#I CAN LOOK AT HIS HEAD. IN HIS EYEBALLS AND HAIR. I CAN IMPRINT HIS IMAGE IN MY HEAD. BUT I STILL. CAN'T. DRAW. HIM.

[snudootchaikovsky]

PRESENTING THE LEBIHAN FANART MY MOTHER MADE INTO HER PFP FOR KAKAOTALK <3

THIS IS LIKE A YEAR OLD LMAO

[crackedpumpkin]

a/n: Damn, I'm really drabblin bros. I'm gonna be so exhausted tomorrow, I guarantee it.

|| Tired Fools || Tadashi Hamada x Reader

“Can you check this for me?” 

You lean over, looking away from the laptop in your hands. You scan the screen, reading the code that Tadashi shows you. You squint, and he notices, shifting the monitor, so you don’t have to crane your neck.

“It looks good so far, but you’re gonna have an error here,” You point out, unsteadily balancing your laptop to poke your finger at the screen. You stumble, and the computer slides out of your grasp as you gasp in horror.

“Woah!” He grabs the laptop, securing it carefully yet tightly as your hand grips his shoulder. You balance yourself, the room practically swaying. You blink, sitting on the chair he pulls up for you.

“Thanks,” You say breathlessly, taking a moment to close your eyes. You groan, lines of code practically imprinted on your eyeballs. Even with your eyes closed, you can still see the bright screen and hear a soft chuckle from the boy beside you.

“It’s your fault, y’know.” You grumble, moving your hand to hit him with your eyes still closed. “If we got home earlier from the theme park, we wouldn’t have had to stay up like this.” Your hand finally connects with something warm – his arm, you realize. You give him a light punch.

“Yeah, but you had so much fun on the roller coasters. Who am I to take you away from that?”

“Shut up,” You mumble, realizing that his voice is husky with exhaustion. You swat his arm, and he responds with a questioning hum. “Take a break, stupid.” You order, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him back to lean against his chair.

He allows himself to be pulled back, and you feel his chair shift as he groans in relief. “I have so many errors.”

“That’s okay; you’re a good programmer. You’ll fix it.”

“Not as good as you are, though.”

“Are you kidding me?” You bark out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. With your eyes closed, it provides so much relief from the screen you’d been staring at for the past five hours with only two hours of sleep.

“Nah, you’re great. I mean it.”

“Well, you have great hair.”

“You have nice eyes.”

“You have great arms.”

Somehow, your tiredness had turned both of you into rambling fools, neither of you processing the words that left your lips.

“You’re terrible at acting, but it’s cute.”

You pause. “Am I really?”

“What, the acting or the cute thing? Because both are true.”

“Well, you have cute expressions too. Especially when you talk about your brother and aunt. You practically light up, and it’s adorable,” You giggle.

The both of you fall silent, flushed cheeks and goofy smiles as you process the other’s words.

“Should we continue?”

You sense him turning to look at you. Your lips spread into a warm smile, chuckling at the thought of the horror that’s your assignment waiting for you.

“Wanna trade?”

He chuckles, his hand finding yours and giving it a quick squeeze. 

“Sure.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter One

CW: Captivity whump, some... implications... references to branding. This is just me getting a feel for the idea and character, though, really.

-

The robes he once kept pristine are caked in dried mud around the hem. Grigory frowns as he inspects them, rubbing along the seam. It flakes away, leaving imprints of itself behind. 

Maudlin, certainly, but it feels like the stain of their sins painting his soul.

Maybe suffering can give even a man of the Goddess the sentiment of a poet. His lip curls in disgust at the very thought.

Please, please speak to me, Dromada. Tell your priest what he must do to escape this nightmare.

She is, and has always been, silent to his pleas for Her assistance. 

The Goddess the people worship may be a paragon of compassion and forgiveness, her sculptures solemn and grave with hands outstretched to embrace even the lowest-born of Her children, but Grigori is beginning to suspect the holy men have got it wrong. 

She isn't gracefully wise. She does not reach Her hand out to hold Her children. No, as each day passes without Her so much as whispering a reassurance, he begins to feel She is th goddess of laughter, and he is Her current favorite joke.

A knock at the door to his room - his cell, really, but of course they all like to pride themselves on keeping him in high style in his gilded cage - has him looking up, a little startled. The moon has only made half of its trek across the night sky, through the looping swirls of galaxies far, far beyond the reach of mere mortal men. That milky spin of stars, everyone knows, is where the gods live.

He wonders how many of them are looking down on him, sipping crystalline waters, and mocking his pain.

He would spit on every last temple step, if he could.

If he could just leave the fucking room-

“Brother Grigori,” His guest singsongs, half-dancing into the room. Grigory turns away from him, laying one palm over one of the iron bars that blocks any escape through the window. His fingers close slowly around it. 

“What do you want.” His voice is curt, it cuts short and sharp. “Bastard.”

“Oh, see you got my name all wrong again.” The leader of this little gang is tall - too tall - and all knees and legs, lean muscle making him heavier than he looks. Grigori is tall enough for a man, but he seems like he’s half-grown, compared to the bandit. The man’s hair is a shock of white atop his head, shaved on the sides, while Grigori’s curly brown grows to the bottom of his ears, as is prescribed for the priests. He swaths himself in black kohl around his equally dark eyes and shining black leather worn back to brown from age and ill-use at the knees and elbows. Grigori’s hazel and his dirtied robes look like a joke, placed next to the bandit’s appearance.  “It’s Bohli, remember? Or that’s what my mother calls me, anyway. Or she would, if she were still alive. She probably uses that when she curses my name from the heavens above, granted. I mean, probably, unless she really is suffering in the Dark After, like she deserves-”

“What do you want, Bohli?” Grigory’s head is already starting to hurt. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense. You have all the time in the world. You have nothing but time.”

“Not for… you. Please leave.”

“Nope. Not going anywhere. This is my house, remember? I just let you stay here.”

“Let me.” The words are sour in Grigori’s mouth. “Right, of course. Let me. Because I asked to be branded and trapped here in this room-”

“Hush. I take you for walkies every day, little god’s dog.” Bohli winks, and Grigori - who took a vow of pacifism, once - imagines stabbing his own knife through his eyeball until it comes out the other side of his head. “If you don’t want a leash, you just have to prove you won’t run off.”

He would, of course. Run. Outside, the woods stretch far and wide. There’s a path he could take to find a village, to find freedom...

Or… more realistically… to get arrested for being in league with Bohli and his bastards, which he isn’t, but everyone knows the goddess would save Her most faithful, and he’s been here too long. He would be branded a heretic. Everyone knows he’s a heretic. His own fellow priests would turn their backs on him. The people would burn him at the stake, for being defiled, degraded, a paragon of nothing but the filth they have covered him in. Little more than a bandit himself. 

Maybe he is one.

Dromada would have saved him if he were truly Hers to save. And instead, here he is, the infamous giver of absolution to the men and women who massacre whole towns in defiance of - in direct insult to - the power and might of His Majesty, the King.

No. he would be burned as an enemy of the King's, and he would have no standing to defend himself. A captive this long isn't a captive at all, in the eyes of the world.

Just a man who no longer wants to be saved.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he struggles not to let Bohli see them and mock him even more. It’s not like he hasn’t already been marked. It was one of the first things they did. Bohli had given the order and watched while they tied him down. Grigori himself had been made to look as they put the iron in the fire, made to watch them heat it to red. Bohli had been whispering in his ear when when they pressed it to his pelvis, and Bohli had cooed over him while he screamed, stroking through his sweaty hair.

“Just leave,” He whispers, the area aching all over again. They branded him over the symbol of Dromada tattooed, a mark of his vow of chastity.

Another one broken.

Maybe that was when She stopped listening.

“Oh, but I can’t, darling Grigori. I’ve come to make a confession.” Bohli laughs, and his laughter could make you bleed even better than his blade. But somehow Grigori can’t seem to die from the loss. “Isn’t that why I keep a priest of Dromada around, anyway? For to save my poor mortal soul?”

Grigori fights the urge to wish aloud someone would poison the asshole’s food. “You would burn if you touched the Hem of her robe.”

“Maybe.” Bohli shrugs, kicking a chair over and dropping down into it, loose-limbed. His eyes spark with delight as he takes in Grigori’s misery. “But you wear Her robes, and yet I never burn when I touch you-”

“Speak your confession,” Grigory snaps, his heart twisting and going briefly silent and still in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and Bohli’s peal of bright, brittle laughter tells him the flush isn’t going unnoticed. 

“Say it.” Bohli watches him, and it’s like being watched by one of the terrifying big cats that roam the woods just beyond this hideous prison. Unblinking, a predator’s stare. “Say the words, priest.”

Each time he does, they feel more bitter on his tongue. 

But still.

Grigori draws the ruins of his robe closer around himself, and sits up straight. He swallows and sets his jaw. “Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, the goddess Dromada hears and forgives all from those who love Her. You have only to ask. Speak, child, and be forgiven.”

Bohli licks his lips, leaning forwards. Somehow, Grigori can’t make himself look away. The bandit leader’s teeth are sharp - those canines can rend skin from bone. He’s part-elf, they say, somewhere in his bloodline the half-mindless shrieking hordes of the elven race lurk. You can always tell, so it’s said, from the sharpness of their teeth. From how little they care for the lives of men.

Maybe he’s half-elf.

It would explain why he’s so fucking smug.

“Forgive me, Dromada’s Chosen, for I have sinned against Her,” Bohli says, and he doesn’t even try to feign sincerity. Why he even plays this game, when Dromada isn’t a goddess for the elves of their wretched offspring to begin with, is beyond Grigori’s understanding.

Grigori fights the urge to sigh. He makes Dromada’s Sign, wondering if it even calls to Her any longer. If She even feels the spark of a follower’s call, or if he’s cut off from Her entirely. Who hears him when he prays?

Does anyone?

“How have you sinned against Our Mother, She Who Gave the Waters?” 

Bohli licks his lips. His smile is a little too wide, shows too many of those sharp, sharp teeth. He'd be blisteringly handsome, if it weren’t for the sight of fangs where none should be. “I won’t lie, Brother Grigori. I set some stuff on fire yesterday. And I’m going to do it again. Will I be forgiven?”

Grigori imagines the mud climbing higher and higher up his robes, pulling him into the earth, forcing itself down his mouth and pressing over his eyes. He imagines the gods in the sky, looking down from their stars.

The image shatters with the memory of first sitting at the table with the dozen or so of Bohli's favorites, each of them smiling at him, while he sat in his pure white robes and felt himself bared, as if naked, before them.

Until Bohli had given the order for what to do with him.

“Dromada forgives all who seek Her,” Grigori intones, thoughtless. The words memorized before he was even thirteen years old, before he was old enough to take his vows. Before he was taken, and they were all broken, one by one. Bohli loved breaking Grigori's vows. “You have only to ask.”

“Good.” Bohli’s voice drops low. He has to focus to hear it, which is probably the bastard’s entire point. “Because I really, really love asking, and I love the sound of your answers.”

The bandit stands, walking over to him, putting one finger under his chin and forcing Grigori to look up - and up, and up, and up - to see the demon smile.

Grigori is sure, as Bohli watches him with his head tipped to the side and his black eyes as bright as the stars, that he can hear the goddess laughing.

[ill-written-god]

T/M | 702 | f/nb human/angel | fantasy, horror elements i guess | continuation of 'curse', tentacles

Everything smelled of lavender, making her nauseous. She hated lavender. But she was dreaming, so she probably could change it, somehow. She tried thinking very hard about chocolate. Nothing happened. 

It’s an amalgamation of both her and Abe’s apartments. She’s looking for chocolate cake, so she steps into the kitchen. Abe is there, already cutting the brownies.

“Hi,” they say softly, hesitant. 

“Hey,” she answers, waddling through the fogginess of a dream. When she’s offered the cake, she bites in and some clarity comes over her senses.

“You said you’ll come," she says out loud to make the memory more tangible. Abe nods. 

“I don’t like invading your brain like that, but it’s the only way I can show you.”

They eye each other, Jade munching on her cake. She swallows.

“Well?”

Abe sighs, resigned.

Their skin peels off, strings of flesh forming the shape of feathers. Their whole body unravels, weaving itself back into a fleshy creature of uncountable wings, eyes and tendrils. 

Jade's eyes can’t wrap around the depth of the image in front of her, so she closes them, lights throbbing behind her eyelids. 

“This is me,” says Abe’s voice, echoing from everywhere around her.

“Is this what you were so scared of?” she asks, the sight still imprinted in her brain. “You look… right.”

“Did you not like the blond hair?” they ask, covering their nerves with amusement.

“Course I did,” she scoffs, opening her eyes again. It was easier to look already, and it probably would be with each time. “But this is more you.” She bites her lip, wiping away everything she thought about life up to this moment. “What happens now?”

“Nothing.” Abe shrugs with a soft movement of their feathers. “I’ll leave you alone, I just wanted-”

“Oh, don’t,” she rolls her eyes. “You’ve always been a drama queen. Just come here.” She spreads her arms and, albeit with a lot of hesitance, she gets a bundle of warm threads of life to embrace. After a moment, tendrils snake around her middle to hug her back.

“But we can’t kiss," Abe reminds her, almost whining. "If we do, I turn, and who knows what’ll happen to you.”

“You said melted eyeballs," she recalls.

“At the least.”

For a moment, she’s completely quiet. 

"What about other people?" she asks eventually.

"Only you will see me like this. For other people, I'll stay Abe, the local barista."

"That’s stupid," she frowns. 

"That's GOD for you," they shrug.

They stay quiet, just embracing each other and softly swaying to a song in their heads.

“Do I even need eyeballs?” she asks eventually.

“Baby…”

“What if we like… scoop them out?” 

“Lil, what the fuck?” They try to lean away from the hug, eyes moving to better see her, check if she's being serious, but she keeps holding them close. 

“I'm just considering our options!” she defends. “Can we kiss, like, here?”

“I don’t know, and I don't want to risk it.”

She hums in thought.

“But you're already in this form, so…”

“Not risking it, still.”

She huffs.

“What about sex?”

The tendrils around her flexed.

“Well, it’s safe, apparently. We can keep doing it.”

“Damn, GOD is perverted.”

Abe snorts. 

“But no, I mean here. In this form.”

Abe goes still, the tendrils around her tightening minutely.

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am. What were you thinking, showing me tentacle porn?” she teases, and if the angel in front of her could blush, they would.

“Well…”

“Were you thinking about fucking me with all these?” she asks, caressing the tendrils that composed Abe, from wings to makeshift appendages to holding up the countless fiery eyes. “Would you let my eyes melt just to use me like this?” she follows, her eyebrows quirking teasingly. Abe squirms in her hold.

“No, of course not!” they protest, but her hold only tightens. 

"Just play along, baby. Ugh, this is the part when I would grab your pussy if I knew where to look."

Abe chokes out a startled laugh. 

“Oh, you’re serious about this.”

“How about you reach down and see for yourself?’

Abe does and then proceeds to show her all the fun parts of their true form. 

[honeytae]

My heart is yours.

hi bubs! so basically this is just about the reader experiencing some jealousy, and jungkook is pretty confused lol. i’m gonna be honest i don’t know how good i feel about this bc angst just isn’t my thing but i hope you all think it’s okay! this is totally not based on real events enjoy! tags: @ahgasearmyfan, @hoseokayy genre: angst, fluff word count: 3.0k

This was not how you wanted the night to go. 

Tonight had started off well; Jungkook had picked you up to arrive at Jimin’s birthday party together, and you had spent the first few hours dancing with him and his friends. You were having a really good time. Emphasis on were.

The fun had ended almost as soon as Jungkook left the table to get another round of drinks, leaving you to converse with some of Jimin’s friends you hadn’t met yet as he made his way to the bar.

In between conversations, you’d taken a brief glance over to the full bar, recognizing your boyfriend as the last one in line as he ruffled a hand through his hair. Smiling fondly at the sight, you’d turned back to one of Jimin’s friends from school, engaging in a conversation about how he knew the birthday boy. 

But the next time you looked over, your whole body seemed to set aflame in a blinding rage. 

Jungkook was no longer at the back of the line, in fact you had to boost yourself up taller in order to see the back of his head. But what you saw next to him was what really set you off; some pretty girl latched onto his arm as if she belonged there.

The chattering voices and pulsing music all seemed to fade into the background as you watched the woman continually push herself at your boyfriend. Clenching your fists, you caved into your seething anger, standing from your seat and stomping out of the room before you could think twice about it. 

He wanted to let that shit happen? Fine. But you sure as hell weren’t going to stick around and watch.

The rational part of you knew that you were acting ridiculous, much like a child throwing a tantrum with the way you’d just stormed off. But the rational part of you was not in control right now. The rational part of you had disappeared as soon as you saw her put her hands on your boyfriend.

Your heels clicked along the floorboards as you made your way toward the door, harsh breaths escaping your flared nostrils at the vision replaying over and over again in your head. 

You were so distracted that you didn’t even hear the footsteps coming toward you, nearly jumping out of your skin when you suddenly collided with a body. 

“Whoa, where are you going?” Jimin asked after steadying your body with his hands on your shoulders, seemingly walking back from the bathroom before you nearly trampled him on your fast paced trip down the hallway. 

A frown appeared on his face as he studied your reddened cheeks and overall shifted energy from only a few minutes ago, ducking his head as his eyebrows knit together in concern.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, your mouth gaping for a second as you considered what to say, knowing you could not possibly state the actual reason you had attempted to storm out of the party without being seen as crazy by your friend.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” He lowered his voice, your eyes widening at the sudden excuse before you shook your head no.

You felt horrible lying to Jimin as he looked at you with a sympathetic frown, the back of his hand going to your forehead with a concerned furrow of his brows. But it was the only option you had; that or looking like the jealous maniac you were at the moment.

“I-I was just going to get some air.” You explained weakly, Jimin nodding before looking back at the flashing lights of the dance floor. 

Was that what you were trying to do? Honestly, you didn’t know. The only thing going through your mind while walking out through the hallway was simply getting as far as you could from what was going on at the bar.

“You want me to come with you?” He offered, making you smile slightly before shaking your head again. 

“No, Jimin, I’m fine. This is your party and I want you to go have fun. If I don’t see you again, happy birthday.” You faked a smile, the man nodding before pulling you in for a hug. 

It was then that you heard the quiet thumping of footsteps down the hall, pulling away from your friend’s embrace to find none other than your boyfriend approaching behind Jimin.

“Feel better, alright?” Jimin gently squeezed at your shoulder, you nodding in response before he walked away, leaving you alone with Jungkook in the otherwise empty hallway.

“You’re not feeling well, baby?” His brows knit pulled together, having overheard the last bit of the conversation in his stroll to find you after returning to your empty spot in the booth, drinks finally in hand. 

“Not really. Just need some air.” You sighed, your boyfriend stepping forward with a press of his palm to your spine to lead you outside, no hesitation in his actions as he concentrated on getting you out of the building. 

Despite the goosebumps pricking your arms, the cold air that met your skin when Jungkook shoved the door open felt nice. You didn’t even realize how overheated you’d gotten in your rage, only realizing then how sickly you’d probably looked to Jimin.

Well, at least that excuse would work out for you.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” Jungkook mumbled, interrupting your thoughts as he slipped his jacket off of his shoulders to drape over your own, taking a seat beside you on the sidewalk. 

You thanked him quietly at the polite gesture, sighing out as you placed your elbows on your knees, resting your forehead in your hands. Honestly, at this point, you did have a headache. But it wasn’t from alcohol or the pulsing music in the building behind you. 

It was entirely induced by the way the blood had rushed to your head when you’d seen that girl push herself at your boyfriend, shamelessly giggling at him in a high pitched tone that had you clenching your fists, the crescent moon imprints from your fingernails still dug into your palm.

It really wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t done anything in return. But at the sight, you couldn’t hold back the fiery monster inside of you, the feeling that you just wanted to slap whoever tried to steal this man from you.

You hated yourself for feeling this way, knowing that Jungkook deserved someone who didn’t make a fuss out of these silly little things. The anger had now almost completely faded, manifesting itself in frustration with yourself and your own insecurities.

Now you were just projecting, taking feelings that were in no way his fault out on him.

“What are you doing?” He spoke up, interrupting your thought process as you continued blinking down at the pavement beside your feet.

Jungkook had been sitting next to you this entire time, observing you with wide eyes as you seemed to completely dissociate; something not all too uncommon for you to do when you were upset about something. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, suddenly alert when he noticed your lower lip tremble a bit, big doe eyes staring back at you as he tried to figure out what was going on with you. 

“Nothing, Kook. I just want to go home, I think. I’ll get a cab so you can stay-” 

“Baby, if you want to leave, I’m coming with you. C’mon, let’s go home.” Jungkook said as he pushed himself up from the ground, reaching his palm out to you, a bit of relief washing through his body when you let him hold your hand and tug you up from the ground. 

Fuck, you wished he wasn’t so sweet. It made it even harder to be upset with him.

You didn’t let go of his hand once you were standing, Jungkook not taking the initiative of letting go either. The touch provided a bit of comfort to the both of you, his touch grounding your anger and your touch reassuring him that it was maybe not him that you were upset with. Maybe.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” He stopped you again, studying your expression with a slight pout. With a silent nod, you let him lead you down the sidewalk, footsteps in tune with his own as you made your way down the street.

