#meo writings

[meocities]

The Lack Thereof

Mithrun/Reader - 1423 words, hurt/comfort

You're nervous. You're sad and lonely and hurting, and on top of it all, you're nervous.

Mithrun stares at you from across the bedroom. He's been doing that a lot lately — you've noticed how his eyes linger. You notice a lot more than you let on about him, but you’ve realized that he ends up knowing anyway. You can't keep anything secret from him — he'll find out that you're hiding something, at the very least, and then he'll just keep staring until you tell him.

He's doing that now. Staring. His eyes bore into your own, and when you look away for a second, glance back, look away again, he moves his staring to your hands. You're wringing your fingers in your own grasp. The edges of your cuticles are dry and picked. Your skin might have bled a few times from your nervousness, and though the blood was the only thing that could have given your anxiety away (blood that had long been cleaned), you know Mithrun sees the red-flushed divot of wounds even from the distance you're keeping.

Mithrun raises an eyebrow, and the anxiety compounds in your stomach. It burns your skin, just as much as the memories do, and you know you're strong but you think to yourself, god, I want to cry.

You're strong, and you're brave, and you've always stood up to everything that has ever been thrown at you, and you're so tired. You're so tired of the effort. You wonder if he can relate.

So you bow your head, and you know Mithrun's eyes have gone wide — as much as they can, anyway — staring at you still. He's silent, unmoving on the bed the Canaries had set him up with after the new kingdom's establishment. Of course it would be silent. Of course he would be staring. You’re the one who invaded his room in the middle of the night, after all. You know you're lucky that he doesn't care.

Yet, for now, you're still looking at the floor while the former captain of the Canaries looks at you, with your hands wringing themselves into shreds, and the hole in your stomach is eating you alive. You know he expects something of you, so you take a breath (it's shaky, and you cringe because you know your words aren't going to come out right) and deliver, ineloquently, “you don't care about most things, right?”

Mithrun's told you his story. How he became a dungeon lord — and how he lost that title in five years. How he's been recovering over time, slowly but surely, thanks to the help of Kabru and his Canaries, and the noodle shop that he lives above, and everyone who's had the smallest bit of faith in him along the way. And while Mithrun's made endless progress, you know he still has trouble desiring, sometimes.

You can't imagine asking this of anyone else.

Mithrun nods his head slowly, and you realize you've looked back up at him when his brows furrow together. “I don't,” he says.

“Can you do me a favor,” you say, expecting to stop there, but highly reluctant to even consider the thought of him rejecting you before you even get the real question out. “Can I join you?”

Mithrun looks down, gaze sweeping his bed, before turning back to you. It's a silent question, and you nod, cheeks aflame. Are your legs shaking? You feel unsteady. You aren't sure if you're breathing right — feels too shallow, as if you're afraid to even make a sound. Your hands, still fidgeting with your fingers, twist a joint in such a way that your knuckle cracks, and you wince at the sound interrupting the silence. Mithrun remains quiet, and you think that you might never have taken a deep breath in your life.

He breaks this silence a moment after. “Why are you asking this of me?”

There's lots of things you can say to this — lots of things that go through your head in response. It feels delicate to dissect, yet heavy. Emotion and cognition flit through your brain, and you think about analyzing yourself in your typical pattern of being self-aware, but it feels like too much. There's no good straw to grasp onto, but the one thing that comes to your mind is that, despite not knowing him for long, there's something about him that makes you feel as if he's the only person in the world you can go to.

I don't know wouldn't suffice as an answer. Moreover, you would feel bad about not communicating to the best of your ability. To him, you say, “I trust you,” and you don't think about how his distance is the most familiar thing you've known.

He doesn't seem convinced, but he shrugs and lifts his head to lay on the side of the pillow — moving to make room for you. Your heart thuds hard in your chest, and you're both terrified and not. You wipe your sweaty palms on the surface of your clothes, because you don't want to put that on Mithrun, not at all — there's no need for him to see that you're any more nervous than he already knows you are. While your hands are wiped off, you approach the bed, lifting your leg so you can slide over the top, knees bent as you sit by his waist. You're so close that your knees are touching the right side of his waist. The bed wasn't very big to begin with, and by the way Mithrun moves his arm out to make room for you to lay down, you know he's aware of the proximity.

Which, this action makes your chest ache. He wasn’t supposed to be caring — he wasn't supposed to make this easy. You're tempted to pull back for a moment before Mithrun raises his eyebrow at your hesitation, and you bite your tongue even as your eyes begin to moisten. You won't cry, you know this for sure — you refuse to be weak in front of someone as strong as him, and even though his eyes narrow at all the things you won't say, you give up part of the act and lay your head down on his chest, nosing your face into his neck. Your left hand comes to rest on his stomach so that you're curled into him, and you can already feel the moisture from your breath condensing on the skin of his neck. You won't cry, you remind yourself. You won't cry, and if some tears do drop on Mithrun's shoulder beneath your face then it was an accident. You didn't mean to.

