#he's finally dripped out in his emo realness........

[cyancees]

my warlock finally got some new clothes for the first time in his journey you know i had to show him off

#he's finally dripped out in his emo realness........ #viktor #dnd #dnd character #dnd warlock #dnd half orc #art #mine #oc #basically he is one of like 3 total half-orcs from his city of Just orcs #and he's the smallest too he's just human sized pretty much #and he has too much pride to wear clothes meant for kids #he's also kinda poor #so that's why he looked like that before #also the other half-orcs from his home are his half-siblings LOL #also the armour is cursed but like he's already in a pact with a devil so he's genuinely not that concerned about his soul

[munsster]

hello!! any chance we could get something steddie X reader ? idk what but something good and comforting (or even angst + comfort) for the soul because it's fucking emo hours in the real world and I hate it here lmao. if not, that's all good. thank you for your time 💞

ill and idle talk

A/N: um absofuckinglutely i will, i wrote this at 1:30 am after sobbing for a good 20. annd i’ve been thinking about them ALL week so here u go, nonnie. they are so pretty, i love our boyfriends <3

Pairings: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader, Eddie Munson x GN!Reader

Summary: Your boys never want you to be scared of telling them anything. But sometimes, it’s fated. 2.5k words.

Warnings: fluff, cursing, hurt/comfort, sickness, very very minor angst/worry, taking medicine (pill form), nakedness/bathing, pet names (sunshine, bug, baby, honey, sweets), cuddling, kissing

Phlegm's a bitch. You know that now, and your nostril has been clogged since yesterday. Which means you tossed and turned through the chilled night, shivering and sniffling and hacking up whatever dripped down your throat. You felt kind of gross. Curled in on yourself and flip-flopping between overheating and freezing, which was frustrating enough without the phone's constant shrill ringing.

But you can't take the lecture right now. Not in the hallowed halls of your childhood home. Not standing on wobbly feet that are numb with frost. You'd rather keep the lights off and duck under your pillow. Then the phone stopped. And silence coaxed you in, a little staticky as the absence of screeching settled into the dry wall of the empty house.

But only once the smoke had cleared did a spark finally catch, fist pounding on the door.

"You alive in there, sunshine?"

That's who you were worried about. Tucked in his favorite sweater, pushing a hand through his floppy hair, frowning over nothing was Steve. Fretting and fussing like he's not barely twenty and stress sweating over it. You roll over, nudging deeper into your thick comforter, tucking it around your shoulders with a sigh.

"Spare key," you grumble, loud enough muffled behind linens, but he already had it pinched between his fingers before he got out of his beamer. A gust of cool air rushes in behind him, so he slams the front door and shuffles down the hall to your creaking bedroom, kneeling beside your bed and tilting his head.

Reluctantly, and only after he brushes his fingers across your forehead, you open your eyes to his worry. Staring between his furrowed brows and the soft pink tint below his droopy eyes.

"You're burning up," he huffs, "lemme run you a bath."

But you won't have it, burying your damp face into your mountainous hoard of cotton sheets and down pillows because at least it's warm. Where he's standing, the light is blinding and cold air lingers like fog up from the carpet.

"Come on, please, you been stewing in here for a day and a half. You're not getting any better, and we miss you," he coos, running the tips of two fingers down the exposed slope of your shoulder, fiddling with the thick strap of your tank top and sighing.

"Alright... well, can I at least make you something to eat? Maybe soup or a nice afternoon breakfast?"

"Don't want it," you grumble.

"How 'bout a glass of water?"

"Nuh-uh."

He drops his head, a little defeated by your stubbornness and hating what it'll make him do. But you're satisfied and smiling at the return of softened silence. Like butter left out in the summer time, melting from the inside out, smooth across the scratchy surface of toast, messy in its little porcelain dish.

"Sweetheart," he coos, "you gotta get up. Or I'm gonna call him, and you're not gonna like it—"

"Leave me alone, Steve. I'm fine."

Oh, but now he's not feeling very nice. In fact, his cheeks burn a little because you've bested him. Even if you're not fine, it's not fair how much he cares about you only for you to disregard yourself like nothing.

"No. I came all the way over here for you, and—you had me worried sick, baby, I'm serious, I thought something really bad happened—"

"I didn't ask you to," you pant.

"Ouch," he huffs, "but a lot of the things I do without you having to ask are because I care about you"—there's a soft shuffling as he crosses the room, tip toeing to dodge crumpled tissues and water bottles on the way to your landline. You hear it ring, the handheld little speaker whirring and buzzing from where he stands with a hand perched on his hip—"Definitely a fever. Been bundled up since Wednesday... I know... that's what I said... up to you... m'kay... okay. We'll see you in a bit, then. Alright. Love you."

"Don't want any trouble, Stevie," you whisper, and he sighs, feeling his shoulders hunch forward. Because he knows from the hitch in your breath that you're about to cry.

"You're not in trouble, honey, it's just..."—he turns with a hand carding through his soft and brown hair, but he can't bring himself to your eyes and the way you sniffle under the covers—"you know how much I love you, but if I can't get you to eat somethin', then I'm gonna need backup."

Steve's light-footed back to you. Seated against your bent knees, knuckles in-line along the warmth of your bundled thigh. He deflates deeper; he looks so tired, and your heart wenches at his sudden mindlessness. Sweeping through the motions with only a backdrop of feeling. His back curls like a cat when he leans down, cool breath fanning across your temple to kiss your cheek. You rustle from underneath, jutting your chin out and puckering your lips. He beams down at you, and though the smile doesn't reach his eyes, he still looks soft and happy. And he kisses you.

He kisses you like the rest of it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter that you're sweating into his palm and squirming to kiss him deeper. Or that you're still stubborn while giggling against his cold mouth.

"Shh, 'm tryin' to kiss you, sunshine," he hums.

"Shit!" You shriek and weasel your hand out to push his chest Away. He rears back with eyes wide.

"What? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, but..."

"... But what? Don't leave me hangin'," he teases, leaning down again, but you squirm and curl your fingers into his sweater's loose collar.

"You're gonna get sick, that's what!" you chirp, "You're gonna catch my fever, and then we'll have to bundle you up, too—"

"It's a little late for that, don'tcha think?"

You squint up at him, fingertips still hanging from his cableknit, weighing his neck down more than pushing him away. Drawing him closer in a weak attempt to preserve his fragile health. But it's all in vain when his nose bumps yours, and he cups your jaw and tilts your head back so he can kiss you like he missed you. Because he was all pacing by the phone for days, forgetful and manic during car rides with Eddie, and when it started to drizzle this morning, he couldn't find it in himself to feel comforted when he knew something was missing.

"There you are," Eddie hoots, locking the front door behind him and toeing his boots off by the welcome mat. He jogs down the hall, unsheathing two palm-sized bottles from the pockets of his slick leather jacket. "Sorry I barged in. Door was unlocked."

You nod deeper into your pillow. As Eddie presses a kiss to Steve's temple, his ringed knuckles go soft along your temple.

"Looks like someone's got the flu," he says, sitting cross-legged on the floor, chain jangling against his thigh, and he scoots closer, "how're you feelin', bug? Brought you Vicks and some acetamino-whatever." He taps the edge of the small pill bottle against his palm, holding a white oval in between his thumb and forefinger. Steve lifts the glass of water to your clammed up hand, and you quickly swallow the pill down with a gulp.

"Oh, so you'll listen to him but not me," Steve teases, palming your side as you sit up and rest your head on his shoulder. You chuckle and nudge at his jugular with the bridge of your nose.

"How can you say no to those eyes?"

Eddie laughs and pats Steve's thigh.

"Fair enough," he huffs. Eddie snaps the light blue hairband from Steve's wrist, tying his wild hair back and tossing his heavy jacket over the foot of your bed.

"Alright, sweetheart, let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

You hum and let Eddie tuck his arm across your back to help you stand. And Steve thinks Eddie has always been good at that. At convincing both of you. He never liked metal or hard rock until Eddie asked him to one of his gigs. He was goo-goo-eyed the whole set, knowing he'd fall for any of Eddie's cons again and again.

Steve's thick sleeves bunch around his elbows, fingertips skimming the soapy and shallow water climbing the sides of the white porcelain tub, rippling out from the faucet in guttural waves, and slapping up against the edges. Eddie has you perched half-naked on the toilet seat, thumbing the minty, slimy gel over your chest, paying sweet attention to the base of your neck as you lean into his touch.

"Should be warm enough," Steve says, cranking the handle until the nozzle runs dry. And when you look at him with lazily hooded eyes, he looks so pretty. The steam licks at his chin, curling up around his cheeks and dashing smile. It threads into his hair, makes it damp until it goes a little flat.

"Thank you, Steve," Eddie coos. He stands with one hand slotting fingers with yours, pushing the other through Steve's hair, slicking it back through no purpose of his own besides tilting his head back to give him a wet kiss.

You finally breathe easy, sliding down into the bath, thick slabs of bubble creeping up your calves. They sit watching you like predators, glancing across the way at each other as Eddie slumps mirror to Steve, sat back on his haunches and arm laid across the edge of the tub. Except, maybe less like predators and more like they care. More like Steve cupping the hot water in his palm and pouring it down your back. And he does it again when you sigh.

"Feelin' better, sunshine?"

But you just tuck your chin, eucalyptus and lavender coiling along your upper lip, and you wipe the snot from your nose with the back of your hand.

"Gross," you whisper, fingers wiggling beneath the short tide. Steve blinks, head swiveling to face Eddie who shrugs. His brows furrow, and he kicks at Eddie's thigh with a pointed frown.

"Hey," Eddie mumbles, glaring at Steve before going soft and catching a bead of sweat from your neck on his forefinger, "talk to us. What's goin' on?"

"Nothin'," you say.

"Nothin'? Really?"

"Mhm. Just... takin' a bath... with you two watching me," you sigh.

"Oh, well, we don't have to watch you, honey, we can wait for you out there," Steve says, insides flooding with concern and washing out his rosy cheeks, embarrassed and scrambling when you groan.

"It's fine."

"Doesn't sound fine to me," Eddie says.

"Oh, now you're listening?"

Steve flinches. "Woah, woah, hey, what's with the third degree?"

You open your mouth to speak, and when you look over, your eyes are red and tears roll down your wet cheeks. They're both stuck. Unmoving, stunned into silence with their hearts crashing to their stomach like thickly swallowed lead and sharp rocks. Refusing to settle and weighing them down. Only, with your eyes on Steve, he feels like he's on fire, blushing and hurt and a little fringed around the edges.

"You know, there's a reason I didn't take any calls or reach out," you sigh, breaking in your throat and hacking into your forearm, "It's not 'cause I didn't wanna talk to or see you two, alright? Because I did. And I do. But I don't need either of you to take care of me. I don't need to know you've seen me at my worst. I don't want to have forced you into caring about me. Well, too late, right?"

You turn to face the tiled wall, tracing your fingertip along the dip of grout between each one. All while Eddie goes to squeeze Steve's palm with a deep breath. Because he looks like he wants to die. Like it might be good to shrivel up if he's made you feel that way. Curling in on himself, feeling the knob of each of Eddie's knuckles with his fingers.

"You didn't..." Eddie sighs, "you didn't force us into anything, sweetheart. And you never have to worry about what we think of you because we love you. No matter what, got it? Even coughing all over us with snot pourin' out of your nose. Doesn't matter, okay?" He chuckles.

And he reaches for you, stroking the curve of your shoulder to coax you out again. To make it feel more like comfort than being bombarded. Because that's never what they wanted. They knew how you felt about the three of you. How they soothed your fears when it felt impossible. But in the end it was easier, you realized, to love and be loved like that. To feel together despite the noise and ruckus.

You turn to face them again, mouth tugged to the side. And Steve feels lighter when your fingertips rasp against his collar and up the column of his throat. No more scraping weight and heft where he sits. Just reaching.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. And he slants over the side of the tub to kiss your jaw in precious time, letting you feel the draw he has in your direction. Always, especially now, tugging as much as you are guiding.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Steve whispers, "we just care about you. A lot. And there's not harm in that."

You nod and let them lift you from the tub and towel dry your shivering body. Let them carry you to the bed and dress you in sweats and a tee. Let them feed you bits of vegetable washed down with a mild broth. Belly full, limbs laid out on the newly changed sheets, grabbing for something you can't quite convince the tip of your tongue to dictate.

Until Steve coils into your side, chin rested on the crown of your head, his warmth like a sauna with his sweater draped over your headboard. You palm his hot chest when he wraps around you with a husky groan straight from the maw, muzzling himself in the crook of your jaw, laying selfish kisses there until the skin is raw.

Then Eddie pads across the floor, arms outstretched and rings shoved into his pocket. He plops down and shakes the whole bed frame, settling as the mattress bounces and Steve’s heavy head thuds back against your throat. You whine and hold the back of his skull.

“Jesus, sorry, sorry,” Eddie pants when Steve flips him off.

“Good thing I’m all cozy,” he says, “Next time you won’t be so lucky, Munson.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and peers down at you. A wavy tendril slips from his low and loose bun, and you tuck it behind his ear. So he smiles and leans close. Fingertips tracing your nose, cupid’s bow, lips, and he tugs at your lower lip so he can kiss you with svelte and yearning intent. And after you kiss him, too, he settles with a grin, pressing one more to the heel of Steve’s palm. To rest further into stillness. Unhurried waking and the dewy relentlessness of influenza.

masterlist

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x reader #x gn!reader #x gn reader #fluff #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson fluff #steddie x reader #steddie x you #steddie fluff #stranger things #x reader #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #*

[yeehawbvby]

Falling Away With You | Ch. 35*

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: You blow Seb lol

Author’s Note: Quick warning, y/n unironically calls Seb “daddy” in this one ^^” It only happens once, and I don’t think I’ll be doing it again, but it felt right for the moment.

For those of you who aren’t into it – Seb’s a super cute soft dom during the scene, which will hopefully make it worth the read!

Enjoy and take care x

Table of Contents + Work Summary

Check it out on ao3!

Prev | Next

After recharging for a bit, Seb and I went back into the market to check out some of the stalls we missed. Mostly the shop-oriented ones, rather than games or the food tents. 

I finally got him a cooler ash tray for my place. The tray itself is just made out of some kinda stone; what made it look neat enough for me to snag is that it looks like it’s being held by a skeletal hand made of tungsten. 

We got a matching set of earrings too: they’re studs made from fire quartz. Kinda blobby looking, but the color is nice and we thought it would be a good way to commemorate our new fish son. Seb only has his gauges right now, but he’s been wanting to get some more holes poked into his ears, so this helped incentivize that a bit.

Since we got back to his house so late – around 1am – and Cannoli was found safely cuddled up and sleeping with Maru in her bed, Seb said I could just spend the night here. It’s rare I get to do this since I’m usually so worried about leaving Cannoli home alone overnight. Feels weird, but in a good way!

The first thing we did upon arrival was toss Gerard’s new bowl onto one of Seb’s bookshelves – we made a space for it next to his Cave Saga X collection – and transferred the (thankfully still living!) betta in. Then, after a relaxing shower together to wash our days and some sand away, Seb changed into some pajama pants, while I stole one of his tees with a pair of clean boxers. I was just about to cuddle up in his bed when I realized Seb wasn’t following. 

“What’re you doing?”

“I still have some work I didn’t get to finish today.”

“Bro!” I frown. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve just done this all another time, or like, did something less time consuming, or something… I dunno.” 

“What?” He’s pretending he didn’t hear me. I can tell by the dumb raise of his bushy eyebrows, and the way he’s biting back a smirk.

“I said that you’re a bitch.”

“Ouchies. Ya got me there.”

“Shut up,” I laugh, hugging one of his pillows to myself. “I’m staying up with you, then.”

“Why?”

“To keep you company.” Realizing maybe he doesn’t want the company, I shy away a little, looking down and fiddling with my new necklace. “I-if you want me to. I can just leave you be, if you need it, too.”

I hear him huff out a laugh, and look up to see him eyeballing me. “Get your cute ass over here,” Seb orders.

I plop down at his other PC, shifting the keyboard forward so I can lean on the desk. I have my phone with me, and I could play Toontown or something if I wanted, but I can’t help but just stare at the topless emo for a little bit. At his wet hair dripping down onto his scarred ivory skin; the blue glow of the screen against his slender face and soft muscles; the way he gnaws his lip in concentration, as his skilled fingers zoom across his keyboard.

“Like what y’see?” Seb teases. He must’ve seen me from his peripherals. His cheeks are pink as his eyes flicker between me and his screen.

A blush coats my own face as I nod and lazily whisper, “You’re so hot…” 

I’m getting sleepy, but I’m getting sooo horny too.

“Eh, I’m a little chilly, actually.”

“You suck,” I smile. 

Hm… suck… The gears are turning in my sleepy, horny brain. 

I wonder if he’d let me suck his dick right now. 

“I have a way t-to warm you up,” I mumble into the crook of my arm. Way to go, (y/n). Lookin’ like a real expert at pickup-line delivery.

After laughing at my stuttering, Seb asks, “Yeah? How’s that?” The way he purred his words tells me Seb knows how already.

I take a deep breath of determination before standing up and walking over to him. “Scoot over for a sec.” 

He obliges, and I crawl into the space under his desk, sorta smushed between his long legs. Seb chuckles, but makes no moves to stop me as I rest my head on his thigh and trace lazy shapes with my fingertip up the side of his hardening length. 

“Is this okay?” I murmur, moving on to fully palming him through his PJs. The purple plaid pants are soft and woolen, and smell like lavender laundry detergent. Freshly washed, huh? Hopefully they won’t get too dirty.

I peer up, and licking his lips after a quiet breath out, Seb smiles softly. “Perfect, baby.”

Feeling proud of the effect I’m having on him, I move on, nipping at his clothed thigh while I grip him a bit tighter. Fighting off the urge to plunge my fingers down the boxers that are covering my own lower half, I knead his upper thigh with my free hand. 

Once Seb is fully hard, I kiss him over the fabric. Using my hot breath to tease him, I toy with his head a little while my lips “teeth” at the base. His hips are beginning to rock a bit in his seat. I take that as a sign to tug at his pants, and he wordlessly helps me slip them down to just above his knees. 

“I have a question,” I state, lightly toying with his balls as I rest my cheek on his thigh again. 

“Hm?”

Timidly, I mutter, “How would you feel if I called you a ‘good boy?’” 

While I study his face through my lashes and leave light pecks on his leg, Seb pauses his work to think about it. “Dunno,” he eventually responds. Looks a little tickled. “I don’t think I’d really be into it, but you could try.” 