Jungkook kept sneaking glances over at you, lost as he tried his best to navigate the clues your body language was giving him.

Your head was cast downward, eyes never meeting his even as he looked over at you. Your hand held his tightly, most likely subconsciously as you seemed completely in your own head at the moment. 

With a deep breath, he paused to interrupt your trudge along the sidewalk, his sudden stop causing you to pause as well, barely even registering the action as self deprivating thoughts continued to swirl around your head.

“Hey,” he softly called for your attention, your eyes meeting his at the sound, “what’s going on?” 

His question had you diverting your eyes again, instead focusing on a passing car as you bit the side of your cheek in angst. He was going to get it out of you sooner or later; he was persistent, always had been.

“I’m fine.” You responded, not knowing what else to say as the wind blew your hair back from your face. 

You watched as Jungkook’s face morphed from confusion to absolute sadness, his fingers gently soothing over your cheek to confirm what he’d thought he’d seen in the glow from the headlights of the car passing by seconds ago.

“Baby, you’re crying.” 

With a confused hum, you lifted your hand to your face, swiping your wet cheeks and cursing under your breath. You truly hadn’t felt it happen, but you supposed it was no wonder with the growing lump in your throat.

“I think it’s the wind.” You mumbled lamely, Jungkook scoffing before pulling you into a hug, guiding your head to the crook of his neck as you easily complied.

“If you think I’m buying that for a single second,” he sighed, “can you please tell me what’s wrong?” He asked sadly, awaiting an answer as you sniffled into his neck. 

“I don’t wanna say it. I already feel like an asshole.” You responded, feeling more tears prick your eyeballs at the mere thought of bringing up your doubts to him. The last thing you wanted was for Jungkook to take your own stupid insecurities and blame himself.

“What?” Jungkook asked, confusion lacing his tone as he slightly pulled away from you to glance at your face. 

“That girl fucking pissed me off. And then I stormed out like a child. I ignored you because I didn’t know how to approach the conversation like an adult. I hurt you, so now I’m crying.” You explained, sniffling as Jungkook swiped at your tears with his thumbs, confusion etched into his features at your scattered thoughts. 

“What girl pissed you off?” He cocked his head, making you widen your eyes in disbelief.

“At the party.” You stated obviously.

When his face still didn’t change, you sighed, biting your lip out of nerves before your boyfriend undid the action with his finger.  His eyebrows were still bunched in confusion, fumbling to figure out the cause of your emotions.

“At the bar, Kook. She was all over you.” You specified, the wheels slowly turning in Jungkook’s head as his mouth gaped open.

“Are you kidding?” He asked in disbelief, making you huff before crossing your arms over your chest, turning away from him with a plastered on smile.

“Yep, I guess I’m just a dumbass.” You shrugged, beginning to walk away before Jungkook caught you with an arm around your waist, pulling you back to him.

“No, no, no, stop. That’s not what I meant. I just, I can’t really believe you’re so upset about something like that.” He explained, you remaining silent as you adjusted your gaze down to the top button on his shirt.  

By now, the jealousy had almost fully faded, leaving you feeling ashamed and embarrassed of your previous actions influenced by your momentary rage.

“I can acknowledge that she wasn’t exactly being appropriate,” He spoke slowly, “but I wasn’t engaging with it, was I?” 

You shrugged at that, blinking at a nearby telephone pole as you nervously fiddled with your fingers tucked into Jungkook’s coat pocket.

“What does that mean?” He asked at the action, causing you to sigh as you looked back at him.

“It means I don’t know. You weren’t exactly pushing her off of you.” You explained, causing Jungkook to raise his eyebrows at you in a deadpanned stare.

“No, I didn’t push her off of me. That’s a step too far, don’t you think?” He asked, inhaling deeply in an attempt to ground his building frustrations, grabbing your hand in his and soothing his thumb over the skin of your knuckles.

“You have to trust me, love. I would never do anything to hurt you.” He spoke softly, you nodding in reply as his eyes implored yours to believe him.

“I know that. I do trust you, Kook. I’m sorry.” You sniffled, Jungkook pulling you into his chest again and stroking his fingers through your hair at the back of your head. 

“I’m not upset with you, baby. Just a little confused, is all.” He pulled back slightly to look at your face, tucking some loose strands of your hair behind your ears as his eyes studied your own puffy ones.

“Why did you get so upset?” He asked, making you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion at the obvious answer to his question. 

“Because that girl was all over you an-”

“That’s not what I mean. Why did that girl bother you so much if you know I only want you?” He interrupted you, watching as you sighed knowingly, gulping the fresh lump in your throat down in an attempt to bury your emotions. 

“It’s not you. I trust you.” You assured him, the man nodding at you as he patiently waited for your elaboration. 

“It’s not you that’s the problem. It’s me.” You said shakily, face crumpling into tears once again making Jungkook step toward you to hug you once again. 

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it, it’s okay.” He soothed you, running his hand up and down your spine comfortingly before you pulled back slightly to look at him. 

“Me crying isn’t a reason to avoid this conversation, Jungkook. I’m being ridiculous and I’m sorry.” You wiped your tears with the pads of your fingers, swiping them away in frustration that you couldn’t express your thoughts and feelings without bawling like a baby.

“I know it’s not, it is a conversation we need to have, I know that. But you’re upset, I’m upset, we’re tired, and it’s fucking cold out here.” He finished with a slight laugh, making you chuckle as well.

“Let’s just go home, change into some comfortable clothes, and then we’ll talk. Calmly. Okay?” He asked, you frowning as you looked back at the building you’d tried to leave in a huff.

“You don’t want to stay? I’m fine with staying.” You assured him, the man chuckling slightly as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I just want to go home with my favorite girl.” He mumbled against the skin, pulling back to raise his eyebrows at your skeptical expression.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He nodded, smiling gently at you when you nodded in agreement, taking his hand in yours once again as you let him lead you to the car. 

“Hop on in, m’lady.” He gestured with a nod, holding the passenger side door open as you slipped past him to sit in the car. 

You expected him to close the door and round the vehicle to get into the drivers side, but you were surprised when he instead leaned over your body, placing his hand on your jaw to press his lips to yours in a searing kiss.

Taken aback at the way his lips hungrily captured yours, your hand instinctively came up to support the back of his head as you allowed his tongue to push its way past your lips. 

The pads of your fingers soothed over the hair on his nape as his soft lips melded with yours, tiny puffs of air escaping from his nostrils and hitting your skin as he continued his dizzying ministrations.

Pulling back, he pressed a gentle kiss to your bottom lip, looking down at you with fluttered eyelids as he stroked his thumb across your cheek.

“My heart is yours. I‘m in love with you. And that will never change.” He reminded you, your eyes glued to his pretty features in awe as you soaked in his words. 

“I know that, Kookie. I do.” You responded quietly, the man nodding in satisfaction before leaning in to peck your lips one last time, pulling back and withdrawing himself from the car.

When he shut the door, you were surrounded in silence once again, but this time your mind wasn’t making it so loud.

It was eased even just the slightest bit at the man’s reassurances, comforted by the way his hand held your own, resting upon your thigh as he started the car.

Your insecurities would not vanish overnight, that was for sure. But with the tender patience Jungkook never failed to provide you with, you had no doubt that it was an issue that could be worked through.

Leaning over to press your lips to Jungkook’s cheek, a smile quirked his lips at the action, turning to you with a shy grin as your eyes traced his features in the dark.

“What was that for?” He asked, smile widening when you shrugged your shoulders.

“I just love you. Thank you for putting up with me and all my crazy bullshit.” You said, Jungkook scoffing in response, lifting your joint hands to kiss at your knuckles.

“I love you. Along with all your crazy bullshit.”

[quazartranslates]

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH65

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

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Chapter 65: The Queen’s Inheritance (IV)

Amid the dragon’s roar, the temple of cult ceremony began to collapse, but this did not stop the battle between the dragon and the monster. The two creatures in their full forms fought in this temple, and the devastating dragon breath burned around the altar, while the monster’s tentacles clung to the body of the dragon, making it impossible to bite off its tentacles.

The monster summoned by the blood of nearly 100 people couldn't fight Ning Zhou who hadn't shown his magic dragon form yet. However, after the irradiation of that strange eyeball, the monster had evolved strangely, and it had gained the power of the Devil of Power from the empty void, which made it stronger, scarier, and more cruel than before!

Like the magic dragon, it had surpassed the half-field level. Compared to Ning Zhou, who was still suppressing his own strength and avoiding being swallowed up by the origin of destruction, the irrational monster was much more terrible. It indulged itself unscrupulously, as if it were the evil in the world itself.

In the frenzied battle, no one noticed that Qi Leren, unconscious in a pool of blood, was fighting against the bewitching influence.

"Through the evil and filthy world, your soul will reach Utopia.

"There will be no more troubles and disappointments, and your life will be immersed in endless happiness and well-being.

"Demons forget the bloodthirst and desire to kill, human beings forget selfishness and greed, and all life is treated equally in Utopia.

"There will be no more death, because the soul is immortal, and you will have eternal life.

"You will also see your love, in that immortal paradise..."

Qi Leren suddenly woke up.

His body was still numb, but his consciousness woke up.

It seemed to be a whisper or a talking voice, which was still ringing and droning like a set program, but he was awake from the trance-like state.

He had suddenly thought of his lover, who wouldn't be there—a carefree Utopia.

He would only be in hell.

If he hadn’t couldn’t see him and bring him with him, he would have stay here forever, and accept all the torture in the world like self-punishment, until the dead lake water rose over his head. He won't even struggle, just sinks to the bottom quietly.

Qi Leren woke up because he couldn't let Ning Zhou go.

Being paralyzed, he couldn't move, and it was difficult to breathe deeply. Qi Leren choked back the stiff pain, slowly moved his heavy iron hand to his chest, and slowly clenched the item [Prophet's Heart] given to him by the Prophet.

[Prophet’s Heart: A god-level item hand-made by the noble and great Prophet that can make you feel the pleasure of turning into a bird. Holders can summon an archangel to come and fight on their behalf for 3 minutes with a cooling time of 24 hours.]

The battle between the magic dragon and the monster has been heated up, and the eyeball suspended in the air had continuously strengthened the monster’s power, making it quickly recover its damaged limbs, while the magic dragon has gradually liberated his own strength, and had become increasingly violent and crazy dominated by force of destruction. Under the imposing manner of the Destroyer, even such a horrible monster cannot take the upper hand.

The passerby—the initiator of this chaos—had stepped back a little, and retreated to a safe distance.

At this moment, he should be glad he hadn't gotten involved. The strength of this monster itself was about a half-field, and he could cope with it and experience a pleasant battle. However, when the strange eyeball of the master with an unknown field level had begun to interfere with the ceremony, the monster was itself strengthened to a level close to the field level.

Hmm..... Which Devil King was it?

Having entered the Nightmare Game little more than two months ago, the passerby who was confused about the power system and loyalty factions here scratched his hair and prepared to leave after watching the drama.

Although challenging a master made him happy, and he was willing to pay for it with his life, when he came to this world, he found that it was not an end wall but an amazing new world before him. He rekindled the enthusiasm of picking up the tangdao for the first time and couldn't wait to join the new world.

But not now.

The passerby reluctantly glanced at the chaotic scene and left the chaos behind.

The battle between the magic dragon and the monster became more and more fierce, and the temple became a huge colosseum. Under the duel between two monsters like ancient giants, it was as fragile as a sand castle on the beach. The force of destruction flooded Ning Zhou's reason, and the origin’s sin burning in the blood was imprinted in his soul. He suddenly forgot himself, but was immersed in the power of absolute purity and absolute terror. Until...

The twilit light of Heaven appeared in this sinful ceremony.

Qi Leren, who struggled to hold the Prophet's Heart, took a deep breath and activated the item.

In an instant, the power of the Village of Dusk’s holder ran through the boundless space and pierced the blockade of one and a half fields, falling from the sky, dispelling the bewitching power in Qi Leren's mind, and making him wake instantly.

At the same time, the pure power washed away his consciousness. He flew lightly, and his white wings slowly stretched behind him. Behind him was the Kingdom of Heaven reflected in the dusk, flowers, rites and music, angels… Everything was so holy and beautiful and desirable.

In this pure beauty, the demagogic Utopia seemed to be exposed to strong light, revealing its inner ferocious horror. It had never been a pure land on earth, but a world dominated by the Lord of Power. Walking into Utopia was like walking into a hell under high pressure. All of the self was stripped away, leaving only the dead bodies of human beings and demons, and the instructions of the Lord of Power were uniformly executed.

Under the holy light, the gloomy and evil atmosphere in the temple in the lake faded. What was even more amazing was that the dead bodies all over the ground turned into the soil and flowers under the magic of time, and white flowers blossomed from the blood, swaying in the Kingdom of Heaven at dusk like a dream.

The meat monster let out a piercing howl, black blood erupted from its eyes, and the black dragon took this opportunity to maintain its momentum. The flames of destruction erupted from his mouth, burning the struggling monster to ashes.

"...Prophet, what are you doing here again?" In the Village of Dawn, the Lord of Power felt the abnormality in the ceremony and sighed faintly. With her sigh, the huge eyeball suspended over the ceremony, watching everything, slowly rotated and made a sound.

The holy angel who smiled in the clean white flowers stared at her: "Little girl, your hand stretched too far."

The voice was the voice of Qi Leren, but the speaker was not him, but the Prophet in the underground ice palace in the Village of Dusk. Through Qi Leren's body, he warned the Devil of Power who was observing here and tried to intervene.

"Has it? I don't think so. But since you’ve spoken to me in person, let's call it a day. I have another thing left with you, and I will ask for it when I have time." From the huge eyeball, a buzzing inhuman sound echoed in this building.

"I'm waiting for you," said the holy angel.

The eyeball in the void disappeared, and the consciousness attached to Qi Leren left. Before leaving, he said one sentence to him: "The Illusionist is in the Dragon Ant Queen’s royal palace, and my letter is on the way, so I’ll ask this of you and Ning Zhou."

The Prophet's consciousness dissipated, and Qi Leren was still standing on the ground, with white flowers under his feet. The mechanical clock behind him had not finished three turns, so this power that did not belong to him had not disappeared.

He looked up at the magic dragon standing on the altar, and the magic dragon also stared at him. There was no dried blood on his body and claws, no evidence of his fight against evil and his downfall.

There was a lonely longing in the dragon’s eyes, and it was like a gentle sadness.

Ning Zhou understood his own destiny. Just like every powerful person, the process of becoming stronger was the process of constantly moving closer to his own original force. One day, he would forget himself, his love, how much he loved the world, and indulge himself and destroy everything under the influence of this original force.

No matter how hard he tried to restrain himself and convince himself to persist for the person he loves, he couldn’t deceive his own strength. When he had fought with the monster, he had clearly felt that he was falling. This kind of degradation was a kind of pleasure, and he didn't need to make any effort. As long as he emptied his brain, the strength in his blood would emerge continuously, making him stronger and destroying his enemies.

But when the pool of blood turned into a sea of flowers, and his lover stood in front of him in the form of an angel and looked at him, he felt sincere shame and fear for his weak compromise to strength.

He was afraid that one day he would hurt Qi Leren and the world.

"Ning Zhou." Qi Leren went up the stairs and came to the dragon.

Compared to the huge body of the dragon, he was like a pocket-sized toy. If the dragon's foot even patted him gently, he would be crushed into a pile of meat. This size gap even scared Qi Leren, but he still wanted to believe that he wouldn't hurt him, insisting that the black dragon in front of him is still Ning Zhou.

The dragon closed its eyes, lowered its head slowly, and put it in front of him.

Just like it did in the lake of fire in Purgatory.

It was willing to bow to its beloved and let him comfort its body and soul with his hands.

"It's all right, it's all right..." Qi Leren murmured. The power borrowed from the Prophet had expired, the reflection of Heaven disappeared, his wings disappeared, and so did the intoxicating power. But his calming power still affected the dragon.

So the dragon gradually calmed down, and the force of destruction receded from his body, and he changed from magic dragon to human.

Qi Leren took his hand and looked at him, but his blue eyes that had always been firm avoided his sight.

This was an obviously weak and hesitant attitude, and Qi Leren certainly knew what it’s cause was. Because Ning Zhou had gotten stuck in that dead end again, the dead end that he almost killed himself because of.

He still couldn't accept a self who was a Devil, and was constantly sinking. Even if he was just doing justice as a Devil, it still caused him pain. Because at the end of this road to power, he was destined to become lost like every powerful person.

This was not something that the human will could contend with.

Qi Leren's heart was full of love that he didn’t know how to express, so he stood on tiptoe and left a comforting kiss on Ning Zhou's lips, tender and touching.

He was willing to burn himself with all his strength, as long as he could make Ning Zhou on the edge of hell feel the warmth of the world.

"I once told you, but now I have to say it again: your force has nothing to do with good and evil, and you have never fallen." Qi Leren clasped Ning Zhou's hand and repeated this sentence again.

Ning Zhou slowly rested his forehead against Qi Leren’s, relaxed his stiff body, and closed his eyes.

He wanted to hold this person tight, because this was his last salvation in the world.

-----

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[wellhellotragic]

These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal 2/3

Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself.  It’s not his fault.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

Rating: Mature (mostly for language)

A/N: No, you’re not crazy. The chapter count grew a little. My sincerest apologies guys (especially to @searchingwardrobes​.) I have a lot of stuff going on in my personal life that’s taken most of my attention. I really didn’t mean for this next part to be so delayed, and honestly, time has become an illusion at this point and I didn’t even realize that 6 weeks had passed. I was thinking closer to 3, so thank you for staying with me on this little journey, and hope you enjoy.

If AO3 is more your jam...

His jaw is killing him and he’s realized all too late that it was a mistake not taking the ice from Emma. But he couldn’t. He can’t have anything to do with her. He can’t even look at her. It’s just too damn painful in every way fathomable.

Sometimes, his heart aches to be near her, to see her smile and pretend for just a moment that it’s before. That everything is still fine and that they’re going to meet up for drinks later. To imagine that they’ll go back to one of their apartments and put on a movie. That she’ll fall asleep on his shoulder and he’ll move so that they’re spooning each other on the couch. It’s on those days he turns to the bottle.

Other days, the very thought of her sends him into a rage and it’s all he can do not to throw her desk out of the bullpen. He never should have agreed to take the Captain’s position. He should have gone back to the narcotics division, far away from her and the ghost of Liam imprinted into the very fabric of his chair.

He shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

He shouldn’t have gone to the Salty Winch tonight. He knew that it was her birthday, try as hard as he might to forget. And he wasn’t planning on going. But something in his subconscious had him driving there against his own better judgement. He was just going to peer in through the window, just go get a look. To see if she was happy.

And now he’s got a bruise on his face, he’s down a detective, and he’s going to have to call a cab in the morning to take him back to the pub to pick up his car.

He’s also got a text message from Archie telling him he wants to see him tomorrow before lunch.

He goes to bed, but sleep doesn’t come until hours later.

The next morning is a disaster. There’s two empty desks instead of one, paper work is piling up. Everyone is tiptoeing around him and he can see them watching him out of the corner of his eye. He can hear their hushed whispers, and as much as he doesn’t want to have to schlep all the way down to headquarters, he needs the retreat from being the star of his own tragedy.

Archie’s office is on the third floor, and it isn’t lost on him how many offices he has to pass on the way to what should be a private visit. But then again, nothing about his life has been private lately. He knows that everyone still talks about it. For weeks his portrait graced the cover of every newspaper in town, sometimes next to Liam’s departmental photo. The news was there that night to film him being carried to the ambulance on a stretcher. His name was on the tip of everyone’s tongue as the investigation and trial drug on.

His detectives don’t trust him, and he knows it’s a problem, as well that he should care, but most days he just can’t find it within himself to give a damn. He buries it all as deeply within himself as possible, just going through the motions. He’s gotten pretty good at ignoring the ways he feels, most times, but Archie is going to want to drag it all up again, especially after last night.

The office has been redecorated since the last time he was there for his psych evaluation and mandated therapy to determine if he was capable of returning to work. There are more plants in every corner of the room. No doubt the cricket’s way of cheering everyone up while he chirps in their ears. Not that he has anything against Dr. Hopper. The man may very well be the only reason Killian is even still human at this point.

“Killian, thank you for coming. Why don’t you have a seat?” He doesn’t want to, the black leather is worn and cracked in places, pinching the back of his legs even through his thick cotton pants.

The man just watches him, waiting to see if he’ll open up, to make the first move, but Killian’s never been much for spilling his guts. He’s not sure talking would even help at this point. Everything has become so twisted that no emotional epiphanies can untangle his problems anymore.

“So, I think you know why I wanted to see you.”

“Aye.”

“My next appointment called in sick so I have all day to wait for you to say something.

Killian sighs, ready to give in to the inevitable, although he’s not completely sure which part of it Archie wants to get into, and he’s treading water trying to keep as much of his life off limits as possible.

“There’s nothing to say really. One of my detectives was drunk, mouthed off, and hit me. His suspension was well earned. I’m not sure there’s anything more to it.”

Archie watches him for a second, tilting his head as he listens to Killian, and before he even opens his mouth, he knows that the cricket chirping in his ear is about to dissect the evening.

