#I had just eaten that rotten one and was maybe sleeping off getting sick from it and the berries were just there

[whimsical-westbrook]

You got berries through an ask, right? Maybe you could ask for a bandana, too? Or maybe you could use @rotomblr-item-bank.

Actually that's a good question, does the item bank like. work remotely? I'd seen the bank here, but I'd assumed it was based on some kiosk in town, and that was just like a public log of transactions?

[keilemlucent]

boneless wings

(T!)

word count: ~1.6k

You’re feeling shitty and Keigo is more than willing to help you out. 

just a short little thing. just tooth rotting fluff, soft keigo, very sweet, nice. nesting fic with avian hawks. enjoy a soft, feel good piece. 

enjoy a feel good piece y’all ;^)

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Sometimes, you just have shitty days. It’s just a fact of living and breathing, somedays just fucking suck and it’s just how it is. You knew this. You were well aware. 

And, you were having one.

The weird, gluey feeling in your chest didn’t go away, no matter what you did. You tried the kitschy self-care that those online magazines recommended. Yoga, face masks, drinking fucking water—

None of it worked, so you gave up, opting to nest in your living room. You padded it with pillows, blankets, and a few plushies. You didn’t much feel like eating, mouth dry despite the extra water you had chugged in desperation.

You resigned yourself to riding out your nastiness, ambiently watching TV with half-lidded eyes. The constant pattering of drizzling rain relaxed you, but the gray sky it brought with it was hardly welcome. 

Your phone rang in the early evening, pulling you from your stupor.

You answered without checking the caller ID, “Hello?”

“Angel!” Keigo’s voice was like sunshine through the phone. “Have you eaten? I found a great street vendor that I want to take you to. You down?”

You sighed into the receiving, nestling in your blankets. You weren’t up for much moving.

“I’m sorry, Kei’,” You hated how weak your voice sounded. “I’m not feeling so hot. I think I’m staying in for the day.”

You could hear his frown through the phone, “Aww, babe! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll bring you some soup! Maybe dumplings, if you’re feeling that.”

“No, love, it’s not that kind of sick,” You rubbed at your eyes. 

Keigo had made it very clear early in your relationship that for all of the hoops and secrecy you had to jump through for him, he wanted to be more than there for you. He was insanely nice and supportive if you let him.

Especially on your shitty days, you struggled to tell him how rotten you were feeling. 

“Dove,” His voice was so sweet from the phone, worming its way through your depressive haze. “You want me to come over? Snuggle you a little, order in some food you like? You know I’m here for you, (Y/N).”

You swallowed, rubbing at the wetness around your waterline, “I don’t wanna trouble you, ‘Kei, you know that.”

“Now I gotta come over, Dove. You’re never trouble. Guess I gotta show you.”

“Keigo—”

He hung up before you could argue.

Though, you did receive a text shortly after.

 [heart eyes chicken wing]: i’ll be over in 30, okay? 

[heart eyes chicken wing]: i’m gonna kiss u so much

[heart eyes chicken wing]: you want me to stay over? i’m the big spoon 4 u ALL NIGHT!!

[heart eyes chicken wing]: i love u so much dove!!!

 You swallowed, rubbing at your tears. Sure, Keigo was a bit overbearing. He was actually pretty new to the whole ‘dating’ thing, but he really tried. And on your shitty days, it did feel better to have someone close.

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Keigo arrived a half an hour later, knocking on your balcony door.

You hauled yourself from your nest, quickly dodging to the bathroom to grab him a towel for his wings. 

Padding to the door, you unlocked and slid it open, stepping aside for Keigo and only looking at the ground. You handed the towel to which he thanked you promptly. There was a bag in his hand that was dropped to the ground, a bit damp from the mist outside. 

Standing next to him, you felt a little pathetic, to say the least. Standing in front of him in nothing but sweats and an oversized sweater, eyes scratchy with old tears, and a mess of unattended hair. 

“Oh, baby,” Keigo’s voice was so empathetically sad, it made your own chest ache. 

You finally looked up, just as Keigo cupped your face, leaning down the slightest bit to pepper your face with kisses. 

“H-hey, stop that,” You stuttered, unable to stop the fluttery feeling cracking in your chest, a little ray of warmth through the rot. “You’re too nice.”

“Nope,” Keigo dropped a kiss on the tip of your nose, pulling him into you by your waist to hug you as tightly as he could. “I’m not nice enough. You deserve the world, you know.”

“So you tell me,” You mumble against his chest, locking your arms around his neck and settling against his neck for a moment.

Keigo let you rest against him, a birdlike cooing vibrating cutely from the back of his throat as he rubbed your lower back with his thumbs.

“Thanks for coming by, Kei’. I love you,” It was in a small voice, but it was something. 

“I love you too.” Keigo nuzzled into the side of your head, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. “And, of course. Anytime. Also, I brought you a little treat.”

You pulled away a little, just to eye the bag he’d dropped when he’d arrived, “Dinner?”

“Hmmm, no, but we’ll get that too,” Keigo left the embrace, but slipped your palms together. “I thought it might be nice for your bad days. It’s kind of heavy, though.”

You cocked your head to the side as he passed you the bag, topped with pastel tissue paper. Pulling it away, your eyebrows rose. 

Inside, was a blanket, heavy in the bag.

“It’s a weighted blanket! Rumi was talking about how helpful they are for Fuyumi when she gets anxious, and I figured it might help you too,” Keigo beamed at you as you looked in the bag.

You were very fragile that day, and small kindnesses hit a little harder than you wanted to admit.

Your arms wrapped around his neck again, blanket dropped to the ground as you hid your damp face in Keigo’s neck.

“Thank you,” You pressed into his neck as he rubbed at your sides. “A lot.”

He squeezed you, smothering your messy hair with kiss after kiss, “Of course, dove. Anything to help you out. Now, dinner? Anything. You name it.”

...

Keigo ordered in your favorite comfort food, more than happy to make the phone call to the place for delivery. 

The moment he hung up, he was eyeing your ‘nest’ on the floor.

“Uh, babe, what’s all that?” He jerked his head towards the mass on the floor.

The embarrassment in your gut stung, “It’s... I guess a nest... It’s kind of dumb, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, silly,” Keigo was on you in an instant, kissing your forehead and dragging you into him. “Don’t apologize. One, it looks comfy as hell. Two, I’m bird adjacent, and the idea of you making a nest that I can now snuggle with you in makes me like, cuddle horny.”

You snorted a laugh out, the filthy feeling your gut dulling, “Nesting turns you on?”

“Like, in a cute way,” Keigo smiled down with his honeyed eyes. He dragged you over to the nest, falling into the piles of blankets and pillows. “Like, I want to wrap you up in my wings and kiss you until you fall asleep, kind of horny.”

“Ohhh, I see,” You smirk down as he cutely adjusted the softness around his feathers, a cluster of the downy ones from the base of his wings falling around the nest. “What are those doing?”

“Gotta claim it, bird stuff,” He huffed while papping his hands on a pillow. “Get down here, dove. This nest isn’t complete without you in it, you know.”

It was a little silly, Keigo’s avian doings, but it was also very endearing to see him like this. Both he and you were being particularly vulnerable, and though you felt pretty raw, it also felt nice. Very nice.

“Oh, wait!” Keigo piped up as you fell to your knees on a soft comforter.

One of his feathers shot off, then three more, bringing the new, weighted blanket over to you and Keigo’s nest. It fell into your lap.

You carefully unfurled it as Keigo idly told you about his day, knowing all too well how it was harder for you to talk when you weren’t feeling well. You appreciated the gesture, a bit of tension rolling from your shoulders as you fully unwrapped the blanket.

As you did, Keigo plopped into the perfect nest he made, wings perfectly poised behind him.

You followed his movement, scooted closer to him. Keigo wasted no time urging your back to his chest, wrapping you the two of you up in one of his wings. The warm scent of the oil he rubbed on them instantly lulled you, eye going half-lidded. Keigo giggled, watching your sleepy reaction. He knew how to get you boneless without a single touch (in more ways than one). 

He stretched for the new blanket, pulling it over the two of you, sighing at its weight, “Oh, I get it now.” 

The blanket weighed down on your body, thoroughly pleasantly. The pressure lulled you even more, Keigo’s heat and steady breath only adding to your increasingly lax state.

“Like it, dove?” Keigo asked, lightly laughing as he swept a bit hair from your face. He adjusted a pillow under your head, the arm thrown over your waist drifting chastely to under your sweater to rub circles on your hips.

“Mhm, it’s really nice,” You let your eyes shut. “I’m getting a little sleepy already.”

Keigo hummed, kissing the crown of your head, a happy chirp echoing his chest, “Good, I’m glad. Very glad. You rest if you need to, angel.”

You felt your eyes well with tears at his unabashed kindness. It was so earnest with him sometimes, it was overwhelming.

Turning, you pressed your front to him, nestling yourself against his neck, softening as light coos rolled from Keigo’s throat, just up against your ear.

You fell into a light, but calm sleep, happily. Keigo with his avian quirks, worn hands, and sweetest nothings, helped bear the burden of your bad day, happy to fall with you into your new nest.

(Keigo would have to convince you to make a permanent one, but with how easily you unwound and settled in this one, he didn’t think it would take much.)

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taglist: @sinclairsamess

[agent-cupcake]

yuri with yandere prompt number eight? i feel like thats the most accurate for him

This ask is old but I’m never gonna quit these yandere prompts. Try and stop me. (aka, here’s 5k of unhealthy pining and Yuri “I want to confess my love but I don’t feel like I deserve you” Leclerc)

//

A sharp, frightened gasp was what pulled you awake. Terror gripped your thoughts as a memory overrode all rational thought —the scent of tread packed filth and chalky, tangy, sharp stone filling your nose with each shallow, bloody, gasping breath. Cold, cutting gravel scraping against your cheek, your scalp, the sharp pebbles embedded into your skin with the force with which you had hit the ground. You couldn’t move, couldn’t fight your collapsed chest into expanding for air to fill your lungs. Escape, you had to escape, that was the only real, solid understanding in your dazed brain as you struggled against the blankets.

But then you blinked a few times, your eyes rolling as you focused them, and realized that was nothing more than a dream. You were safe. Sore, uncomfortable, in an unfamiliar bed and wearing unfamiliar clothes, but safe. And confused, still entangled in the cotton fog of unconsciousness.

You had been… Where had you been? Your head was foggy, your thoughts blurry, almost enough to convince you that you were dreaming. If only you weren’t so uncomfortable. Something was wrong, more than just being sick. There had been… Blood? Pain?

Agony. A blunt, overwhelming ache that had slammed against the entire right side of your body when you hit the ground. A whine had escaped your mouth alongside a glob of bloody saliva. The pain was all-consuming. You could remember that in the same second the pain registered so did the panic of knowing that you were going to be sick right there on the street. Nausea had seized your stomach and you had been helpless to its violent, urgent, undulating undertow. Rocks cut into your palms as you wrenched yourself up to avoid choking as you sputtered and heaved and coughed out the acidic bile. When you blinked, your sight clearing from a dozen fragmented frames into a single dizzy, tear-blurred picture, all you saw was blood. Blood in the watery puddle on the ground, scarlet staining your side, oozing up between your fingers as you pressed a panicked hand against the slash across your ribs as if that would force the blood back where it belonged.  

But there was no blood now. No wounds to validate that terrible living nightmare.

Everything came flooding back into your mind as your thoughts cleared up. You remembered accepting Lev’s offer to ignore Yuri’s orders and perform a secretive strike on an opposing gang. You remembered going along with the plan and taking the dangerous role of getting everyone into the Vanargand base despite the risk. You remembered nearly died in the escape.

You remembered thinking that you were dead. In that moment of laying on the street in a puddle of your own blood, you had clung to the pathetic thought that you didn’t want to die. Even though you already had, you didn’t want to betray Yuri in this way, too. He didn’t want you involved in any of this, he did everything he could to keep you out of it. He promised your brother, he made a vow. But even that tragic, horrible thought had become cloudy as cold disseminated ice throughout your body, piercing all the way into the marrow of your bones and numbing your limbs, pulling you closer into the creeping void. That was the last of what you could remember.

Now, the only remaining evidence of your brush with death was the bruised shades of puce plum and rotten currant covering the entire right side of your body. Someone had used white magic to heal the direst of your wounds. Presumably, the same someone who had saved you. You were pretty sure you knew exactly who that someone was, too.

Your hero.

Yuri Leclerc with his violet eyes and smiling mouth and sweeping, dramatic cape who came to you after your brother’s death and told you of the promise he’d made as his boss and friend. Yuri Leclerc, the nearly mythical Underground Lord, the unaging Savage Mockingbird. Your hero, your knight in armor of shadow and subterfuge. He promised that he would protect you. And he had saved you. Again.

With a soft groan, you turned from laying on your back to your mostly uninjured left side. The bed was comfortable enough, better than your own. The room was smaller than yours, however, easily lit up by just a single lamp. By all standards, it was far from lavish, but you were covered in a thick comforter with two pillows plumped beneath your head. The four-poster frame was made of an attractively dark solid wood that matched the bedside table, writing desk, and chair. It looked an awful lot like the impersonal room of an inn, although there were clear signs that someone lived in here. Books and paper and feather pens were stacked on the desk, a glass rainbow of bottles lined up on the shelf above, a colorful swath of clothes on the rack.

Most telling was the way that the room, the bedding, and the clothes you wore all smelled like Yuri. An intoxicating embrace of spring rose and lilac, plush amber musk, and heady sweet vanilla. Achingly familiar, desirable, wonderful. Now it just made you sick. While the previous day’s actions could make a case for your intellectual deficiencies, it didn’t take a genius to figure out where you were. You groaned softly, closing your eyes.

Yuri was going to be mad. You had justified following Lev before by telling yourself that if the job went off without a hitch, Yuri would be so impressed with your skills that he would have no choice but to recognize you as a member of his gang and stop coddling you. Now you realized that it was and always had been an act of petty rebellion. Yuri would never respect your reckless disregard for his orders and your own life, not even if it had gone well.

Which it hadn’t. You had no idea what had gone wrong, you had performed your task without any problems, getting the small group of men into the compound without alerting any guards. Your brother had done well in teaching you to sneak around. But then there was complete and utter chaos and they all came running back as the compound was eaten up by flames, your so-called friends leaving you stranded on the top of the wall with a group of Vanargand men. So you jumped.

Even your vague recall of that particular agony made you wince, your stomach churning unhappily.

The sound of someone outside the door made your heart jump, your eyes instinctually closing to feign sleep. Maybe if you seemed like you were sleeping you could spare yourself a lecture. Or worse, his disappointment. The doorknob turned, the wood creaking, the metal hinges making the faintest squeak as they were pushed. You held your breath.

But nobody came in, stopping in response to the approaching sound of another, heavier set of footsteps. “Glad to see you back in one piece,” Yuri greeted whoever it was. With the door cracked the way it was, you could hear him quite clearly. His voice was friendly, matching the smile he must have been wearing, but it was sharp, too. You knew that tone, recognized the danger it hid. “I figured it would be you who led this little rebellion.”

“Rebellion?” Lev asked. “I acted for all of us. The Vanargand boys won’t be an issue anymore.”

Yuri laughed. Although the sound was oddly genuine, nobody could miss the fact that he was making fun of Lev. “You really believe that?” he asked, his voice lilting with disbelief.

Lev grunted, you could imagine his scowl. He scowled a lot. “If you knew what we did to them, you wouldn’t laugh.”

“All you did was kick the hornet’s nest,” Yuri said, unimpressed, “while ignoring my orders to standby.”

“I came here to tell you that I think things should change around here, I think-”

“I don’t actually care what you think,” Yuri said, cutting him off calmly. His tone was deadly smooth, dripping with the unique threat of his friendly malice. “I expect you to be out of here by the time the sun rises. That gives you, what, four hours? Plenty of time.”

“What?” Lev asked, his bravado faltering.

“Leave my city,” Yuri told him. “And pray that I never see you again.”

“You can’t kick me out,” Lev said. “Not after all I’ve done for you, for the gang.”

“No?” Yuri asked. “You directly disobeyed my orders and put my men at risk for the sake of your own ego. I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to lose any and all trust I ever had in you.”

“The Vanargand Street Gang have been a pain in the ass for too long,” Lev told him, his tone growing combative. “I decided to do something about it.”

“I had them under control,” Yuri said. “without stooping to such boorish and dangerous methods.”

Lev responded with a mocking bark of a laugh. “Nah, this is about the girl, isn’t it? You should know that she all but begged me to take her along. If you wanna talk about trust, maybe consider why your precious little pet would disobey you.”

You froze, a cold, nervous sweat beading up at the nape of your neck, anxious nausea once again closing in your throat. Either unfortunately or fortunately, Yuri breezed right past that comment as if it didn’t affect him in the slightest. “This has nothing to do with her,” Yuri said without missing a beat. “If you don’t think I’m a fit leader, challenge my authority directly. But I’m warning you. Think carefully about what you do next. Right now, I’m relieved enough that nobody was seriously hurt by your incompetence that I’m willing to let you go with nothing more than a warning.” His voice lowered dangerously, forcing you to strain slightly to make it out. There was no playful teasing injected into these words, no way to interpret them as anything other than naked intimidation. “Don’t mistake my benevolence for weakness, you won’t live to regret it.”