Slowly, his arm comes around to cradle you into his side. Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your spine to pull you closer, stroking along the bone of your back. You can feel yourself shaking, frozen in place — you don't want to move, but something like this is so unfamiliar. You never would have expected this from him, of all people — wasn't the point of seeking this out from him because he wouldn't be overwhelming? Wasn't the point of this to have an image of being loved?

Yet, with Mithrun’s fingers at the slope of your back, the image you had is colored and crisp. Even if he's pretending, it almost feels like he actually cares about you.

He can feel that you're shaking now — there's no doubt about it. Your breathing rattles through your chest as your fingers grip the fabric on his stomach, and you feel his abdominal muscles clench for a moment before he forces them to relax. He shifts his face above you and you feel lips on your forehead — he pressed a kiss to your skin, you realize, and your heart shatters into a million pieces. You're warm, you're burning up, and all you can do is sling your arm across his ribs, tuck a leg between his, and bury your face so far into Mithrun's neck that you don't know where you end and he begins anymore.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this — nothing this nice. You're still shaking, but you're held tightly. Why did he desire to hold you?

You vocalize this sentiment. “Why are you doing this?” You ask, and your voice is quiet. Devastated. Unsure.

Mithrun doesn't look at you. He doesn't even shift his position. Just hums a short noise in the hollow of his throat — something you feel the vibrations of tickling your nose — and says, “I trust you, too.”

[meocities]

Keen

mithrun/reader - 1,561 words, implied/referenced self-harm, hurt/comfort

note: hi anon, i love you, i am so so so sorry for taking four months to get this done. i was going to also do kabru but it was just taking so much time so i . did not write him. i hope this brings you comfort and thank u for requesting :)

It's not that you mean to stare. Your only defense of yourself is that you're not judging him, but even that is flimsy. It feels wrong to even think, as your eyes travel over the scrabbled scars on his forearms, but it almost feels like coming home.

Which is a thought that is definitely out of line — not to mention assumptive — but it doesn't matter how quickly you backtrack, because Mithrun has definitely noticed you looking now. His arm is still outstretched, hand holding the shirt he was wearing, because, right, you were supposed to fold it for him. You're already making a fool of yourself on the first night you see him to bed, the first night you perhaps might even spend in his presence. Mithrun's still largely uncaring, but he's made progress in expressing his preferences lately. Your reaction here, your stare — would this be something that drove him to avoid you in the future?

You’re stuck paralyzed. His expression doesn't change even as you fumble with the shirt and drop it on the bed between you. 

Yet, he's waiting. His eyes are watching your face, expression open in a way it usually isn't. He's making space for your own reaction, you realize, and the nerves bunch up in your stomach.

You broach the topic in the only way you can think of. “How did you… get those?” You ask, and the knowledge that this is too blatant, too personal, makes your heart beat into a frenzy. Your skin feels cold and clammy — he's staring at you with his gray-dark eyes, flitting down only to pick up his shirt. Which, you take and start folding, and ignore how his hand finally drops back to his side. His very exposed side. The skin of his abdomen is where your eyes follow (because of the movement of his hand, because it dropped there, of course) and your breath catches in your throat at just how much there is to see, how his soft waist has scars there too. 

Mithrun stays silent for a moment. His eyes glance at your arms, down your torso to your legs. “How do you think?” He asks, sparing a look at his own forearms and their marks — as if, from the past, he had grabbed on, dug in, and dragged. 

You're quiet. It doesn't feel right to say.

Mithrun knows anyway. “After losing my title of dungeon lord,” he says, and you think, what? The confusion must not show on your face, because he continues. “I didn't want to recover. I didn't want anything. Any reminder of what I was sent me into a frenzy. I'm sure you can understand what I mean.”

Now you understand. You understand better than you want to admit. You weren't a stranger to emotions so big for your body — panic choking through your throat, anger burning a hole in your chest, grief so heavy you couldn't move off the floor. Frenzy or not, you had been there. You, too, had wanted that hurt.

“I'm sorry,” you say, and set his folded shirt on the nightstand. “That must have been hard for you.” You move a hand to his wrist, trailing down his skin until your hands are entwined. It's a gentle gesture, less of a grip and more feeling his flesh against yours. Mithrun doesn't move to grasp your hand more than a brief twitch of his fingers, but even this is more than enough for you. 