Challenge accepted.

I purse my lips, then salute him. Makes him smile. “You got it, sir,” I tack on while resuming my activities. I cup his balls in my palm, knead them a little, and kitten-lick his shaft. 

“Mm,” he hums, chewing his bottom lip.

Seb’s eyelids flutter, but he’s still coding. 

I think it’s my new goal for him to not be able to do his work while I work. 

Maybe I’ll make it up to him with some coffee or a back rub or something, if he wants.

After dragging my tongue up the underside of his cock, I drop back down, leaving open-mouthed kisses along it when I make my way towards the tip once more. I take my time tonguing at the thick, sensitive vein just below the head; peppering it with kisses while I start pumping one of my hands nearer to the bottom, savoring how he feels beneath my fingertips. 

The rising and falling of Seb’s chest paired with his deep whimpers and stuttering fingers tells me it’s time to stop teasing.

Slowly, I dip my mouth over his lower head, hollowing my cheeks as I settle onto him. By the time the tip reaches my throat, Seb’s hand has made its way into my hair and started tugging. I moan at the pain. His dick reactively twitches a little. 

My eyes are watering as I look up to check on him, and I swear he’d have hearts in his eyes if he could. His heavy lids hood over darkened irises, and a deep flush coats his cheeks. The fingers that aren’t woven into my hair make their way upwards into his and push it back. Exposing his cute forehead, then leaving it kinda still exposed as the water from our shower acts as a crappy glue. 

The way he’s looking at me — watching with his full attention, clearly smitten as I stuff my mouth to the fullest degree with his cock — breaks me. The heat between my legs is fucking unbearable. 

I gravitate my hand that’s not busy on Seb’s shaft downward, into the front-opening of these boxers, and then bypass my swollen bud to drown my fingers inside myself. My eyes roll shut while I moan around Seb’s girth, and the fist in my hair pulls a little harder. 

“So selfish,” he teases. 

I open my eyes and pull him out of my mouth, a deep breath escaping me. “Fuck~ Can’t help it.”

Losing myself in my own pleasure, I lean my forehead on Seb’s inner thigh. I match the pace of my hands, pumping him with the same vigor I’m curling into myself with. 

“Shit, baby… juuust like that,” my boyfriend moans from above me. 

I force my gaze up to him again, and his head is thrown back, his eyes shut while he groans my name through a smile. Feeling bold, I decide to test my experiment out now. 

“P-please look at me,” I mewl. Even when I’m trying to be less submissive, I can’t help but sound like the sub of all time. As Seb grants my wish, I run my lips along the side of his length again. “That’s my good boy,” I murmur through soft kisses to his skin. 

Fuck. That came out too meek. 

“God, (y/n).” Maybe not? As the words left Seb’s lips, they were graced with a wide grin. “That was fucking precious.” 

“Mmn— might’ve worked better if I wasn’t fingering myself...”

Seb shakes his head, he tugs my head upward near my roots, then impatiently lowers me back onto his cock. My brows upturn and a needy whine leaves me. I try to emulate what he’s feeling with my fingers, inserting a second into myself.

“I don’t think I’d like it if you’d said it the way you probably intended, to be honest.” He punctuates his sentence with a hushed curse.

Fair enough. I’ll take it. Mouth full and head empty, all I can do is grunt my response. 

I ease my eyes shut, trying to focus on using my tongue while Seb begins fucking up into me. I give in to the urges to stimulate my clit while this is happening, using my thumb to toy with it; admittedly, my movements on Seb become a little jagged.

“Keep going, princess.” Moaning through the shivers that title sends across my skin, my eyes open back up, and I try to focus harder on pleasuring my lover than myself. “Gooood fucking girl,” he coos, his eyes stabbing my own.

My lids flutter as I desperately try to keep them open. Wanting to finish – since I’m close, and so that I can focus solely on Seb with a clear mind – I pull my fingers out of myself and vigorously focus them on my clit. 

Seb giggles at my loss of all inhibition. “That feel good?”

“Mhm,” I choke out over his dick. I do my best to bob my head along to Seb’s thrusts, but I raise myself off him, gasping for air as my foggy eyes gaze into his beneath upturned eyebrows. “Fuck, I love your cock, daddy~” 

Yoba above, what the fuck was that?! 

The words just kinda spilled outta me… I’d be more embarrassed if it wasn’t almost ready to cum. I rest my cheek on his leg again as I pump him with the same vigor I’m strumming myself. 

Seeming to have liked the name, Seb’s widened eyes roll back for a moment while a husky groan escapes him. “Yeah? Then why’d you stop, darling?” 

Suuuch a good point! He’s so smart!

“I-I’m gonna cum,” I explain as his fingertips make their way to my chin. 

“Not yet.”

Oh.

As if he pressed a button, I stop moving. Depriving myself in an instant, despite how much it hurts to deny myself the pleasure. 

Seb laughs, and the devilish sound on its own makes me whine. “There ya go. Now c’mere,” he mutters, drawing my face to his dick again. 

Holy shit this is so fucking hot.

“Hands off yourself.”

Oh my god.

Dejectedly but obediently, I do as he says. 

“Use ‘em on me instead.”

I bring both hands up to Seb’s cock, lowering them onto him from the top. My movements are shaky from being cut off, but I’m too hypnotized to care.

Seb’s hand is still on my face as he guides my lips around his tip again. It’s slick and salty with precum. The aftertaste has hints of myself, now that my well-used hands have touched him again.

Brows furrowing and lips curling, Seb coos, “You’re too goddamn pretty.” 

The praise makes me reactively hum around him. 

“Open a little wider, baby,” he whispers, his thumb stroking my cheek. 

When I oblige, he tells me to go deeper, which I also do. I gag a little, but my boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Mmmshit,” he grunts, his head lazily tilting to rest on his shoulder. 

His empty hand curls into a fist and raises to his lips. The other palm trails up my face and back into my tresses, pushing me down a little further onto him. 

“You able to breathe?” I nod, doing my best to look up at him. “Atta girl,” he mewls, rubbing a soothing hand along my scalp before taking control over my movements. 

I wish I was still allowed to touch myself. He’s so perfect. Knows exactly what to say and do to get me off. Despite not having stimulation, I moan, sending visible goosebumps along Seb’s skin. 

I pick up speed, ignoring the soreness in my throat, and choking back every protest from my gag reflex for the sake of Seb’s pleasure. His self-soothing curses and grunts are driving me wild. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, before asking, “Y’want me to cum in your mouth?”

Unable to properly respond like this, I lift my face off his crotch. “Yes,” I breathe. Just as I’m eagerly dipping back down, Seb firmly tugs my head up by my hair. “Ah~”

“Yes please?”

Instinctively, I whimper. He’s being soft, yet so firm. 

It’s so cool!

“Yes, please,” I repeat back to him. My voice quivered a bit. My chest heaves and my cunt drips into his boxers as I wait for the ok to taste him again. 

Grinning proudly, he nudges me back to where I wanted to be. I make use of my hands, adding pressure towards his base while using my lips and tongue everywhere else. 

After only a few seconds, Seb offers, “You wanna cum too?” 

I try to hum my affirmation with my mouth full. Comes out as just “Mm” more than anything.

“Use your words, princess. Yes or no?”

Oh my fucking god.

I take him out of my mouth again. A string of saliva still attaches my lips to his cock, though. I lick towards it, closing my mouth on him where the liquid was beading from; gliding a little as I nod, my eyes pleading for him to cum and let me cum too. 

Against the slick skin, I beg, “Yes please.” Before the words fully leave my mouth, I’m already planting myself back onto him. Fucking depraved…

“Mmm, good girl.” No matter how many times he’s said it, that never gets old. I’m his good girl. “Go ahead, touch yourself,” he commands.

Almost too excitedly, I tuck my dominant hand back down, getting back to work. Again, I match my grips’ paces. Seb’s head falls back for a moment before his hazy orbs meet mine again. Dwindled down to a slobbery, horny, blissed-out mess, I gasp around him, doing my best to stay focused. It’s not going well.

“Mmm—“ I lift myself up for a moment to get my words out. “P-please can I cum?” 

“Fuuuck, baby,” Seb lilts, his cock beginning to twitch in my mouth. He quickly warns, “Yeah, you’ve gotta do it with me though, okay?”

My mouth leaves his length with a pop “Yes, Seb— oh fuck, please, faster!” I can barely wait another second as I urge Sebastian to completion, but luckily, it all unfolds perfectly.

He forces my mouth back on him, moaning loudly while he coats my tastebuds and throat with cum; all the while I tighten around my digits, my thighs closing around my wrist and my muffled voice shaking through the sensation. 

Once Seb begins to soften, I have to ease myself off his cock. Jaw hurts a bit, plus I’m all fucked up from my own orgasm. 

Regardless, that was amazing. 

I lean against Seb’s thigh — heh, it’s a little shaky now — and he soothingly pets my hair. 

“Sorry…”

“What for?” Seb quietly laughs. 

“Distracting you.”

Rolling his eyes through a smile, he reassures, “I’d need to be fucking insane if I was upset with you for that, (y/n).” 

Sleepily, I shut my eyelids, letting out a content sigh too. His leg is comfy… 

“C’mere,” he mutters. 

I open my eyes and practically crawl into Seb’s lap after scooting his pajama pants back up. 

He kisses my scalp, wrapping his arms around my shorter form. I meet his lips with mine, and we share a long, cute kiss; lazily knotting our tongues together as we trail soft touches along each other’s faces and bodies. 

I hum against Seb’s mouth before pulling away, burying my face into his neck. “M’so sleepy…”

“Hm.” Testing the waters, Seb brings his arms forward. “I can type like this,” he suggests.

For some reason, the idea of falling asleep in Seb’s embrace while he works makes my tummy flutter and my skin blush. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, pressing another kiss to my temple. “I’ll just carry ya to bed when I’m done… or lose circulation, whichever comes first.” 

“Work through the hypoxia like a real man,” I tease. A long yawn midway made my voice sound all funny.

“Quiet, you,” he giggles. 

And just like that, the sounds of Seb’s live keyboard ASMR and absentminded humming-singing combination lulls me right to sleep.

#sebastian x reader #sebastian #sdv sebastian #sdv #sdv rasmodius #sve magnus #magnus rasmodius x reader #stardew valley rasmodius #sdv sebastian x reader #stardew sebastian #sebastian stardew #sebastian headcanons #stardew valley #stardew #sve #sebsatian sdv #sdv wizard #stardew wizard #magnus rasmodius #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley sebastian x reader #wizard x reader #rasmodius x reader #FAWY

[catpop2]

Post Mandalorian season 3 thoughts

So some thoughts about the finale and the show in general. At first I was a little salty about how Bo got the saber and the “right to rule mandalore”, but I remembered soon after- Din never wanted to be leader, he wanted to just exist, chill and raise his son. Everyone technically got their perfered ending. And I mean... There is still posibilites for Manbo (The better ship name over Dinbo), if people really really want that, based on the way they ended the season. Djarin is taking his son abroad while wifey works- Anyways, speaking about manbo- I dont mind it, based on what we got with the characters- Djarin has waaayyy more chemistry with Bo then with Luke, a favourite for him to be shipped with- But yeah, I feel like they have a very sound platonic family thing going. And Gideon- Dont get me started on Gideon. Man is deathly afraid of Djarin cuz like, the shiny metal man can murder you and can reignite the spark in folk who have long given up, anyone would be terrified at a rabid paternal man charging at you- Especially one that has beaten you up before. I understand the need for scary droid beskar suit- But damn is he stiff and robotic in that drip, no stealth at all. ALSO, a lot of times during DISNEY star wars battle scenes, the main characters dont get hit alot- BUT OH BOY Din can take so many fucking hits by so many diffrent things and still get up. I dont think its just the suit- Like the man is ungodly durable compared to everyone in similar beskar. ALSO this season Djarin is just running everywhere, which is really funny, he really do be slipping and sliding from one planet to the other. Anyways Gideon has entered his emo era and had a tantrum over his clones, which was amazing, that voice modifier sheesh- Really wants to be Vader that guy.

Also the whole “Din Grogu” thing is really funny, because in hungarian our names when said out loud begin with the last name and end with the first name- So if “Din Djarin” means his actual name is “Djarin” that would be real funky- Or they are just saying that Grogus name is basically a big sign that says “Grogu, Son of Din”, which is equally as nice. At this point, im going to do a power move and use both Din and Djarin when refering to him, BECAUSE ITS FUNNY AS SHIT TO WATCH PEOPLE STRESS OVER THIS.

#mandalorian #the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #din djarin #grogu #moff gideon #bo katan #dinbo

[idk-how-cars-work]

I posted 744 times in 2022

That's 744 more posts than 2021!

169 posts created (23%)

575 posts reblogged (77%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@google-searchhistory-official

@pogasm

@anarchist-mlm

@restonrosebleed

@idk-how-cars-work

I tagged 428 of my posts in 2022

Only 42% of my posts had no tags

#lgbtq - 19 posts

#dreamwastaken - 16 posts

#transgender - 15 posts

#<3333 - 14 posts

#iconic - 14 posts

#boost - 12 posts

#gender stuff - 10 posts

#hermitcraft - 9 posts

#hmmmm - 8 posts

#stories from the deep - 6 posts

Longest Tag: 137 characters

#i am at a genuine loss for words. why. the longer i look at it the further into madness i descend. why is there a peen. wasn't he a fish.

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Nobody:

My friend when Charlie Spring: T-R-A-U-M-A HE HAS TRAUMA AND HE'S 🏳️‍🌈G A Y🏳️‍🌈

29 notes - Posted May 13, 2022

#4

MORE of my TBP headcanons because of course there's more

Mostly Vance and Bruce with Implided Brance but some Finn, Robin and gwen

No Grabber au I hate him sm

Robin tends to ba confidently wrong

Finney is a man of few words until you get to know him

Vance stole the switchblade

Gwen loves stuffed animals and figures

Bruce loves learning about Greek Mythology, Egyptian Mythology etc

And Vance is down to just like. Play with his hair while Bruce rambles on about how Zeus is the true villan and Hades isn't unjust

Vance is the kind of person who listens but can't remember (AHEM MORE AUTISTIC VANCE AGENDA)

Bruce reads very fast, so fast that he struggles to read aloud

Some guy called Vance a pussy once because of the choker and Vance beat the shit out of him

Vance's favorite Horror movie is Scream

Bruce hates horror in general but watches them with Vance for his sake

I've said it before I'll say it again: BRUCE IS VANCES BIGGEST INSTIGATOR.

Once Bruce got so mad he almost knocked a kid with his bat

Vance is absolutely petrified of spiders

But Bruce loves bugs

Bruce is SO FUCKING STRONG like he picks Vance up like he's nothing but an angry cat to him

And Vance loves it so much; he loves not having to be in control

29 notes - Posted October 20, 2022

#3

HERMITCRAFT BODY MODIFICATION HEADCANONS: PART ONE

uh yeah I got bored and so here's what I think hermits would get in terms of body mods (tattoos, peircings, scarification, cosmetic surgery etc)

Disclaimer: these are my opinions!!! You can have them for ur designs if u want!!! No credit needed!!!

Disclaimer #2: all of these are for the hermitcraft characters not the real people.

Grian: He has a traffic smp tattoo on his lower back.

Scar: Jellie tattoo. He had his Earlobes peirced but they closed up. He also tried scarification and got a tiny heart next to the Jellie.

Mumbo: earlobes peirced, usually has either gold or pearl studs in

Tango: Septum peircing. Decked Out tattoo sleeve. Nipple peircings.

Ren: Earlobes; wears little hoops.

Impulse: micro tattoo of waves behind ears. Lots of ear peircings. Stretched ears.

Iskall: one tat on upper arm of iskallium and same ear peircings as Impulse

Xisuma: As many mods as he had bitches. None. Negative 1.

Gem: little mushroom with a fairy on upper arm. Earlobes peirced, often wears pretty dangling earrings.

Pearl: Earlobes, wears pearl studs.

False: none

Cleo: had a tattoo on ribs but then it rotted away.

Bdubs: none

44 notes - Posted September 2, 2022

#2

FINALLY: THE PATCH PANTS TOUR

These are about 1 1/2 months old, so they haven't really bloomed into crust pants yet but I still love them.

Below: baphomet patch

(September 2, 2022)

See the full post

49 notes - Posted September 2, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

patches for my vest bcuz it's lacking

From left to right: not emo, I ENJOY THINGS A NORMAL AMOUNT, kein mensch ist illegal*, a Fresno nightcrawler with the text "Fresno, CA" at the top, Nobody likes Gender Roles, rainbow flag, ? , QUEER RIGHTS RIGHT NOW, red drips, Destructo Disk

*kein mensch ist illegal = no one is illegal in german

53 notes - Posted November 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

I'm not even surprised tbh except for the patch post?? I posted that like 2-3ish weeks ago??? Huh???

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[buckyodinson]

Wipe It Away

Bruce Wayne x gn!Reader

Summary: tiny little drabble of your little routine for when Bruce comes back after a night as the caped crusader

Word count: 600~

Warnings : rbatz (this man should be a warning just by himself tbh), mentions of a minor injury, mentions of drinking, mostly just fluff

A/N: I kinda just dropped off the face of the planet for a hot minute. Work has been tough and I’ve had no motivation to do anything until I saw this emo bat boy and he’s been stuck in my head all week

Bruce always told you not to wait up for him while he was out at night. But you found yourself unable to sleep until he returned, so you’d busy yourself with other things. Some nights it was watching movies, some were spent reading. Others were spent doing crafty things to keep your hands and mind busy. And occasionally you and Alfred would have a night of drinking and chatting.

Whenever your heard the familiar rumble of his bike or car, you felt yourself let out a sigh of relief. Some nights were spent pacing when he’d been gone much longer than usual, and you always felt the biggest weight lifted off your shoulders upon his return.

Tonight was no different. The sun had just begun to creep over the horizon when he finally got back home. He found you sat in bed reading a book and fidgeting with your bookmark. Despite your smile, you looked exhausted and you could see the guilt dripping off him at keeping you up all night.

He’d already taken off the batsuit before coming up to the bedroom, so he was now stood before you in a ratty shirt and sweatpants. A far cry from the intimidating stature he prowled the streets of Gotham with. Your Bruce was stood in front of you now. Not the ‘Prince of Gotham’ - he’d always hated that moniker. Not the Batman. He wanted to keep that away from you as much as possible. The real Bruce Wayne stood before you, in all his beautifully awkward glory. And you loved him.

