#Humming Haus

[kqulitz]

bassist girl

bill kaulitz x reader

summary: bill tries to get you to take a break from practicing.

tags: established relationship, fluff, reader plays bass (obviously lol), cuddles!!, (tom makes an appearance bc i love them equally and i’ll feel bad for leaving him out), platonic tom/reader

lowercase intended :)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

your fingers ache, yet you’re determined to get the notes right. the others had already gone out, probably mooching around town whilst the tour bus was stopped for a break. bill was sat on the bed across from you, which you couldn’t tell if it belonged to georg or gustav as they kept swapping based on who got on the bus first. his dark eyes are staring, yet it doesn’t make your skin crawl nor make you uncomfortable. “do you think you need a break?” he asks, you hum. “no. i’ll get it.”

the notes aren’t complicated, yet they require faster hand movements to make sure it fits with the flow of the song. bill’s eyes flicker between your concentrated face and your hand, watching it move then restart when you couldn’t quite capture what you wanted. “such a perfectionist.” he muses, clearly teasing. “you say that like tom isn’t.” you shoot back, glancing up at him with a small smile on your lips. “he doesn’t neglect his basic needs because he can’t cant a riff right.” bill gets up, moving to lean on the counter beside you. you sigh. “it’s a complicated riff. this has to be good otherwise i’ll fuck up our next show..!” you grumble, relaxing a little as his fingers comb through your hair. “you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. your finger work is amazing.” bill tells you, hand moving down to brush against your cheek. you exhale slowly through your nose, ignoring the pain in your fingertips as you begin the riff again.

bill sits beside you on the bed, shoulder resting against yours. you have to adjust your bass to accommodate him, it puts a lot more strain on your wrist. “take a break, mein hübsches mädchen.” (my pretty girl) you sigh. “i can’t. not until this is right.” you respond. bill’s slender fingers wrap around the neck of your bass guitar, slowly pulling it away from you. you let him, slumping back. “i’m gonna fuck up our next show, i know it.” you pout. bill frowns. “you won’t. you’re an amazing player.” he leans in, gently kissing your lips. “you’re just saying that to make me feel better.” you smile a little. your boyfriend hums. “is it working?” he asks, standing up to put your bass away for you. “yeah…”

bill returns, climbing on top of you and hiding his face into your neck, his arms wrapping around your middle. “you’ll be fine. you’ve done this riff a lot before.” bill mumbles, lips brushing against your skin. “but i haven’t done it recently.” you frown, squeezing him closer. bill rolls his eyes, moving his head to steal a kiss. “you’ll be fine, meine maus. it’s just nerves.” (my mouse) he smiles, rolling to his side with you so the two of you could cuddle more comfortably. you huddle close to him, letting your hands rest against his back. footsteps moving up into the tour bus don’t bother either of you. “jesus- can you two not?” you can hear the eye roll in tom’s voice. “hau ab.” (get lost) bill responds, a smile on his face.

tom flops down onto his bunk above the two of you, rummaging through his backpack as he went out to get snacks for everyone. “where are the others?” you ask him, yet tom shrugs (even though you couldn’t see him). “i don’t know, they went off without me.” tom sighs, leaning over the edge as he offers the two of you some snacks. bill snatches them up, “aw, poor tommy.” he teases his twin who scoffs. “give me those back-“ he jokingly lunges for the snacks, which bill shields away. you can’t help but laugh, watching tom break into a cheeky smile as his sits up again. he continues getting some stuff out, eventually you hear his gameboy turn on. “tom, have you got jet set radio?” you ask him, listening as he checks his bag again. “uhh… yeah, i do.” he responds. “fuck yeah. bring it down here.” you part from bill who pouts at you. “fiiine. only if you share your snacks with me.” tom hops down from his bunk, joining the two of you.

you end up sandwiched between the twins playing jet set radio as the two of you argue about which pokémon starter was best. bill occasionally feeds you some snacks, much to tom’s fake disgust. “i think she’s gonna beat your score.” bill mutters, kissing your shoulder. “of course i am. jet set radio is my favourite game..!” you giggle. “i don’t mind.” tom shrugs, pushing some more chips into his mouth. “you should, she’ll destroy your ego.” bill teases, watching his twin roll his eyes. “i don’t really play jet set radio anymore, she can have it.” he responds. “thanks, tom.” you chirp, yet your eyes don’t leave the screen of his gameboy as you work away at the score. bill leans his head against yours, watching you easily beat his brother’s highest score. it made him feel rather proud.

“i’m glad you’re taking a break.” he mumbles. you hum softly. “you two better not be flirting.” tom teases, nudging your leg with his foot. “we’re not.” you assure him, smiling as bill’s hand rests on your thigh. “when are the other two gonna get back..?” bill sighs, leaning back against your pillows. “they’re probably getting dinner, it’s getting quite late.” you shrug, glancing up at the clock. “i hope they bring something good.” tom replies, yet his brother scoffs. “you’ve just ate three bags of chips!” he points out, yet tom shrugs. “i haven’t eaten all day!” he defends. the level completes and you hand the gameboy back to tom. “done. try and beat that.” you grin, watching his eyebrows raise in surprise. “i definitely won’t be able to beat that.” he laughs, showing bill who nods. “i told you she’d destroy your ego.”

[elisela]

‘this is my husband/boyfriend/partner etc.’ + NurseyDex

that's mine nurseydex, alternating pov

.

Nursey goes flying. Headfirst into the goal, arms flailing, Will thinks he hears a yelp sort of flying. He only resists the urge to roll his eyes because Bitty’s looking right at him and he doesn’t want a lecture. 

Still—when one of the assholes on the other team barks out a laugh and says, “Who was that, Bambi?”, Will can’t help but sigh.

“That’s my teammate, asshole,” he says, and cuts over to check him against the boards. 

—

Derek misses the days that the frogs were wide-eyed and respectful in the Haus. These kids—he’s going to need some sense knocked into them soon. They’re loud, rowdy, and far too interested in integrating into the group by joining in on the teasing, which is a right they have not yet earned.

Like now, when they’re giggling to themselves and looking at him.

“So—” one of them starts, smirking, and never finishes.

“So,” Derek repeats, jerking his thumb at Dex, “that’s my roommate.”

The laughter grates on his nerves, but not as much as pretending he doesn’t care about sharing a room with Dex.

—

Nursey is … singing? Will thinks that’s what he’s trying to do at least, and he’s heard him sing almost every day in the shower so the warbling coming out of his mouth is surprising. He’s not saying Nursey is good by any means, but he can sound decent with the right song and this … this is not the right song.

He doubts the fact that all the words being slurred thanks to being absolutely trashed is helping.

Will stays at the bar until the song is done, resolutely facing away from the somewhat dimly-lit karaoke stage so he doesn’t get dragged into participating. Luckily—or not, considering Ransom and Holster seem to have disappeared so the drunken idiot is now his responsibility—Nursey doesn’t say anything when he comes crashing up to the bar except, “Tequila shots?”

Will can barely understand him, but the look on his face—the one that appears whenever Nursey thinks he’s had a particularly good idea—speaks volumes. “Water,” he says firmly, sliding a waiting pint glass over. 

He really doesn’t understand whatever Nursey mumbles then, but he has more pressing problems, because his lap—previously empty of everything except his coat—is now occupied. “Jesus,” he mutters, trying to wiggle away. “Dude—Nursey—”

“S’comfy,” Nursey says, and Will tries once more to get him to move to his own seat with no avail.

The bartender, when she returns, gives Will a raised eyebrow. “He bothering you? I can get him out.”

Will sighs. “He’s a friend,” he says, and adds, “so he pretty much bothers me all the time.”

“Ya love me, pretty boy,” Nursey says. He starts to laugh—at what, Will has no clue—but it makes him wiggle in a way that Will isn’t sure he’s entirely comfortable with, and Nursey goes sliding to his own seat after another shove.

“Shut up and drink your water,” Will says, and motions to close their tab.

—

“That’s Jack,” Derek says, nudging his grandmother and pointing at the television, where Jack is leaning on the boards and chatting with the coach. “He’s on the Falconers.”

“I’m rooting for them,” she says, and tuts when Derek makes an aborted noise. “Hush, you don’t get to choose who I like. Is he a defender?”

Derek’s been playing hockey most of his life and every time he watches a game with his grandma it’s like she’s never heard of the sport before. “No, he’s not a defenseman,” he says. God help him, he’s never going to get through this game alive. 

The shot switches to a close-up and she hums. “Handsome.”

Derek shrugs. Jack’s fine, he supposes. A bit too bland for him, nothing that really stands out, not like—”And that’s Dex—Will—over there, in the white. Will—he’s my—” he swallows a bit too hard.

“If you think I haven’t figured out you like men and women, Derek, we’re going to need to have a conversation regarding your assumptions about my intelligence.”

He wonders if God would actually strike him down if he prayed hard enough. “He’s my boyfriend, Gram,” he says, staring resolutely at the television.

She hums again. “That Jack is more handsome though, don’t you think?”

It’s going to be a long game.

—

Will’s trying to hide. Table at the back, hat still on and pulled down low, black hoodie and black jeans. Anything to make himself blend into the background, because he doesn’t want to be caught dead here.

He also doesn’t want to be involved in any conversations, not that the girls at the table next to him have picked up on that. He’d made two fatal errors: being cordial when one of them had said hello, and admitting he’s never been to an open-mic poetry night.

They haven’t stopped talking to him since. 

“Okay, this guy—I’m not sure he’s your type, you know? Not that you aren’t like, super intelligent—I mean you’re here, right, so obviously—but he has a lot of heavy themes in his work if you really dig in and you really need to hear them a few times to peel back the layers. I’m hoping he reads the tree above the grave again, it’s—”

She cuts off, finally, when a cough sounds from the front and Derek begins to speak. There’s utter silence while he recites words that Will’s heard a hundred times over in various iterations, tweaked and stressed and polished until he could probably say them in his sleep, then an excited outburst of conversation among applaus when it’s over.

“Amazing, right?” she says, and keeps talking while Will nods. “Have you heard of him before?”

Will looks at her. “He’s the one I came for,” he answers honestly, grinning for the first time all night when he sees Derek making his way over. “He’s my husband.”

[cricketnationrise]

For the ficlet fest (congrats on 500!):

7:52 pm

the weight room

Jack Zimmermann

Rating: M

(Doggernaut/rabbitrunnah)

oooooh this was really fun to write, thanks for the prompt! i hope you enjoy senior year jack thirsting over bitty as much as i do <3

want your own ficlet? my followers can submit their own prompts using these guidelines through Jan 31, 2024.

🏒🏒🏒🏒

7:52pm, weight room

Jack tries to catch his breath before his last set of leg presses. 

There’s something immensely satisfying about weight-lifting days. It’s straightforward; more weight, more reps, diversifying exercises—it all works together to translate to better performance on the ice: more power, more breakaway sprints, more goals. A simple A plus B equals C. Jack’s favorite kind of math.

Once, not that long ago, weight training days would have been solely about maintaining the perfect form, strict adherence to his own ridiculous goals, pushing his body to keep going, to be better, to go right up to the limit of what was possible—and then past it, regardless of all the warnings his coaches, his parents, his teammates, even his own mind were giving him.

But now Jack’s in a better place, he’s got more support, so he can just lose himself in the repetitive motion, the sensation of sweat down his back, the clean exertion of pushing his body in a healthy way.

Or, he could, if he wasn’t so distracted.

It isn’t Jack’s fault that the leg press machine faces the mirrors. It isn’t Jack’s fault that there’s a clear view of the hip adductor machine in said mirrors. And it certainly isn’t Jack’s fault that Bittle is ahead of him in the circuit, on said hip adductor machine, in said mirrors.

…But it might be Jack’s fault that he can’t stop watching.

