good person. The only time you’re a piece of shit is when you don’t do that thing with your tongue to me. She's hurt, Javi. Understandably, so.”

He smiles, and you brush the sides of it with your thumb.

Because he knows he’s experienced in non-committal fucking. Well-versed, almost excelling at it, until you. You who he wants the opinion of, the person who makes his world splinter and crack in the best way—more so when you dig your nails in, and he paints your walls in ropes of white. You are different.

He's thought it since the beginning, when you barged in, all confident and smug. Now, it’s so much harder to ignore, to bury—to smother in other problems and issues.

All of the realisation snapping inside of him, the walls he’s built coming down with ease, as your palm remains on his cheek—all intimate and full of care.

“Starting to think you like me.”

“Get rid of that thought, sir. I merely tolerate you.”

“Liar.”

You blink, dropping your hand.

Holding your eyes steady, Javi lets the seconds add up, sliding into a minute. The air tightens with understanding as it rises like a slow tide threatening to pull you both under and drown you. Realisation twists and gnaws in your chest, not able to blink, not able to turn.

He sighs, knowing it too. Releasing you, watching your head tilt before you roll your eyes, and then you’re moving to close the blinds—the office slowly fading from view before you approach the last turning so all he can see is you.

You who is looking at him with a mixed expression he hasn’t got the energy to decipher. Thoughts, suspicions, all rolling around his head, mixing horribly with the expression of Christina Jurado staring at him as he ended that call.

“You do matter to me.”

“Tell me you like me, baby,” he says, likely knowing that you're struggling for breath.

Him doing the unspeakable—making a move, so off the board, he’s confirming neither of you is playing. Likely haven’t been for weeks. The signs were all there if you really looked, really focused on it.

You smirk, shaking your head as you step back. “I like you, you know I do.”

Hand slowly spinning the glass in your hand as you sink into the chair opposite his desk. Eyes staring into it, the amber sloshing from side to side.

“I just…”

“Cariño…” your eyes look up, meeting him. “It’s different for me too.”

You nod, biting the inside of your mouth as you rest your head on your palm—elbow digging into the arm of the chair.

“What now?”

“What do you mean?”

You scoff. “Well, do we stop?”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I want you to answer a goddamn question without asking another question. Because this is humiliating as it is.”

“Having feelings for me that bad, huh?”

You smile, barely—but he notices it. “No. But, I—I’m not good at it—being with someone. Being in a relationship. I'll fuck up. I’m broken and…. without even fucking meaning to I'll—”

Sighing, he swallows. “Bonita… I don’t care.” His hand grips your cheek, tilting your eyes up to him. “I’m no good either. You deserve—fuck, you deserve far better than me, but I’m selfish, a piece of shit. So, I can’t let you go, so let's just call this what it is.”

“You don’t know—“

“I do, cariño. I do.”

Your eyes fill with tears, staring at him, unsure if you’re going to agree or push him away. That is, until your hand comes over his wrist, holding him—just like you usually do.

Then, you turn him, so his frame hides you. Your lips press to his, kissing him as though you didn’t care. The two of you are now experts with both your tongues than words—able to articulate full-blown sentences with your mouths pressed against each other.

Now, you're in his arms after all the sheer determination—after doing nothing but fighting him. The low light from the lamp casts a soft glow over you both, offering comfort, hiding how everything else around the two of you is burning.

“I hate how good your cock is.”

He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. “Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem.”

Strumming his fingers up and down your side, he smiles against the top of your hair. Letting the moment settle, the confessions being filed in a happy place in his mind.

“Are you okay?”

“Now?” he asks, fingers toying with your hip. “I’m better.”

For a moment, he just watches—takes you in.

It goes back to the night in the bar when half of your face had been shrouded in mystery, and the two of you had gotten off on the wrong foot. If Murphy were here, he’d say it was typical Peña—somehow managing to fuck the woman who hates him.

But then, you’d never really hated him, just like he hadn’t really ever found you difficult.

“Let's sit,” you say, joining him on the sofa, the leather creaking under you.

The silence is an odd comfort—so used to cracking under quiet, yet with you, he settles.

No one to disturb it, the peace. No one was ringing or asking for him.

Even the office outside has gone quiet.

That one thought, which has been hammering and hammering, rises—bubbling at the top of the sea of shit he has to undo, answer for and deal with.

“If you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing?”

It’s likely too deep for such a day. Knowing he should take the win that the two of you have agreed to be something more concrete than convenient fucking, but it falls from his tongue quicker than he can say I’m okay or let’s go.

You think, eyes sliding to the corner as an array of expressions flash across your face. A frown to a relaxed smile, a shift of your lips to a soft sigh.

“Not sure. Maybe run a coffee shop? A cafe. Want it to be a local place, lots of gossip.”

Watching you lick your lips, he lets himself take you in. A mental photo snapped, locked away in the vault he’s drafted just for you.

“One of those places where either the coffee is good, but the cakes are bad, or the cakes are good, but the coffee is bad. Because I’m one person, y’know? I’m not fucking superwoman.”

His fingers tease the edges of yours—wanting to keep you here, in this moment. Not step back out into the sound of phone calls and typing.

“There would be this will-they-won’t-they with a local guy. He’d come in, and everyone would study our interactions and gossip about how long he stood at the counter.”

Smirking, you turn your head, confronting him with a wicked smile—a sight that makes his heart beat.

“What about you?”

Shrugging, he laces his fingers in yours. “Probably be on the ranch. With my dad. Helping. Do the good son thing, for a bit at least.”

“Well, you can only do the good son thing if you’re good.”

Nudging you with his knee, he shakes his head. “Hey. I’m a fine, good rancher.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He sneers. “Come see it, baby. I’ll show you all my moves.”

You smile, and like this—after today—it’s something more stunning than he can find the words for. Not sure he’d ever be able to describe it, what it does to him—how it feels like an arrow has been shot into his chest, inflating his heart, making it grow twice as big.

Licking his lips, he smiles wider—almost allowing it to spread to his eyes. “You open your cafe in my town. We’d be the talk of it.”

“Because you already tried the buns.”

“First thing I’d talk up.”

You laugh. Sweet and weightless. It flushes through him, easing the stress from his muscles. Basking in it, the momentary pause on the job, the mission—the reason.

“I’d make sure a Catrina or a Mary would have overheard me telling people you’re good with a whip. Let them gossip.”

“Oh, there’s actually three Marys, and I’m sure there’s at least two Catrinas.”

Shrugging, you wink. “See, I’m fitting in already.”

“Texas would love you.”

“Texas would be quaking in its cowboy boots.”

“That too.”

The two of you go silent.

All comfortable and nice. No thoughts rushing through him, no darkness ebbing in the corners—it’s like it is in the mornings. Where he can pretend the world outside isn’t Colombia but Texas. That his responsibilities are to make you smile and make sure a cow doesn’t crush his pop.

You tap your fingers over his. “You okay?”

“I don’t even fucking know.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

Turning his head, he meets your eyes, a little smile so effortlessly falling over your face. “I know.”

He moves, shifting so he’s closer, and you subconsciously move closer, letting your head find his shoulder as you take a deeper breath.

“We could. I could.”

You slowly look up at him, watching him stare off before glancing down.

“It's not a lot, but you could make lemonade, and I could help my Pops do ranch shit. Live out our days in the field and between one another’s thighs.”

“You’d get bored…”

“Of you?” he asks, shaking his head. “Never. I’m never tired of you, not even when you’re frustrating and annoying.”

“You crave danger, Peña.”

He moves you closer, wrapping his arm around you to pin you close, dropping his mouth to your ear. “Guess we’ll have to begin fucking outdoors, see how far we go until we’re arrested for public indecency.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

His hand slides up your forearm, spreading warmth back through you.

“Think about it, cariño. Yeah?”

You swallow, nodding. “Would you wear a cowboy hat?”

He laughs, rich, light. “For you? Yeah.”

“Alright, I’ll think about it, sir.”

It’s you who interlocks your fingers with his, squeezing—like a version of a signature on a contract.

“I didn’t ask. How’s your day been?”

You snort, not moving—not even to look up or find his eyes, thumb sliding over his hand. “Why?”

“You always hiss when you first have a sip of whiskey. You didn’t earlier.”

Then you move—eyes finding his, something in them he can’t read—a look he can’t place. Your own moving from one eye to the other as you swallow.

“I may have helped myself to a glass… or two.”

Placing his fingers under your chin, he lifts your face. “Talk to me.”

“Just a bad day, that’s all.”

“Cariño.”

Rolling your lips, you sigh. “Can we just go home?”

Nodding, he drops his hand from his nose, taking the glance balancing precariously on his knee as he drains it. It’s only when he feels the loss of you, hearing you mumble about getting your coat—and your bag, that you need to nip to a store on the way—does it come back to him.

Home.

You’d said home.

Not his place. Not your place.

His teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, the softest twitch of his lips. One, that on another day, where it hadn’t felt like a complete fuck up, he suspects would be a smile, a real one.

Fingers tap on your desk—hands you used to know, once upon a time. Lifting your chin, you stare at him. Chris.

His face was all a mixture of annoyance and pleading, a sight you suspected didn’t mean good things for you.

“You thought about it? Helping me.”

Your fingers pause on the keys. “If it involves me leaving this building, there best be a good reason you’ve even brought this to me. The shit I could get into—”

“I wouldn’t ask.”

You tilt your head. “Yes, you would.”

“It’s for Van Ness, too.”

Narrowing your eyes, you slowly stand. “We need a meeting room or a quiet space. I need—I need what you have. Photo, information.”

Chris nods, furiously so. “So, you in?”

Your head turns, glancing at the empty office—the one you’ve been staring at the entire time he’s been out of it. “I’m in for the debrief. That’s all I’m committing to for now.”

AN: hope it was worth it!

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a-simp-named-slickback · 2 months

Text

The Aftermath | StarCrossed Epilogue

Maha, Nashira's best student, struggles with personal demons. Nashira offers her some wisdom from her own life experiences. Takes place ten years after the end of StarCrossed.

“Maha, I know you can solve this.” Nashira gently encouraged her student to solve the complicated math problem on the chalkboard.

At the moment, it was just the two of them in the observatory, aside from Halah who slept in the corner. That seemed to be all Halah would do these days, seeing as she was now a very old, very sleepy cat.

Nashira’s classes were over for today, and Maha was the only student who remained. She arrived late for class again, and if Nashira had to guess it was something to do with one of her younger siblings needing her for something. Of course, Nashira didn’t mind staying after a bit longer to go over the lesson she missed.

Maha focused on the problem, yet despite her efforts the answer didn’t come to her. She ran a hand through her hair, huffing in frustration, “I can’t do it!” she threw her chalk to the ground.

Nashira bent down to pick up the broken pieces of chalk, “Yes you can, you’re great with polynomials! I wouldn't have given you this problem if I didn’t think you could do it.”

“No,” Maha let out a heavy sigh, “I mean this,” She motioned around the observatory, “I can’t do this, Ustadah.” She sat down at the desk, placing her head in her hands with a frustrated huff.

Instantly, Nashira pulled a chair where Maha sat, placing a hand on her student’s back. She gently ran her hand up and down her back in an attempt to comfort the girl. If she knew anything about Maha, she was definitely fighting back tears. She often cried out of frustration.

“Ya azizati, what is really going on?” Nashira asked after some time.

She let out a sigh, gathering her thoughts before continuing, “I don’t belong in a place like this. Everyday I’m surrounded by people from families who have occupied these spaces for generations. They go home to beautiful estates and I go home to a broken down shack in Anbar.”

Maha sniffled, “It’s like there's a voice inside me saying I’m not good enough. It’s why people look down on my family and I when we walk through the streets. Even other students here turn their noses up at me, like I don’t belong near them.”