“Killian, I think there’s a lot more to it. Clearly there’s been some resentment and animosity building between the two of you for some time more, or August wouldn’t have brought it up.”

He hates this, the way Dr. Hopper is always trying to poke his way through Killian’s brain, trying to unlock doors with a metaphorical paperclip. A one size fits all therapy tool that with enough finesse can open everything he’s trying to hold back.

“I’ll admit, there’s no love lost between the two of us. We’ve never gotten along, even before. But August has never been one to make smart well thought out choices and last night was just another in a long line of mistakes he’s made.”

“Long line, or tipping point?” This isn’t going to work. He isn’t going to let Archie trip him up. He’s not leaving anymore crumbs to follow. “I know you don’t want to discuss this again, but I can’t help but think all of this stems from your relationship with Emma.”

“I don’t have a relationship with Emma.” He doesn’t mean to spit out the words as harshly as he does, it’s just a gut reaction and it’s too late to play it off. “She’s my subordinate, that’s it.”

“You mean she was your subordinate.”

It pisses him off more than he expects, partly because somehow this man miles away already knows that Emma has transferred when he only found out himself a few hours before, but also because it brings up emotions he doesn’t know how to handle.

“Aye.” All he can do is nod and clinch his jaw, which in turn reminds him of the punch he took last night. He’d give almost anything for some Motrin right now. Better yet, some morphine so he can fall into a sleep where none of this is real.

He’s not really sure what’s happening. He knows he’s in the hospital. He can surmise as much by the beeping machines and the blood pressure cuff that’s about to sever his arm clean off. But his eyes are too heavy to open just now, and he doesn’t remember coming to the hospital. He can’t remember why he’s here.

Until he tries to move, twisting his torso just enough that pain shoots clear up to his eyeballs and he screams out in pain without even realizing it.

There’s a nurse in the room, telling him to relax, and he thinks he hears another voice from the other side of the room, but now his arm is cold and he doesn’t even have time to think before the world goes dark again.

His mouth is dry. He tries to open his lips, but they’ve melding together and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. His body feels so weak and heavy, and it’s a struggle to speak, but even with just a slight moan, he feels his hand squeezed and he knows it’s her just by the way she fits with him. The bed shifts and he hears something new in her voice. She’s timid, like maybe if she speaks too loudly he’ll blow away in the wind. And to be honest, at this point, he very well may.

He forces his eyes open, blinking as much as he can to clear his vision. She’s standing at his side in a Boston PD sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big - pilfered from his closet after a night off of bar hopping turned into a movie at his place - and her hair is pulled up in a messy bun. It might very well be any other Saturday morning, except for her face. It’s puffy and red and she’s clearly been crying.

Emma Swan doesn’t cry. Ever.

He should be worried about himself, but in that moment, he can only think of her and how miserable she looks.

But then the blood pressure cuff goes off again, reminding him of where he is, and everything comes rushing back. The fight with Liam, the sound of shots ringing out, Emma begging him not to die. He told her he loved her, and he’s angry with himself for waiting so long. It shouldn’t have been a death bed confession. He shouldn’t have put so much stock in Liam’s approval.

Liam.

Liam.

Liam.

He barely gets his brother’s name out before he sees more tears running down her face, and she’s apologizing over and over again. There’s something about the way she says it, like it’s somehow her fault, like she was the one that fired the fatal shot. The pain returns and so does the morphine.

He wakes again, groggy and weak. His eyes are too heavy to open, but perhaps that’s better. Maybe if he can’t see the world around him, he won’t have to face everything to come. Liam’s always been there, even when everyone left, Liam stayed. He doesn’t know how to continue on in a world without him. He doesn’t know how to do anything now and all he can think about is how it should have been him. How he started the argument, he distracted Liam. How he was the one that raised his voice and alerted the killer to their presence.

He’s in the middle of his downward spiral of self loathing when he hears muffled voices come closer, likely entering his room from the hallway. They speak in hushed whispers as they move around the room, flittering about all around him, lifting his blanket and touching his feet, fumbling with his hand. He still can’t muster the strength to open his eyes, much less his mouth to tell them to leave, so they continue, completely unaware of the way he hears them. Unaware of how they are turning his life upside down.

“Why does this guy look so familiar?”

“Oh, you mean other than the fact that his face is all over the television?”

It’s silent for a bit, and he thinks that maybe they’ve gone finally, but then he hears a tapping noise, like fingers angrily hitting letters on a keyboard.

“It’s really sad actually. Remember Astrid down in the ER?” She waits for the other voice to agree before continuing. “I had lunch with her today and she was telling me how our guy here is cop. Came in with gunshot wounds, along with his brother. They were both in really bad shape. Whale was able to save this one but the brother was too far gone.”

It’s the first time he’s heard the words spoken allowed, and although intrinsically, he knew that Liam was gone, the words are a nail to a coffin.

The voice continues, telling the other one how they were both in shock, having lost so much blood, giving vivid details that tear at him to his very core, but it’s the end of the story that he latches to.

“So there’s nothing they could have done then?”

“I guess we’ll never know. I mean, by the time the ambulance brought him in, he was already gone, but from what Astrid overheard, I guess their back up got there late. One of them ran after the shooter and the other stayed to help and couldn’t save them both.”

“Damn, I can't even imagine. This guy is gonna have some hell of survivor's guilt.”

But it wasn’t guilt that overcame him that night. Instead, it was rage that crept in, filling the hole in his heart.

“So you still blame Emma then?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look up from the mark of the coffee table in front of him that he’s been starting at for the last few minutes.

“Killian, the mind is a tricky thing. You were still in shock, heavily medicated, and mourning. Is it possible that maybe you somehow misunderstood what the nurses said that night?”

That has his attention, and not in a good way.

“Are you insinuating that I’m a liar?” He leans forward, voice steady, focused on Dr. Hopper and the way he’s now squirming in his chair. “Or do you simply believe that I’m just crazy?”

He’s off the couch, steady quick strides for the door. He’s had enough judgment for the day, and needs to leave before he crams Archie’s notebook down his throat.

“That’s - Killian! That’s not what I meant.”

He’s halfway out the door, but something in the man’s tremble gives him pause.

“I- I just. I spoke to Emma, to August too, after it happened. I just mean that maybe you all have different accounts of what happened that night, and until you sit down and finally clear the air, none of you will be able to heal.”

That has him barking out a laugh. The very idea of either of them being able to make anything right at this point? It’s absurd.

Two weeks pass without much fanfare. August’s desk still sits empty, a magnet for other detective’s paperwork piles, but the seat stays cold. Emma’s desk on the other hand is now occupied by a short stodgy old bald man who seems to be compensating for his hair loss with a long salt and pepper beard that covers half of his face. The man has been nothing but surely since his arrival the week before. He’s managed to piss off most of Killian’s bullpen, and it’s almost laughable how quickly his life has gone totally shits-up on him, but then he remembers that Leroy is going to be August’s partner when he comes back and that’s almost enough to satiate Killian’s frustration.

Almost.

Because August isn’t coming back, at least not to his division. There’s an opening in Narcotics, Killian’s old team, and while is not a transfer Killian would ever normally agree to, it's not a typical assignment. Despite his reservations, he knows August is good as his job and the best fit.

That’s the only reason he finds himself walking back into the Salty Winch at 10:29 on a Tuesday morning. August isn’t there yet, which doesn’t surprise him in the least. The truth is, he doesn’t honestly even know if the man will show at all, never having responded to his message.

It’s odd being back in that building, the incident from a few weeks ago notwithstanding. The derelict bar has always been special to him in a way he can’t explain, like an extension of himself. Liam brought him there after his first collar, saying a celebration was in order, and that one night somehow became a long standing tradition. Looking at the scuff marks near the well, he remembers Ruby’s attempts at clogging in 6 inch stilettos and the pub owner nearly crying at the sight of his ruined wood floors. He remembers Lance throwing up in the peanut bucket at the end of the bartop at his bachelors party.

But taking a seat in the booth in the back right corner, all he can see is her face the night they met.

It’s been a damn good day, and each sip of the rum in his glass dances it’s way down his throat, warming him on the way down. He’s buzzed to be certain, but hasn’t had nearly enough to be drunk, and Will intends to remedy that as soon as possible if the third round he just ordered is any indication.

They’d been after a small time dealer for months, and on the day they finally go to bust the guy, they somehow luck into nabbing one of the largest suppliers in the city by sheer dumb luck. But no one needs to know that. Not when he and Scarlett have just received public commendations from the commissioner himself. Not when he’s wearing his medal on his shirt like a goddamn first place science fair ribbon. Not when his name is being floated around as someone to keep an eye on.

And sure as hell not when the most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on has just walked into his pub and sat herself four bar stools over. To say that he’s gobsmacked is an understatement. It’s dark, but even in the dim pendant lit room he catches a glimpse of her eyes. They’re emeralds, sparkling as the light from a glass bottle being poured reflects in them.

He’s so infatuated with this woman in her tight red leather dress that he’s apparently missed an entire conversation, only his name on repeat is enough to pull his attention back to his mates.

“Oh bloody hell, I think we lost ‘em boys.”

There’s a heat overcoming his face and he’s not quite sure why. He’s left with many a fine lass from this very bar on other, much less eventful nights. His boys are no strangers to the effect he has on women, but perhaps this time it has something to do with the effect she’s having on him. This enchantress that’s beguiling him.

Perhaps the last shot was a mistake.

After some merciless teasing he’s out of his seat, making his way to the empty spot on the other side of her. He waits for a second, casually watching her send an email from the corner of his eye before making his move yelling out to the bartender.

“Robin, can I get my tab? I need to head across the street and file a complaint.”

She’s startled, her eyes flitting between him, the bartender, and her phone.

“Oh, what for?” Robin walks over with a towel and glass in hand, and a coy grin on his face. This may or may not be the first time he’s used this ruse before.

“Well, this woman here has just stole me beating heart right from my chest.”

She groans and rolls her eyes, and while it may not be the first time he’s used the line, it’s certainly the first time it’s ever not been reciprocated.

“Please tell me that line doesn’t actually work on girls.”

He can’t help but smile despite how epically he’s failed. And while she’s clearly not amiable to going back to his place with him tonight, she doesn’t outright reject his offer to buy her drink, or even a second one after that.

Somehow the two of them move to the booth in the back. He learns that she’s from the 42nd, a vice cop just coming from her last shift. The red leather dress is a departing gift of sorts from her supervisor, by way of a prostitution sting. She’s transferring to his precinct tomorrow and just wanted to come get a feel for the area before her first day.

They talk until the bar closes somehow, and when her cab pulls up, he takes his shot one more time. This time she laughs him off and tells him she’ll see him tomorrow. He gets his own cab, and even though he’s going home alone tonight, he’s still got a shit eating grin on his face when he walks through his apartment door, her laugh echoing through his head like music.

August arrives in true fashion, twenty minutes late, and Killian isn’t sure if the man is just being disrespectful or trying to somehow create an illusion of control over the situation. Either way, he’s not happy, although he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to himself that he’s happy that the man won’t be around for a while.

Boothe has always rubbed him the wrong way. Even before Emma, August had a way of pissing him off, always shooting off his mouth and trying to one up him. In truth, his annoyance turned to hatred when he learned of how close the man was with Emma. They had inside jokes and secret looks, and Killian always felt like an outsider. Eventually he learned that August was practically Emma’s brother, having been raised together in the foster system, but hearing of how Boothe was the one that introduced Emma to her first love, and man that led her down a path of petty crime, it only solidified in Killian’s mind that August Boothe is an arse of a man with no redeeming qualities.

Which is also the exact thing that he needs right now. The two of them sit in that back booth, discussing the matter at hand. The narcotics division has been trying to catch the supplier of pixie dust, a drug that’s recently made its way to Boston from New York. They have a fairly good idea who the importer is, but they haven’t been able to catch him thanks to a mole in their ranks. One of their own has been tipping off Walsh Nikko and their captain is fairly certain it’s Jefferson.

A man by all rights is mad as a hatter. Killian had only dealt with the man a few times, but undercover work had taken its toll on Jefferson and he returned from a botched assignment with demons in his soul.

Killian explains everything to August. How Captain Humbert needs him to come in as a disgruntled cop, how he needs to break rules and make his distaste of the Boston PD known. That it shouldn’t be difficult given their recent encounter and his suspension.

He knows it’s working when snippets of August’s ranting about his character get back to him.

______________________________

His adrenaline is waning and his stomach turns. He barely makes it away from everyone on scene into a back alley before the remainder of his lunch is spilling out of him. He’s never been so terrified in his life, and nothing is right. Nothing makes sense, and he’s still hurling his guts out. There’s blue and red flashes of light coloring the clouds above them as nearly all of Boston has turned out to the scene.

There’s going to be mountains of paperwork, but that’s tomorrow's problem. Right now, he just needs to get out of there, far away from the flashing photography bulb and the interviews. Away from the smell of blood, the screams he swears are still echoing in the building. He just needs to get away.

He’s not sure how he ends up here. He’s not even sure how he knows that address, but his feet have somehow brought him here and he knows that he can’t keep holding everything in. He can only pack it all down so much before the latches break and everything explodes around him.

Dr. Hopper doesn’t even seem surprised to find him standing outside of his brownstone, just motions for him to come inside. Archie goes to get him a towel, which he tries to refuse. It’s only at the man’s instistance that he realizes that he has blood on his jacket, and that’s his breaking point.

There’s blood on his jacket, and despite scrubbing it for the length of the car ride back to the precinct, he’s standing on the steps to the 56th and it’s still there. He’ll likely have to burn the damn thing. As remissed as he is though to discard his favorite article of clothing, it’s not the jacket that causes him pause.

He’s thought about this moment a lot of the last year. Wondering if she will be happy to see him, if she’ll care at all. There was a distance between them before he left, a chasm of his own doing, and when he told her he was leaving, he couldn’t miss the look in her eyes. A flash of betrayal and distrust, and while she’s the only thing that’s carried him through the last eleven months, he knows the chances of her thinking of him in the same way are lower than he cares to admit.

He’s thought of it so many times, playing it out over and over in his mind. How he’s going to find her and finally confess his feelings. Of how he can’t keep pretending that friendship with her is enough from him, that he wants more. How the random kisses they share are like knives to his heart showing him of what could be but isn’t. He’s played it out so many times, but never was he standing before her in a blood stained jacket.

But now that she’s there and in his arms clinging to him just as strongly as he is her, he couldn’t care less. She’s soft and warm and still smells of cinnamon just as he remembered, and her touch soothes the monsters whispering inside him. He felt broken the whole time he was gone, but she’s mending him.

He finally breaks away, he needs to tell her, he needs to just get the words out, but before he can, Liam is behind him ordering him to the bullpen, and now isn’t the time. It’s not a rushed conversation to have with people yelling his name from another room.

“I, we’ll talk later, ya?”

She nods, and it’s only then that he notices the faint tears that have been freshly wiped away.

They never talk about it though.

Liam takes him out to dinner, just the two of them, and by the time he gets home, the monsters are back, reminding him of all the things he’s done. Of what a villain he is now, and he knows that he’s not good enough for her.

His monsters are back, screaming, drowning out anything good and all he sees is the dark. Archie brings him a glass of rum, telling him after the night he’s had, he deserves it. And they talk. For the first time, Killian lets the walls down and tells Archie about all of it. All of the dastardly deeds he did while undercover. About how everything that has happened since is his fault, it’s because people like him don’t deserve happy endings.

Archie rebukes everything he says, but it does little to ease his conscience. He leaves Hopper’s house feeling slightly lighter though having unburdened himself, and possibly hopeful for the first time in years. But he’s still got a lot of work to do, and he knows it’s going to take time.

His suitcase is packed before it ever even occurs to him to call his commander and tell him that he needs a sabbatical. He expects pushback. Hell, he expects the man to tell him he’s fired, but his commander understands and tells him to take whatever time he needs. That they’ll find a place for him whenever he’s ready.

Liam’s boat is still in the harbor just as he remembers it. She’s been neglected the past two years, his own fault to be certain, and she’ll need some work as well, but she’s sea worthy enough, and he can’t be in Boston anymore. The sails are unfurled and he’s just pushing off when he pulls his phone out of his pocket, making one last call.

She doesn’t answer, he knows she won’t, and perhaps that’s why he’s calling her now, when he knows she’s busy. Instead he leaves a message, telling her that he loves her, that he always has and always will, but that he’s broken. That he needs some time to clear his head if he wants to be a man deserving of her heart.

He’s a bastard and a coward.

And then he’s gone.

[moondustaeil]

⋅ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ : soulmate au : fluff

⋅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ : chihoon x reader

⋅ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ : 1.2k

Achromatopsia.

The term used to describe a complete lack of colour, the hard synonym for a much simpler word, colourblindness. In the medical world, they call it a syndrome, sometimes even a symptom that might exhibit up to five different conditions. With one out of 30,000 newborns being born with achromatopsia, you and your soulmate belong somewhere in that prevalence.

As far as you've been told, there are two sorts of achromatopsia. In the first sort, some still see limited colours. In the second sort, only shades can be perceived. You and your soulmate belong to the latter category, in which only black, white, and grey shades can be perceived. No colours, only shades.

It might sound like you know a lot about achromatopsia and a lot about your soulmate. Though none of the knowledge in your mind has been provided by a professional or formal literature. You took it upon yourself to make use of the internet and search for meanings: the meaning behind your monochrome vision, the meaning behind the unknown person your soul longed for. Despite the endless websites telling you somewhat similar things, you didn't live up to them. Connect the dots from achromatopsia and soulmates and you come to your own conclusion: your syndrome would be healed once you look into the eyes of your soulmate.

Despite knowing of the existence of your soulmate and knowing he's the only person that can cure your achromatopsia, you distance yourself from it. You don't actively look for him like other people would, you don't give in to the ache in your heart. Rather than looking for your soulmate: you wander around the streets and wonder whether other people are achromats like you. You might not be able to see it in their eyes, but it doesn't stop you from observing them.

Why don't you look for your soulmate? Because you fear the moment you will see colours for the first time and realise that the world is much better with simple greyish shades. It's a white lie you've told yourself so many times that you stopped seeing it as a lie. Hidden from yourself is the fear that you will never find your soulmate if you actively look for him.

Today isn't any different from the days where you observe strangers on the street. Even though you had a day off and wanted nothing but to spend it inside your apartment with a good unfinished series, you are obligated to go outside. Due to the empty fridge in your kitchen, you find yourself lurking over the streets, headed to the nearest convenience store.

You wouldn't mind skipping breakfast, but even that doesn't mean that you don't have to leave your house. You need to have three meals a day and your fridge doesn't even hold enough ingredients for one, so it's obvious that you have to drag yourself to the store first thing in the morning. That's how you end up on the street as early as nine in the morning: too early for crowded streets, too late to avoid other humans.

Your eyes scan over the outside world, staring ahead but still seeing the many aspects of the city: the black shaded street that you walk on and the grey buildings that line up ahead of you. A coffee shop to your left and a flower shop on your right: you don't see the beige interior of the coffee shop, neither do you see the pink coloured flower bouquets. Everything is grey, devoid of colours.

Halted feet now stand in the middle of the street as an old couple greets you good morning. If you assign a colour to their friendly smiles: it would be yellow like the rays of the morning sun. A yellow you never experienced but as you greet one another, you feel the warmth of the sun on your shoulders. "Have a nice day," you say politely as an end to the conversation.

Your halted feet stop their alignment when you take a step forward to continue your path towards the store, though your eyes don't move along just yet, they are still following the old and probably soulmate-labelled couple.

Interference. Your shoulder bumps against someone else's body after merely one more step forward. Your head is fast to turn but the rest of your body is still in shock because of the collision. Before either of you can fall, you grasp for one another's arm even though there had been no risk of falling.

"I'm so sorry!" You apologise quickly, standing up straight after all physical contact is broken between the two of you. You're now eyeball to eyeball with the stranger, though both of you are looking down at the street, the alignment of your feet.

The stranger coughs awkwardly, mumbling a response. "It's fine, I should have looked where I was going. Are you okay?" He asks you. His voice is deep and yet, it's unlike all of the other deep voices you heard before. Due to answer-demanding question, you raise your head to look at the stranger.

Eyeball to eyeball. You gaze into his dark brown eyes with your own, the pigmented colour hues apart from the black you usually see. The skin around his eyes isn't any type of grey: it's one of the many skin tones that exist in the pigmented world.

"I…," you don't come further than that with your words: not because you suddenly aren't so okay anymore, but because you are speechless. Your eyes start to dart over every possible inch of his face: the soft colour of his lips, his light blonde hair that nicely contrasts with the bright red beret he's wearing on top of that hair.

Without looking for his eyes, yours meet his. "I can see colours," he announces to you, his eyes now fixated onto yours even though he wishes to discover every colour that you have to offer him. "Me too," you say in response. The endless colour palette is inked onto him: almost like what you expect a rainbow to be, but with even more colours.

"My name is Chihoon."

His name alone makes you smile even though you're no longer able to assign a colour to him, he's the entire palette of colours that is imprinted on your head in grey shades. He's the blue of the grey sky you saw, the gold of the grey necklace around your neck. He's each of the ten million colours that exist.

"I'm y/n," you tell him. Your name makes a smile coat his plump lips, his heart no longer coloured in a dark grey shade, but in the red that could resemble a love, he never experienced before. You look like the most beautiful painted canvas, inked in colours he's yet to discover.