He perched himself next to you, allowing you to complete your usual routine upon him coming home. You pull out the box from under the bed and set to work, his skin still cool from the elements of the night as you lightly grip his chin to move his face around and check for damage. No matter the time of year, Gotham’s air always has a chilling bite to it. He tilts his head further to let you wipe at a cut on his jaw, a small smile curling onto his lips as you place a gentle kiss next to the cut when you’re done.

It seems like such a simple thing, and silly really, but he takes great comfort in you wiping the black paint off of his eyes when he gets home. Once you’re happy that any injuries are dealt with, he closes his eyes and relaxes as you wipe the darkness away. Wipe the evidence of the night away. Allow him to leave the night behind and enjoy the now with you. You always press a kiss between his eyebrows to signify you’re done, and it never fails to make him blush.

You’ve done it hundreds of times, and yet it still gets the same reaction. There’s something so tender about the whole affair and somehow Bruce loves you more and more every single night once you’re done.

“Thank you.” He murmur as he leans forward to catch your lips.

You kiss him back languidly, smiling into the kiss when you reach up to tenderly hold his cheek and feel his skin has warmed up. From the warmth of the bedroom or from the adorable blush painting his cheeks, you’re not quite sure but you welcome the warmth regardless.

You pull back and run your thumb over his cheekbone, “You don’t have to thank me every time. I’ll always be here to take care of you.”

“Too bad. I’m not gonna stop.” He simply smirks as he crawls around the bed and lays down, opening his arms for you to crawl into his side. You quickly dive under the covers too and cuddle up to him.

“Night, Bruce.” You steal one more kiss before tucking your head into his neck.

“Good night, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head and pulls you in tight, drawing absentminded patterns against your back as you drift off. His mind finally calms down and he soon follows you into a peaceful night’s sleep.

-

If you made it this far, thanks for reading and indulging my little Bruce fantasy 🥰

And if you wanna send some Bruce ideas 👀 can’t promise anything, but I can certainly see myself writing a few more little drabbles like this if I get inspiration…

#Bruce Wayne x reader #batman x reader #battinson x reader #the Batman x reader #the Batman x you #Bruce Wayne x you #rbatz x reader #rbatz x you #battinson x you #Batman x you #Robert Pattinson x reader #Batman imagine #The Batman Imagine #Bruce Wayne imagine #batman 2022 #Batman 2022 inside

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Nobody Left Behind

Prompt: So I don't know if you're taking requests? But I just watched Lilo and Stitch for the first time since I got into TSS and I've adopted the headcanon that it is Remus's *favorite* movie (and he's memorized the script) and I love your writing and I'd love to see something angsty involving Remus feeling lonely/unloved by his brother, and maybe Lilo and Stitch is involved somehow. IDK, go wild. (and feel free to ignore this if you aren't taking requests) <3 - anon

it is Le Fluff™ hours my good bitches

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Remus has some abandonment issues, but it’s not too much

Pairings: it is platonic all the way down, babes

Word Count:  2935

Ohana means family.

 Family.

 FamILY.

 What a weird word.

Sometimes it’s the people you’re born with. Well, not ‘with,’ not necessarily, but the people you are born to. A mother, a father, a sister, a brother. Sometimes two mothers, sometimes two fathers, sometimes a different parent. Sometimes two sisters, sometimes two brothers, sometimes a different sibling. Sometimes a mess of assorted people that all share the same blood. A family.

 Remus wasn’t born.

 He was made though, crafted and shaped and born out of the swirling chaos of a child’s mind that didn’t understand the world well enough without other people to help. He remembers getting cobbled together from scraps of thoughts and feelings and morphing them into limbs, into features, into something that vaguely resembled the body of the child he was made to fit. Not the ‘fitting’ was ever his job.

 Just his brother’s.

 Is his brother his family?

 By all accounts he should be, right? A brother is one of those people that are traditionally part of the ‘family’ group, right, someone to laugh with, cry with, fight with, live with. But is Roman really his…brother?

 That’s what they decided to call themselves because nothing else worked. They weren’t really brothers, they were halves. But they weren’t really halves because there was never a whole to begin with.

 The King wasn’t a ‘whole,’ he was…well, he was the King. Half of a king is not a prince. Half of a king is not a duke.

 Half of a king is a mess of blood and bones and viscera dripping off of the end of a Morningstar in the middle of the night when only a destroyed facsimile makes the insanity bleed away just enough to breathe again.

 The closest thing to twins, is what they decided on eventually. They’re twins. One light, one dark. One that marches boldly into danger to confront the wickedness of the world, one that dwells in the shadows and cackles with the demons nipping at his heels. One that loves, one that isn’t loved.

 Sure, they had some things in common. They both loved to fight, hence the scars and the bruises and the wounds that would never, ever heal, the distrust that would never be fixed ever, because the urge to sink their teeth into each other’s necks and rip never went away. They both loved to make, Roman the peaceful lies he tells himself to make up for the gaping wounds Remus leaves as he carves his perfectly tailored destruction. They both love Disney.

 Roman’s made it part of his whole deal as the Prince, he loves Disney. He bursts into song every chance he gets, drags the others in until the Mindscape rings with joyful song and there’s nowhere left for any sadness or darkness. He takes his lessons from it, models himself using the traits of the characters he admires most. Cultivates his art of storytelling, perfect to a tee.

 Remus loves Disney too. Loves how easy it is to twist the lens to distort the image just enough to let the darker parts of the Imagination run wild. What is the real implication of never growing old, never understanding what it means to die? What kind of person curses a ten-year-old boy for being cautious about who he answers the door to? What could the story have been if the prince never comes to save the day?

 When they were smaller it was fine. When they were still getting used to the fact that they weren’t King anymore, they used to sit and watch so many Disney movies. Roman’s favorite was always changing, one week it was Beauty and the Beast, then it was Mulan, then it was Cinderella, it never stayed the same.

 Remus’s was always Lilo and Stitch.

 Roman never understood it, said it was boring, there wasn’t a prince, there wasn’t anything exciting. Remus said that aliens were plenty exciting, thank you very much.

 But they would always watch it. The King wasn’t there anymore, but the prince and the Duke were.

 …when they were smaller, there was one time where the prince wasn’t there at all.

 Remus remembers waking up one day and feeling like he was being Split all over again. The maggots in his bones reached their awful little mouths into his heart and pulled, yanking him all the way across the bed and to the door, howling and screaming for his twin.

 Only to be met with a blank wall.

 He remembers howling at the top of his lungs until Janus had rushed to his side, kneeling down next to him and telling him shh, be quiet, hush now, you’re alright, you’re not hurt. And when he couldn’t explain that he was hurt, half of him was missing, Remus needed to go find him, Janus’s mouth had hardened into a thin line and told him that there wasn’t anything to worry about.

 He remembers thinking that was a lie.

 But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a lie.

 Roman was fine.

 Roman was more than fine, because Roman had a family.

 Roman had Patton, who is the actual manifestation of sunshine and rainbows and loved so much it almost burns. The darkness that wrapped around Remus’s corner of the Imagination screeched and hissed at the very idea of being loved that much, even as part of him strained with all its might to get to it. But Patton would never set foot near this side of the Mindscape.

 Roman had Logan, who represents everything true about the Mindscape, about Thomas, about the world. The reality of things that would never let anything Remus created make it anywhere close to anything important because it was dangerous, it was hurtful, and it was wrong. Logan wouldn’t want anything to do with something so useless.

 And that was okay. Because Roman may have been gone but Remus wasn’t alone. Remus had Virgil, who lived with fear soaking every fiber of his being. Remus had Janus, who wrapped himself in darkness and obscurity and laughed.

 But then Virgil left. And now Roman had Virgil, who used Thomas’s anxieties to keep him safe, to help Roman and the others figure out what to do, how to take care of everybody, and how to make the darkness go away. And Virgil would never willingly sink himself back into the darkness when he’d spent so long clawing himself out of it.

 But that was okay, because Remus had Janus. Janus, who plotted and schemed and smirked at how easily the others were pulled along by his strings, luring them deeper and deeper as Remus readied his Morningstar for the trap to be sprung.

 But then they sprung the trap and everything went wrong.

 Roman didn’t want to fight. He just…he let Remus knock him out and didn’t show up again except to scoff and say he didn’t like him.

 And that was…wrong.

 Because Roman wasn’t supposed to like him but he was never only supposed to not like him. Roman was supposed to declare that he wasn’t welcome and try and slash him with his sword. Roman was supposed to try and banish him from the Mindscape and spit insults at him until he left, cackling all the while. Roman was supposed to hate him.

 But Roman didn’t hate him, he just…he just said he didn’t like him.

 But that was okay, because Janus could just come up with a better plan with him this time. They could do it properly, and Roman would hate him again and it would be back to normal.

 But then Janus left. And now Roman has Janus, who keeps his eyes where the prince’s aren’t, when he can’t see what’s happening or he can’t bear to look, to help Roman figure out what to do when what seems to be happening isn’t anything that the prince is used to dealing with. And Janus would never willingly step away from a place that finally accepted him.

 Roman has them now. Roman has people that chose him. Roman’s family chose him. He chose them. They chose each other.

 Remus’s grip on his Morningstar slackens and the thing falls to the ground with a heavy clunk. He moves numbly through his room until he can fall to his knees on his bed.

 He just came from the living room. They were all there. Roman was talking with Logan, ranting about some new show they were both watching. Janus was in the kitchen with Patton, making something for dinner that everyone—well, almost everyone—could eat. Virgil was on the back of the couch, reaching out for Roman’s shoulder every once in a while.

Remus had waited behind the couch. For someone to sit down, for someone to see him and shriek, or even maybe—just maybe—for someone to ask where he was.

 But no.

 Patton had come over and gently ruffled Virgil’s hair, saying that dinner was ready. Logan and Roman had moved into the kitchen, demanding Janus’s attention and pulling him into their conversation. Virgil had murmured a quiet thank you and Roman had asked him for what?

 “Y’know,” Virgil had said, “for…this.”

 “Of course,” Roman had laughed, the soft rustle of fabric as he probably pulled the emo in for a hug—what did those feel like?— “I should be thanking you?”

 “What for, kiddo?”

 “I dunno, it just…feels like it’s been forever since we’ve all sat down for dinner together.”

 Remus’s chest had started to hurt.

 “The whole family.”

 The whole family.

 Remus’s eyes well up with stubborn tears and he angrily swipes them away, baring his teeth at the memory and focusing intently on the things on the bed. Each hand-stitched, each carefully kept clean.

 His family.

 He reaches out with a shaking hand and tucks the blue frog plushie into the crook of his arm, crawling into the middle of the bed and balancing the purple spider on his shoulder. His hands keep shaking as he wraps the long yellow snake securely around his neck, clutching the head under his chin and nuzzling it protectively. The dark blue cat he holds in his other hand, careful not to tear its tie as he scrunches in on himself.

 Wait.

 Wait.

 Where is it?

 No, no, no, no—

 Remus growls, placing all of his family gently on the floor before all but tearing at his sheets. Where is it, where is it, where is it—his heartbeat starts to rise as his search grows more frantic, where is it, where is it—

 The slightest little puff of red hair and he howls, lunging for it and sweeping it into his lap. He pauses to make sure the lion’s crown didn’t fall off and sighs when he sees it still in place. He sets the lion between his legs and leans over, adjusting everyone back into place and scrunching himself into a ball again. He rubs his nose against the lion’s fur and nuzzles into the soft fabric.

 He’d never be able to forgive himself if he lost them.

 Because Ohana means family.

 Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.

——————————————————

There’s a knock on his door.

 Why is someone knocking on his door?

 They knock again.

 Remus looks up, carefully butting the spider out of the way with his head and sitting up. The snake hangs off his shoulder and he lets it, only missing its warmth once the knock sounds again.

 The frog and the cat watch him warily as he climbs out of bed, the lion clutched in his hand.

 The door squeaks slightly as he opens it.

 “So, I’ve got popcorn, I found the weird gummy snakes, and they had this chocolate-covered bacon which we have to try—Remus?”

 Roman?

 Roman stands there, his arms full of snacks and blankets, his head tilted. He glances behind Remus—probably to check something or other—and then back at him.

 “Remus? Are you okay?”

 “Why are you here?” Roman doesn’t like him.

 “It’s movie night, Re, of course, I’m here.” Roman chuckles nervously before taking in his tear-stained face. “Hey, Re, what’s going on? Are you okay? Can I come in?”

 Why is Roman here? Roman has his family, what is he doing here? With Remus?

 “Remus—“ oh, right, Roman’s talking to him—why is Roman talking to him?—in a soft voice now— “Remus, hey, look at me.”

 Remus blinks. Oh. Roman looks concerned now, he’s reaching for him.

 “Hey,” he murmurs as he ruffles Remus’s hair, “what’s going on? Have you been crying?”

 Remus nods dumbly.

 “I’m sorry, Re, can I help?”

 Help? Why does Roman want to help?

 Oh, he’s waiting for an answer.

 “…sure.”

 “Thank you,” Roman says softly, “can I come in?”

 Remus steps aside wordlessly and Roman walks in, pausing when he sees the rest of Remus’s family on the bed.

 “Did you make them?”

 Something dark twists in Remus’s chest as he sees Roman reach for the spider.

 “Don’t.”

Roman backs off, stepping back as Remus snatches up his family and cradles them in his lap, glaring at Roman and curling up on the bed.

 “I won’t, Re, I’m sorry,” Roman says, still speaking softly, “can I sit?”

 “…floor.”

 Roman sits on the floor, setting aside the blankets and snacks, looking up at him. He still looks concerned. Why? Roman doesn’t like him.

 “Why weren’t you at dinner,” he asks gently, “I was worried.”

 Worried? About him? Remus snorts.

 “You had your whole family there,” he spits, “why would you worry?”

 “But you weren’t there,” Roman says like that makes any difference, “so I was worried.”

 Remus shakes his head. Roman doesn’t get it. Roman doesn’t worry about him, he worries about other things. But if Roman wants to know why he wasn’t at dinner, he’ll tell him.

 “I was with my family.”

 Roman’s brow furrows as he glances around again. “…your family?”

 Remus huddles protectively around his family. “Yes. My family.”

 Roman’s eyes widen as he takes in Remus’s posture and how he reacted when Roman asked about them earlier.

 “…are they your family, Remus?”

 “Yes.” He holds them tighter. “I chose them. They won’t leave me. They won’t forget me. That’s what family means.”

 Something crosses Roman’s face and he lets out a wounded noise. Wait. Are they fighting?

 “Wait, Remus,” he murmurs, rising up to his knees, “did you—did you think we forgot you?”

 “You did forget me.”

 “I’m sorry, Remus, I would’ve come to look for you, but I thought—“ Roman shakes his head— “no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I should’ve come got you, Re, I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”

 Oh.

 “…you didn’t?”

 Roman shakes his head furiously. “No, Remus, I promise. I never meant to leave you.”

 “But everybody leaves me.”

 If possible, Roman’s eyes are now wider and he scrambles for the edge of the bed. “What do you mean, Remus, what do you mean everybody leaves you?”

 “You left. Virgil left. Janus left. Everybody left.” The lion’s mane brushes against his lips as he bows his head. “But not them. They won’t leave me.”

 “Oh, Remus—“

 Something big lunges at him and Remus whimpers, he doesn’t have his Morningstar, he doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t—he doesn’t—

 What’s happening? He feels warm and he’s being squished and Roman is pressing himself against him and what—what—

 “What’re you doing?”

 “It’s a hug, Remus,” comes Roman’s voice, slightly muffled, from over his shoulder, “I’m hugging you.”

 Oh.

 Oh.

 “R-Ro?”

 “Yeah, Re, I’m here, I’m right here, I won’t forget you, I won’t leave you behind, you’re my brother, you’re my family, I choose you.” Roman’s grip tightens on him and Remus just about gasps. “I choose you and I want you and I like you.”

 Roman…Roman likes him?

 Roman chooses him?

 Roman won’t…leave?

 “No, Remus,” Roman promises as he cautiously asks, “I won’t leave. Not unless you want me to.”

 “No.”

 “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

 That’s it.

 Remus throws his arms around his twin and sobs, cries an entire ocean of tears into his brother’s shoulder because he’s here and he cares and he chose Remus. The darkness shudders as that small part of him surges forward, into Roman’s chest, finding a home in the prince’s heart and languishing in the warmth there.

 “I’m right here, Re,” Roman murmurs, stroking up and down his back, “right here, I’ve got you.”

 The snake drapes itself cautiously over Roman’s shoulder, the spider taking up watch on his knee. The cat and the frog stare at him, making sure he isn’t lying, that he won’t change his mind. The lion, sandwiched between them, feels the reassuring rumble from Roman’s chest and purrs.

 After a long, long time, Remus pulls back a little and scuffs a hand over his nose.

 “…did you say something about chocolate-covered bacon?”

 Roman’s smile lights up.

 “Let’s put on Lilo and Stitch and we’ll try it.”

 Ohana means family.

 Family means no one gets left behind.

 Or forgotten.