Nashira shook her head, “You do belong here, Maha, just as much as anyone else.“ She pressed, “There’s not much you can do about how people see you…and it is easier said than done to simply tell you to ignore them. But that voice inside you telling you all these terrible things is trauma, and if we don’t make peace with that it will continue to hold us back.”

Maha sniffled again, “But, what if it’s right? Everything in my life seems to go wrong, what makes this any different?”

Nashira smiled sympathetically, “It will get better in time. It always does.”

“How would you know?” Maha raised her voice, but immediately regretted it once she saw her teacher’s shocked expression. She inwardly chastised herself for losing her temper again.

“I-I’m sorry Ustadah-“

“It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize ya azizati.” Nashira smiled to ease her students' mind, “it is a fair question.”

Nashira took a deep breath, closing her eyes as the memories she buried deep within her came rushing back. Many were sweet, most of them were outright devastating.

However, instead of feeling the urge to weep, she felt a sense of peace. She felt ready to pass on her wisdom to someone who needed it.

She let out a long exhale, “When I was young, I fell in love with a thief from Anbar,” she said.

Maha perked up, listening closely to her teacher. Rarely did she ever share stories from her personal life.

“When we met, he just so happened to be hiding from the guards in the library the same time I was fetching books for my father. The moment we locked eyes for the first time, it was as if the stars had aligned.”

Nashira let out a chuckle to herself as she thought of him, “I thought he was so charming, but he was also as mischievous as can be. I liked that about him too, I suppose. We spent much of our time together in this observatory, learning as much as we could about the world and each other.”

Then, her eyes grew sad as more memories flooded her mind, “I loved him…so much.”

Maha noticed the shift in her teacher’s demeanor, “What happened to him?”

A shaky breath escaped Nashira as she prepared for what she had to say next, “He was…deeply hurt inside. He suffered from horrible nightmares. I tried to help him, I wanted so badly to help him…but I couldn’t. Then one day something about him just shifted. He wasn’t the same anymore.”

Maha noticed the slight tremor in her teacher's hands as she spoke. Even more so, the strain in her voice was very apparent.

“He left and never came back,” Nashira sighed, “The whole ordeal left me feeling so…broken. I had my own voice inside telling me I wasn’t good enough, that I should have tried harder to help him, that I should've made different choices in life. I thought I’d never recover from that pain.”

Maha furrowed her brow, “How did you?” She asked.

“You know, I don’t think I ever did.” Nashira answered, “I never got over it all at once. I just focused on taking things one step at a time until I finally felt like myself again.”

A smile slowly grew on Nashira’s face as she continued, “It helped to focus on what was important to me. I wanted to continue my father’s work. I wanted to teach girls like you math and astronomy. I wanted to live a happy life, and I chose not to let my past dictate who I was.”

Nashira stood up, walking towards the window she usually kept closed these days. She grabbed a hold of the handles of the window panes, running her thumbs over the familiar grain.

She opened it, the late afternoon sun filling up the observatory with its warmth and light. Nashira motioned for Maha to come to her side.

Below them was the courtyard. A middle-aged bearded man walked beside a young boy. He was about ten years-old with a curly mop of hair on his head and a face full of scattered moles. Out of all the people in the yard, Nashira could pick them without fail time and time again.

The little boy had a pouch full of dates which he seemed to stuff into mouth all at once while the man seemed to absentmindedly read from a stack of lecture notes as they walked.

Nashira chuckled, “Hassan! Don’t spoil your dinner, ya azizi!” she called down to him.

Hassan looked around the courtyard, trying to find the source of the voice, before looking up where the window was. With a big toothy grin he waved his arm back and forth, “Umma!” He tugged on the man’s sleeve, “Baba look, it’s Umma!”

The bearded man, Omar, looked up from his reading to see his wife’s smiling face besides her student's. He returned the gesture and cheerfully waved at her as well.

Nashira softly smiled, watching as the two of them continued on their walk, “Most important of all, I get to watch my son grow up. That is what I look forward to the most these days.”

Maha nodded, then took a pause to reflect, “Ustadah, what if I can not let go of my past?” She asked.

“You can’t let go, necessarily,” Nashira answered, “Your past is an important part of who you are. However, you can choose how you move forward with it so that it doesn’t hold you back.”

Maha tilted her head, not really understanding what she meant.

“You can't change or control what life throws your way, but you can choose to make peace with it. You can choose to learn from it. Then one day you’ll be able to look back on you past and see how far you’ve come, Maha.” She smiled, “And you have already come so far. That’s something you should be proud of.”

Maha nodded, “You’re right, I have. But, I still have so far to go…”

Nashira took one of the girl's hands in hers, “And you do not have to do it alone. I’m always here, Maha, whenever you need me.” She pulled the girl in for a warm hug, “You belong wherever you want to be, ya azizati.”

Maha smiled, “Thank you for sharing that with me, Ustadah.” said Maha. Nashira’s words did not fix the turmoil Maha felt inside, but the wisdom she received would help her deal with her feelings of inadequacy. That was enough to put her at ease for now.

They pulled apart and Nashira squeezed her hand, “Now, let’s get back to that math problem.”

__________________________________________________________________________

At some point, Hassan joined them in the observatory while Omar gave his astronomy lecture. Hassan, for the most part, played quietly in the corner with Halah while Maha and his mother continued their studies.

The boy’s eyes landed on his mother’s bag, where a bag of juicy candied dates peeked out of the pocket. With a cheeky grin, he carefully crept over to it, reaching for a date and narrowly putting it in his mouth-

“Put it back, Hassan.” Nashira said, not even looking up from the papers in front of her.

Hassan’s shoulders slumped. He reluctantly did as he was told, “But I’m starving!”

“You are not starving,” She paused when her own stomach began to growl, “But It is getting late, and Baba should be finished with his lecture soon. Let’s go home and have dinner, hm? You can have those dates for dessert.”

Hassan cheered much to his mother’s delight.

“But only if you finish your vegetables.”

He groaned.

Nashira and Maha gathered their things while Hassan went to retrieve Halah.

“Will you join us?” Nashira asked Maha.

The young woman smiled and nodded. While she collected her things, she couldn’t help but watch the little boy closely. She couldn’t get over how much Hassan favored his mother from his curly hair, moles, and chubby cheeks. Not to mention his love of dates and his sleepy cat.

“He looks so much like you,” Maha mentioned as they made their way out of the observatory, “It’s almost like his father didn’t try at all!” She joked.

Nashira smiled to herself, “Oh trust me, he definitely takes after his father more than me.” She said as she let Hassan and Maha walk out the door.

Nashira watched as her student and her son walked down the hall. She paid special attention to how her son gently placed a kiss on Halah’s nose, then moved to feed her a date he had in his pocket. The sneaky boy still managed to swipe a date from her bag afterall.

She smiled, though inside she felt a wave of guilt come over her. She always felt it whenever she thought of Hassan’s father.

Mainly, how Hassan would never know his real father.

She could see so much of Basim in Hassan, from his big brown eyes to his crooked grin and his penchant for mischief. She thanked her lucky stars that Hassan looked so much like her, no one questioned why he didn’t look like Omar.

She planned on telling Basim about her pregnancy when he returned from Alamut. She thought when he came back, she could tell him the news and they’d run away together and start a new life. They could see the world the way they talked about as kids, and they would have raised Hassan together.

Of course, their meeting did not go as planned. To avoid being thrown out, Nashira chose to act as though the baby was Omar’s. It was a better option than struggling to raise a baby on her own, even if the guilt ate her up inside.

She decided the guilt would have to be her punishment for her poor choices. After all, her decision would ensure her son grew up happy and without worry. Hassan would have more choices in life than she or Basim ever did. So, she accepted it.

As Nashira turned to close the door of the observatory, her gaze landed on the open window she forgot to close.

She sighed, letting all her feelings flow out of her. Her past with Basim happened, and while it still saddened her from time to time, she felt grateful that it did not destroy her.

She was free to look to the future of her life, and all the wonderful, beautiful moments she’d have with her son in it. That alone was enough to push forward and leave Basim in the past where he belonged.

With that, she didn’t hesitate to close the window.

“Umma come oonnnnn!” Hassan called from down the hall.

Nashira chuckled, “I’m coming, ya azizi!”

#assassin’s creed mirage #assassin’s creed #basim ibn ishaq #basim x oc #fanfiction

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pocketramblr · 1 year

Note

Headcanons for OFA stockpiles beauty, tddk version, please.

1- ok so dorms happen earlier in the first semester, after the revelation that Shigaraki carries a picture around of Izuku and the winged nomu targeted him to carry off. But in the meantime while they're being built, UA is like 'maybe we should get this kid a protective detail or someone at least watching him off campus'. Tenya and Shoto are both in the hospital room while that's discussed, and both immediately offer their connections- but with the Iida family focusing on their sons right now, it makes more sense to see if they can take the Todorokis up on it instead. Which means that now, Izuku is alternating between staying with All Might (doesn't want to impose or run more of his time down) or the Todorokis (also doesn't want to impose, but its nice to get to know his friend more!)

2- Enji isn't thrilled about the protective detail, but he figures pretty quickly this kid's got some connection to All Might and would like to figure out what- and uh yeah Shoto's crush on him is as obvious as it is understandable, so he wants to keep an eye on that to make sure he isn't distracted now that he's finally using his fire.

He is very specific about Izuku getting a guest room in a different wing of the house from Shoto.

It doesn't matter much, since they spend a lot of time out with friends after school or together in the living room or dojo anyway.

3- Fuyumi decides to try and help her brother out, asking Izuku a couple questions while he's helping her cook and Shoto's gone to visit Rei one Sunday. She says she's sure he's the heartbreaker of his class, any datemate?

Izuku laughs uncomfortably, says no, but gets why she asked- its a side effect of his quirk, he isn't really as attractive as it seems, no one is actually likes him, just the quirk tricking them too.

Fuyumi gets very quiet and very serious, and says she's sorry. Sometimes, quirks don't seem worth the trouble, and he's in hard spot- but she's sure at some point, someone will see the real him, and like the real him, besides from the glamour. Izuku thanks her, and after dinner Fuyumi pulls Shoto aside to bring up the quirk and if he thinks he's under the effect of it, or if he has a real crush on him.

Shoto stares at her, and says he doesn't have a crush on Izuku, he's just objectively attractive and a brilliant friend.

Fuyumi realizes he's as oblivious as Izuku, and both beyond her help.

4- Shoto realizes that night that Fuyumi was right, but as a youngest sibling is physically incapable of admitting that so soon, and decides to simply act as if it was a slowburn unrelated to anything she said, and that itll probably be easy, since Izuku is so clearly over any attempts to woo him. He doesn't want to be pushy. He doesn't want Izuku to feel like Rei. So instead, he just acts friendly. Gets him All Might merch for his birthday, keeps a poker face when Izuku joins them in the hot spring at camp even if he cant quite control the temperature reaction, and keeps a lookout/causes distractions to make having quiet meetings with All Might easier for him.