Chihoon reaches out his hand to yours, the touch as soft as the beige sand of the beach. Your fingers intertwine with his and gently clasp over the top of his hand just like his fingers curl between your knuckles. The monochrome one-person portrait in your apartment would transition into the beautifully coloured picture of you and your soulmate.

"Colour will always change your perspective, just as love will always change your life around."

💌 send me a member (nct/tbz/too) + an au/genre and I'll write you a drabble or some soft hours

[terror-slut]

Food For Thought

Something  quite smutty I wrote a few months ago and originally posted on AO3. It's quite a long read, but I thought I might as well post it on here.

Pennywise x reader, Bob Gray x reader.

Genre: smut, horror

word count: 4578

Teeth. Rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth piercing her neck then, taking root in the thrumming jugular vein in her neck. It burns, it burns so fucking bad that she’s surprised the intense pain hasn’t taken it’s inevitable toll on her yet, although she questions if perhaps her mind is trying to separate itself from her body. Somehow, she’s still aware of her surroundings, although everything appears hazy. Around her, everything is spinning, spinning, spinning as if she has just gotten off a fast whirling carousel after eating one too many cotton candies.

Her head swims, not able to rationalize a thought that makes sense, or any thoughts at all. The blinding pain is so extreme, resembling the feeling of a thousand needles stabbed into her skin without a care or a goal, agonizingly slow and painfully breaking the skin apart to expose little streams of warm blood that puddle together at her feet.

 She wants to let out a noise, any noise. Her mind screams at her to call for help, be smart, use the vocal cords mother nature blessed her with. Instead, all that leaves her now iron tasting, blood filled mouth is the last soft, dying gurgle of a defeated prey.

 Her body is covered in a soft film of sweat when she wakes, barely registering her unaware, still very much asleep husband that lies next to her. Her heart races, adrenaline coursing through her on edge body as she attempts at steadying her ragged, uneven breath. The clean, white sheets are bundled up at the foot of the  bed, odds-on kicked off by her at the pinnacle of her nightmare. A shaky sigh leaves her lips as she runs her clammy hand through the sweat soaked strands of her hair.

 The same reoccurring nightmare has been terrorizing her for the past 7 days, getting worse and worse, feeling more realistic each time it enters her mind. The bags under her eyes now have a purple hue to them due to the lack of sleep she has been getting. Truth of the matter is, she has been too frightened of going to sleep at night, doing as much as avoiding it entirely. There was enough housework to keep her busy, and that was even after she had been done going through about every single file she could probably prepare for upcoming work meetings.

Her husband, Michael, had laughed at her silly avoidance behavior, telling her that steering clear of such a silly thing as a simple nightmare would only make it worse. And so, with Michael’s scornful words ringing in her ears, she decided to give sleep one more chance. A decision which she deeply regretted by now.

Beside her, the man in question is still peacefully asleep, unaware of the horrors playing through his wife’s mind. Wobbly legs swing over the side of their shared bed, eyeballing additional crescent, nail shaped imprints on her legs in the soft shine of the moonlight invitingly streaming through the opened window. Another sigh falls of her parched lips, this time more in annoyance than in an attempt at calming herself down. She has the habit of attempting to fight off the monster who’s teeth claim her neck nightly, except, in the real world, no one is there, which only results in her accidentally marking up her own skin while asleep. Still, it is freaky how many scratches are carved into her skin by now. It’s hard to believe she has done them all in the span of just a week. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think…

 But now she is just scaring herself. Monsters don’t exist and she wasn’t a child any longer, she had long passed the age of believing in anything supernatural or evil.

 Slowly, her uncovered feet connect with the cold linoleum tiles, carefully tiptoeing over to the bathroom Michael and her shared. Before locking the fake silver handled door, she flicks the light switch on and scans the bathroom in its entirety, something she hasn’t done since she was a teenager. she carried her childhood fears with her for quite a while longer than just her childhood, but eventually, she had grown out of them. Something that seems irrelevant to the reoccurring nightmare.

 Come on, she tells herself as she sits down on the toilet seat with shaky hands, how old are you again? Old enough to be married. Old enough to have a degree and a job. Old enough for her mother to start asking for grandchildren. Way too old to be scared over puerile, meaningless nightmares.

 Once the toilet is flushed, and with them, hopefully her fears – something her mother had taught her a long time ago; after a bad dream, you flush the toilet and down the drain goes the nightmare – her tired eyes find their reflection in the bathroom mirror. She washes her hands, slow but thorough, the water washing away the remnants of foolish dread.

 Maybe she should paint the town red again, it suddenly hits her. The thought of going out was something that hadn’t occurred to her in quite a while, but maybe a sloppy, rough fuck from a complete stranger in an unfamiliar setting would be exactly what it would take to get her mind off of things.

 And so, at quarter to one in the middle of the night, a young woman in a skin tight dress tiptoes out of the half empty apartment, her husband left soundlessly asleep, blissfully unaware of his wife’s infidelity. The door softly falls in the lock behind her and the warmth of the lingering summer air hits her face in a comforting way, as if to tell her ‘don’t worry. He won’t find out. He’s never found out before.’

 The empty asphalt is silent under the roaring Audi, and her ringless finger – she’s not stupid enough to wear her wedding ring on a night like this – flicks through the similar sounding radio stations, silently pondering if it was worth going to The Sitting Duck, a bar on the outskirts of Derry. Derry was a small town, mostly consisting out of elderly. Anyone with a future had left the dying excuse of a town long ago.

In her mind, in theory, she knew she should feel guilty about cheating on the man whom she pledged faithfulness to in front of the alter, but she could not muster up the strength to actually be guilt ridden. She loves Michael, she does. But a girl has needs, and love won’t fill up those lust crazed, empty holes.

 -

  When she spots him – him and the balding 60 year old man a few seats away from him, who’s undressing eyes roam over her like a starving animal observing it’s next meal – she can tell he’s not from Derry. No one born and raised in Derry dresses or smells that good. She walks past the fine-looking and deliciously scented man (cinnamon? Pumpkin? Some strong earthy undertone) and sits down across from him, where she observes the gangly man like a scientist examines bacteria under a microscope before deciding if she wants to close in on the kill.

 He is a man of importance, it radiates off of him effortlessly like a heatwave in the middle of June. His suit clad shoulders are broad, and his legs are clunkily folded under the bar, and oh, good God, she realizes, he must be taller than any man she has ever had before. His features imply that he’s a young man, older than the woman sniffing him out like a famished dog, but not by more than a handful of years. In his white gloved hand is what seem like a bloody Mary. Typical.

His hair is dark and slightly messy – not that she minds; if she was allowed to have her way with him, his messy hair would be the last thing either of them had to worry about – and his eyes-

 Fuck.

 And his electric eyes have found hers, amusement glistering on the surface. A god awful embarrassment red sneaks up her heated cheeks, and she’s sure she looks like a creep, or a stalker, or maybe both; a creepy stalker, but no. He is actually tapping the seat next to him in an inviting fashion, cocks his head to the side as if to dare her to come over. She dares.

 “Hi,” she sheepishly introduces herself to the hypnotizing being in front of her. A lazy smile graces his lips as he shakes her stretched out, ringless hand with his gloved one.

 “Hello,” his voice is unsurprisingly husky, the gravel of that singly greeting sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “I couldn’t help but notice you looking thirsty from over there, all by yourself.”

 Before she can even begin to mutter her apology, sorry-I-am-a-complete-idiot or maybe even a refuting huh-who-me-no-way!, he raises her glass to her, then winks. The fucker winks.

 “You know, you can just order them at the bar,” he teases her, nudges her with his elbow like they’ve been friends for years.

 “Gee, thanks. I’m not allowed out of the basement much. Not used to this whole leaving the house thing,” she jokes, and he throws his head back laughing like a little kid, and butterflies flutter through her entire being without as much as a warning. Jesus, this man was really God damn fine.

 He grins, introduces himself as Bob Gray, and orders her a bloody Mary with extra lime, the assumption she made about his own pick-me-up turning out to be accurate.

 “So, what do you do?” she curiously inquires, making a case of brushing her thigh past his knee while settling down on the bar stool right next to the lanky man.

 “Do?”

 “For work. Or are those gloves a fashion statement?”

 “What gloves?” She stares at his uncovered hands, no ring, nimble but long fingers wrapped loosely around his glass and heat creeps up her cheeks for the second time that night. She could’ve sworn he was wearing gloves earlier. Her eyes dart from his hands back up to this bright blue eyes and plump lips, curved up into a grin, all teeth and genuinity.

 “You’re a bit of an odd one, aren’t you?” she’s starting to feel an awful lot like having a fever dream, the sense of slipping between being asleep and wakefulness swimming through her mind. Could it be the lack of sleep from the previous nights? It had to be, or perhaps a trick of the light. Before the disorienting bewilderment consumes her, said ungloved fingers link with her bare arm to catch her attention, careful and soft, as if not to startle her.

 “Are you alright?” God, and he’s nice. He’s nice and he is funny and he looks even better than all her favorite dirty daydreams, and she wants the nightmares gone so bad and she wants more of his touch, more of him, so fucking bad.

 “Yes. Yes, more than fine, actually.”

 Michael doesn’t pop up in her mind like he usually does when she accompanies an attractive stranger home, not this time. She could be sorry, but it seems hypocritical. There was no way in hell she was letting the man sitting next to her go, not with the way his lingering touches, against her knee, soft on her arm, pressing on her shoulders, still burn on her skin like winter fire. Just as she had suspected, the current stranger does not live in the hopeless excuse for a town, but he does stay at the Derry townhouse. He takes her there, wastes no time on niceties, just how she likes it. It’s like he can read her every thought, sense the desperation for relief radiating off of her.

 Sweet, plump lips bridge the distance the second she gets her coat off, hungry, desperate, searching. Biting.

 “F-fuck,” she breathes against him, warm blood dripping down her bottom lip like honied tea spilling over the edge of a hot mug.

 “I’m sorry,” the red liquid coat his apologizing lips now, curled up in a Cheshire cat grin. His tongue unapologetically darts out from in between his parted lips, long and pink, licking away her spilled blood, first off of his own lips and then of hers, like she’s nothing more than a tasty treat. Fuck. She hit the fucking kink lottery.

 “You’re not,” she ascertains playfully, hands brazenly and without a warning shoving the lanky man that easily towers over her down on the musty couch in the deprecated room of the townhouse. He lets her, she’s awfully aware of how he lets her small frame overpower his much bigger one. In a tangle of limbs, the man of all her dirty daydreams yet to come yanks her down with him, lips chasing each other as a unexpectedly soft chuckle escapes from her throat.

 “You’re right, little one,” his breath is hot on her neck, and his hand tugs on her hair with a pleasant sting to it. His teeth graze the undisturbed skin hungrily, rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth piercing her neck and then his tongue leaves a hot, long stripe down the length of her throat. “I’m not so sorry. I’m not sorry at all.”

 The tight but steady grip his big hands hold on her hips renders her dizzy with white hot, blazing want for the stranger below her. A laugh, one similar to the one he had let out earlier on the evening, but now somehow more cruel, escapes from his throat as she wiggles under his iron grip, desperate for more physical contact.

 “Tell me what you want, little one. Maybe I will decide to be kind enough to give it to you,” the pet name he has for her flush her cheek a bright red and send an unapologetic rush down her legs,

 “I want you,” she whimpers meagerly, entrapped by the delicious dig of his warm digits in her sure-to-be-bruised-by-tomorrow skin, and he cocks up one uninterested eyebrow at her sweaty face.

 “Not good enough.”

 “I want…. I want you inside of me,” and she’s convinced that did the trick when his fingers finally move, away from her hips and lower, lower, lower… The hem of her dress comes apart under his probing fingers, a soft, anticipating groan escapes her. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most, the warmth of him radiating brightly against the soft flesh of her thighs, and then… And then he stops.

 He snorts, displeased yet entertained by the eagerness of her trashing around in his grip, the needy whine falling off her lips.

 “Your cock inside of me, I want your cock inside of me, please!” she begs, her dress is ripped to pieces now, something that would cost any other stranger a mean fucking slap across the face, but not him. Not Bob fucking Gray with his magic hands and silver tongue.

 The old couch creeks underneath the shifting weight of the tangled together mess of limbs as he flips her naked body over sloppily like a rag doll, rough and careless and pressed along the length of her body. The suit on her one night only lover crinkles as he ruts his hips against her completely naked form messily, his hand teasingly on her clit, insufferably slow, soft circles. His cock is hard and infuriatingly out of reach, the few layers of clothing extracting a needy groan from her.

 “Such a dirty, dirty girl,” he grins in her hair as he pulls his hips away from hers, the contrast of the delicious sound of the teeth of his zipper being undone and the emptiness against her behind earning him an eager buck of her soft hips.

 For just a fleeting moment, a questioning when the hell did he take my panties off runs through her mind, but the thought is gone as fast as it showed up when he ruthlessly teases her already dripping cunt with the head of his cock, so barely there and wet, and fuck, since when was she such a pleading mess? A chuckle leaves his lips when she eagerly bucks her hips back again, begging and writhing against the tall stranger for more.

 “I want your cock inside of me, who?” He’s cruel, he’s awfully and unreasonably cruel and she feels like tears could stream down her cheeks from pure, undenied pleasure that she knows he can give her.

 “B-Bob, please,” she gasps, the tip of his leaking cock on her throbbing clit now, hot and heavy and- and then it’s gone again. A tsk in both her ears so vivid it feels like the noise is coming from inside her skull overpowers her own pleading whine for some contact, any at all.

 “Sir?” it’s a strangled question coming from her throat that provides her nothing but a correcting squeeze, first her ass, then her nipple when she stays quiet underneath him.

 “Come on, little one. You know what I want. You’ve said it before,” he hotly hisses down her neck, teeth sinking in the soft skin of her shoulder as a warning, and then it hits her. She does not stop to wonder how he knows about her past experiences, too drunken on the unadulterated bliss of him.

 “Daddy, daddy, daddy, please!”

 “Good girl. Good, impatient, little girl,” he giggles, he fucking giggles openmouthed against her cheek like he owns her as he sheaths his full length into her cunt all at once, hot, hard and filling.

 Stars rest on the field of her vision when he doesn’t even fucking bother to let her adjust to the alien full feeling of him, hitting every single spot so God damn ass kickingly perfect that it takes her a full minute to realize that moaning noise is coming from her. As far as she’s able to rationalize any different thought than oh God, oh God, oh fuck, yes she ceases her whimpering.

 “Don’t hold back those tasty moans now,” he growls, almost sounding inhuman, blended with the rhythmical thrust of his hips, knocking the breath out of her. His cock hits spots she wasn’t aware of having, like he shaped his cock to fit her dripping cunt like a perfect match.

 “Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had in your miserable short little life time. Better than your disappointingly, small-dicked husband,” the pretty stranger has a way of making every word that leaves his mouth sound filthy. He has her draped uselessly over the couch as he pounds into her like there’s no tomorrow, it’s hard to get anything else but mind-dulling moans out.

 “Tell me,” he hisses, pulling her body flush against his, his big hand wrapped dangerously tight around her throat.

 “Y-you have the best cock I’ve ever felt in my miserable short little life time,” she chokes out with heated cheeks of embarrassment, knowing the man currently filling her up won’t be satisfied with any less. “Better than anyone else’s.”

 He chuckles, letting go off her throat not a moment too soon, black patches in her vision threatening to take over, the rhythmic slap of his flesh against her roaring around in her ears.

 “I’m going to c-cum,” she gasps, the satisfying stretch of his cock too much with the way his nimble fingers have found their way down from her throat to her clit.

 “Oh no, you won’t. Not until daddy says you can.”

 She clenches dangerously tight around his cock, earning a harsh slap against her aching pussy, leaving her gasping for air.

 “I don’t recall giving you permission to cum yet, my eager little cum slut,” he hisses against the base of her skull, tugging on her hair painfully brutal. The tone in his voice is ruthless and threatening, but his cock twitches inside her like it’s living its own life, and the mere thought of his warm cum dripping out of her has her moaning, and she clenches around his girth again, prepared to deal with whatever consequences he sees fit to punish her with.

 The intake of his breath is sharp when his seed spills, hot and thick, triggering her own orgasm. The tremble in legs would’ve been sure to have her fall to her knees if it wasn’t for the old couch underneath her, supporting her weight. Stars appear behind her closed lids, hoping, praying to whatever deity that the overpowering, blissful surge between her legs never ends, that perfect Robert Gray and his perfect cock never leave from the snug space between her trembling legs.

 They stay like that for a while, minutes, hours, after they come, she couldn’t tell you even if you held a gun to her head. The final peaceful moments before the storm. Then, he pulls out of her, cock gone soft and his seed dripping down her legs like it belongs there. She bites her lip, sad to let him go. He pats her head, as if to tell her good job and she finally switches positions, her muscles thanking her.

 The couch lets out a protesting creek when she shifts her weight from her bruised knees to her sore ass, the ripped up dress she wore earlier that night catching her eye.

 “You fucked up my dress, you know.”

  “I want to eat you,” he ignores her remark with a low growl, and she laughs, closing her eyes as she revels in the afterglow of sex and uncramping her muscles. It’s like a second orgasm all over again.

 “As much as I’d love that, I have to get back to my husband,” when he stays silent, she turns to look at the handsome man in front of her, only to see his blue eyes flicker to an unsettling shade of yellow and drool dribble down his chin. It’s unsettling, triggering goosebumps down her entire body.

 “I really should get going,” she repeats, blinking twice, praying that what she’s seeing in front of her is an illusion, a trick of the light, the unenviable costs of her lack of sleep.

 It’s none of those things. It’s not an illusion, nor a trick of the light, nor consequences of insomnia. In front of her now, where handsome Bob Gray stood mere seconds ago, now stands a terrifying 7 feet tall clown. His hair is a fiery red and his body is clad in a Victorian style clown costume. She has never really been scared of clowns before, but then again, the clowns she did meet didn’t shapeshift from handsome men into clown creatures in front of her, nor does the clown face seem etched into their skin.

 “Y-you’re not real. You can’t be real,” He — no, it, because the being in front her could not be human in any way, shape or form — uncovers its teeth in a sickening twist that could almost pass as a smile, teeth that suddenly look all too familiar to her, she now realizes with a start.

 “I-I’m not real?” It mocks the small, now trembling woman on the musty townhouse couch in front of the large being. “My cock was real enough for you, was it not?”

 “You… If I knew what you were, I would’ve never…” She needs to get away, or she can guess how this is going to end. How her life is going to end. Oh, God. She fucked this. It. Whatever the fuck it was.

 “Please, daddy,” it ridicules her voice, and fuck, it sounds eerily similar to her own. “You have the best cock I’ve ever felt in my miserable short little life time.”

 It watches as the doomed human now uselessly claws her nails at the door, naked and afraid. A laugh bubbles in its throat.

 “Don’t go hurting my feelings now, little human,” the clown’s voice is so different from Bob’s, higher pitched and laced with insanity and sadism. “You would be so lucky to have me in this form.”

 “F-fuck you!” she attempts to retaliate before realizing that she should probably focus on getting the fuck out of here, away from the clown in every sense of the word. Her nails desperately dig at the wooden door that challengingly stands in front of her, the doorknob that she knows was there earlier now gone.

 “Oh, but I did, little one, and you thoroughly enjoyed it,” it says in a singsong-y purr, higher now than she has ever heard it, and the pet name it made up for her now sounds more like a fucking threat than anything else. “Look at me.”

 Turning around to face the shapeshifter may be the hardest thing she has ever had to do, but the monster waits for her as if it has all the time in the world, - it probably does, she realizes - a demonic laugh ringing through her head, sharp and deafening. Her naked body trembles as she finally turns, tears ready to spill over her sweaty cheeks, faced with eight beady little eyes and equally as many legs, it’s gigantic mouth curled up in a sickening smile.

 She screams. She screams like she’s never screamed in her life before, a bad horror movie fucking scream that cracks, insanity closing in on her mind before the monster does.

 “Tasty, tasty, beautiful fear,” it roars through her skull, and it’s so close she can almost taste it’s foul breath on her face, stinking of blood and shit and piss and death. The fear is paralyzing, there is nothing more she can do but sit and watch as the horrifying being, enormous and disgusting, heaves itself towards her trembling frame, with only one purpose. To kill. Her screaming as ceased now, all that’s left is a pile of hopelessness filled to the brim with fear, as if it’s been the only emotion she has ever felt before. Hot tears stream down her pretty face, but it awakens no mercy in the beast’s eight yellow eyes, only hunger and a sick sense of sadistic joy.

 It’s humongous jaw then snaps open, glistering teeth welcoming her field of vision with a sickening cackle that can only come from the disturbed soul of the entity.

 Teeth. Rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth piercing her neck then, taking root in the thrumming jugular vein in her neck. It burns, it burns so fucking bad that she’s surprised the intense pain hasn’t taken it’s inevitable toll on her yet, although she questions if perhaps her mind is trying to separate itself from her body. Somehow, she’s still aware of her surroundings, although everything appears hazy. Around her, everything is spinning, spinning, spinning as if she has just gotten off a fast whirling carousel after eating one too many cotton candies.