Despite his size, Bittle’s always been strong. That much had been obvious from the way he could skate suicides for an hour, the way he could hurl his body so high into the air and spin, the way he could whip a meringue by hand without pausing, or switching hands. He’d been surprisingly dense when Jack had pushed him into the boards during checking practice last year, Jack’s attention caught by how Bittle’s muscles were highlighted as much as his haircut in the sunlight when he’d moved into the Haus this summer.

Bittle’s strength is glaringly obvious right now.

The mirror provides an optimal view for Jack as he rests before his last set. Bittle’s perched on the seat, hands on the grips behind him for balance. His brow is furrowed, and the collar of his shirt dark with sweat from the effort from today. For once, he’s not singing or humming or bouncing along to the music in his headphones; Bittle’s breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth carefully, measured, timing his exhales with every time he manages to bring his knees together. Jack’s whole being is focused on the way Bittle’s thighs flex as he pushes them from spread wide to knees touching and back again. Over and over. All of Bittle is glistening with sweat from the exertion under the fluorescent lights and Jack— 

Jack has a sudden, visceral, all-consuming urge to taste. To run his hands from Bittle’s delicate ankles, up his calves. To hold Bittle’s thighs open wide with his shoulders so he can get his hands on his hips, his waist, his ass. To take his time, sucking the sweat from Bittle’s thighs hard enough to leave a line of bruises in his wake, before moving higher. To lick the sweat from the crease where his thigh meets his hip. To chase the drops of Bittle’s precome with his tongue. To take Bittle’s cock with his mouth, all the way to the hilt, before pulling Bittle’s hand to his own hair, encourage him to move Jack exactly how he wants, to take—

The resounding clang of Bittle’s weight stack yanks Jack out of the fantasy.

Câlisse de tabarnak—he’s in the middle of a workout, he can’t be getting distracted by a teammate of all people, and especially not Bittle. Jack depends on their hard-won friendship too much to ever even entertain the possibility—

Jack stands, busies himself with adding more weight to his own machine for his last set, determined to keep his eyes off the mirror, off of Bittle as he bustles around the machine, gathering his water bottle, bending over to wipe the seat down, ass facing the mirror—

It’ll be fine. Bittle will finish cleaning the machine. He’ll move on to the next stop in the circuit, to the machine that’s directly behind the hip adductor. Completely obscured from Jack’s view, and Jack will be able to finish his leg presses without getting distracted.

Bittle catches his eye in the mirror and gives him a small smile and a salute before bouncing off to the next machine and Jack—

Jack better do two more sets, just to be safe.

[msbhagirathi]

The Madhumati Gupta Buaji Weekly

Mugzeen Adison (Magazine Edition)

Namaste Nandkisore!

Aasaa karat hain ki, nandkisore, aap sab logan theek haai. Hum logan bhi theek haai, nandkisore. Sasi babua bhi ab theek hi haai bas pahile se tanik kamjor hui gaye, chhari ke sahare chalat haain ab. Aoor humka bataye rahe ki oo ki ee halat bhi oo Syaam ki kirpa rahi. Humra mann toh karat raha ki oo sasure ko ek ghumaai ke lagay de ki jindagi bhar phir aisan kucho karat ki jurrat naa karihe, haa.

Chalo choro babua/bitiya. Arre nandkisore ab tanik aapan baat bhi karau, ghar mein sab logan theek haai na? Tohre Amma-Bauji, tohri kauno humre jaisan Buaji hau toh oo sab theek haai na, nandkisore?

Ab kaa batyay tohka, nandkisore. Kal parso ki baat rahi, Sanka Devi aayi gayi phudakti-phudakti Laxminagar. Humka kahine lagi ki Arnav babua ke daftar mein kauno mugzeen-wugzeen ke khaatir humka kucho likhna haai. Hum kahe ki ab nandkisore humre jamane mein toh hum aoor tohre phuphaji itni chitthi likhat rahe ki bas pucho naahi. Toh oo kahi ki theek haai buaji aap chitthi likh ke humko bataay dena hum aa kar le jayenge, ab humri buddhi bhi umar ke kaaran mand pari rahi, oo ka jaaye ke baad, hum bhi bhul gaye nandkisore.

Saara kaam karke aaike baithe the, ki oo ka fone aayi gaya, humka puchi ki chhitthi likhe haai ki naahi, toh hum kahe, nandkisore, kaam mein thora byast hoyi gaye the, abhi likhat rahe.

Ab hum kaa bataay, nandkisore, humri jindagi mein kauno bataane layak khaas toh kucho haai nahi. Athaarah (18) ke the, amma-bauji ne byaah karaaye diya, tohre phuphaji un dino rail maashter kaa kaam karat rahe. Byaah ke baad humka liye eehan Delhi aayi gaye Laxminagar, ab nandkisore tabahu se hum idhar hi rahat haai.

[Buaji aur phuphaji honeymoon ke liye puri dilli ghume the. Phuphaji jab bhi kaam ke wajah se dusri jagah jaate toh wahan se buaji ko chitthi likhte the. ~Buaji ki pyaari SD ;)]

Sabahu theek chalat raha tha. Byaah ke teen saal baad, ek din khabar mili ki kauno train mein aag lag gayi haai, aoor bohut logan ki jaan gayi haai, a phir hum bhi chakkar kaat kaat kar thak gaye, nandkisore, daftar se aspataal aoor aspataal se phir daftar, phir unke daftar se ek din chhitthi aaye ki tohre phuphaji toh milat naahi toh unki penson ki raakam ab humko mila karegi, hum bohut roye oo din.

Bohut hi ache insaan the, nandkisore, hum behad prem karat the, ab kaa karaein, oo din ke baad se hum aapan nandkisore ke charno mein samarpit hoye gaye. Khair jaane do nandkisore. Ee sab toh bohut purani baat rahi.

Aye nandkisore, agar tumlogan ka kauno dikkat paresaani rahe toh humka bataayi dio, hum tohka tanik samajhaai denge, aoor baaki sab humre nandkisore ke haathon chor denge, theek haai naa? Bilkul kauno dikkat rahi toh bitiya humka aapan buaji samajh kar, eehan aaike bataai dena, mann bhi thora halka hoat jayi. Aoor hum toh waisan bhi jyaada kaam-kaaj naa kar sakat haai naa, toh pura din bas baith ke hi gujar jaat haai. Tohka chitthi likhan ke khaatir humra bhi tanik samay beet jaye.

Ab hum thehre bujurg, humse kaun baat karihe? Oo bhi chitthi likhke, nandkisore? Aajkal toh naa jaane kaa oosab bhatsup-discaard bhagwaan jaane aoor kaa-kaa aayi gaye haai, chitthi likhne ka phursat kaun ke paas rahai?

Khair choro. Humka toh aoor kuch soojh hi naahi rahat haai nandkisore, aoor kaa likhe? Chalao phir rakhte haai kuch batana hau toh likhat dena theek haai naa?

Aoor haan. Humka sunne mein aawat haai ki Sanka Devi ki kauno saheli ka aaj janam din raha? Ee baat sach haai ka, nandkisore? Janam din ki bohut bohut subhkamna tohka, nandkisore. Khub kaam karau, mehnat karau, Arnav babua aoor titaliya ke jaisan naam-paisa kamao, aoor tohka pati-parmeswar toh bohut hi bhagyawaan raha ki oo ka tohre jaisan patni milat rahi, nandkisore (byaah kee ho ki naahi, nandkisore?)

Aoor humri taraf se kauno meethaai wagerah khaa lena, tohka ghar ka pata (address) hota toh dukaan se jalebi aoor kucho dusri meethaai bhijwai dete par kauno baat naahi bitiya muskuraayete rehna. Jindagi mein rone ke bohut mauke milenge par muskuraaye ke mauke khud hi dhundne parat haai, nandkisore.

Chalao phir, ab rakhat haai. Garima ke saath mandir jaanat haai nandkisore. Namaste.

P.S. : Lol. I got this idea today like literally today and then thought of getting started but now I am kinda confused about something whether I should continue this one from buaji's POV only or I should write from all the characters' POV's. Let me know. And also ket me know ki yeh kuch samajh mein aaya bhi ki ekdum kachra kar diya hai maine. Lol :') Ok so I should have added this bit in the beginning but nvrmnd *shrugs* So I have considered double 'a' for आ sound, double 'o' for ऊ sound, double 'e' for इ sound and single 'a' is for अ sound, rest if you find any kind of confusion, please feel free to ask for help, considering this is not regular Hindi so :) Ok. Bye. God bless you.

[ireadtoomuchyafantasy]

Gladion x Reader: Shadows of Poni Grove PART 1

Shadows of Poni Grove.

word count: 3753 (part 1+2)

Prompt: The monster’s well aware of its typical victims, and it knows human eyes don’t glow.

WARNING GORE AND SWEARING

“It’s very interesting,” (Y/N) sips her tea, “how the hyper training works in the Galar region. I’ve always needed to train my pokemon by myself.”

“It’s something that Rose had been working on for years.” Leon hides his smile by looking out the window. She’s trying to hide that she burned her tongue on the hot tea. Cute. “Says it has to do with the ‘future of Galar’ or something.”

“Still, though. I feel it is important for a high-performance trainer to know how to train their own pokemon. It builds-” A faint buzz hums through (Y/N)’s pant pocket, and her Rotom phone flies out.

Bzzzt. Hello? (Y/N)?

She snatches the Rotom phone from the air to look at the caller ID. It’s Looker. “I can hear you. It’s me.”

There’s something we need you to check out.

She taps the ‘location’ button. “You’re in Alola right now. I can send Gladion or Hau for the UB’s, remember?”

Where are you right now.

“I’m having tea with a friend.”

I need you somewhere private.

She moves the phone to her ear, and Rotom switches from speaker to single-caller mode. “Tell me here.” Leon is leaning against his chair, twiddling his thumbs. He watches (Y/N) as her eyebrows knit together, and then her face drops. Her eyes shake a bit, and then she is out of her chair, streamlining for the exit. She stops her march suddenly, then turns around to Leon, who is still in his chair. He waves and nods in understanding. Understanding what? He doesn’t really know. But she’s the Worldwide Champion, so he assumes it’s something important. And dangerous. He hopes she’ll be fine. He was starting to like having her around as he takes over Rose Tower- and she’s gone again. Leon sighs, and looks down to the half-eaten biscuits on the table and her still-steaming cup of tea. He hopes she’ll be fine.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

That was the only word going through (Y/N)’s head the entire ride to Alola. Who was she calling stupid? Stupid Looker, for sending Gladion alone. Stupid Gladion, for not asking for backup. Stupid (Y/N), for being worried for stupid Gladion and his stupid smile, his stupid haircut, his stupid stupidity. Why didn’t he ask for backup? Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

The urgency in Looker’s voice echoes in her mind, “Gladion was sent two days ago and we can’t reach him.” Stupid. A whine from Latios below her snaps her back into the present. She leans into the pokemon, and they dive downwards into Poni Grove.

“What is that? Oh my Arceus. Bank. Bank!” she yanks on Latios’ neck, and they abruptly level out, just close enough to see the damage. The usual green of Poni Grove was soaked in red. Bones and mush of what she assumes are Pokémon lay strewn across fields and left hanging on tree branches. Judging by the different hues of blood, and the ground just marinating in it… Latios descends slowly, the air growing thick with a metallic scent. It was so quiet. Too quiet. They land somewhere away from the mess.

Latios knew the drill. (Y/N) takes out a wreath of revival herbs, and hangs in around his neck. She brings her forehead to his before letting him take off to do an aerial inspection of the damage. She watches until Latios is out of sight, the wind from his wings whipping her hair around. Then (Y/N) calls out her team.

“This is (Y/N). Codename: WWC. I am reporting a case 294; massacre. This is a recon mission for Agent Gladion, and a rescue and relief for Poni Grove.” She leaves a message for Looker on her voicemail. Then she looks to her team of pokemon, a bunch of young, naive Galarian rookies. “Save what you can, burn or bury the rest.” She gives each of them a wreath of revival herbs around their neck, “do not touch anything rotting, do not engage in battle. Stay in groups of two or more.” She winces a little. This is a new team she started training from Galar. Their first mission on the field was a particularly gruesome one. There was no time to waste. Her team scattered, each running off to a pile of flesh and bones. The stench was overwhelming.

