On My Period So Stressed Out I Need Bokutos Man Tits In My Face.

this reminded me of u and ur selfships

dead huzz i’m bella from twilight

me bc i have a selfship with

for hq

my mains: shoyo , osamu , kuroo , sakusa atsumu , suna , ukai

my sides: dachi , suga , kageyama , kenma , iwaizumi , bokuto , meian

for bllk

isagi , oliver , rin , nagi

for jjk

nanami , geto , sukuna , toji , higuruma

for mha

bakugou , all might , deku , shinso , sero , shoto , aizawa , hawks

erm that’s all i remember

chat am i cooking - sawamura daichi who grew up wanting to be a policeman because he believed in helping his community and the people he loves - now in his 30s, disillusioned, depressed af, feels like he’s not actually helping anyone (acab) and it all comes to a head when he meets escort!reader who’s on the run because she knows something she shouldn’t and he's just like, oh yeah i know what course of action i have to take

THE 27TH OF EACH MONTH.

𓂃Back n forth emails between you and your “friend.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Kageyama Tobio.

🎐 timeskip au , fluff , angst , reminiscing , yearning kageyama , tba. warnings will be posted with each chapter!

JANUARY 27TH draft.

FEBRUARY 27TH draft.

MARCH 27TH draft.

APRIL 27TH draft.

MAY 27TH draft.

JUNE 27TH draft.

JULY 27TH draft.

AUGUST 27TH draft.

SEPTEMBER 27TH draft.

OCTOBER 27TH draft.

NOVEMBER 27TH draft.

DECEMBER 27TH draft.

🎐 taglist is open!

hi darling, when i get my break today i have updates for you on the buggy love life <3 i love you and hope you have a good day kiss kiss kiss

-love bug 🐞

omg yes i’m so excited

sometimes i genuinely think if i spend time pondering about why people don’t fw me like i fw them anymore, i get blindsided and not pay attention to the people who actually still love and treat me the same way.

okay i just finished reading this and might i say im already addicted this is so beautiful like nana i love u this is how i pictured him so well and me and him and omgomgogm

navigation : midnight records! the moonlight album! the jjk album!

BEFORE SUNRISE ft. Zen'in Toji

synopsis : tokyo, may 1995. she doesn’t want to go home. he doesn’t have one. what starts as a strange encounter becomes a night of wandering until sunrise. and sometimes, one night is enough to remember someone forever.

contains : before sunrise au. soft angst. fluff. right person wrong time. strangers to almost lovers.

warnings : mentions of alcohol/smoking. language. themes of transience and loneliness. mentions of family trauma. suggestivity.

✷ masterlist — chapter two

✷ CHAPTER ONE. / 8:00 PM - Last Train

You left work late. Again.

One of the speakers had blown and you stayed back after close, rewinding the same ten seconds of a scratched L’Arc-en-Ciel CD until the bassline stopped rattling. It didn’t. You gave up.

The street was already leaning toward night when you stepped out, city lights blinking like they were pretending to care. You didn’t check the time. You knew if you looked, you’d start running. And running meant you still gave a shit.

So of course, you ran.

Boots not meant for sprinting. Shoulder bag slipping down your arm every five seconds. You cut through two alleys, jaywalked across an empty intersection, and whispered “sorry” to a taxi that almost hit you, though you weren’t. The wind hit your face like a reminder that you didn’t put on powder before you left. You’d gone a little heavy on the mascara this morning and now it was probably smudged. Fine, whatever.

The station came into view like a mirage of bad timing. You took the stairs two at a time. Your breath caught somewhere just behind your ribs, and right as your foot hit the platform — the train doors slid shut. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a dramatic noise. They just clicked. Indifferent. Clinical. The train pulled away from the platform as you watched it go, hands on your hips, chest rising too fast, trying to look like you hadn’t just sprinted six blocks and lost.

Cool.

You tried to make your breath quieter. You tried not to look like someone who still cared about missing things. But your legs were buzzing and the strap of your bag had carved a mark across your shoulder and honestly, the worst part was that you ran at all. You could’ve left five minutes earlier. You could’ve not cared. But you ran. Because sometimes, even when you’ve got nothing urgent to get home to — you just want to get there first.

And now you weren’t there. You were here. Sweating slightly under your collar, trying to look normal under the flat glow of station lights. You pulled your coat tighter. Not because you were cold. Just because you needed to do something with your hands.