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#dragonbabbles #sanders sides #fic #remus sanders #roman sanders #they're the main focus #creativitwins

[favoniuscodex]

[SUBMISSION FIC] changing tides. (childe x gn.reader)

summary: up until a short while ago, it seemed that you hated childe, just like a lot of people do. but now? now that doesn’t quite seem the case anymore. and childe doesn’t necessarily know what to make of it.

potential warnings: enemies to lovers (? if that’s really not your thing, though this is firmly in the “to lovers” range)

word count: ~2k. god

HELLO ALL, wrote a fic bc i got emo abt not pulling childe yet,,,,,, i hate him but i love him,,,,,, this was originally written with an oc of mine in mind but i’ve since changed it for a reader insert since i think that fits just as well. first time writing for childe in this manner, so if characterisation is off, don’t blame axia i swear to god. and to axia - bless u for letting me submit this kjshfkjsd. hope everyone enjoys wheeeee

———

something’s bothering childe about your closeness, and he hates that he just can’t seem to mask it as well as he can with others. for some time now, the two of you have been at this back-and-forth sort of rivalry, where he teases and pokes and pushes, and you snarl at him to quit the shit unless he wants to get his lights knocked out. he’s certain you just hate him, and there’s something to that that just thrills him. hell, even when the two of you fight physically, trading blows in a spar that started just because he got on your nerves just a little too much, he’s still grinning the whole time. to an extent, he’s used to your hatred, maybe even revels in it, and there’s something with you that he just can’t keep away from. but even when he teases, he doesn’t get the same response back anymore. scathing glares and sneers have been handed in for only narrowed glances and pursed lips - loathing for just annoyance. even then, it feels off-kilter in a way. surely you’re not just… getting bored of him, are you? it troubles him. and that troubled feeling is precisely how he finds himself here.

he’s invited himself over to your house once more, barging in without knocking even, but not once do you demand to know why he’s found fit to enter without asking. he’s louder than normal as he drapes himself across the back of the couch as dramatically as possible, turning that obnoxiousness dial of his as high as it can go, all in hopes that you’ll try to kick him out or grab your blade and demand he meet you outside… but there’s nothing. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you snicker and groan at his antics and wave him off with a dismissive shake of your head, but he just can’t get to you like he used to. with a huff, he plops down heavily in the chair next to yours in your living room while you take care of some papers for work. again, you send him that sideways glance and a raised eyebrow, and he waits for even a vaguely scathing comment. he hears you hum, amused (amused???), but you make no other comment as your gaze returns to your paperwork. he has to try so hard not to visibly roll his eyes, and settles instead for propping his chin up onto his palm and giving a long, drawn-out sigh as he pouts in the direction of your living room window. then, finally, he hears you sigh in turn and put both pen and paper down, and he has to fight back a smile when he sees you turn to him out of the corner of his eye. you lean in close, and he waits for his long-overdue reprimand. but no. even still, even now, you just stare at him, eyes narrowed as you lean forward. he glances your way too, nonchalant (though perhaps not entirely), and he hopes you can see that challenging glint in his eye, that you’ll rise up to it. you frown, and give a quiet huff. “okay, fine,” you tell him, almost exasperated, “I’ll bite. what’s wrong, childe?” he shrugs, moving his gaze to stare out the window once more as he gives his own dismissive sigh. “nothing,” he says simply, and this time doesn’t stop the shit-eating grin from creeping across his face. he hopes it bugs you. “nothing at all.” you purse your lips again, and lean ever closer, until you’re sitting on the edge of your own seat. you reach out to him, and he, like the fool he is, gets his hopes up for but a moment before you subvert all his expectations and grab his hand instead. carefully, you pry it out from under where his chin was resting, forcing him (intentionally or not) to sit up straight again and you clutch his palm in both of yours. your grip is tight, insistent, but it doesn’t hurt. it’s an odd feeling coming from someone like you, and he doesn’t know quite what to make of it. the thought makes something churn in his stomach. “you can be a real awful liar sometimes, you know that?” you tell him; there’s a teasing edge to your voice, but it doesn’t cut into him, doesn’t do damage in the way he wants it to. he pouts again, and you frown right back. “see, there it is again. something is wrong.” he gives a short huff, and turns his gaze even further from you. “it’s… fine. really, it’s nothing,” he responds, deadpan. it’ll *have* to be fine, since you’re clearly no longer interested in him in the way you used to be. that’s fine. but then, you surprise him again - gently, even uncharacteristically so, your hand comes up to cup his cheek. childe almost flinches at the softness and genuine emotion behind the action, so thoroughly unused to the feeling of it (especially from you), but he holds it back as he turns his gaze back to stare at you, eyes carefully neutral. you frown then, and shift from your position in next him with a low, disappointed hum. his own eyebrows raise ever so slightly as you lean forward out of your seat and swing a leg over onto his lap so that you’re straddling him (still gently, he notes with some degree of frustration). your other hand, now letting go of where it held his, comes up to match its other, dragging fingers softly, sweetly, up the side of his neck til it meets the other cheek too. you tilt your head a few degrees the other way as you scrutinise him. “baby,” you murmur then, almost pleading, brow scrunched ever so slightly in what *has* to be concern. “ajax, sweetheart, talk to me.” he has to shut his eyes then as some new emotion washes over him like the tide onto the shore. he feels your thumb sweep over his cheekbone, and try as he might he can’t help but to lean into it with a quietly resigned sigh. it feels… nice. comforting. genuine. the last one twists his lungs ever more. “thought you said you hated me, hm?” he says in a low voice, unwilling to disturb the energy in the room with anything more playful like he’d normally say. he hopes the lump in his throat isn’t as audible as he thinks it is. “I seem to remember you making all of that quite clear to me before.” he can almost hear your eyes narrow and your forehead scrunch in confusion, though he’s still not opening his eyes to check (the one time he’ll indulge in cowardice). but soon enough, you sigh, and squeeze his face ever so slightly. “…not for a while now, though.” you pause. “and in any case, weren’t you supposed to be the observant one? thought you’d have noticed by now anyway.” he raises a single eyebrow at that, and opens one eye to catch a glimpse of your expression. your eyes are narrowed, still in concern (he thinks, though hopes not), but he can still see that spark of amusement twinkling deeper. your smile is small, soft, teasing as it pulls back even further watching him. he opens both his eyes then, rolling them as he sighs dramatically (pushing away that discomfort, that writhing feeling in his stomach, anything to get back to normal). he even brings the back of a hand to his forehead as he all but wails, “what a shame! and here I thought I found someone worthy of a strong rivalry with yours truly! what a shame that I really can conquer them all.” he sighs again, trading that neutral look for his signature grin. (what a shame that you’ve already conquered him so wholly.) you roll your eyes in turn, still not letting go of his face at all as you lean in closer. that amused spark grows brighter. “conquered? oh honey–” (that word again, normally dripping with contempt, oozes nothing but teasing love, and his stomach flips again) “–if you think even for a moment that just because I like you as much as I do you’ve won anything by default, then maybe you haven’t been paying attention.” childe opens his mouth to respond, another lighthearted quip on the tip of his tongue, but suddenly you react, eyes shooting wide as your hold on his face tenses so briefly. “wait, no, stop that! you’re dodging my question!” your eyes narrow again, back to concern and careful analysis. one hand lifts from his cheek and comes to rest against his shoulder. “what’s wrong, really? you’re so out of it, I’ve never seen you this uncomfortable.” (damn, he thought he’d been hiding it well enough.) “is it something I’ve done?” “no!” he blurts out, hating how quick the response is and how he can feel his face heat up at realising that. “i– no, just… I guess I didn’t expect such a… positive reaction to me bugging you as much as I’ve been trying to,” he finally confesses as he moves his gaze to the wall next to the both of you. it could use with some decorating, he thinks. “least of all from you, maybe.” the last part is much quieter, so much that even he has to almost strain to hear it. you hum in lieu of a response. instead, you lean in closer, yet closer, until your lips find his own. it’s slow, so slow he might have mistaken it once for hesitation if he didn’t know you any better, but when he tries to push back into the touch, you pull away just as much; your hands, on his face and his shoulder, press back and insist he stay put. you can’t stop his hands from dragging up along your thighs, however, to the edge of your hips, gripping just below the waist and squeezing where he can; he needs to ground himself, against this wave, this tsunami, of conflicting emotion. you pull away completely then, eyes lidded not with desire or annoyance like he’s used to seeing, but something else. “listen,” you implore, voice low and honeyed, “I didn’t particularly enjoy the realisation I genuinely liked you either. really, I mean it, you bastard!” you swat his arm when he chuckles at you. “but I love you. celestia knows I love you. I’ll not shy away from that, unless you’re really, genuinely discomforted by that.” you scrutinise him again as you glance over the space between you. “it’s new to me, at least. I know what this–” you gesture loosely between the both of you, “–was like before, and I know it’s different. however…” once more your hand matches its pair by coming up to rest on his face, though this time sliding further back to thread fingers into his hair. it’s nice, he thinks. “…i want to give it a try if you do.” he swallows the lump in his throat, or at least tries to. “say that again,” he demands, though it comes out weaker than he’d like. damn, his voice is still thick. you raise one brow. “this is new but I’ll give it a try?” “before that.” “I’ll stop if you’re uncomfortable?” “bit more.” “…ah,” you murmur simply. you let out a small chuckle then, before leaning in once more. your lips brush his ever so gently and he loves it. “I love you,” you whisper to him. like a secret meant only for him. he grips your hips tighter, pulls you closer to him, and he smiles back to you. “that’s the one,” he answers simply. he kisses you back yet again, and for some reason, it feels like a first, all over again.

#JSDKAKKASDKJAS THIS IS SO CUTE OMG OMG OMGKDSFSJDKJASKJJKASJKASKS #im IN LOVE WITH THIS #THANK U FOR THE SUBMISSION !!!! #childe x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #childe #submission fic #AAAAAAAAA THIS IS SO CUTE!!! SOFT CHILDE SOFT CHILDE #submission

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

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[pocketramblr]

how his hair do that, 5 options

the following is a crack fanfic in five parts, each section on the same premise but not same continuity. also, very spoilerish

bnha manga spoilers below! very recent leaks below! very spoilery!

Better than a charcoal milkshake v 1

--------

When the heroes first attacked, alarms blaring, compound up in chaos, Dabi snuck away. He let the others pour out of the doors and down the stairs, and crept backwards, turning and running once he was certain no one would notice him.

Not that it would matter much if he did, but why waste the energy on killing them too? He’d need all his firepower today.

Dabi tore through the halls to his room, making it there and slapping his card against the scanner. No time to lose, not when he knew he needed to take care of a few more things before locating where Endeavor was in this heroes’ mission.

He kicked open his bathroom door, hands occupied with carefully pulling the black wig off his head- snagging that on his staples was just the worst, and he couldn’t have blood messing this up today.

Not yet, at least.

Under the bathroom cabinet he grabbed the bag of powery charcoal. It was supposed to be used for some beauty purpose or another, something about enriching hair that didn’t even work- but it would work to darken his white locks.

He poured it on, barely bothering to lean over the sink and keep it from going everywhere. As a final test, he once more wet a bit of it, the color seeping from the hair as it dripped.

He already knew it would work, that’s why he had intercepted so much of it before the quirk cultists could offer it to Toga or Hawks or whoever, but his heart was racing with both nerves and pure excitement.

Finally. The day he’d burn it all down, and make them see why.

He left his door open as he ran back out into the hallway, making a beeline for where he left Hawks. First things first, take care of that, then find Endeavor.

--------

Better than a charcoal milkshake v 2

--------

“Hey, put me down by that camping supplies store. And Skeptic too.” Dabi ordered, surveying the carnage of Jakku and glancing over at the man hunched over his laptop.

Said man looped up sharply at that, frowning and spitting that he wasn’t going to do that or something.

Dabi didn’t really pay attention to that.

“Where?” Gigantomachia asked, still rumbling forward towards whatever he smelled. Two masters or something.

Compress cleared his throat and translated for the currently blinded giant. “It’s at 4:05 o’clock, I’d say thirty feet forward.” He then looked over at Dabi, mask as unsettling as any of them. “You’ll be carefull too, on your personal mission?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dabi waved him off, snagging Skeptic by the back of his shirt and tugging as Machia scooped them up and placed them on the pavement.

He ran inside the evacuated store, mercifully empty and not decayed, and started looking for the bags of charcoal.

When he found one, he tore it open. Charcoal fell to the floor, and he ground his boot down into it.

“What…” Skeptic seemed without words, for once. Good.

Dabi tore off his black wig, tossing it aside. He wouldn’t need it anymore.

“You wear a wig??”

“Yeah.” He started to scoop up handfuls of the charcoal, rubbing it into his hair. “Hey, go grab me some water, and then go set up the cameras. We got a show to put on.”

--------

Stinky dumpster boy

--------

“But my good name?” He sneered the word and all it implied in the world of false heroes, “is Todoroki Touya.”

With that, he dumped the water over his head, and it streamed down over his face, filthy.

The dirty water, practically mud, stung the places on his face where his skin was barely stapled together, and Dabi was reminded of why he didn’t bother with showers anymore- the pain.

But now his true colors- literally- were revealed and it was all worth it. All the truth was out, and the truth had always hurt him.

Shoto, who seemed to be trying to juggle first aid on like, five different people with two random heroes he didn’t know next to him, gaped.

“Come on, I know my face has changed, but my own family should still be able to recognize me, yeah? But you never did. You never did, Todoroki Shoto.”

Dabi suddenly found himself encased in ice.

Ah, this again.

“Yumi’s is colder.”

Shoto’s jaw dropped, then he glared. “Stand back.” He said as he stood up. “He just dunked water on his head, to cool him off I bet. If he is Touya, his body never could handle his own heat. If he’s not… those burns come from somewhere at least.”

Ok, now Dabi was offended.

“What do you mean, ‘if I’m not’?” he demanded. “I just revealed my white hair? I know that’s what the picture on my shrine looks like, you never even looked at that?”

“How do you even know what your shrine looks like?” Shoto sounded dangerously close to judgmental for a little brother who was probably as emo as Dabi had been at his age. “And wait, that cup of water was supposed to wash out your hair? What, do you never bathe or something?”

Ok, now Dabi was really offended.

“Of course I bathe! I just have to sponge bath, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed from having your own scars, but when they take up most of your body and are killing you they end up controlling a lot of your life!”

Ugh, asking him if he didn’t bathe. He’d understand that asked of Shigaraki, sure, but him? Shoto had gotten close enough to smell him, at least.

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” the hero in blue, the one that was tending to Eraserhead, raised his hands. “But uh… do you want some help with that?”

“I’m fine, don’t want to cool him off too much so he can fight longer.” Shoto shook his head.

“I was talking to him.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

The hero waved his hand, bubble of water pulling up from the ground. Then he pointed to his own head. “I can take care of that? At the very least it’ll be cleaned out and um, whatever color it should be?”

Dabi stared at him. Shoto stared at him. The other hero in green stared at him, and the one who’d offered help started to sweat noticebly.

“Eh, sure, whatever.”

The hero nodded, and the bubble of water floated over to him, disappearing in his hair.

The bubble floated out a couple of time, murky brown and black with ash, dirt, oil, blood, anything else he’d never thought about too much. It would wring itself thin, much dropping, and return to cleaning.

Finally, his hair was mostly white and thoroughly soaked.

“Thanks.” He called over.

“Yeah.” The hero answered, still frantically trying to help Eraserhead with his free hand, which he’d gone back too as soon as he thought Dabi was distracted. Buying time.

The other hero was on his fourth facepalm.

Shoto just looked contemplative.

Endeavor, one of the ones receiving treatment, sat up but looked like he was going to pass out.

Well all right then. Time to really start- the hair snafu didn’t matter. They were all going to die that day anyway.

--------

Weirdest commercial I’ve ever been in.

--------

“We’ll be dancing in hell together, Todoroki Enji.” Dabi finished his speech with a sneer.

The watching heroes were all stunned silent, mouths open, eyes wide. The revelation must be sending them, like it would all who were watching Skeptic’s broadcast. This would burn it all down, perfect.

“I don’t understand…” Enji managed to say, spitting out a bit of blood.

“What, you don’t understand how I survived, or how I hate you so much I’d hurt innocent people over it? Because that second part is exactly what you did, take out all that self-loathing and insecurity, rage at your shortcomings and condemn children not born yet to them. Guess it’s a family trait.”

“No, not that,” He waved a hand. “I mean, I totally get how you’re a wreck, even if all of your other siblings managed to not become mass murders, I mean- I don’t understand, how did that pint of water wash out all of your hair dye? Aren’t you better funded after the Deika merger, can’t you afford proper hair coloring?”

“I was also wondering that.” Shoto admitted.

“Same.” The hero in blue nodded. The hero in green facepalmed.

“Water?” Dabi repeated, then looked at the can he’d tossed aside. “Oh, no. This isn’t water- it’s a momento of the only true hero.” He bent down, picking up the can and studying the image on it.

“Stain was right, you know.” He mused. “About hero society being rotten. So rotton, so full of fakes, that there was only one that deserved the title. He just got the wrong hero, guessing All Might.” Dabi snorted at the very idea. “No, the only real one, the pure one, the one that defines heroism, the only one with a kill count higher than me- for all the dear old man and his biggest fan Hawks tried, of course- is Wash.”

“… Wash?” Shoto cocked his head. “Wait, like, Wash, Wash?”

“The one and only. That’s how this Official Wash’s Hair Washing Serum, the only product that can wash out all dirt, dye, and any other kind of grime, in just one go.” He shook the can around so they could see. “What, you all thought I could just magically lighten my hair from black to white in the space of one fight?”

“No,” Shoto said, like a liar, and then he threw a glacier at Dabi, and the fight was on in earnest.

--------

Old news

--------

“And now you’ll see who I really am, who you’ve created.” Dabi poured the bleach over his head, giving it a moment to sink into the hair before he shook it out, grinning wide enough to tear his staples.

The heroes on the ground and the few tending to them stared in shock.

Then Shoto gasped.

“Hawks?”

“What? Where?” Dabi whirled around, looked up, because he was really sure he had managed to make sure that pest wouldn’t be flying or fighting again, but well… he’d thought that once before and been wrong then.

“No, you- you’re Hawks, you dye your hair black when its in Dabi mode, and its that beachy yellow blond in Hawks mode.” Shoto nodded to himself.

Blond? Dabi tugged at a lock of hair, and huh. It did seem more yellow than white.

“How could he be Hawks?” The hero in green demanded incredulously, before the hero in blue grabbed his arm and pulled it back to holding down Eraserhead for bandaging.

“The burns and staples are part of the disguise,” Shoto explained. “Fake, and misdirection. You were trained from young childhood to be a hero, sent to join AfO and the league as a spy, where you gained a fire quirk and decided to switch to the villains’ side because you hated the life you were forced into.”

Dabi stared at him.

Shoto stared back.

Enji stared at both of them.

“How are you so smart and so stupid at the same time?” Slipped from chapped, burnt lips.

Shoto looked offended at that.

“I mean, you’re half right, yes that’s what up with Hawks, yes he was sent as a spy, but I knew and I killed him at the compound. And not, like, in a metaphorical way.” He added when he saw something spark in Shoto’s eyes. “Literally. I’m not him. He is completely separate person and body than me and I totally literally killed him.” Or like. Close enough. “And like, thirty other people who were completely innocent.”

Or close enough, he really didn’t bother to keep track, but thirty sounded like a big number. Especially of murders.

“So then who are you?” Shoto asked.

“What, you don’t recognize me, little brother?” He almost growled it, feeling very tired of this all of a sudden.

“Little brother?” Shoto repeated, eyes wide, then narrowing. “Wait, how…”

“Oh not again.” Enji muttered.

“Not again?” Dabi asked. “Wait, you actually managed to drive one of the others to this too? And cover it up? Man, Enji, you’re more rotten than even I knew then!”

“One of the others?” Shoto looked around wildly. “What are you talking about?”

“I was talking about how Shigaraki also randomly showed up and called a first year student “little brother”.” Enji looked back over at Dabi. “What were you talking about?”