(Y/N) tightens the bandage on a Riolu’s midriff, pressing her lips together as the pokemon moans in pain. She did what she could with the items she had on her bag; a fresh water to wash away the blood and dirt, some pokemon scale to saw off the rotting flesh, and a measly full restore to seal up the wound. She gives the Riolu some berry juice and wipes the sweat off its forehead. The pokemon squeaks, its eyes drooping with exhaustion. The bushes behind them rustle, and (Y/N) snaps her head up as Riolu makes another pitiful whine. The scent hit her before the image: rot and char. An Alolan Marowak stumbles towards (Y/N), barely gripping onto the two halves of its bone. Chunks of his flesh were missing, and the remaining parts were scorched or dripping with blood. (Y/N) watches the pokemon carefully, angling her body so that she crouched between the Marowak and Riolu.

“What happened to you?” The Marowak trembles, its bone splintering into dust as it sways towards her. She quickly administers a Full Restore, watching as the Pokémon stitches itself together, pink flesh filling up the indents in his body. She hands the pokemon a bottle of Moomoo Milk, and takes out her sports tape to secure the two halves of Marowak’s bone. The bottle is empty before she can start, so (Y/N) replaces the empty bottle with a Fresh Water. She hands the bone back when he’s done. The Marowak studies her and the Riolu, shifting a little as if to say something-

A cry from one of (Y/N)’s pokemon rings through the air. She bolts up, head snapping towards the direction of the sound as the Marowak lunges for her bag. Without a word, the Marowak flees into the underbush. (Y/N) checks her pokewatch: all her pokemon are safe, the youngest just tripped over a branch. She sighs, looking back down to the Riolu and then to her bag, where the Full Restores’ pocket has been completely emptied. Shit. She checks the Riolu’s vitals once more, then picks it up, resting its weight on his hip and she releases a high-pitched whistle to call her pokemon. She moves towards an area with better visibility.

(Y/N) divides her team: half to aid the injured, lead by her Mimikyu, Mimi, who was a native to Alola. The other half would join her and follow the Marowak. Rotom tells her that Looker and the recon team are 30 minutes away. She lets the Riolu join the other fourty-something rescued pokemon in the middle of Poni Grove. But where is Gladion?

Sian, her Zacian, tracked the Marowak’s scent. The trail leads them deeper into the grove, more grotesque, death mingling with the unmistakable stench of human decay. They slow down around the opening of a cave, Sian signals something by pointing its nose towards her palm. (Y/N) places her hand to the walls of the cave, feeling for the vibrations of a pokemon battle. One side was losing, very badly. They make their way deeper into the cave.

Her pokemon were walking too heavily. She calls them back into their pokeballs, and presses herself against the walls, inching her way into the cave. The battle quieted down. She moves cautiously, focusing on a new noise that started; something wet and sloppy. She nears the opening into the main body of the cave, daring a peek at-

Something cold and very strong gripped her arm. A scream crawls up her throat before being muffled by a cold hand over her mouth. “Don’t make any noise,” a biting, cold whisper, “or it’ll attack us.” She quickly registers the warm breath at her ear.

“Gladion!?”

“There’s no time to explain,” he looked awful. She couldn’t see very well anyway, but a few gentle pats down his body told her enough. “The Pokémon is ghost-fire type. It sees in infrared, so breathe as little as you can.”

“Where’s Type: Null?” she scans the darkness as her hands continue to feel around his face. Nothing’s missing, at least.

“He’s further into the cave. I can’t get to him, but thankfully his shell is too tough to break open. It’s the only thing keeping him from being eaten.”

“Eaten!?”

“Do you have any Max Revives?” he grabs her hands and tugs her closer, desperation in his voice.

“I… left them outside.”

“How many Pokémon do you have with you?”

“Three.”

“Not enough,” he mutters. The two of them stood in silence.

Silence?

The munching stops, and a clatter echoes through the cave. (Y/N) squints in the darkness to see what it was. Gladion yanks her to the ground as the cave floods with light.

A marowak bone.

The Marowak’s bone.

Oh, shit just got real.

[eclipse-vixen]

can i get some snpts based on music, graveyards and gargoyles/ghouls in general. preferably no “system” or “collective”. the current one we use isn’t really vibing or fitting anymore which sucks 😭

Music, Graveyard, Gargoyle, & Ghoul Themed SNPT

System Names- Lullabies, The Choir of Ghouls, The Cemetery, The Haunting, The Home of the Deceased, The Catacombs, Necropolis

Names- Melody, Diva, Chord, Lyric, Sonata, Octave, Octavia, Chant(elle), Lorelai, Lilith, Grave, Coffin, Crypt, Mortis, Morticia, Statuette, Desdemona, Abandon, Pluto, Elder, Ghast

Pronouns- li/lilt, hum/hums, so/song, muse/music, lyre/lyric, de/death, dae/daem, tomb/tombs, head/stone, gho/ghost, gho/ghoul, hau/haunt

Titles- The Eerie Song, His Whispering Voice, The Undertaker, The One in Stone, He Who Protects, The Stone Guard, The Ghastly Face, The Tortured Soul

(You can replace he/his with your own pronouns)

Sorry for such a long wait! My motivation died right before I got to this one and it took a little longer ;( I hope you like it!!

[film-in-my-soul]

maybe it's time | 1,512 | gurlsrool

Summary: “I think I…” he bites his bottom lip and looks at Maple and the leftover blueberry pie on the counter and the quilt thrown over the couch and Lardo’s painting on the wall and says, “I think I’m going to marry him someday.”

The One With the Blackout | 1,693 | orphan_account

Summary: There's a power outage in Providence, and Bitty is trapped in an ATM vestibule with Jack freakin' Zimmermann. Who, as it turns out, is not there to mug him.

Stripped Down, Unplugged | 1,912 | orphan_account

Summary: The bylaws stood strong for eight years before Jack Zimmermann and his crew got Cute.

(see more recommendations below!)

I just smile, I go ahead and smile | 2,013 | Mizzy

Summary: Jack has no game when it comes to Bittle. It's a good thing Bad Bob's around to give his son a helpful shove in the right direction.

Four Times Jack Failed at Flirting With Bittle (And One Time He Wasn't Terrible At It) | 2,167 | somehowunbroken / @somehowunbroken

Summary: Jack's got this flirting thing down. Or, no, wait. No, he totally doesn't.

Perpetual Motion | 2,332 | annundriel / @annundriel

Summary: Bittle thinks he’s joking at first, when Jack offers to take a selfie with him.

Every Now and Then | 2,432 | sunfair / @northerndownpour

Summary: Eric Bittle is a successful pop-country recording artist. Jack is an NHL player and a big fan.

Dares You to Change | 2,763 | PorcupineGirl

Summary: Jack has imagined this moment so many times. The reality is so much harder. "Zimmboni, you have friend here to visit! Out in hall." Tater exclaims as he comes into the locker room. "He says is from college?"

make this house a home | 2,805 | bleep0bleep / @bleep0bleep

Summary: With the prospect of an empty Haus for Thanksgiving, Jack invites Bitty over to his new place in Providence. As friends, of course.

brought to you by | 2,971 | HalfFizzbin / @halffizzbin

Summary: Jack Zimmermann is the new face of the franchise. Unfortunately.

All the Love in the World | 3,005 | alocalband / @alocalband

Summary: Bitty’s hands are shaking. He has five missed calls from Jack, two from Chowder, one from Lardo, and an astronomical number of yet to be viewed text messages. It’s not that he hasn’t been checking his phone, it’s that every time he’s picked it up at an alert, all he’s been able to do is stare at it. Which is what he’s doing now, as he waits for his mother to finish speaking with the doctor at Coach’s bedside.

Passing Notes | 4,189 | marswithghosts

Summary: Jack Zimmermann is charming, and Bitty enjoys the way he writes the B in Bittle. He knows he’s being stupid, but his life consists of seventh graders and baking pies; he’s allowed to have a little bit of a fantasy.

the slow pace of geologic time | 4,258 | westernredcedar / @thewesternredcedar

Summary: Jack looks at her and then puts her luggage down and leans in, grabs her into a full-body hug, right there on the sidewalk, holding her so close. She can’t remember when he last hugged her this hard. “He told his parents. About being gay. About us,” he says into her shoulder. “They were awful.”

through the crowd | 4,488 | kirkaut / @kirkaut

Summary: The notification sound isn’t the one that he’s got assigned to Jack, which is why he doesn’t feel any panic when Holster hums an agreement and leans over to peer at Bitty’s phone screen. At least, not until Holster says his name in the tone of a person with a slowly growing suspicion. “Bitty,” he says, very expectantly. “Who is ‘Good Robert’, and why is he blowing up your phone?”

Maple-Flavored Pie Hearts | 4,842 | ofherlionheart / @theonesyouthinkyoulove

Summary: “Well, if you’re making people breakfast now, I’m more than happy to accept,” Shitty says brightly, hoping to cajole a smile out of Jack. Jack smacks away Shitty’s hand when he tries to steal some bacon. “I’m not,” Jack says, scowling. “I’m teaching that freshman how to get protein into his diet.” “Which one?” Shitty asks, already knowing the answer.

november | 5,046 | antoineroussel / @bostonbruiins

Summary: Jack was ready, so ready. He'd never been more ready for anything, except maybe an NHL contract. He was so totally not ready at all.

Man of Honor | 5,301 | esterbrook

Summary: Bitty has to live the rest of his life with the knowledge that yes, Jack Zimmermann cries at weddings, and looks good doing it.

is it too late now to say sorry | 5,330 | magneticwave

Summary: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS, Eric types furiously into Twitter. THIS IS LIKE RENAMING LAKE WOEBEGONE “LAKE SCOTT WALKER.” // Or, the only person in the entirety of Canada who is upset about Jack Zimmermann’s first Stanley Cup is Eric Bittle, and by God is every single one of Eric’s 160,000 Twitter followers going to hear about it.

To Even Fall | 5,636 | perihelionic

Summary: Sometimes Bitty sleeps in Jack's bed. It's not a thing, until it is.

and so all yours | 5,858 | orphan_account

Summary: It’s not exactly taboo to let other people see your soulmate’s first thought about you, but now, standing two feet away from the guy who spent the last five hours making him feel inadequate and small, he doesn’t really want to remind anyone that even his own soulmate doesn’t believe in him.

better than I know myself | 5,876 | Mizzy

Summary: Jack's not very good at noticing common threads. So it takes him the longest time, over a year, before he realizes what's been different in the Haus. It's not something that's present, so much as something that's missing. And it's this: that Bittle calls everyone pet names. Everyone but Jack.

Duffle Bag Guy | 7,643 | cablesscutie / @cablesscutie

Summary: ‘You keep dragging suspicious sacks up to and down from your apartment and I don’t know what your deal is or why I still wanna bone you’ AU

the road leads back to you | 9,160 | nightswatch / @zimmermaenner

Summary: Bitty meets Jack Zimmermann on 5 AM on a Sunday morning after someone set their grilled cheese on fire in his dorm. He doesn't really expect that they'll become friends. Or that he'll become friends with an entire hockey team.

a tale of love and how it finds you | 10,587 | nightswatch / @zimmermaenn

Summary: Bitty sees Jack Zimmermann almost every morning, but he’s never said a single word to him. Honestly, Jack Zimmermann probably doesn’t even know that he exists.

Catfishing for Dummies | 12,001 | andquitefrankly / @andquitefrankly

Summary: Eric Bittle hadn't planned on signing up for online dating. It was just something that had happened after a drunken night with his friends. He also hadn't planned on messaging the super obvious catfish masquerading as Jack Zimmermann. And he definitely hadn't planned on possibly falling in love with him.