5- Ok i dont know how but imagine whatever convoluted scenario needs to happen for Izuku to get shot with a temporary eraser bullet. this is mostly because he deserves to go feral and smart and fight quirkless again, but also because everyone realizes he does look/seem different this way, until the glamour comes back- everyone except Shoto, who didn't notice a difference and says it, which startles some tears out of Izuku only for him to bury that deep, deep down because he's got a while before he's gonna confront the mortifying ordeal of having a crush of his own

#ofa stockpiles beauty: tddk version #gentrychild #pocket talls to people #ask game #ofa stockpiles beauty au

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hi-i-do-stuff · 1 year

Note

I just found out how to do this

Can you ermmm errrm pretty please do Ghetsis telling us we aren’t ugly :3

Ghetsis moment Get comforted IDIOT! /ref

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Ghetsis x Reader

gender-neutral reader TW mild body dysphoria Enjoy!!!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You stand before the mirror, scrutinizing every inch of your body with a critical eye. You pinch your cheeks and tug at your stomach, wishing desperately that they were just a little bit different. It's late, and you should be getting ready for bed, but instead you're lost in a sea of self-doubt and self-loathing, your fingers kneading your flesh in a vain attempt to reshape it. You know that this behavior isn't healthy, that it's just reinforcing your negative body image, but you can't seem to stop yourself. As you gaze at your reflection, you wonder how you got here, to this place where you can't even look at yourself without feeling ashamed. You want to make a change, to feel confident and beautiful in your own skin, but you don't know where to start. So you keep pinching, keep wishing, keep hoping that someday you'll wake up and find that everything has changed.

As you stand in front of the mirror, lost in your thoughts, you suddenly hear the door open. You turn to see your partner, Ghetsis, entering the room. He is a very tall and handsome man, but what stands out the most is the eyepatch he wears over his, it sorrowed you a bit to know the fact that he has been slowly going blind in the other as well. He looks at you quizzically, taking in your pinched and pulled expression, and asks softly, "What are you doing, my love?"

You freeze, embarrassed to have been caught in this vulnerable moment. You try to play it off, smiling weakly and saying, "Oh, nothing. Just checking myself out." But Ghetsis can sense that there's something more going on. He steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch your arm. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" he says, his voice gentle and reassuring. "I'm here for you." You peer over at the mirror once more and see your own lip quivering in your reflection. You're horrid at keeping your feelings down when it comes to him, he always had this odd aura around him that made you feel a sense of vulnerability. Not that that was a bad thing, you could often keep your composure in public settings, but otherwise you melted like butter at him, especially when he spoke with such softness in his tone towards you. You turn back to him, his hand that he had reached to you with was still held up but was pulled back closer to himself. He looked down at you with concern and confusion in his expression, and you felt a little bad for worrying him, but you sighed and relaxed a little, taking a step towards him before wrapping your arms around his stomach area, he in return wrapped you in his own. You both quietly stood there together for a while before you spoke up finally, "I'm surprised you settled for me.. I'm far from perfect." You said with a sorrowful laugh, burying your face in his chest. Silence fell over the two of you for another moment, before Ghetsis finally spoke up once more "I want you to know that you are perfect exactly as you are. Your body may not feel like it fits, but to me, it is a beautiful expression of who you are. Your quirks, your flaws, every part of you is uniquely and wonderfully you, and that is what makes you truly beautiful in my eyes. Please know that you are loved and accepted just the way you are, and that your body does not define your worth as a person." He kisses you on the head and pulls back from the hug a bit "I may not see the very best anymore, but I know you are certainly the most perfect person I have ever set my eye upon." You smiled up at him, your eyes a bit watery as you put your palm up to your face to get rid of the forming tears, he smiled right back and guided you out of the bathroom "Come now, my beloved, let's get some rest." he said, keeping an arm around you as you both walked back towards the bed, you could feel how really tired you were now as you said, "Yeah... sounds like a plan."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Hehehe ghetcis [IS KILLED IMMEDETLY BY GHETSIMPS] Dw love yu all, hope this made you feel good!!!!!!

#ghetsis #ghetsis x reader #ghetsis harmonia gropius #x reader #pokemon x reader #pokemon #drabble #fluff #comfort

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blush-blush-imagines · 1 year

Note

Could do some headcannons about Eli, Cashew and Poe (separated) crushing on their childhood best friend?

Oh no! It's an ask that appeals to all my biases so I dropped everything and typed this up in two hours! But, c'mon? My favourite tropes and my favourite boy? The pandering is unreal...

~ Mod Sirina.

Eli

Once it all clicks to Eli, he hesitates and goes back and forth on actually asking you out a lot

But much like many things in his life, he struggles with committing to a choice

That being said, while he’s heel-diggy about asking you out, he basically tells you he thinks he loves you like, 9 days tops after it clicks in his head.

Just. With the caveat that he doesn’t know if he wants to date you yet.

Because Eli knows himself- he knows that commitment is hard, he knows that he’s left his fair share of relationships by ghosting his way out when things start getting too serious for his tastes.

And he also knows he cares about you a whole lot. You’ve been there for him basically his entire life.

The least he could do is not run you through his usual battery and leave you in a… less than stellar way.

He still loves being around you, and he’s pretty sure he’d want to be with you in a more traditional sense.

He just wants to make sure he’s ready for it first.

Poe

It dawns on him very suddenly one night

As he’s scratching his brain, digging up any inspiration he has hiding up there.

Yet his mind keeps wandering back to you. As he lingers on that thought, he can’t help but lean back in his chair with an audible ‘oh no’.

It’s not that he dislikes you, that should be obvious, but it’s more the idea that’s getting on his nerves

Like, c’mon. The damaged goth boy ends up falling for the only person that gave him a sense of belonging? The one person who could help him look on the brighter side of things, even if it was like, barely brighter at all?

God it was such a cliche, and here he was living it

But it’s fine! He doesn’t have to do anything about it! He’ll just bury it deep down and then he’d die someday. It’d be great.

…But completely blocking out his affection for you is way harder than he thought. It starts gnawing at him more than anything.

He ends up confessing by text, because he’s a coward. Worst case, you don’t like him that way, but you can both pretend that it never happened ever.

And yet you still reciprocate without skipping a beat, fully embracing the dumb cliches you are, both to his delight and chagrin.

Cashew

To anyone who knows, this isn’t a surprise. Least of all to Cashew himself.

He’s a hopeless romantic at heart; living through a boy-next-door, childhood friend to lovers romance kinda goes hand in hand with that very naturally.

He makes plenty of attempts to confess, but he just struggles with it every time.

It’s just the simple fact that he believes in the fallacy that an unreciprocated confession between friends has the potential to make that friendship cave in on itself immediately

It really doesn’t, but no one’s telling him that

He ends up coping by trying to do typical ‘boyfriend’ things but not entirely succeeding at playing it casually. Cashually, if you will.

He’ll like, make these little attempts to hold your hand. The most he ends up doing is locking pinkies, which you just think is a cute thing he does.

Plus he’ll carry whatever he can for you- books, shopping bags, you name it.

How nice :)!

But also every book he’s been recommending to you lately involve the protagonist reconnecting and falling for their childhood friend, who just so happens to always be their endearingly dorky foil and… hm.

You’re eventually the one who breaks the tension, just directly asking him when exactly it is he’s planning on asking you out instead of being so coy about it.

Of course having it called out directly catches off guard- he was being so subtle about it!

No he wasn’t!

Still, once he gets over it, he ‘asks you out’ right then and there. Sure it’s not a picture perfect confession scenario but… Does it really need to be if you already know?

#blush blush #blush blush game #blush blush eli #blush blush poe #blush blush cashew #mod sirina

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secretmellowblog · 2 years

Text

@pilferingapples Boulatruelle is the most underrated Les mis character and he did NOTHING wrong! At least That’s my Boulatruelle Fan Theory #BoulatruelleFansRiseUp.

(Ok I’m joking. But still.)

OK SO (for people who haven’t read Les mis in a bit.) Boulatruelle is a minor character who is an ex-convict, like Valjean. He sorta represents what might’ve happened to Valjean if Valjean hadn’t gotten Myriel’ed/committed identity fraud.

Boulatruelle works as a road-mender outside Montfermil, getting paid starvation wages. When we first see him we’re not (iirc) explicitly told if he’s done anything criminal since leaving prison but— like Valjean in Digne— everyone in town already hates him for being an ex-convict. It doesn’t matter if he’s “guilty” or not, they’d hate him either way. And also like Valjean in Digne, Boulatruelle is overly submissive/deferential to all the bigoted people around him because he has to be in order to survive. The threat of being returned to prison is always hanging over him.

He was subjected to certain police supervision, and, as he could find work nowhere, the administration employed him at reduced rates as a road-mender on the crossroad from Gagny to Lagny. This Boulatruelle was a man who was viewed with disfavor by the inhabitants of the district as too respectful, too humble, too prompt in removing his cap to every one, and trembling and smiling in the presence of the gendarmes,—probably affiliated to robber bands, they said; suspected of lying in ambush at verge of copses at nightfall. The only thing in his favor was that he was a drunkard.

When Valjean buries his money in the woods, Boulatrelle attempts to figure out where he’s hidden it. Which yeah, i guess it sucks he’s trying to steal or whatever, but hey he’s having a rough time. And stealing things from a saintly dude worked out for Valjean so

But here’s the thing— Boulatruelle KNOWs Valjean! He recognizes him from Toulon! We’re told he’s a “comrade from the galleys” and recognizes him in sight! He could give away Valjean’s identity!

People in the town—especially Thenardier— begin to get suspicious about Boulatruelle digging in the woods. They realize he must’ve seen someone bury money there and attempt to get the information out of him .

And because he’s a “drunkard”— or really, an alcoholic— Thenardier decides the best way to manipulate him is by getting him drunk. This is explicitly compared to another person’s suggestion that they torture the information out of him:

One evening the schoolmaster affirmed that in former times the law would have instituted an inquiry as to what Boulatruelle did in the forest, and that the latter would have been forced to speak, and that he would have been put to the torture in case of need, and that Boulatruelle would not have resisted the water test, for example. “Let us put him to the wine test,” said Thénardier.

But even with all that, Boulatruelle never gives up Valjean’s name. He stubbornly refuses. That makes it seem like…he really does have a conscience, at least at first?

Idk to me it seems that Boulatruelle starts out like Digne Valjean — but gets corrupted utterly as the story goes on. In his first chapter it’s implied he still can occasionally be driven by his conscience (not giving up Valjean’s name even under duress)…. but by the end of the book that’s sorta gone. We only get a couple very brief flashes of his life, but to me he seems like an alternate universe version of Valjean who wasn’t helped by the bishop, and instead was manipulated by someone who took advantage of how desperate and isolated he was.

The next time we see him is during the Gorbeau House ambush. It’s years later, and he is now part of Thenardier’s gang. That’s depressing but it makes sense— he made so little as a road-mender, everyone hated him, and if he was attempting to live even Somewhat “honestly” it wasn’t working. In that intro chapter scene with we’re shown that Boulatruelle is surrounded by people who want to send him back to prison and have him tortured— but Thenardier acts like his “friend” and easily manipulates him with alcohol.

But like …during the Gorbeau house ambush it sorta looks like Boulatruelle’s heart isn’t in it?

Boulatruelle is so drunk he barely knows what’s going on. (Which again, feels related to the earlier scene where Thenardier manipulates Boulatrelle to keep drinking more than he should in order to make him behave the way he wants.)

At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up from the corridor. (Boulatrelle), who seemed under the influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up, with a stone-breaker’s hammer in his hand.

Iirc he makes no indication that he recognizes Valjean—hmmm— but is very easily defeated after receives a punch in the face from Valjean when Valjean is trying to escape, and is knocked out/sleeps through the rest of the ambush. Again it sorta feels like he doesn’t particularly care about any of it.

That’s unlucky for Thenardier because again, he’s the only dude there who could’ve told him who Valjean actually was. Idk it’s funny that if Thenardier had set basic rules like “don’t show up to the important ambush blackout drunk” he might’ve actually had an upper hand against Valjean— if Boulatruelle had been willing to share his knowledge this time, anyway.