“Shigaraki did what?” The pyro looked over his shoulder, finding the villain looking absolutely stoned on the ground, almost as vacant as some of the unconscious heroes, with a curly haired student laying bloodied nearby, staring up at him. “Wait, which student is his little brother?”

“Midoriya, apparently.” Shoto shrugged.

“Midoriya?” Dabi almost choked on the name. “As in, the green bone-breaking kid? Isn’t he like All Might’s lovechild or something?”

“That’s what I said too!”

“I mean, his hair was also lighter when he showed up today.” The hero in blue pointed out to his fellow in a voice that would have been too quiet for Dabi to hear had everyone else not gone silent as well.

“And bleach boy tried to do the same thing with the bleach, yeah. Here, I’ll tie this off, you go take care of Bakugo.”

“I’m Todoroki Touya!” Dabi snapped. “Or I used to be called by that name, anyway, before you nearly killed me, Enji. Let’s just- get back to fighting, yeah, I’m going to kill you.”

#kjhgfghjk #this really is just me making fun of the hair thing #brought on by me and my sister giggling over possibilities #from 'do he wash' to 'wait... hair bleach doesnt work like that it'd be yellowy first' #my fic #my writing #ok i think thats enough tags #bnha manga spoilers #bnha #wish tumblr would give me my line break rights back #crackfic

[aphroditewritings]

Yandere Bokuto

Sometimes she truly wonder how he managed to convince her to come here every time.

As soon as her and Bokuto started dating during the middle of their second years, he had outright begged for her to be there for all of his practices and games. Him staring up at her with those big beautiful yellow puppy dog eyes when she would tell him she might not be able to make his practice that night and spend an hour or two laying or sitting up in the bleachers waiting for Bokuto to finish with his team and take her home, that sometimes she just wants to go home first and rest.

“B-but I’ve been working on a new spike I want to show you! You can’t just leave me!” he would pout big beefy arms draping over her smaller form and causing a scene wherever they were. It wasn’t like she was genuinely uncomfortable when she went which she was grateful for. Bokuto made sure she always had food to eat, something to drink, stuff to keep her occupied for a long time including the DS and Tablet he had gotten her a few Christmas’s ago always at use and her fluffy blanket and pillow stuffed into her separate little duffel bag he had for her in his locker with the rest of her stuff that she used when laying out on the matt the coach always gave her not wanting to let the girl suffer on the uncomfortable bleachers every time she was there. Which was in fact every practice and/or game they had. He figured it was the least he could do for her knowing that on the rare days where under no circumstance she could show up, Bokuto missed balls like he was downright getting paid to make himself look like a fool. So he usually laid out one of the thick rubber matts in the corner of the gym or against the bleachers letting her be more comfortable and using her pillow and blanket than laying on the floor or sitting in the cold medal seats.

It had baffled most of the team at first, seeing the girl trudge through the gym doors every Tuesday and Thursday and game, even showing up for most of the extra practice days they had in the town gym on Sunday’s. Despite being homeschooled herself, being able to spend the day away and in peace from her growing more and more clingy boyfriend gave her a chance to breath. But the day would eventually roll around where Bokuto had a practice or god forbid a game where he expected her to show up with signs and cheering for him louder than anybody, when his mother would pull into her driveway and honk the horn her being just as rambunctious and hyper as her son excitedly driving the girl to said practice or game on the days when her own mother couldn’t drop her off.

Both of their mothers like the true sappy romantics they were always talked about how happy and cute the couple seemed. Bokuto hardly ever went into his “emo phase” as it was called when she was around, his own mom gushing about how much happier she made her son and how grateful she was that Bokuto had met her and how bright and loving her son was when he got to see her.

Hugging her plaid sweater closer to her body she watched as the city passed by her view, tall buildings and skyscrapers becoming fewer and fewer as the minutes passed until Bokuto’s moms car came to a stop in the parking lot outside of the gym. “They should be just starting, see you both in a little bit, sweetie” the woman beamed at her knowing she was coming over to their house to stay for the weekend, something Bokuto suprisingly talked her own mom into letting her do.

Giving the kind woman a small smile she grabbed her small backpack and the bag of fast food his mom had gotten her and Bokuto, hopping out of the car and dusting off her shorts before waving and prying open the gym doors the squeaking and rustic sounds making everyone in the gym turn to look at her.

“Baby!” she heard an exasperated voice yelp before feeling strong arms wrap around her the strong sent of faint sweat and the expensive calonge she had gotten him for his birthday her boyfriend always had on invading her senses. “Hey” she whispered quietly trying to not notice the entire team snickering to themselves as Bokuto planted little kisses everywhere on her face like she had been gone for months. In reality it had only been a few nights, Fukurodani cancelling their Tuesday practice that week because of bad weather and not wanting any students to get hurt walking home.

“Bokuto stop” she whined when he nuzzled his face into her neck breathing in her perfume he always told her he was obsessed with. She was beginning to think that her perfume wasn’t the only thing he was utterly obsessed with. “People are watching” she added finally shoving him back and little and getting a big pout from him. He still held onto her waist eyeing her hungrily and merely shrugged when he heard somebody let out a whistle behind them.

He cupper her jaw in his hand giving her lips a deep passionate kiss and swirling their tongues together before finally stepping back when he heard his coach telling him to quit fooling around and focus now that she was here. “I’ll be over here ok?” she said gesturing her head to the matt in the corner of the gym getting an eager nod from him and watched him run off back to the court. Taking out her blanket and pillow and popped down onto the matt and after eating some of her food fell asleep into a small nap.

Twirling the keys in his hand Bokuto watched as the last of the team piled out of the gym doors the coach giving him instructions to lock up the building for the night. A simple task they knew he could do despite him being...him. It was only putting some stuff away and locking the doors for the night, nothing anybody on the team hadn’t done a million times in the past before them all believeing it was only fair if everybody took turns in locking up instead of placing it all on one person all the time.

Giving one last wave to Kuroo who exited the gym Bokuto quickly put away the racks of volleyballs and mock scoreboards before slowly walking over to Y/N who slept peacefully on the gym matt. Getting on his knees Botuto brushed some hair back from her eyes before placing a light kiss on her lips. He hesitantly lifted the blanket off of her body his breath hitching a bit seeing her shorts had rode up on her body a bit in her slumber. Nervously he crouched in front of her pealing her legs open and beginning to unbutton her shorts lightly enough where she wouldn’t wake up.

He had woken her up like this before. Face buried deep and practically inhaling her, his talented and eager tounge bringing her to a wake up call in the form of an orgasm. He had just never done it like this in a place like this is all but he knew you wouldn’t mind. Lifting up ur hips a tad he helped pull your short and panties down tossing them to the side on the gym floor and licking his lips knowing the real treat was to come. Lowering himself down he parted your tighs and used his thumbs to spread your folds apart, his finger lightly rubbing your clit while he practically drooled at the sight.

“Your so pretty baby” he cooed gather spit in his mouth and letting it drop onto your clit dripping down your cunt. Your hips bucked up at the feeling of the cold air your whimers indicating you were going to wake up soon if he continued. Wanting to waste no time he kissed up and down your pussy lips, tongue darting out to lick over your clit. A small gasp came from your mouth you stirring in your sleep making him smirk. “Stay still gorgeous, I got you” he whispered before cracking his neck then diving in.

His lips immediately wrapped around your clit, sucking on it and twirling it around with his tongue in fast motions making your eyes snap open and gasp louder at the feeling. Your eyes darted around trying to access your sourroundings but the feeling of Bokuto’s mouth made your moan and try to arch your back of the matt as he greedily sucked your clit in his mouth. One hand reached up and pushed down on your pelvis making your back fall flat again and more intensely feel what he was doing.

“N-not here Bok—AH!” she exclaimed feeling his fingers entering her and his tounge increasing its pace. Pumping in and out of her and sighing contently into her pussy the vibration going straight to her clit at hearing the squelching sounds coming from her. “Please” she pleaded trying to buck her hips away in embarrassment at the feeling of everything happened echoing loudly off the walls of the gym and in their ears. He continued to lap at her sucking everything up he could and burying his face as deep as it would go, quiet groans and hums of approval and delight coming from him at the sounds she was making for him.

“We’re gonna get caught” she tried to reason only to let out a moan at the end as his thumbs pealed back her clit hood even more and his tounge swirling across the swollen puffy bead. “Don’t worry, the cameras won’t see us I’ve already turned off the lights” he said before sucking her clit back into her mouth and starting to sissor inside of her when he found her sensitive spot. Eyes widening Y/N looked around happy to find that Bokuto meant it when he said that no one but him would ever look at her like that and that he still respected her privacy.

It was pitch black in the gym, the small corner they were in having none of the school cameras in it and only a single few strands of moonlight peaking in over the window above the gym doors shining right down on her pussy and where Bokuto was continueing his brutal and fast pace. “Just let go baby I’m here” he coaxed giving a few kitten licks to her clit before sucking on it again and playing around with it with his tounge before she squealed, finally feeling the coil on her stomach release and snap into white eyed pleasure.

But he didn’t stop at that.

Fucking her through it with his fingers still he ckuckled before bringing his mouth back down and continuing to devour her making her squirm in overstimulation. “Bo I can’t, p-please I need a break” she gasped watching and biting her lip at him slyly looking up at her but continueing to lap at her hungrily. “No breaks” he said giving a loud smack to her butt making her shriek and curl her toes knowing she was in for a night of not being able to walk the next day.

Minutes continued and seemed to drag on and on, the slurping sounds of her boyfriend still lapping at her cunt in the gym until she had came a good 4 times, or maybe 5. She wasn’t really counting and instead wailing and sobbing, tears falling down her face in sheer pleasure as an unfamiliar sensation boiled in her stomach. “B-b-bo I feel like I need to pee” she confessed bashfully knowing she could tell him anything. He chuckled a little continueing to finger fuck her, “You just have to come baby, maybe squirt but it’s ok, it’s all ok I’m with you” he said making her moan even louder and clench down harder when he returned back to sucking her clit again. He cares so much.

“Ah, ah, ah I’m—“ her breath got caught in her throat, a loud wail coming from her as she squirted out liquid onto Bokuto’s chin and mouth him sucking and eating it up like a dog continueing to stimulate her through her orgasam. Finally letting up and allowing her to close her thighs when she began convulsing at the feeling of him still down there he all but jumped up placing a kiss onto her mouth and letting her taste herself as he assisted it getting her clothes back on.

“Mmm” you moaned deeply feeling him give your panty and shorts covered pussy a light tap, the small feeling enough to make you jump. “Let’s get you going” he said excitedly grabbing her things in his arms and picking her up bridal style bringing her outside and carrying her to his home.

#anime #yandere #haikyu x reader #yandere haikyuu

[crash-cinematic-universe]

a sickly satisfaction (ch.1)

pairing: jason dean/reader

summary: high school sucks. jason dean makes it a little better.

warnings: uuhhhh murder, language, suicide discussion

notes: i have every chapter of this written out already, so every wednesday I’ll release a new one <3 in total the story is 7,800 words! but there are some parts that are kind of short, forgive me for those.

            Eyes down. Walk fast. Stay out of their way. Three simple steps to get through the day. They had an iron grip on the school, their perfectly manicured nails digging into the oily skin of the entire student body. High School was a bloody battlefield in the war that is life. However, the epitome of cruelty, the ultimate teenage angst inducing, self-esteem crushing, happiness shattering war machine came in the form of three girls and their weak-willed sidekick. That’s right; my biggest threat in high school is Heather Chandler, Heather McNamara, Heather Duke, and Veronica Sawyer. Veronica at least has some semblance of regret and empathy-- she’s just doing what she needs to survive. Unfortunately, that means the rest of us have to struggle to keep our heads above water. 

            Thankfully, I have a sanctuary. A refrigerator heaven filled with endless isles of roadtrip snacks and hangover remedies. Of course, this junk food Garden of Eden also happens to contain my best friend, Tommy Geller. Tommy is 18, emo, and gay, so naturally we got along pretty well. He sits behind the register and lets me hang around until closing. It’s actually pretty nice-- sometimes he lets me do busywork around the store. Sure, it’s sort of pathetic that Snappy Snack Shack is my main source of serotonin, but you know what? There are worse places to be. 

            “Pop open a bottle of champagne, Tommy, because today is a special day!” I cry, pushing open the small class doors. To my delight, the store is empty. There are no irritating customers there to make me keep my voice down.

            “Oh? And why is that?” Tommy inquires, his jet black hair falling in front of his eyes. He’s tired-- and bored-- and I’m the perfect remedy for that. 

            “Today marks exactly six months since I first stepped foot in this town,” I grin. Tommy’s eyebrows perk up.

            “Really? Congrats, kid,” He’s humoring me a bit, but there is a genuine reaction beneath his sarcastic remarks. 

            “Thanks, Tommy. Y’know, that’s twice as long as my time in New Jersey and three times as long as my run in Nebraska. I have a feeling dear old aunt Maria might actually stay here for good,” I hop over the counter before grabbing a can of Coke out of the fridge. I prop me feet up on the counter, but Tommy knocks them down.

            “You know the rules, kid, no stompy boots on the counter.” I roll my eyes. He wipes off the place where my shoes were before organizing the lotto tickets. “Anything interesting happen at school today?”

            “Eh, same old same old. The Heathers were bitches, Veronica was desperately trying to keep up, and I got tripped in the hallway,” Tommy frowns.

            “God, those girls really need to get humbled,” He spits. 

            “You don’t need to tell me. They constantly act so… self-superior, as if their power doesn’t depend solely on whether or not everyone else hates themselves to believe they’re inferior to three teenage girls who are the definition of ‘peaked in high school’,” I squeeze the soda can in my hand, the metal crunching under the pressure. “They need to be more than humbled. The Heathers deserve to be dealt as much pain as they served,”

            “Watch it, kid, you’re sounding a bit homicidal,” Tommy jokes. If only he knew. 

            “It wouldn’t matter anyway. I don’t think they can die-- they’re like a Hydra. If you kill one of the Heathers, three more will grow in her place,” I sigh. Tommy looks concerned.

            “Y/n, you don’t actually want to kill them, right?” I hesitate. The silence makes Tommy worry.

            “I wouldn’t exactly lose sleep if one of them did die,” I reply nonchalantly. “It would be like a public service. Similar to killing the black mold that grows in the girl’s showers,” Tommy looks at me for a second, his expression unreadable, before turning back to his counter. 

            “That’s morbid,” he says. “You know that? You sound like a killer in the making.”

            “Sometimes bad people deserve bad things.”

            “You’re absolutely not helping your case,” Tommy laughs. I can feel someone watching me. It’s an odd feeling, but I brush it off.

            “New topic?” I ask. Tommy nods.

            A mischievous grin grows on his face. “You got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner? All of the above?” he asks hopefully.

            “No, Tommy, and don’t get your hopes up,” I chuckle, before standing up and admiring the neon sign outside.

            “Oh come on, there has to be someone. You can’t possibly go to that hellhole every day and not see at least one hot person!” Tommy groans.

            “Everyone at Westerburg is either evil or boring. No one interests me and I’m not interesting to anyone. Plus, my attention is mainly focused on getting through the day in one piece, not getting laid.” I neglect to mention the stranger I saw in the Cafe yesterday. He was pretty hot, and didn’t seem to be a douchebag-- in fact, he shot two of the douchiest douchebags with blank bullets. A real rarity at Westerburg.

            “God, you need to get out more. I see some pretty people pass through here occasionally, I’m going to start pawning you off,” he jokes.

            “Oh, god, no,” I joined in on his laughter.

            “Yup, I’m going to give every hot person your photo and your address until you finally score yourself some arm candy,” Tommy can barely form sentences through his laughter.

            “I’m gonna to get murdered if you do that, Tom,” I giggle. 

“             And that would be damn shame,” A voice calls from across the counter. I look up to see the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s the same guy from the Cafe-- although in the bright convenience store lighting he looks more like a ghost than a man. His jawline looked sharp enough to slice me in half, his cheekbones high and defined. His hair was gorgeous and his teeth were really, really nice. 

            “Uh, yeah, that would totally s-suck,” I choked. Tommy shot me the most horrified look I’ve ever seen. “I’ve, uh, seen you around. That stunt you pulled in the Cafe was wicked, man, seriously.”

            “Hey, it was a public service,” He smirked. Tommy gave me a ‘holy-shit-I’ll-leave-you-two-alone’ look before disappearing in the isles across the room. I could see him peeking through the cereal boxes. “I’m Jason Dean, but most people call me JD.” He offers his hand for me to shake.

             “Y/n, Y/n Ln,” I grip his hand firmly and try not to have a breakdown over the contact. “Y’know, there are much less extreme ways to get people to fuck off than, well, shooting them.”

              “The extreme always seems to make an impression, though, doesn’t it?” His voice was a little bit lower and he leaned in a little bit closer. Tommy was freaking out across the aisle, his eyes wide as his hand raked through his greasy hair. 

            “That it does,” I grin. “There are quite a few people in that school that deserve certain... extremities,” 

            “I think you’re right,” Jason smirked once again. I kept my composure as best I could. “Speaking of extremities, I saw you and Kurt in the hallway last week,” My face is lit ablaze as I recall the incident. Kurt had been continuously pestering me the entire day, and eventually I reached my limit.

            “I guess they aren’t joking when they say the chin is the knockout button,” Jason seems impressed, although I can’t really tell because looking him in the eyes seems like a death sentence. “Landed me three days detention, though. That sucked. Although I guess it can’t compare to whatever they’re dealing you,” At this point, one of the regulars began approaching the front doors. Tommy sprinted out before they got in, seemingly explaining that my entire love life depends on whether or not I can play it cool.

            “Eh, what can I say. I sort of dug myself a grave there,” I spoke without thinking.

            “The only graves that should’ve been dug are Kurt and Ram’s. My one critique? Use real bullets next time,” I froze. Why the fuck would I say that? I mean, I’m not wrong but I doubt JD would stick around after--

            “I like the way you think,” JD laughs, his ears tinted pink. Jason looks at me, and for a moment, I look right back. There’s something behind his eyes, something festering and enticing. I wonder if my eyes communicate anything. “I’ll see you around, Y/n L/n,” 

            “And I’ll see you, Jason Dean,” With that he winked at me, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door. Tommy practically sprinted across the room as I released every muscle I’d been tensing. I slowly melted onto the floor. Laying on the tile with my eyes trained on the bright lights overhead.

            “Oh my god,” Tommy breathed. “Oh my fucking god that was-- oh my god.”

            “I know,”

             “Did you see him? He’s like a greek god,”

            “I know,”

            “And he was totally into you, like, totally,”

            “I should’ve given him my address. I wouldn’t mind getting murdered by him.” I say breathlessly. Tommy sits on the counter and looks down at me.