A long moment of tense silence passed between the two men. You could imagine Lev’s storming rage, Yuri’s cool demeanor. You didn’t dare move, afraid that either would hear and unsure which was worse. The moment was broken only by another set of thumping, rhythmic footsteps cresting up the stairs. There was only one man who could possibly make that much noise.

“I heard shouting. I’m not missing the party, am I?” Balthus asked. While there was nothing directly antagonistic about the man’s voice, there was no mistaking the threat he posed. There was a reason he was Yuri’s right-hand man.

“No,” Yuri said. “Lev and I are simply having a… Disagreement.”

“Oh yeah?” Balthus asked. “Anything I should weigh in on?”

“That depends,” Yuri said. “What do you say, Lev?”

“Damn you, Leclerc.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Yuri asked, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m already damned.”

There was another moment of silence, almost long enough to make you wonder if the trio had somehow disappeared, before Lev swore under his breath and retreated past Yuri and Balthus, his feet pounding a cadenced thump, thump, thump as he stalked down the stairs.

“Balthus,” Yuri said when Lev’s footsteps were completely lost. “Would you mind making sure our friend makes it out of the city without doing anything reckless?”

“Think he might?” Balthus asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Yuri responded, his voice was more honest than with Lev. He sounded tired. “I sure as hell didn’t think he would make a move like this just yet.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Balthus paused. “What, uh, should I do if he tries anything?”

“Take him to the Vanargand. I’m sure they’ll be hunting him down regardless.”

Balthus whistled. “That’s pretty cold, boss.”

“It’s far better than he deserves,” Yuri said, his voice dark. “If she died, I…”

“No need to explain. I get it, pal,” Balthus said, saving Yuri from having to continue. As badly as you didn’t want to know what Yuri was going to say, you very desperately did, too. “I’ll make sure he stays in line. You look like you could use some rest. Or a drink.”

Yuri laughed, the sound a bit lighter than before. “You might be right about that.”

“Of course I am,” Balthus said. “You don’t live as long as I have without catching wise to these things. I’ll be off, then.”

“Good luck,” Yuri said, “and don’t do anything stupid. There’s only so much I can handle in one night.”

“Hah!” Balthus called, trampling right back down the hallway. “That big brain of yours will burst into flames if you keep on worrying about everything, pal. Better call it quits before you ruin that cute face with wrinkles.” Yuri laughed.

Realizing that Balthus leaving would mean Yuri would finally enter the room, you threw the blankets off of yourself and sat up. It hurt like hell, it felt like every single inch of your body was bruised, right down to the bone, but it was doable after the sickening dizziness passed.

You didn’t particularly want to get up, but you didn’t want to stick around and have the conversion you knew Yuri would start, either.

The way Yuri worried made your chest clench. You didn’t dare name it discomfort, but the feeling was awfully close. It was Yuri’s growing intensity that you noticed first. The way he’d get when other men got too close to you, the pointed questions he’d ask about your interactions with other people. How he worried when you had to travel or interact with people he didn’t trust, insisting that you tell him every single detail about what you were doing. Worse, the times when he seemed to know things he shouldn’t, things you didn’t tell him.

It was because of the promise he had made to your brother, he said, to keep you safe. Yuri valued the men under his command, and your brother had been a close comrade of his. And you bought it at first because your brother had always been protective, but Yuri’s behavior was different. He wasn’t your brother, but neither did you get the impression you were friends. Friends weren’t suffocatingly overprotective. Not friends, but not anything more, either. He never flirted with you as he did with everybody else, as he had before. Not even in a playful, teasing way. The tighter hold he kept on you, the more and more he maintained a distance.

Lev called you Yuri’s precious pet, and that struck too close to home. You hated it. You weren’t a child —you weren’t even a teenager anymore— and yet Yuri acted like you were made of glass. Like you couldn’t be trusted to look after yourself, like you were… Like you were a pet.

That’s why you had agreed to Lev’s job in the first. You wanted to change the dynamic the two of you had. You figured that if he saw that you weren’t as weak as he feared, that you were just as capable as the men in his gang, that he’d stop being so intensely and oppressively protective. But if he was willing to give Lev up to the torture the Vanargand gang would inflict on him for the sin of endangering you, you didn’t think it had been at all effective. Actually, it made sense that your near-death and horrible failure would have the opposite effect.

Steading yourself, you searched the room for your shoes. Someone, and you didn’t dare to think of who, had changed you into what you were pretty sure were Yuri’s clothes. While it made sense considering your own were probably nothing more than blood soaked rags, you weren’t incredibly comfortable with wearing his things. The smell alone was nearly overwhelming, but the level of intimacy it implied was something you didn’t dare consider. Even worse that you should wake up in his bed. His bed that was obviously big enough for two people, a bed that he had probably had company in because he was attractive and desirable and… And you couldn’t find your shoes.

“What are you doing?” Yuri asked. The door shut behind him, the metal latch clicking.

It occurred to you that while you’d been having a micro-meltdown, Yuri had probably been standing there watching.

“Leaving,” you responded, trying to maintain a neutral expression despite the way your voice cracked. That brave attempt fell apart with the way you burst into a coughing fit a moment later, hacking up sharp bursts of air against your scratched up throat, each breath sending aching pulses of pain against your bruised side.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Yuri scolded, rushing to the bedside table to pour you some water. So considerate, always. Guilt rose up within you. After he saved you, how could you be so rude and ungrateful? You knew he cared. He was your hero.

You averted your streaming eyes and took a few slow, careful sips from the cup as Yuri took a seat on the desk chair, sitting the wrong way with his arms draped over the chair’s back.

“Drink this, too,” he said, handing you a vial. You uncapped it to take a sniff it, wincing at the astringent scent.

“What is it?” you asked.

“It’ll help with the pain,” he said. You nodded, grateful for the idea of that, and pinched your nose to down the vial. It was exactly as disgusting as it smelled. At the very least, it wiped the smell of Yuri from your head for a spell. “You should lay back down,” he recommended. “Magic can only do so much to heal your wounds. Not to mention that you’ve had a hell of a shock. Honestly, after what happened, I’m surprised you managed to get upright. You’re full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?”

The implication, the reminder of what you’d done in such a banal tone, made you wince. Guilt or shame or embarrassment, you didn’t know. “I’m fine,” you said, staring at the floor rather than meet his eyes.

“It’s cute that you can say that with a straight face,” Yuri said. “Seriously, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled sarcastically, an instinctually petulant reaction to the way he treated you, “But I really am capable of taking care of myself.”

He didn’t even grace that with a serious answer, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.”

“I can’t stay here,” you said.

“You can,” Yuri told you, “and you will. You’ve lost a lot of blood and I don’t need a dead body on my doorstep. It’s bad for business.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Yuri said. You met his eyes, frowning as you tried to figure out what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He sighed, likely reading the further arguments you were going to make in the way you looked at him. “I’ve had a long night dealing with your mess. Stop being a fool and do what I say.” “Or what?” you muttered, looking away again as you fought against the guilt. He didn’t own you, you weren’t even one of his men. He couldn’t order you around.

“Or I’ll make you,” Yuri said bluntly. “I doubt that’ll pleasant for either of us.”

That answer sent a shiver down your spine, whatever complaints you had been trying to maintain drying up on your tongue because you kind of believed him. His cold, cruel tone of voice when dealing with Lev was still all too clear in your mind. Besides, he was right. He was usually right. That didn’t help the terrible sensation of being treated like a child, like an invalid.

Avoiding his eyes, you set aside your cup and did what he said, tucking your feet back under the covers, leaning down against the pillows. It was a lot easier on your aching side, better for the splitting headache gathered up behind your right temple.

“Did you save me?” you asked after a moment, staring at the quilted pattern.

“Yeah,” Yuri responded, his voice unreadable.

“And you healed me?”

“What do you think?”

It had been a dumb question. You couldn’t imagine Yuri letting anyone else see that much of your bare skin to heal those wounds. All the same. “You don’t have to be rude, I was just clarifying,” you told him with a frown.

“Right, right, sorry. I just about forgot myself,” Yuri said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What I meant was that I was the one who rushed to your rescue and healed your wounds, fair maiden. Is that better?”

You frowned, refusing to be amused by his antics. Despite the joking tone Yuri took, those words set you on edge. He hardly ever teased you like that anymore, now it just felt off. “Who changed my clothes?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Yuri asked. Was there amusement in his tone? At your embarrassment? You could feel that your cheeks were hot and hoped desperately that he couldn’t tell. “Well,” he shrugged apologetically, “it’s not like I had much of a choice and I couldn’t put you to bed in dirty clothes…” Yuri looked up to meet your horrified eyes, smiling. “Kidding. I do have some honor. I asked the landlady to help me out. Your virtue is intact.”

Virtue. You swallowed hard on that word, drinking the last of the water. Your thoughts were beginning to fuzz, becoming less clear. It made it harder to refocus after being caught off guard by his teasing. The pain wasn’t as crisp, more of a background ache rather than an insistent thud. That was distracting, too. You knew that, for some reason, he wanted to fluster you. But you couldn’t let him distract you, nor could you let your embarrassment deter you. So, clenching your fists, you looked up and met his eyes.

“Thank you for saving me,” you said carefully. “I’m… I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.”

Yuri didn’t answer right away, staring you down in his unnervingly piercing way. The intensity of his eyes was uncomfortable, but it was undercut with the swirling storm of concern amidst the individual strands of purple pigment, the void-like pool of pupil. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said carefully. And that was honest, genuine. He looked so tired. He sounded tired.

“I owe you. Twice, for saving me and healing me,” you said, forcing the words out in as business-like of a tone as you could manage. They were slurred, slightly. Had he given you a sedative? Or was this just normal exhaustion finally taking you out? “So tell me how you would like to be repaid, and I’ll see that it’s done.”

Yuri’s head fell to the side in confusion, like the question threw him off guard. Good. “Excuse me, what?”

“That’s how it is in your world,” you replied. “Our world. Right?”

“Our world?” Yuri asked, his expression retreating into a mask.

“The real world. Altruism doesn’t exist. When someone does something for you, there’s always a price. If I want to be taken seriously, I can’t keep being naïve about that.”

“That’s pretty cynical of you.” Was it just you or did he sound sad about that fact?

“You taught me well.”

“Not well enough,” he said, frowning as his eyes lingered on the bruises. He sighed. “So, I take it that that’s why you went? You want to be taken seriously?”

“Yes,” you said slowly, surprised that he’d be able to cut to the heart of it so quickly. Then again, it shouldn’t have been that surprising. Yuri was all too good at that.

“Word to the wise,” Yuri told you. “Never act unless success is guaranteed. If you want to be taken seriously, you have to have results to show for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said.

“And another thing,” Yuri added. “Never give out open ended favors. Not even to people you trust. You might not like it when they call to collect.”

“But I know you wouldn’t want anything bad from me,” you said, frowning and unsure if he was implying what you thought he was. He couldn’t be, not Yuri. Not to you.

“Is that a fact?” he asked. “I could be helping you simply to get one of those incredibly enticing open favors. Now I’ve got two of them, I wonder what I could ask for…”

“I’m being serious,” you said.

“You think I’m not?” Yuri smiled at you like he knew all the secrets in the world, like you’d never catch him without the trickster’s mask or even guess at what he had hidden beneath. But then your reply was eaten by a mostly stifled yawn that tugged hard at your sore jaw and all pretense fell away to the concerned expression you knew so well from him. “Alright, enough of that. You look like you’re about to pass out. Get some sleep. I’ll watch over you, yeah?” he offered, flipping the chair around so he could sit directly at the bedside.

You couldn’t argue with that, yawning again. It hit you all at once, it seemed. You were passing out, the need for sleep becoming more and more pressing with each breath. “Next time,” you told him, your words slurring like a drunk as you settled further down into the bed. Your body felt so heavy, the colors of the room smoothing out like butter, the smell that clung to the bedding and the clothes filling you with warmth. “Next time for sure, I’ll show you. Then I won’t owe you-” you yawned, again. This time you just gave up. He definitely had given you a sedative. Unfortunately, you were too far gone to be mad. Sleeping would be nice anyway. You were so tired.

“There won’t be a next time,” Yuri told you. There was something absolute in his tone, a hard edge that wasn’t to be questioned.

“Why?” you asked, trying to clench your fists to remain lucid for a moment longer. This question was important, important enough for you to fight against your heavy and scattered thoughts. “Why do you care... so much?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri said, his voice threadbare and exposed. He really looked so tired, so beautiful. He had more masks than anyone, but right then you didn’t think that it was a mask.

He didn’t know either.

Where did that leave you?

Floating, it seemed. Lavender and milk and shadow blurred in your vision, the colors of Yuri. Your eyes fluttered shut, filled with a kaleidoscope of him. The pain was gone, you couldn’t even find the passion to argue or to be mad or afraid or upset. It was enough to be safe, to be with him, to be warm.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow you would get answers.

“You remind me of something I lost a long time ago,” Yuri said after a moment. It would have been too much to open your eyes or respond, so you just listened, marveling at the way his voice created the words, the way it caressed them. Had you really never noticed how delicious his voice was? You could lose yourself in it, you thought. “Something even I can’t steal for myself,” Yuri continued, “something more precious than a Heroes Relic. As long as I can preserve that, I can live with the consequences.”

You didn’t fight when he grabbed your hand from where it had fallen on the comforter, pulling it up into both of his. Yuri’s hands were rough, his fingers narrow and long and nice. They were scarred and bloodstained. They held yours gently, tenderly.

“Heh, maybe I’m a coward to tell you now. I doubt you’ll remember this by tomorrow.”

“I’ll remember,” you mumbled mindlessly, your eyes remaining closed. How could you forget this warmth? The beauty of the colors in your head, the feeling of his touch.

Yuri pressed his cheek against your hand. The skin was soft, warm. “Maybe you will. You certainly deserve my honesty. But after tonight... Maybe it’s too late to anyway. I tried so hard to protect you, even from myself.” He laughed, a humorless puff of air against your knuckles. “Especially from myself. Sometimes I can’t help but think that it’s inevitable that everything and everyone who becomes close to me will be stained by the association. I didn’t want to see that shine in your eyes become dull. This cruel, cynical world destroys everything of value, but not you.” He paused, thinking. You drifted, the words rolling over you without sticking, without meaning. His voice was so lovely. “But you’re wrong, you know,” Yuri continued after a while, pulling you back. “Things done out of love don’t have a price. You don’t owe me anything, you never have.”

Yuri’s lips brushed over your knuckles, a kiss over each ridge, before one of his hands untangled itself. You leaned into the feeling of his calloused fingertips on your warm cheek, pushing your hair out of the way as they caressed your face. Even in your vague stupor, the touch was enough to make your eyes open. Half-lidded, your sight hazy. Yuri glowed in the candlelight.

A smile tugged at the corner of his pink lips, a melancholic expression. So sad. Did he always look so sad? So beautiful? It made your heart ache, a hollow, faraway feeling.

“Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes. You attempted a smile in return, a dozing, drunken, delirious smile. “If I told you tomorrow that I loved you, would you take me as I am?” You hummed. A yes, maybe, no. He was still stroking your face, holding your hand. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d been touched like this. Not since you were a child, you didn’t think. So nice, so soft. “That’s the problem, I don’t know. And I… I don’t act unless victory is assured. If I make a move and lose you for good…” He squeezed your hand, his eyes closing. “I don’t want to lose you. Not to the whims of the cruel world and not by corrupting you with my black heart.” Your eyes closed again, his words becoming lost in your fascination with his voice. Yuri’s fingers left your cheek, returning to wrap around your hand. “Even if can never have you,” he said, a soft resolution in his voice, “it’ll be okay as long as you’re safe. And I know that you’ll be safe as long as you stay with me.”

[angstyaches]

I’ve Been Away Pt. 1

CW: angst, crying, nausea/indigestion caused by stress, anxiety. (But there’s a bit of banter at the end to round it out.)

Felix waited across the street in a rented car, waiting for Elliott to leave the house.

He and Ryan usually went out to sharpen their combat skills (at least, that was how they phrased “trying to beat the crap out of one another”) on Sunday evenings, and knowing Elliott, he wouldn’t want Ryan to see how Felix’s absence was affecting him. If it was affecting him, Felix corrected himself, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Maybe Elliott was doing fine without him. Maybe he was better off. It didn’t really bear thinking about.

Felix gasped as the front door opened and Ryan walked out, heading straight for her car. Elliott followed, his steps a lot slower and more deliberate than usual. Felix folded his arms across the top of the steering wheel and ducked his head almost the whole way behind them, a sinking feeling in his belly. He’d bought a hoodie to cover up his mint hair, abandoned his own car at the hotel in favour of a less-recognisable one, and had even doused himself in cheap cologne on the off-chance that Elliott or Ryan would smell him from across the street.

He needn’t have worried, it seemed, since neither of them even glanced in his direction. Felix realised with a pang of despair that he was disappointed. If Elliott had been AWOL, Felix was sure he’d be glancing up and down every street and around every corner in the hopes of sighting him. He should have been happy that his plans to remain incognito had been successful, yet he wanted to cry.

Come on, Felix, don’t be a baby, he told himself. He’d come here for a reason, and things were going better than expected. He got out of the car as soon as Ryan’s disappeared from the street, taking Elliott away with it. Felix tried to ignore the pain in his heart.