Her head swims, not able to rationalize a thought that makes sense, or any thoughts at all. The blinding pain is so extreme, resembling the feeling of a thousand needles stabbed into her skin without a care or a goal, agonizingly slow and painfully breaking the skin apart to expose little streams of warm blood that puddle together at her feet.

She wants to let out a noise, any noise. Her mind screams at her to call for help, be smart, use the vocal cords mother nature blessed her with. Instead, all that leaves her now iron tasting, blood filled mouth is the last soft, dying gurgle of a defeated prey.

 “Hmm... you taste as good as you feel.”

[sparxwrites]

Prompt: Caleb still has Winter Soldier-style triggers buried in his head

[ao3]

“The RED ones are my favourite,” says Yasha, in melodic, fluent Celestial, as she turns a page in her book to show Caleb a pressed sprig of flowers. They’re almost unbearably delicate, pea-sized flowers flattened into fascinatingly textured and perfect circles, a small cascade of them spattered around the centre stem like a jagged spray of arterial blood. “They’re just… so small. But so vivid, you know?”

Talking in Celestial whilst on watch is a habit they’ve picked up, since they’re the only two in the group that know it, and there’s precious little occasion for conversation in it elsewhere. Though he has an accent where Yasha does not, Caleb’s comprehension is faultless, and he’s used to interpreting the resonant, ringing tones of the language with ease.

The sudden pressure the words raise in the back of his skull, like the tolling of a bell, the heavy gathering of a mist in the pre-dawn cool, is new. “Ja,” he agrees, faintly, through the red red red ringing at the nape of his neck. “They are beautiful.” 

He prefers the blue ones she showed him, two pages back, broad blooms with delicate petals threaded through with purple, if he’s being honest.

Distracted with trying to ascertain why he’s suddenly feeling so strange, the next word he catches hits him like a clip to the jaw. “-only SEVEN pages left in this book, and then… I don’t know. I’ll have to buy a new one,” Yasha says, and he’s reeling, the bell tolling louder, the vibrations making his back teeth ache. It’s like a sudden-onset migraine, and he makes a muffled noise, jamming the heel of one palm into his eye socket against the sudden pressure in his eyeballs.

“Caleb?” Yasha asks, her mismatched eyes caught on the creases of pain that suddenly line his face. “Is everything okay?”

He winces, grits his teeth, praying for the ringing to fade as he grinds his hand more firmly against his eye. “I am just- it is just a headache,” he says, and his voice sounds distant to his own ears. “It will pass.”

Yasha catches her lower lip between her teeth, releases it. When she speaks, he barely hears her over the bell-tone, now deep and pulsing, like a drum turned melodic. “Are you sure? You don’t look good. …I could get JESTER?”

The ringing, this time, turns the world into bright, bleach-bone white.

He comes back to himself trembling, not from fear, but from the hot blood-pulse of adrenaline in his veins. He’d be more than trembling, if it weren’t for Jester sprawled across his back and pinning his arms down, Beau sat on his legs with her thumb jammed into a point on his spine that’s making all his joints feel unpleasantly numb. There’s a whining, thin and feral and hungry, a panting - it takes a moment for him to realise it’s him.

It takes a full minute for him to stop it.

“-just talking,” Yasha’s saying, when he comes back enough to hear again. Her voice is soft, as always, and with an edge of helplessness that makes him ache, somewhere a mile below the buzzing-pulsing-burning vibrating through his skull. “We were just talking, and then he… he just stood up, and his hands lit up, and he…”

He what? Bren doesn’t remember, but Caleb can smell the hot ozone of fire and scorched grass, the faintest hint of seared meat underneath. His fingers ache, cracked through black-hot like they always are when he raise an inferno. He can take an educated guess what he did.

“Caleb?” says Jester, tentatively. “Caleb, are you- Beau, have you got him?” Beau must nod, because the weight lifts from his upper body a second later, though not the numbness. “Are you back with us? What happened?”

“I… don’t know,” he breathes, when he remembers how his lungs work, an exhale on the edge of a moan. His mouth tastes of blood and desert, and there’s something tacky drying stiff below his nose, his ears. “Ich- I was-” He’s no stranger to madness, the kind that leaves you hollow and blank and swallowing time down in long, white stretches of absence, but this- this is something else. Something swift, violent, like a knife through the skull. His hands are still shaking. “It just, it happened, it-”

The fingers on his spine shift, ease off, and his arms sharpen into clarity. He brings his hands to his mouth, presses them over tear-wet cheeks. The smell of seared meat grows stronger, and then eases with a wash of pastry-sweet healing magic from Jester’s careful touch. Small, green hands touch his face, his hair, and he becomes aware of Nott’s soft crooning next to his ear. Whatever she’s humming, he doesn’t recognise it, but it has the cadence of a lullaby.

His heart slows, the racing eases. The tight bands of panic around his chest loosen.

“There were- words,” he says, when he can breathe, when each inhale isn’t a desperate, sobbing gulp. His face is still buried in his hands, but he can tell who cast Calm Emotions on him- the magic tastes of peat-bog and fresh pine needles on the back of his tongue, feels like the slow bending of a tree in the wind. “That you said, in Celestial, when we talked. They- rang.” He licks his lips, tastes sour blood and fear-sweat. “What… what happened after?”

He’s not sure he wants to know.

“You went goddamn crazy,” says Fjord, bluntly. Not hisses at him for it, an indignant, muted screech, but Caleb is grateful for his honesty. “When we woke up, your hands were on fire, the grass was on fire, half our shit was on fire, and if Yasha hadn’t had her sword-”

“You went for her face! With your hands!” blurts Jester, just as Yasha says, “I’m fine, though.”

“I healed her right up,” rumbles Caduceus, pleasantly, as though the bottom hasn’t just dropped out of Caleb’s stomach, as though he hasn’t just plummeted into spiralling freefall. “Just a little bit of scorching, really, nothing- oh, none of that, now. Come on.”

A soft-furred hand cups the back of his neck, and the peat-pine-steady-bend of verdant magic washes over him once more. The impending flashback subsides unsteadily to the back of his brain. He still hears the screams, but they’re distant, muted. It hurts worst, almost, like this - as though he’s forgotten them. 

“I didn’t- that wasn’t-” he breathes, but the weight of the magic and the easing of the trembling make him aware, abruptly, of how exhausted he is. It feels like someone’s taken a mallet to his brain, tenderised it to bruised pulp inside his skull. Nott’s still petting his hair, humming scratchily, and it’s making his eyelids droop despite the restrained panic still thrashing somewhere tucked away. “I don’t know-”

The hand on the back his neck shifts a little, a thumb pressed against the point where spine meets skull. “Shh, enough of that. Sleep, Mister Caleb. We’ll worry about this in the morning.”

“What did you-!” demands Nott, close to his ear, but his eyelids are already sliding closed at the command. The last thing he sees, before sleep takes him fully, is an image, imprinted on the inside of his eyelids- Yasha’s face, wide-eyed and pale, with his fast-approaching fire reflected in her mismatched eyes.

[kyndaris]

Suddenly Thirteen

When I was younger, one of my favourite films starred Jennifer Garner acting like a teenager who was pretending to be thirty. In high school, all I wanted to do was grow out of the phase of terrible acne and finally be able to get my driver’s licence. I had a thousand dreams. Each one more fantastic than the next. One day I would want to be an actuary, a researcher or an astronaut.

Fast forward a decade and a half, and I was still single, stuck in a job that I hate with a passion with no long-term career prospects as well as up to my eyeballs in debt. When had my life gone off the rails? Where had all the hopes and dreams flitted away to?

I glanced at the time down in the bottom right of the screen. It was two in the morning on a worknight and the only thing I could bring myself to do was scroll through Facebook, bitter and miserable. A glass of shiraz rested on my bedside table. It probably wasn’t a good idea but I needed some comfort after my explosive break-up with the man I had been dating for the last three months.

So, of course it seemed the perfect time to trawl through all the positivity that I could never have. A photo of a mouth-watering dinner from an acquaintance in the grade below me. Another Dungeons and Dragons post from old primary school friends that I had drifted away from over the years because life had felt it necessary to get in the way.

I was full of regrets and I had just barely hit thirty. A deadlier combination I knew not as I morosely pondered what could have been.

It was roughly two thirty in the morning before I closed my laptop and settled into bed. I knew it was a bad idea. Going to bed drunk and at so late an hour. Work would be hell when I woke up. The hangover would only serve to dampen whatever enthusiasm I had that it was a Friday. Maybe, though, I would be able to get away with calling in sick.

There was always a first time for everything.

My eyes had barely closed when my alarm sounded – loud and incessant – in my ear. Telling me that I needed to get out of bed if I wanted to arrive at work on time. Groggily, I reached for my phone on my bedside table, hoping to hit snooze. It wasn’t there. Frowning, I sat up and looked around my room.

Was it me or did it seem smaller? And had my bed been moved to the side?

Before I could make sense of what was happening, my door slammed open. Standing in the frame was a man that I had not seen for many years.

“Come on, Sharon, let’s get a decent breakfast in you. Don’t want to be late and starving for your first day at high school.”

This couldn’t be. I had to still be dreaming. Or perhaps my drink had been spiked. I pinched myself. Hard.

Pain lanced up my arm and I knew that this was no fever dream. Oh God. What was happening?

Sensing something was wrong, dad approached me. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“This isn’t right,” I blurted. “Am I still dreaming?”

Dad frowned at my response and crouched down next to me. “I know high school can be frightening. You’re going somewhere new. But it’s also exciting. Think of all the friends you’ll make and the things you’ll learn! Now, I’ll see to the waffles. Don’t want them to burn. Come out when you’ve changed, all right, sweetie?”

I sat in silence for several minutes, trying to wrap my head around everything. Dad was here. And alive. A sharp stab of longing pierced my chest. Even if I was still asleep and dreaming, I didn’t want to waste the opportunity of seeing him again.

Hastily, I climbed out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe. My old uniform sat neatly folded on the dresser. Within a minute, I had zipped up the skirt and buttoned up the crisp white shirt.

It was time to brush my teeth, wash my face and go down for breakfast.

Catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it took a few heartbeats for me to understand that I had been blasted back to when I was thirteen. No longer was my hair platinum blonde. Instead, it was the original muddy brown of my youth. My teeth were in disarray and my face was covered in freckles.

I shuddered at the thought of going through puberty again.

This wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.

Dad called my name again as I was just finishing up my ablutions. After taking one last look at my younger self in the mirror, I dashed down the stairs.

“Well, isn’t someone a little more chipper now?”

I didn’t say a word as I plonked down at the breakfast table. Dad was true to his word. Waffles, drizzled in maple syrup, sat before me. All of it seemed so surreal. I grabbed up fork and knife and began to eat in earnest, savouring each bite, even as I told myself that none of this was real. It couldn’t be.

Within minutes, I was finished. By 7.30, my bag was packed and I was in the car, waiting to be driven to the nearest bus stop.

A part of me was nervous as we drove down the familiar streets of my childhood. It had been years since I moved and I had never looked back. Yet, sitting in the car with my dad, I was reminded of all the wonderful moments I had shared.

Before I knew it, we arrived at the station. Dad came with me, looking as proud as ever, as we both waited for the bus. There were other children as well. Many that I recognised. To my right was Blake Johnson, short and skinny. In a few years, he would go through a growth spurt that would have him towering over even the teachers.

Seated on the bench, with her mum, was Floris Yu. She had on a thick pair of glasses and she had her hair tied up in twin pigtails. It was hard to believe that by the time we were all in university, she would have slept with half the boys in the grade.

It was nearly eight when the school bus finally pulled up.

“God, sometimes I wonder where the years went. You’re a big girl now, Sharon. Have a good day at school. Mum will be here to pick you up. But you’ll have to tell me everything that happens on your first day, all right?” Dad said as I was just about to board, tears in his eyes.

I hugged him tight, relishing his warmth. “Be careful on the roads, dad.”

“I will, sweetie. Now, go on.”

Taking an empty seat near the back of the bus, I pressed myself up against the window and waved desperately at him. Dad smiled and waved back. As the bus began to move and turn around the corner, dad stood there, as if imprinting this moment in his memory.

--

The first day passed by in a blur. I met my teachers as well as my future friends. Despite the fact that Olivia was now back to her awkward twelve-year old self, we clicked just as easily as the first time. Danielle was as chatty as I remembered her. Oliver, on the other hand, seemed lost and a little preoccupied. I wasn’t sure what was bothering him. Had never really paid it much attention because by the time we became fast friends in Year 9, he had got over that bump in his life.

Mum greeted me when I got off the bus. Before I could do or say anything, she grabbed hold of my schoolbag and slung it over one shoulder. “So, how was your first day? Make a lot of new friends?”

Smiling, I answered her. We talked until we reached the car and then we talked even as mum drove us back home.

I was still regaling mum with tales of my adventures as we walked through the front door and the phone in the kitchen rang. Mum went to pick it up. Her face went through an entire gamut of emotions. A feeling of dread welled up through me. Oh God, how could I have forgotten?

Gingerly, mum placed the phone back down. As if frightened it was going to turn around and bite her. She looked at me, eyes wide and her face as pale as death.

“What’s wrong?” I asked even as I cursed myself for being a fool. Caught up in living the fantasy that I found myself in, I had wiped away all traces of Patrick and his failing health.

“We need to go to the hospital.”

Without even changing out of my uniform, I clambered into the driver’s seat, adjusting it for my considerably shorter legs. Mum stared at me, lost for words when I asked for the keys. How could she just stand there when Patrick was on life support and awaiting the final decision to euthanise him?

“Come on. We need to go, mum. Now. I’m the better driver. Just throw on Google Maps on your phone and direct me.”

“Sharon, you’re thirteen. And what’s Google Maps?”

Cursing under my breath, I realised my error. It was supposed to be a dream, but it was damn near too realistic for my liking. “Forget it mum. I’m sorry,” I said as I climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Let’s just get going. Patrick needs us.”

Mum nodded mutely and got in the car. She turned on the ignition and effortlessly put the car into gear. I knew she had questions. But she had the wisdom to set them aside and concentrate on more immediate needs.

Within ten minutes, we turned into the driveway of the veterinary hospital. I hopped out of the car as soon as we came to a stop, unbuckling the seatbelt and flinging open the door. Mum shouted after me but I ignored her as I raced to the open doors where dad was standing.

“How’s Patrick doing?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “He’s having trouble breathing. Doc says he’s on his last legs. We’d better hurry in.”

I pushed past him. My feet took me down the familiar corridors until I reached the operating room. Looking through the circular window, I spotted Leanne. She was easily recognisable. Despite the gown she wore, I could identify her blonde streaks that had been tied into a neat bun.

Lying still on the table was Patrick. He was my first dog. A golden retriever that had been my protector and friend for as long as I could remember.

Was he already gone? But then, his chest rose. Within seconds I was by his side, holding his face in my hands. Perhaps he sensed me there for his tongue came out to give me an affectionate lick.

“You’re going to be fine, Patrick.” I didn’t know if I was saying this to him or merely to console myself after witnessing the same event twice. It wasn’t fair.

A hand came to rest on my shoulder. It gave me a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Sharon.” Dad. It had to be.

I gently patted Patrick’s muzzle and gave him one last forlorn look before I sought the shelter of dad’s embrace.

“Why did it have to be him?” I said into his chest as we were gently ushered out. A part of me resented the fact that I couldn’t be there when Patrick took his last breath. Only Leanne bearing witness to his last moments. But she was the vet. And it was her job to see it through.

--

We arrived home, sad and despondent. The last few hours had stained the days in hues of grey. Dinner was a quiet affair. I went to bed early, unable to shake off the loss I felt, though I should have remembered it all having experienced it before. Somewhere over the years, the pain had healed. Now, the wound had torn open again.

If mum had allowed me, I would have preferred going to sleep with a glass of rum. Unfortunately, my mum had always been a stickler for rules and in this dream of mine, I was underage.

Oblivion was difficult to find. After tossing for what felt like hours, I fell into a fitful slumber – unsure of what the next day would bring and hoping that I would wake up in my proper time, where things made sense and the pain that felt so raw now was only a distant memory.

But when I blearily opened my eyes, I found myself again in my old childhood bedroom. Instead of tastefully selected paintings, there were a myriad of posters. Most of them featuring Disney Princesses. A part of me wanted to scream. The more adult part felt deflated – resigned to the fact that I was trapped in the wrong time period and forced to relive my teenage years.

I wasn’t sure why that was the case. More than likely, it was some cosmic joke.

Dad came in with a tray topped up with breakfast around seven. “I know yesterday was difficult, Sharon. It was hard for me as well. Patrick was with us for so long. But you need to eat. And when you’re finished, let’s have a talk. I can call up the school. Get you the rest of the week off.”

His offer was tempting. And in my previous past, I had taken him up on the offer. But this was supposed to be a dream. Or, at least, I believed it was. Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see where such a choice would lead me as I already knew the alternative: bound to the bed for six days and moping around the house. It had meant playing catch-up when everyone else had picked the friendships that would last for more than a decade.

It was with great effort that I pulled myself from the warmth and comfort of my covers and slipped once again into my school uniform. Though I had experienced the death of Patrick before, the pain of his loss was still as visceral as ever.

Dad understood that when I gave him my bravest smile and said, “I can do this. Patrick wouldn’t have wanted me to be crying my eyes out all day anyways. Just because I’m at school doesn’t mean I won’t miss him.”

“That’s the spirit.”

It was a near thing, but I managed to scoff down breakfast, get dressed, pack my bag and arrive at the station just as the school bus trundled up. I got on, determined to have a good day at school. Even though I might have appeared as if I was just thirteen, I knew that in my head I was a grown woman that had already gone through a whole host of experiences.

With time, I knew, that the pain of losing Patrick all over again would dull. It was simply a matter of putting on a strong façade for the rest of the day.

The second day of school went by as quickly as the first. Before I knew it, the final bell had rung and I was on the bus back home. For a short while, as I was relearning the names of my teachers, I could forget that I was trapped in a different time and that my loyal dog that I had known all my life had passed away the day before.

Never before had I thought high school as a place to forget my woes. My memories of the teenage years had been filled with confusion and angst and worries about the changes my body was going through. Coupled with the pressure to perform and the mountain of homework that I always left to the last minute, it seemed like a miracle when I finally graduated.

Yet, here I was, putting aside the grief and pain as I socialised with the teenager versions of some of my oldest friends. It was striking how far we had come. From precocious students who dreamed of the world to weary adults, caught in the grind of the corporate machine even as we hid our misery by posting edited photos on Instagram and Facebook.

When I walked home from the bus stop later in the afternoon, I felt better than I would have thought given the recent death of Patrick. Rather than desiring to curl up into a foetal ball, I was filled with the determination to change my future.

It was to these thoughts that I fell asleep, after having completed my homework. For close to an hour, I had tried to figure out the maths equations that had never had any bearing in my position as a slave to capitalism.

--

Rays of sunlight peeked through my window when I jolted out of bed. I glanced towards the alarm clock, hoping to glean the time, but it was missing. Instead, an iPhone sat in its place and it was ringing shrilly. I picked it up. The time read 7:30AM.

Still muddled by sleep, I had just shimmied out of my pyjamas when I realised that things were not quite right. Back in high school, I didn’t have a smart phone. It would still be another year or so before Steve Jobs would announce his creation to the world at the Macworld convention. And it wasn’t until my first year at university that I had acquired my first Samsung S2. Purchased, of course, with my own money earned from a part-time job.

Nor had dad come in to check if something was wrong.

Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I confirmed my suspicions. Thirty-year old Sharon stared back at me. Hair, dyed blonde at the tips with dark roots threatening to undo all my good work. I was back in my time. The strange dream that had held me hostage had ended.

A part of me felt bereft. The halcyon days of my youth were gone. A second time.

I let out a frustrated breath and checked the time and date on my smart phone again. Now was not the time of reminiscing over what could have been. I had an hour to shower, get dressed and head to work. Another day in the cubicle, earning the money I needed to survive in a cold and unfeeling world.

God. I needed a coffee. And I needed it yesterday.

--

The day passed as slowly as a snail. By eleven, I was jittery, wishing for the day to end. My earlier musings of what to have to lunch replaced by the monotonous repetition of office busywork. Jenny, one of my work colleagues, seemed to sense my mercurial mood.

“What’s up, Sharon? You don’t seem to be blazing through your cases as quickly as you usually do after your banana bread and skim latte combo.”

“Just got a lot of things on my mind, Jenny.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I said as I opened up another spreadsheet that reduced a person’s life into a series of indecipherable numbers.

She took the hint and kept quiet until lunch time finally rolled around. And before she could invite me out for a walk and offer to shout me some sushi from the restaurant down the street, I was already out of my seat, headed for the elevators. Luck smiled upon me and I managed to get into one of the death traps on my lonesome. But despite the myriad of choices for lunch along the street where my work was situated, I didn’t feel hungry. Instead, I simply let my feet lead me through the labyrinth of streets in the bustling central business district of the city – searching for something I could not quite name.

I returned, five minutes after the prescribed end of lunch. Jenny looked up from her desk, eyebrows arched into a question that I purposely ignored.

As soon as the time on the bottom right of the computer screen hit 5PM, my bag was packed and I was in the first available lift.