            “I think I need to teach you how to talk to boys,” Tommy sighs, shock still lingering on his face.

            “Pssh, I can talk to boys just fine,” I retort.

            “You almost collapsed when you saw him,” he says flatly.

            “That was--”

            “I thought you were going to pass out when he told you his name,”

            “But I--”

            “I genuinely believed you were going to vomit when he shook your hand,”

            “Alright! I give! I can’t talk to boys! You caught me! Lock me up and never let me embarrass myself like that again!” I surrendered, throwing my arms in the air before letting them collapse over my face. “He probably thinks I’m a freak,”

            “Are you joking? He was more smitten than you were!” This caught my attention, and I tore my arms away from my eyes. 

            “Huh? Elaborate!” I snapped.

            “You seriously didn’t notice? He’d been staring at you since you stepped foot in here, didn’t you see him? At first I thought it was weird, but then I realized he was smoking hot so I decided I’d let it slide,” “Comforting,” Sarcasm drips from my words. “Y’know serial killers and stalkers can be hot, too.” I rolled my eyes.

“             I seem to recall you saying something along the lines of ‘I wouldn’t mind getting mur--’,”

            “Alright, Tommy, we get it.” I cut him off in embarrassment. “Please continue.”

            “He comes in here a lot, so I knew he was alright. He was beet red the entire time you were talking. Didn’t you see the way he was in a perpetual state of stupid smiling? Dude, he was definitely into you and really bad at hiding it,” Tommy concluded.

            I smiled a big, dumb smile. I didn’t notice the fact that he was nervous, so he probably didn’t notice that I was dying, right? 

            “Tommy, I think we might have a keeper.”

            “Thank god, I don’t think I could stand to see you go to Prom alone. That would be too depressing, even for me,” Tommy enthused. I propped my feet against the edge of the counter, staring at the tips of my boots. For the first time in a long time, Tommy is silent. I can’t get his eyes out of my head. Then again, I don’t know if I want to. 

_________

#jason dean #heathers #jason dean x reader #a sickly satisfaction series #irl dont look #irl don't look #veronica sawyer #heather mcnamara #heather chandler #heather duke

[zeebeebirdy]

When Angels Fly

Summary: The Vault Hunters kill Angel, and Jack reacts as most parents would at the loss of their child. He doesn't expect however to take on her siren powers because...well, that's not how sirens work, right?!

(Alternatively: We were talking about siren Jack in a server and getting emo about Jack getting her powers after she dies and next thing I knew I was writing angst!)

[READ HERE ON AO3]

"Dad, I have to tell you something…"

Jack's panic is soaring through his veins like an unruly firework. He watches his daughter lay on the ground, staring up at the pixilated projection of himself, and tears begin collecting in his eyes finally. Her breath is laboured. Her eyes…

She looks too much like her mother.

"You're an asshole."

The scream rips through him involuntarily, full of rage and sorrow and regret. Angel falls limp, and Jack roars with such venomous hysteria, he threatens to tear his vocal chords beyond repair. He slams his palm down on the panel before him, turning off his projection into the chamber, and screams again.

He keeps screaming. His whole chest feels like it's shattering, the explosion of his heart having blown out the structure of his ribs. Every scream gets more hysterical, it burns so deep he imagines his lungs to be shrivelling up, turning black and crumbling as they weaken. Every coherent thought he might have been able to decipher before is now just tangled knots, taunting him.

This is a familiar pain, isn't it? He's known this before, this putrid, agonising darkness that consumes him, squeezes him until he's drained of any will to live. The thick melancholia infecting his senses, poisoning him beyond the point of death.

He didn't deserve it before. He didn't deserve to lose his chance at happiness. He didn't deserve watching his world be torn apart so easily after fighting for hope. 

I'm not an asshole.

I was defying fate of breaking me.

He punches one of the metal walls to the room he's in, then rests his forehead following. Tears pour from his eyes like he's some kind of geyser, and the inability to stop just fuels his anger more. He's used to feeling anger, even if it's simply lingering, keeping him company, but this is increased tenfold compared to what he knows. This is terrifying, it stiffens his bones, expands to form cracks. 

He didn't deserve it before. Did he deserve it now?

Did she?

She still sounds so close by. Her voice, infected in hatred, dripping with exhaustion, and it drowns his sanity. The sounds of her as an infant, babbling nonsense, they echo among her pained screeching. All her sounds, all his memories of her, they begin to blend together. They're blinding, they're deafening…

His arm is glowing. 

--wait, his arm is glowing?!

Jack sees the shimmering blue peeking out the sleeve of his jacket, and quickly whips off the clothing in a frantic haste. He rolls up his shirt sleeve and jumper in one, and there, plain as day...her markings. The spiraling, icey blue that lit up her ghostly complexion, drawing itself into his skin. There's no physical pain that he can tell, but maybe he's just too heartbroken to even tell.

Her voice gets louder. It echos, talks over itself, screaming abuse at him, whispering for help, begging for release. He holds his arm up and stares at the tattoo as it continues wrapping itself around his arm. He can almost see his wide, glossy eyes reflected in the glow. Then he hastily unclasps his vest, unbuttons his shirt, and throws both to the ground. He lifts his sweater up over his chest and sees the same glow leading down his shoulder toward the top of his pectoral. 

He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He looks between his chest and arm, touches it with his other hand - it feels smoother than the rest of his skin, almost like flesh fused with marble. It's impossible, surely, he can't be a siren. There's only six sirens in existence at one time, and he knows three--

No. He knows two of them.

No. He is one of them.

No…

Then all of a sudden, an agonising pain electrifies it's way up his spine. He thrashes backward and slams his back against the metal wall, attempting to reach back, trying to touch whatever it is that feels like drills going through his shoulder blades. He shouts out like a dying animal, panting heavily when his lungs demand a break, and then he stumbles over and falls with a hard this on his knees. He braces his fall with both hands, and freezes in the undignified position.

More screaming. The pain is torturous. It feels as if someone is drilling right through the bone in his shoulders, angling the tool to expand the point of pressure. A burning chill shoots through his blood and punctures his heart, and he feels it then, the distinct fizzling of electricity. Small bolts rapidly shoot through his veins over and over and over again, it’s like he’s being drugged, being forced to overdose on adrenaline and fear. He grits his teeth, trying desperately to disrupt the pain. It doesn’t stop, it just grows more and more aggressive. The pain in his shoulders broadens, forces his bones to shift and break. It’s a nightmare.

Pain has always followed Jack around. Pain is his stalker, his ghost, the curse befallen upon his family. Pain knocks on every door he locks and walks in without a key. Pain isn’t a stranger, but neither is it a friend. It’s a visitor someone else invited over, and that leaves in their own time

When he tries to speak again, all that comes out are pained wails. His words like static on his tongue. He opens his eyes and gasps. The room is blindingly bright, and as he glances around, blurring trails follow his line of sight. It’s too much. His whole body is changing. Is he floating? It feels like it - he can’t seem to feel the support of the floor beneath him anymore.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it’s just white. All the pain disappears without any climax. It’s just nothingness.

Except for Angel. She floats before him, the emptiness almost swallowing her whole. She’s pale, and thin, and frail, but her tattoos are gone. The bluest thing about her now is the sickly undertone of her skin. All of Jack’s senses have been frozen, and all he has is sight. She has an angelic glow haloing her body, ironically, and he wants to reach out and touch her. He wants to acknowledge she’s real - he wants to stroke her hair, hold her face, kiss her forehead, squeeze her tight--

He tries to yell for her. He tries so desperately to scream, but there’s only absolute silence. His voice has been stricken from him. He can hear the pain deep in his core, the yearning that burns him up. 

I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY, ANGEL! SWEETHEART, PLEASE, COME CLOSER! YOU’RE MY BABYGIRL-- I’M SORRY! I’M SO FUCKING SORRY!

But nothing. He can feel, in the vaguest sense of the word, the ghostly trails of his tears from moments ago, but there’s nothing actually there. He reaches out, clawing at thin air, straining to grab her- grab anything! It’s just more nothing. Endless amounts of nothing but her presence haunting him.

She says nothing, barely does anything either beside stare at him with such wicked discontentment. It’s otherworldly, and confusing, yet somehow even in this plane of existence, where he can’t even feel the dull thumping of his own heartbeat in his ears, and he remembers the scorching pain from mer seconds prior, her scowl is the most painful thing he’s felt so far.

He wonders, in whatever consciousness he’s given in this non explicit realm of existence, if maybe this is a punishment for the things he’s done in his life. Sure, there’s no hellfire and brimstone, but the absolute absurdity of it all, and the suddenness of his depression crushing him without warning, it feels like torture. Maybe the shock of watching his only child - the only family he has left, as far as he’s been concerned for years - drove him beyond what he even knew to be insanity. He could be passed out, drooling on the floor, just vulnerable and waiting for someone to put a bullet in his head. Weird things have followed Jack his whole life, admittedly, so perhaps this is just another unexplainable alien entity.

He really hates not knowing. Worse though is not being able to ask.

Angel begins to move closer. The quiet is eerie, it unsettles Jack more so than he already was. She comes face to face with him, inches away from their noses touching. Her face hasn’t moved from it’s scowl, in fact it looks like it’s intensified. She stares deep into his eyes, and bleeds him of all his apologies, replacing those dark corners of his soul he tries to ignore with heavy, deathly guilt. She plagues him with the pain he gave her, attaches the tumour that was being a siren and let’s it possess him now. 

She looks too much like her mother.

Without a word, she gently lays herself down, and on instinct Jack catches her. She’s weightless, like air, but he doesn’t pull away. Her scowl falls away and she closes her eyes. He cradles her, almost akin to the days she was a new-born, afraid he’d break her if he moved too quickly. 

The next time Jack blinks, he finds himself plunged back into reality. There’s the broken hum of the control core, the creaking of metal all around, and looking down in his arms he sees Angel, completely void of life. Her limp body pours blood, covering his hands and clothes.

He can feel the electric wings sticking out of his back.

He can feel the electrical current pumping blood throughout his body.

He feels regret.

#borderlands #Handsome Jack #angel the siren #angel borderlands #borderlands 2 #borderlands fic #my fic

[lolathepeacocklord]

Chapter 2 – Run Rabbit Run     God… It was such an awful day. He was given the day off from work for feeling sick, and on his way to his dorm right around the corner to his hallway he stepped on something… Red. Blood. It looked fresh too. He just thought alright- maybe some girl was having a messy day, but there was more. Droplets were now little puddles of red. All the way to his room where it looked like some ketchup monster fell over against the door. And started… Crawling. All the way to the bathroom. Smith gently opened the door.    He could remember it in so much detail. Most of it just being blood. Lots and lots of blood everywhere- all coming from his roommate who was bleeding to death in the bathtub. He literally looked like he was tossed into a cage full of angry tigers. And that’s only slightly exaggerating. It looked like something just out of a horror movie. After his friend got sent to the hospital for several days, he got asked a lot about what happened- always giving them the strangest response. He kept saying that a man did this to him. All these gashes and tears were caused by a… Human male. They weren’t sure if it was just the anesthetics when they first asked him, but he stuck to the story.    He thought he saw this woman getting attacked, and he ran over to try and help. But when he got closer, then man who pinned her to the ground was… Eating her. Tearing her apart with his hands and teeth. And then he went for Hunter.   Smith was really worried about his friend after he returned home. Almost immediately when he thought he was okay he returned and then they were both sick as hell. Then the emergency broadcast came on TV, and Smith was just suddenly in- immense amounts of pain. He couldn’t see right, and it literally felt like his insides were moving around in him. He tried to go get his friend. Tell him they were a lot sicker then they thought. Right in front of the door he collapsed on the ground, and everything went black from there. That was his last memory. The last moments in a normal world.

   Common infected littered the streets- dead and alive. Most of them just wandering around aimlessly, sleeping in any place they found fit, and some just starting random baby fights over who would get to eat this person’s body. Being infected was at least handy in the aspect the commons didn’t pay much attention to you. Sometimes they’d try and attack you just because they’re brainless morons now. But a full on horde was never really a problem to him. Just crowded. He was one of them, they were one of him. He hated to think about that, but it was true.    The rain let up on him finally, which was the first convenient thing that happened to him today. He wasn’t gonna get absolutely drenched anymore. But he still kept an eye out for anything that could be… Following him. From the few things he’s seen, he knew that special infected could be very efficient hunters. And they may not hesitate to attack their own kind- so he moved along swiftly down the street.    Smith wandered out to a giant intersection in town, and took a moment to look around at the buildings surrounding him. He’s gone quite a distance from home. A thing or two here was ever so slightly familiar. But whatever it was It was now in shambles, and either on fire or it looked like it was about to collapse at any moment. He continued along, trying to stay concealed under the shadows of buildings. He already drew enough attention to himself with the occasional coughing and wheezing. At least from what he’s seen most smoker’s have a green mist around them. He was gifted enough to not have that, unless a tumor got popped open or punctured. Then there will be stink mist and weird goo dripping out of him. It was… Really gross. He hated it. There was still a lot to get used to with this mutation. But he felt like he was never going to get used to it. Who can just suddenly get used to a new body like this after living with a normal human one for 27 years?    This session of moping was suddenly cut off when he heard something. Something small was flashing red in the distance, and… Beeping? It definitely got the attention of several common infected, and they all ran over to start hitting and attacking it. Then just like that the thing exploded- sending zombie part flying everywhere    “WHOO! That was a BIG one!” Some dude ran over to the gorey aftermath and laughed about it. Four other people followed behind him- three girls and another guy it looked like. The boy who just threw that bomb looked pretty young- maybe in his last years of high school. He had messy brown hair and wore a torn up leather jacket. He seemed… A little too happy about there being zombie guts everywhere. One of the girls started scolding him for running over and laughing about the bomb explosion. “This isn’t a game you know!” She was a short blonde woman, looking like she may have been Asian. Her hair was in a bob cut and oddly neat for it being the end of the world. The other three people was a girl with light brown hair up in a ponytail, and seemed a lot sharper then the rest of the team. Seemed like she was maybe the leader?    The other woman had shoulder length hair that was pitch black, with a little bit of purple faded into it. She looked like she could have been your junior high bully, or the biggest mcr fan you’ve ever met. She was a little gruff, but in more of a charismatic way. She also seemed to get along with the leader girl.    The last man was taller then everyone else, had neat brown hair and glasses, and had a neat turtleneck sweater that was now covered with blood and other stains. He was trying to help lead around the rowdy boy, who was very disobedient and kept trying to screw around with the infected before he chopped their head off with an axe. “Look Ed- I know we’ve been in the safehouse for a few days, and you’re excited to be out! But you can’t just run off and be a reckless idi-” “Cram it, Goodman.” Ed shoved a pistol into a sleeping zombies mouth and fired. He snapped his head to the right real fast and stared blankly into the alleyway. “You coming?” The queen of emo asked him. Goodman had a map with them and they were trying to figure out where they were, and where they were gonna be heading. “Yeah sorry, I thought I saw something.” The boy shrugged and went back to the rest of the group.    ‘Shit.’ Smith thought frantically- hiding behind a dumpster. If it wasn’t so damn dark here they may have saw him. Shit- He seemed to have… Misjudged how far away the survivors actually were. Good god- how could he get out of here. Should he just wait it out? They might go in the direction he wanted to go. But he also wasn’t going anywhere specifically. Just away from this place. He put his hand over his lumpy neck for a moment, feeling… Odd? And quickly he slapped both his hands over his mouth. God damn it- another coughing fit. At the worst possible time too. He tries to hard to make these stop, but he just… Can’t. It’s too difficult, and not to say painful as well.    Ed looked down that same alley again, squinting a bit and only half listening to what the group was discussing. Sounded like something was… Wheezing? Crying? Coughing? He couldn’t really tell. “Where are you goi-” “Chill out pipsqueak, I just think I head something.” He readied a sniper rifle and cautiously approached the area. “Uh… Hello? Any zombies making love back here?” He asked, peeking around the corner. Smith’s heart almost stopped right there and then when he heard how close he was getting. He proceeded to press himself against the dumpster and think of what to do. He was gonna need to act fast if he wanted to live. He looked to the side very slowly and saw the tip of the gun… “Hey! What are you doing back there!?” The emo girl yelled over. Ed turned around and responded “Something back here smells like shit, I wanted to see wh-”    Before he could finish that sentence he got socked in the face and someone’s knees slammed directly into the crotch. He fell on the ground writhing in pain, and Smith took the chance to grab his gun and start running off. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-” Everyone was on him now, and there was a dead end. Wonderful. It was mostly covered by wooden planks, but more to the side he could see the fence was made of chains. He was probably gonna die right now anyways, but he may as well go down trying to save himself. The survivors ran over to see their injured friend, who had a bloody nose and probably no more balls. “What was that!? Did you see??” Goodman helped him up and watched the leader chase the attacker. “Megan’s going after it. I think it was a… Zombie? Pen, did you see him?” “Yeah, he looked like a zombie I’m pretty sure.” The short girl said. “Looks like he came to avenge his fallen comrades.” She looked at Ed with a small sneer.    Megan chased the smoker down all the way to a dead end, where he just dropped the sniper rifle and started climbing the fence. Right as he got to the top she ran to snatch the gun, quickly took aim, and fired. With a shriek he fell off the fence on the other side, writing and pain. She got him in his left arm, and he was bleeding out fast. He was on the other side though, so he pushed himself back up and started booking it out of there. Megan sighed softly and returned to her friends. “I drove him off. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”

   Smith had been running for a good long while- grasping his arm tightly and breathing heavily. The troubling thing now is that he was bleeding a lot, and things started to get… Blurry. He leaned against a wall real quick, trying to catch his breathe. Problem was it didn’t feel like he was catching his breathe. Ever. He wheezed loudly with each inhale and exhale, but it felt like almost no oxygen got into him. His legs were shaky, he felt weak… God, he was so tired. He glanced at his shoulder for a second and-

”SHIT!” He screamed and saw someone reaching over to him. Once more he socked them in the face- sending them onto the ground. They scrambled away for a moment, and then Smith pulled out his shotgun. ”DON’T FUCKING MOVE!” He screamed, wheezing loudly afterwards. ”Waitwaitwait don’t shoot don’t shoot!” The man shouted back, sounding terrified. He was holding his hands up, and neither of them moved for several moments. The guy was in a spot Smith couldn’t really see him. Damn it, the sun was about to set soon. Everything was dark.    “Okay… I want you to stand on up, and walk over here slowly.” Smith sighed. He felt like he was gonna faint any moment now.   “Okay-! Alright. Just… Don’t freak out, okay?” The man was a lot calmer now, and proceeded to stand up. He took each step forward with caution, and didn’t take his eye off Smith or the shotgun for even a second. And the smoker right there and then almost fainted from what he saw.    “I’m sorry, you just looked… Wait, you’re injured.” Was what the man had to say. The guy had his brown hair in a small ponytail, he was terribly obese, he wore a blue coat with a white shirt underneath it, and he looked at Smith not with fear anymore. But with concern. “I heard gunshots not too far away. Were people trying to hurt you.” Still frozen in place, Smith just continued staring at the man. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The guy seemed completely normal, yeah. Except for the bulging tumor covering his right eye, and the two smaller ones visible on his neck.