He crossed the street, he realised afterwards, without even looking both ways first. His hands trembled as he took out his keys and let himself inside, the smell of lavender and floor cleaner scooping him up. This had been the first house that had ever really felt like home, but now it seemed to greet him with a glare, a side-eye. He shuddered and hurried upstairs, anxious to get in and out as quickly as possible.

Elliott had always thought Felix was crazy for having a safe in their bedroom wardrobe, complete with a code. Elliott thought a lot of things Felix did were crazy. Maybe I am crazy, Felix thought as he twisted the dial to input the code – the date of the day he’d run away from home; the first time. After all, he’d put all of his old IDs in here for a reason, and now here he was, dragging it all out.

A burning pain made itself known in the pit of his stomach as he dragged out the papers, his old passport, a small pile of newspaper clippings he had always meant to glue into a scrapbook but hadn’t. A watch slid out, landing on the wooden floor. Felix hadn’t seen in almost a decade. He swallowed a bitter mouthful of spit and shoved the watch back inside, not really concerned about scratch it in the process.

He eyed Elliott’s bedside locker as he stood up after locking the safe, clutching his documents to his chest. If he’d been in a rom-com, he would have left a little note to indicate to Elliott that he’d been there, and that he still loved him and just needed a little time. But this was real life, and Elliott would find precisely nothing romantic or comedic in a gesture like that.

So instead, Felix bolted back to the car.

He was shaking as he sank back into the driver’s seat of the car, resting his pile of papers in his lap. His old passport lay on top, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it. He wasn’t even sure if he would need any of this stuff, but if he was going to take this leap, he was going to be prepared for whatever they might want from him. He might have to fight to identify himself.

He might have to fight to make her remember.

He quickly dropped everything into the empty glove compartment, wrinkling his nose at the fresh wave of not-new-but-perfumed-to-seem-new car smell that came wafting out. A belch gurgled up his chest and he covered his mouth as it escaped. The last thing he’d eaten had been a sad sandwich from a petrol station, plus a tiny bit of the blood he’d been rationing himself, and the stress had made sure it hadn’t gone anywhere yet.

Maybe he should have picked up more blood when he’d been inside, but there was no way he could think about that without feeling like it would be stealing.

He felt sick. He was tired.

And the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, especially with such a long drive ahead of him.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he whispered to himself, watching the door of the townhouse swing open across the street. He hadn’t thought about Shayne, who must have only gotten back from Charlie’s a few days ago. Felix whipped up his hood and sank a bit in his seat, thinking he wouldn’t be seen, but from peering out over the steering wheel, he got the feeling that Shayne already knew it was him.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Crap,” Felix hissed, scrambling to get the key in the ignition. He jumped in his seat as Shayne slammed both hands down on the front of the car.

“Stop, it’s a rental!” Felix squealed.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Look, I know it looks bad –”

“Get out of the car!”

Felix inhaled deeply, staring down the hollow brown eyes that pinned him from outside the windshield. He slowly started to shake his head, even though his stomach felt like it was about to crawl up his throat.

“N-no.”

“Do you know what this is doing to Elliott?”

“No!” Felix yelled, covering his face with both hands. “No, I don’t, Shayne, but you don’t need to tell me, because I already hate myself enough! Whatever it is, it couldn’t be worse than the way it is in my head…”

He felt like he was being choked. His forehead made the horn honk gently as he let it fall against the wheel. His chest hurt, it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like whatever was left in there was rotten and crumbling and turned black with self-hatred. He’d known things were bad - he’d cried himself to sleep every night since he’d left - but right then, it felt like death itself was pressing in around him.

He jumped, the pain sharpening in his chest, at the sound of the passenger side door opening. The car bounced on its axis with the force of Shayne climbing in.

“I’m sorry!” Felix sobbed, not sure what he was actually expecting Shayne to do to him. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean for it to be like this, I just… there’s some stuff I have to do. It’s really, really important…”

“Is it?” Shayne asked sharply.

“Yes.”

Felix jumped again as Shayne pulled the door shut, hard.

“Alright.” Shayne shrugged, reaching for the seatbelt for the passenger seat. “You’re going to have to buy me more clothes if this takes longer than a day.”

Felix’s jaw dropped, the tears sliding down his face even as the sobs relented. “Wh-what?”

“Oh, and absolutely no singing.”

“That just seems… unreasonable,” Felix mumbled.

“And!” Shayne reached across to lightly slap Felix’s arm with the back of his hand. “We’re calling Elliott later. Both of us. Alright?”

Felix licked his lips, feeling both intimidated and energised by the glare he was receiving from his cousin. “Okay… sure.”

Shayne sank a bit lower in his seat and propped his head against the door. Felix took a deep breath, focusing on the full feeling in his lungs for a moment before letting himself deflate again. His hands felt a bit steadier when he started the ignition this time. The knot in his chest was still there but it felt a little lighter, and the sting of the indigestion didn’t creep quite so high.

“And the ‘no singing’ rule,” he said, “is that absolutely locked-in, or is there a bit of wiggle room on that…?”

“You break that rule, and I’m grabbing the steering wheel and wiggling us into oncoming traffic.”

[leiakenobi]

Title: Inhale, Exhale Fandom: Inside Llewyn Davis Pairing: Llewyn Davis/Reader Rating: Teen (warning for some fairly heavy discussion of mental health) Word Count: 1.8k Summary: Llewyn doesn’t like Valentine’s Day, and he won’t tell you why.

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day to @be-the-spark-flyboy, who I got matched up with in @sergeantkane’s Oscar fandom Valentine’s fic exchange! You described Llewyn melting when you touch his hair, and this concept actually came to me almost immediately. Pretty dang heavy on the hurt part of hurt/comfort, but I hope the fic brings you some joy. I had an absolute blast writing for you. Also posted to AO3 here!

---

Llewyn doesn’t like Valentine’s Day, and he won’t tell you why.

Frankly, you should have realized sooner. It first came up around three months into your relationship, when he asked whether you’d seen a film, and you told him that you saw it on Valentine’s Day with an old boyfriend. He soured at once, but you explained it away—you probably shouldn’t have mentioned an ex on a date. What a bad, bad idea.

Then again, around seven months in. December began, winter was setting in in earnest, and you lamented the fact that the season made Manhattan feel so dreary. “At least we have Christmas and New Year’s to help keep up the cheer. And then obviously Valentine’s Day.”

Again—Llewyn tensed. This time, you assumed it was that he still felt a little strange about commitment. It had been a while since he had much of a serious relationship, you knew.

But January eases into February, and you flip over your kitchen calendar. Llewyn’s in the shower and you call out, “We should probably make a reservation soon.”

“For what, sweetheart?” His voice echoes around the walls of the bathroom and carries out to you. It’s warm and rich and God do you love him.

“Valentine’s Day, babe. Most of the good places will be full before we know it.”

Silence. Long stretch of silence. You’d been in the middle of preparing your breakfast, but you find yourself standing still, straining to listen. As though maybe he’s just replying very, very quietly. (Absurd.)

“Can we talk about this when I get out?” he calls at last.

You hesitate. “Okay.”

What follows is the longest ten minutes of your life, during which Llewyn finishes up his shower. When he comes to join you in the kitchen, he’s clad only in pants; he pulls on an undershirt after sitting down across from you at the kitchen table. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast,” he remarks, looking down at the food in front of you with concern.

“Not really hungry,” you murmur. How were you supposed to eat while wondering why the hell he doesn’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with you?

It seems to hit him, then, how his reaction has come off, because his eyes widen, and he grabs your hands from the tabletop and clutches them tight. “Shit, I’m sorry, babe. I promise it’s not about you, or anything to do with us. I’d take you out to a nice dinner and spoil you rotten any day of the week, I really would. Just…” His brow furrows, and he licks his lips as he hesitates over his next words. “I’m not really a fan of Valentine’s Day. What if we just had a quiet night in on the 14th? And then we could go out some other night.”

From his soft, cautious tone, you can tell that he knows his request might not thrill you. And, well, he’s right; you feel almost certain that there’s something he’s not saying, and it’s taking everything in you to not run through some rough possibilities…

Most of which end in – please God no – “break-up.”

But you pull yourself back from that whirlpool of dangerous speculation, and you swallow, and you nod. “Sure, babe. If you want a quiet night, I want that too.”

You tell yourself it’s not a lie, and to some degree, it’s not—but you want him to want a special night out as much as you do. You want him to tell you why he doesn’t.

Llewyn laces your fingers together, his eyes searching your face. There’s so much love and affection there—how could this be about doubting your relationship? Surely he wouldn’t look at you that way if he were thinking of ending things. “Pick the place, and I’ll make it happen. Just not on Valentine’s Day.”

So you pick a place, and he presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, before getting up to finish his morning routine.

Neither of you mention the holiday for several days after that. You try not to even think about it, and for the most part, you manage, except for a gutting moment when your co-workers ask if you and Llewyn have any Valentine’s Day plans and you have to smile and light-heartedly say, “We decided to do a quiet night.”

A chorus of, “Oh.” Unable to conceal their surprise and disappointment. Oh, they didn’t realize that… Llewyn was cheap? A bad boyfriend? That things had soured between you? No doubt several options run through their heads, although they’re gracious enough not to express any of them to you.

It hurts.

You try not to let it.

You go out for dinner the weekend before Valentine’s Day, and Llewyn is… beautiful, and tender, and warm. He takes you to a Broadway play afterward, and he can’t stop grumbling about the incidental music as you take the subway home.

It should feel perfect, and you tell yourself it does.

On the 14th, you wake up to Llewyn curled around you. He holds you tight, his fingers splayed across your stomach and his face buried in your hair. And when you try to get up, he pulls you close again. “Not yet,” he whispers. “Please.”

You close your eyes and lean into him, linking your fingers with his. He presses sporadic kisses to the crown of your head, and you feel so damn safe.

Finally, he lets you get up.

“Do you want the shower first?” you ask him.

“No, you go ahead. I’ll be up in a bit.”

He’s not. He’s dozing when you get out of the shower, and still after you’ve prepared and eaten your breakfast.

You hesitate in the doorway, looking over him, before crossing the room to sit on the bed. You trace your fingers through his hair, watching him blink slowly to look up at you. His eyes crinkle softly. “Are you feeling alright?” you whisper.

“Sure I am,” he whispers back. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure? Because I can call in a sick day if you wanted me to stay home and look after you.”

Llewyn scoffs, rolling his eyes at you. “Go to work. I’m getting up soon, I promise.”

You give him a slow nod. “Call me if you change your mind?”

“I won’t change my mind.” With a stern look from you, he sighs and grabs for your hand, pulling you down to kiss you gently. “But if I do, I’ll call you.”

So you nod, kiss him once more, and leave.

What is it that you’re missing, here? You puzzle over it on the subway, and then at work, thinking about how close he held you. How counter-intuitive his tenderness seemed when he’d balked at the idea of making anything romantic out of the holiday.

You clear out for lunch, and you’re about halfway to your favorite diner when you decide to redirect your course and rush down the nearest entrance to the train.

This is ridiculous. Llewyn doesn’t do this—maybe he’s not always the most forthcoming person in the world, but you can’t remember another time when he’s been needlessly opaque. So you should be up-front about the fact that he’s both confused and worried you. Because honestly, you still can’t shake the feeling that something was wrong this morning.

Your apartment is quiet when you ease the door open. You don’t go home for lunch often – too many meals-turned-quickies that made you get back to work late – but you’re used to the place being filled with music by now.

Either Llewyn, practicing in the living room, or playing records and whistling along while he does food prep.

Now, though, the silence is eerie.

“Llewyn?”

He doesn’t answer.

Check the living room—not there. Kitchen and bathroom—same.

It is very clear, from the moment you return to the doorway of your bedroom, that Llewyn hasn’t moved since you left. He’s lying on his stomach, cradling his pillow under his head with one arm while his other arm is outstretched.

Reaching out for where you should be.

“Baby,” you breathe. You retrace the same path that you made earlier, stepping into the room, settling on the edge of the bed. Your hand smooths over his head, and as you tenderly card through his curls, he begins to stir.

He makes a muffled mmf noise into his pillow and scoots closer to you, pulls you closer—his outstretched hand finds your waist, holding you tight while his head settles against your thigh. “What’re you doin’ home?” Voice creaky from sleep.

“Needed to talk to you,” you tell him gently. Your fingers winding around his hair absent-mindedly. “I think it’s time we talk about Valentine’s Day, don’t you? Whatever’s got you like this.”

Llewyn doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. Maybe you’d have thought that he’d drifted off to sleep again, but his thumb is tracing circles over your hip.

“Mike died on Valentine’s Day, babe.”

Oh.

Your stomach drops at his words, because shit, you should’ve known. Here you’d been overthinking his reticence to celebrate a stupid holiday and it hadn’t even occurred to you…

“Five years ago,” he offers up, too. “I didn’t… Last year was better. Even the year before that was okay. I felt weird about doing something extravagant, but I didn’t expect to hurt so much today.”

“I don’t know if that’s how it works,” you whisper. “Doesn’t it just… come back sometimes?”

“Not like this.” And you know what he means—you’re both remembering nights when he got listless, threw on If We Had Wings and poured you both a large drink. Hell, even the time you had to run up to Yonkers for the day to meet a client, and he decided to come with you… only to get a glimpse of the George Washington Bridge on the drive home.

He’d blanched and gone near-silent for the rest of the night.

Yes, the hurt comes back sometimes, but not like this. Not this bad.

Pressing a soft kiss to your thigh, he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I really didn’t think I’d feel this way right now.”

“God, please don’t apologize.” You might laugh if it weren’t so damn serious. As it is, you just climb into bed in earnest, kicking your shoes off and tucking yourself under the covers with him, still fully clothed. “I was scared this was about me, babe. But Mike…” Mike, whom he almost never talks about without a drink in him, even now. “I get why you didn’t tell me.” Softer, as you curl yourself around him: “I’m glad you told me now, though.”

Llewyn exhales shakily. Maybe a laugh? Almost? “Never about you, sweetheart. You’re exactly what I needed today.”

“Then you’ve got me,” you whisper. “Anything you want, I’m here.”

He swallows and blinks at you. “Just want you to hold me, babe. Please.”

You take in a long, slow breath, and you nod.

Llewyn buries his face in your neck, and the two of you exhale almost as one.

[shiftytracts]

Stop Wanting More, part 1 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part two here.

…For almost ten thousand words (~5.1k in this half, ~4.3 in the other), beeeecause of course I did.

Content warnings:

Disordered eating (mainly of the statement variety, but mentions also the literal kind)

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Brief but not-ungraphic description of Jon’s (canon) Boneturning incident—so, injury, very mild body horror

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality (in part two)

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport (in part two)

—

Jon paused the tape recorder, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. A statement’s second-to-last page was the hardest to get down. The dull ache that had begun under his ribs twenty minutes before now stretched down far enough to converge with the one in his stiff hips. His pulse throbbed in his stomach; he could feel it swell and recede beneath his hand with every beat. Nausea boomeranged up from somewhere under his navel. He reminded himself he could stop for now, finish this later—and, as always, that thought made him feel even colder than the sludge of other people’s fear pooling in his stomach. With his free hand Jon pressed Record again, and turned to 0101702’s final page. Oh, god, there was barely anything on it. Just the rest of this paragraph and then one more. He kept his eyes on the page, didn’t stop speaking its words, but fumbled blindly for another statement with his fingers.

“Knock knock,” Daisy said as she entered. “Christ—you’re still recording?”

In a flash Jon folded his hands on the table, sat up a little straighter, tried to suck in his gut. “Er—”

“Thought you said you were gonna do one more.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’ve got another one right there.”

“I…” he considered I’m sorry, but then she’d say For what. “I don’t know what to tell you. It is my office.”

“Yeah, and your home,” Daisy scoffed—“and mine. Sort of.”

“D—did you want…? You’re welcome, to. Sit down, or….”

She did, on the arm of his couch. “I know, Jon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” To show he’d meant his welcome, Jon pushed his chair back from his desk and turned in it to face Daisy. Hopefully she’d remember he couldn’t ask What did you mean.

“I mean, don’t pretend this is work. How many statements have you had today? You don’t think that one can wait til tomorrow?”

Seven? Or would this one be eight. Jon forced himself to exhale out the portion of gut he’d been holding back since she arrived; it hurt too much to keep sucking in anyway. “A lot. I’m just.”

“Hungry, yeah.”

“Even when I’m stuffed I’m hungry.” He snarled a laugh, and set a rueful hand over his stomach like a fig leaf.

At first he’d tried sating the hunger with garden-variety food. That didn’t help much. Way back when he’d first transferred to the Archives Jon had fallen back into the old habit of forgetting to eat—which, yeah, not great, but, it did mean he remembered well how amazing it used to feel to cram down even a stale biscuit after too many hours’ inanition. All the hidden notes he’d found in yogurt and dry toast. He even remembered tearing up once at the taste of a banana, early in 2016. Before that he’d been sure he didn’t like bananas; afterward, for a short while he’d eaten one nearly every day, hoping vainly to recapture the ecstasy of banana after 14-hour fast. No luck, of course. After a few weeks he’d concluded he still didn’t much like banana as final course of healthy lunch. He’d especially disliked peeling them: how sometimes the stems bent without breaking, and the more times you tried the warmer, softer, more flexible they got. How little strings of peel still clung to the banana after you peeled off its main body, like static when you pull off a jumper. Or like the lint it leaves behind on your shirt. And the way bananas bruise, like people do. All these vestiges of its previous life—reminders it had lived to feed itself rather than him.