One More | 1,596 | facewithoutheart / @facewithoutheart

Summary: “That’s… uh. That’s my phone. I should–” “One more,” Bitty whispers into Jack’s open mouth, his hands turned to fists in Jack’s open graduation robe, asking a question Jack aches to answer. “One more, please.”

i'd never want from the cherry tree | 2,535 | milominderbinder / @milominderbindered

Summary: Bitty's been sent flowers. His friends think this means the guy who serves macaroni in the cafeteria is in love with him. Bitty thinks this might mean he's dating Jack Zimmermann. Unfortunately, he's not sure. Jack is very hard to read, okay?

A Tolerance for Pain | 3,782 | uniqueinalltheworld

Summary: It makes sense, his mother tells him when he's nine: Jack's such a physical person, of course his indicator would be his soulmate's pain. Jack doesn't have anything to say about it, really, he just scowls and winces as his soulmate falls down again. Alicia Zimmermann, whose heterochromia reversed itself upon laying eyes on Bob for the first time, because she’s more passionate about visual media, pats him on the shoulder with a completely insufficient amount of sympathy. Jack's backside is sore for months as the falls keep happening, and he can only think that somewhere, his soulmate must be learning how to skate.

almond croissants and strawberry pie | 4,633 | thewalrus_said / @thewalrus-said

Summary: Bitty first hears the hammering on his shop door at precisely 5:17 in the morning on an already-warm Thursday in July. He’s content to ignore it—the dough he’s kneading won’t shape itself into sandwich rolls, after all—but it proves to be remarkably persistent. Precisely six minutes of knocking later, he hears someone yell, “Come on, I know you start baking at four in the morning! Let us in!”

Cornucopia | 5,201 | Sakon76 / @sakon76

Summary: Bitty's kitchen skills aren't just preternatural. They're downright divine.

By the Light of the Moon | 7,507 | ereshai / @ereshai

Summary: Something is stalking the students of Samwell University. Nothing bad happens - until a member of the hockey team turns up dead. Freshman Eric Bittle starts using the campus Safe Walk number to make sure he gets safely back to his dorm at night and gets drawn into the Samwell Men's Hockey team's quest to find their murdered teammate's killer. He understands why they're doing it, but why are they so weird?

Got Your Pack | 9,030 | MapleleafCameo / @MapleleafCameo

Summary: In hindsight, Eric should’ve figured it out sooner. The signs are all there. When he decides to go to Samwell, he assumes the ‘one in four; maybe more’ means something significantly different. At least it's not a cult. He hopes.

2024 Reclists · INBOX · Blog Updates

[slasheddreams]

Happy Birthday. [ bag of marshmallows // broken glass // blood rain ] - Mansion Hallowfrye // MURDER MYSTERIES [ broken glass // blood rain ]

content warning for: [ just brief mentions of blood ]

They still save the sliced strawberry on top for last, just like that first slice of cake all those years ago.

"Happy birthday, Howl."

Their fingers were stained with blood, the steel fork trembled in their small hands. Their hands laid on the small, ceramic plate, their other hand pinching the small, plastic wrapping covering the cake.

Happy birthday to you.

Their eyes watered as a hiccup bubbled in their throat. Tears welled up in the corners of their eyes. Laying their head on the table, sobs poured out of their throat.

They felt so betrayed.

...

Mansion Hallowfrye had been Howl's home for as long as they could remember. The large manor with the eerie green gardens, floating teal fire spirits, the fyre flowers, everything about the mansion's grounds, everything felt like... home.

Howl knew all the staff manning and assisting the mansion, they loved every staff member. Their favorite staff members were the ones who ran the upkeep of the gardens. Their favorite place on the grounds was the greenhouse. ( Maybe that's why no bodies were ever found in it. A father should never soil his child's favorite place. )

Reaching out a hand, they ran their fingers along the underside of the glowing green flower. Their fingers lightly scrapped against the surface of the petals, a faint smile forming on their face. They adored flowers so much.

The sound of heels clicking against the obsidian floor of the greenhouse attracted the child's attention, causing them to glance back. Walking in their direction was their adoptive father, an eloquent and put-together young man. Holding a small plate in their hand, a shiny metal cover caught their attention even further.

"Papa?"

The man smiled softly, gently bending down by their side. A warm smile formed on his face. Motioning with the plate, he hummed softly.

"Hello, my little fyreflower, I knew you'd be here. You truly do enjoy sitting with the flora, don't you?"

"The gardener does such a splendid job caring for them! It would be a shame if they had no one to see them..."

A chuckle emerged from his throat as he gently lured the tray. Turning towards them, he patted the floor next to him. Bending down softly, Howl sat down by their father's side. Holding the plate up gently, he chuckled.

"I looked everywhere for you, you know. I was afraid I wouldn't find you before midnight. Today is a special day, no?"

Leaning forward, Howl's fingers entwined in their tiny, cardigan sweater. They were so small back then.

"? What is it, papa?"

Chuckling again, he leaned closer. Running his hand along the metal cover's loop, lifting up the silver cover to reveal a small slice of strawberry shortcake cake underneath it. Howl's eyes sparkled as their eyes fell on the cake, glistening in the eerie moonlight.

"Happy 7th birthday, Howl. It's a slice of Japanese strawberry shortcake, I remember you saying it was your favorite kind."

Picking up one of the silver forks on the tray, his fingers lightly grasped onto the plastic covering, gently unwrapping from the cake. Then, spinning the fork, he chuckled again. Leaning over, he gently used the fork to scoop off a small piece. Then, holding the fork out, he watched as the small hands grasped onto the base of the fork.

Their coordination was... subpar and best. Half of the cake's frosting ended up on their face rather than inside their mouth... but that was okay. it wasn't the cake that was so special to them. It was the kindness, the memory.

...

Tears rolled down their face, splattering on the white ceramic plate. Howl wanted to scream out, it was agonizing.

"Happy... birthday... to... me..."

More tears rolled down their face. The fork trembled in their hands. 13 years later, 13 long years... Everything... everyone they knew... 13 years of friendship, of love and light, of hauntings and delights... all ended in a bloodbath.

Closing their eyes, and covering their mouth with shaky hands, they tried desperately to stifle the terror-stricken sobs. They felt so weak, they couldn't save even one person. Hiccups bubbled in their throat, tears stained their face, and sorrow weighed in the air. Raising their sleeve, they slowly dried their tears. Laying the fork down gently, Howl sniffled.

"Dad..."

Their hands trembled as they stumbled onto their feet, knocking over the plate of their barely eaten cake. It fell with a small 'splat', slumping against the floor slowly. Well... it's not like they could really bring themselves to eat it anymore.

Their eyes fell on their hands. Blood stained them, a glowing crimson-red... Their hands trembled at the sight. Grimacing, they slowly looked around. They've tried everything to wash the blood off their hands, scrubbing their hands until they were completely raw and bruised.

But they were certain that the bloodstains will never fade.

"I can't get the blood off. Why can't I get the blood off...?"

[randomwriteronline]

"Where are we going, brother?"

Pohatu doesn't answer. He keeps walking with his hand on the wall, quicker than all of them; every now and then he knocks gently on it.

There are no Rahkshi down here, no Exo-Toa or Rahi or anything. It's a tunnel that from the colosseum leads into some kind of pipe system different from the sprawling Archives, but equally as labyrinthine. Pohatu walks through it easily, knowing the general direction towards which they're going - that being, towards the Turaga, whom he sent on their own way to safety when Teridax's universe-wide attack unfolded before their powerless eyes. They'll take longer to show up where the Toa will meet them, but he knows they're a crafty lot: they'll have no trouble evading whatever might try to get them.

When asked how he's so familiar with this hidden piece of Metru Nui, he shrugged. He went for a long run all over the city on his first visit, he answered truthfully, and even when he did not add anything after the others were perfectly satisfied and did not insist with questions, because it's only natural for him to want to explore every nook and cranny of a place at maximum speed.

And because he is still on edge.

He hasn't blown up at them since they tried to ask him where he has been for one hundred thousand years, but he still flinches harshly to get their hands off of himself when they try to touch him, and he still looks at them angrily, and sometimes he still growls.

Takanuva hits his head on the ceiling and groans. His mask's silvery light stutters.

"Careful, little brother," Pohatu tells him with his normal, playful, gentle voice that lately he uses only for him, their younger siblings, and the Matoran: "That's the fifth time you try to break a hole through the tunnel."

"It's not like I'm trying," Takanuva mutters back.

"Maybe you should start shortening again?" the Toa of Stone jokes like he refuses to do with his siblings since meeting them at the Codrex. "Can't be too hard - try pulling your limbs real tight to your chest, for a start."

"And how would you suppose I'd walk, then?"

"You'll roll!"

The Av-Toa laughs a little.

He stops when the others don't join in, and his eyes ask them what makes them so uncomfortable. Gali shifts her shoulders.

Silence sits upon them like a vulture.

The color of the viaduct changes at last. Pohatu quickens his steps to build some distance between him and his siblings, awfully focused. He knocks once, then again: a high pitched hum leaves him as he stops dead in his tracks and faces the wall - his tone is indiscernible, incomprehensible, either flat or interested or something else entirely.

"What did you find, Pohatu?" Tahu asks loudly as the rest of them hurry closer.

His brother turns to him with an empty gaze and no answer.

The back of his head hurts.

And his spine, and his arms, and his legs, and his chest, and his hips, and every single minuscule atom of his entire body as it crashes against its brethren until he can barely breathe or think while the anguish lights his nerves like a wild fire raging through the forest on an impossibly dry day with a cruel hot wind that howls too strong.

The sound comes to his audio receptors later - a terrifying impact, as loud as an explosion. He turns his head, what was that? An ambush? Where did it come from? Where are his siblings?

He counts their masks in a dim light, blotches of color in his muddled vision: black, white, blue, green, red with him. He reaches for his Hau and finds his hand unable to move - is it broken? When he tries to look down his chin encounters resistance and he fails to recognize anything. Five out of seven. Five out of seven... His body hurts. Why does it hurt? Five out of seven...

A strangled grunt catches his attention.

Pohatu struggles hoisting Takanuva, who does not move, in his arms while also holding a small lightstone to see anything in this dark.

Frustrated, he lets the stone fall to the ground: "I've got you, little brother," he reassures his unconscious sibling as he plucks the Mask of Light from his face (why does he take the Mask of Light from his face?) and slips his arms around his torso, trying to lift him. "Oof - damn it all, you're so heavy now - see, that's another reason you shouldn't have been allowed to pick that cursed mask up, if you were still a Matoran this whole thing would be much easier..."

"Pohatu!" Lewa cries, panicked. "Pohatu! Are you alright?"

"Of course I am," their brother replies.

"We're trapped! Stuck!"

"I can see that."

Are they trapped? Are they -

His arms groan from the strain of being squeezed too tight and pain shoots into his eyes, burning his field of vision into scalding white. It relents slowly, leaving him winded, and as he collects himself he realizes: the opposite wall, the one Pohatu was inspecting, has lunged towards them and trapped them against its twin.

Ambush. An ambush. His body hurts. It was an ambush. His body hurts. It hurts so much he can't concentrate.

Onua chokes on what would be a shout for a few horrible seconds before heaving hard when the pressure finally eases up on him and spares him from being crushed.

What is doing this? A Rahkshi? Must be a Rahkshi. It must be.

His body hurts so much.

"Stone," he hears Kopaka breathe, "It's stone."

Stone. It's stone... So? A renegade Toa? A mutated kraata? Tahu strains to listen. No, there is no sound here: only his siblings hissing in pain as their frames are pressed and Pohatu grunting as he finally manages to secure at least the upper half of Takanuva on himself and off the ground.

Oh. Oh - oh, it's stone. It's stone! Oh, thank Mata Nui, it's stone.

Destiny decided they can be lucky for once.

"Pohatu!" he cries through gritted teeth while his chest is constricted tightly, "Pohatu - the walls, they're, it's stone - hurry, please, get it off of us!"

The answer he gets is flat, deadpan: "That'd be counterproductive."