You decide to lean back against the wall to avoid looking awkward longer. Your shoulder bag tugs at your arm, heavy with too many little things — a mazzy star cassette tape you didn’t put back in its case, half a sandwich you forgot to eat, a receipt you didn’t throw out because it felt like proof of something. You pretend to check the next train time. It's thirty-two minutes. Which is just long enough to feel like a punishment.

The vending machine glows from across the platform — garish in a way nothing ever is during the day. You walk toward it. Not because you’re thirsty. Just because it's something to do that isn’t standing still and thinking about how out of breath you still are. You press the first button you see. A can thunks into the tray like it’s mildly annoyed with you. You open it without looking and take a sip. Lukewarm. Bitter. Tastes like shit and regret. It makes sense. You're not sure what else you expected.

You bring the can up again and catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Not movement, really — just presence. Someone standing across the platform, maybe six paces off. Leaning against a concrete column like he’s been there the whole time. Like he was built into the structure. You didn’t see him when you got here. Or maybe you did, and your body was too busy trying not to collapse in front of a closing train door to register it.

He’s tall. Really tall. Black jacket a little too heavy for the weather, dark jeans that are not too large but not too tight. Cigarette between his fingers, not smoked so much as held. You can’t see his eyes from here, but you feel them. Not in a creepy way. Like he’s not looking at you. But he’s not not looking, either.

He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even seem bored. Just stands there like someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill silence. Or maybe someone who’s too used to it to bother anymore.

You glance away. Sip again. Grimace. The coffee still tastes like shit.

You wonder what he’s waiting for. If he’s waiting. If he even missed a train or if this is just where he ended up tonight. You think about saying something. Then think better of it. You haven’t had enough sleep this week to make decent small talk. You haven’t had a full conversation in three days that wasn’t about a refund, a release date, or which side of the sleeve is supposed to face out on a display rack.

Besides, he looks like the kind of man who doesn’t answer questions. Not because he’s mysterious, but because he doesn’t see the point.

You exhale through your nose and shift your weight again, not because you’re uncomfortable — just because standing still makes you feel too obvious. You glance over one more time. He hasn’t moved. You don’t know what makes you finally speak. Maybe boredom. Maybe impulse. Whatever it is, the words come out before you think them through. “You always look this constipated?” It comes out low, flat, not even trying to be funny. Just something to toss into the space so it doesn’t keep swallowing you whole.

He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his gaze slightly, enough to let you know he heard. His face doesn’t change much — except for the smallest twitch near the corner of his mouth, like something pulled tight out of habit is deciding whether or not to let go. “You always talk this much to strangers?” he asks, tone dry, almost bored. Just matter-of-fact.

You shrug, turning your attention back to the can in your hand like it might give you an excuse not to answer. “Only the ones who stare. And see me lose.” You walk back toward the bench without looking at him. You sit, cross your legs and sip the coffee again just to make your mouth stop moving. Still disgusting. Still better than being alone with your thoughts.

He doesn’t come closer but he doesn’t leave either.

“You always smoke that slow?” you ask, watching the red tip of the cigarette hover near his fingers. “Only when I’m not in a hurry.”

“Well shit, guess I ruined your vibe.”

Still nothing. Or maybe silence is just how he answers when he doesn’t feel like lying. You don’t push. But you don’t stop too. “I thought I had more time,” you say, like that’s something normal to admit to a stranger. You keep your eyes on the machines across the track. “I didn’t, apparently.”

He flicks ash without looking at you. “Can’t tell if you’re making conversation or confessing something.” You smile, faintly. “Why not both?” That’s the first time he really looks at you. Not long or searching. Like something about the way you say it doesn’t match what he expected. You sit with that. The station hums in the background. One of the lights overhead buzzes like it’s threatening to die.

“You live around here?” he asks after a beat. It’s not casual, but it isn’t probing either. You don’t look at him when you answer. Just tilt your head, eyes still on the vending machine like it might give you an exit. “Far enough to miss the train. Close enough to pretend I didn’t mean to catch it.”

Another pause. Then you add, softer, because it’s true, and you’re too tired to lie about small things: “Not that I was rushing to get home.” He doesn’t react. But that doesn’t surprise you. He’s got the kind of face that probably doesn’t shift for much. You wonder if that’s something he learned, or if it just grew that way.