Since the coma, all people food—er. That was, all food intended for human consumption—tasted like that chase after a faded spark. Cloying and mushy and… organic, reminding him too much of the garden it came from. And the way it landed in his stomach was far worse. The original banana, the one Martin had pressed on him in the Archives in April 2016, had gone down like nectar, ambrosia, manna from heaven, &c.; the ones afterward, like an unwanted dessert always does. (Cloying. Mushy. A biology lesson mildly tapping its watch.) These days, though, eating regular dinner on a stomach empty of other people’s trauma felt like trying to fill up on cake. Not like cake after fourteen hours of nothing; Jon was pretty sure his 2016 stomach would have welcomed that. But like cake at dinner time. When you’re expecting, you know. Dinner. It gave him the brief, fake-seeming energy of a sugar high, and made him sick before it made him full.

Especially when he was otherwise ailing, for some reason? After Hopworth he’d treated himself to a lie down and a sandwich. The rest had helped, but he’d squandered most of the energy it gave him on the effort to keep the sandwich down. At that moment nothing, not even the coffin, had scared him so much as the thought of what it would feel like to throw up when you had only ten ribs on one side. He hadn’t expected losing them to hurt, at least not for long—had expected the rib to flow out of his skin into Jared Hopworth’s hand like an ice cube through water, which in retrospect was stupid given the testimony of Mr. Pryor in statement 0081103, but he hadn’t had time to reread that one beforehand and at the time Jon remembered only that Hopworth didn’t break his victims’ skin when he pulled out their bones. Turned out that wasn’t much comfort: he’d still had to break the ligaments attaching Jon’s ribs to his spine and chest. It had felt like a bad dislocation (four of them, technically), only instead of the feeling of bone pressing on things it shouldn’t there was an equally violating sense of tissue wallowing in holes that shouldn’t be there. He’d had this horror that if he were sick the flesh would crumple and pop where his ribs used to be, like when you try to suck the remaining water out of a near-empty bottle.

A few months after that he’d caught cold. (A point in the still-human column, Daisy had called it.) You know the first day or two of a cold, before the encroaching mucus takes out your ability to smell or taste properly, how innocuous olfactory phenomena like cheddar and laundry soap suddenly become Bad Smells, on par with the olive bar at a posh supermarket? Well, in a similar way, this one seemed to sharpen the dichotomy in his body’s opinions of people food and monster food. His lack-of-ribs had mostly healed by then though, so either vomiting with only ten ribs on one side did not cause the anomaly he’d feared, or, if it did, it hadn’t hurt enough for him to notice it in the cacophony (pucophony?) of other sensations.

(Daisy liked to play on words, so he’d been doing it more lately. This project the Eye seemed happy to help with, though in this case the suggestion arrived in his mind at the exact same moment as a reminder that, technically, the word cacophony can apply to sensations other than sound only by synecdoche.)

And then, a few weeks ago, when the whole Archives went down with norovirus… well, it wasn’t a fun time. He’d at first mistook the lethargy, weakness, trouble concentrating for signs of hunger—the new kind of hunger. Ms. Mullen-Jones’ statement about the Divine Chains cult hadn’t seemed all that bad, when he’d first recorded it. Scarier than if he’d read its events in a novel, of course; that was just how statements worked. He experienced them more vividly than stories, though less so than the events of his own life. (Because the people they happened to thought they were real! he’d told himself when he first took this job. It’s empathy, that’s all. Nope, sorry—evil magic.) When he read a paper statement these days, though, the knowledge it wouldn’t give him nightmares never quite left him. And he’d thought he was growing desensitized to the kinds of horror most people came to the Institute to report. Coming back up, though—maybe it was the fever, but god, the visions he got on that statement’s way out, of Agape and the soft, sticky hivecorpse of Claude Vilakazi’s followers—the way it made the donut he’d shoved down that morning (in a show of team spirit, god help him) come back up tasting like rotten rice wine—it was worse than the dreams. Worse, he could have sworn, than even the first time he ever dreamt Naomi Herne’s empty graveyard.

While hanging over the bowl of the Archives’ toilet waiting to see if he’d got it all up or if there was still more to come, Jon remembered thinking again of the banana Martin had given him. A few days earlier Daisy had made him watch the video of the I don’t understand this meme and at this point I’m too afraid to ask man vore-ing a banana; Jon had confessed to her, in a conspiratorial whisper-laugh, that for him vore itself had been one such meme until that very second, when the Eye had seen fit to inform him. But when applied to a banana, the term apparently just meant eating it peel and all. In 2016 Martin had broken the banana’s stem and pulled back a section of peel before handing it to Jon, so as to brook no argument. Was it really the banana itself he’d cried over? Not the gesture of friendship, when Jon deserved it so little? The thought of someone caring for him enough that when he got hangry at them they handed him a snack. Martin had been living in the Archives then, like Jon did now. Sleeping in Document Storage—a guest in a room owned by pieces of paper. Those bananas may have been the only thing that felt like his.

A Guest for Mr. Spider was about vore, technically. Not an uncommon topic in children’s literature. Some surmised that was where the fetish came from, though others maintained kinks like that were inborn, and the stories merely alerted their hosts to them for the first time. Red riding hood, three little pigs, little old lady who swallowed a fly. The Leitner touch was only the part where he drew you to his real-life lair and real-life ate you.

Looking back, that was probably the first thing he’d ever admired about Martin—how easy he’d made it look to skin a fruit. Not at the time admired, of course, but in those weeks afterward, when every banana Jon ate made him claw at the peel til his finger joints throbbed.

That stomach bug had struck the Archives with serendipitous timing, though. If he’d not found out how thin abstinence from the Hunt had made Daisy on the same day he’d barfed up a statement, Jon might not have pieced together what their combined evidence meant. Until then he’d put down his own post-coma weight loss to the fact he rarely ate more people food than a donut in twenty-four hours. Lots of avatars were scrawny, after all. Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Justin Gough, Annabelle Cane, John Amherst, Simon Fairchild. Jude Perry and Jared Hopworth could mold their respective fleshes however they wanted, so he didn’t count them as exceptions. True, Trevor Herbert’s bulk had struck him as odd; surely a homeless man wouldn’t waste cash on food his body no longer wanted. And what about Breekon and Hope? Did butterflies and a quartermaster’s pen and tongue sustain them? But maybe, Jon had told himself, it was like with alcohol. Maybe the avatars with more flesh on their bones had worked to develop a tolerance for (air quotes, heavy sarcasm) people food, for the sake of their physiques, or. So they could, he didn't know, eat socially? Without feeling sick, like Jon did whenever one of the others brought donuts.

Preposterously stupid, this theory seemed in retrospect. The truth was much simpler. It was like Jude Perry’d told him. She was strong and he was weak, because she fed her god with her actions, while Jon’s had had to resort to eating his flesh.

He wasn’t going back to live statements! That wasn’t an option; he knew that. He couldn’t feed his god with his actions. But he could have more paper ones. Maybe they were like the candles poor Eugene Vanderstock used to bring Agnes—the ones she’d sat over for hours. Hours and hours, inhaling the suffering that made them. They’d kept her strong enough, right? At least in body. All those people in charge of her care, all so much in her thrall—if she’d looked hungry one of them would’ve mentioned it in a statement.

During Jon’s school days, back when he was still trying to learn how to be a girl, this brief window had opened up right around age thirteen where the girls around him had enough self-consciousness to start developing eating disorders? But not enough to keep them secret. Thirteen had been this phase of, like, I’m a teenager now, see? I’ve got the teen angst now—SEE?! Where after they’d finished the day’s maths assignment, or while setting up microscope slides, one could overhear girls swapping self-harm anecdotes and tips for how best not to eat. Anne, whom he’d been almost friends with, went through two packs of chewing gum a day for a while. She would shove three or four sticks at a time in her mouth, then spit them back out into their wrappers as soon as they lost their flavor. Eventually they made her sick, and she switched to chain-sucking butterscotch discs. (Most artificial sweeteners, as the Eye now informed him, had mild laxative properties—including those used in gum.) Other acquaintances had brought comically large thermoses of coffee to school every day, and scurried to the toilet between classes. But it was another polyurious crowd that Jon kept thinking of, these days—the kids who would chug water every time they felt hungry. Trying to fill up on paper statements felt just like that.

He’d never understood that urge until now. Hunger was already a bad sensation; why would it help to add the further bad sensations of nausea and stomachache and cold? But now it made sense: feeling better was not the point. The point was to stop wanting more. He couldn’t get rid of the hunger, exactly—not in a way that mattered. Not the shards of glass in his belly, not the itch in his esophagus like a finger tapping behind his gag reflex, not the way simple motions like soaping his hands made his whole body ache. Not the sharpening of his senses to such a fine point that he jumped whenever Thérèse in the office above him shut her desk’s sticky drawer. (He hadn’t known that was what made the squeaky noise until a few weeks ago when the Eye decided he might like some office gossip. Even now he didn’t know which of the faces he sometimes passed up there belonged to Thérèse. She had no statements to make.) Nor the fog in his mind, though he tried sometimes to blame that on the Lonely. He couldn’t sate his hunger with paper statements—couldn’t make himself full, in the rosy way we usually connote that word. All warm and carefree and pleasantly sleepy. But he could cram the hole inside him with enough stale horrors that the temptation to chase down a fresh one momentarily left him.

And that was the new plan—to stuff himself with paper statements.

Tomorrow would mark two weeks since the day he’d first tried it. Brian from Artefact Storage had a statement to give him, Jon could feel—either Stranger or Spiral, it was hard to tell quite which. Something that caused paranoia. Not a great fit for that department. Good fit for a temple of the Eye, Jon supposed, remembering Tim and Michael Shelley. But Artefact Storage? God help him. He wondered if Elias had done it on purpose, hiring a paranoid man to work in a room full of objects that wanted him hurt. If so it must’ve been this one—this purpose. And on Wednesday mornings Brian manned the place all alone. Poor soul was already clinging to this job by a thread, though (so, Web…? That could cause paranoia too, as Jon well knew). Surely if Jon made him relive his trauma that would break it. Though perhaps that’d be a mercy. And but besides, two weeks ago Melanie had still lived here, and sat all morning between Jon’s office and Artefact Storage. Until she went to lunch. But by that time the woman whose laugh Jon could sometimes hear through the walls (Pooja, the Eye had since told him her name was) would have joined Brian. And it’d just be too weird, too risky, to go in and ask him about it with a third person in the room. Even if it wasn’t also evil.

So he’d read 0132210—the statement of Sierra Talbot, regarding a swimming pool whose depth changed every time she entered it—in hopes that’d make him quit thinking about the paranoid man down the hall. It didn’t, not really; paper statements didn’t take up as much of his attention as they used to. But he couldn’t get up and walk to Artefact Storage in the middle of one. When he finished and still couldn’t think of anything but Brian, he dug out another statement (this one from 1938, regarding a bad penny). Just to keep himself chained to his desk til lunch. And then a third (Liza Ho, attack of the killer seagulls). And by the end of that one he felt too heavy and cold inside to want to go anywhere but the couch. It made his stomach swell until it hurt to sit up straight, and the thought of shoving anything more inside made him feel sick—exactly like chugging water every time he felt hungry.

Basira had said maybe the Web just wanted to keep them so afraid of their own impulses they sat and did nothing so they couldn’t be puppeted. Maybe she was right. He’d never felt more like a spider, with his weak, skinny limbs and bloated stomach. Lying on the couch massaging other people’s horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him. Thank god he’d already given up tucking in his shirts, when he came back after the coma. Jon had worn the same trousers for three days in a row, now—shucked them off at the end of the day, hoping if he left them on the floor that’d convince him they were too dirty to wear again, and then slipped them back on over clean boxers in the morning. They were the only trousers he had that stayed up with the button left unfastened.

(Technically, the noun bloat refers to the feeling of weight or tightness in the abdomen. To describe a belly which has expanded beyond its typical size, one should use the word distended. Though these phenomena can occur separately, most people conflate them under the single word bloated. This trivia had seemed worthless when Beholding told him of it. But now he knew better. Every morning he woke up feeling like he’d had his whole torso replaced with the aching void of space, empty but for silver glints of pain that were the stars. And then he’d look down and find his belly still distended.)

Melanie and Basira didn’t know—at least not officially. They both seemed to have noticed how much more often lately they’d walked in on him recording, but Jon was pretty sure they suspected him less of bingeing on statements, more of pretending to record so as to avoid talking to them. He welcomed this misapprehension.

It was also possible they knew but declined to comment, since. Well, it was kind of a pathetic habit? Physically, a bit pathetic. Morally, though, such a big improvement over compelling statements by force that maybe they figured they ought to let him have it. If so he should be grateful, he reminded himself. Their pity, after all, was humiliating only in principle; Daisy’s teasing and concerned questions embarrassed him in practice.

“Enough navelgazing,” Daisy scoffed, but when Jon looked over at her he could see a smile creeping its way onto her face. “Look—finish the one you’re on, then come over here and I’ll. Tell you a story.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t know if it’ll count as a ‘statement,’” she said, with air quotes; “not much fear in it, more just.” She looked at the floor, then shrugged. “But it seems worth a try, yeah? Might make you feel better.”

“I-I, er. I really shouldn’t?” He meant in case it had a taste of human blood effect, but set his hand on his stomach again in hopes she’d think he meant he was too full.

“Yeah, you should. I want you to hear it.” Daisy shrugged again. “Think it might do you good to know.”

Jon turned back to his desk, unpaused the recording and wrapped up the statement. He’d quit bothering to record end notes on most of these—told himself he could add them in later, like he used to when he’d first taken this job. How proud 2016 Jon would have been to see how many statements the 2018 Archivist got through in a week.

He paused for a moment before standing up, to take as deep a breath as he could manage when stuffed full of paper. The end of that statement had gone down easier, since he’d had that few minutes’ break talking to Daisy, but he still didn’t love the idea of standing and walking. Especially since he knew once he got to the couch he’d be glued there by fatigue. If he didn’t pee now, he’d spend most of the night far enough into sleep to be paralyzed, but not far enough to numb his bladder. He excused himself to Daisy, promising to come right back. Then hauled himself up, with help from his cane and one arm of his chair.

Six limbs it took to maneuver this body now. Two more and he’d’ve gone full spider.

Three quarters of the way to the bathroom—that’s how long it took before the ache in his legs outpaced that in his stomach. He arrived on the toilet seat shaky and out of breath, as always. Months ago he’d given up standing to pee. When you sat you could rock back and forth, and cross your arms tight over waves of quease.

Not much came out, as was also usual lately. As far as Jon could tell, his body now required only enough water to keep his mouth from drying out while recording. Dehydration no longer made his head hurt, so, why bother. Good thing, too, he supposed—the last two weeks he hadn’t needed much non-metaphorical water inside for his body to parse that as needing to pee.

He let his trousers stay pooled around his ankles until after he’d washed and dried his hands. Then pulled up his shirt, to judge from his reflection whether they’d stay up with the fly undone. If he kept his hands in his pockets, yeah. Could you tell the difference, visually, once he put his shirt tails back down? Not for such a short distance. They wouldn’t have time to get disarranged.

It didn’t matter; Basira didn’t even glance at him on his way back, and all Institute staff who didn’t live here had gone home.

Jon opened the door to his office, said hello to Daisy but didn’t manage to look at her, and sat himself down on the other side of the couch. From the corner of his eye (or someone’s anyway) he saw her rise to her feet. “I’m gonna pee too,” she told him, picking her way toward the door; “get yourself comfortable, like you’re going to bed.”

“Where will you sit.”

“I’ll squeeze in.”

“I don’t mind leaving room for—?” Finally he made himself look up at her, in time to see her shake her head. Daisy hadn’t been strong on her feet either, since the Buried; she held herself up now with a hand on the doorjamb, elbow bent so her shoulder leant against that wrist. He regretted quibbling. “Never mind; I’ll just.”

“Really? You’re comfortable like that? You look like a sheep in clover.”

The knowledge came to him before he could ask her what that meant—complete with a nasty visual of what happens in cases acute enough to require rumenotomy. Jon swore he could feel himself swelling to accommodate this tidbit. His eye twitched in discomfort.

“Think I prefer ‘windbag,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

She made a face like that was grosser than what she had said. “You ruined my joke. I was gonna say I won’t let you have any more leaves til you look less like you might explode.”

“Sheep in clover suffocate,” Jon frowned; “they don’t explode. You must be thinking of how they cure them when—”

“Leaves. In. A. Book, Jon. That joke.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” He made himself chuckle.

Daisy sighed and shifted on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just lie down, alright? Like you’re going to bed.”

Jon agreed to lie down, but couldn’t decide whether to face the wall (as he would to sleep), leaving her to slide in between him and the back of the couch the way she had a few times before when she’d walked in on him catnapping, or whether he should lie on his back, where he could see her as soon as she opened the door. It was important to make sure she knew he appreciated her offer to give him a statement. Or, no—to tell him her story, he meant.