#HEEHEEHOOHEEHAHOHEHUHEEAEWTQ #THE SECOND CHAPTER IS U P #WE GOT BOOMER BOY IN THE MIXE BABEY #AND THE SURVIVORS THAT AREN'T GONNA SHOW UP AGAIN AFTER THEY ESCAPE! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO #sorry that's kind of a spoiler. I just don't want y'all to get too attached to them and then think I just tossed them out the window #I mean I kind of am tossing them out but like- they aren't the main focus of this story #it's about the infected lads #don't want y'all to get disappointed #but anyways #CHAPTER 2 BABY #WHAT SHALL HAPPEN NEXT? WHO KNOWS! YOU TRY AND GUESS #l4d #l4d2 #left 4 dead #left 4 dead 2 #l4d smoker #smoker #l4d survivors #l4d boomer #boomer #l4d oc #oc fanfiction #l4d fanfic #l4d fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

[pixiegrl]

It’s a New Kind of Empty

"Ashton’s a good five drinks in when he thinks that maybe this wasn’t his best idea. Of course, Ashton is well on his way to being drunk at this point, so the idea is incredibly unhelpful. In the hazy lights of the bar, music pounding around him and people shouting, he thinks that maybe this is the reason Luke broke up with him in the first place."

Or Ashton hasn't been doing well since his breakup with Luke. He gets an unexpected second chance.

This is dedicated to @lifewasradical. She loves The Wonder Years and Aaron West and showed me them. We were listening to "Bloodied Up in a Bar Fight," and I said "ashton song?" and well. I wrote this for this song and for her. Amanda, I love you and I love our music nights and our fic nights and I just. I don't have the words to describe how much I love you so I hope this gift will do. I hope everyone enjoys this. 

TW for: alcohol, alcohol references, fighting, bar fighting, slight homophobic language, blood mention, post break-up (with a little hope at the end. I’m me, this couldn’t be all angst).

On ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033322

Ashton’s a good five drinks in when he thinks that maybe this wasn’t his best idea. Of course, Ashton is well on his way to being drunk at this point, so the idea is incredibly unhelpful. In the hazy lights of the bar, music pounding around him and people shouting, he thinks that maybe this is the reason Luke broke up with him in the first place. He’s a drunk, miserable, sitting in this bar day after day mourning the end of his relationship with Luke. The only reason he’s not here everyday is because he’s not stupid; he alternates his time between here, another bar a little further away, and drinking himself into a stumpor on his own couch, crying until he falls asleep and does it all over again the next day. He feels like a ghost the last month, but at least ghosts have a purpose. Ashton’s horrified to discover that without band responsibilities and without boyfriend responsibilities he doesn’t know who he is anymore. He’s just someone taking up space, existing in the world without actually existing.

It’s been a month. It’s been a whole 31 days since he and Luke broke up, or rather, since Luke decided he wanted to end the relationship. Although, that implies that Ashton didn’t have a hand in this either. One year of dating, of building their life together, gone. All because Luke wanted to come out to the world, tell everyone that they were dating, together, happy, and Ashton just...couldn’t. He doesn’t like sharing his life with the world, likes having some form of privacy, just isn’t ready for that. They’d gone round and round in circles, tense and angry, until they’d finally broken and Luke had snapped that maybe they shouldn’t be together at all if Ashton wasn’t ready for it. Ashton had snapped back that maybe they should if Luke wouldn’t respect Ashton’s wishes and all it had taken was a few harsh, cruel words, designed to hurt, for the two of them to call it quits. Ashton hasn’t seen Luke since then, took all his shit with him that night and went back to his place. Ashton doesn’t want to be the first one to reach out, can’t bring himself to call Luke and Luke hasn’t reached out either. It’s been a tense month of avoidance, dancing around the subject with Michael and Calum when prompted. 

Which leads Ashton to here, sitting at a bar, nursing his misery in yet another glass of tequila. It makes him sadder, drinking the thing he knows Luke enjoys, but Ashton can’t bring himself to stop. He wants to get drunk and he wants to forget and he wants to drink enough that maybe the pain will stop. It’s become horrifying that without Luke, Ashton doesn’t know how to structure his life. Even before they were dating, so much of Ashton’s life revolved around the band and Luke. They haven’t really spend a day apart since fucking 2011. It’s like a severed limb, having to survive without Luke, not being able to text Luke, tell Luke about his day, share music with him. Ashton’s not sure the pain will ever go away, doesn’t know what he’ll do when they actually have to do promo for the album, go to interviews, go on tour. Having to see Luke everyday, but not being able to touch him, hold him, kiss him. 

Ashton knocks back the rest of his drink, tries to wave down the bartender to order another drink. He knows he’ll have to argue with the man for it, knows he’s too far gone to actually have another drink, but Ashton’s tired. He’s miserable and he’s tried and he just wants to forget. 

To add to Ashton’s misery, the music at the bar changes, the opening bass of Youngblood filtering out through the speakers. Ashton tries to hold back the sob that threatens to leave his chest at the sound of Luke’s voice surrounding him. Ashton’s been purposely avoiding listening to any of their music, knows that if he hears Luke’s voice he’ll really lose it. Ashton’s not prepared to hear it now, drunk and miserable. He wants so badly to take out his phone and text Luke, telling him he’s listening to their song in the bar, but he can’t for many reasons. Ashton’s not supposed to be even drinking. He was doing so good before the break up, actually getting sober, learning to cope in other ways that didn’t involve alcohol. Fucking lot of good that’s done him. Luke will hate to hear that Ashton’s even in a bar, if he doesn’t hate the fact that Ashton’s calling him at all. 

“This song is shit. Can’t they play some good music,” a man next to Ashton grumbles to his friends. His friends all laugh. Ashton tries not to take it personally. They’ve been hearing that since they started playing, heard enough jokes about being emos and a boyband and any number of things people have said over the years that Ashton’s used to it. He just wishes he didn’t have to listen to it on top of all the other shit. 

“Lead singer sounds like shit. Bet it’s all autotuned.”

“God he’s so whiny. Didn’t they used to tour with that other group of guys? The ones all the girls used to scream about?”

“Fucking boyband. Can’t play their instruments, can’t sing. They’re only famous cause they’re pretty,” the first guy sneers, taking another drink. Ashton tightens his hand around his empty glass, trying to tamper down the anger in his chest. He’s used to hearing this over and over again and he thinks it must be his drunken state that’s making him angrier than usual. Yet another reason why Luke probably decided to end them; Ashton’s an angry drunk who can’t come out to the world.

“If you’re into that. Bunch of fucking pussies. Gay pussies.”

“Whiny, gay pussies. Didn’t they used to call themselves emo?”

“If you could even call it that. Besides, the only pretty one is that lead singer.”

“That’s cause he’s gay. Wearing makeup? Gay,” the guy says. His friends all laugh. Ashton feels the anger in his chest. He can put up with a lot of things, can put up with the criticism of the band and their music, but he can’t listen to people talk shit about Luke. Luke, who’s grown so much over the years, both sonically and personally. Grown into himself, comfortable in his body, in being able to dress how he wants, be who he wants. Luke, who’s taken vocal lessons and practiced over and over again to get to his skill level. He’s worked so hard and these assholes are going to say it’s autotune and call Luke gay because he likes to wear makeup. 

“Fuck you!” Ashton shouts, turning to the men. They startle, turning to Ashton, surprised at the outburst. 

“What the fuck is your problem dude?”

“You can’t just say that shit! What, cause someone wears makeup they’re gay?”

“Well, if the shoe fits,” the guy says, snorting. Ashton reacts before he can think about it, swinging a fist at the guy. Ashton’s not sure who’s more surprised when his fist catches the guy on the jaw, the guy, Ashton, his friends or the bartender. Ashton doesn’t have time to think about it, the guy immediately swinging back and hitting Ashton the nose. He can hear the crunch, feels the immediate sting of a broken nose and the blood starting to drip down his face. Ashton gives a yell, takes another swing. He can hear the group of guys yelling, hears the bartender shouting, feels someone yanking them apart. It doesn’t stop Ashton from trying to give another good kick, getting another fist to the face, catching his eye this time.

Ashton’s fuzzy about what happens next. He knows the bartender is forcibly trying to drag Ashton and the other guy apart, yelling at them about calling the cops. Ashton’s whole face aches, blood dripping down his face, eye sore, head aching from the impact and the alcohol. God he’s a real fucking mess. If only Luke could see him now, Ashton thinks bitterly, when the cops finally show up, carting him and the other guy off. Ashton’s at least satisfied that he managed to get one good punch in, sees the guy’s jaw is black and blue. He might be a drunk getting arrested, but at least he stood up for Luke. Luke doesn’t deserve to be made fun of when he can’t defend himself. At the very least Ashton can do that. 

Ashton finds himself at the police station, floating in and out of it on the drive over. The cop is shaking his head at him, mumbling something about kids and their attitudes. Ashton’s never been handcuffed before. It’s an entirely new experience. God, he’s going to have to explain this to the band. Why he’s been arrested, why he’s got a record now. He’s going to get three disappointed band member looks at the next meeting. Ashton groans, hand dropping back against the chair the cop’s left him in. They’ve taken his phone and his wallet, taken his fingerprints, made him wait while they run the information. He can vaguely hear them talking, trying to decide what to change him and the other guy with. Ashton takes a shaky breath, wincing when he feels his nose throb on the inhale. Ashton’s never broken his nose before, but he imagines this must be what it feels like.Wonderful. Now he’s going to have to explain why his nose is broken, if the gossip sites online aren’t already running stories about how the drummer of 5 Seconds of Summer is getting into bar fights and getting arrested.

The cop comes back, sighing heavily as he sits down at the desk across from Ashton. Ashton tilts his head up, making eye contact with the man across from him. He just looks tired, like he’s gotta deal with guys like Ashton, drunk and disorderly, all the time.

“Mr. Irwin.”

“Yes?”

“You’re very lucky that the man you punched doesn’t want to press charges. We managed to explain to him that since you were both fighting, you would both be at fault here. Since it looks like it’s just bruises and your nose, there’s nothing serious that you could be charged with. You will be charged for drunk and disorderly. We can either hold you overnight until you sober up or you can call someone,” he says, looking expectantly at Ashton.

Ashton’s brain stalls. He can’t call Michael or Calum. If he calls either of them, he’ll have to explain why he can’t call Luke. He’ll have to explain why he’s drunk and sitting in a police station with a broken nose. They’ll ask why he didn’t call Luke. They’ll want to know why he was at a bar if he’s supposed to be sober. Calum will sigh heavily and Michael will snap at him. Ashton doesn’t want to deal with that, have to talk about the end of his relationship on top of getting into a bar fight because someone called Luke gay. Besides, he doesn’t know either of their numbers without his phone. 

It really hits Ashton then that he only knows Luke’s number. Luke’s phone number is the only number that Ashton knows by heart. Even after all this time, the only person that Ashton depends on is Luke. He can call Luke and deal with having to listen to him bitch at Ashton or having him not pick up the phone or Ashton can spend the night here and go home in the morning. Ashton doesn’t want to call Luke, listen to the hurt and disappointment in his voice, but Ashton really doesn’t want to sit here overnight, not when his head hurts and his nose hurts and his eye hurts and he just wants to go home and cry.

“I can call someone,” Ashton says. The cop nods, hands his desk phone over to Ashton, watches him punch the number in. The phone rings once, twice and Ashton thinks Luke’s not going to pick up, it’s late, he’s asleep, maybe he’s out somewhere having fun without me, he doesn’t need me when he hears the line click.

“Hello?” Luke’s voice filters through the line. It’s rough and Ashton’s heart sinks. He knows that rough sound that’s in Ashton’s voice. It’s not sleep rough. It’s rough and watery, the sound Luke’s voice makes when he’s been crying, hoarse and exhausted. Ashton wants to ask about it, comfort Luke when he remembers he can’t do that anymore. They’re broken up. It’s not his place to ask Luke about how he’s doing. Coupled with the fact that the cop in front of him is looking at him expectantly, waiting for Ashton to let the man on the other line know what’s going on.

“Who is this?” Luke asks again.

“Ashton. It’s Ashton.”

“Ashton? Where are you calling from?”

“A police station.”

“What?” Luke asks, panic clear in his voice. Ashton swallows.

“Yeah I got arrested? At a bar? For starting a fight?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you.”

“Fuck. Do you know where?” Luke says after a moment’s pause. 

“I’m not sure. I don’t remember much.”

“Of course not,” Luke says, hallowly.

“Luke, I know you’re pissed at me. I know we need to talk, but I’m drunk and I’m sitting in a police station and I just need someone to pick me up.”

Luke’s silent on the other line. He’s so quiet that Ashton thinks he might have hung up. It’s only when he hears the slow intake of breath that he realizes Luke’s still there.

“Can you put the officer on?” he asks. Ashton nods and then remembers that Luke can’t see him, mumbles a yes as he passes over the phone. The officer exchanges some words with Luke, gives him an address and the information he needs, and hangs up.

“Your friend said he’s coming. I have to put you in the cell under then.”

“Right,” Ashton says, nodding. He lets the cop take him over, opens the cell door and ushers Ashton in. He sits on the bench in the cell, watching as the cop leaves, locking the cell behind him. He crosses over to his desk, pulling a tissue out of the box and hands it to Ashton through the bars.

“Here. For your nose.”

“Thanks,” Ashton says, taking it and trying to wipe at the dried blood on his nose. It stings trying to clean it off and Ashton eventually gives up, leaning his head back against the wall and sighing. This was the exact kind of shit Ashton was trying to avoid. By going public, they would have opened themselves up to ridicule and jokes about their sexuality, their music, their appearance. They would have had to listen to all these articles about how their music is about each other, had to listen to all the slurs people would call them. No one would take them seriously as musicians. Ashton didn’t want to come out because he didn’t want to have to listen to it, have the nasty words said about them, written about them. Although, they’re not even out and look at what happened. Ashton and Luke didn’t even need to come out to have some guys in a bar make fun of them. There’s still articles about how they’re terrible musicians, still men in bars who call them a boyband. Ashton had to go and ruin his happiness just to keep going through the same thing he always thought he would. 

Ashton closes his eyes, trying to stop the tears from coming. His head is starting to pound. His whole face hurts. He’s tired and he just wants to go home. Ashton’s not even sure Luke will come get him. Maybe he should just sleep here for the night and cut his losses. Accept that he’s alone and unwanted.

Ashton’s busy wallowing in his misery for an undetermined amount of time, listening to the weather report on the TV when he hears the door door to the station open and hears a shuffle of feet. Ashton cracks an eye open, floored when he realizes it’s Luke. Luke standing at the desk in front, shuffling nervously. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, hair pulled up into a bun. Ashton hasn’t seen him in a month and he’s so taken aback looking at Luke. His hair looks greasy. His eyes have dark circles under them, the clear sign that Luke hasn’t been sleeping well. They’re red too and so is the tip of his nose. Ashton frowns. That’s the sign Luke’s been crying. Luke looks broken and worn down, shoulders slumped. Ashton expected many things, but a sad, small, broken looking Luke wasn’t one of them.

“Hi, I’m here for Ashton Irwin,” Luke says to the cop at the desk. Ashton can’t take his eyes off Luke, still trying to catch his breath seeing Luke, seeing that he’s come to get Ashton. That even with all this going on, with their breakup, Luke’s here. Ashton watches the shuffle of paperwork, of Luke filling out the forms. He looks tired and world weary, shoulders heavy as he signs something. 

The cop comes to get Ashton, unlocks the jail cell, tugs him out and over to where Luke is waiting. Ashton can’t read his expression, Luke’s face blank and he puts a hand on Ashton’s elbow, watches as Ashton takes back his phone and his wallet, mumbles a thank you to the officer. 

“He just needs some rest. And less liquor. My daughter’s a big fan. He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” he says, nodding at Luke. Luke smiles ruthlessly, smile wooden.

“Yeah. Something like that,” he says, tugging Ashton out the doors of the station and over to his car. Ashton gets the passenger door open, gets into the car and watches Luke slam the door, round the car to the driver side. He gets in, starting the car, and pulls out of the station parking lot.

“You look like shit,” Luke says at the first red light. Ashton glances over, sees that Luke’s staring straight ahead, voice void of emotion.

“Feel like shit,” Ashton mumbles, reaching up to touch his nose, wincing when he pokes at it.

“Good,” Luke says, bitter venom in his voice. It shocks Ashton, the harsh song in Luke’s voice, the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. 

“You don’t have to be rude.” 

“You called me at close to 3:00am to tell me that you were arrested for fighting. In a bar. I think I’m allowed to be rude.” 

“Well you didn’t have to come.” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you there. You’re still my best friend, even after everything. I can’t just not pick you up.” 

“Thank you,” Ashton whispers, staring down at his pants, picking at a loose thread. He hears Luke sigh heavily next to him.

“What were you even doing getting into fights anyway? At a bar? I thought you were sober.” 

“Well I was until you broke my heart.” 

“Don’t pretend the break is all my fault.”

“You’re the one who ended it!” Ashton yells, hot with fury. He’ll put up with a lot, but he won’t tolerate Luke pretending like Ashton’s the sole reason they’re not together anymore. 

“Because you wouldn’t listen to me! You never want to listen to me! The great Ashton Irwin can’t be bothered to consider anything his boyfriend says or wants because he knows best.” 

“Ex-boyfriend.” 

“Fuck you,” Luke snaps. Ashton lets out a frustrated growl, wincing when pain shoots through his face. He doesn’t miss the way Luke’s face drops, worry and concern etched in his features until he remembers himself, masks his emotions perfectly after years of PR training. 

“I did listen to you. I got sober.” 

“Clearly not.” 

“I was sober for a whole 3 months after we weren’t on tour. I was getting better. You asked me to try because you were worried about me and I did.” 

“Stop bullshitting me Ashton. You were in a bar tonight.” 