You lean back against the bench, feeling the cold press of metal through your coat. The coffee can’s almost empty, and you can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved. “It's not that I hate it,” you say, mostly to yourself. “The place is fine. Small. My first appartment.” You swirl the can once before setting it on the ground by your feet. “But sometimes it feels like the walls get closer when I close the door behind me.”

He doesn’t say anything. You weren’t expecting him to. That might be part of the reason you said it. It’s easier to speak when the other person doesn’t try to fill in the blanks. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and crushes it under his boot with a slow, clean scrape. Doesn’t rush the motion. Doesn’t say anything for a while after.

Then: “Let’s walk.”

Just like that. Not a question. Not a command. Just a line drawn across the platform, and you’re the one who has to decide whether to cross it. You look at him. For the first time, fully. And he meets it — not challenging, not inviting. Waiting, like he’s already on the other side of the choice.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one leg. “You could be a serial killer.” He nods, like that’s reasonable. “I could.” There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel dangerous. He's ridiculously honest. Which is maybe worse.

You look toward the exit, then back at him. “You’re not gonna smile and say ‘I’m not that kind of guy’?”

“No.”

You let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Points for consistency.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture for you to follow. He just starts walking. Like the night was already his and you’re just deciding whether or not to step into it.

And for a few seconds, you stay still. You think about your apartment. About the cold floor, the quiet, the leftover curry you didn’t finish last night. You think about how the silence there doesn’t even echo — it just lands. You should stay. You should wait for the next train. You should go home. But you don’t want to go home. So you move.

The doors hiss shut behind you. You step into air that’s cooler than it felt five minutes ago. City air, late air — the kind that smells like warm metal and leftover ramen and just enough night to make you feel like maybe something’s still possible.

You stand there for a second. On the curb. He’s a few feet ahead of you, not looking back, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t ask if you’re coming. He already knows.

You shift your weight. The vending machine buzz follows you out. A cat darts across the street and disappears between buildings like it’s got somewhere more urgent to be. You glance toward him, then forward again. “If I end up in a missing person’s case,” you say, mostly to the sidewalk, “I really hope they use a decent photo.”

He doesn’t turn, but you catch it — the ghost of something near his mouth. Not a smile. Just a suggestion of one. “Guess that depends on what gets you reported missing.” You shake your head, drag your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “You’re really not big on comfort, are you?”

“I don’t sell anything I can’t afford.”

That gets a small exhale out of you. Not a laugh. But enough to loosen the knot in your chest. You both stay still for a minute. Not walking yet. Not really standing, either. Then, without looking at him, you ask: “So, we just gonna walk until sunrise?”

His voice doesn’t shift when he answers. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.” You don’t but you don’t say that. You just stay where you are. The street humming somewhere behind your left shoulder. The sky half-closed. A taxi slows but doesn’t stop. And the night — strange, quiet, almost patient — lets you be undecided.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @buckcherried @andysteve1311 @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @angelkiyo @stargazsblog @seren-dipitt @loverofthingsnsuch

Jk and frank collab pls pls pls rm and frank ocean collab pls pls

frank…frank ocean.

BITTER . . . kyotani “mad dog” kentaro + f! reader

                     𖥔    CHAPTER SIX : WHITE    𖥔

warnings : 17+ to read, language, addiction, major mention of drugs, violence + fighting, blood, men being a little creepy but nothing major, manipulation drive by fear (not towards yn), mentions of an overdose, no beta not edited we die like men

She stares at the address on her phone before looking up, the building across the street looks abandoned. Run down with boards on the windows, right out of a horror movie. Even still, she sees people come and go from the outside door on the side. Shady people, sketchy when they look around before stepping in.

She shouldn't be here.

He sent her the address himself, sharing numbers from the first day of classes when he became her accountability partner - forced rather. They never texted each other, not once in the five days of class, until the address popped up on her phone while she was still at work.

       Guard Dog, sent at 9:34PM: here's the place. you can't miss it.

She swallows hard when she looks back down at her phone before she shuts it. This most definitely goes against her parole, because there's no way in hell anything good happens in an abandoned warehouse. But her curiosity gets the best of her, maybe some morbid fascination, and she shoves her hands in her pockets before crossing the street.

She's met with music that thumps in her ears and the smell of booze when she finally makes it inside. It's loud, and she groans as she lets the door shut behind her. The warehouse is packed, people crammed into the bottom level of a crumbling building makes her cheeks warm and her palms slick with sweat.