Ultimately he picked the latter course.

“You sleep like that?”

“Sometimes."

“I’ve never seen you sleep like that. You always face the wall.” Daisy crossed her arms, blew hair out of her face. “That for the tummy ache, or for me?”

“Uh….”

“Would it hurt you to face the wall.”

“No, I just.”

“Turn around, then. I’ll squeeze in,” she said again.

“I-if you’re sure.”

He rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as the cramps in his stomach swirled in new directions. What made it slosh like that, he wondered. While he fought to regain his breath Jon watched Daisy climb up onto the back of the couch on shaking elbows and knees, then avalanche down hands- and feet-first so she fit between him and its cushions. He’d never watched her do this before—always either startled out of a doze at the sound of her thumping down next to him, or simply woken up to find her there.

“You’re just like the Admiral,” he informed her.

“True words spoken in jest,” muttered Daisy. Too quietly for him to hear what she said over the couch’s tortured creaks, but half a second after she finished speaking the words appeared before his mind, in white, all-capital letters with a black background like closed captions on the news. “That’s Georgie’s cat, right?” she said aloud.

“Yes.”

Her knee jostled the cap of his; when it made him gasp she snarled under her breath. “Sorry. Can you move your leg?”

“Yes, it’s fine, just—”

“I mean would you move your leg.”

“Oh.” He did so.

“Thanks. Ugh—you’re cold,” Daisy accused him; “where’s that blanket.” He pointed behind her to the arm of the couch where it lay folded. She shook it out, and draped it over both of them. Reached around behind him to make sure it covered his whole back. Jon tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time Daisy’s weight shifted against the cushions. Finally she settled next to him to catch her breath. Their foreheads touched; her stomach pressed into his, though not as tightly as the last time they’d lain like this. “Can you breathe or am I crushing you?”

“Not at all, you’re fine—in fact, if the couch cushions are chafing you too much you can—”

Daisy huffed, and scooted herself in closer to him. “That better?” She set her warm hand down right where his belly diverged from pelvis. Jon tried to keep both voice and tremor out of his exhale. Since the coffin, Daisy’s hands and feet suffered at night and after any exertion from the same excess of heat his sometimes did. So the cold inside him probably felt nice on her hand, if not to the rest of her.

(Like snuggling up to a hotel mattress, she’d described it, after the first time she joined him for a nap when he’d just had a statement. Cold, hard, covered in lumps and dents, and creaks when you roll over on it. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he’d replied, while praying her elbow wouldn’t come any closer to the crevasse where his ribs used to be.)

“Christ you’re stuffed,” commented Daisy. For emphasis she lifted her fingers, then set them back down on his gut.

“I don’t know what you expected.”

“You won’t pop if I tell you a story?”

“Not literally,” Jon said, blinking.

“Of course not literally,” she scoffed; “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will it make you sick. Don’t want you throwing up on me; this is Melanie’s shirt. If you ruin it she’ll hit us with her cane, and I don’t trust you to hit as hard back with yours.”

“Mine’s shorter and thicker,” he mused. “I don’t have to hit as hard.”

“Stop. Avoiding. The question.”

Jon sighed to show her he capitulated. Then thought about it. He felt cold and sick, but the idea of saying no to a statement made those feelings worse, not better. And the sharp clusters of pain in his belly were harder to sleep through than quease.

“I’ll be fine,” he decided. “It’ll help.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, ask me what I used to do when I got shaky between hunts.”

--

Read part two here.

[badwithten]

〉hendery x fem!reader

〉word count 697

“I want to make a deal” You were sure you had never felt more scared in your life as you drove Hendery out to the crossroads, but the way your blood runs cold at his words changed your mind.

“No!” You scream out, trying to get in between Hendery and the creature whose energy was so foreign yet familiar. You know them, only from stories and folklore, but having them stand in front of you was a different story. 

“Keep Y/N safe, protect her from anyone and everything”

“And what will I get in return?” The smirk that comes over the man, the entities face tells you they already know the answer, they know the outcome of this bargain.

“My soul”

“Hendery stop it” You feel yourself sinking away from their reality, but you’re still present. Maybe just dragging away a little as the rest of them fade into a dreamy haze. Pleads leave your mouth for the devil to ignore Hendery and for Hendery to stop what he’s doing, but no sound comes out of your mouth. Instead, you try to move forward, pushing through the invisible fog is tiresome and no matter how far you move they never seem to get closer. 

Henderys eyes go wide as he searches the surrounding area, looking at the place where you once stood. “What did you do with her?”

“Its alright son, she’s safe, sleeping in bed” You stop your struggling and look to the devil, they give you a wink when Hendery isn’t looking. They want you to watch, want you to suffer while not harming you.

“Why did you take her now? We haven’t finished the deal, I can still back out”

“But you’re not going to are you?” They take a step forward and reach out their hand, ready to close the deal. Hendery swallows hard, eyes shut, he brings his hand up to shake it and you can see his shaking.

“Wait” Hope washes over you, you want him to take it all back, you can fight this fight together.

 “Make her forget about me” The devil runs the idea in his head, contemplating on what to do. 

“Done” There hands finally connect are you’re thrown back as if hands have gripped at your side and pull you into the darkness. But it’s not really dark, memories flash throughout your vision and for awhile you try to fight the reality that’s pulling you away but you soon run out of energy. The memories are all so familiar but they seem slightly off. The first time you meet Hendery, your first date, the time he broke your favourite mug, your third anniversary. All important days to the two of you, but one thing was different, Hendery was missing from all of them. Soon the memories start to disappear from your view as you try desperately to grip onto the last of your sanity. 

But it all goes when your back hits a bed, not a random bed but your bed. Your heart is pounding, skin covered in sweat, instinctively you reach over to the other side of the bed. But much to your surprise it’s empty. It has always been empty, there hasn’t been anyone other than you in there for the past three years, so why is it such a shock to find no one in its place? You brush the sick feeling off for hunger and make your way downstairs into the kitchen. The takeout you had gotten the night before was still in the fridge, but there was your usual order, with another half-eaten burger next to it. Did you get extra? You open the container to flick the top bun off, its not your order. And a rotten smells wafts up into your face. How long has this been in here for? You’re certain it was only last night you had gotten it. The more you think about the last week, the more your head hurts, a dizziness coming over you. You sit down at your kitchen counter, head in your hands as you try so desperately to find the answer to the questions on your mind. What are you missing?

[alouispo]

Alright- this fic is definitely going to be extremely dark. There is definitely going to be a lot of triggers in here. The reason why I wrote it so dark though is because the fiction that I've read isn't as dark as I would like, but then again I'm a very angsty person so that would make sense.

Trigger warnings// gaslighting, slight abuse, manipulation, depictions of violence, panic attacks, breakdowns, things like that- (also swearing and stuff)

Don't say i didn't warn you! (i cant put the break yet so ill do that later)

Ranboo didn't know what to expect when he went to visit Tommy in his exile. Surely he didn't expect anything good of course, but wasn't expecting anything too bad either. The Enderman hybrid could only visit the sixteen-year-old once every two weeks. If he would visit more than that, Dream would most likely prohibit him from visiting at all. Of course he would. The former vice president is in exile after all.

Walking through that Nether portal and stepping into Logstedshire, Ranboo was immediately filled with concern. Looking around the area, it seemed like the place had gone through hell and back. On the beach there were tons of Seagulls picking at what seemed like cake on the table; the place that Wilbur had built when Tommy came to exile for the first time was blown to smithereens, the tent was ripped to shreds and also blown up, and there were a bunch of random images of people from L'manburg hung up on wooden signs which were ripped brutally. 

He also noticed the huge pillar in the distance, built on top of a large hill behind Logstedshire. Ranboo didn't want to think of the worst, so he decided to just ignore it.

Deciding that maybe it was a bad time to come after he called around for a bit with no reply, Ranboo walked back through the Nether towards L'manburg, trying to stay positive as tears started to drip down his face.

Tubbo didn't ask anything when Ranboo came back from Logstedshire in silence. His presence didn't give off a good vibe compared to his usual lively self which is full of positivity. 'Something must have happened,' he thought to himself. 'But what?'

Tommy had to get away. If he didn't he would be slaughtered eventually. If he didn't get away now, he wasn't sure he would be able to survive until the end of his exile. 

The sixteen-year-old had been walking through the cold plains of the frozen biome for what seemed like hours. It was freezing oh, and he meant that literally. Also make matters worse, his clothes were worn out and he didn't have any shoes. The only bit of warmth that he kept was Wilbur's old hat. The one that he wore when he was alive. His physical and mental state didn't help him at all either. His body was weak from poor eating habits along with bruising and cuts. He didn't want to think about how he got them, so he pushed the thought out of his mind. His mental state was slowly deteriorating oh, Tommy becoming desensitized to nearly everything around him.

Not paying attention to any of his surroundings, the teenager tripped on a rock with his bare feet. The rock was unfortunately sharp and cut deep through the bottom of his foot not allowing him to walk. The cold was numbing it for a bit, so he wouldn't feel the actual pain for a while. His expression not changing, Tommy attempted to get up. The cold only pushed him down, adding the numbness of his limbs. He shivered as a harsh gust of wind pushed past him. Its not like it would matter to anyone if he decided to lay in the snow for a while. Gaining comfort in the softness of the cold, Tommy closed his eyes, promising that he would only sleep for a little bit. 

His bloodlust was strong, but how strong he didn't know. Technoblade first melted when he opened the door to throw out some rotten flesh. It made him stop in his tracks as the voices started to scream for blood. His eyes narrowed as he looked in the direction he assumed it was coming from. Being logical, the pig thought that it was just an animal that had hurt themselves badly while falling off a cliff or running into a tree, but this was different. Techno had already known what the smell of animal blood was like, he means, it's pretty common for animals to get hurt around here. This was different though. Technoblade smelled human blood, or at least something similar to human blood. The scent was so strong and made the voices scream louder, his eyes dilating with the inability to control himself.

Dropping everything that he was doing previously, and forgetting to close the doors of his house before he left, the pig trudged towards the source of what he was smelling. Even in the thick snow, his movement and eyesight were enhanced. It didn't seem to slow him down at all as he moved stealthily. He hadn't remembered the last time he felt so sensitive to everything around him. So aware.

Picking up the pace as the voices begged him to go faster, techno felt the scent getting stronger. He knew he was close, he could almost taste it. The words blood for the blood god repeated in his head over and over as he continuously got stronger. Excitement built up in his chest at the thought of a new prey.  He could see in the distance that someone was laying in the snow. 'Weak and helpless,' the voices chanted loudly. 'Kill them!' They screamed. 

Before he could obliged to the voices, techno blade paused. He was sure he recognized who was lying in the snow. Before he knew it, the voices had suddenly switched tunes, all of them saying that it was Tommy who lay there and to help him. Concerned etched into his features as the blood lust calmed down, I letting him think clearly for once. The blade examined the 16-year-old boy as he kneeled next to him. It seems that the vice president was unconscious,  and it seemed like the blood was coming from him. Searching his body and around him, he found a blood trail following Tommy for about two feet. A sharp rock caught his eye, leading him to assume that Tommy had cut his foot while walking. Picking the boy up as the thought of it getting infected filled his mind, Technoblade raced back to his house. It didn't also help how freezing cold it was, and how abnormally light the teenager was.

When he arrived to his base, the blade immediately slammed the door shut, startling Edward who was asleep with his dirt block. Technoblade climbed up the ladder rapidly and place Tommy on his bed before practically jumping back down it to get some bandages and a healing pot. Again, repeating the process of racing of the ladder, technical blade started on healing The cut on Tommy's foot. The main reason he was rushing so much was because he was afraid the voices would flip their switch again and decide that they want Technoblade to kill Tommy. After taking a few hours to heal the child, Techno took off his cape and covered the younger brother with it along with a few blankets. He wasn't sure how long the he could assume former vice president was outside in the cold. For all he knew, Tommy could have hyperthermia and also some other sickness on top of that.

The emperor took the time to examine Tommy Innit, Remembering how light the kid was when he picked him up. Tommy looked frail. He never thought of a more unfitting word to describe the former. He looked like he had barely eaten since the last time he saw him, say six or seven months ago. There were bruises on his face along with some cuts and a newly placed bandage on his nose. His golden hair that was usually fluffy and bright was dirty and matted, some sticks, leaves, and snow all mixed together in it. Every few minutes, Tommy would start shaking and hug himself before changing position and going back to sleeping like a dead man. He also noticed the bags under his eyes. Techno debated whether they were worse than his or not, but it was pretty obvious that it was terrible how he could have gotten those bags in such a short amount of time. He caught a glimpse of Tommy's forearm, which was worryingly covered in bandages.

Technoblade wanted to ask what it happened to him, but he decided it was better that he didn't for now. Climbing back down the ladder to go make some food, Techno left the child alone to sleep, preparing for when he would wake up.

[mistymark]

VIGILANTE/S V

part five // 4.0k words // superpowered!au // (sort of) gang!au // series masterlist

summary; in which you consider yourself somewhat of a vigilante.

warnings; swearing, mentions of death, weapons and killing, gang shit really

notes; this is just a filler bc the whole thing ended up being way too long but !! hope u like anyway <33

One week into living in the warehouse, you’ve got your own routine. You know what times to avoid the bathrooms, you know not to eat Chenle’s cereal – a tip from Donghyuck, who informed you that Chenle once set him on fire for doing just that – you know that Jaemin is the only one who cooks breakfast, and most of the meals eaten in the warehouse are from local takeout stores with shifty delivery guys. You know that 15 pizzas are ordered for one meal – because Jaemin eats at least 5 of them.

“My metabolism is crazy,” he explains to you on your third day there. “I’ll be hungry again in, like, 2 hours.” Mark had laughed and said that was normal for anyone here.

Donghyuck had whispered to you, “Jaemin carries around jellybeans all the time for his blood sugar. If you want to piss him off, call him Jelly Baby.”

You know that every time Jaemin is given an assignment, he brings a girl back to the warehouse, something you’d discovered when you saw Jeno sleeping on the couch in the main room the next day. You know the boy named Renjun doesn’t train, and hardly leaves his room. You know that Donghyuck sometimes snores in his sleep, now that you’re sharing his room, which actually hasn’t been so bad.

Jaehyun had you move in together the day after you met him, and he’d been really nice about it, moving half of his clothes from his wardrobe so you had space, and boxing up most of his stuff to allow more space for your things. He’d even offered to take down his sketches and drawings so you had some wall space. It was a sweet gesture, but you found his posters interesting, so you told him to keep them up.

Doyoung had gone with you to empty out your apartment – not that it had much in it – and convince your landlord to break your lease. “Your landlord has a very weak mind,” he’d said in a monotonous tone, when he was carrying a box to his car, a flashy black thing that certainly did not belong in your neighbourhood at all. The dilapidated, crumbling buildings surrounding you were brown and dirty, the streets grey and filled with potholes, the people who inhabited the area looking just as worn. Doyoung, on the other hand, was clean and sharp, wearing fitted black jeans and a clean white tee. His shoes were almost as shiny as his car, which made you feel slightly self-conscious when you noticed how much he stood out here.

“He’s pretty much given up on life,” you’d agreed, which earned you a smirk from him. It was true, your landlord was a chubby, pot-bellied man who wore nothing but baggy, ill-fitting jeans and old t-shirts with various food stains on them. You’ve never seen him leave the building, and you often wonder if he knows what a shithole the place is.

“I can’t believe you actually lived here,” he looked up at the building, at the brickwork that was being held together by mould rather than concrete, at the wooden window frames that were rotten and splitting apart, at a window that was recently broken, now being blocked by a curtain taped across the panel – at the place you once called home.

Well, not necessarily. It hadn’t felt like home since your dad had died, if you were being truthful.

“You live in a warehouse with criminals,” you reminded him.

“We live in a warehouse with criminals,” he cracked a smile at you, taking the box from your hands and placing it in the boot of his car.

“At least my roommate only kills himself,” you mumbled on the drive back.

“Donghyuck wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Doyoung laughed. “He’d probably kill himself if a fly started a fight with him, just so he wouldn’t have to fight it and win.”

You watched the buildings go by – Doyoung drove slower than the elderly, you were sure – and all the industrial warehouses with cute, bright signs advertising children’s toys and courier services, wondering how many of them were a front for another operation, like Jaehyun’s. “Do you think Donghyuck can die? For real?”

Doyoung was silent for a moment, then, slowly, he said, “We have our speculations. We can’t know for sure, though. And none of us really want to.” You gave a small smile to him, though he was too focused on the road ahead to see it. When you’d first come to the warehouse, you were sure no one liked him, since no one seemed devastated by the fact that he was dead. Now, you knew he was family to them.

“You have a cassette player?” Donghyuck was supposed to be helping you unload your stuff into your now shared room, but he was mostly just being nosy, going through your boxes and not actually putting anything away.

“Uh, yeah,” you throw a glance over your shoulder, seeing Donghyuck sitting on his bed, rifling through one of your boxes. “It was my dad’s.”

He nods, gently putting it on the bed. He doesn’t ask any questions about it, or your family, which you’re grateful for, but it makes you think he doesn’t have any family of his own.

You know Donghyuck is the most open out of all of the team, but you also know not to ask any personal questions.