(There’s also a line in a later chapter where he says “this prowler of patron-Minette has his reasons,” while talking about how he needs to find out where Valjean has hidden his money. I’m not sure if that line is referring to himself as the “prowler,” Or if it’s meant to imply he knew Valjean was the one Patron-Minette had ambushed and just hadn’t told anyone.)

(AND SIDE NOTE: we all talk about how Valjean is paranoid about the police in the Gorbeau House scene, but I’m just realizing he must’ve been so paranoid about Boulatruelle too?? Because in the chapter where Boulatruelle talks about him he makes it sounds like Valjean would also recognize HIM on sight. I think it’s also interesting that when Valjean is trying to escape by force in the first couple minutes, Boulatruelle is the only one he knocks out. It feels deliberate. Sure; Boulatrelle is so drunk he just kinda falls asleep after being punched. But it’s also not hard to see why Valjean would be especially afraid of him.)

But yeah Boulatruelle literally sleeps through the whole ambush! He’s like, the Anti-Grantaire. Drunkenly sleeping through the big event because he genuinely doesn’t care. He’s not being actively evil as much as he’s letting himself get dragged along.

He’s also the Anti-Grantaire in that, when all his allies get punished by authority, he’s spared punishment because he drunkenly slept through the whole thing. He doesn’t wake up to stand by them and accept punishment by their side, he’s totally cool with not going to prison while they do.

In the meanwhile, the agents had caught sight of the drunken man asleep behind the door, and were shaking him:—

He awoke, stammering:—

“Is it all over, Jondrette?”

I wonder if the weird barricade parallels are another relic of that earlier draft of the book where Patron-Minette were a bigger thing.

…and Interestingly, it’s only after the rest of Patron-Minette gets arrested that Boulatruelle seems to really become fully corrupted?

The last we see of him is a callback to his first chapter. He’s no longer with Patron-Minette or Thenardier— they were arrested and he was not— so he’s alone and a road-mender again.

Only now, everything is Even Worse? Hes no longer described as trembling and smiling and deferential, but as openly breaking things and robbing people. We’re no longer told that bigoted townspeople assume he’s robbing people with no proof other than “he’s an ex-con,” we’re told that he IS robbing people openly at every opportunity. We’re told that he drinks even more than he used to. The first time Boulatrelle saw Valjean (in his first chapter) he had considered following him, but later refuses to reveal his identity; this time, he follows Valjean with a weapon and an intent to kill.

…..however i do admit there is a possibility I’m overthinking this. XD I’ve mentioned before that I feel like the side Patron-Minette characters are often the weakest part of the book, and feel like relics from early drafts (because they are.) It’d be incomplete to talk about Boulatruelle without admitting that his alcoholism/state of constant drunkenness is often played for comedy. His final scene where he discovers Valjean has dug up his money, and angrily shrieks that he’s a Thief, is also played for comedy. There’s something really interesting about the way he’s set up as a foil for Valjean, but if I’m being honest I don’t think Hugo follows through on it completely.

It’s like he’s set up as a character foil for Valjean, a “what if Valjean had fallen in with Thenardier instead of Myriel” —but yeah while I do think that’s there, I also think Hugo doesn’t seem as interested in exploring that idea as I am XD. Like a lot of the side members of Patron Minette, Boulatruelle feels a bit incomplete.

But there’s really a lot of potential in a character who represents the Corruption Arc Valjean might’ve had without the bishop? To me it seems like Boulatruelle first chapter focuses on the tragedy of being newly released from prison in ways that pretty explicitly echo Valjean’s — the way he’s isolated, a victim of bigotry and all these systemic barriers, “trembling and smiling” in the presence of the police. But in Boulatrelle’s case all the bigoted things the townspeople say about him in his introduction end up being true— he does end up affiliated with “robber bands,” he does plan to ambush Valjean in a dark forest at night. And I feel like it’s in large part as a result of falling in with Thenardier as a “friend.”

Idk I feel like the point is supposed what Valjean says earlier— “there are no bad plants and no bad men; there are only bad cultivators.” Boulatrelle ended up kinda sucking as a person, but he didn’t have to.

I sorta wish he managed to attempt to rob Valjean that first time, because Valjean might have been to Boulatruelle what the bishop was to him? And In AU where he redeemed himself it would be Good for Valjean to develop some kind of healthy friendship with someone who was dealing with the same “ex-con” struggles as him? Maybe the reason I stan Boulatruelle is because Valjean needs a friend and I want him to be redeemed for Valjean’s sake? And anyway that’s my fixit fic, thank you for reading XD.

#i can fix Boulatrelle #Valjean needs a friend. so I can fix him #Les mis #but yeah thank you pilf!!!#again it’s like? hm #a lot of the patron-Minette stuff feels less finished to me than other parts of the book #but like!!#he’s a problematic fave #i think he would be a chill dude if he had enough money to live on #and like maybe a friend #because he’s Valjeans character foil and all!

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fanby-fckry · 7 months

Text

How to Seduce the Radio Demon in 6 Easy Steps

Word Count: 2,323

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Additional Warnings: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Kink, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Past Character Death

Relationships: Lilith Morningstar/Lucifer Morningstar, Alastor/Lucifer Morningstar, Alastor/Lilith Morningstar/Lucifer Morningstar

Characters: Lilith Morningstar, Lucifer Morningstar, Alastor, Brief Charlie Morningstar

Additional Tags: Romantic Comedy, Comedy/Attempt at Humor, 5+1 Things, Polyamory, Open Marriage, Lilith Morningstar and Lucifer Morningstar Have an Open Marriage, Bisexual Disaster Lucifer Morningstar, Supportive Lilith Morningstar, Lilith Mange Ships It, Aromantic Asexual Alastor

Series: Part 2 of The Unholy Trinity ( <- Prev || Next -> )

Summary:

Lilith turned to her husband. “The Radio Demon?” she asked expectantly.

“Yes!” Lucifer answered.

“How did you do it?” Lilith asked, curiosity burning in her stomach like hot coals. “How did you finally tempt him?”

Lucifer walks Lilith through his foolproof, 6-step plan to seducing the Radio Demon.

Or, 5 ways Lucifer failed to seduce Alastor, and 1 way that actually worked – as told by one very patient, very supportive, and fairly amused Lilith Morningstar.

Better on AO3

Step 1: Research

“The Radio Demon, or Alastor – he almost never refers to himself as ‘the Radio Demon’ – is an enigma. From the day he arrived in Hell, he had power like no other sinner. He commandeered Hell’s airwaves, broadcasting his brutality and instilling fear in Pride Ring denizens from imps to Overlords. And while everyone knows his name, his sadistic nature, and his taste in music, anything else about him is a mystery…”

“But not for me,” Lucifer gloated, breaking from the theatrical tone of his earlier monologue. “Because I have paperwork!”

Lucifer took a seat beside Lilith and began reading from the files he’d brought. “Alright, it says here his sins are murder – oh, murders, that’s plural – pride, wrath, vengeance – I still can’t believe they marked that one as a sin. When Raguel does it it’s fine, but Dad forbid the humans get involved.”

Lucifer coughed around the word ‘hypocrites,’ and Lilith laughed behind the glass of wine she’d conjured.

“Gluttony,” Lucifer continued. “That’s an odd addition… Oh, never mind, the next one is cannibalism, so that makes sense.”

“Died November 27th, 1933 at age 37 in New Orleans, Louisiana. Death classified as accidental. Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the head – what?” Lucifer balked. “How do you accidentally get shot in the head?”

Lilith shrugged. “Stray bullet, perhaps?”

Lucifer kept reading. “Oh yeah, it says here it was a hunting accident. He was mistaken for a deer while burying the bodies of three victims – fucking incredible!”

“Impressive, indeed,” Lilith agreed.

“Also, that explains the deer ears,” Lucifer said offhandedly.

“Are those ears?” Lilith asked. “I assumed they were part of his hair.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re ears. I think I saw one move, once.”

“Hm,” Lilith hummed and took another sip of her wine. “I suppose you’ll find out when you tempt him. Do let me know, darling.”

“Will do,” Lucifer promised. “No spouse or children, no living relatives at all, actually… Occupation: Radio host and serial killer – serial killer counts as an occupation? Damn, who wrote this?”

Lucifer flipped to the end of the sinner’s paperwork. “Oh, Gabriel. Should’ve known; he’s actually got a sense of humor.”

“But,” Lucifer said after a moment’s thought. “That could work to my advantage. Gabe still talks to me, on occasion. If he handled Alastor’s sentencing, maybe he has some information on his love life? He can be a bit of a gossip sometimes, which would absolutely work in my favor.”

Step 2: Be His Type

“So I got in contact with Gabriel,” Lucifer said, sounding not quite as pleased as Lilith thought he would’ve been.

“What did he have to say?” Lilith asked.

Lucifer scrubbed his hands over his face. “Well, uh, not much,” he told her.

“Oh?”

“I asked him if he remembered sentencing a serial killer from New Orleans and he immediately knew who I was talking about. Good sign, right?” Lucifer asked.

It was somewhat rhetorical, but Lilith answered, anyway. “One would assume.”

“But then I asked him about Alastor’s love life and he laughed – fucking laughed!” Lucifer threw his arms up in frustration.

Lucifer put on a fairly accurate impression of his brother, Gabriel, including body language and facial expressions. “He told me, ‘Good luck with that, brother,’ and refused to say another word about it.”

Lucifer sighed, rolled his eyes, and dropped Gabriel’s affect. “So I guess I’m on my own,” he said.

“That’s never been a problem for you before, my swan,” Lilith reminded him.

“True…”

“So what will you do next?” Lilith asked.

Lucifer shrugged. “I guess I’ll just start throwing mud at the wall and see what sticks.”

“You could always just be your charming self,” Lilith suggested.

Lucifer blushed. “Yeah, I’ll try that too.”

Lucifer flopped down onto the bed next to his wife. “I have… absolutely no idea what his type is,” he told her.

“Did you try being yourself?” Lilith asked, rolling onto her side to face him.

“Yes, and honestly I think he responds best to me when I’m, well, me.” Lucifer sighed. “But it’s not really the kind of response I’m looking for. He seems to really enjoy messing with me.”

Lilith laughed. “He’s learning how to press your buttons before you can even find his.”

“I know!” Lucifer exclaimed. “I’d actually be impressed if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. I have learned nothing, nada, zilch.”

Lucifer began to list the different ‘types’ he’d gone through thus far. “He shows no preference for women over men or vice versa; various androgynous forms have also failed. I even tried highlighting nonhuman features, angelic, demonic, animalistic-”

“You did the goat thing?” Lilith interjected.

“I did the goat thing!” Lucifer closed his eyes. “You know I hate the goat thing,” he said, sadly.

“Yes, darling, I know,” Lilith replied.

The next words were Lucifer’s, but he’d said them so many times over in the past that Lilith joined him, “Because Baphomet wears it better.”

Lucifer opened his eyes to meet Lilith’s, and they each cracked a smile.

“They really do, though,” Lucifer insisted.

Lilith rolled her eyes and kissed her husband until she was certain he’d forgotten all about the Radio Demon’s many rejections.

Step 3: Make Him Feel In Control

Lucifer came to Lilith with a focused sort of look – one that he only wore when he’d put a great deal of thought into something and needed someone to share it with.

“I think I may have figured it out,” he said.

“Do tell, darling,” Lilith replied, ready to give Lucifer her full attention.

“The murders, the broadcasts, the cannibalism: it’s all about power,” Lucifer said. “Power and control.”

Lilith watched as her husband began pacing the room, talking with his hands as he explained his observations to her.

“Even when he’s with his friends or his allies, he always maintains an element of control,” Lucifer told her. “He’s very touchy-feely with people – no sense of personal space for anyone else – but I’ve never seen anyone touch him.”