She feels people bump into her without so much as a comment or an excuse me, and her jaw clenches when people look at her. Most have eyes that are sunken in, faces that are littered with bruises and cuts - some with blood already dripping from their lips - but all have the same expression: hopeless.

They had the life sucked out of them well before stepping into a place like this.

She can tell some are addicts, with a twitch in their walk or track marks painting their arms and legs. There's a nervous feeling in her gut and she wants to turn around immediately, to leave and go back to her shitty apartment and act like she never came here.

She shouldn’t be here.

Every alarm bell in her head was going off, and telling her to run away as fast as she could.

But she hears someone say her name, before she decides to run out, and she turns to see the source just as she feels fingers wrap around her arm. There's a split second where she wants to yank her arm away, to fight off whoever dared touch her. But her disgust turns to anger as she locks eyes with familiar brown ones, and she pulls back and scowls.

“Don't touch me, asshole.”

Yamamoto - the piece of shit boyfriend she had in high school. Dated him for six months, tried every drug they could together, until he left her for her best friend and got addicted to pills.

“Never thought I'd see your ass here.”

He wears the same scowl and haircut that he did in high school, but instead of cheap blonde hair dye it's natural brown - he probably spends all his money on pills and doesn't care about his hair anymore.

His nose is crooked now, a botched broken bone he never went to the doctor for. He's bruised everywhere her eyes trace over, some black and blue, new, and others a nasty greenish yellow. But her heart squeezes ever so slightly when she realizes the look in his eyes: nothingness. A void of anything and everything. A thousand yard stare holding her own that was full of life and meaning.

He's the shell of the person he once was.

She stares at him as her heart sinks to her stomach - the alarms in her head switching to full blown sirens - before turning to look at him fully. “What the hell do you want, Taketora?”

“You shouldn't be here.” There’s a twinge of concern in his voice, loud over the music and the people around them, but the root was out right fear. Pure, unbridled fear through a dead eyed stare. She went rigid at the warning.

The tone throws her off kilter, and she can feel her body screaming to sprint out the door and never look back. But the confusion is quickly replaced with deep seeded hatred. Yamamoto only ever cared about himself and his selfish desires. He didn't give a shit about her in high school - if he did, he wouldn't have fucked her best friend while she nearly overdosed in the park - so she knew he wouldn't start now.

She rolls her eyes and takes a step back, haphazardly bumping into the person behind her but she ignores it. “And you need to get the hell away from me.” She takes another step, but he grabs her arm again. Caging his fingers around her harder than the last time, and her stomach lurches to her throat. She can feel her heart beating out of her chest at the rough pull of her arm, and she's reduced to freezing up. Fight or flight always turned to freeze around men that touched her - a tactic she learned that made her want to vomit, but it kept her safe. “Let me go, Taketora.” Her voice is nothing but a whisper, and it goes unheard by him.

She feels him pull her before taking a few steps, and she's too locked up to do anything about it. He says something to her, looking back before he keeps walking, but she can't make it out between the music and the people around them.

There's a split second where she thinks clearly again and she feels her anger bubble up. Feels the heat rise in her chest like lava and she tries to yank her arm back, but the man only squeezes harder. She sees he's determined to not let go, and fear drops to her stomach like a rock. “Get the hell off me, Yamamoto!”

He looks back at her after she yells his name, his eyes lock with her in a plea just before he looks past her. She watches him pale and tear his hand away from her, averting his eyes to the ground in a fraction of a second.

She never knew Yamamoto to be scared of anything, always baring his teeth to anyone who crossed him. But she watches as fear takes him over and he's reduced to nothing more than a dog with its tail between its legs.

The person doesn't speak to her, doesn't look over to her as he passes her. But she knows who it is the moment he stands in front of her with his back to her.

Taketora was scared shitless of Kyotani, and it almost made her laugh.

But there's a tension in the air she can feel, thick and heavy as Yamamoto's eyes dilate when he looks up at the other man. He's shorter than Mad Dog, only by a few inches, but still it seems the felon towered over everyone. He was untouchable.

“Didn't you hear her the first time she told you to let go?” Kyotani’s voice is rough, gravelly, and full of malice. She watches the other shake his head, keeping his eyes glued to the ground. She can't help but notice the ironclad grip he has on the seam of his pants, holding it for dear life as the blonde talked to him.