You know a lot of things after living in the warehouse for a week. You know that Jaehyun drinks tea in the mornings and coffee at night, that Doyoung cannot access Chenle’s mind. You know that Donghyuck is definitely not a morning person, and that he exclusively wears black, as if he’s always ready for a funeral. Maybe that’s exactly the reason; some kind of sick joke surrounding his immortality.

Most importantly, you now know how to survive Johnny’s training sessions. You’ve trained with most of the team, mostly the Shields – Jeno, Jaemin, Mark and Chenle – as their powers manifest physically, and are easier to control, but Johnny has also been helping you use his ability. “You’re smaller and weaker than the rest of the team, and most Shields in general,” he’d said, eyes roaming your body. It was the first time anyone’s ever looked at you like that without making you feel objectified. “If I’m around, my ability may be the difference in whether you win or lose a fight. Try again, and focus on me.” As if you already weren’t.

He’d hunkered down and gestured for you to begin. With the other members around, you could take Johnny down in less than a minute now. Alone, it took you upwards of 10 minutes.

The day you officially move into the warehouse, you’re exempt from training with the Shields, but Donghyuck takes the opportunity to teach you gunmanship.

“I’ve used a gun before, you know,” you say, but after 10 shots you still haven’t managed to hit the target. The firing range isn’t small, located in the basement of the warehouse, which you didn’t even know existed, but you should have been able to at least hit the target once.

He laughs, picks up the gun and nails the target’s centre 5 times in a row, “So have I. Do you want to be able to actually hit your target, though?” The hole in the centre of the target looks about twice the width of the bullet, made from the bullets hitting basically in the same spot each time.

He puts a hand on your shoulder, adjusting the position of your shoulders, then places one on your lower back, adjusting your posture. You’re stiff, and you know it. He clears his throat and steps back, “Go.”

You brace yourself and shoot, the bullet going straight through the target’s stomach.

“Not too bad,” he nods in approval, holding his hand out for the gun and easily changing the clip in three quick motions. He offers the gun back to you, “Again.”

“You sound like Johnny,” you say when you take it from him. You deepen your voice as low as possible to mimic your trainer and the short, efficient way he speaks, “Again. Stop. Go. Try again. Up.”

Donghyuck lets out a loud laugh that immediately brings a smile to your face. “That was amazing.” He sits down and leans back, a hand pressed against his stomach as he laughs, mimicking your imitation. You join him on the floor, resting your back against the wall and leaning over to grab the bag of potato chips he’d brought down with you. “Have you ever shot someone?”

He reaches over and steals a few chips, as if it was the most normal question in the world. But, there’s a slight shake in his voice when he speaks, “Shot? Yes. Killed? No.”

“Who?” He shoots you a sideways glance and you lower your head, “Sorry.” No personal questions.

The heavy stench of awkward silence settles over you. He breaks it, “Johnny.”

You don’t know what to say except, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” he swallows thickly. “It was an accident. Obviously.”

You’re about to ask what happened when you’re interrupted by someone coming down the stairs. Neither of you had bothered to shut the door to the firing range, giving anyone going up or down the stairs a full view of what you were doing. Jaehyun stops when he sees you both, sitting on the floor of the firing range, sharing a bag of potato chips. He doesn’t look at you, focusing on Donghyuck. He clears his throat, “Are you training, Hyuck?”

Donghyuck’s eyes are wide and innocent when he answers, “Teaching Y/n how to shoot.”

Jaehyun’s eyes move from the two of you to the target and back again, but he doesn’t say anything about the lack of holes in it. “Johnny’s ordering Chinese – if you want anything, let him know. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

He continues and you turn to Donghyuck, “Where’s he going?”

“Garage,” Donghyuck says, through a handful of chips. “Do you want the rest of these?” He offers the bag to you. You shake your head.

“What else is down here?”

“Weapons vault, garage, the range,” he answers distractedly, too focused on getting the last of the flavouring from the bag. “The gym…” his voice trails off.

When he’s satisfied that the bag is indeed empty, he stands up, offering his hand out to you to pull you up, “Jaemin takes ten minutes to pick what he wants to eat, so if you have a preference, we should probably tell Johnny now.”

You take his hand and let him pull you up, reaching for the gun that lays on the ground, “Where-?”

“I’ll take it,” he takes it, quickly turning the safety on and reaches around to his back, tucking the weapon into the back of his black jeans.

Your second day of training was with Chenle, in the gym, which looked more like the inside of an asylum than anything. Everything was clean and a pale, almost-white shade of grey, and the entire ceiling was a cloudy glass panel that illuminated the room, giving the room a bright and energetic yet sterile feel. The equipment was state-of-the-art, a dark contrast to the overall lightness to the room, and floor to ceiling mirrors took up two of the walls. There was a stack of clean towels in the corner, and a few televisions across the room, visible from each machine. A smaller version of the Super fight ring was situated at one end of the long room. Yet, the thing that shocked you the most was the bright blue flooring, an odd design choice.

Chenle was the least helpful out of the Shields in the team, watching you train with his ability, critiquing your control and your movements with a stern eye. “Wrong. Try again. Make it hotter this time, or you’ll do no damage.” As if to gloat, he held a hand up, and a dangerous blue flame engulfed it. Your own flame, a measly bright orange, wavered.

The entire time you’d trained with him, he’d done nothing but glare and criticise you. You were sure he hated you, or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t the only one who had his ability anymore.

Yet, as he was leaving to eat, he’d nodded in approval at you, “Good. We’ll train together again soon, I’m sure.” It was the most he’d said to you. Actually, if you added up everything he has said to you, it would still be less words than were in that sentence.

Basically, he hadn’t spoken to you much all week.

Jaemin, however, was the opposite, and the person you’d trained with the day after Chenle. If anything, he was too kind and too understanding - he barely helped you.

“It’s okay if you can’t run as fast as me, yet,” he’d assured you with a smile, his hands on your shoulders. His smile was wide and encouraging, his eyes kind, and you instinctively knew he was a heartbreaker. No one with a smile like that has ever been heartbroken, you’d thought. His flirtatious manner was also a dead giveaway.

Your suspicions were only confirmed when he’d been sent on an assignment at the Den, and entered the kitchen the day after looking a little too happy. A girl had snuck out a few minutes later, looking only slightly embarrassed as she tried to pull her shoes on and find the exit at the same time. Jaemin had just stood in the kitchen and smiled at her as he ate his toast, not even bothering to show her out.

“You’ll have to eat a lot tonight,” he informed you at the end of your training. “And make sure you don’t have any training tomorrow morning, because you’ll be out for a while since this is your first time testing your stamina with my ability.”

He was right; you were exhausted after only two hours with him. When you’d told him just that, his smile widened and he winked at you. You laughed and shook your head at him, throwing your towel at him, “I’m going to shower.” He opened his mouth but you shot him a stern look, “Do not ask to join me.”

His easy-going smile remained on his face as he shrugged nonchalantly, “Worth a shot.” He bent down to pick up his drink bottle and began tidying up the gym as you left.

The person that surprised you the most was Jeno. His ability was easy enough to control, since you could control when you wanted the super strength, but he was happy to train you in preparation for your own training with Johnny.

“I guess it’s easy if you can control when you want to use someone’s ability, since your emotions don’t get in the way,” he’d said, as he wound his fist up with tape and gauze. “But if we’re not around, you need to be able to defend yourself with just your, uh, body.”

You nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Keep a clear head and be logical. Johnny is the only one that can see what you’re about to do, so unless you’re fighting him, think about what you’re doing.” The intense look is back in his eyes when he looks up from his wrapped hands, checking to see if you’re listening, as you haven’t said anything. You can easily see why the others would hate fighting him – he’s smart and he’s dangerous. “If you don’t think, you’ll… you’ll get hurt.” Something in his voice has changed, but it’s gone when he speaks again, “You’re no use if you’re dead.” You quirk an eyebrow at him and he juts his chin up at you, “Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says and he steps forward and begins wrapping your hand delicately. It’s far neater than you’d expected.

“Were you a boxer?”

He lets out a humourless laugh, “No. I’ve just been in a fair few fights.” You try not to react, but he can see what you’re thinking when he looks up. “Relax, most of them walked away just fine.”

“Most?” He doesn’t respond, and you take the hint that he does not want to talk about it.

He’s actually quite a good trainer, you discover, and teaches you the strongest ways to take someone down. He’s less talkative than Jaemin, but his instructions are clear and easy to follow, and at the end of your session, you’re able to do basic sparring with him.

“It’s 6,” he says, looking up at the wall of the gym. Without even a goodbye, he grabs his drink bottle and gym bag, lightly jogging up the steps to head to his room.

That night, you ate dinner with Mark and Jaemin. Well, you ate while they played video games. Jaemin shared a room with Jeno, but you hadn’t seen him since your training session. Empty pizza boxes were stacked by the door, and you counted at least 5. Your own box was sitting beside you on Jeno’s bed, while Jaemin and Mark sat side by side on Jaemin’s bed, their eyes glued to the TV screen that hung on one wall. Their room was a lot more… normal than you’d expected. Donghyuck’s was a giveaway that he was a Super – or a psychopath, either worked – with the blood and the diagrams and the journals and the weapons stacked in boxes around the room.

Jeno and Jaemin’s room was fitted out with their beds, desks, wardrobes, bean bag chairs, an old gaming console and a flatscreen TV. A few movie posters and celebrities were on the wall, and old photos. Only Jaemin had photos, and even so, there were only a few taped to the wall above his bed’s headboard. You couldn’t make out any details from where you were sitting.

Mark’s reflexes were no match for Jaemin’s, and he lost almost every round, making you wonder why he still agreed to play.

“Hey, should I save some of this for Jeno?” You asked, staring at the pizza still remaining in the box. There were only three left, and part of you wondered if it would even be enough. The other part of you thought it would at least be polite to offer.

“Nah, he won’t be back til tomorrow,” Jaemin doesn’t even turn around in his seat, his eyes frantically following his character as it moves across the screen.

“Huh. Okay,” you pick up another slice just as the game ends and Jaemin turns to throw another wide grin at you.

“That means my room’s free for the night, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He laughs at the look of exasperation on your face.

When his attention is away from you again, you say, “Jaehyun sure keeps you guys busy.” There’s only a little bit of bitterness in your voice; you’d been with the team for four days and the only time you’d left was to sort out your apartment. Apparently, you weren’t ready for any assignments yet.

“Huh? Jaehyun has him on an assignment?” Mark’s confusion gets your attention, as he turns to look at Jaemin with a furrowed brow. This was clearly unusual – or, at least, news to him.

Jaemin barely glances at you as he responds, “Nah, he’s visiting his girlfriend.”

“Jeno has a girlfriend?” You ask, only slightly shocked. It wasn’t like you’d thought about their love lives, but you’d just assumed everyone was single. It went with the job description.

“Yeah,” Jaemin nods. “She lives on the other side of the city somewhere. At one of the colleges. He normally goes after trainings on Fridays, since it’s the only night she’s not studying.”

Even without seeing your face, he can sense your surprise.

“Don’t ask him about it, though. He’s very reserved when it comes to her. Doesn’t want any of us to know much about her. I don’t even know her n-”

Mark laughs when he finally manages to kill Jaemin, and Jaemin pouts and rolls his eyes, insisting he was too focused on you to play. “You’re such a baby,” Mark laughs louder, and Jaemin swats at him. His hand moves so fast you barely even see it hit Mark’s arm. “Ow! Dude!”

“One more game, come on,” Jaemin insists, turning back to the screen. Then he raises his voice, “Anyway, Y/n, he won’t even tell us her name, let alone anything else about her. So don’t bring it up.”

“Or he’ll literally chokeslam you,” Mark adds, which, for some reason, makes them both laugh loudly.

You nod, despite the fact they can’t see you, and go back to eating your pizza, “I’ve got next game!”

Mark sighs in relief, “Gladly.” Jaemin’s competitiveness was beginning to wear him out.

The following day, Mark taught you the basics of shape shifting. He was the latest addition to the team – other than you – and his control was even worse than yours. “Shape shifting is really difficult,” he giggled, nervously. “If you’re not 100% imagining what you want to be, you’ll turn into something way different. But don’t panic, it will restrict your ability to change back.”

Over the course of the day, you’d shifted into birds, mice, elephants, leopards, any creature you could think of. Though, you had humiliated yourself when he went to get snacks during your break, greeting and talking to the large dog that came trotting down the stairs, as if it were Mark.

“What are you doing?” He’d laughed when he walked back into the gym, snacks in hand.

You’d been at a loss for words, your cheeks immediately becoming inflamed. “I- I thought that was you,” you pointed at the dog, which was panting as it sat down on the stack of towels in the corner of the room.

“That’s Bruce, Renjun’s dog,” Mark explained, tossing you a can of iced coffee. “Don’t tell Jaemin you drank his coffee.”

You paused, the opened can raised to your lips. You lowered it, slightly, “Why does Jaemin need coffee if he already operates at like 10 times the speed we do?”

“For after he crashes,” Mark shrugs. “Sometimes speed isn’t everything.” He laughs at his own joke, “If he doesn’t sleep enough, he’ll still be exhausted. Sometimes he can’t afford to sleep more than 12 hours, so he relies on coffee.” He cocks his head to the side as he examines his can.

Later, when you’re sitting on the floor after successfully shapeshifting into cockroaches, you ask, “Have you ever tried turning into other people? Can you do that?”

“Yes, but – I really have to know what the person looks like. Like, I can imagine a dog and turn into a dog because any small details that I remember incorrectly will go unnoticed by a human,” he gulps down his cola. “Humans are more complex – one small detail could make me look totally different to the person I’m trying to copy.”

“Change into me, then,” you sit up straighter. “If you can see me, surely you won’t have to rely on your memory, right?”

He shrugs and locks his eyes onto you. You’d seen him transfer from human to horse, from sheep to frog, but somehow seeing him change from himself to you was more disturbing. His skin ripples and his bones make disturbing popping noises as they change, and you wonder if it hurts, even though you had shape shifted multiple times and knew it didn’t hurt at all.

Within a few seconds, right before your eyes… is you. “Hello,” he says in your voice.

“Okay, fuck that, change back,” you tell him, looking away. “That’s so creepy. Brilliant, but creepy.”

When he laughs, it sounds like him again, and you let your eyes drift back to where was sitting. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His eyes, not your own.

You could have so much fun with this ability, reminding yourself to try it on Donghyuck later.

You tell Mark this as he tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth, and you both stretch out on the gym floor, laughing at all the pranks you could easily pull on the other members of the team.

[talkfastromance4]

Crushed&Caffeinated-- Ashton Irwin

Not requested. Had a shit day. Had too much coffee and this happened. Ashton brings out the angst in me. This turned out longer than I expected, I was just letting off some steam but tell me what you think.

P.S I know the basis of this concept is weird but this was my day today soo...yeah

Word Count: 1558

Masterlist

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. *copyright is listed below*

• • • •

Horrible days just seem to be a norm for you lately. You’d made multiple errors at work, and felt the cold, hard stares from a co-worker because of the mess you’d made. It’s not like you didn’t fix it, but you still felt the guilt eat away at you. And when the guilt eats away at you, it doesn’t leave any room for you to eat actual food for sustenance.

You blamed your bad misfortune on the fact that it’s a Monday, that your period is coming soon, that there was just a full moon and has left you all out of whack. The more you thought about it, the more it made your stomach turn so you just poured yourself another cup of coffee. 

Coffee became the main meal for you for the rest of the day. Not only were you worked up about the error you made at work, but now your body was buzzing with caffeine. It made your mind race a thousand miles a minute, it left you fuzzy. 

By the time you came home--expectant of cuddles from your boyfriend and maybe a hot bubble bath with Ashton massaging your shoulders--your whole body was buzzing. Your hands had a slight shake to them as you unlocked the door, excited to see him on the other side. You came home at the same time every day and at that same time he’d be waiting for you. It always made you smile because it reminded you of a puppy, and the way he looked at you made your stomach flip in an entirely different way. 

When you opened the door, Ashton isn’t there. With shoulders slumping you continue your way in, calling for him as if he just forgot the time but the house is empty, much like your stomach. With a racing heart, you head to the kitchen and start the coffee machine. Caffeine has been your only friend today; it’s kept you going even when you wanted to stop.

By the time he gets home, your first cup almost gone, Ashton shuffles in through the door, his voice loud and excited but it only hurts your ears. You swallow down the last of your coffee and the trembling in your hands stop.

“Hey angel, sorry I’m late. I picked up some food and it took longer than usual,” he smiles setting a brown paper bag onto the counter.

The smell of teriyaki and fried rice fills your nostrils. On a normal day it would have made your mouth water, but today is not a normal day and it made your stomach reel instead.

“Not hungry,” you mutter and move to the coffee pot to pour another cup. It’s as if your brain is on a racetrack, it’s moving in a constant circle, faster and faster. You’re more than buzzing, you’re. . . a humming and whirring machine about to overheat and explode. You’re a ticking time bomb and Ashton knows it.

“How many cups have you had today?” he asks gently, his fingers moving to grab the mug from you. You swat him away.

“Dunno, lost count in the afternoon.”

“Have you eaten?” he asks as you open the sugar packet. He notices the way your fingers are shaking as you pour it in your cup.