“He doesn’t let them,” Lucifer said. “I thought it was just me at first, but he won’t even let Rosie touch him anywhere but his hands.”

Lilith hummed, taking a moment to consider Lucifer’s words. She turned them over in her mind, looking at them from different angles – thinking of how she and Lucifer might handle the situation differently.

“So your plan is to make him feel like he’s in control,” she said.

“Exactly,” Lucifer confirmed. “I’ll conceal my power, shift forms, and appear to him as an unassuming, submissive demon – one he can dominate.”

Lilith said nothing. She simply stared at her husband, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” Lucifer asked, incredulously. “You think I can’t pull it off?”

Lilith resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead kissing Lucifer on the cheek. “I think you’ll certainly try.”

“Well, I tried,” Lucifer said with a defeated sigh.

“And?” Lilith prompted. Lucifer’s tone had all but confirmed that his plan had worked exactly as well as Lilith thought it would – but she wanted details.

“It was working, or at least I thought it was,” Lucifer complained.

“We flirted for about an hour, then he leaned over and whispered” – Lucifer put on his very best smug, flirtatious Radio Demon impression, complete with a Transatlantic accent, doe eyes, and an ear-to-ear smile – “‘I know it’s you, Devil dearest. You used this form twice already.’”

Lilith stifled a snicker while her husband continued to recount this very unexpected turn of events.

“Then he clapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Playing waif doesn’t suit you, my friend! Better luck next time!’”

Lilith hummed. “Better luck next time, darling.”

Step 4: Be Romantic

When Lucifer came home with a bouquet of roses, a box of chocolates, and a dejected look on his face, Lilith immediately conjured a glass of wine.

“I have got to hear this one,” she said, taking a sip.

“I thought that since he likes using pet names and terms of endearment that he might be the romantic type,” Lucifer said, dropping the roses rather dramatically on their bedside table.

“And?” Lilith asked.

Lucifer huffed, before answering, “And he took one look at me, made this weird, screechy, feedback noise, then turned around and left.”

Lilith couldn’t help it, she just started laughing.

“Lili,” Lucifer whined, looking up at her with puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, there there, my swan,” Lilith said, and patted her lap. In an instant, her husband was seated atop her thighs, his head nuzzling the crook of her neck.

“We can eat the chocolates together, darling,” she offered. “Would that help?”

“Yes,” Lucifer said, still pouting and muffled significantly by Lilith’s skin against his lips.

“My precious star,” she crooned. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Step 5: Consider Giving Up

“I think I’m going insane, Lil,” Lucifer said, apropos of nothing. “It’s been five years and I’ve gotten nowhere.”

Lilith, of course, knew exactly what – exactly whom – he was talking about.

Truth be told, Lilith felt more than a bit responsible for her husband’s struggles. After all, she’d been the one to suggest tempting the Radio Demon in the first place.

The living world had been in the midst of economic ruin and on the precipice of war, and Lucifer had needed some intellectually stimulating, low stakes entertainment. At the time, sending him off to tempt the up and coming Overlord had seemed like a wonderful way to provide that.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” Lilith said as she stroked her husband’s hair. “When I said I wanted to give you a challenge… Well, suffice to say, I had no idea tempting him would be this involved. You can stop, you know. If you’re not having fun…”

“That’s the thing, though, Lili. I am,” Lucifer told her.

“I’m no closer to tempting him than I was the day I first met him, he’s the most infuriating demon I’ve ever met, and he’s driving me fucking batshit, but…” Lucifer laughed. “Damn it all, I do genuinely enjoy his company.”

With a resigned smile, he said, “Maybe I should give up on trying to tempt him and just be his friend instead.”

Step 6: Disregard Steps 2-5

Lucifer burst in as he often did: loudly, dramatically, and with no regard for what might have been going on there before his entrance.

The double doors of the Morningstar’s main sitting room slammed on their hinges as Lucifer threw them both open at once.

“I did it,” he said, sounding as if he was struggling to believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

Lilith met his eye from across the room. “You did it?”

“I did it!” Lucifer repeated, triumphantly.

“You did what?” asked Charlie, looking up from the hell school homework Lilith had been helping her with.

Oh, if this was the achievement Lilith suspected it to be, Charlie should absolutely not be around to hear about it.

“Oh shit,” Lucifer cursed. “I didn’t see you there, apple pie.”

Charlie looked back and forth between her two parents, before seeming to decide she didn’t want anything to do with this.

“I’m just gonna go, uh, somewhere that isn’t here,” Charlie said, scrambling to grab her things. “Bye!”

“Bye, sweetheart! Love you!” Lucifer called out as Charlie hurried towards the door.

“We love you, starlight,” Lilith echoed.

“Bye Mom, bye Dad! Love you both, too!” Charlie yelled over her shoulder.

As soon as their daughter had left the room, Lilith turned to her husband. “The Radio Demon?” she asked expectantly.

“Yes!” Lucifer answered.

“How did you do it?” Lilith asked, curiosity burning in her stomach like hot coals. “How did you finally tempt him?”

In all honesty, she’d been starting to think the Radio Demon would be Lucifer’s white whale. It’d been six years since she’d turned Lucifer on to this little ‘challenge.’ She’d even considered attempting to seduce the sinner herself to see if he simply had some kind of supernatural aversion to Lucifer.

Lucifer folded his hands under his chin and flashed Lilith a downright sinful grin. “Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’” he asked

“Of course,” Lilith said, sighing with the realization. “The cannibalism.”

“Mhmm!” Lucifer hummed. “I should’ve thought of it sooner – it seems so obvious now! Oh, and I was definitely barking up the wrong tree trying to tempt him with sex. He is a masochist, though.”

“Oh, good,” Lilith said. “You don’t get to express your sadistic streak often enough, my love.”

Lilith and Lucifer were no strangers to sadomasochism, but usually Lilith was the one dealing blows. They were each flexible in their roles, but Lilith had to admit, she leaned heavily towards both the Dominant and sadistic ends of the spectrum.

“I know, right?” Lucifer said. “I mean, humans tend to be submissive towards me, but they’re so fragile,” he complained. “I can’t really get rough with them, not even the hardcore masochists. It’s been a while since I had a demon sub to play with.”

“He’s a submissive, as well?” Lilith mused. “I can’t say I expected that.”

“Me neither, honestly,” Lucifer admitted. “He’s a huge brat, and I think he enjoys the struggle for control more than the act of submission – but ohhh Lili, you should’ve seen him! He begged.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Lilith cooed. She would indeed have liked to see the Radio Demon beg; she and her husband had similar tastes, after all.

“He’s so pretty,” Lucifer said dreamily. And oh stars, Lilith knew that look.

“I kind of wanna see him again.” Lucifer turned to Lilith and asked, “Would you be alright with that, darling?”

“Yes,” Lilith answered, truthfully. She kissed her husband and listened as he went on and on about his encounter with the Radio Demon. Perhaps she should start calling him Alastor… She had the sneaking suspicion that this little ‘challenge’ was here to stay.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #lucifer hazbin hotel #lilith hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin hotel #radioapple #alastor x lucifer x lilith #fanby’s fuckery #fanby’s fics #osha violation #suggestive

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silvfyre-writings · 1 year

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Tell me a Story, Ranpo-kun Final Part (BSD Fanfic)

*hands out tissues*

I hope you enjoy the finale <3

The world is a cruel place, Ranpo’s known that for a long time. He’s seen it back in his hometown as a child, where a harsh winter knocked out the power one night, and a single mother and her newborn froze to death. He’s seen it when he was a teenager, in and out of the hospital, in the way that families of children, or young people just barely into adulthood, being given the worst news possible. He’s seen it as an adult, in all the cases he’s solved where the victims been tortured and abused before being killed.

And now he’s seeing it again, as the world decides to be at its cruellest by wanting to take Poe from him. Poe, who has done nothing but be kind, and good to everyone he meets or interacts with. Poe, who has been there for him even at his worst, and not once complained about it.

Poe, who will be dead in just a couple of months because the world is just, cruel.

Ranpo’s sitting on a bench outside the hospital, his head buried into his knees as his mind focuses on nothing but Poe dying. He’s a coward, he knows that, for fleeing the room instead of staying by Poe’s side. He knows that it makes him a terrible person, a terrible friend, but all Ranpo had been able to do the moment everything clicked together was run, because that was what he was good at when it came to things he didn’t understand. Ranpo can’t even imagine how Poe feels right now, sick, and alone in his room, watching as one of the few people he’s held dear runs away from him.

Yeah, Ranpo feels awful.

But he can’t bring himself to get up and go back, not yet at least. He needs time to think and gather his thoughts before he returns. One thing is certain, and that’s that he’s not going to leave Poe behind to fight this battle on his own; he’s going to stand beside Poe and be the one to help him this time.

He just needs a minute.

Ranpo lifts his head to look at the sky, watching the way the sun’s setting rays cast an orange glow across the sky, turning clouds into various shades of pinks and oranges. Behind him, is darkness, as the night begins its time in the sky, and he sighs; the dark seems to follow him everywhere, no matter what he does to avoid it. He’s still looking up at the sky when he hears someone sit down beside him, and a quick glance shows it’s Fukuzawa who’s come to speak with him.

He’d almost expected Yosano to be the one to come, but then again, she’s probably busy talking to Poe right now.

Fukuzawa doesn’t say anything, just sits there, a comforting presence. It’s something that’s always existed in the bind they’d cultivated and tended to over the years they’ve known each other, this peaceful silence that brings no judgement or anger, only comfort. It’s something that can only be done by Fukuzawa, and Ranpo appreciates it, because he knows his guardian will wait until he’s ready to talk, even if it takes hours for Ranpo to even say anything.

“He’s dying?” Ranpo says after a minute, resting his chin on his knees. A hand comes to rest on his back after he does so.

“Yosano-sensei’s trying to convince him to undergo treatment.” Fukuzawa says.

“But it won’t cure him?”

“No. It won’t.”

Tears fill Ranpo’s eyes, and he doesn’t even attempt to try and hold them back, letting them fall, and simply ignoring the way they leave a burning trail in their wake. They are tears born from everything he’s been overwhelmed with in such a short amount of time; emotions running their course as they haven’t yet been able to do. Fukuzawa’s hand increases its pressure on his back, which does nothing but cause more tears to fall. “I—I thought he was sick like me.”

Fukuzawa doesn’t say anything, only draws Ranpo in to rest against him.

“I had it all—all pieced together! It made sense!” Ranpo continues on, frustrated. “How did I get it so wrong? Why didn’t you tell me I had it wrong?”

“I had assumed you were right. If I’d known you weren’t, I would’ve said something.”

“Would you?” No, stop, it’s not Fukuzawa’s fault. It’s no one’s fault, but your own. “You and everyone else seemed pretty content with keeping it from me in the first place.”

Fukuzawa hums, and his hand moves to squeeze Ranpo’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be mad at us for hiding the truth, and I won’t stop you from being mad if that’s what you want to be, but we did it for a reason.”

Ranpo sighs, and deflates. He’s not mad, not really. Upset, yes, but not mad. In a way, he does understand why it was kept from him, and that, in reality, there was never an appropriate time for Ranpo to actually be made aware. It also wasn’t an easy thing to bring into casual conversation when Poe very much did not like to talk about himself. It’s similar to the way that Ranpo doesn’t like talking about emotions he doesn’t understand.

It's just something that doesn’t happen.

“Was Poe-kun upset?” Ranpo asks instead, changing the subject entirely.

Fukuzawa gives Ranpo a look, which tells him all he needs to know. “He didn’t seem so much upset as he was hurt.” His guardian stands, taking the comforting warmth with him as he does so; it leaves Ranpo feeling chilled and alone. “Talk to him, Ranpo. You need to.”