She hears a hum, like Mad Dog enjoys the exchange, like he gets a kick out of the fear that oozes from him. “What was that?”

“No,” He shakes his head again, “no, I didn't. I swear.” There's a shake in his voice as he pleads his case, and she couldn't help but snort at the notion. She couldn't imagine Taketora being scared of anything in high school, but here he stood shaking like a leaf in front of the very man that invited her.

Karma was a raging bitch.

Mad Dog looks back at her when the laugh hits his ears, he's wearing a smirk, and she felt her stomach do flips when he locked eyes with her. “You know this guy, Weezer?”

She nods. “Yeah. That's my cheating ex boyfriend from high school.”

He turns around again, but she sees the shit eating grin on his face before he looks away. There's a voice in her head that claims she likes this, the attention and damn near protection service from the guard dog. She liked that he gave enough of a fuck to care, and the tiniest part of her thinks the whole thing was down right attractive.

She tries to brush the thoughts away, but the floodgates have opened and she started to drown in them. She likes the way he holds himself, cold, angry, and callous. She likes the way he dresses, punk and non-conforming in a way that worked for him. She likes his tattoos, the ones that wrap around his arms in black ink beneath bruises and cuts; she can see them clearly now, every line and shade, because the cut off shirt he wore left nothing to the imagination.

She particularly liked that he was untouchable to everyone around him - except to her. With his lip still bruised, she smiled at the thought that the man who frightened others let her punch him in the teeth.

“You fighting tonight, Yamamoto?” The question hangs in the air a moment, and the man finally looks up from the ground. She can see the fear wash over him, and his pupils dilate even more as he looks over to her and back to Mad Dog.

He doesn't have it in him to answer verbally, because he knows what's coming - she can tell too. He shakes his head and Kyotani chuckles, “well now you are.” The felon wraps an arm around the other's shoulders and turns, “but why don't you tell my friend that you're sorry, first? Yeah?”

There's a festering feeling in her stomach when Kyotani meets her gaze. He seems proud, a bit too smug, but completely in his element as he holds the man by his shoulders a little too tight. “I'm sorry.”

Kyotani rolls his eyes, “did you hear that?” He says her name again and it makes her cheeks hot, rolling off his tongue with ease. But the feeling of nailing the coffin for the man who ruined her life in high school took precedence.

Yamamoto looked at her in horror when she said no.

“Well, jackass, say it again.” She can see Kyotani’s fingers dig into the man's shoulder, and Yamamoto goes completely rigid.

“I'm sorry! It'll never happen again, I swear!”

Kyotani chuckles before letting him go, allowing him to take a single deep breath of relief before pushing him past her. “See? That wasn't so hard was it, mutt?” The name stings like a curse, and suddenly she thinks she's starting to piece together what the hell the man does in the abandoned warehouse. Yamamoto stumbles from the shove, only to be pushed again. She watches him fall to the concrete floor, knees connecting with a thud before the felon pulled him up by his collar.

She believes he's about to tell him off again, to ridicule him in front of everyone, but instead he looks over at her and her heart stops. Kyotani holds him up as if he were nothing, like trash, and her stomach flips when she sees a smirk at his lips again. “Wanna see why I'm really in those stupid ass classes?”

“This wasn't why?”

“That wasn't even half of it.”

Kyotani fights dirty and with the wrath of a god. He keeps his rings on, so the steel hurts a little more against already exposed skin. He goes for sensitive areas to inflict as much pain as he can in a short amount of time; she wonders if Yamamoto will ever be able to breathe correctly again after getting his nose broken a second time.

She watched for only five minutes, but tears her eyes away when it got too bloody. Yamamoto was worse off than Kyotani, and for a second she thinks he'll probably kill him - she's alright with that. But blood makes her think of her past, and as she watches it drip from Taketora’s nose, it makes her stomach turn.

She learned Kyotani likes to talk when he fights, she's heard him speak more in the span of a five minute fight than she ever has in the past five days. He's nasty, mean, and vindictive. Hurling insults at the already down man as the people around her cheer and yell.

Mad Dog was a demon sent straight up from hell, but it's a good thing she likes the warmth.

“I never took you as one to like watching fights?”

The voice next to her makes her jump as she turns to walk away from the fight. But she knows the voice, it's familiar and suave, and she smiles softly when she turns to face the owner.

Kuroo Tetsuro - full time business man, part time drug dealer.