It's as if the contact has unlocked his thoughts. “The demon was all I could think about.” Mithrun's face has an uncertain expression etched onto it, and you know he's trying to make sense of his emotions. “Before I wanted to kill it, I couldn't stand the mention of it. I only realized recently that I wanted it to finish the job.” He doesn't react to his words at all, not with his posture nor his hands, but you can tell from the distance in his eye — half-lidded, unfocused — that he's reminiscing. An x-shaped scar on his throat trembles as he speaks, his voice soft and raspy. You wonder how much he had to force those words out into the open.

The scar bobs as Mithrun swallows. You wish you could reach out and soothe the motion.

There's a moment of quiet before Mithrun lets go of your fingers, pulling his hand to rest at his abdomen. Rejection pangs through your chest and you try not to let it show on your face, schooling your expression into careful neutrality. Yet, Mithrun's not done moving, because he shuffles down under the plush gray covers of his bed, turning his head to you. He doesn't say anything nor nod his head in any way, but you can recognize what an invitation looks like from him. 

Your lounge pants are the first thing to go, namely because you can slip them under the covers faster than Mithrun can get a good look at your skin. Next is the shirt, and you turn away from him as soon as it's off. You fold these delicately, then place them on top of Mithrun's clothes on the nightstand. A few seconds after this is all it takes for you to turn the lamp off and shimmy underneath the covers, burying yourself up to your shoulders. Moonlight fills the room in the lamp's absence. Your expression is carefully calm, and your quick breathing can be explained by the way you're both undressed next to each other. Your right shoulder is pressed against his left — Mithrun's warm, so warm, and you want to curl into his body and stay there forever.

Yet you’re still — too still — and Mithrun draws a breath. You were too fast with getting undressed and not letting him see. “You asked because you're the same as me,” he realizes, and you know it's not a question. 

“Yeah,” you say, and you wonder if he can feel how you've tensed where your bodies are touching. “Didn't you know?”

Mithrun looks, looks down — you feel as if you've been drenched in ice. “Wounds are versatile,” he says. “I don't read into others’ bodies.” It's hard to believe him — you know what you look like, after all, but you suppose that many others wouldn't take Mithrun's scars as self-inflicted if all they knew was that he was often in combat. Maybe you had been primed to recognize what these wounds had looked like. Maybe your eye for hurt was more keen than most.

“You're not like most people, then,” is what you come up with. Something deep inside your chest is throbbing, some ache that formed when the scars did and never quite went away. “They usually know just by looking at me.”

Mithrun’s silent. He's silent often, like when he's cooking noodles in preparation for opening his shop. But he's never silent while staring at your arms as if he's had a revelation, and this new quiet makes your abdomen flip with a decided nervousness. 

“I suppose you understood more than I realized,” Mithrun says, and you nod your head.

“I think so.” 

It's still horrifically still. There's too much tension in your throat to swallow down, and each breath aggravates that hurt in the chest even more. You move your left arm — the one not pressed to Mithrun's side — to press over your wild heart.

Mithrun must sense your restlessness. “Relax. It doesn't change anything.”

Right. It made no sense for it to change anything, not with Mithrun's own scars. You nod. You still can't look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “There’s no reason for me to be nervous.”

You hear Mithrun’s head shift towards you again, skin brushing against the pillowcase. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his expression turn contemplative. He's silent for another moment before he speaks, voice soft in a way you've never heard before.

“You're still attractive to me,” you hear him say, and this is what gets you to finally look up at him. His eye is focused on you, moonlight hitting his face through the window, and there's something so picturesque about how his wavy hair spills over the pillow, how his eye is twinged just slightly silver. Breath catches in your throat as you're entranced by his visage, and Mithrun turns closer, pressing his chest to your shoulder. His fingers come up to hold the side of your face, the curve of your jaw, and his voice is reverant when he confesses, “still beautiful.”

The ache beats once more in your chest, then falls away, dislodged. For now, it's been calmed, and goosebumps rise up on your skin. “Thank you,” you whisper, and even that tiny breath is shaky. “I think you're beautiful too.”

Mithrun hums some vague sound and you see the hint of a smile rise on his lips.

He still can't fall asleep without being coaxed, and your heart's beating far too quickly to rest. But for now, it seems that you're both content to lay next to each other, trading kisses, skin to scarred skin. He's gentle, sweet when he wants to be. You can't help but delight in how lucky you've been to keep him.

Mithrun is soft against you — so delightfully warm — and you discover that feeling his body against yours is more comforting than you ever believed it would be.

[meocities]

i got too into kabumisu so here is a wip of a fic

i don't know when this will come out but kabumisu enjoyers come forth celebrate with me

[meocities]

RATTLE!!!!

IVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE FOREVER!! the link is in the replies so tumblr doesn't think this post is spam. good morning cromaka nation

[meocities]

layla and wanderer hanging out because it's 1. late into the night and layla has papers due and 2. wanderer has nothing better to do than to ponder inazuma's economic state but at least this girl won't try to be unnecessarily annoying. out of the corner of his eye, he notices her hands set down the pen she's holding while a labored sigh worms its way out of her lungs. her body starts to tip forward, eyes fluttering shut as she falls, but his hand reaches out to catch her forehead before it hits the wooden table. when she looks up again, this is when wanderer meets Other layla for the first time.

she offers thanks to wanderer for catching her and explains layla and herself. how layla is her-but-not-her, how the sleepwalking is a cover. how — even though she keeps up with friends and schoolwork when her host is asleep — she's not connected to layla's life.

wanderer will hear this and lean back in his seat, arms crossed. a new thing found out about his... acquaintance. they're not friends. nonetheless, a new thing learned about someone he speaks to weekly. he'll nod to other layla and both will return to their respective work.

he won't think about this, not consciously.

but as he studies the inazuman journal of economic literature, the slightest nagging feeling in his gut will whisper, what do you remember of scaramouche? of kunikuzushi?

wanderer will tug the brim of his hat over his eyes. despite the memories having been returned to him, he doesn't recall being those people — not really.

[meocities]

it's not the best haircut maka's ever seen, but crona's standard style was something far worse, uneven and jagged — so anything was an improvement, really. when they mentioned cutting their hair, it was difficult enough to keep kid (and the scissors) away from crona, but they seem to have reached a compromise somehow.

now, their hair is still the same uneven and jagged, but this time it's layered to hell and back, so the strands fall on top of each other nicely instead of clumping together. they kept the bangs and the long strands that fell onto the bridge of their nose and cheeks, but it gives maka an excuse to be able to tuck the softness behind their ears and gently kiss their skin, so it's safe to say she doesn't mind. not the affection, nor the hair, nor the softness.

which, that softness — this was something maka didn't expect.

when you removed the damage and gave them a thorough shampoo-and-conditioning, crona's hair was actually soft. it was thick and fun to run her hands through when they laid their head down on her lap. maka would see the advantage of this, taking care to caress her near-blunt fingernails along the sensitive middle of crona's neck. crona would always gasp and shiver, maka's nails gently pressing along something that she had found was called the occipital nerve. it was cute. crona was cute.

crona with their head in maka's lap, with her hand petting strands of their hair. crona giggling as maka responded to this press by dragging them up with her arms to plant quick, chaste kisses againt their face. crona, utilizing the confidence they had been delicately building day by day, slipping a hand under maka's chin and kissing her for real, desire vulnerable and safe between them. crona, as their souls entwined. crona, crona, crona. maka felt warm in her chest.

and when they would pull apart minutes later, dazed and so in love, maka would cup crona's face and smooth their now-messy hair backwards, tucking pink beauty behind sensitive ears. her green eyes would meet their grey, and she would smile. they would both smile.

crona would rest their bashful face on her shoulder, and maka wouldn't have it any other way.

[meocities]

hello CroMa nation

i wrote a fluff fic for once in my life. the link to it is in the comments i hope every character explsodes

Antiserum 3.4k / fluff / post-anime Maka was anxious. Maka wasn’t normally anxious. After she and her friends saved the world from a revived Kishin — the revived Kishin — she didn’t often have it in her to be anxious anymore. If something scared her, Maka either got out of the picture or confronted it head-on. There was no need to remain stuck in a situation that had her feeling terrible, especially if it could be helped. It was a whole different problem when you threw feelings, of all things, into the equation.

[meocities]

six or seven sentence sunday o7

thank you for tagging me @chickycherrycola !! i haven't been getting much writing done lately because i've been busy BUT i did write a few sentences for one of my oc's backstories the other day. so here i am softlaunching roseli/aero who i have had since 2013 and who i care about so so much.

Roseli walked the streets with bare feet. Though she knew it wasn't safe to be in such a state, she couldn't help but feel like crying.

The smog from the fire remained in her lungs and her nostrils. Each shaky breath she drew from the air aggravated the flesh that had burned within her. She didn't know how long it had been since the fire started - not that it mattered now. She was out. She ran from the burning hills to the town, and now Roseli was holding in sniffles as the townsfolk surrounded and stared at her.

in terms of people to tag... @artificialstrontium i've seen u put some swag writings in discord lately..., @xphntmhvx u are always cooking up something good, @squirrelsandpretzels ik u said you don't post besides rbs but u SHOULD if u want ofc..