Fukuzawa leaves, and Ranpo sits on the bench for another hour before he gets up and makes his way back inside the hospital.

Ranpo has a plan while he walks back to Poe’s room, but the plan that he’s so carefully formulated goes straight out the window the moment he comes to a stop outside the door. His hands feel sweaty, and for the first time in his life, he’s at a loss for what to do. Throughout his life, he’s seen movies of this; a loved one falling ill and passing away, but in Ranpo’s mind, they had just been movies, a fantasy conjured up by someone who wanted to make their audience cry. They’d never been real.

Until it was.

It was easy to turn a blind eye towards the fictional characters and their problems, but it wasn’t as easy to ignore when their problems became your reality. And this… this wasn’t like some movie or story where everything turned out just fine and dandy in the end; this was his and Poe’s story that wasn’t going to have the happy ending he’d been hoping for. But…

Ranpo doesn’t want to leave the story just yet.

With that in mind, Ranpo takes a deep breath, and enters the room. His eyes fall immediately onto Poe, now alone in his room, awake, and staring right at him with an odd expression on his face. It only takes Ranpo a moment to pick the look, seeing uneasiness along with a hint of fear as Poe’s eyes scan over him; he’s worried about what Ranpo plans to do or say, whether he’s going to stay or leave. But underneath that uneasiness, Ranpo can just as easily see the hurt that Poe’s trying to hide, and he hates that he’s the one to have put such a look on Poe’s face in the first place. The last thing he’d ever wanted to do was hurt Poe, but he’s gone and done it anyway; he can only hope that he can fix it.

Poe hasn’t said anything, hasn’t moved, simply staring at Ranpo with that look of uncertainty that tears at Ranpo’s gut, and he has to wonder what’s going through the man’s head right now, what kind of anxieties have taken hold. Whatever it is, it can’t be good, and Ranpo knows he has one chance to do this, otherwise the bond that holds him and Poe together will shatter. Ranpo’s confident though, that he can prevent such a thing from happening in the first place, and it’s with that confidence in mind, that he strides across the room and climbs on the bed and throws a leg over Poe’s own, effectively straddling the man.

“R-Ranpo? W-What are—”

“Hush.” Ranpo says and Poe slams his jaw shut so fast it’s almost comical. He leans forward and cups Poe’s cheeks, staring intensely into those violet eyes that have always been able to capture his attention, those same eyes that are frantically flicking about, trying to look everywhere but at Ranpo’s face. Ranpo opens his mouth to say something, anything, that can tell Poe what it is that’s going through his mind right now, that he’s sorry for even running in the first place, that he understands why Poe never told him, but none of it leaves his lips. It’s like there’s a lock around his throat, suffocating the words before they can even form.

He lets out a noise of frustration that Poe overhears, and Ranpo feels Poe’s hands clamp around his wrists as the man tries to pull away from him, and Ranpo tightens his own grip. “I love you, Edgar.”

Poe freezes the moment the words leave Ranpo’s mouth, his eyes wide and jaw slackening. Ranpo freezes right alongside with him, as they weren’t the words he’d been meaning to say. He’d meant to say something else entirely, about he wasn’t going to leave Poe to deal with this on his own, or something like it, but instead he’d blurted out that he’d loved Poe.

Does he love Poe?

The immediate answer is yes, he does. Because everyone around the two of them already assumes they are together, even though he and Poe have never placed labels on the relationship they share with each other—they’ve never needed to. They’ve never needed to share the words, ‘I love you’, with each other, not when they can show how much they care for each other with sleepy cuddles in a too small bed, and intertwined fingers as they enjoy each other’s company.

I love you, has never been needed for the two of them, and here Ranpo is, being the first to utter the words, entering new territory that neither of them know how to navigate.

“Ranpo… loves me?” Poe says quietly, his cheeks pink as he blinks slowly. His hands are still around Ranpo’s wrists, the same as Ranpo’s hands are still on his cheeks; Ranpo’s able to feel the burning warmth under his palms. “Really?”

“Yes.” Ranpo breathes. “I do.”

“But you ran earlier…?” The hurt is back in Poe’s voice, and it makes Ranpo hurt too, to hear it.

Ranpo gives Poe’s face a gentle squeeze. “I regretted it the moment I did it. I ran because I was scared. Because I feel like I just got you back, and now I’m going to lose you again to an illness I never even knew you had in the first place.”

Poe drops his gaze, and his hands fall away to thump against the mattress. “I…

“It’s fine.” Ranpo interrupts, and gently taps at Poe’s cheeks until the man’s looking up at him again. “You don’t need to tell me why you didn’t tell me; I don’t mind not knowing. Do I want to know? Yes. But I am willing to wait until you are ready to tell me why?”

“And if I die before I’m ready?” Poe asks.

Ranpo leans in and knocks their foreheads together before he whispers, quietly, “Then you come back as a ghost and tell me. Alright?”

Poe huffs a laugh, and he finally smiles. “Alright.”

The two of them spend the rest of the day curled up against each other in the too small hospital bed, Poe looking content as he drifts off to sleep, and Ranpo staring at the wall anxiously, wondering if he really does have the strength to stand by what he said; whether he can continue with not knowing Poe’s reasons for keeping the truth, or the reason why he’s refusing treatment. He can only hope that in time, before it’s too late, that Poe will trust him enough to talk to him. And maybe tell him that he loves him back.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Yosano corners him the next day after she, once again, fails to convince Poe to take up treatment. Ranpo doesn’t understand why she thinks he can do better, but as she begs him to at least talk to Poe about it, he relents. It’s the least he can do, after all that she’s done for him, but he doesn’t make any promises. It’s Poe’s decision in the end, and they can only do so much before the cross the line of concerned friends into selfish people.

“What’s the matter?” Poe asks him when Ranpo lets out a groan as he stretches out across the bed beside him. Poe waits for Ranpo to stop squirming before he drops a hand to run it through Ranpo’s hair.

“Yosano-sensei wants me to convince you to undergo treatment.” Ranpo says, melting into the touch as he stares at the ceiling. “I told her I’d try, but it doesn’t take a genius to see you’ve already made up your mind.”

“It’s in a doctors nature to try and save all lives.” Poe begins to explain. “Yosano-sensei is a good doctor, so I can understand why she wants to do everything in her power to preserve my life. But… I’m tired.”

Ranpo tilts his head up, and from this position, he can see the bone deep exhaustion on Poe’s face that he hadn’t really been paying attention to before. Poe’s eye bags are ever present, but his face has taken on an ashen tone to it, which makes them look so much worse than they’ve ever looked, and Ranpo can feel the way that Poe’s hand shakes as it moves through his hair. “Tired?”

Poe glances down at him, a sad, but soft smile on his face, and he tugs at a strand of hair. “I’ve been fighting this for a long time, Ranpo.” There’s a brief silence as Poe seems to be thinking hard over something before he speaks again. “I was in remission when we first met—basically, my illness was gone, and I was getting better. But before that, I’d been fighting against it for a long time.”

“How long?” Ranpo asks quietly. He remembers Poe telling him that he spent most of his life growing up alone, so how long had he fought alone, with only the hospital staff has company to care for him?

“I was diagnosed when I was… five or six? I went into remission when I was seventeen. And then a year later, I was here in Yokohama, working as a nurse. But that’s why I never told you, Ranpo. I wasn’t sick when we met, and I didn’t feel the need to let people that I ever was in the first place; although Yosano-sensei knew because she had to in case something happened to me while I was working.”

Twelve years… Ranpo’s mouth drops open as he does the math, and he doesn’t even think as he moves to pull Poe down into a hug, ignoring the surprised noise that comes from the man, even as he reciprocates it.

“Ranpo…?”

“You must’ve been lonely.” Ranpo says. “Did you have anyone?”

Poe catches on to what Ranpo is insinuating. “I didn’t have a Fukuzawa-san of my own, or a team of doctors and nurses that took the time to get to know me, but yes, I did have people who somewhat cared for my wellbeing, and they were there for me when I had days where it was hard to continue fighting. Fitzgerald was one of them.”

“Fitzgerald?” Ranpo’s face scrunches up hearing the man’s name, eliciting a laugh from Poe.

“He’s a good doctor, Ranpo, for all his personality faults. He’s very much the reason that I survived for as long as I did in the first place.”

“I still hate him.”

“I know.” Poe squeezes him just that little bit tighter. “I’m sorry that he didn’t treat you well on the trial. I asked him to help you because I thought he would, but instead, he just made things worse for you.”

“Wait—you asked him to come?” Ranpo couldn’t help but frown. “Why? We weren’t even friends then!”

“I suppose I saw a bit of younger self in you, someone who’d been knocked down and beaten by the world for no reason other than the world needing to be cruel, someone who, despite all the pain and illness he’d been through, was still determined to live.” Ranpo’s heart is pounding as he listens to Poe’s words. You’re worth fighting for, Ranpo, the words that Fukuzawa had once told him resonating through his mind. What was it about him, that drove people to want to save him? He was just one of the millions of people on this planet, what made him special? He just didn’t understand.

And, of course, it was like Poe could read his mind, because he kept speaking. “You have an effect on people, Ranpo, a good one. I’ve seen it over the years I’ve watched you interact with the family you’ve built around yourself. You eased the loneliness in Fukuzawa-san’s heart and gave him a chance at a family; you gave Dazai-san a reason to keep on living when he didn’t have one, and you allowed Yosano-sensei to mother you during your hospital stays.”

“And what did I do for you?” Ranpo asks, face red in embarrassment, but needing to know what he’d done for Poe.

“Me? You gave me love, Ranpo.” Poe smiles a fond smile before he grabs one of Ranpo’s hands and brings it up so he can kiss the back of it. “And I love you for it.”

“That’s so cheesy.” Ranpo grumbles as he buries his face into Poe’s ribs so that he can hide his bright red face.

“You started it by writing me that lovely letter in English for my birthday, remember?”

“Oh my god, I thought I was being nice. Every time someone tried to praise you, you’d get all shy and anxious and I hated seeing it. So, I wrote something so you could read it whenever and hopefully believe the words one day.” Ranpo’s voice is muffled as he explains his past actions. He didn’t regret writing that letter, not when it had brought joy to Poe’s face as he’d read it, but he also did just because it was basically a love confession now that he thinks about it.

“And here I thought it was you admitting you have feelings beyond friendship.” Poe lets out a sigh, but it’s all done in a teasing manner.

“Is that why you kissed me when we were at the cherry blossoms?”

Poe doesn’t immediately respond, but he does place a hand underneath Ranpo’s chin and guides him into looking at him. He leans in, and Ranpo’s moving to meet him, and it’s just before they meet that he asks, “Tell me why you’ve stopped fighting, Edgar.”

There’s a pause, both in words and movement before Poe sighs and whispers against Ranpo’s lips. “I did fight, Ranpo. I fought hard. I went back to America in hopes of beating it for a second time, only to have treatment fail. I didn’t want to die in a place that was no longer my home so I came back to spend my remaining time with all of you.” Poe falls silent, and his forehead falls to rest against Ranpo’s. “I want to live, I really do, but I’d rather make memories I can look back on fondly then spend months in pain watching the people I care about suffer just as much as I am.”

Ranpo nods, content with the answer, and bridges the gap between them. Poe’s lips are soft as they glide against his own, still warm despite the chill that seems to have taken over the rest of Poe’s body. This is only their fourth proper kiss, but it’s their saddest one, only because Poe’s words have unlocked something inside of him, and the tears are falling before he can stop them. The kiss is broken when Ranpo sobs, and Poe makes a noise before his arms are wrapping around Ranpo, drawing him close and gently rocking him from side to side.