Within thirty minutes, I walked through my front door. The keys went to their usual tray, my bag landed precariously on the dining room table and I plonked myself on the sofa. Hunger had my stomach growling but I could not bring myself to start preparing dinner. Exhaustion tugged at every limb, despite the fact that I had done little in physical exertion. It was easier to just let the lid of my eyes close and allow my mind to drift.

When next I woke, morning light was shining through the blinds. Groaning, I sat up and stretched – trying to rid myself of the kinks. Having missed lunch and dinner the day before, I was starving. Still half-asleep, I went to my bag to fetch my phone and take a gander at the time.

But no matter my efforts, the screen remained black. Shit. After what felt like ten minutes, I managed to find my charger. At the very least, today was a Saturday and I had no plans beyond a property inspection. If I was lucky, I could squeeze in some time to finish the detailing on my next costume for the convention next month.

The day went quickly, even though I lounged around the apartment for most of the day. A quick jaunt onto Facebook only helped further my apathy as I scrolled through posts filled with fun and laughter. In my head, I knew that many of the pictures I saw were curated. Did I not do the same when I tried out a new café? The image of who I was on the internet was never quite the perfect representation of who I was in reality.

By 8 in the evening, I was ready to slink back into bed. Just as I was about to shut my laptop, Facebook Messenger popped up with an alert. Curiosity won out and I clicked it open without first glancing at the name.

Hey! How’s it going? I know it’s been a few years, but damn, how’s life treating you?

My gaze drifted to the profile picture in the upper left corner and the name emblazoned in bold white letters. Simon Lau. After we had gone to different universities, studying distinctly different degrees – he had studied medicine, whereas I had wasted most of my loan on a diploma in business – it came as a bit of a shock.

Hi Simon. Life’s been good for the most part. What about you? From the pictures and posts I’ve seen it seems as if you’ve been keeping busy.

Yeah. It’s been hectic. Finally managed to get tenure at my local hospital. Being a doctor isn’t easy. The hours are long and the pay is pretty lousy.

Well, I do believe congratulations are in order. Becoming a doctor is no small feat.

What about you?

I stared at the words, wondering how much of my life to reveal. When I compared myself to the achievements of many of my other friends, it felt like I had done little. An anime and boardgame fanatic with a flair for the dramatic.

I’ve hardly achieved anything of note.

That can’t be true. The Sharon I knew in school was a powerhouse. Sure, you might not have gotten the best grades, but I’m sure that you would have achieved anything you set your mind to. In fact, I’m kind of envious of the cosplay photos you’ve been putting up.

A smile broke across my lips. I had missed the conversations I used to have with Simon. We had met in fifth grade, as part of a gifted and talented initiative held by our school. From the moment he had shyly introduced himself one recess early in Term 2, we became inseparable as we poured over our love for Neopets and Little Figher 2.

Somehow, we chatted until midnight as we reminisced over the old days. Before I logged off for some much-needed rest, we exchanged mobile numbers and set up a meeting point for the convention that would be in town for the long weekend.

I fell asleep, grinning from ear to ear.

Within moments, I was rudely awoken by my alarm clock. With a groan, I sat up in bed and reached one hand to shut it down. As I yawned and blearily looked around my room, I was shocked to find myself once again in my old childhood home. I was back in the past again, reliving my time during high school.

--

For months, I lived two lives. One in the past, and one in my current time. Just like the first time I had ventured into my high school days, I was able to change small elements and make better decisions. When Floris came to me, dishevelled and shaking from an encounter she did not want to talk about, I was able to offer her a shoulder to cry on rather than be consumed by my own selfish problems.

It made me understand her a little more and see why her path so swiftly diverged from mine back in Year 8. In my present, there were also slight differences. As if somehow my actions were like the beating of a butterfly’s wings. Or perhaps I was simply seeing through different eyes. After all, having the ability to go back in time and make changes for the better seemed farfetched and I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I was having incredibly lucid dreams.

But what mattered during the second chance I was given were the moments I spent with dad, as well as being able to see my classmates in a different light.

All of that changed, however, as I was wrapping up work and my phone buzzed. I was back in the present again, after enjoying two weeks of school holidays where I had messaged Simon almost every single day. Frowning, I glanced down at the caller id that was flashing on my screen. It read ‘Beau.’ For a moment, I was confused. Only a few days ago, I had been scrolling through Tindr as the sole occupant of my apartment. My rooms had been a mess. Every spare surface covered in various pieces of fabric in a desperate bid to complete my costume before the upcoming event.

After all, I was going as my favourite character from a popular video game franchise.

Curiosity won the best of me. I accepted the call and was surprised by the voice I heard on the other end.

“Good evening, milady. Did you have a good day in the office?” asked Simon Lau. “I’ll be home around six and can come over to help for the last stretch. That okay with you?”

I was at a loss for words. Was Simon my boyfriend? It didn’t seem quite real. Yet, as I searched through my memories, new ones overlaid the old. After dancing around each other all throughout high school, we officially entered into a relationship during first year of uni. And though we had the occasional fight here and there, there had only been one instance when I had seriously considered of breaking up with him.

Simon was my second half. He knew me inside and out. Just as I did him.

“—Earth to Sharon. Are you still there?”

A smile slowly curled the tips of my lips upward. “Sorry. Just remembering how lucky I’ve been to have you by my side.”

“Of course. I wake up every day grateful I can see a handsome doctor with impeccable musculature in the mirror each day.”

“Narcissist.”

He chuckled. “Hey, you’re the one that brought it up in the first place.”

“I only said that I love having you by my side. Looking back, it almost seems predetermined,” I said. A giddy moment passed before a faint memory flitted across my mind that left me feeling hollowed out. “Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if things had gone differently. The thought chills me to the core.”

“There’s nothing to fear, Sharon. I’ll be back over before you know it. Just wrapping up the last of my shift,” said Simon, seemingly to sense my doubts and wanting to allay them. He was wasted as a doctor in the local hospital. But it was his passion to help and render assistance to those that needed it the most. And who was I to stand in the way of his desire when it was the thing that drew me to him? “Can you hold on until then?”

“Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you.”

With that, I ended the call – my heart lightened. God. What was wrong with me? Wondering what life would have been like if Simon wasn’t with me? The mere idea was inconceivable.

I stared at my phone, and the nickname I had given Simon, for several minutes before I pocketed it away. Dinner. And then, when he came, I could resume the work on our cosplay outfits for the event the week after next.

--

The dreams continued, though they mostly played out like memories of a time that sat parallel to what I knew to be true. Yet, they seemed so real. Back in my high school days, I lived a different life to the one I knew. Simon, for one, despite my best efforts, seemed to drift away from me. We had different circles of friends and pursued individual interests. The childhood connection we had was not strong enough to keep us linked.

Each morning I would wake up, covered in sweat, and glance to the spot next to mine in bed. On the days he stayed over, he was a warm presence by my side and my fears were allayed. For the nights that he had a particularly late shift, I had to wrangle my anxiety into submission with relief only brought upon by hearing Simon’s voice.

It was a dangerous line I walked.

And it felt like I was losing my mind. The mismatch of memories weighed heavily on my mind as I went through the motions of work and putting the finishing touches to both my and Simon’s costumes for the convention that was the coming weekend. After all, we were going as a pair from an animated show, though I had the feeling I had initially wanted it to be from my favourite video game.

Alas, the work would have been too great. At least for Simon’s outfit, as I had no access to a furnace if I wanted to ensure complete and utter accuracy. Foam was great and all, but nothing could beat a proper metal chain.

We finished the costumes just a day shy of the big event. To my great joy, as we tried them on, to learn that they fitted as well as a glove – although mine was a little tight around the chest. Simon, on the other land, looked impeccable. Once he had the wig on, he would be nigh on indistinguishable from the character he was cosplaying as.

I, on the other hand, was a little too short to be a perfect representation of my character. It didn’t matter though. What was important was that we were matched in perfect synchronicity and that others knew that we were together.

“Looking good. I could almost mistake you for an elf,” said Simon.

“The ears will go on tomorrow. I don’t want to risk damaging them.” Slowly and carefully, I tugged off my boots. “What about you? Ready for the big day?”

“You know it,” he said with a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need the bathroom. And while these trousers are sublime, it’s going to take me a while to wiggle out of them.”

As soon as he disappeared down the hallway, the phone that he left on the coffee table lit up. I knew it was rude to take a look. Yet I feared that Simon would be called away for another shift at the hospital. So, risking a glance towards the bathroom, I picked up his phone and read the text message.

The words within immediately pierced my heart, shattering it into a thousand pieces. I tried my hardest to rationalise it all away. Surely, it was a joke. Or perhaps it had been sent to the wrong person.

But a second look only confirmed my worst fears. Why, on God’s green Earth, did it have to be Amy Fletcher?

Looking through the memories that weren’t my own, I knew she had been Simon’s girlfriend ever since Year 12 prom. During first year of university, they had broken up over something that most would have considered silly or stupid. At least, that was the rumour I’d heard on the grapevine as I focused on my own achievements. They had got back together in third year and everywhere they went, people said that they were inseparable. The perfect couple.

Yet, in my timeline, none of that happened. Simon was my boyfriend. Had been since high school. So, why the Hell was he receiving texts from Amy? And ones that seemed to border on what decent people might label licentious?

“What is this?” I demanded when Simon came back from his trip to the bathroom.

He looked at me, confused. “My phone?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Simon,” I snapped at him, fuelled by righteous anger. “Why is Amy fucking Fletcher sending you texts?”

“We bumped into each other last Friday. One thing led to another and we had coffee. Then, I don’t know, we exchanged numbers,” said Simon, his tone defensive. “Nothing came of it. It was just an innocent and casual catch-up.”

I didn’t believe him. How could I? The evidence was right there. In my hand. “Then why is she asking for pics, Simon?”

He stepped up to face me, his face red as a tomato. Before I could react, he snatched his phone from my grasp and looked at the screen. A minute passed. Maybe two. All I heard in the deafening silence was the sound of my heart beating an erratic tattoo.

Then finally a giggle. A bit of a chuckle and before I knew it, Simon had thrown his head back as he laughed and laughed and laughed.

To say that I was shocked would have been an understatement. Here I was, with evidence of his infidelity, and all Simon did was find amusement at my own expense. It was enough for me to see red. Desperately, I tried to swipe his phone back. But he was taller. His arms much longer.

He dangled his phone just out of reach, as if it was all a game. Each time I jumped Simon would duck under my grasp. And when I shouted obscenities, he ignored them with an easy smile.

It was only when I had tears trailing down my cheeks, threatening to walk out and throw the costumes I had laboured over for countless hours into the nearest dumpster, that he finally stopped. The expression on his face now serious and concerned. “Oh, come on Sharon. Can’t you see? She was asking for our cosplay photos. Just innocent and harmless fun. Stop acting like a baby. You’re better than this.”

“Why? Amy has never cared for the ‘geeky’ stuff. In ninth grade, she said anime was for little kids or people that hadn’t grown up.”

“Give her a bit of credit, Sharon. Not everyone has to be into pop culture. Sure, they can watch a couple of shows on Netflix, but you shouldn’t deride them for liking things like The Christmas Prince instead of Die Hard.”

I knew he was right. It was Simon, after all. But I didn’t like it. I fell into a sullen silence. Intractable to any of his overtures for peace.

“Goddammit, Sharon. Don’t just shut me out,” he said as he changed into his shorts and a ratty old t-shirt he used as bedwear. I was already under the covers, after having spent a good forty minutes in the shower. He tried to cuddle, but I was having none of it. With a sigh, Simon turned away. I knew I was being spiteful, but I couldn’t help it. The rage was still there and it would not be appeased.

It was as if it had taken on a life of its own. One that screamed vengeance at the wrong that Amy fucking Fletcher had done to me by texting my boyfriend.

Even when the lights turned off, I lay in bed, brain in overdrive as I pondered my next steps. Amy Fletcher would not get away with this.

--

The next day dawned. Though I had not slept, I was still buzzing with nervous energy. Jittery, almost, in anticipation of what was to come. Simon kept mostly busy with convention preparations, pausing every so often to look at his phone.  He didn’t notice. Not when he saw the texts Amy sent his way. I wanted to wipe that giddy-looking smile off his face. How could he do this to me? I was his girlfriend. Not Amy.

Even as I seethed, I was reassured by the plan that had come to me overnight. The old memories – of another time – had provided the answer I sought: Amy Fletcher’s address. It wasn’t far. It was only a ten to twenty-minute drive away. Given the traffic, it was plenty of time to get there, do what I needed and return before we set out to the convention.

Just to ease the burgeoning anxiety within me, in case things should go horribly wrong, I had slipped out of bed at three and Googled the address in my head. The Street View of the house matched several photos on her Instagram and Facebook. If I was wrong, I would simply play it off as mistaken identity.

I couldn’t say it was a good plan. But it was the only one that I could come up with that would satisfy the raging beast inside me.

“Where are you going?” Simon asked when I headed to the door at a few minutes past seven.

“Hardware store,” I replied. “Picking up a few more things that I forgot. It’s for the costume.” And then, I made the error that would cost me nearly everything. “You know, glue gun refills. Just in case something falls off.”

Perhaps if I had stayed longer, I would have seen the consternation on Simon’s face. Focused solely on the goal that I had set for myself, I hurried to the car. In my bag, I had my phone, keys, wallet and a sharp knife that I filched from the kitchen.

Traffic was light and I arrived at Amy Fletcher’s house with time to spare. For several long minutes, I sat in the car. My mind was a cacophony of noise. A part of me wanted to abandon the crazy idea that had seized me. The other, louder part, wanted to push on. It was unable to rest easy knowing that there was a threat to the perfect image of Simon and I.

When my hands had steadied, I opened the car door and walked to the white front door on stiff legs. Just to the side, hidden in a small alcove, was the doorbell. I pressed it.

Every second that slipped by felt like an hour. Until the door opened and standing before me was Amy Fletcher, her long brown hair, with blond highlights, was tussled and she was dressed in pyjamas covered in cartoon rabbits.

“Hi. You’re Sharon, right? Simon talked a lot about you when we caught up the other day. He said that you were going to a convention today. What brings you here?”

“Well, I heard you lived close by and I was in the neighbourhood,” I said, ducking underneath her arm as I forced my way inside. “This place is lovely. Did it cost a lot? God, I’m kind of envious, y’know. Simon and I, well, we haven’t been able to afford a house yet.”

“Hold on. Stop.” Amy Fletcher called out after me as I took a look at her two-bedroom house, situated in a quiet and idyllic suburb. “You can’t just come barging in. I know that we used to go to high school together, but it’s still very early in the morning.”

She caught up with me as I arrived in the kitchen, puffing a little. Her hand landed on my shoulder: a warning and a threat. It was enough.

I whirled around, one hand digging deep in my purse until my fingers had curled around the handle of my sharpest kitchen knife, and then I plunged the blade into her chest. Thirty fucking times.

Her screams were delicious as blood spurted. The beast, lurking with me, was appeased at the sight. As Amy Fletcher lay on the ground, her heart pumping out the last few litres of blood, a feral grin stretched across my face. I had done it. Simon was mine.

As I headed to the sink to wash up, I heard the first faint sirens. I dismissed it at first, until my phone rang.

Beau.

I picked up. What else could I do? Simon was my one and only. I didn’t know who had ratted me out, but I knew that I had to tell Simon. He would understand. He would be there for me.

“What have you done, Sharon?” were his first words to me. “I called the cops as soon as I noticed the missing knife. Tell me you haven’t done anything to harm Amy.”

Red. All I saw was red at his words.

“I’ve removed her from the equation,” I said with murderous glee, hoping to wound him with my words. How dare he accuse me when I was trying to salvage our relationship? If I hadn’t acted, Amy Fletcher would have inserted herself into our everyday and ruined our lives. “Don’t you understand, Simon? She was a fucking homewrecker. I did you a favour. I did the fucking world a favour.”

“You’re mad.”

Me? Mad? Simon thought I was crazy?

I laughed at the insinuation. Simon knew nothing of my madness. Of what I would do just to keep the world mine. The lengths I would go…

But as I looked at the dead body before me, the reality of my situation came crashing down on me. I know I shouldn’t have found it funny, but I could not stop. One I had started, all I could see was my future slipping away because of the mess I made. Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes. Why had I let all my fears and anxieties take control? Amy Fletcher, despite all her faults, did not deserve what I did to her.

The police found me in the kitchen, murder weapon in my right hand and my phone in the left.

As they dragged me out, handcuffed, I continued to laugh. Even as the world faded to laugh, all I could hear were my high-pitched cackles of depravity…

--

With a groan, I woke up, and blearily blinked at my surroundings. It took me a moment to recognise that I was still seated at the kitchen table, my face pressed against the keys of my laptop. Beside me, was an empty glass of red wine. As for the bottle itself, it had rolled to a stop on the counter-top and seemed ready to plunge over the side. Luckily, I had corked it or else I would be cleaning up the stains for a few weekends.

Shit. Stiffly, I got out of my seat to rescue the still half-full bottle. As I picked it up, I managed to catch a glimpse of the label.

Devil’s Touch: Let your inner desires come alive

I scoffed. Yeah right. More like my bloody nightmares. Running a hand over my face, I wondered if anything had been real or if it had just been an overactive imagination fuelled by the alcohol I had ingested. Probably the latter, I decided as I placed the bottle into the fridge.

Glancing quickly at the time, 3:50AM, I packed up my laptop and headed to my bedroom.

Just as I was about to grab another two or three hours of oblivion, I was startled back into full awareness when I heard a sharp rap on my apartment door. There was no mistaking the sound, however hard I wanted to try. I looked at my phone. It had ticked to 4 in the morning.

Grousing, I slipped into my robe and padded on sock-covered feet to see who had come calling in the early hours of the morning. Whoever it was, they had better have a good explanation for disturbing the rest of my pitiful night, I thought, as I opened the door.

[vannahfanfics]

3 a.m. Musings and Cherry Lip Gloss

Category: Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts

Characters: Hayner, Olette

With a small groan, Hayner cracked an eye open to peer sleepily at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The bright green numbers depicting 2:28 a.m., the only light source in the inescapable gloom of night, burned into his golden irises. With a louder, more aggravated groan, he rolled onto his back to shove his pillow over his head as if that would make him get to sleep faster. Instead, the neon letters imprinted into his corneas blazed in the dark of his closed eyes. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to lull himself to sleep, he jerked up into a sitting position, shoved the pillow off himself, and just stared out into the dark. 

Hayner didn’t usually struggle with sleep. Hell, normally, he passed out right as his head hit the pillow. It was an infuriating change of pace. It wasn’t like he had anything pressing to do in the morning, but the boy just liked his sleep. It was one of life’s many simple pleasures… one that was apparently going to be denied him tonight. He supposed that at least he could take solace in the fact that it wasn’t just some random bout of insomnia; there was at least a reason his mind was whirling one hundred miles an hour and just refused to shut off. 

Sora was missing. 

The three of them hadn’t been informed of the details. Roxas had just mentioned it in passing because he was depressed about it. There were things about Sora (and the others, too) that Hayner would probably never know- world-jumping and monster-fighting and data-worlds. He was content with that, but what he wasn’t content with was feeling so damn powerless in it all. 

Hayner didn’t have a fancy Keyblade that he could sling around and save the day. All he could do was wish, and wish, and wish. Hayner was pretty damn tired of wishing while everyone else charged in to do the work, though. He sighed deeply as he ran both his hands through his tousled blonde hair. Sure, he resented it, but it wasn’t like there was anything he could do about it. Hayner couldn’t wish some fancy weapon into existence, unfortunately. 

There’s nothing for it, Hayner thought as he rolled onto his belly to grab his cell phone off the nightstand. He plucked it off the charger and tapped the screen, recoiling with a light screech as it blazed to life and virtually disintegrated his eyeballs. Stuffing his face into the mattress to recover, Hayner swiped his thumb across the top of the screen to lower the brightness. After a minute, the scorching pain receded, and he wearily lifted his head to blink at the now-darkened phone screen. He pulled up his messaging app and tapped on his archived conversation with Olette. 

Hey, are you awake? The little bubble made a swoosh sound as it appeared on the screen. There probably was a snowball’s chance in hell that Olette would be awake. He would probably have more luck texting Pence, who was an insufferable night owl who somehow could operate on four hours of sleep and be that same cheerful ball of positivity instead of an irritated zombie. That’s how Hayner got after less than eight hours of sleep. Still, Hayner wasn’t sure he could use Pence’s radiant optimism right now. He was feeling out of sorts, and the one who always comforted him when he was that way was Olette. 

Hayner stared at the screen for a minute, waiting to see if the girl was going to respond. He was actually going to break down and just text Pence anyway until another swoosh alert signaled the arrival of another, differently-colored text bubble. 

I am. What are you doing up so late? 

Can’t sleep. What are YOU doing up so late?  Hayner countered. A faint smile ghosted over his lips as he drew up his legs over his back and laid his cheek against the soft mattress. Man, he was glad that she was awake. Something about that made him feel calmer already. Although, Hayner always got like that when it was just him and Olette- because he kind of had a pretty big crush on her… 

Heehee! I can’t sleep either! A soft sigh left his mouth. He could imagine that little giggle of hers, accompanied by the sweet smile hidden behind her hand that she raised to her mouth when she laughed. God, he was hopeless when it came to her. Want to meet at the usual spot? He sat up on his arm, intrigued. That was certainly a proposition he hadn’t been expecting at the wee hours of the morning. Still, it was a heck of a lot better than lounging in bed wishing he could fall asleep. 