"What?" Gali responds immediately, panic stirring around her heartlight like a whirpool - this feels too much like their confrontation, that strange feeling of wrong overwhelming in his neutral tone: "What do you mean? Pohatu-!"

Her voice cuts off with a painful whine as the rock clenches around her tight enough to make her armor creak around her limbs.

Pohatu ignores her.

They call for him multiple times. Over and over. As best as they can through the strain put on their bodies that almost drives them mad with anguish.

In the dim light their brother takes his time.

They watch him will a seat out of a portion of the wall, placing Takanuva down upon it; his masked forehead laid on his little brother's, the Avokhii in his hand (why is the Avokhii in his hand?) disappearing from sight as it is slipped away on his person, he murmurs something to the Toa of Light with a gentle tone, a comforting tone, while he holds his limp hand. His eyes extend none of that gentleness to his siblings when he turns to them.

"So!"

The wall presses hard against their bodies for a single second: pain lances through them like a downpour of spears and rips the voices out of the five of them in a swift cruel move.

Pohatu gingerly walks to stand upon their prison, twisting the lightstone in his hand, casting terrible almost tangible shadows all across the claustrophobic space as the light struggles to escape through the gaps in his fingers.

"If all goes well you'll be rotting here for, oh, roughly the rest of eternity, and I'll never have to see any of you again," he tells them almost casually as he towers over them, though there is a deep poison drooling out of his mouth. His blue visor gleams terribly, his eyes looking just as blue and cold and hard behind it: "So I guess it's as good a time as any for a little story."

He bends to look at them closer, just for a moment. In the dark, it's hard to tell his expression.

He rises again to stretch with a groan: the stone moves as malleable as fabric to meet him when he leans back, sitting himself down comfortably upon it, and he slumps forward to prop his chin in his palms as though he was looking at something so very curious.

The arrows of light from his hand carve deep lines into his mask.

"In the time before time Artakha made six Toa to protect the Great Spirit and the Av-Matoran, but that's the part that you know already," he continues as they can only stare at him, too stunned, too in pain: "You know it all up to the point where the five brave Toa go into their safe ball at the bottom of the swamp and take a nice long nap while everything around them gets destroyed. So the question is, whatever happened to the dirt one?"

His head shifts suddenly.

Tahu feels his eyes slowly digging holes into his own.

"By the way, I'm almost touched you remembered my element this time," Pohatu tells him. His voice is quiet, between a stage whisper and a real one. "Only took four to five near death experiences."

He wants to snap at him.

He wants to thrash and snarl and demand what is wrong with him.

He wants to open his mouth and speak to him.

He wants to ask him what is going on.

He wants to reach out and grab him and hold him still, and beg him to explain, and speak in a calm voice to him until everything is fixed.

He barely manages to breathe.

Pohatu holds his gaze a little longer. He blinks, and cranes his neck away from him with a sighed hum - it's so dark his expression can't be seen but the movement seems almost bored - and taps on the side of his mask with his fingers: the lightstone peeks from between them at strangled intervals.

He observes them struggle to adjust to the changes in lighting uselessly, as they are first offered bursts of brightness and then plunged back into darkness after mere seconds.

He is toying with them.

This is not Pohatu.

This cannot be Pohatu.

"I stayed in Karda Nui. I tried to evacuate the last Matoran before the energy storm swallowed them. I managed a few. I failed most of them. It was a job for six Toa, but I couldn't really hope five of them would materialize out of thin air just because they were needed."

He breaks into a short chuckle. It's a softer version of his usual booming laughter. It sputters poison all over them.

"And it's not like you would have made any difference if you'd stayed - you're barely even Toa to begin with."

This cannot be Pohatu.

This is not Pohatu.

This is a fake.

This has to be a fake.

When did they lose him? When could he have been replaced? They never lost sight of him in these tunnels, it must have been earlier. In the Colosseum? As they were returning to Metru Nui? Before escaping Karda Nui? Before he met them at the Codrex? He had mentioned it briefly, had said he had met a big bugger - a Makuta? A kraata? A shadow leech? Something else? Where is he now? Where is their brother? Where are they keeping him? Is he alive? Is he... He can't be, he can't! They can't have killed him! Unless they trapped him in Karda Nui... With the Makuta... And the storm... No, no, no, Pohatu is smart, Pohatu is quick, he can't have died there, he must have escaped. He must have escaped, and he must have made his way to Metru Nui, or maybe somewhere else safe, and he's looking for them, or planning a way to blow up Teridax while keeping the universe unharmed, or maybe he's been captured again and he's being hurt or tortured or killed and he's worried for them, maybe, maybe, maybe...

"And you'd planned to leave me to die anyways," he shrugs.

"No!" Lewa chokes out. He recoils, he shifts, he tries to twist in his prison, to break out, and treespeak spills out of him faster than he can give any of it sense.

Not like he is given much time to try to.

Halfway along his attempt at something (an appeal? An explanation? A curse? An apology?) a wail cuts him off together with a searing pain. What little light washes over him is enough to see how the rock ensnaring him wraps around his head to shut his mouth in a tight, tight, tight grip, his mask almost crushed within: the rest of his body, likely, is suffering something similar.

Pohatu waits patiently until his whimpering dies down - until he himself decides to relent the pressure a little.

"I thought you were interested in this story," he says as he tilts his head. His brother struggles to breathe through the stone binding his mouth as he gives him a desperate look: the Toa of Stone remains unbothered. "You even made me heartpromise to tell you," and his tone is sneering when he mentions the word, "So why are you interrupting me now? Am I boring you? Are you bored? Should I stop? I can stop. I have other things to do."

Lewa's inarticulate whines sound like sobs, but can't answer.

Pohatu stretches his legs: "Alright then! Saves me time."

"Wait," Onua rasps. He struggles to speak while his lungs are compressed, limiting how much air he's allowed to inhale. "Wait. Please. Where... How... How... The storm... You... Survived..."

"Evidently I did, if I'm here," his brother replies. "Even if you think it's a real shame I didn't get vaporized."

"Don't... We don'... Don'... Please... Please... Breathe... Can't... Please..."

No answer.

Breathing gets harder.

He can't see.

He can't see.

He can't see.

He's going to faint.

He's going to faint.

He's going to...

Going to...

Going...

To...

Finally the pressure leaves.

He gasps noisily, greedily, exhausted.

Pohatu watches him like he's a disgusting squirming krana, struggling to writhe to safety as it lays on marshy ground.

"But yes," he continues softly. "I am here because I did escape. When I couldn't hope to bring any more little siblings to safety, and I couldn't hear their screams over the crackling of the storm, I followed your example and ran away. Then the Makuta found me, and took pity on me - isn't that funny? The Makuta, taking pity on something? Something as weak and useless as me? - and they kept me in their brotherhood. And the were all so very nice to me, like you've been ever since you couldn't remember how you used to think of me, for a few hundred years or so, before they got bored of such a sad sack of gravel and left me to rot outside of their laboratories."

There are so many things wrong in what he says.

So many, all at once.

The faint light illuminates a smile beneath his mask - a small, honest, deeply fond smile: "Except Teridax, of course."

Fire rises beneath Tahu's armor.

"What did he do to you?"

Pohatu looks at him almost surprised.

"What did he do to you?" the Toa of Fire repeats, louder, more insistent. It's so clear now. The deception, the bitterness, the harshness, all of this - if this is truly their brother, who else but Makuta Teridax could turn him against them in such a cruel way, so thoroughly convince him they hate him?

He can't see her, so much does rage narrow his vision, but he hears Gali's voice: "Pohatu," and it shakes a little with his same anger, even if the only thing she can say is their brother's name, unable even to demand of his what she wants to know, because what else is there for a sister to say when her loved one has been molded into a bitter misshapen shade of himself by as dreadful a thing as her old enemy? "Pohatu - Pohatu--"

In the dim light, a stunned expression widens into a grin.

The Toa of Stone leans forward: "Do you want to know?" he whispers, conspiratorial, "Do you want to know what he did to me? The ghastly, horrible, torturous thing he's subjected me to?"

They must say something in their fury, some kind of affirmation: they need to know, of course they do! To better make him regret it!

Carefully, slowly, Pohatu places the lightstone down before himself.

Its faint light illuminates him better, more clearly, so that they can observe him much better: his armor is completely unmmarred from the rotting color given by a kraata's corruption, its shape is unchanged, his eyes are the same. He lets them watch closely as nothing in his appearence changes or shifts - as every single part of him remains perfectly still, the same as they've always known.

He watches them back; he smiles as he does, looking at them wait for something, anything.

He grins wider, perfectly identical to himself.

"He cared about me."

The look on their faces is just... Comical.

Pohatu laughs.

"Isn't that insane?" he taunts them. "Just absolutely demented? Who would ever think of that, to care for me? About me? To think I'm good, and useful? To find some sort of worth in me? He's always been drawn to revolutionary concepts, but this one might just be too far!"

He laughs.

He laughs so hard.

It's an almost hysterical sound that rattles the tunnel in its entirety and echoes through it, loud, erratic, horrible, stuck somewhere between genuine and mocking, amused and furious. It's so strong that he holds his face in his hand and folds in on himself, and the way his shoulders jump with every wailing chuckle almost makes him look like he is crying his heart out.

"What a stupid idea!" he struggles to shriek out as he laughs, "Devoting time to me! Reassuring me! Praising me! Me!"

He coughs.

Twice, thrice, a few more times.

He knocks on his chest to get all of it out of him until he finally stops, utterly winded, groaning as he tries to catch his breath. A giggle or two still falls from his mouth from time to time. It's getting harder to tell if they are not sobs.

A deep inhale - and his hands are back under his chin, an amused grin is back on his face, a sudden incoherent calm is back over him.

"So to answer the original question, the dirt one spent a hundred thousand years awake helping the only being who ever gave a widget about him with his plan while his brave siblings slept nice and tight in their canisters," he continues, right where he left off, as though he hadn't been caught in a rapturous maddened amusement just seconds earlier. "And he watched everything, from the Barraki's imprisonment to the Metru Nui civil war, to the Dark Hunters setting their sights on the heads of the Brotherhood, to the Toa Metru foiling a perfectly fine plan when they shouldn't have endangering hundreds of Matoran in the process, until a litte Rama told him that the other five had decided to get up for once. And then the rest you should know, if you haven't forgotten it already."

Silence.

Comical.

Absolutely comical.

Look at them stare, struggling to breathe.

Look at the disbelief dripping from their masks as though they just emerged from a pool of it.

Pohatu looks at them, nice and long, and everything in his body aches so terribly that he thinks what he feels might finally be release.

He's finally done it. Finally, finally, now that he has them here at his mercy, accused and tried for their failings, punished but not killed, he's purged every single drop of vitriol boiling within himself upon them and he's free. His guilt and hatred and phantom pains of limbs he never had is theirs now; he is allowed to live unburdened by the person their disgust of him angrily shaped him into.

"You lied to us," Gali speaks softly.

He tilts his head at her: "Hm."

"From the beginning."

"Put a date to this beginning. Mine is waking up with you five to Artakha's voice in that blasted chamber."

"You... You can't be him." her voice is unsteady. "You can't be him."

"Who?"

"Pohatu. My brother. You can't be him. Pohatu is-"

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" he interrupts her. "You'd love for me to be dead."

"Pohatu isn't like this!" she almost roars. He can feel her - how she trembles furiously within the stone, desperate to break through it. "Pohatu isn't a liar! He isn't a being this overwhelmed by hatred!"

"You would know," the other croons, but his eyes sour. "The most trustworthy source is the one that wasn't there, isn't it."

"I know my brother!" Gali shakes; the binds around her creak like a poorly constructed dam against the rush of a raging river. "I've fought with him, joked with him, confided in him! I could recognize him anywhere! I know who he is! I love him!"

"YOU LEFT ME!"

The wall groans horribly with them as it crushes them within itself.

Takanuva, unseen, twitches barely as he remains trapped in a shapeless bad dream.