He continues to cry.

Because he finally understands.

The world hates love.

-----

The hardest part of knowing that Poe simply isn’t going to get better and is in fact, only going to get worse, is that Ranpo has to sit idly by and watch as Poe’s body breaks down in front of him. It’s heartbreaking, watching as the days pass by and Poe struggles to do the things he’d been able to do only a few weeks before, things like eating and breathing. But as hard as it is, Ranpo made a promise to not let Poe suffer alone, so through it all, he alternates between sitting on the chair beside the bed, or lying on the bed, letting Poe use him as a pillow when the man doesn’t have the strength to sit up himself.

Ranpo hasn’t left the hospital in just over two weeks, refusing to leave Poe’s side for anything, regardless of how much Fukuzawa and Yosano tell him to go home and get some rest. But how can he? How can he go home when just a week ago, Poe woke up unable to breathe, and Ranpo was the only one there to get help? How can he when Poe breaks down into tears of his own every time he’s given something to eat, only to throw it up before he’s even finished eating? How can he, when Poe had laid awake all of last night, in so much pain he couldn’t move, and Ranpo had had to sit there and read him stories to help him relax?

“You’ll make yourself sick, Ranpo.” He doesn’t care.

“Poe-san wouldn’t want this.” Poe’s barely aware he’s even there half the time.

“It’ll be alright, Ranpo…” No, it won’t be alright.

Poe’s finally asleep, drugged up on more painkillers than Ranpo’s ever been in his life, but despite them, there’s still pain on his face. He looks so frail in that bed, Ranpo notes as he watches Poe’s chest rise and fall unsteadily. Poe’s lost all colour in his skin now, the healthy pale that he’d once been replaced by a sickening yellow. He’s been losing weight as well, despite Yosano and the nurses best efforts to try and stop it from happening so fast, and while Poe’s always been scrawny, his bones have never been sharp and pointy through his skin before.

Ranpo thinks Yosano’s estimate of two months was wishful thinking.

Coughing interrupts Ranpo’s thoughts, and he has to physically hold himself back from rushing to Poe’s side to comfort him. He’d been told that Poe needed rest more than comfort, and that if he was managing to sleep through whatever problem his body was causing, then it was merciful to let him stay asleep. Only wake him if it’s something bad. Yosano’s words ring out as he watches, hoping—praying—that the coughing will stop soon.

There’s a dribble of crimson as the coughing only grows in intensity, and Ranpo shoots out of the chair, stumbling over his feet as he just barely slaps his hand against the call button, before he’s leaning over to shove Poe onto his side. Ranpo had been shown the proper way to do it, just in case something like this happened when a nurse wasn’t around, but he’s not as strong as they are, so it takes everything he has to get Poe into a position where he isn’t going to start choking on his own blood.

Yosano rushes into the room with a bunch of nurses following behind, and she takes over where Ranpo had started, and effortlessly, Poe is flipped onto his side and more blood falls out of his mouth where it had begun to pool. “Out, Ranpo.”

“But—” Ranpo doesn’t want to leave, he wants to help, wants to support Poe, which he can’t do if he lets himself be kicked out.

However, Yosano is more stubborn and levels him with a look. “Out. We can’t help Poe with you in here.”

Ranpo frowns but acquiesces, grabbing his cane from where it’d been resting, and limps out of the room. He doesn’t go far, just to the chairs a little down the hallway where he’s seen staff take naps on during their breaks, and promptly collapses onto them. He stares at the wall blankly for just a minute before he brings his hands up to cover his face and let’s out a muffled scream. I can’t do this… Ranpo thinks. It’s been only two weeks of watching Poe suffer, and it doesn’t know how much more he has to watch. It hurts so much to be unable to do anything but sit there, and he knows that he could just walk away. He knows that Poe would understand if he couldn’t handle it anymore, but Ranpo absolutely refuses to give in.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and Ranpo jerks back, head shooting up in surprise. It’s Nakahara, which doesn’t come as a surprise to him. He’s just surprised that the man hadn’t approached him sooner, but then again, Ranpo’s no longer a minor, so really, they have no reason to interact with each other in the hospital anymore.

“It’s okay to break, you know?” Nakahara says as he takes a seat beside Ranpo. “No one will fault you for it.”

“I have to be strong.” Ranpo whispers. “Poe-kun needs me to be strong.”

“Poe-san needs you to be you.” Nakahara retorts, but it’s gentle, gentler than he usually speaks. “I know this week has been particularly bad, but he will have a good day again.”

“No he won’t.” Poe hasn’t had a good day since the day they both told each other that they loved the other, so Ranpo’s not expecting one to ever come.

Nakahara reaches into his coat and brings out a card, holding it out to Ranpo. “He will. You just need to believe he will.”

Ranpo takes the card and reads it. It’s for grief counselling, and there are tears in his eyes before he can even finish reading the details of the cards. His voice cracks as he speaks. “I don’t want him to die.”

Nakahara draws him into a one-armed hug. “None of us do, kid. But you don’t have to go through this alone, okay? Let us stand by you instead of pushing us away, alright?”

Ranpo nods, breaking down into sobs as he curls into Nakahara’s embrace.

After that incident, Ranpo becomes a little more willing of accepting help from his family. Fukuzawa and him rotate on who stays with Poe, so that Ranpo can go home, shower, before returning to the hospital. His guardian hadn’t been able to convince him to sleep at home however, and considering Poe’s current condition, there was no way that Ranpo could reasonably sleep in the same bed, so Yosano arranged for a second bed to be brought in, pushed right up against Poe’s bed, and for the first time in weeks, Ranpo sleeps comfortably, Poe’s hand clutched in his own.

Dazai drops by as well, despite having a strong aversion to anything medical—he hasn’t set foot in the hospital in years—and Ranpo finds out that it’s because he hadn’t responded to Dazai in over a week that his friend had sent Nakahara after him in the first place. Dazai doesn’t say much when he visits, but he sits on that second bed with Ranpo and makes him take a nap, promising to watch over Poe while Ranpo rests. It’s also Dazai that brings some of Poe’s personal belongings to the hospital, so that when Poe wakes up, he’s not frightened by dreary hospital walls.

It’s also a comfort to Ranpo, and he clutches Karl close every time he goes to sleep at night.

Poe hasn’t woken—not properly woken at least—since his most recent fit. His eyes open, and he responds to touch, but it’s almost as if he’s not seeing them, and his grip is weak. But still, Ranpo talks to him when he’s in that state, reading him a story, or telling him about something that’s happened whilst he’s been resting. He likes to believe that Poe understands him, that he’s somewhat aware that Ranpo’s still there by his side, and he makes sure to smile every time Poe’s glazed eyes fall on him; he also makes sure to plant a gentle kiss on Poe’s feverish forehead, or on his ice-cold hands when Poe’s eyes drift closed and he falls back into slumber.

It's only once he’s sure that Poe’s asleep that Ranpo cries, saving his tears for those times that he’s alone.

“Ran…po…kun…” Ranpo jerks awake one night when he hears his name, and it only takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the dark and find Poe staring at him, eyes clear and bright for the first time in nearly a month.

“Edgar!” Ranpo grins, and sits up, being careful not to disturb Dazai who’d offered to stay the night with Ranpo, and was currently draped over him. Once he’s extricated himself from his best friends grip, he crawls off his temporary bed and sits on the edge of Poe’s. “How are you feeling?”

Poe smiles at him, and he lifts a shaking arm in Ranpo’s direction; he’s quick to grab it and hold it close. “I’m good.” Poe says, his voice quiet, but strong. If it weren’t for the way that Poe looked like death still, Ranpo could almost think that the past month hadn’t even happened, that was how good Poe looked at the moment. “Listen, Ranpo…”

“What is it?” Ranpo asks, a little bit of apprehension on his face. There’s a peaceful look on Poe’s face that’s a little unnerving, but Ranpo ignores that to keep on smiling. He should be happy, not worried, that Poe’s finally regained awareness.

“I want to go… to the cherry blossoms.”

“The cherry blossoms? Why? They aren’t in bloom.” The blossoms are about as far from bloom as they could possibly be, so Ranpo’s a little unsure why Poe wants to go see them of all things, especially in the early hours of the morning when it’s still dark outside.

Poe smiles at him, and squeezes his hand. “I want to see the sun rise. Please.”

Ranpo stews over Poe’s request for a few minutes while Poe patiently watches him before he nods. “Alright.” He remembers the way that Poe had said he’d wanted to make memories when he was still capable of having good days, and if he wants to go watch a sunrise with Ranpo during one such day, who is Ranpo to refuse him? It’s with that specific memory in mind, that he sneaks out of the room and hunts down a wheelchair—because, there’s no way Poe’s going to be able to walk all the way to the trees—and he does his best to get Poe disconnected from the machines that have been helping to keep him alive all this time. Ranpo knows that it’s probably not a good thing, to be sneaking out of the hospital, but he’s not thinking clearly at all. All he can think about right now is spending time with Poe, where they can enjoy a precious moment together.

He's sure it’ll be fine for a few hours at least. They’ll go, watch the sunrise, and then come back to the hospital before anyone even realizes they’re gone.

“Ready?” Ranpo asks, once Poe’s situated in the chair, and bundled up in as many layers as Ranpo had been able to scrounge together. Poe nods, and they begin to leave the room when a sleepy voice calls out to them.

“Sneaking out are we?” Dazai’s eyes are open just a little bit, and there’s a look on his face that tells Ranpo he knows exactly what’s going on, but still, Ranpo freezes in the doorway, waiting for his friend to stop him, or get him caught. But Dazai doesn’t. He just smiles and closes his eyes again. “Have fun, lovebirds~”

The breath he’d been holding escapes Ranpo, and he doesn’t say anything as he and Poe sneak down the halls of the hospital, avoiding the night staff, and it’s not long at all before they’re free, the chill of the night air turning Ranpo’s nose red in seconds. He sniffs, and pauses just long enough to adjust his own clothing before he sets off again. The entire time they walk, he and Poe don’t say anything to each other, the silence only broken by Ranpo’s wheezing as the cold attacks his already fragile lungs, and Poe’s coughs as chokes on his own breaths.

They are halfway there when Ranpo’s beginning to think that this was a bad idea and he slows to a stop, ready to tell Poe that maybe they shouldn’t do this and that they should wait until morning when it’s a little warmer, and they can have someone drive him, but before he can even suggest it, Poe looks over his shoulder at him, an expression of love and peace on his face and Ranpo’s heart skips a beat.

Oh.

There isn’t going to be a morning.

Ranpo steels himself and the emotions threatening to make themselves known, and despite the burning in his eyes, he continues to push Poe along, and before he knows it, they’re at the trees. Ranpo stops once they arrive at the hill they’d gone to last time they were here, and like before, leans against the back of the chair as he wheezes. And like before, hands find their way into his hair, stroking through the strands gently.

“I want to walk up there. Help me?” Poe says, standing up on too thin legs before Ranpo can stop him, and holding out a hand for Ranpo to take.

Ranpo takes the hand, and… and it feels warm. “Okay.”

The climb up the hill leaves them both out of breath, which isn’t a surprise considering it’s them, but Poe to have found a strength he didn’t have prior, because he starts to drag Ranpo along, heading towards a familiar spot with a very familiar tree. Poe leans against the tree and slides down it until he’s on the ground, and pats the ground in front of him. Ranpo joins him, sitting on the ground and shuffling backwards until his back is pressed against Poe’s chest, and he gives a content hum when arms thread around his waist and pull him closer, and a bony chin comes to rest on top of his head.