Sure. I’m on my way. 

Within minutes, Hayner had changed out of his pajamas in favor of a pair of jeans, a slim-fit, long-sleeve white shirt, and a black jacket. Now that it was the tail end of summer, the nights were beginning to grow cooler, necessitating such precautions. Indeed, as he stepped out of his house onto the bricked streets of Twilight Town, a cold wind blew through the empty corridors and roadways with a quiet, shrill whistle, making Hayner shiver slightly and stuff his hands down into his pockets. Absently, he wondered if Olette had dressed warm enough. He would offer her his jacket if he thought she hadn’t. Setting a brisk pace, he began walking up the sloped incline that led to their secret meeting place. 

There wasn’t a soul out beside him. Hayner found the atmosphere peaceful; the town was always a-hustle and a-bustle with people walking towards the shopping district or conversing while they waited for the trams or just wandering about looking for something to do. Even far from the tracks, one could always hear the tram cars rattling as they continuously rounded their circuit of the city. Even the forest before the old mansion wasn’t free of noise; the trees always shook with the wind, and the air always abounded with chattering birdsong. 

Hayner, busybody supreme, had always found the noise somewhat comforting and energizing. However, as he strolled under the brilliant canvas of the starry night sky in silence, he found that pleasant and stimulating in its own way, too. 

God, he was going all philosophical. Is this what Pence did every night when he stayed up until the crack of dawn? Scowling, he rubbed at his eyes, feeling the bags that were already forming underneath them. He was probably going to regret this little excursion in the morning. 

In no time at all, his feet had carried him to their secret base nestled behind an unassuming chain-link fence. 

“Olette?” he called as he pulled back the curtain, not wishing to startle the girl if she was there. It was exceptionally likely, considering she lived closer to the base than he did. Sure enough, she perched on one of the overturned wooden boxes that served as their humble chairs. God, they needed to stop spending so much money on ice cream and pretzels and by some real furniture, especially considering that Lea, Isa, Roxas, and Xion were cramming themselves in there now, too. 

Olette cocked her head to the side while giving a little wave and that sweet, sweet smile of hers. It almost made Hayner melt on the spot. It seemed being awake so late was making him all sentimental, too. He was all out of sorts for all sorts of reasons. What a concept. “Hey, Olette,” he smiled back at her as he entered the small nook. 

“What’s on your mind, Hayner?” Yikes, right to the point. Scratching his head with an embarrassed smile, he hovered in the doorway. She waited patiently for him to answer, hands clasped in her lap and green eyes sparkling with pure goodness. God, he loved her, really. Wait. That isn’t the topic of conversation, he reminded himself. 

“I’ve just been thinking,” Hayner frowned as he struggled to put his complicated feelings into words, “how upset I would be if any of you guys just up and disappeared on me.” Wow, that actually came out articulated and cohesive. Not bad for being half-asleep. 

He walked over to sit on the small box across from her, resting a cheek in his hand while the other arm slung across his opposite knee. “I know there’s nothing we can do about Sora, but I can’t help but think about it, y’know? I can’t imagine what the others are goin’ through. I’d be devastated if you vanished, Olette.” 

The words hung in the air for a moment before he realized exactly what he had said. He immediately blushed fiercely, almost grasping upwards to pluck them down and shove them back into his mouth. That wasn’t how things worked, though. He shrunk into himself in mortification as Olette stared at him with owlish eyes. 

Hayner decided then and there not to have any more 3 a.m. conversations with Olette. 

The tense silence that settled between them also made him elect that silence was no longer comforting. “Um… Say something, please,” he asked awkwardly after it became too much for him to bear. 

“O-oh!” she cried while flushing pink and waved her hands about in an apologetic manner. “I’m sorry, I just zoned out?” She laughed with a nervous smile. Hayner frowned lightly as he resumed his horrible slouching posture. It was definitely a weak excuse, but like hell he was gonna question it. “Um, yeah… I totally get what you mean. To be honest, I’ve been thinking about it too… It’s also why I couldn’t sleep. I’m almost afraid that I would wake up, and…” she trailed off to play with her fingers, gaze falling to her lap, “you not being here anymore…” she finished shyly, glancing up through her pretty lashes at him. 

If Olette was really hinting that she liked him as he liked her, well, she was probably questioning it, because Hayner looked pretty stupid with the way his mouth was hanging open as he gawked incredulously at her. Hastily, he shut his mouth and leaned back, unsure quite what expression he was trying to make on his face at the moment. Somehow he managed to form words, though. 

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, Olette… I’ll always… be here…” The could’ve come out smooth as hell, but he made it sound so awkward and shy. Well, it really was a wonder he said it at all because he sure wouldn’t have if it were a typical time of day. 

For the duration of him saying it, his eyes had been searching the meeting spot for something to land on, only to drift back to Olette. He instantly felt his heart clench in his chest; the way she was looking at him right now, so relieved and happy with just a hint of a demure smile on her pretty pink lips… 

Wait, did she have on lip gloss? Who puts on lip gloss at 3 a.m.? 

His hands flew to the edges of the box underneath him when she suddenly stood up and walked across the room to stand in front of him. He encased that box in a white-knuckled grasp as he looked up at her uncertainly. 

“Promise?" she asked him softly, endearingly, hopefully. With the way the sleep was fogging his brain, he began to wonder if this was all a dream, that he really was asleep after all. Well, if it was a dream, why stop, and if it wasn’t and he really was awake, all the better. 

“Promise. I’m not going anywhere, Olette.” 

Hayner should pull a move. Girls liked moves. The movies all said so. 

He pried one of his hands from the box and tried to ignore the bright red imprint of its rough surface against his palm. He reached out to grasp one of her own, gently rolling circles into the top of it with his thumb. From the way she bashfully looked down at their held hands then up at him, he could tell that it was a successful move. Point one for sleep-deprived Hayner. 

Olette reached up with her other hand to softly brush her fingertips over his cheeks. The feather-light touch sent electricity skittering across his entire face that lingered after her hand had already fallen away. 

“I’m glad.” The way she whispered the words sent an oddly pleasurable shiver up his spine. He got a sudden urge to kiss her. 

Was he crazy? Probably. Then again, he was dangerously close to lunacy already from not sleeping. 

Was he going to go for it? Absolutely. 

“Olette…” Her name crept past his lips without him noticing as he stood up, tilting his head slightly as he looked down at her. He still held her hand while his other rested against her cheek, fingertips just barely threading into her waves of chestnut hair. She styled it every morning, but it consisted of crimped waves of chocolatey locks due to the late hour. Somehow, he liked that even more… It made her look so natural, so raw, so beautiful. 

Without another word, his face drifted down over her own to plant a soft, sweet kiss on her lips. Olette angled her face to respond to him, and as a little of her lip gloss smeared across his mouth, he could vaguely discern the sweet taste of cherries. Point one for lip gloss at 3 a.m. 

Hayner held the kiss for a minute before pulling back, but only just. As her eyes fluttered open to peer up at him adoringly, he smirked playfully. “I guess it’s just a little unnecessary to say that I like you, Olette.” 

She giggled, holding her hand up to her mouth just like she always did, and he swore that he fell even more in love with her only from that. 

“Yes, but a girl likes to hear it anyway.” Her green eyes sparkled up at him like sunlight filtering through a thick canopy of leaves. “Feel better?” 

“Loads.” Just from talking to her, he felt like a great weight dropped off his shoulders. Suddenly, a large yawn split his face, and he rubbed his eyes at a sudden onset of drowsiness. He felt like he could fall asleep on the spot. 

Olette giggled again before asking, “Care to walk a girl home?” He nodded in agreement and Olette grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together before tugging him out of the secret base. As the chill wind greeted them, she pressed her body against his, and they set off together in the deep of night with the moon and stars as their only company. Hayner really wasn’t sure how he got from point A to B, because his memory faded very quickly after their leaving. 

The only reason he knew that it wasn’t a dream was the faint lingering taste of cherry lip gloss on his lips in the morning. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[scootsaboot]

rhysothy western au from patreon a few years ago. follow up to this

It’d been nearly a year since Tim had escorted Rhys safely across the desert to what was left of his family’s legacy out in Eridium Blight. Rhys had easily taken control of the ATLAS mining facilities there; he’d gotten in touch with former employees who’d left after Rhys’ father passed, promising them things Tim wasn’t sure Rhys could really deliver on. Money, health benefits, a safe place for them and their families. It shouldn’t have worked, not after the brutal and bloody murder of Rhys’ father, Thomas Caplan. It’d been big and showy on purpose--meant to scare people away, to leave to ATLAS facilities free for the taking.

Tim could admit that he’d perhaps underestimated Rhys’ charisma, his ability to manipulate people into doing exactly what he wanted them to. Tim was still here, after all. He had the money Rhys had promised him, and then some, but every time Tim thought about moving on, maybe heading back to that little nowhere bar he’d grown so fond of, something stopped him.

Rhys’ hand wrapped around Tim’s arm, stopping him from climbing out of bed. “Don’t go.” Rhys said when Tim turned to look at him. His hair was ungelled and messy from sleep. It made him look soft, what with those pouty lips and that baby face. “S’too early.” Rhys murmured, craning his neck to press a kiss to Tim’s hand.

“It’s nearly eleven in the morning,” Tim replied, keeping his voice low in spite of himself. A quick look out the window showed the sun high in the sky, peering in through the drapes of Rhys’ lavish bedroom.

Their bedroom, Rhys always insisted on calling it, but Tim never could. This arrangement was only temporary, he told himself. He’d be on his way soon, start looking for work again. Real work. Being Rhys’ keeper paid well enough, but it wasn’t as if Tim was rescuing him from bandits. Anyone could do this job. Plus, Tim had some notions about the separation of business and pleasure. His relationship with Rhys hadn’t been professional for a long time now.

He let Rhys pull him back to bed. Tim rested his hand on Rhys’ boney hip and kissed his forehead. “Ten more minutes,” he said. “And then we’re getting up.”

--

An hour later, Tim and Rhys were washed and dressed and headed to Rhys’ office. The housing district was a ten minute horse ride from the mining facilities, and the path between them was well worn, with imprints of hooves and boots alike.

“So,” Rhys said once they’d made it inside, away from the noise of drilling. “I have some news.” He took a seat behind his large oak desk and leaned back in his chair, sliding one leg over the other.

“Good or bad?” Tim ask, slumping into the seat across from him. It wasn’t as nice, just a little cushion on hard wood. Tim was pretty sure Rhys kept the shitty chairs because he liked making the people who came to talk with him uncomfortable. It had to be a power thing. Rhys held all of it here in the heart of his little ATLAS compound, and if you asked nicely, he might make you think you had some too.

“Mmmm…” Rhys hummed, tilting his head to the side. “Bad.”

“Well, lay it on me, boss.”

“It’s your brother.” Rhys said.

Tim blinked, looking at Rhys’ face, met his eyes. He didn’t look like he was joking. Tim sat up a little straighter. “Jack?”

Rhys nodded. “I got a letter from Vaughn a few days ago. Jack was in Concordia causing some trouble, I guess. Some woman was with him.”

“What kinda trouble?” Tim asked with a frown.

“The murder-y kind.” Rhys said. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out what must have been the letter he received. Rhys unfolded it and slid it to Tim. “He killed someone called the...meriff?”

Tim laughed, couldn’t help it. “Yeah, that’s as dumb as it sounds. Sheriff and mayor all rolled into one. Can’t remember the guy’s actual name.” He picked up the letter and skimmed it, eyes trailing over Vaughn’s familiar script.

“Sounds like a tool.” Rhys said agreeably. “Anyway, Jack and his friend have killed a few other people, they robbed a bank…”

“That’s--I mean, that’s what Jack does.” Tim said, eyebrows furrowing. He put the letter back down without finishing it.

It was the truth. Jack had been a troublemaker since they were kids living out in Sanctuary. He’d only done petty crimes back then--pickpocketing, vandalism, stole a couple horses. Tim had even accompanied him on some of those sprees. As they’d gotten older though, Jack decided that he wasn’t happy with his lot in life. He wanted more. He wanted to be rich and powerful--he wanted to be everything a street kid wasn’t. He wanted to be a hero. Jack figured the best way to do that was to become a bounty hunter--though he never called himself that. He and Tim hunted bandits together for a few years, had gone what seemed like halfway across the globe chasing down dangerous men and women.

Eventually, that wasn’t enough for Jack either. He had a very single minded way of doing things, and when someone got in his way...well. Tassiter had been the first, but certainly not the last who’d tried to keep Jack on a leash. It didn’t end well for him. Tim decided to go out on his own not longer after. His brother was violent and unpredictable, to put it mildly, and Tim had decided that seeing him scoop out some poor fuck’s eyeballs one time was one times too many. He hadn’t seen him since.

“Why’s this important now?” Tim asked.

“Vaughn...sent something else along with the letter.” Rhys said, sticking his lower lip out. He looked concerned enough that it worried Tim, made him want to lean over the desk and smooth out the wrinkle between Rhys’ brows.

Rhys slid another sheet of paper across the desk. It was a poster, ripped and stained in a few spots, but easy enough to make out. Tim’s twin brother’s face was staring up at him, his usual smirk in place, one eyebrow quirked. Just beneath the picture it read in large, blocky letters:

Timothy Lawrence

Man With Two Faces

wanted Dead or Alive

For bank robberies and murder of Huxter T. Meredith

There was a reward listed for ten thousand dollars.

“This…” Tim started, staring at the poster, his hands tightening and wrinkling the paper. “He…”

“I don’t know if he’s been saying he’s you, or if there was a mixup with the marshal's office,” Rhys said. “But everyone in Sanctuary thinks you’re the guilty one. There’s no way Roland hasn’t sent someone to come after you.”

“Fuck.” Tim hissed, anger boiling in his veins. Fucking Jack. No way this was a mistake. Jack did this on purpose. He wanted Tim’s attention, wanted him to come back maybe. Tim set the poster back down on the desk with a little more force than necessary.

“Look,” Rhys drawled, “either way...I can’t have a fugitive hiding out at ATLAS. It’s bad for business.”

Tim looked up, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Rhys’ words were like a slap in the face. Tim didn’t expect anything from Rhys, didn’t expect his protection, but to be tossed out like yesterday’s paper? Tim thought...well, he’d thought Rhys liked having him around. He certainly pulled Tim into his bed often enough. Was Rhys tired of him?

“Oh stop with the puppy eyes,” Rhys said. “I’m not kicking you out, Tim. Well, I am, but I’m going with you.”

“You--huh?”

“Well, no one’s going to believe you if you go to Sanctuary and tell them it wasn’t you. So we go find Jack and turn him in and get your name cleared.”

Tim swallowed, feeling a warm flush crawl up the back of his neck. There was relief somewhere amid his embarrassment. Rhys didn’t want him to leave--Rhys wanted to help him. Tim pursed his lips.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” He said. God knows what Jack had planned for when Tim caught up with him. It couldn’t be anything good. Tim didn’t want Rhys anywhere near his brother. “I can find him on my own.”

“I’m going with you,” Rhys said again. “End of story.”

--

And Rhys did go with him. They set out not long after that conversation. Rhys left his CFO in charge and had her tell his employees he was going on a business trip, which was probably one of the whiter lies Rhys had told this year.

They found Jack nearly two weeks later, in the heart of the bandit-town Lynchwood, under the blazing hot sun. Jack was sitting on the wooden step in front of a run-down looking inn, leaning his back against the post. He was twirling a revolver in his hand, snapping the barrel open and then shut again, over and over.

“Jack.” Tim said, resting his hand at his hip, over his own gun.

Jack looked up from beneath his wide-brimmed hat with an even wider grin. “Heya Timmy.”

Tim took in his appearance with a start. The scar was new, etched deep into Jack’s skin and carving an upside down ‘v’ into his face. His left eyes was a milky white where the scar ran through.

“What, this?” Jack gestured to his face when Tim continued to stare. “Ya like it? Makes me look pretty badass, don’t’cha think?” He rubbed his chin. “Might have to change my nickname though. Handsome Jack is kinda false advertising. You wanna trade me?”

“What happened?” Tim asked, stepping closer to his brother. Anger stirred inside him, at whoever’d done this to his brother. Jack might’ve been a violent outlaw, but he was family, and he and Tim had always had each other’s backs even when they were miles apart.

“Met the business end of a brand,” Jack said, his smile turning sharp. “That redhead bitch Lilith was holdin’ the other end. Ooohoo, don’t you worry Tim, she’s gonna get what’s comin’ to her.”

Jack’s eyes shone with dark promise. Tim felt Rhys step up behind him, his finger’s brushing against Tim’s. Jack’s gaze slid from Tim’s face and landed on Rhys, looking him up and down.

“Who’s the kid? Here I thought were just having a nice family reunion.”

“You know why we’re here.” Rhys said, coming to stand beside Tim. He stood nearly a whole inch taller than Tim, and he used that impressive height to look down his nose at Jack, his arms crossed. “And I’m not a kid.”

Jack tipped his chin up, not intimidated by Rhys in the slightest. “Sure, sweetheart.” He looked back at Tim. “Yeah, I know, that little mix up in Sanctuary. Don’t give me that look, baby brother.”

Tim gritted his teeth. “It wasn’t a mix up. You told them you were me.”

“Yeah, so what if I did?” Jack shrugged. “What’s the point in sharin’ a face with someone if you can’t trade identities sometimes?”

“They think I murdered the sheriff, Jack.” Tim’s hands tightened into fists.

“Meriff.” Jack corrected him. “He was the mayor and sheriff. Tacky son of a bitch.”

“Whatever he was, it doesn’t matter! Roland’s sent someone after me because of it. I can’t--I don’t--I have a real job now, Jack. A life.” Tim’s throat threatened to close around the words, around what he hadn’t known was true until he said it outloud. Something he wasn’t willing to give up. “I can’t have some bounty hunter knockin’ on my front door.”

Jack looked between Tim and Rhys again, something like recognition lighting behind his eyes. “Oh, I get it now. Pretty boy takes you home and now you’re too good for anything else.”

“Don’t even start.” Tim said. He pointed a finger at Jack. “You fucked this up, you’re going to fix it.”

“Yeesh.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your undies in a bunch. Look, Lilith oughta be rolling back into Sanctuary right about now, she’ll tell Roland the poster’s got the wrong mug on it, and you’re off the hook. Then you and your kid can get back to the dollhouse.” Jack puffed out a breath of air. “And it’s not like I’d be able to do it again.”

Tim...deflated, his shoulders dropping. “I’m...still mad.” He said with a frown.

“Sure,” Jack got to his feet, holstered his gun and brushed the dirt off his pants. “Come on inside, you can stay the night. Nish’ won’t mind.”

“Jack--” Tim tried, glancing at Rhys.

“Won’t even charge ya for it.” Jack talked over him and held open the door to the inn. “Come on.”

Rhys met Tim’s eyes and after a quick, silent conversation, they both followed Jack to the door. As Rhys stepped over the threshold, Jack followed him with his eyes.

“Hey princess, you got a name to go with those long legs of yours?”

“Rhys,” Rhys said as he breezed past Jack without so much as looking at him. “Rhys Caplan.”

Once he’d stepped into the Inn and up to the bar on the far side of the lobby, Jack leaned in towards Tim. “You always did like the bitchy ones.”

Tim shoved him. “Shut your damn mouth.”

--

Later, after they’d met Nisha and she drank Rhys and Jack under the table, Tim and Rhys retired to one of the guest rooms.

“Your brother…” Rhys started, his words a little slurred, his cheeks pink from alcohol. “Is a real asshole.” He was struggling to unbutton his shirt, his fingers slipping on the metal.

“Mhmm,” Tim nodded in agreement and gently pushed Rhys’ hands away so he could undo the buttons for him. “He’s been that way forever. You get used to it. Eventually.”

“Ugh.” Rhys groaned. “Can’t believe we came all the way out here for nothin’...”

Tim slipped the shirt off of Rhys and reached for his pants--he folded them both and set them aside on a chair. “Think of it like a vacation,” Tim said, pulling his own shirt over his head and leading Rhys to the bed. “You needed one.”

“You needed one.” Rhys grumbled, stumbling over his feet before safely landing on the bed with a quiet laugh. Tim pulled him close under the covers and kissed his forehead. Rhys closed his eyes and settled in, curled up in Tim’s arms. Tim wondered how he ever thought he could walk away from this man.

Tim sighed and reached over to turn off the oil lamp, leaving the room dark. He tucked his face into Rhys’ neck and smelled the alcohol on him, the dust from their travels. No doubt he’d want a bath in the morning. He’d whine in Tim’s ear until he got one, with warm water and bubbles and one of those fancy soaps he liked so much. He’d whine about his hangover and he’d whine about breakfast. The feeling of fondness rather than annoyance at the thought maybe should have alarmed him, but Tim only pressed a kiss against Rhys’ neck and closed his eyes for sleep.

[bugchuckles]

answering asks!