The being standing before them has his hands balled so tight into his own fists that they can hear the adaptive armor shriek as it dents and scratches itself. He heaves long deep breaths with difficulty, as though the air in the tunnel wasn't enough.

The lightstone is half buried within the rock, almost cracked: lances of its glow make him seem larger than he already is, and his eyes behind the visor burn.

"You LEFT me," he repeats. His breathless voice is a faraway avalanche coming ever closer, dragging the world down upon them with it. "You left us to die. You knew what would happen, and you did not tell me. You did not tell anybody - it was your secret safety exit, not mine, not the Matoran's, just yours. All yours. Just for the five of you. The Order of Mata Nui made it just for you," and here it turns into a whine, a whimper, a plead for help that mauls the fingers reaching out to lend their earnest aid, "Just for you five, nobody else, nobody else - there were only five canisters, weren't there? Weren't there? Not six, only five, because you all planned it together, behind my back, behind our little siblings' backs, because there was never any need for me or them, was there? No need at all, and no need to tell us, no need at all. Nobody wants to know they'll die, nobody does, nobody deserves to know they will die even when death can't be avoided so they can at least make peace with it or fight back against it, and that's why our little brothers and sister aren't little anymore, isn't it? Ah-"

His hands open, the stone clenches; his hands close, the stone clenches. He folds and unfolds his fists maniacally, histerically, as he struggles to breathe, mouth agape beneath his mask, eyes trained onto the agonizing Toa and barely seeing them.

"Ah, you are just like those pests," the words drool out of him like foamy spit, and by how hard he shakes he really does seem to be convulsing, "Those damned rats - ah, ah, Mata Nui truly has a fondness for liars and cowards, doesn't he? Must see himself in them, if he keeps choosing them as his guard - if he keeps favoring them, giving them power, trying to save them - ah, ah..."

"Pohatu," is all that Kopaka manages to choke out.

The being heaving and trembling turns to him with a slow, stunted motion and the empty eyes of a mad Rahi. His mind seems to be elsewhere, but he holds his gaze and waits.

Despite the pain and struggle to inhale, Kopaka's quiet voice fills the silence: "They did not know."

No answer meets him.

The wall softens against them. Their limbs ache so much that focusing on anything else is impossible, but at least breathing comes less hard.

The Toa of Ice hisses as to not crumble.

He needs to speak.

If he speaks, the other will calm.

If he calms, he will be more likely to listen.

If he listens, everything can be cleared, and this will stop.

He needs to speak.

Great Spirit damn him and his abysmal storytelling.

"The storm, and the Codrex," he struggles through the words as he tries to carefully construct his sentence. "I knew. I did not tell you. And I did not plan to. That is true. It seemed like a sound plan. As you said - nobody wants to know... Nobody wants to know they could die. It seemed like a good idea. It was not. It was not. I was... The only one who knew. And I did not tell anybody. When you... Cornered me - you can read me so easily. You always could. When you cornered me - I told you. And I - the way I worded myself, was wrong. I never... Meant... That anybody else knew. I was... It was... My plan."

"Kopaka-"

"My plan," he insists over Tahu's interruption. He knows what he wants to do, but he can take the blame. He wants to. It's his fault this is happening. "Only mine. You... I would have. All of you - I would have kept quiet. And we all would have gone in. You included. That was the plan. It was always the plan. All six of us. Your canister - it was there. For you. But I was the only one, who knew. I was-"

He hushes suddenly. His head cranes, his eyes shut. The sound of the stone that slams a dent into his temple comes with a delay due to how quickly it happens.

Lewa's cry out to him is muffled by the rock muzzling him.

His brother can't respond anyways.

"That's a lie," Pohatu only says hoarsely.

The wall hardens around their bodies again (Kopaka's doesn't even lament his pain at all, completely limp) and Onua lurches forward despite the ache ricocheting through his entire being, Pakari glowing faintly to lend him enough strength to fight back: "No!" he growls, "He's telling the truth! We didn't know! We didn't know! We were just as angry as you - if we'd-!"

His mask dims as his head falls back. Another ghastly bang marks, a bit late, the appearance of the dent that knocks him out.

"That's another lie," Pohatu repeats.

He sounds tired.

His eyes wander over his last three conscious siblings, frozen in a horrified terror: "Who's next," he asks, though there is no questioning inflection to his words - only a horrifying exhausted wrath that gnaws at his tendons even when there is barely anything left for it to eat. "Who else wants to lie to me. Don't be shy. Don't be shy, do it, you've done it a hundred times before. Don't be shy."

Lewa sobs. He wails within the cage that constricts his mask, looks at him with eyes wider than a moon, howls without words.

The muzzle tightens and chokes his scream inside it.

"They're not dead," Pohatu spits. "I am a Toa. I don't kill."

He knows it doesn't make them feel any safer, because he knows they can hear his entire body straining to scream no matter how much I might want to, no matter how much you would deserve it through his mouth.

He knows he doesn't want to. He knows he never wanted. He knows it has to be them - provoking him, poking at him like one does at a dying ember to make it spark some more. They want to break him completely and tear away from him the only thing they can't have: the knowledge that he's in the right. The knowledge that he's the only one out of them who was ever deserving of being called a Toa.

It must be them. It must be them. Because they hate him.

They hate him, and so he hates them.

So it must be them.

At least, his inaction makes them squirm.

Tahu calls out to him. He turns to him, so tired, so heavy.

"Those thousands of years ago," he speaks in a calculated manner, careful, because even though he wants to make him break the code he is still afraid of death (not because he is still trying to reach out to the Pohatu he knows, the brother he loves, that can't be it, because they hate him) "What did Kopaka tell you?"

"The truth," the Toa of Stone replies quietly. "And I know it was the truth, because it would have been easier to rip the words from inside his throat than wait for him to tell me."

"And what was the truth?"

"Your plan. He told me you and him were told what what to do. He told me the five of you would have gone in before the storm would have hit. He told me you would have been safe while it descended on Karda Nui the Matoran. He told me you would have gone into the canisters and waited until duty called you to action again."

"We didn't know," Gali whispers before her brother can stop her. "Lewa, Onua and I, we didn't know."

Her arms creak as they are almost flattened.

She bites back a scream.

"Of course you knew," Pohatu shuts her down with a bitter glance. "You must have known. Nobody else asked Kopaka any questions. Nobody else needed to be told. He said, we'll get to safety. We'll enter the Codrex. The five of you. Not me. Not the Matoran."

"That 'we' always included you, too," Tahu says. He sounds like he's begging him for something. "You're our brother."

His brother's fist tightens: "Then why didn't you come for me," he asks in that flat tone. "Why didn't you track me down. Why didn't you bother to chase after me to explain yourselves. Why didn't you force me into that blasted thing. Why didn't you drag me with you, kicking and screaming as I might have been."

In the dim light, the Toa of Fire falters; he gasps for air for a moment, searching for excuses, before he lowers his eyes and admits, ashamed: "I thought we wouldn't have time."

"You left me." Pohatu translates.

Tahu shakes his head.

"You left me," Pohatu repeats, harsher, voice cracking softly: "I was your brother and you left me to die."

Before any of them can argue otherwise, the wall closes around their bodies to crush them once more with an agonizing tardiness, piercing white hot pain through their brains like a drill; it wanes just as slowly to give them a moment of respite in which they struggle to recognize the echoes of their own groans and wails still traveling through the tunnels.

Pohatu's body obstructs what little light the cracked stone still shines as he collects Takanuva in his arms ever more easily than the first time he tried to do so. He moves his little brother's head to lean on his shoulder, so that he can be at least a bit more comfortable; he nuzzles it gently, comfortingly.

Poor Takua.

He didn't deserve this.

His last look at his siblings still sizzles with poison.

"Scream as loud as you want," is all he tells them, venom dripping from every syllable: "You have all the time in the world, and nobody to hear you."

Then his mask gleams; in the blink of an eye everything goes dark, and the wall clenches its grip around them again.

[weakly-skoodge]

Week Fifty Nine!

The lift reaches the ground level of the base. His antennae catch the sounds of multiple distinctly not-robot-minion voices.

Quiet, muffled murmurs – the language is hard to make out at first, but after a second of the hangar lift coming to a stop and silencing, Skoodge can make out Vortian words.

Just as he’s wondering who on not Earth could have made themselves at home in Zim’s base, his feet make contact with the living room floor, and something small and gray hurdles into him, nearly knocking him back against the wall.

“MASTER! IS THAT YOU?! IT’S BEEN SO LO-HAU-HAUONG!” Gir cries, clutching at the front of Skoodge’s uniform. “DID YOU EAT THE BABIES AND GET BIG AGAIN?!” He gasps without giving Skoodge any time to respond, and presses the side of his head into Skoodge’s abdomen, as if able to hear said babies. It’s not a very comfortable position to be in.

Fortunately, his grip slackens when he flops to the floor and rolls around in hysterics. “THEY WERE SO YOUNG!” His tears will stain the tiles forever.

Suddenly, the manic little robot stops rolling around, picking his head up with a smile. “You save me any?”

“Wh– Gir, it’s me, Skoodge. You know me.” He points at himself to emphasis just how much knowing Gir does. Know. Him. “I’ve been here for seven months…” He adds, his voice getting smaller and smaller towards the end.

“Oh yeaahhhhh.” Gir gives him one small, aloof nod in acknowledgement, and then wanders off, any interest in Skoodge immediately forgotten.

Three kids snicker at him from their places on the couch, reminding him of their presence. Vortian, if he’s seeing right.

They escaped the basement?

Skoodge shifts on his feet, allowing his nerves to get the better of him as he gestures to the three.

“Does he know you’re all out… here?”

The closest one stops his giggling, tilting his head to the side to ask “Abaah Zim?” The second one next to the first shakes his head. “Hoko.”

“He.” The last parrots the previous one’s denial. "Ju Plavar, blehhoke visten jaji."

A loud noise blasts through the television speakers. All of the kids, and Gir, snap to attention as a brightly colored Earth cartoon theme song begins to play.

“Of course.” Skoodge sighs heavily, shoulders drooping along. He jabs a thumb over in the general direction of where all of the lifts to the basement are semi-hidden. “I’m gonna go get him now.”

Getting no response, he makes his way across the room, passing by the television and the frankly disturbing squealing contents on its screen. He wonders how the Computer manages to put up with having this mindless… bad stuff… on all the time.

He peels his eyes away from the now singing characters, and stops long enough in his tracks to turn and squint back at the three – four – miscreants on the couch. Gir’s since joined the vortians and is now watching the cartoon with them.

They look… content. Comfortable.

Far too much so.

“… And don’t call him Plavar.”

“Blah, blah.” The middle of the three says while moving his hand in some imitation of a blabbering mouth, still wholly transfixed by the moving pictures on the screen.

Skoodge gives one final hum and turns his attention away, finding the panel in the floor that’ll give him access to the basement without getting him stuck.

That time in the toilet had been fun.

[humminghaus]

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[blushmountainmolayne]

@tapuhauko said: “ i’m gonna be away for a while , starting tomorrow . ”

“Oh, are you? Yeah, in your shoes, I think I would get outta dodge sooner than later. I don’t blame you.”

Molayne hums, before sliding over a box.

“good thing I made this for you before you left.”

inside is … a cake? A cake that Molayne made. A cake that Molayne made that says “SORRY YOU GOT FIRED” in frosting, and a little frosting Hau glob that’s frowning.

“… I hope you can eat it in time.”

[vitaliskravtsov]

HI hello I would like a lil moment of Frog friendship since i guessed all the goalies <3

HI HELLO IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT HERE YOU ARE!!!!!!! FROG FRIENDSHIP, FT RANDOM EARLY MODERN POETRY AND ICE CREAM RUNS AND CUDDLES

under the cut to not clog folks's dashes!

i hope you enjoy!!!

Chowder doesn't make a habit of getting home late, exactly, because he knows that he'll never hear the end of it.

He's making an exception for Dex, because Dex is pretty much always his exception.