Tetsuro was a good friend, spent time with him in her high school years and stuck around him because he gave her good deals on coke. He's kind, a little nerdy, but can talk a good game when he needs to. She remembers he was able to talk them out of getting arrested just before graduation; she's not surprised the police haven't caught onto him yet.

He's got his hands in the pockets of sweatpants, black ones with grey pinstripes that match the hoodie with it. He looks like he always does when he deals, and she smiles at the slice of normality.

“I don't.”

The familiar grin he always gives her slips onto his lips, and it causes her to take the first deep breath in what feels like ages. “Ah- so you're just here for the beautiful venue? Understandable, it really is gorgeous here.”

She laughs and nudges his shoulder, “obviously, dumbass.”

They look at each other a moment, and he nudges her shoulder back. There's a camaraderie between the two that's always left unspoken but felt between teases and taunts. Far healthier than any words shared between Yaku, because Kuroo actually gave a fuck whether she lived or died.

“Why are you really here?” The man has always been loud when he talks, so his voice cuts straight through the music and yells. “It's pretty sketchy, and you haven't messaged me in ages, ‘thought you turned it around.”

“I did,” she sighs and she sees his grin falter. “I have,” she corrects. “Kyotani invited me.”

“Mad Dog invited you?” She's starting to think this is more of an interrogation than a friendly chat, so she looks at the floor when she nods. She's already deduced Kyotani isn't a good person, he's still beating the life out of Yamamoto as they speak, but there's more to him than the man in front of her knows.

There's a pause, one that the man almost never makes - if it was one thing Tetsuro loved to do it was talk - and it makes the sinking feeling of wanting to leave again hit her in the chest once more. “Does he know-?”

Kuroo knows something she doesn't, she can see it in his eyes when she looks at him again in confusion.

She shouldn't be here.

“Know what?”

“That's you're an-” But his voice trails off and he shrugs. She knows exactly what he means, and it makes her want to heave.

“Addict? No.” He seems almost relieved at the word no, and the alarm bells start going off again once she sees him sigh.

He takes his hands out of his pockets and rakes them through his hair, a gesture he only does when he's got bad news. She knew it well. He would always do it when he told her he was out of coke - and it was always a lie. “I'll be honest with you, dude, there's a lot of drugs here. And I don't think you know the gravity of the situation.”

She really shouldn't be here.

“What are you talking about?” She turns to face him fully, and he's got this look on his face that can only be described as regretful.

“Do you know what this place really is?”

She shakes her head, “some sort of fighting ring? Can't tell why the hell he's doing it though.”

“For money,” he says bluntly. “If you can't pay off your debts, you sell your soul here to pay it off.”

She locks eyes with him for a moment, flickering between the features of his face before looking to the ground. She pauses, and for a second she believes she might throw up, but the feeling eventually passes. “Most of these people are addicts then, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you sell to them, don't you?”

“...Yeah.”  

She pauses once again, weighing her options before flashing him a small, faux, smile.“I'll be fine, Tetsuro.”

“Are you sure? It's only been six months.”

“Don't say only like it's nothing.”

“You're right, sorry,” he sighs. “But it's too soon to think that those cravings are gone, they never really go away.”

“Like I said, I'll be fine, Tetsuro.”

He takes a breath before looking at the people around him, “I'm glad you're clean.” He says her name before looking back at her with a genuine smile, “I missed the girl I knew from high school.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I missed her too.”

She should've listened to her gut. She should've let Yamamoto drag her outside. She should've listened to Tetsuro's warning and left as soon as she knew what this place entailed. She was stupid not to sprint out of the place the moment she walked in.

But she didn't. And she sits on a random step on the side of the building, clawing at her face, and counting until she hits the number that makes her stop craving again. But the magic number never came.

She watched a random guy in the abandoned parking lot do a key and it's all she can think about.

She hits the number 25 and suddenly thinks about the powder sitting on the metal that was right in front of her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him when he did it, like it was nothing - like it was second nature. It took everything in her to turn away and every fiber of her being to decline when he asked if she wanted to join.

She wanted to say yes.

But saying yes meant ruining six months of hard work, ruining her life all over again, and going back to jail when she inevitably popped on a drug test.

23. 24. 25.

25.

25.

She groans loudly when she hits the number for the umpteenth time until her voice cracks. She groans again when she drags her hands down her face and pulls at her hair. And she finally lets out a scream, one that bubbled and festered inside her for the past six months, as she kicks at the ground.