“I was fine until a month ago.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Yes! I was clean and sober until a month ago when you fucking broke my heart. I was getting better and then we broke up.” 

“Nice, Ashton. Blame me for your drunk and disorderly behavior.” 

“I’m not blaming you!” 

“It sure sounds like you are.” 

“Well, maybe I didn’t want to think anymore. Maybe I didn’t want to wake up everyday and have my first thought be that I didn’t have you anymore. Maybe I wanted to stop thinking about you every waking fucking moment. Fat lot of fucking good that did me. Considering the fight,” Ashton mumbles the last part, hoping Luke doesn’t hear him. 

“What?” 

“Hm?” 

“What does the fight have to do with me?” 

“Youngblood came on at the bar and the guy insulted it. Called us a boyband. Said we couldn’t sing, it’s all autotune. Called you gay.” 

“That’s why you punched the guy? Ashton that’s hardly the first time anyone has said that.” 

“Yeah but I just...I couldn’t let him say those things. You’ve worked so hard to get to this level of comfort with yourself and your body and your voice. Who is he to say shit like that?” Ashton says, turning to Luke, pleading with him to understand. Luke’s quiet, face a little surprised. 

“You said the whole reason you didn’t want to come out was because of what people might say.” 

“Clearly, it never mattered,” Ashton says. He’s tired, fight leaving his body, drained from the night’s events. Luke’s pensive in the driver’s seat, clenching and unclenching his hands. They spend the rest of the drive in silence, Luke surprised when they pull up to Luke’s house. 

“I don’t want to leave you alone tonight. You need someone to make sure you didn’t hurt your head and to look at your nose. Besides, Petunia misses you,” Luke says, cheeks red at the admission. It makes Ashton a little soft, thinking about the idea that Petunia misses Ashton. He’s missed Petunia, missed her snores and being able to cuddle with her, taking her on walks. Ashton hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he didn’t have it anymore. Just another thing in the long list of things he can’t do without Luke. 

Ashton follows Luke up the stairs to his front door, watching as Luke unlocks it, realizing that Ashton still has the key to Luke’s house on the key ring in his pocket. It hurts Ashton, realizing that he’s going to have to give it back, the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. 

Luke gets the door open, holding it so Ashton can follow him inside. Ashton kicks his shoes off at the door, remembers that Luke doesn’t like shoes on in the house. Petunia’s nowhere to be found, probably already asleep on Luke’s bed, like the princess she is. 

“Come on, let me clean you up,” Luke says, taking Ashton’s hand and guiding him up the stairs of his house to his bathroom. Ashton goes, letting Luke lead him into it, watches Luke flip the toilet lid closed, sits down on it when Luke gestures to it. Luke leaves the bathroom, comes back with a washcloth. He flips the sink on, warms up the water before wetting the towel. He comes over to Ashton, bending down, taking Ashton’s jaw in his hand. Gently, Luke starts to wipe at the blood on his nose, tutting when he gets a look at it and Ashton’s eye. 

“Looks like it’s broken. And you have a black eye too. They really did a number on you.” 

“Good thing we don’t have press coming up. Although, might be fun to have to explain that I got beat up defending your honor. I’d be a hero.” 

“My knight in shining armor,” Luke teases. He looks surprised at the words, glancing down and continuing on his mission. Ashton’s surprised too, at the easy sound of the joke, that even now, after all this, they can still fall into this pattern, this teasing, this love. 

“Worth it,” Ashton mumbles, wincing when Luke rubs at a hard spot. 

“I can’t believe you punched someone because they insulted me. We’ve heard worse.” 

“But it’s you. I couldn’t just let them say that.” 

“Well, thank you. For defending me.” 

Ashton shrugs, “Had to make drinking worthwhile somehow.” 

“What happened? You were doing so well,” Luke whispers. Ashton sighs, heavy, tugging at his lungs. 

“I couldn’t do it. I didn’t realize how much of myself, of my life, was structured around you, around us until you weren’t there. I kept waking up and realizing you weren’t there. I wanted to text you, to talk to you, and I couldn’t. You were so much a part of my life, even before we were together, and then we were dating and I just...I don’t know what to do without you there, without you in reach. I keep seeing things in the world I want to share with you and I can’t anymore. I didn’t know what to say or what to do to bridge the gap. I just wanted to talk to you, to see you and I couldn’t. I don’t know who I am without you there and I kept drinking. I kept drinking to forget, to numb it all, to pretend for a moment I would wake up and you would be there again. It’s not fixing the problem but god, did it help me forget,” Ashton says, confession hanging in the silence of the air. He feels naked and vulnerable, heart on his sleeve in the wake of his admission that Ashton can’t be without Luke.

“I haven’t slept in a month,” Luke says quietly. He’s staring down at Ashton’s lap, where their hands are joined. There’s tears clinging to his eyelashes, eyes red ringed. 

“What?” 

“I haven’t slept in a month. 4 weeks I haven’t been able to sleep through the night. Everytime I try to go to bed, I can’t. It’s too empty, too cold. I can’t get comfortable. And then by the time I fall asleep, I keep waking up with nightmares. Except you’re not there to comfort me, so I just stare at the ceiling until my body just gives up. I keep crying. I keep crying and I think my body can’t make anymore tears and then I see something that reminds me of you and I start crying again. I can’t talk to my mum or Michael or Calum because I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud, like if I speak them into existence then they’re real and I can’t take it back. I structured so much of my days around you, that I find myself wanting to text you things or turning to you on the couch or calling your name and realizing you aren’t here anymore. I tried to walk Petunia yesterday, but she was wearing the collar you got her for Christmas and I spent the day crying on the floor in my bedroom because I kept thinking that we won’t have that again. I can’t figure out who I am anymore when I’m not your best friend, your boyfriend. You keep acting like you’re the only one hurting here, but so am I, Ashton.” 

“You broke up with me,” Ashton says, dumbfounded at Luke’s confession, that he’s been bleeding out day by day just as badly as Ashton’s been. 

“I didn’t break up with you because I didn’t love you anymore. I broke up with you because you refused to try and at least be public with me. You wanted to keep hiding us, hiding who we are, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t be some dirty secret anymore. I want to hold your hand in public and kiss your cheek during shows. I want to get up on stage and tell everyone that you’re my boyfriend and we’re in love. I want to talk about moving in without worrying what people will think of us. I wanted to be able to discuss the future with you, without feeling like you wanted to hide anything we ever did. I just wanted to have you, openly and completely. I wanted to love you, so everyone could see. You didn’t even want to listen to me. And I still miss you so much, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do,” Luke says, sniffling. Ashton lets out a sad sound, squeezing Luke’s hand, forcing him to look up at Ashton. 

“I don’t like being public. I don’t like feeling like we’re being watched, judged. I don’t like adding another reason to the list of why people don’t like us. I hated the idea of subjecting the band, you, us to ridicule and mockery. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. I made myself miserable and there’s still guys in bars insulting us and calling us names. I thought I could save myself the pain if I didn’t go public, but all I did was make myself miserable, make us both miserable. I ruined us and I can’t fix us and I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. And I don’t deserve you, I don’t deserve you after everything, but I love you. I love you and I want to try. I want to try again and again, I want to make it up to you, show you I love you,” Ashton says. He’s crying now, sobbing wrecking him. His whole face hurts, but he doesn’t care, tears streaming down his face as he cries and cries. Luke’s not better, nose snotty and tear tracks on his cheeks as he cries too, shoulders shaking. Ashton tugs on his hands, pulling him up from his kneeling position and into his arms, Luke bent in half to return the hug, face buried into Ashton’s shoulder as he cries and cries. 

Eventually, they both run out of tears, bodies drained from the evening, from their confessions. They stay like that, locked in their awkward embrace until Luke pulls back, sniffling, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. Ashton reaches up, trying to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Luke laughs, wet, and some of the tension eases in Ashton’s chest. If Luke’s laughing, it can’t be all bad. There has to still be some hope. 

“I can’t have this conversation with you right now. It’s so late and you’re still drunk and in pain and neither of us is emotionally ready to have this conversation. But if you stay, I can make breakfast and we can talk about it? I can make French toast,” Luke says. Ashton laughs. 

“You mean, the only thing you can make is French toast.” 

“Oh fuck off,” Luke says, but he’s smiling slightly. Ashton takes Luke’s hand, interlocks their fingers. 

“I would love to spend the night. I would love to have breakfast with you and watch you cook and walk Petunia in the morning and talk. I would love to talk.” 

“Good. That’s...good,” Luke says, nodding slightly. Ashton smiles back, relief flooding his body. He’s tired and drained, but the idea that Luke wants to give them a chance is something.

“Do you want me to stay in the guest room? I’ll need some clothing.” 

“I have some old things of yours. Would you...um...sleep with me? In my bed?” Luke whispers, face red. Ashton beams, very nearly crying again at the admission. 

“I would love to. There’s nothing I want to do more,” he whispers back. Luke smiles and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but his dimples are evident and his eyes are shining and it looks an awful lot like hope. It feels an awful lot like hope, like second chances, like Ashton’s just narrowly avoiding missing out on something important that he’s had the chance to win back. He can win back Luke’s love, he’ll make sure he can deserve it. 

#5 seconds of summer #lashton #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #alcohol tw #alcohol reference #fighting #bar fighting #slight homophobic language #blood mention #post break up #with the hope of getting back together #angst #comfort #theres alot going on here #my writing

[resident-fungi-fren]

A Rose By Any Other Name

Summary: Janus is named after the roman god of beginnings. That’s not a coincidence. After the events of POF, he decides to start over, and erase everyone’s memories of him. He’ll start over, and this time, he’ll get everything right. 

Ships: it hints at anxceit, but nothin concrete yet

Warnings: suicidal thoughts? in a way?? wanting to be erased, insanity mention, if there are any others let me know

Chapter 1

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

Dear Patton,

If you ever read this letter, I’m sorry. It means something went wrong with the wipe, and I probably erased myself from existence or something, I’m really not sure how that would work. But I just want you to know, I don’t blame you for what I’m doing. You’ve tried, and that really means a lot to me. I think that given time, we really could have been friends, but I don’t have time, and too much has been said for us to move forward. But that’s why I have to do this. Truthfully, it’s for Thomas first. He’ll never truly accept a dark side, or trust one, and I need him to listen to me, it’s for his own good.

But I suppose, deep down, I know my reasons are a little more selfish. I don’t want to be hated. I need another chance. I can fix things with Virgil, with Roman, and none of you will hate me this time around. I’ll be more than the liar, the snake, the villain. I can be good, Patton. I hope you understand. I’ll see you on the other side.

Yours,

Janus

The letters he kept locked in a box, one he hid in his corner of the Mindscape. He kept it with Thomas’s deepest desires, the ones only he saw and knew. No one else came here, and he was fairly certain that it would remain unchanged after he… well.

His final words said, he returned to his room, and settled down for the last few minutes of his old life. He felt things shifting in the Mindscape, and with a deep breath, he shattered.

His room fractured around him, the walls shaking and splintering.

“JANUS! WHATS HAPPENING-“ The voice, Patton’s probably, tried to come in, but the doorknob was gone. The door was fading, and the walls were smearing together. Janus lied back, feeling his edges grow softer as Thomas’s mind picked him apart. Hopefully Patton wasn’t to hurt by his actions.

It felt like forever, and yet only seconds before the process was over. All of a sudden he felt himself snap back into place. Except, things felt different. He was different. Did that mean it worked? He sat up and looked around his room. The walls were bare, except for a large mirror across from the bed. He stood up and walked over to the mirror. A gasp escaped him as he saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it.

His scales were gone. His scar, the fang, the snake nostril, all gone. He looked just like any other side, except his one eye was still yellow. But it was a human eye. He didn’t look like a monster anymore. He looked, well, normal. His cape and hat were replaced with a soft yellow sweater with a rose on it, and a white beanie. Instead of his gloves, his hands were covered in pictures. Roses, each with a lightly glowing center. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but at least it wasn’t scales.

There was one more thing he needed to know though to learn if his plan truly worked. He steeled himself, and walked over to the door. He grasped the doorknob and turned it, pulling the door open. He looked out and saw Patton standing outside his door, tears running down his cheeks.

“Hel-hello? Why are you crying?” He stepped out, and Patton startled, as if he hadn’t noticed Janus.

“I, um, I can’t really remember.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand and smiled brightly at the yellow side. “You must be a new side! I’m Patton, and I’m Thomas’s morality! What’s your name kiddo?” The quick switch startled him, and he made a mental note to talk to Patton about that during this life.

“I haven’t picked a name,” he lied smoothly, guess he hadn’t changed too much. “But I’m his desire, so you can call me Dee for now.” Patton smiled wider, and opened his arms up.

“Can I give you a welcome hug? It’s customary.” Janus nodded, and the fatherly side wrapped his arms around him. The hug was warm, and just the right amount of pressure. He hadn’t ever gotten a hug quite like this before, and he hadn’t realized how much he needed it.

Far too soon, Patton pulled away. “It’s nice to meet you Dee! Let’s go introduce you to the other sides! You’ll see, they’re really sweet. It’s a real treat to know them!” Without another word, Patton pulled him along the corridor and down the stairs. “Look who I found!”

The others were gathered in the living room, Virgil in the armchair, Roman standing, his arms out in an emphatic gesture, and Logan on the couch. They all turned, and eyebrows raised as they took in the pair.

“Well now we know what that disturbance was. It seems our family is a little bigger now!” Roman straitened up and put on his most dashing smile. Janus had seen it a dozen times, but never directed at him. It felt good.

“Guys, this is Dee, Thomas’s Desire! I was in the hallway when his door just popped up!”

“Salutations, I am Logan, Thomas’s Logic.”

“Greetings! I am Prince Roman, his creativity! Well, the better half of it anyway.”

“Sup, I’m Virgil, I’m anxiety.”

And there he was. He still took his breath away. Virgil, his emo, sitting there and smirking at him, not a trace of malice in his eyes. How long had he waited to see that? And now he had it, had his second chance.

“And you already know me! Oh, also there’s one more side. Remus, the other half of creativity.” The energy in the room dropped once Remus was mentioned.

“Where is he?” He didn’t miss the way Roman visibly flinched at that, or how Virgil tensed up. He felt bad for upsetting them, but he needed to know how the final dark side was in a life without him. After a few moments of tense silence, Virgil spoke up.

“You’re a light side, right?” Janus nodded, and he continued. “Remus is a dark side. I also used to be one. But after I left and joined the light sides, Remus was left alone down there. He wasn’t very stable in the first place, but the isolation changed him completely. He’s completely mad, and he started getting violent, we couldn’t just leave him.”

At this point, Roman took up the story. “I conjured up a containment room for him. We can go in, and he has everything he needs, but he can’t leave or effect anything outside the room. It was the best we could think of. He’s hardly ever coherent anymore, he just raves and screams about a ‘snake’ and ‘liars.’ I wouldn’t try to go see him, he doesn’t react well to me and Virgil, and he actually recognizes us. Patton tried to see him and it didn’t end well.”

Janus felt guilt welling up inside him quickly. He never meant to hurt his old friend like that. He knew his absence would change things, but not this much.

The energy in the room had dropped, and everyone seemed extremely uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and strained to find something to change the subject.

“So, who’s going to introduce me to our host?” That seemed to work, and Roman perked up immediately.

In  just a few minutes, he was rising up in between Roman and Virgil, and Thomas was smiling at him. He had only seen Thomas’s smile a couple times before the change, and those were what he treasured most from his past life. And now here he was, smiles all around, not a hint of anger or disgust.

“So you’re my new side? The personification of my desires? What does that mean exactly? Why are you only appearing now?” Janus was slightly overwhelmed by the influx of questions, and Logan, of all people, noticed.

“Thomas, while I’ll never complain about you wanting to learn and expand your knowledge, I think that perhaps you should slow down, give Dee some time to breathe.” Thomas knotted sheepishly, and he felt a pang of gratitude towards Logan. He wasn’t really a new side, but if he was, this would all be way too much all at once.

All too soon, Thomas had to return to work, and the sides sunk out.

“I have an idea! We should have a movie night, after all, Dee hasn’t been to one!” Patton was jumping up and down, and looking hopefully at the others.

“A splendid idea padre!” Virgil gave a grunt of approval, and Logan sighed and nodded, already resigned. No one withstood Pat’s puppy eyes. Not for long anyway. Patton cheered, and ran to go gather every pillow and blanket he could find.

When Patton came back, popcorn was popping, and Virgil and Roman were playfully arguing over what movie to show Dee first. The moral side plopped his armful of bedding on top of Roman, silencing him. “Whoops, didn’t see you there Ro!” He giggled, and Janus found himself laughing along with him and Virgil, who chuckled at Roman’s misfortune.

“My hair! Pat, how could you slander me so!”

“Grow up Princey, it’s just hair, it can’t hide your giant ego even if it looks good.” The two started bickering, and Patton sat down next to Janus, a soft look on his face.

“I didn’t mean to pry or anything, but I peeked into your room. The door was open, and I noticed the walls were all blank. We’ll have to get it spruced up a little! You can get Roman to conjure things for you, and just you wait, it’ll feel like home in no time!” Janus nodded along distractedly, not really paying attention.

“Excuse me Patton, I need to grab something from my room real quick, I’ll be right back.” He stood up, his head spinning. He made it up the stairs before he slumped against the wall, the room tilting. He managed to stumble to his room, locking the door once he made it inside. He collapsed against the bed, feeling something choking his throat. He coughed, and felt it dislodge, and he coughed it up into his hand. It was a rose, tightly closed, the thorns dripping with blood. As he starred, the flower trembled, and its petals began to open. A golden light glowed inside it, and he saw an image in the light. It was him, telling Patton about how he didn’t have a name.

He felt another rose clogging his throat, and he coughed up another rose. This one showed him standing and excusing himself just a few minutes ago. When he lied to Patton. Both flowers showed times he lied. So that was what the roses meant. Even in this new life, he couldn’t truly leave Deceit behind. He conjure a vase, and placed the roses in them. Might as well spruce up the room a bit.

He looked at the mirror, and cleaned away the blood from his mouth. He collected his nerves, and unlocked the door, heading back down to join the others.

He hadn’t been invited to movie nights before. This was going to be fun.

#TSS #ts sides #janus sanders #deceit sanders #roman sanders #ts janus #ts roman #patton sanders #ts patton #Logan sanders #ts logan #virgil sanders #ts virgil #remus sanders #ts remus #Thomas sanders #ts thomas #anxceit #its hinted at but its there #I wrote this instead of sleeping #ARBAON #my writing #goblin writes