They're getting ice cream together at a place about 15 minutes out of town that Dex loves and refuses to admit he loves, Chowder's treat. Superficially, it's because the Bruins beat the Sharks. Practically, it's because Dex's Chem 102 class has been eating his brain alive, and the aggression he hasn't spent on hockey is being poured into fixing every single inch of wiring in the basement of the Haus.

Dex gets some kind of a concoction of a nut mix-in and then a chocolate base with a fruit topping that Chowder doesn't actually understand the flavor profile of, but dutifully dips his spoon into when Dex offers. It actually tastes pretty good even if Chowder can't get why it does. He offers his in kind to Dex, who takes a taste and promptly declares that it's okay, but his is better.

They get a basket of cheese fries, too, because stopping a 'grocery run' to get ice cream means that, actually, they should've probably gotten groceries anyway, even if it was a made up excuse to get ice cream without being subject to Jack's interrogation. Cheese fries is probably a fine dinner, after the day Dex has had.

On the way out, Dex stops and orders a bright pink monstrosity with rainbow sprinkles and Twix on top of it, all in a cup with a lid.

"Nursey," he mumbles at Chowder's questioning look.

"That's-"

"I know," Dex sighs.

They make it back to the Haus mostly on time, and Chowder breathes a sigh of relief. No 'sleep payback' shots tomorrow at practice.

Slowly, Dex trudges up the stairs to his and Nursey's room, and Chowder follows. Dex knocks gently, and then pushes the door open.

Nursey is laying on the floor, mostly hidden under a quilt.

"I've got ice cream," Dex says, "but you can't have it under that quilt because you'll get it dirty."

"You're a dream," Nursey slurs. "Yet I thought thee an angel..."

"Donne?" posits Chowder.

"Mhm," Nursey says. "Does it have the Chiclets in it?"

"Eat your poison dessert," Dex tells him, which is as good as a yes.

"Not poison," Nursey mumbles back, but springs up from the floor a second later. He takes the proffered spoon and bowl, and bites in. "I love you, Dexy."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dex and Chowder chime.

"Et tu, Chris?"

"Early modern that bad?"

"I'd rather be in chem."

"No," Dex says, "you wouldn't."

"You can cheat in chem," Nursey answers, and Chowder can see the moment that Dex goes absolutely incandescent.

Chowder also sees the moment he takes a deep breath.

"Do your own damn work, Nurse."

Nursey hums non-committally, and then dives back into his ice cream.

"Chowder," he announces suddenly through a mouthful of Chiclets. "Stay. We have a shark."

"Sure," Chowder tells him, watching Dex fold himself onto his bed in a kind of pretzel shape, tucked in beside the chem book.

"Cuddle pile," Nursey adds, and Chowder nods. Cuddle piles are exactly what he expected, and kind of what he needs tonight, too.

Dex presses a shark-shaped plushie to Chowder's chest and forcibly folds his arms around it while holding his book open with his leg pressed against the pages. Nursey sets his empty ice cream cup (Chowder tries not to think about how much sugar that was in such a short time) and hauls Chowder into his side.

"Ditch the book, Dexy-Sexy," Nursey mumbles around Chowder's shoulder. "Cuddle."

"Fuck you," Dex says. "That doesn't even work."

A second later, the book snaps closed and his arms come up around Chowder's shoulders, sandwiching Chowder between Nursey's chest and Dex's.

"Frogpile," Chowder says after a moment, and he feels more than hears the laughter of his best friends.

"Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss," Nursey whispers into Chowder's ear, air brushing right over the shell of it. He tucks his face into Chowder's neck, lips pressed soft against Chowder's skin, nothing to it more than Nursey's need to hold and be held.

"Marlowe?" Dex prompts from Chowder's other side, but Nursey is breathing like he does as he's just fallen into the edge of sleep, where nothing but yelling and chaos will wake him because Nursey sleeps like a log.

"Nah," Chowder answers. "Lavoisier, for sure."

"Shut up, man," Dex says, jostling Chowder's shoulder gently.

"Love you too."

"Mhm."

Dex starts drawing slow patterns on Chowder's arm, hexagon on hexagon, tied together with single and double and triple lines, and it lulls Chowder into something shallowly between 'sleepy' and 'just super relaxed'. He lets himself fall into it, floating off into sleep to the sound of Nursey's snuffles and the feeling of Dex's study formulae.

Dex falls asleep last, watching the last of the tension drain out of Chowder's arms, wrapped around the hammerhead plushie he'd sewn last week. He matches Nursey's breathing, rests his chin on Chowder's head, lets his best friends take his weight, rests what he's been holding alone on them, lets down some of the load, and sleeps.

[giggly-squiggily]

Hello once more! May I humbly request ‘miss you’ with Lee! Reader and Leader Hau and/or Gladion? They’re both huge comfort character for me and like nobody writes for the Alola boys anymore 😭. Hope you’re having an amazing day!

Heyo friend! :D Welcome back! Oo, Sun and Moon! I haven't thought about these guys in awhile- this was super refreshing to come back too! I've gotcha covered! (And I wish the same to you! Have an amazing day! :3)

Miss You: "When's the last time you smiled?"

“Hey (Y/N)? When’s the last time you smiled?” Hau asked, turning to you with nearly unreadable smile.

“This morning? Just now? Why?” You blinked, confused by the question. On your otherside, you heard Gladion huff out a laugh.

“True, true, but when’s the last time you smiled?” He waggled his brows as he emphasized, making you giggle and push him away. “You know- laugh so hard your face hurts smile?”

“Hm…” You hummed, thinking about it. “Probably a few weeks ago when you feel off that boat!”

Gladion snorted, turning away with a grin. Hau gave you his famous pouty look.

“I see you.” He nodded, expression forming into one of pure mischief. “Glads? Shall we?”

“Sure. Wanna do the honors, Capsize.” Gladion gestured on, earning another pout.

“Huh? What are you- AH!” You jumped with a squeal when both of them attacked, hands poking and prodding at your sides with various results. “Aheahhahahahha! AHhehahah! Glahhahahdion, Hahhahahahu! STahahahhap ihiihihiihiht!”

“Hehe, there it is! I knew we could get you smiling!” Hau grinned, gently pushing you onto your back as his other hand worked your ribs. “Aren’t they adorable, Glads?” “Yeah, they’re cute alright.” Gladion nodded, his own hands scribbling along your belly, a warm smile on his lips as you squeaked and cackled. “Though I don’t think they’re smiling just yet.”

“I agree. This is a nice smile, but it isn’t THE smile!” Hau nodded, pulling his hands back to let you breathe. “What do you think? Time for desperate measures?”

“Whahahat?” You blinked, already sure of what's to come.

“Desperate measures for sure.” The blonde nodded in agreement. Without much warning, he quickly gathered your wrists. “Ready?”

“Whahahahit! Whahahhait, dohohohn’t you dahhahahre!” You were already laughing.

“Ready!” Hau nodded. “One, two, THREE!” On the final count, Hau ducked his head, blowing a massive raspberry against your stomach. Even with the shirt layer, it tickled like heck!

“AHHEHHAHHHAHAAA!” You squealed, struggling to break out of Gladion’s grip as Hau blew an extra raspberry against your belly. “OHOHOHOAKY OHOHOHOKAY STAHHAHAHAP!”

“Heh, listen to them, Hau. They had enough.” Gladion reached over, lightly tugging Hau’s head up by the tuff of his ponytail. The sight left you giggling like crazy, too tired to cover your face as you smiled on.

“There it is.” Hau nodded, glowing with pride. “There’s the smile I was looking for.”

~Send me a pairing and a candy heart phrase~

[failedintsave]

Kloktober Day 11: Blood or Flowers

I'm late on this one, and probably won't get to the other written prompts for the remaining days because brain hurty, but finally finished this after it knocked me down and dragged me for triple my intended word count.

You Belong Somewhere Close to Me

Beyond the doors of the Great Hall the corridors looked the same as ever, ornate columns and peaked archways bathed in a bloody red glow, relief sculptures of dragons and gargoyles leering down at all who traversed beneath their watchful glare. It was foreboding by design: the Haus, the grounds, every occupiable space—the product of Dethklok's collective aesthetic sensibilities. But tonight, the Hall had been transformed into something unrecognizable.

It was a special occasion.

Vast swaths of silk hid the vaulted ceiling, hung high overhead and radiating outward to cascade down the length of the walls in shimmering teals and mermaid greens, undulating like waves. A pendulous chandelier glittered with hundreds of individual tapers, its tea light offspring gracing every table and surface, vases of celosia and hyacinth interspersed like coral formations, filling the air with sweet perfume.

Winding through the crowd of guests, two champagne flutes dangling from his fingers, Skwisgaar made his way back to the edge of the dancefloor. Music swelled, strings and woodwinds rising in a crescendo—the orchestra was a nice touch, if unexpected, considering the fate of the last symphony to play in Dethklok's presence—and Nathan's bulky form turned a slow circle, Abigail twirling under his outstretched fingertips. The skirt of her ivory gown billowed as she spun, like foamy surf crashing onto the shoreline and receding when Nathan gathered her close once more.

"Here," Skwisgaar nudged Toki's shoulder, offering one of the glasses.

Toki accepted the flute, but didn't turn his head, half-lidded gaze following the ebb and flow of the couple's first dance. He still wore the same wistful look that had driven Skwisgaar to fetch drinks rather than engage; eyes and smile soft, his chest rising and falling in great sighs or quiet exclamations when light caught the pearl hairpins securing Abigail's dark curls away from her face, iridescent amongst the spray of baby's breath woven into her braid.

"She ams such a beautifuls bride," Toki murmured, his head tilting to one side. "Don't dey look happy?"

Skwisgaar hummed his response, carefully neutral. Truth be told, he couldn't recall ever seeing Nathan look so enraptured, and he'd witnessed the frontman fawn and fumble over many women. Through the ceremony and their vows, during dinner speeches (Skwisgaar's own far more condensed than the roast-style delivery given by the bride's effervescent cousin), and even when Abigail had smashed cake into his face, Nathan's besotted expression never wavered.

He was thrilled for them. He was. He grinned as Nathan dipped Abigail towards the floor, her laughter ringing out when her new husband pretended to lose his grip and let her slip an extra inch before lifting her again. Their photographers swarmed to capture the moment and the subsequent kiss from every angle, and Toki cooed again as the couple embraced.

"It's so sweet, likes a fairytales." He swayed to the music, hypnotized, his voice thick and dreamy. "Do you thinks…woulds you ever..?"

Skwisgaar exhaled through his nose and let his eyes slide shut. He'd been braced for this conversation all evening. It wasn't the first time the subject had come up, despite his answer always being the same.

Once Upon a Time, on a bare mattress in a grungy apartment, a careful set of ground rules had been established. Casual, infrequent, allowable so long as expectations were kept to a minimum, with the understanding that their arrangement was temporary in nature. Wary of Toki's naivety, Skwisgaar had at the time made it abundantly clear that he was not the settling down type of person. And he'd reiterated such whenever Toki was taken with such storybook ideals.

Turning to gently (but firmly) decline as he'd done so many times before, Skwisgaar was surprised not to find himself staring down pitiful puppy eyes. Toki's attention remained on their friends as they spun in slow circles. Even when the song changed and Nathan handed Abigail off to her father accompanied by the applause of their assembled guests, he continued facing forward, lips a gentle curve, fingers tapping rhythm lightly against the stem of his champagne glass.

The words Skwisgaar intended to speak stayed lodged in his throat, as though someone had clumsily palm-muted his vocal chords.

He couldn't deny they had long since crossed beyond the bounds of their initial guidelines. Stepping into the public eye together, monogamy? Skwisgaar would never have imagined such for himself if he hadn't lived it, but somehow, here they stood, with years at their backs. It was an awfully long time for 'temporary.' That didn't mean it was Happily Ever After, right?