“God damn it!” She knows she looks crazy, and can see the people looking at her that lingered just by the building. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!!!” She bends down next to her and picks up anything she can find, the majority is gravel and rocks, some are old bottle caps, but she throws it as hard as she can regardless. She watches as each rock plummets into the inky blackness the night gave, but with each throw her anger only grows more.

She doesn't hear the creak of the entryway door swing open, doesn't hear the crunch of gravel that approaches her. All she hears is the voice that's plagued her for the past five days and it cuts like a knife.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

Mad Dog doesn't look at her like she's crazy, nor does he look at her in pity. His brows are scrunched, small specks of blood tracing over his nose and cheeks, and he looks at her confused. Confused as to why her demeanor took a 180, unbeknownst to the situation that happened just moments prior. He looks lost in frustration, but it goes unnoticed.

“You!” She snaps at him with venom, like a chained dog gnashing at anyone who gets near it. And she looks up at him like she wants to kill him, to sink her canines into him and rip him to shreds. She's back to square one with her anger again. She wants to claw at him, kick him, spit at him. All for inviting her to a place that made her rethink every decision she's ever made.

She gets up from the step and makes her way over to him, each step proving more forceful than the last. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, lost, but stumbles back when she shoves him with all that she has. “This is all your fucking fault! I should've never come to this stupid ass warehouse! Fuck you!”

White was the final thing she saw the last time she got arrested. The time that landed her in anger management classes. Most people saw red when they went into a rage, but she associated white with all things that pissed her off the most.

White lights - the UV ones that made her head hurt. White rooms - like the ones at the community center. White dresses - that made her think of her sister getting married and moving away, leaving her nothing but a memory and an old Weezer hoodie. White flowers, the ones that Morisuke used to give her in high school before he became an addict too. White lighters - that an old friend used to give her before he overdosed. White lines - that she would inevitably lose herself to and still struggled to find the missing parts.

She sees white just before she rears back and punches him before he says anything. Punches him the way he showed her, with her foot farther back and with her knuckles barred. She doesn't know where she hits him, she doesn't care, all she knows is that it connects and she can barely breathe as she steps back.

She watches as he's knocked on his ass, still conscious but holding his jaw as blood drips from his lips. He looks at her with an emotion that's foreign to her, an expression that's a cross between amused and panicked. “Did you know I was a fucking addict, Mad Dog?” Her voice cracks when she yells at him, but it shakes as she can see the tears starting to well in her eyes.

He turns to his side and spits the blood in his mouth on the pavement next to him, then looks up at her through furrowed brows. “I knew that good girl facade you had going was a crock of shit.”

“Answer the damn question, Kyotani!”

For the first time in his life he pauses. Finally feels the need to choose his words carefully, to tiptoe around them like eggshells before he sighs. “How would I know that?” He says her name after like they're friends now, like she didn't just punch the ever loving hell out of him. She feels the tears start to slip down her cheeks at the notion. “Is that what this shit is about?”

“Yes! You fucking asshole!” She doesn't care anymore how insane she looks, crying with bloody knuckles and a shaking frame in front of public enemy number one of the whole damn building. “Why did you invite me to this hell hole?”

“Because you asked.” His response is short and simple, and it only makes her more angry. She kicks at the gravel again, sending bits and pieces towards him that he covers his face with his arm for.

She takes a breath and groans, kicking at the ground again and sending more gravel towards him. “God- I despise men like you!” She spits before taking a step past him, “make sure to sleep with your concussion, jackass, don't text me again.” 

taglist (open, reply to the masterlist or send an ask)

@phoenix-eclipses @wyrcan @warlocksoup @inloveinsickness @bakery-anon 

@crypt-0rchid @hyunteru @kameyyy @nekozaki @angelichwv

@a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @localgaytrainwreck @standcom @ggggbabybaby2 @chaloume

@kawoala @evilari111 @baylz @sahrberrii @cryoarm

@solzscribblez @chososcamgirl @lavender-pink-socks @nobodybutnnoorr @aldebrana 

@softpia @thesmithslvr17 @arwawawa2 @massacremars @hibiscy

@arminswife12 @lolyouresilly @2dmenfr @bokutoko

ty for the tag tiff!

ntp: @dearru @bakery-anon @kissunday

found a fun little personality test!

i am open tagging as always bc i wanna see everyone’s results!!!!!!

IM GONNA SOB