From their position, they can see the beginnings of the sunrise, a faint glow on the horizon that shows a cloudless sky. Ranpo lets out a sigh and relaxes, enjoying the familiar feeling of being wrapped up in Poe’s arms, and he doesn’t have to look at the man to know that Poe’s just as happy as he is. Things are different this time round, and where they had been friends before, they are two people in love now, and it just makes watching the sunrise that much better. Ranpo’s only regret is that this is going to be the last time that they get to do something like this, that this one day of watching the sun rise, is going to be the last time that he feels Poe’s warmth, feel his love.

Ranpo’s not stupid.

He knows what it means when someone as sick as Poe wakes up as if he’d never been sick in the first place.

Which means, he knows what he needs to do. “Edgar.”

“What is it?” Poe says.

Ranpo turns his head to face Poe, to look into those violet eyes once more while they are still clear and full of life. He reaches a hand up and tangles it into Poe’s hair, drawing the man’s face towards his own. “I love you.”

And then he’s kissing Poe. It’s very much similar to their first kiss that had been under the cherry blossom trees, short and sweet, but this time it’s filled with emotion as Ranpo tries desperately to convey every positive time he’s had with Poe into the one gesture. He wants Poe to remember this moment, even once he’s gone, and Ranpo too wants to remember it for as long as he lives.

Poe returns the kiss, once Ranpo breaks it to take a breath, and it’s Ranpo’s turn to feel Poe’s love for him. This kiss is shorter, because there’s not much left to say that they don’t already know, but it’s just as meaningful as the previous one. Ranpo doesn’t want this one to end, he wants to savour the feeling of Poe’s lips against his, of Poe’s hands on his cheeks—in his hair, but all good things must come to a stop.

“Thank you, Ranpo, for doing this for me.” Poe says as he leans back against the tree, and Ranpo turns back around so that they can continue to watch the sun; the sky is lighter now, lit up with golds, pinks, and oranges as the sun starts a brand new day.

“I’d do anything for you, Edgar.” Ranpo says.

Silence falls between them, and it stays that way until the sun is breaching the horizon, a shy round orb that’s not sure if it’s welcome in the sky yet or not, not while the room continues to be bright and round, fighting to stay in the sky.

“Tell me a story, Ranpo-kun.” Poe whispers as he watches the sun.

Ranpo doesn’t hesitate to ponder the request. He opens his mouth and begins to speak. He’s never been one for constructing stories out of thin air; that’s always been Poe’s specialty, but there’s one story in his mind that he does know, and it’s this one that he begins to tell.

It’s a simple story, really, of a sickly boy in a hospital who’s fighting against a world that wants him to die, when a kind stranger breaks through the darkness and buoys him up, allowing him to get better and live.

It’s a story of how the sickly boy and the kind stranger become friends, and eventually fall in love with each other, despite everyone around them knowing that it will end in tragedy.

It’s a story of how the kind stranger has to leave, and the sickly boy has to find his place in the world without the one he loves, and when he finally does, the kind stranger returns to him, only to learn of the tragic ending that awaits at the end.

It’s a story with a no ending, not yet at least, as the sickly boy doesn’t yet know what will happen when the kind stranger leaves him alone in the world, but the sickly boy makes a promise to never stop fighting.

Ranpo’s voice breaks then, and he sobs, unable to go on, because he doesn’t know how to. He rolls onto his side and clutches at Poe’s jacket, desperately shoving his head against the man’s chest, because despite knowing what was going on, he doesn’t want it to be true.

But Poe’s chest doesn’t rise, the rattling breaths that Ranpo had been able to hear whilst he’d been speaking having stopped somewhere in the middle of the story. Ranpo knows he should’ve stopped then, that there was no reason for him to keep speaking when Poe could no longer hear him, but it didn’t feel right to just stop the story in the middle. Not when it was their story that he’d been telling.

A story that Poe will never get to know the ending of now.

And as the sun continues to rise, Ranpo continues to cry.

----

Fukuzawa is the one to find them well after the sun has risen, no doubt because Dazai had told him what had happened, but his guardian doesn’t say anything, only pulls Ranpo into his arms and holds him as he breaks, sobbing uncontrollably and gasping senseless words. Ranpo doesn’t quite remember what happens afterwards, but he puts it together when he wakes up in the hospital being treated for the fever he’d come down with after spending hours in the cold.

“Why would you let me love him?” Ranpo had whispered when he feels like he can speak without breaking down into tears.

Fukuzawa had given him a pained look as he held Ranpo close. “Because you deserved to be loved, and he made you happy.”

The funeral happens a week later, because that’s how long it takes Ranpo to recover from the fever, and no one wants to hold the funeral without Ranpo there in the first place. It’s a quiet affair, since Poe didn’t have a lot of friends, and didn’t have any family at all, so it’s just Ranpo and the rest of the small family that had adopted Poe into it. Ranpo’s squashed in between Fukuzawa and Dazai, the former having an arm around his shoulder, and the latter invading his personal space entirely by sprawling over him. It’s nice, to know he’s not alone in mourning Poe, but he does wish that he could have a moment to himself. He doesn’t feel like he can cry when he’s surrounded by others.

“Here.” Ranpo was surprised to find Fitzgerald at the funeral—he hadn’t seen him—but had tentatively taken the envelope he was being offered. “Poe left me this before he came back to Yokohama. Told me to give it to you when he died.”

Inside the letter is the key to Poe’s mansion in America, and a note telling Ranpo that everything Poe owns now belongs to him. Ranpo had looked up at Fitzgerald with wide eyes. “Why?”

Fitzgerald had shrugged. “He loved you. When you’re ready to go, get Yosano-sensei to give me a call. I’ll cover the costs.”

“Thank you.”

Ranpo ends up calling Nakahara a week after Poe’s death, having finally been left alone, only to find that he doesn’t actually want to be alone, because it just reminds him of how much Poe isn’t there by his side anymore, and he breaks down over it. An hour later, Nakahara is by his side as a silent comfort whilst Ranpo cries about how miserable and lonely he feels, and listens in return as the man talks him into going into counselling to help him cope with the grief he’s feeling. He has an appointment with the counsellor the next day.

“You can come to Dazai or I if you ever feel alone, okay? We have a couch you can stay on if you just need somewhere to stay that isn’t your own place while you deal with this.” Nakahara had told him. “Or if you just want somewhere to be sad without worrying Fukuzawa-san

Ranpo appreciated the thought, and for the first time since Poe’s passing, he smiled. “Thanks, Nakahara.”

“Chuuya, kid. You’ve known me long enough now.”

In the aftermath of everything; Poe’s death, Ranpo’s fever, the funeral, and everything after, Ranpo stops taking his medications. Not because he doesn’t want to anymore, but because he’d genuinely forgotten that he needed to take them when he had several other things to deal with at the time. So while it shouldn’t come as a surprise, Ranpo is surprised when he wakes up one morning in agony and barely able to breathe. He’s on Dazai and Chuuya’s couch, having turned up on their doorstep after a too realistic dream, and he’s grateful when he doesn’t have to tell them to call an ambulance for him.

“You are an absolute fool.” Yosano scolded him when he’s pain-free and breathing easy. There are tears in her eyes as she gripped Ranpo’s hand tight. “Those medications are what keep you alive!”

“I’m sorry.” Ranpo had said, because he was. He hadn’t meant to stop taking them. He’d just forgotten. “I was…”

“I know.” Yosano sighed, her grip loosening. “You know, Poe is the reason why you can even have those meds in the first place? Fukuzawa-san couldn’t afford to get them, so Poe offered to pay for them because he wanted to see you live.”

Ranpo had stared at Yosano then with wide eyes. He hadn’t known that.

It’s six months before Ranpo finally plucks up the courage to place the call to Fitzgerald and tell the man he’s ready to go over to America and see just what exactly Poe had left to him after his death. He drags Dazai along, wanting his best friend by his side, because he knows that Dazai will leave him alone if he asks. All Ranpo can think about on the flight over though, is that this trip was supposed to be with Poe, and he remembers how they’d stayed up late, planning what they’d do and what they’d see. Ranpo has that list with him now, along with Karl. He might not be able to do everything on the list, but he plans to at least do some of it.

“Wow, Poe-san really was loaded.” Dazai whistled as they approached the mansion. “And he left it all to you?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet. I just wanted to see it, since Poe-kun never got the chance to show it to me like he wanted to.” Ranpo sighed, already feeling the beginnings of tears as he gazed upon Poe’s childhood home.

There’d been a pause. “You know, you can call him Edgar if you’d like”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

It’s the one year anniversary of Poe’s death when he returns to the mansion with the rest of his family in tow this time, determined to celebrate Poe’s life with the people that mattered the most to him. Not one of his friends tells him it’s a bad idea, and all of them are already at the airport when he and Fukuzawa arrive. And just like he and Dazai, they had all been surprised at just how big of a house that Poe had lived in. Ranpo wishes they could’ve done this on Poe’s birthday instead, but he hadn’t been well enough to make the trip over, so he’d waited until this day. It doesn’t really matter, as they all have fun, and share stories with each other, and play games until they all pass out on one of the living room floors in a heap.

It's the two year anniversary when Ranpo gathers together all of Poe’s stories and sets about typing them out and neatening them; fixing spelling mistakes and continuity errors that he remembers discussing with Poe. It takes months for him to get through all the stories that Poe had written over the years, and he selects a few to send out to publishers with the intention of getting Poe’s stories out into the world as they had always deserved to be. He gets a response after a week, and a few months later, Poe’s stories are on shelves in stores, being enjoyed by all that buy and read them. Ranpo donates the money he makes from them to research, knowing that Poe would appreciate people working to find a cure for the illness that had taken his own life.

It's the three year anniversary when Ranpo’s own body begins to fail him, and he finds himself being thrown back to the time where he was sixteen and pretty much living in the hospital. But despite growing weaker as the months pass by, his medications no longer working the way they should be, he continues to fight, continues to work, and live, because that was what Poe would’ve wanted and he’s not going to disappoint the man. Fukuzawa is the most heartbroken at Ranpo’s declining state, which isn’t surprising when he’s been taking care of Ranpo for the past ten years. He makes Dazai and Chuuya promise him that they won’t let Fukuzawa be alone, that they’ll take care of him, as he’s taken care of Ranpo. Dazai actually looks sad as Ranpo asks him, but he promises to do as Ranpo asks.

It's the four year anniversary when Ranpo is sitting against Poe’s grave, watching the sun set with his family around him. He’s telling them the same story he’d told Poe on his last day alive, and this time, he doesn’t cry as he tells it; he smiles fondly, recounting everything he’s written down in the notebook that he’d once had made for Poe all those years ago. He’s not a storyteller, and he’s never claimed to be, but his family listens as he speaks, and as he reaches the end, he looks up and sees sad faces.

“It’s beautiful.” Yosano says quietly, tears in her eyes. “But… it’s not finished?”

Ranpo smiles and closes the notebook, gazing upon it fondly. “It’s not. There’s a lot I’m missing, so I’m relying on all of you to fill in the blanks for me and make this a story worth remembering.”

Fukuzawa speaks, his voice cracking just the tiniest bit. He’s not crying, not yet at least. “What will you do in the meantime?”

Ranpo looks out at the setting sun, his smile growing just that little bit more. “I’m going to watch the sunset with Edgar.”

He watches his family leave, giving him the time to be alone with Poe and he sighs, slumping in exhaustion against the dirt once they are out of sight. He’s fought for twenty-five years now, and like Poe once had, he’s reached the end of his fight.

Ranpo closes his eyes as the sun dips below the horizon.“That was a beautiful story, Ranpo-kun.”

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd fanfic #ranpoe #edogawa ranpo #edgar allan poe #dazai osamu #fukuzawa yukichi #yosano akiko #nakahara chuuya #hurt/comfort #emotional

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