“Not much,” you mumble.

“Y/N,” he stresses your name, he uses the tone that would normally make your thighs quiver. His large hand covers yours, stopping your motions of pouring the sugar in. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“Y/N,” he stresses again, using his other hand to grab hold of your jaw. You fight him for a moment but he’s too strong and he forces you to look at him, but you avert your gaze. He grunts in agitation and shakes your head just roughly enough so you’re forced to look into his hazel eyes. “Your pupils are huge, you haven’t eaten anything, have you?”

Your answer is by looking down in shame, but your heart is hammering against your chest, the racetrack in your head is getting louder and louder and you need to quiet the buzz. He knows you use caffeine as a scapegoat, as if it would chase away the feeling you were trying to run away from.

“What happened?” he asks, he loosens his hold on your jaw and the steam from your coffee is making your palm sweat. His hand still covering yours over the mug.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

He sighs heavily, hazel eyes searching yours. “Okay. C’mon.”

He releases his holds on you and starts to walk away. You use this as your chance to finish stirring in your creamer and then you’re flung over Ashton’s shoulders. His hands are strong on the backs of your thighs and you’re smacking his butt and back with your fists, demanding to be put down.

He only sets you down when you’re in his music room and you’re right next to his drum kit. He hands you his sticks. You look at the small pieces of wood in your hands then back up at him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You don’t want to talk about it, so let it out this way. I’m getting you a gallon of water and some rice because you need to get out of this buzz.”

Then he’s left the room and you fall onto his stool. Your fingers squeeze the drumsticks as you stare at his instrument, he never lets anyone play them. Even for you it’s rare, but when you do it’s only when he’s trying to teach you to play.

The way he plays makes it look like a dance. How his movements are so controlled yet so freeing blows your mind. You love how passionate he is, the passion evident in his face and the force he hits the song in, it’s mesmerizing.

“I’m not hearing anything,” he says, pulling you quickly from your thoughts. He strides over to you, grabs your hands, and makes you hit random drums. “Go! Hit! Let out whatever it is I know you’re bottling up.”

And just like that, it’s as if his own shouts finally flipped the switch that you shut off hours before. You grip the drumsticks a bit harder and pound away. You’re sure you aren’t hitting with a rhythm but the louder it gets and the harder you hit, you feel it in your bones. The horrible day is rippling out of you, you’re hitting it with force and intent and to stop the constant buzzing in your head.

Ashton is egging you on, he even smacks the cymbals a few times as you let loose. Hot tears sting your eyes, when it blurs your vision and you can’t see what you’re hitting anymore, that’s when you stop. Chest heaving, tears falling, you let the sticks clatter to the floor and Ashton wraps you in his arms letting you cry the rest of your anger out.

“Can you drink some of this for me?” he asks kissing the top of your head.

You jerk your head away from his chest to see him holding up one of his large water bottles. You can see the condensation on the plastic, ice cold water will feel good. With a shaking hand, you guide the bottle to your mouth and suck on the straw. In response to the freshness of the cold water, your eyes close as you feel the liquid travel through your body. It’s cooling you from the inside out, you can practically feel it flush out your system.

“Okay, okay, not too much. I don’t want you to get sick,” he pulls the bottle away and some water slips over your chin. He’s quick to wipe it away with his thumb. He kisses your head again, and then once more. “Eat some rice with me.”

After you shared a carton of rice with him, he gave you some more water then rubbed your back. He cradles your cheeks in his hands inspecting your eyes again.

“There you are,” he smiles lightly, “how about we take a cool shower and finish the food?”

“Okay,” you whisper. He gives you a featherlight kiss, but his love holds so much more weight in it.

“Okay,” he smiles. He helps you up leading you into the master bathroom.

You snatch up the clothes you both sleep in setting them on the sink. He undresses you carefully, making sure to hold your hand as you step under the lukewarm water. It washes away your stress and worry, and just when you feel like you’re about to crumble again, Ashton’s strong arms are around you.

“Thank you,” you tell him kissing the center of his chest. You get a small taste of him from the water on your lips, so you kiss him a few more times.

“One of these days your caffeine high is going to make you run away from me.”

You tilt your head up, the water falling along your face as you look at him. His face is smooth, but his eyes are filled with worry, his dimple shadowed in his frown.

“That will never happen,” you shake your head stretching up on your toes to get a proper taste of his lips.

His kisses are sweeter than any cup of coffee.

• • • •

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

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[duker42]

I hope this filters through the requests at some point but I would just love to see a one off of Mikasa and Levi being attached to the same host. I would just love to see their dynamic and the type of relationship reader would have with each of them.

💜Ackermans💜

She loved them both, she really did. But there were days that Y/N wanted to choke both of the raven haired sacks of angsts with the last name Ackerman.

She had no idea how the hell it happened, but both of them had bonded with her. Mikasa had happened when she had saved the girl. While she was known as the Girl Worth 100 Soldiers, her inexperience on the actual battlefield allowed for some rookie mistakes.

She had misjudged an attack and had her wires caught by a Titan. Y/N had swooped in and sliced the fingers off, grabbing the girl when her gear jammed before she could slam into the ground. She hadn’t realized what she had done when the girl had looked up at her in amazement, just nodded at her from the roofline and taken off again.

“Y/N! Be careful!” She rolled her eyes as Levi yelled out a command to her. She had been with the man for twenty five years. She would have thought he would worry a bit less about her.

She had grown up with Levi. Taking care of him after his uncle Kenny had “taught him a lesson.” From that day forward, Levi had watched over Y/N like she was made of glass. Sometimes annoying in his worry about her.

He was pushy. Not ‘Have you eaten enough?’, but more like ‘Eat, brat’. He fussed in his own way. He would make sure that she was warm enough, always handing over extra blankets to her on cold nights, even though she knew they were his own. Claiming he wasn’t going to sleep, but he always nagged her about her own rotten sleep schedule.

Now that there were two of them, it was even worse. Mikasa worried that she was pushing herself to hard, that she wasn’t strong enough. Levi countered that she needed to train more, become stronger to face their cruel world. They were bickering amongst themselves and driving her up a fucking wall.

It was funny to see a grown ass man stare down and argue with a girl half his age over the idea that Y/N should go to bed because of how tiring the day was. Y/N had watch, it was her turn as the they were holed up in the little cabin. Mikasa had tried to take it, making Levi angry at the raven haired girl for trying to interfere.

“I think I know what’s best for my wife, Cadet.” Levi seethed as he narrowed his eyes at her, daring her to chat back at him.

Mikasa kept her mouth shut, but steam was rolling out of the girl’s ears.

“Both of you, stop! I’m sick of this!” Y/N glared at both of them as she came to stand in front of them, hands on her hips.

Her glare worked wonders. Mikasa’s face fell, and while Levi’s expression didn’t change, his eyes did as he turned towards the woman he loved.

“Y/N...I...” Mikasa started.

Y/N held her hand up to silence her. “Stop. Now...Mikasa, Levi is your Captain. Despite what you might think, he does have my best interests at heart, along with everyone else’s. Did you stop to think that maybe he wanted me to stand watch so he could have a few hours with his wife away from the prying eyes of the squad?”

Mikasa’s bashful expression and red cheeks told her she didn’t have a clue that that was the reason that Levi was arguing with her about this.

She turned to her husband. “And you...don’t think you are off the hook. Arguing with her isn’t going to do anything but cause a problem in the squad. You are both bonded to me...I get it, you were here first. But you also need to understand her viewpoint as well. Walls Levi! You are thirty years old, not fifteen. Try to act like it.”

She turned on her heel and walked away from both of them. Each one wearing a cowed expression like they had been scolded. They had been and they knew it. Again they had stepped over the line in their need to protect her.

She shook her head as she walked out to the platform to stand watch. “Ackermans.” She muttered, rolling her eyes.

Mobile MasterList

[actor-mark]

Red Candles Pt 15

OOC: How to vote: Send your choice in an ask to this blog. Comments, reblogs and dms will not count as I do not get notifications for them nor do I want to screenshot from several places. I’ve spotted a couple of older choices coming through, please make sure to check by the blog to be up to date with the latest post! Thank you!

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Glitchy Arrow

You feel a little frazzleD, so many directions to go, so many ways to turn, at this point anything could be a sign. As much as you’d have liked to have left, you feel this need to follow the glitching arrOw and sigh heavily as you make your way to the elevator.  Out of Order.  Of course it is... Welp. Stairs it is!  There’s aNother flicker in the lights, then another, then another, leading down the stairs... Much like the arrow you feel the need to follow the hopefully faulty wiring and begin the descent downstairs. 

You watch the floor numbers. 1. G. LL. BL. Finally the stairs run out as things grow very cold down here. It’s dark and foreboding and the only thing down this low in a hospital is likely noT where you want to ever end up.  ɥⅎ ɯɹʅꝹ

Carefully you push the heavy fire door open into the icy cold room and the motion trigger lights flicker into life, one of them continuing to flicker in the corner and like before you venture over in that direction. It goes still once you reach the area but there doesn’t seem to be any other indication as to what you’ve been lead to. 

You cast a glance over the various cadaver fridges and their labels. No real indication to anything. Why are you here? 

“ZOMBIE!!! AAHH!!!” 

You nearly jump out of your skin as you reel around just in time to see a metal tray come swinging for your head. You quickly duck, then duck again as the tray comes back for another swing, quickly backing off with your hands up shaking your head.  The man pauses, looking you over then slowly lowers the tray “Wh- .. y-youre not a- D-DONT SCARE ME LIKE THAT! Yikes.... “ He ran a hand over his face and slowly set the tray back where it belonged.  “Sorry about that... You spend so long with a bunch of bodies not moving and suddenly see movement when you’ve been alone for hours it kinda-.. aheh... oh- uh... Are you alright? You don’t look so good? ... C-Come over here let me take a look at you” 

Now that the Doctor mentions it, you’ve felt really tired and exhausted, a little sluggish. Maybe you are sick? Still, maybe the doctor has some answers for you? You agree to head over to the stool and let him take a look at you.  “Hmm lets see here. Cold temperature? That’s not Good” It’s the room temperature but hey.  “Hmm frantic eyes” He shines a very bright light right in your face and instinctively you retract. That flash light could have burnt a hole in your face! Geez!  “hmm, sensitivity to light” No shit sherlock! The heck was that? A hand held sun? “Say ahhh” You open your mouth for him to see inside. “Ahhh” ...... “ahh- no?” He pauses to look at you again “hm... Not good”  The doctor scribbled a few things down before slowly taking off his head mirror and running a hand over his mouth “I-.... Im ... Im sorry-..... You’re dying” He spoke it so dramatically. Perfect for any sort of hospital drama on TV.  You lift an eyebrow at him. Dying? SurE. Besides the fatigue -which is most likely from all the rabbit holes you’ve been sent down and the fact that by now it’s probably close to 8am with how long you’ve been at this, you’ve not had any sleep or breakfast. You shake your head but he shakes his head back

“I’m sorry.. I can make iT quick for you, you wont have to suffer”  Whoa whoa whoa!  “Hold still”  HANG ON A SEC-

The deed was done before you even had a chance! This psycho doctor just up and smacked you around the head with the silver tray and out went the lights!  What the hell dude! Worst. Doctor. Ever.  The knock out certainly didn’t kill you, but the five or six whacks to your skull afterwards certainly did the trick to finish you off...  puǝᴉɹᖵ ʻǝɯoɔʅǝϺ

Death isn’t so bad though. Nice and dark, calming, peaceful. Like being asleep- or..well.. that’s what it should have been. As you slowly blink open your eyes to look around, you see your body being stuffed into one of the cadaver fridges and Dr. Iplier wander out muttering a song to himself. What a nut job...  Movement however catches your eye and you see someone trying to open one of the fridges. They weren’t there before.  You venture closer, tapping them on the shoulder, they turn to face you and you can’t help but stumble back in surprise. Faceless.  as you scramble back in shock you bump into someone else, whirl around, another faceless person! Your eyes quickly catch sight of the other 8 figures without faces in the room. 

This is some sort of nightmare surely? Another of Marks tricks!? You back away staring in horror but as you watch the group of faceless people they all begin to point in the direction of one fridge in particular. 

Slowly you realize they’re trying to help you, gather yourself enough to move again and wander over to the fridge.  Moving in death is ..hard. It’s like trying to wade through sludge. The air is thick and heady. Like trying to wade through neck deep swamp mud and the more you move the tighter in holds. After 2 steps you’re unable to move and end up holding still.  One of the faceless beings, wearing what appears to be prison cLothing, looks to you, then seems to glitch out before appearing by the fridge they pointed at. Another dressed in casual clothing and featuring multiple shark bite wOunds does the same, glitching out and reappearing by the fridge unit.  .sn ǝɹɐ no⅄ .noʎ ǝɹɐ ǝϺ

You get the idea, you’ve seen this before after all. Movement is hard, you have to will yourSelf over there instead. And you do. With a familiar flicker and glitch you appear at the fridge. You learnt from the best after all.  

Carefully you manage to glitch open the fridge to see the body inside or raTher what’s been stuffed inside with it.  A candelabra! 

Black sleek and exactly what you’ve been hunting own this entire time! There’s just one problem... No candles.  You take another look at the body inside. A mangled and rotten set of remains. Chewed to pieces by an alligator maybe. You recognize the grey suit...  Curiosity takes you and you cant help but start pulling open the other fridges.  Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark.  Mark. All of them. Death by falling, death by being eaten, death by hole to the chest, death by anchor, death by being punched through a prison wall, death by gunshot- the list goes on. 

Slowly you back away with the candelabra, a ghostly hand reaching to touch your shoulder and you whirl around. Suddenly you realize who these people are. They have no names.  Or rather. They have YOURS.  It’s a strange feeling but you understand these people are in the same situation as you. You nod to them and they nod back before pointing you to the work bench in the middle of the room.  Glitching over to it much like Darkiplier you get the drawer open. 

Before you lie the following objects:  - Scalpel - Syringe - Tweezers - Forceps  - Claw Hammer - Lighter - Empty Test Tube - Pen

You’re not sure why they pointed you here, its not like you can light that lighter in your current state, now you think of it youre not sure how you have this candelabra at all, but the way it’s glitching with you suggests it may not exist on the living side.  .ʞɔɐq noʎ puǝs uɐɔ ǝϺ

Youre a little stumped and not sure what to do here. 

Your choices are as follows: 

Offer the Candelabra to the Y/N’s Maybe they know where the candles are? But there’s still the task of trying to light them.. Is this even the right one? 

Is that a light? The door you came through is glowing in a weird way, it’s soothing, calling, you could go open the door and see friends again, family, you hear your name being called... You’re so tired.... A nap sounds great... 

.....

......

No. 

You shake your head. 

Your choice has been made for you. 

You Offer The Candelabra To The Y/N’s.... 

OOC: Tomorrows option has been made for you. You’re close to the end friends!  I ask that you take todays vote to send me your thoughts, feelings, what youve enjoyed and what youve disliked on this adventure! I as the writer have very much enjoyed seeing the reasons behind your votes and the theories others have worked on! I’m over the moon with how well this turned out and you can bet I’ll do another in future.  This CYOA has helped a lot with planning for ANWM2 (a discord based CYOA) and you can bet I’ll post the discord link here when its ready to go (itll be a while!)  thank you everyone for being on this journey!