And yet, watching the Norwegian in profile as candlelight danced over his cheekbones, Skwisgaar remained quiet, unable to dismiss the notion. His stomach turned a somersault that had nothing to do with the alcohol in his hand and everything to do with the concept of Forever standing next to him, in his usual spot. This goofball, with his silly mustache and a dark purple dahlia pinned to his jacket, slightly smashed from where he'd been hugging people all day. This constant presence at his side, adoring and annoying in perfect blend to bind himself inextricably into the weave of Skwisgaar's heartstrings.

This man he thought he'd been saying no to, when all along he'd meant 'not yet.' The realization hit him like a train.

When finally Toki looked in his direction, Skwisgaar hurriedly averted his eyes, taking a sip from his champagne to cover his lack of response. The moment passed, and Toki seemed to accept his silence as answer enough, smile dimming only slightly.

Toki shuffled closer, his elbow bumping into Skwisgaar's side. "Can I ats least convince you to dance wif me when dey opens de floor?"

Still reeling, Skwisgaar sputtered into his drink. "J-ja. Um, shore. Just needs to, eughh, go takes a leak foirst. Be right back."

He handed his half-empty flute to Toki and spun on his heel for the door, dodging a caterer bearing a tray of Nathan's favorite sugar-crusted, bacon-wrapped Chilean seabass hor d'oeuvres and loosening his tie as he fled. In his haste, he nearly ran carelessly into a figure headed back the way he'd come. Skwisgaar swerved, his dress shoes sliding on the polished floor, and a pair of hands grabbed him by the biceps, strong fingers tipped with bright pink lacquer bunching in the sleeve of his suit coat.

"Oh, Skwisgaar! I'm so sorry, dear!" Rose Explosion warbled as she steadied him. "You'll have to forgive me. I've blubbered so much today and my eyes are so puffy I'm practically blind." She brushed at invisible dirt on his lapel and flashed a bright smile at him.

"Ams okej, I wasn'ts lookingk where I was going, I apolgesacs. Was…distractsed." Skwisgaar tipped his head at her, returning the smile. Her eyes were indeed a little red and her cheeks blotchy under her foundation, but she glowed with pride beneath it all. "Why ams you crying?"

"Well I don't know if you know this, but my baby boy got married today." Rose beamed. "Though I did think I would keep it together better than this. Nathan gets his tough exterior from my side, you know. Oscar has always been the softie."

"Heugh, of course."

"It's true. On our wedding day, when I walked down the aisle, he was bawling so hard I was afraid he was gonna run!"

"No!"

"That's right! He didn't, of course. I mean, obviously. He stayed right there like he's always been. Dear man just wears his heart right on his sleeve." She sniffled and dabbed at the corner of her eye. "And here I go again! Making a liar out of myself." Rose laughed as a tear streaked down her cheek. "I'm just so proud and so pleased. There's so much love here today, it's making me a little crazy I guess." She fanned herself and her wide grin fractured for a moment, a fresh tide of emotions welling behind her eyes. Rose swallowed hard before speaking again in an uncharacteristically small voice. "She's going to take care of him, isn't she?"

Skwisgaar laid his hand over hers where she still gripped his sleeve. "Ja. De best."

Applause disguised her shaky sigh as Rose nodded and steeled herself once again, the cellos and percussion winding down the final measures of their song before other pieces rejoined to build a new melody.

"Well I think that's my cue, hun. If you'll excuse me, it's time to go dance with my son. I just hope my two left feet don't get in the way."

"One second." Skwisgaar swiped his thumb under her eye, wiping away a damp smudge of mascara. "Dere. Readies for your close-ups."

Mouthing a silent thank you, her fingers squeezed his arm once, and then she was angling through the sea of guests towards the dance floor. Skwisgaar watched her go before continuing into the hallway.

The crossing from reception into the unaltered wings of Mordhaus was jarring, like leaving the world of magic and music behind and waking up in dusty Kansas. Skwisgaar marched swiftly into the bathroom and turned the tap on full blast, watching the water spiral away down the drain. He clutched the edge of the sink and tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart, blinking and waiting for everything to fade into grayscale. But it didn't. His world hadn't been black and white for a long time. Pops of technicolor had sprouted when he wasn't looking, spreading like only wildflowers could over parched, untilled soil into a vibrant meadow, cultivated by one busy and shockingly patient little bumblebee. Skwisgaar splashed cold water on his face, which did nothing to clear the image taking shape in his mind.

A smaller venue, an even more exclusive guest list—neither of them had much family outside of the band to speak of, though he supposed he did want his mother present, provided she remained on her best behavior. And Tyr would be invited. Rose and Oscar too, if they wanted to come. He saw white drapings and calla lilies (his tastes were nothing if not consistent) and could almost feel hands warm in his, adorned with twin gold bands twinkling in the light of a setting sun.

He jumped at the sound of a toilet flushing, the stall door swinging open on its hinges and slamming into the wall.

"Some party, huh?" Pickles posited as he sidled up to the next basin. He rinsed his fingertips, forgoing soap, then wiped his hands dry on the legs of his trousers. "Band's pretty good. Yannoe. Fer what dey are. Naht my thing but, whatever. Classy, I guess."

"Eughh, ja. Ams nice."

"Still though, could use some zazz, right?" The drummer laughed as he caught the reflection of Skwisgaar's eye roll. "Think Abby would go all bridezilla if we bust out the ol' tranq guns? There's gahtta be one lyin' around somewhere."

"She wouldn't has to brides-griller you, she would just acks Nat'an to does it for her."

"Oh I'm way less sceer'da him." Pickles smirked. "Eh, dats alright, her great auntie Edna evidently has her medical card on account'a her rheumatism. Caught 'er out back burnin' one, traded her summa my edibles, naht bad! Guess doctors are cool now."

Skwisgaar breathed a laugh, looking at his face in the mirror. His smile spread, his imagination still spinning out the daydream from before; he rubbed at his third knuckle, the phantom sensation of a ring settling on his finger. Green eyes slid into view as Pickles leaned sideways, peering around the edge of the frame.

"You good, dood? Ya look kinda tense. Wanna step out fer a minute and?" He mimed holding a joint to his lips, wiggling his brows so his piercings glinted in the fluorescent light.

"No, t'anks." Skwisgaar straightened, squaring his shoulders. "I, euhm, acktuallies owes somebody a dance."

Toki stood exactly where he'd left him, watching as people waltzed and wiggled in pairs as the string section played an upbeat cover of some pop song Skwisgaar barely recognized. He watched Toki from the side once again, taking in the bright grin the younger man wore as he giggled with his bridesmaid counterpart (shorter now that she'd exchanged the heels for her typical athletic sneakers) and gesticulated animatedly, champagne flutes still dutifully held side by side in one hand.

Skwisgaar stepped up next to him as he waved to his friend taking her leave, linking their pinky fingers when Toki's arm dropped back to his side.

"Hei! Dere you are!" Toki chirped, his eyes still shining with laughter. He turned at the waist and set the glasses aside on an empty table. "You ready?" He took a half step towards the dancefloor, but stopped when Skwisgaar made no move to follow.

For all the fluttering excitement he'd felt moments earlier, a whisper of trepidatious restraint anchored him in place. Something—not doubt, but flavored that way—lingered like a cloud, shading the weedy patch of ground on which he'd rooted.

"N-no. Not right now. But," he turned his wrist to lace the rest of their fingers together properly. Toki glanced down as Skwisgaar gave a tiny squeeze, hoping it felt stronger than his wavering voice. "I will be, I t'inks. Later."

"Oh. Okei. Dids you wanna go sits down?" Toki's grin slipped sideways, bemused.

Looking at their joined hands, Skwisgaar noted how much warmer Toki's palm was compared to his own. Warmer still than in his fleeting fantasy, as though he'd been outside basking and absorbing heat from the sun. The nagging, fearful cloud persisted, a nimbus clinging to his back and seeping into his mind with chilled tendrils even as Toki's warmth soaked his skin and climbed up his arm. Clouds and even storms would blow through from time to time. But rain, however dark or torrential, would always pass eventually, and in its wake, flowers only blossomed brighter.

"Not rights away. Soon." Skwisgaar nodded to himself. He lifted his attention to Toki's face, repeating with more confidence, "Soon."

Toki held his gaze, his brows pinching as he tried to parse meaning from Skwisgaar's words. Then all at once, his mouth fell open, the entirety of freezing blue irises visible as his eyes grew wide and comically round.

"You, you means?" At Skwisgaar's nod, he barked a laugh and lunged, hugging Skwisgaar with such force that he hoisted him an inch off the ground. Toki set him down again but didn't release him, raising his chin to look up once again. "You really do means it?"

"Ja, Toki. I do."

"Do what?" A bassy growl questioned from beside them.

Nathan stumped forward, exiting the dancefloor with Abigail on his arm. A warm flush colored the bride's cheeks, from either alcohol or exertion, probably a combination of both. Trailing behind, Murderface scooped half-empty plates off the tables they passed, helping himself to abandoned morsels of braised pork and spears of tempura-fried asparagus.

"Abigails!" Toki ignored his bandmates, leaping forward to seize her by the hands. "Wowee you ams just so beautifuls! Whens you was spinning around and you dress was all sparkling, you just like a princess!"

"Thank you," she laughed.

"I'm so excited, dis make you basically my sister now!"

"Oh, Toki. You've been family to me for a while now, sweetie." Abigail cupped his cheek adoringly. "Are you having fun? I haven't seen you out there bustin' a move yet."

His smile grew impossibly wider, and he peeked over his shoulder to Skwisgaar before leaning in to stage whisper near Abigail's ear. "Guess whats." Toki bounced in place, unable to wait for Abigail to prompt him for the rest. "Me and Skwisgaar ams gonna gets married too!"

"Are you really?!"

"Yeah! He saids yes!"

"Not ezacktlies, what I saids was—"

"Jeezsch, don't you know it'sch rude to get engaged at schomeone elsches wedding? Not cool, Schkwishgaar. Way to pull attenschun. Scho typical." Murderface picked inelegantly between his teeth with a fingernail.

"Pulls—wait, I didn'ts—!"

"Hey, yeah. Wow. Get your own party. This is mine." Abigail cleared her throat and Nathan amended. "Ours. Our party. Sorry baby. Our party."

Abigail waved him off, but Toki followed his example, correcting his statement. "Well he saids yes to saying yes."

"Oh. I guess that's okay then." A beat, then Nathan and Murderface spoke almost in unison.

"Dibs on best man!"

"Dibsch on—ah schit! Wait, dibsch on Toki'sch bescht man!"

"Who saids I wants you as best man? Maybe I was gonna has Rockso do it?"

"No. Dat aments alloweds." Skwisgaar had no room for that clown in his beautiful daydream ceremony. Or the nuptials of his nightmares, for that matter.

"Okei, okei fine." Toki returned to his side, one arm looping around his middle. "We can just has his band plays at de reception."

Not better.

"You knows what, I t'inks dis hypogeticals wedding ams cancelled."

"Nooo, you can'ts call it offs now! You mades de pinky promise!" Toki curled his little finger around Skwisgaar's, raising their linked hands to his mouth and pressing a kiss to Skwisgaar's knuckles. "Ands a pinky promise ams forever."

"He's right, Skwisgaar. No take backs." Abigail nodded sagely. She plucked an orange lily out of the nearest table centerpiece, the starfish in the reef-themed arrangement. Reaching up, she tucked the stem behind Skwisgaar's pocket square. "I already threw my bouquet, so you're not up next, but this means you can't drag your feet either. So get planning." She winked at Toki, poking his arm before returning to Nathan's.

Skwisgaar glanced from the flower to Toki staring up at him, his cherubic face glowing with unbridled affection. Unable to resist as his cheek muscles pulled upward in a return smile, Skwisgaar bent his head to where Toki still held their entwined hands aloft and touched his lips to the other man's third finger. Not usually one to express his fondness so obviously in front of others, he felt heat blooming across the bridge of his nose and saw it matched on Toki's cheeks.

He could handle forever, tending this garden together.