(i’ll be tackling submissions next btw)

@churgling yup! i usually prebake each part of the body/head as i finish it, starting with the eyeballs -> face -> head -> head with ears -> arms and torso -> legs-> full body with any sculpted features. i use my toaster oven to prebake the sculpey, but you can use a conventional oven or kiln as well! 

typically i paint the body and face, then do the hair -> wrap the body in medical gauze to get the shape i want -> tailor and sew the clothes, though for poor waddles he had to go back in the oven after he was painted bc his lil tail and ear broke off ;w;. as long as youre baking on a low temperature and using a reasonably decent quality acrylic paint, your sculpture can go back in the oven even after it’s painted!

if you’re looking to get started out on making figures and dolls, i learned most of what i know from SugarCharmShop and their polymer clay character doll series on youtube! their videos are great and super helpful to get you the info you need and what materials you should use (personally if youre starting out i recommend the regular white sculpey instead of the premo - it does smear and imprint easier, but it’s cheaper which allows for more mistakes/retries! plus it takes to paint a little bit better being an uncolored base). let me know if you want to know what specific tools and materials i use! good luck, and thanks for the support! ^v^

@thatweirdgirlyouallknow i haven’t yet! it’s on my to-watch list though, i’ll make sure to check it out soon! :]

@findmeagoodcliff are you talking about the piedmont moodboards? if so, norman is edward zo and dipper is tumblr user cnarlesxavier and a model i don’t remember the name of? i can’t find the original photo but if i find his name i’ll let you know! 

@l-something-witty-l thank you! that’s a really cool idea, and i love any interaction between sara and the grunkles (i actually tossed around the idea of sara and ford having correspondance pre-portal since she wanted to go into a similar scientific field, but realized that ford was sucked into the portal WELL before sara would even be of an age to know who ford is, all the way back in 1982, when sara was only 10 ;^; ). 

sara’s mom, donna williams, is also an identical twin! it runs on both sides of the family, but i haven’t had the chance to tackle sara’s side of the family yet bc THE EXTENDED PINES FAMILY IS FRICKIN HUGE!!! WHOOF!!! i will hopefully get to it though, there are a lot of characters and plotlines left to explore! 

@magic-goddess not thinking about writing a fic at the moment! i’m throwing the idea of a comic around, but i have a million projects piling up atm, so it’ll probably just stay the synopses and one-off art pieces for now unless someone else decides to pick it up!

@conversation-rule-mama thank you! 😊 i’ve struggled with sameface (and body) a good bit in the past, especially considering most of the art i draw is of identical twins, and it mostly comes down to practice and observation - i recommend line-of-action and studying the work of professional character designers like craig mccracken, but i do have a few lil tricks i like to use.

here we’ve got darlene, courtney, and pacifica - all blondes who i draw with sharp noses, heavy lids, and round faces. how do you tell them apart? i switched up the design of the eyebrows, eye shape, and face shape to align with both their canon design and my own artstyle and headcanons.

it’s important that even without their hair or signature outfit, you can tell them apart by their personality/body language. study the way a character moves, talks, and how their face in particular moves when they do so! copying directly from the media itself is actually immensely helpful for character design - i did a ton of this in high school when developing my art design, and ive got pages full of faces from disney and dreamworks movies to prove it! 

i also tend to slip into the dreaded ‘calarts beanface’ as my default human face, which isnt as bad as they make it seem tbh, but i’d definitely recommend changing up your face shapes if you notice it slipping into a very same-y territory. try square, oval, or really wacky shapes to shake it up!

@skywalkerchick1138 THAT WOULD BE AMAZING! of course you have my permission, and i’m super happy you like it enough to consider writing fic for it! fire away! (ノ^∇^) ノ☆.。.:*・°☆

and as always, thanks to @shinybubungus , @holychipp , @blubellbay , @poseidead , @rainbowtubastudios , @screwthepurplegiraffe , @lakesandquarries , @the-sunflower-spaceman , @stormyghosts , and @awblake for your kind and encouraging messages! i really appreciate y’all taking the time to support your local artist, and i’ll keep on trucking thanks to you! if anyone sent me an ask and it wasnt addressed here, it probably got vored by the endless yawning abyss of tumblr, so feel free to send it again and i’ll get to it soon! stay fresh and fruity everybody!

[annaktheslightlygay]

Orcas Island: Pt. 1

Beca

The worst part of her job was probably the smell. She could deal with the finicky steering of her least favorite boat (Big Baboo), or the constant whirring of the motors, but it was the smells that really got her. Or more specifically, the smell of someone throwing up. You’d think after the 3 long, antagonizing years of smelling of fish guts and gasoline that Beca would be used the less potent smells of her passengers’ upchuck, but she was about ready to take up the same position if she didn’t look away soon.

She did just that, already feeling her stomach churning.

She took the wheel and steered expertly into the dock, watching as the other half of the young couple went to soothe the other; patting her on the back until she was done.

If that’s what love is, Beca thought, then I don’t want any part of it. She screwed up her face, still managing to not slam any part of the decently sized motorboat into the dock. A wave of pleasure washed through her as it had the first time she’d done it a few weeks ago. And this time, she didn’t have proper vision!

She took threw the rope onto the dock, quickly following it by doing a one handed maneuver over the side of the boat and landing expertly on the worn wood, both feet planted firmly as if she was on solid land. Which of course, she was not.

She held out the hand that didn’t have the rope in it to the woman ready to get off, still looking pale and as sickly as she did before she got her lunch all over the side of Beca’s boat. Even so, she took a tentative step onto the moving dock, and her male counterpart quickly followed.

“Sorry about that,” Beca said in her most ‘customer friendly’ voice. She looked out at the water, that was almost as smooth as glass, save for a few ripples of sea kelp that dwelled around the marina.

“The swells were big today,” she said as earnestly as possible as she offered the young woman a smile, as if that would console her. The woman nodded weakly. “Enjoy a juice, on us,” she said, a little brighter, handing the man a coupon card as a pathetic apology and gesturing to the little marina shop just up the beach. The dock creaked at the footsteps as they made their way towards dry land.

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

“No fucking problem,” Beca said under her breath, turning around and assessing the situation that they’d left behind. At least the woman had had the good sense to throw up in the water, and not in the boat.

“What was that?” She heard a slam and would have jumped if she hadn’t seen a pair of green and blue swim trunks land hard onto the deck from the neighboring boat.

“Nothing,” she said in a sing song voice, not even bothering to hide her rolling eyes.

“Where is that damn hose?” she muttered, looking up at the boy and his shaggy brown hair. Luke barely deserved to be called the manager of “Eclipse”; the only thing he did around here was give Beca a hard time and give his beloved sailboat a good wash at least once daily. Twice, if the rain came in and messed up his job. She strode over to where it stayed docked easily finding the green of the hose against the bright (obnoxiously) red paint job that Luke had insisted she help with the second day she was here.

It was back then, in her bathing suit and covered in red paint, that’d she’d noticed little dribbles of paint that took her back to the walls of her apartment in New York. She’d quickly painted over them, only leaving the faint outline left behind.

That’s what she was hoping to do here. She wanted to paint over Barden and The Bellas and most importantly a very particular redhead and just start over. Unfortunately, she too still had the outline of those girls imprinted on her but she passed the boat and it’s drips this time without having to suppress a single thought, so that was progress. Kinda.

“Please, for the love of god, let me take Rosa out this time,” Beca said in the direction of her barely there boss, looking longingly at the boat that was parked in front of hers, and then back at the whiteboard that was parked in the

The boat was practically a yacht in comparison to Big Baboo; she’d heard that her steering was impeccable and unbelievably easy, that she could go up nachts in a matter of seconds, and it had this great visor that both protected the driver from the sun and the sea spray. Big Baboo had neither of these luxuries, and it was because of him that she had now sported a thin permanent layer of salt water coating her eyeballs.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘P’. “You need practice first.”

That was exactly the thing he’d said to her when she’d asked the last five times. She thought about telling him just that, but his smirk said he was quite aware of that fact.

“Then let’s go ‘practice’,” she said, adjusting the flow of the water from the pump on the dock and climbing aboard the boat to get a better angle of the half dried puke.

“No can do, shortstack.” She stiffened at the name. Why did couldn’t her nickname just respect the country’s borders? And stay in the country where it belonged? Or, even better, go back to the country of origin for the blonde australian who’d originally said it? Nevertheless, she looked up at him with a death glare.

“Your next trip is just coming down the dock,” he said in response. As soon as he pointed it out she heard them: the unmistakable creak of the dock as it swayed under the sound of footsteps and excitedly chattering voices of her next passenger’s, surely. She heard them stop by the side of her boat and Luke’s voice as he went over their travel plans for today and swiped their card. She felt the rocking of the boat with the weight of her first passenger, prompting her to franticly wipe the remaining mess into the water.

“Hi, uh folks. I’ll be your guide today. Excuse me while I take care of a few, last minute details before we get going on the water.” Satisfied with her cleaning job, she went and checked all of Big Baboo’s motors, the main and the back up. And because it was just Beca’s day today, there was kelp tangled in the main motor. Not having any success with yanking at the thing, she stole a glance at Luke.

“Really?” she grumbled. He gave her a smug nod. She pulled off her t shirt and shorts to reveal the second half of her uniform, a bright blue one piece with the white letters of “Eclipse” in long loopy writing before she dug into the water.

The cold hit her hard, as it always did. It was something that she’d never get used to: the icy ocean water that came with Orcas Island; there was a reason why they were a marina and not a swimming beach. She shuddered, body shaking as she used her fingers to pull at the sea plant, finally yanking on it hard enough that it snapped and she was able to toss the separate pieces into the water and away from the rudder. She then used the ladder to climb back on, knowing that asking for help from Luke was a lost cause.

Last time, she’d ended up falling back into the water more times then she’d ever set foot in it. (Luckily, with the normal temperatures, that wasn’t very often.) To her surprise though, her threw her a towel after launching Big Baboo off the dock, the corner just barely touching the water as it landed. She grabbed at it as she began her customary speech.

“Hi so, sorry about that, Big Baboo here–” she patted the steering wheel of the boat– “got a little preoccupied by his first love: sea kelp. But don’t mind him, he’s just a little salty,” she paused, hoping that at least one of these passengers was somewhat close to being a millennial, “that someone just got sick on him. No worries, though. It looks like smooth sailing from here on out.”

She took a look at the waters ahead of her, steering with one hand past Picnic Island and toward the opening in the bay.

“So, my name’s Beca,” –she checked the fuel gage, the depth monitor, and the wind speed– “and I’ll be your guide today. A little bit about myself: I don’t often do that,” she said, smiling and squeezing her hair to get all of the excess water out. She paused again to look down at the receipt she’d taken from Luke absentmindedly.

“Looks like we’re going to do some whale watching today, eh?” Though she didn’t technically live in Canada, she figured that crossing the waters into its territory every day at least earned her the right to steal a little bit of slang from the country. Well, maybe not. But she kinda liked to stray from the script, occasionally.

“Alright, so. Before I take you out into open waters, it would be a bit easier if I knew a little bit about you all. So can I have your guys’ names?”

“Well, I’m Suzy. And this here is Jeff. And our daughter...” the woman’s voice trailed off, obviously wanting her daughter to fill in her own name. Beca, head still bent and reading the parameters Luke gave her, even in the beat that it took for the girl to admit her name “Chloe,” came the soft voice of a redhead. Her head snapped up after a little bit more of reading. Beale.

* * * *

Shit. Shit. Shit. How did Chloe even know? It had been years since they’d last seen each other, a little more than 3, perhaps. It seemed like after the USO tour they’d go back to the states and live their perfect lives. But that wasn’t exactly the case.

For one, Chloe never went back with them; she stayed with Chicago, much to Beca’s distaste. He was her least favorite subject, and all Chloe seemed to talk about. It wasn’t in that Beca had been in love with Chloe, exactly, but after living together for so long there definitely was something missing. She was missing when Beca had moved to LA; when she played her first live show without the Bellas in the crowd. And yeah, those things hurt.

But it was mostly in the little things: not having someone to come home to at the end of the day, not having anyone to spend weekends with, and not having anyone, for a first time in a long time, inspire her songs. Sure, there were occasional hookups and people that came over after album release parties but there was no one that Beca would stay up just listening to them talk at 2 am, anymore... and all at once it just seemed like: what was the point?

She wasn’t having fun. Her career seemed to be at the height of what it could be with the little effort that she was so commonly putting in, and things just didn’t seem to be going in her favor. She was frustrated with her work. And with herself. And she was beginning to see in her absence, that Beca had grown fond of the redhead that so often brightened up her days and her thoughts. So it seemed like a good change of scenery, moving up here.

To be honest, she’d been initially been thinking about whales. Which brought her to google and a map of the country that shared the same name as her favorite animal. But to be honest, she wasn’t exactly fond of moving to the UK or trying to learn Welsh. She needed to go somewhere that had no resemblance to the life she was currently living.

She’d googled as much and found this little place: where it was warm, but not too hot. A place that met the ocean, but it was nearly impossible to swim in it’s frigid waters. So of course, this city girl/ LA DJ thought this was the perfect solution. Especially seeing as it had absolutely no connection to the outside world, save for the ferry that came once a week with a new round of people ready to explore. Hell, the wifi was only available in one shop in town. This place had an off season as well, and even in it’s height of popularity the people that inhabited it wasn’t overwhelming. So she went to Orcas, a type of whale, and now an island. Because it was all kind of fitting.

...but she didn’t exactly let anyone know. She struggled with that for about a week: what if someone died? Or urgently needed her in some crazy kidnapping scenario (@amy)? But eventually, it just became part of her island life. She stopped worrying about what everyone else was doing because surely, when she was ready, she could just catch up.

Not that the girl in front of her would see it that way.

To be honest, she was kind of afraid of the wrath of Chloe. Like everyone else, she’d cut her off in the move. They hadn’t even spoken much before hand, except Chloe telling her that yes, it was looking very real and possible that Chloe was going to move to Europe, for a good while, at least.

But unlike everyone else, Beca actually cared about Chloe’s reaction.

That didn’t mean that Beca let it show, however.

“Hi, Chloe,” she said as casually as she could muster. She was really good at hiding stuff. Or she once was. She supposed now she was a little out of practice.

Still, the redhead’s jaw dropped.

Read pt. 2

Read pt. 3

A/N: hello everyone! This is a fic I’ve been working on for quite some time, and it’s almost complete so I decided to begin sharing it. Many more parts to come! Hope you enjoyed! Xx Lil

[lord-covfefe]

White Noise-Chapter 5

Read on Ao3 here

I awoke the next morning alone, rolling over to see some parchment laid on the pillow next to me. Rubbing my eyes, I opened it to see a note in Link’s scratchy but neat handwriting: Here’s to many more rainy nights.

I shifted around in my bed and smiled as the events of the prior night came streaming back into my consciousness. I noted with curiosity that I was slightly sore, my canal drawing a subtle reminder of its recent interactions. I relished in the sensation--though it wasn’t exactly comfortable, there was something secretly titillating about it.

My stomach rolled as I remembered the fullness and thickness of him. The soft, velvety skin of his penis contrasting with the rigidity of its form had never been so vivid as when it first entered me. I was glad that I had a sensation to remember it by in the morning--I wanted his imprint on as much of me as possible.

I laid in bed for quite some time thereafter, drinking in the musk that we had left behind on the sheets and reliving my own deflowering. Looking out the window, I frowned to see a bluebird sky. When can I know him again?

Contentedly, I started to manually explore my own anatomy to learn more about how it fared. Sliding a finger in, I smiled again at the memory of being filled by something much larger.

I then removed it to examine if the consistency of my viscous fluids were the same as they had been before this change. I was shocked to see that there was dried blood on my index!

Sweet Hylia. I suppose I had read something about slight female bleeding the first time…

I pulled back the blankets to see a small spot of blood on my sheets. How mortifying! Hopefully Link had not seen. And, thankfully, I could easily explain it to my chambermaids by saying that my moon’s blood had come in the night.

I was rehearsing that monologue when a knock came at the door. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was well before the usual time Link came to escort me.

“Your highness,” came a woman’s voice from behind the door. “Are you awake?”

Curses. I recognized the voice as belonging to Liesl, my least favorite handmaiden.

“Yes, thank you Liesl,” I answered. “I will be ready to dress in just a moment.”

“Your Father has summoned you, and requests your presence immediately. Today we shall dress you simply, as must needs haste.”

My stomach dropped. There was no way we could have been heard, or seen. Was there? I suppose we left the window open...suppose a guard had strayed close to the walkway outside my room…

I wanted nothing more than to crawl under my covers and never come out. I am quite accustomed to ignoring my own wants, however.

I got up, smoothed the bed as much as possible, and opened the door to let Liesl in.

I cannot know if it was my imagination, or if she peered at my terrific bedhead with suspicious eyes.

I tried to calm my voice and swallowed the lump in my throat. Feigning calm, I chirped, “Do you know what he has summoned me to discuss?”

“He did not say,” she replied, her voice flat and stony. “My orders are simply to bring you to him as quickly as possible.

I took pleasure, for a brief moment, in imagining the terse Liesl running from a flock of cuccos. An incensed flock of cuccos.

Alas, daydreams of loud squawking from both parties would do nothing to stop the wrath of my Father, if he was summoning me for the reason I feared.

Liesl was fastening one of my silk stockings when she stopped, staring at something.

“Your highness, what is this bruise? It looks rather fresh.”

I glanced down, seeing a purpleing mark on my thigh that I knew to be the work of hungry hands. Hands belonging to the wielder of the Master Sword.

I swallowed.

“We rode quite briskly to get inside before the storm yesterday evening. I must have exerted myself a little too hard.”

She took another look at the bruise and continued to fasten the stocking.

“Your highness should be more careful. Perhaps your travel britches allow for too lively a riding style.”

To stop myself from rolling my eyes, I blinked hard.

“I will be sure to be more delicate next time. I do think I can manage that in trousers.”

We remained in silence until at last I was fully dressed in a simple gown fit for every day court life. I practically ran out the door, terrified of the audience with my father but glad to get away from the cantankerous maid.

Walking down the hallway leading to the throne room, I attempted some of the breathing exercises Link had taught me and stared at the scenes on the tapestries to occupy my mind. Each time a menacing what if appeared in my mind I would fixate on some scene, instead mentally reciting the history I knew of each one.

The hero of twilight battling a dragon, high above the ground in a long-lost sky city. A tall sheikah woman atop a horse with the young princess Zelda. Banished...or worse…

I looked down at the crimson carpet below my feet and then back up at the tapestries.

A wild contraption that had been constructed along the ancient sealing grounds that sadly, we no longer know the name for. Another relic lost to obscurity in the harsh sands of time.

Finally, I arrived at the throne room. I did not dally by the door as to not give my worries any more attention than they had already enjoyed. The only way to find out was to find out.

The two guards at the door, seeing my approach, announced me as I walked into the sanctum. The sallow sunlight streaming in from high windows appeared as columns of light thanks to the motes of dust that freely drifted.

I entered quickly, attempting to jostle out my nerves with physical movement.

I saw that Link already stood before my Father and I swallowed, torn between the lurching of my heart at his golden hair and the lead in my stomach at the implications of him being here.

His face was completely blank, not even a drop of anxiety. He rather seemed more resolute than normal, completely prepared to face whatever was coming with honor. He looked at me and crinkled his eyes for just a brief moment, sending me a private message. Sweet Din. How could he be flirting at a time like this?

He was calm and collected, flirting even! Triforce of courage indeed. Meanwhile, I was a quavering bundle of nerves amassing in a being known as Zelda.

The hall finally settled and my Father cleared his throat. The silence fell deeper still.

“Zelda. Link. Young ones,” he boomed. His voice still grated on me with the memory of his dressing down the day before. “These are grave times. The stakes are high, and the price of failure is steep. Omens are everywhere. Just last night the moon seemed to turn a foul shade of crimson and seemed to be casting down an angry look from the sky. Grave times indeed,” he dithered on.

Half of my life had been spent listening to his half-baked proclamations of doom. He churned out several more minutes of self-indulgent catastrophizing when he finally arrived at the point. I tuned back in.

“And so, with all this in mind, I am bitterly disappointed to hear that this Calamity  is not being treated with the gravitas that it so sorely requires.”

My stomach dropped even further. I wished that the floor of the sanctum would split and I could fall down into the ground.

I would take responsibility for it all. I would say that it was all my doing, Link could not refuse me, I was his sovereign, he had nothing to do with it. I opened my mouth to say so--

“I have received information that on your visit to Zora’s Domain, you spent much time tinkering away in Vah Ruta, alone. This is unacceptable. You are not to leave your knight protector’s side, under any circumstances. Your person is the most crucial element in Ganon’s defeat. Sir Link, this is the last time I will say this without consequence--the princess does not leave your sight, no matter how she protests. That is a direct order.”

Link bowed his head.

“Yes, your majesty.”

I felt dizzy and had an urgent need to sit. Thank you Hylia! At least for this!

“Good. It is settled. Now,” my Father continued. “The matter I called you here to discuss. We have received intelligence that several star fragments have fallen in the area surrounding the Spring of Power. I believe this is a divine sign, an indication of the goddess’ presence on those grounds. You two will depart today for the Spring, as soon as you are ready. I expect this task will be treated with respect,” he said, giving both of us the hairy eyeball.

Neither of us said anything, but both offered solemn nods. Well, at least Link was surely solemn. I was still agog and trembling like a deer at our brush with disaster.

We both turned on our heels and left, Link settling into his place three places behind me. I took ten deep breaths, attempting to reclaim some measure of calm.