[theforce]

presumptive horrible rotten case of corona: symptoms

presumptive bc i couldnt get a god damn test i live in new york and while there are testing sites all over the state and our state govt is doing what they can now, i don’t want to be the person taking away a test from someone else especially now that i am mostly better, most of this went down at the beginning of the month and i’m still dealing with the effects of it. 

there was a lot of confusion here even as recent as 2 weeks and we are the state that’s testing more than the rest of the entire country so here is my account of what went down w me, and honestly, what might go down with you or someone you know as soon as this reaches your state

1) i threw up all night long, thought it was a stomach virus, had a lot of stomach issues for like 24 hours, very strange i haven’t had a stomach virus in YEARS since i was a literal child, anyways right before i started puking up my life i developed this weird cough, it felt like it was from my throat, like i was trying to clear it? but it was often and annoying 

2) after my 24 hours of hell i felt feverish and exhausted but i chalked it up to being on the floor of the bathroom all night, exerting my esophagus and body to throw up the devil himself, i tried to sleep it off, i woke up a few hours later in a fog, i was shivering but i was also burning up, i couldn’t tell left from right, up from down, my fever was 100.3, at this point i had my mom call my doctor and make an appointment, she made it for me w the receptionist, everything was fine until 20 minutes later i got a call back from my actual doctor not the receptionist who was like, oh no not you’re not coming here with those symptoms baby and i was like ?? ok cool thanks, she said to keep watching my symptoms, slam some tylenol and if i felt shortness of breath to call or text her personal cell phone and she would get me set up at the nearest hospital i said ok sounds fucked up i mean i didn’t say that bc i was too fucked up to even speak, she also gave my mom instructions to keep me in my room, to not go near me, to give me a designated bathroom, to have food and water delivered to my door, my mom was like u dont gotta tell me twice (she has lupus) during this time my cough become dry and horrible, i could feel my lungs rattle, i would cough so hard and for so long i’d wake from my feverish coma to kneel over my bed and just let loose on the world, it felt like i was drowning, i couldn’t get enough air everything hurt, everything was sore 

3) things continued on like this for 5 straight days, i was literally in and out of consciousness, my fever got up to 102 and my mom said that if it raised at all from there we were going to the fuckin hospital and i was like listen la rona i know u wanna take me out but i havent even ever eaten a krispy kreme donut, please let me survive this i can’t leave this way, in that moment i literally had a fever dream of god herself, i said take this from me and i’ll stop being such a cunt in life. i started slamming hot toddy’s, i’d drink as much water as possible in between the time i wasnt literally trying to expel my lungs by way of my mouth

4) woke up from that whole ordeal drenched in SWEAT from my feet to my head i was soaked, it was gross, at that point i still had a sense of smell so let me tell you my last and final symptom should have kicked in a bit earlier but i checked my temp and it was normal! i didn’t feel like my head was going to explode! but i had new things going on i had a new stuffy/runny nose, my cough was producing some liquid which i proceeded to throw up into a mcdonalds cup i took a shower, i brushed my teeth, i felt like a brand new woman, i had cold like symptoms but i can live with cold like symptoms, i had an appetite for the first time in a week, felt like i could eat my whole family out of house and home given the opportunity, i’d lost 20 pounds in less than 2 weeks and ya girl was honestly, looking good but THAT’S A BAD WAY OF THINKING disregard please thank you, at this point i went into my doctor with a full on mask, gloves, hair pulled back, she gave me every test you can think of, most importantly a flu test which is all she could do since getting a test was impossible at this pint, which of course came back negative 

5) things continued like this for weeks, up until right now actually, exhaustion was gone, fever gone, cough still here and there but not like how it was, i’ve put on makeup in my room, i’ve watched every season of law and order svu, i’ve gone on drives in my car just to drive, i’ve tried to keep myself as busy as possible, 3 days ago the strangest, most inexplicable and hopefully last symptom arrived, a complete loss of smell and bc of that taste, i’ve tried smelling candles, essential oils, laundry detergent, canned meat, my brother lit a match with my back turned and asked me what the smell was, i ate extra hot cheetos, raw onions, shot of vinegar, there’s nothing there, i just hope it comes back 

during this time i haven’t been even close to my mother, who has lupus or my sister, who has asthma, i stayed in my room, i’m still in my room actually 14 full days out from the last time i left the house, one month since this whole thing started, i eat in my room, i use a different bathroom than my whole family, everyone talks to me from my door frame besides my little brother who also was sick but recovered super fast, he bleaches the bathroom after i use it, he puts all my food on single use plates, he brings me jugs of water and reminds me of what it’s like to at least talk to another person. 

on a more serious note, i haven’t touched another person in 20 days nobody has even been within 6 feet of me besides my doctor who was administering the only tests she could administer, fully decked out in a hazmat suit, she was scared for me, i could tell, she was trying to put on a brave face and downplay the severity of my symptoms but thank god for her, she’s checked up on me, she’s tried everything, she’s put in calls, she’s made herself as available as possible even though she’s probably going through the same thing with countless other patients, i worry for her, i’ve worried for my family, i’ve stressed beyond the point of no return which has for sure slowed my recovery and i was one of the lucky ones! all of this and my case was considered mild because i never really had trouble breathing beyond being choked by my own coughing. 

people have been there for me during all of this, in ways that are further reaching than touch, i have been very vocal about not liking when people touch me but i do look forward to the day i can hug my mom, where i can tell my friend to take a sip of my drink to see if she likes it, to have someone pat me on the shoulder and tell me to keep my head up or whatever 

hopefully im on the other side of this, my more at risk family members are about to be 14 days from the last time any of them were near me or my brother, they’re at the end of a long tunnel and i’m just so happy that maybe soon we’ll all see the light 

take care of yourselves

[sweetbunnykook]

The Tin Can

TW: suicide, depression, mention of alcohol/drug abuse, death

Summary: Hoseok loves you.

Word Count: 1,827

Hoseok sat in the airport staring at nothing in particular. He rolled the small Altoids case between his fingers, listening to the pleasant rattling sound echoing from the inside. He considered himself lucky to be able to book the one-way flight to California early in the morning, before he can see the sun. He can vaguely hear a voice over the intercom reminding him of the time he has left in South Korea; the time he has left with you. 

He looked down at his wrist, the friendship bracelet you made in middle school browned from age but still as beautiful as the first day you wrapped it around him. He remembered the chaste kiss he placed on your cheek, the blush that formed as you toyed with the bracelet, before you lean into him and lay your weight on his arm. Ever since then you watched every tennis match he’s been in, every dance competition, every club meeting. This country held the memories stuck to his skin like glue, hardened to the point that he couldn’t separate his individual self from the self that belong with you. 

In two hours he will be saying goodbye to you for the last time. He promised, before you took your last breath, that he won’t come to your funeral like you asked and he’ll move on and never look back. He’ll marry someone, anyone, start a family, get a new job, forget about everything. He’ll forget about the way you brushed his hair with your fingers when he was tired, forget about the meals you made for him, the gloves you knitted, the taste of your lipstick on his tongue, your soft whimpers, his coat that still smelled of your fresh gardenia scented perfume. Maybe that was your intention all along; to leave him in the worst way possible because you really are just that evil.

Another rattle from the tin can. 

On the day of your funeral, Hoseok went back on his promise and crashed his car into the graveyard, dug his fingers into the cold earth that was going to eat your corpse, humiliating himself in front of your friends and his acquaintances that came to pay their condolences. They were never truly your friends anyway. Time and time again he’d told you they only came to suck the sunshine out of you. While they all moved on with their happy-go-lucky lives, your body has gone cold and limp. No matter how many times he’d dug for your corpse with his bare hands, you wouldn’t wake up, won’t come to his front door and greet him with your saccharine voice. 

‘Hobi, have you eaten yet?’

How many times has he stared at the front door ever since you left? No one came to knock, not even your parents, and he spent the last five years drinking his life away, distrust towards people around him spreading steadily like a plague. 

You hated it when he drank. It only took one drop of your tears to stamp him as a sober man for the remaining of the relationship. You made him a better man, a man that didn’t have to pick wallets in the slums of Gwangju for the next bottle. He wished he could’ve given you a better life. Even when there wasn’t enough to eat, you never resorted to stealing like he had in high school. Even when you could’ve had a better life with your aunt in Jeju, you chose to stay with him because you wanted to spend the remaining days close to him. 

The Altoids tin can rattles again and Hoseok traces the tip of his tongue along his canines.

When did you begin to lie to him? After graduation? Before moving in with him? He noticed your weight loss before you did and took on a second job, thinking that the meals he couldn’t afford was the cause of your once plump and healthy face slimming down.

And you just let him believe such a lie. 

You knew how irrational he would’ve gotten if he knew that he wouldn’t be able to afford your medication, much less three meals a day. You played him like a fiddle, pretending to be the jealous girlfriend going on a diet to hide your symptoms (as if you even needed it), faking a pregnancy scare when your periods stopped coming, faking a meltdown and shaving your head because you were scared he was going to see how much hair you were losing on the snow white pillow cases. It wasn’t until he followed you to one of your usual “appointments” at the free women’s clinic that he caught you red-handed with the slip of paper in your hands, reference to surgeons and experts in the United States stacked like bricks.

You threatened to leave him that night, throwing a tantrum and hurting his left eye in the process while he held you still, wrapping his arms so tight around you that you could hardly breathe. The one thing that gave him hope in this world was falling apart and all he could do was keep you close. If he had the power to cure you he would, but not even money can buy the rotten thing inside your head. By the end of the year you lost you ability to walk and the month after that you couldn’t control your bladder. You hated looking at the orange bottles of pills and stuffed your medication in Altoids tins, hoping that at least you can pretend to be healthy before you lost your ability to speak. 

Hoseok, despite how much he beat his head with his fists, can’t forget how you pleaded for him to find a new woman. He was so tired, maintaining his two jobs and taking care of you, that he simply promised to do just that and fell asleep right on your lap. You sent him off to work the next day, waving and giggling so happily from the bed, that there was no way he would come back to a corpse in twelve hours. 

In the time it took for him to earn enough money to pay for your next appointment, you’d taken the glass of water he placed on the nightstand, crashed the cup against the bed frame, and slit your wrist. Even then you were selfless enough to wrap his coat around your body, as if hiding your wrist from his view would bring you back to life when he arrived. 

Hoseok discovered that the human body held a lot of blood that night. Your blood had seeped through his coat and onto the sheets, painting a large red circle on the white fabric. You lied to him that morning, so he decided to lie to you for the rest of his life. 

He began drinking again, started robbing at gun-point to many poor store owners, started harassing your so-called “friends” that didn’t even pay a single visit when you were sick. He’s been arrested once, released a year later, and spent the remainder of his time working as a dishwasher for a small motel. He drank with each paycheck, smoked like a chimney, slept with your dresses on the dirty carpet of his cheap flat, and hired prostitutes, only to vomit before he could even lay a finger on them. 

It was only by stealing wallets again that he was able to afford a ticket to California. 

‘If you can go to any place in the world, where would you go?‘

‘I think...California.‘

‘California?‘

‘I’d like to see the sunrise on my way there. I think looking at the sunrise from the plane is so much better because the clouds would look even prettier.‘

The intercom interrupts the rattling inside the tin can. Hoseok stretched his fingers to the sky and then his legs towards the floor, and made his way towards the terminal. If there was one thing he was grateful of in his life, it was that his parents at least paid for the visa and passport out of pity when you passed away. He didn’t have to steal another wallet to afford that. 

“Right this way, sir.“ A woman smiles after checking his passport and points to the walkway leading to the plane. He glanced at his watch next to the bracelet. The sun will rise in an hour and a half.

He sat in the economy seat at the end of the left section and buckled himself in. A new beginning, a new day. 

Passengers began flooding in soon after; parents with children, foreigners, elderly couples, students, businessmen, businesswomen. The woman seated next to him was in her sixties at least, friendly wrinkles lining the edge of her half-moon eyes, her lipstick bold and pink. She wore her hair pinned with a clip and she sat happily in her seat, excited that she will see her grandson for the first time. Hoseok bowed slightly in respect and helped her strap the buckle over her lap, as she could not do so with her shaky hands. 

“Thank you so much.“

He smiled. “It’s no problem. Do you mind if I open the slider?” He pointed to the small window shut closed. “I’d like to see the sunrise.”

“Not all all, please go ahead.“

As if the sun rose from bed, it began to shower the clouds with warm rays after the first hour of flying. Hoseok took a deep breath and released, clenching the photo of you in the breast pocket of his coat. He took another deep breath, more shallow this time.

“Would you like a glass of water?“ The woman next to him turned, concern gracing her features. “It must be your first time flying isn’t it?“

He nodded, smiling ever so brightly. “Yeah...I’m seeing my fiancee soon,” he took another deep breath, “I’m just very happy.”

The woman patted his arm once, returning his smile and turning back to her magazine. Hoseok turned his head towards the window, eyes closing as the sun finally reached its true warmth and basked his skin with golden light. It felt like your touch, your fingers in his hair, your lips on his temples. 

An hour and thirty minutes into the flight. 

A stewardess crouches down to see the passengers in row forty with a glass of water in her hand. 

“Would he liked some water too?“ She asked the old woman with the pink lipstick.

The passenger nudged Hoseok’s arm, hoping that he would turn his head towards her. She was met with silence, his head still turned towards the sun. She wondered how he can sleep so peacefully with such strong rays shining down on his face. She nudged slightly harder, shaking his body slightly, yelping in surprise when the small box between his finger falls and clatters on the flooring.

There is nothing inside the tin can. 

[slinkinginshadows]

Nine Days a Vessel

So, this is an au of an au, because that’s how I roll. The royal twins au, except with rapid preg, because I was curious what writing that would be like.

Summary: Atem starts getting sick, and his stomach swells, baffling everyone- especially himself. It’s a week of hell as something grows inside of him.

Warnings: Mpreg, rapid pregnancy, vomiting, body horror, birthing, stuffing, and attempted (failed) magicial abortion (although they didn’t know what was what they were doing). Feel free to ask me to add more warnings, these are just what I could think of!

Wordcount: 3405

Like this story? Please reblog, reply, or leave a comment in tags! I also have kofi commissions open, although those are for stories shorter than this.

It hit fast.

Atem was sitting on his throne, watching a group of dancers, when his stomach started gurgling. At first it was easy enough to ignore. He could just eat when the dance was finished, after all, and Isis would scold him if he ran off for no reason. After a few minutes, though, sweat beaded on his brow- something was wrong. The room spun, and he set a hand on his robe, wrist brushing against the gold band above his waist.

Mahad noticed, and exchanged a glance with Isis before calling out “Thank you for your services, but the Pharaoh has seen enough for today.”

The dancers bowed deeply before beginning to file out, and Mahad climbed the steps.

“Is something upsetting you, my lord?”

“I…” Atem shook his head. “I must have had something rotten at breakfast, my stomach’s turning. That’s all.”

“It would still be wise to go to the healers, just to be sure.” Mahad said. “We can’t have you getting sick.”

Atem stood up, smiling at him. “I promise, Mahad, I’m f-” His face went ashen and he gagged, hand slapping over his mouth.

Someone grabbed a small jug and his cheeks puffed out before he vomited into it. Mahad set a hand on his back and rubbed it, slowly guiding him back down into the throne. “That’s it, get it out.”

Atem’s stomach rolled and he tried to say something, but another wave just forced its way out of his mouth.

When he came up for air, the jug was tugged away from his hands and another pushed at him. His stomach was empty now, though, and acid swirled in his belly like fish in the river.

“We’re going to the healers, right now.” Mahad said. Atem set the jug on the arm of his throne and pushed himself up, but his knees buckled. All of the priests there could see a faint aura surrounding him, and he looked up with white-hot fear in his eyes before collapsing entirely.

_______

He woke in a bed in the medical wing. A healer had a hand on his head, but pulled it away. He felt like someone had sucked him dry, and she clicked her tongue.

“Wh-what happened?”

“There’s heavy magic surrounding you, my Pharaoh. We aren’t sure what, yet, but it’s using your magic to disguise itself. Do you feel weak?” He nodded meekly. “I’m not surprised. We’ll find what it is, though, mark my words. You’re strong, you’ll fight this off.”

“Prince!” Mana hurried up to him. “You’re awake!”

“Mana, I-” He grimaced, curling in on himself, hugging one arm around his stomach as the sickly feeling returned. His stomach was aching, and he swore he felt it swell beneath the skin.

“What’s wrong?” Mana’s eyes were wide, and he just groaned.

“St-stomach hurts…”

The healer pulled back the blanket. They’d already disrobed him to try and find the cause of the mysterious illness, and she pulled back his arm to brush her fingers over his stomach. “It is a little swollen. The magic feels concentrated here. Just hold on, Pharaoh, we’ll find the cure to this.”

Mana brushed her fingers through his hair. “It’ll be alright.”

“I’m… I’m fine.” He tried to say, but the warble in his voice made it hard to believe.

_________

The next morning when he woke up, he wished he hadn’t.

His stomach still felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, and he immediately leaned over the side of the healer’s bed to puke. There was a jug with a wide top there for just that, and his whole body shook.

“You’re awake!” Mahad swept up. “I take it you aren’t feeling any better?”

Atem wiped the sick from his lips, shaking his head. His stomach gurgled, then roared, surprising both of them with its volume and intensity. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll have something brought in- but are you sure you want to eat while you’re ill?”

Atem bent over his belly, clutching it. “Y-yes. I feel like… like I haven’t eaten in weeks.”

Mahad called for a servant, and relayed the order. Atem pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling the deep pit in his belly. Every second he didn’t feed it, it complained with gurgles and whines and angry clenches on nothing even as nausea still burned his throat.

When he was handed a plate of roast pig, he tore into it, ripping the meat from the bone and holding the plate out for more when he finished within minutes. The bewildered servants brought in a large basket of bread and fruits, and he tore through those too, until he felt swollen enough to pop and slumped back on the bed.

“What’s wrong with me…?”

“Maybe it’s some kind of magical second puberty?” Mana suggested, setting her hands on his belly and starting to rub it. “Maybe you’ll have a growth spurt!”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Atem mumbled. “But not worth-” Mana pressed down a little too hard and he whimpered. Something inside of him fought against him throwing up again, so he just swallowed down saliva and tried not to squirm.

As the day went on, so did his appetite, but his stomach physically couldn’t fit as much as he was hungry for, leading to baskets of food being left by his bedside as he tried to soothe his stomach into digesting a little.

“Come on…” His stomach radiated heat like a fire, and his eyes widened as it began shrinking before his eyes. He felt a little better, energy starting to come back, before a stabbing pain radiated from just under his belly button.

His belly started to grow again, until it was about half the size of when it was stuffed- but when he pressed a cautious hand to it, it was rock-hard, more than the food had been.

He bit his lip. He really hoped that this wasn’t some kind of curse meant to kill him from the inside.

_______

The healers tried something new- pulling at any foreign magic that had taken residence in his body. The idea was to trap it in an enchanted quartz, to be studied.

When magic wove from their hands to his stomach, it twisted like a cobra ready to strike, and the color flooded his face as every drop of his energy dove into his gut. He slumped back, gagging on nothing as his skin lit on fire, burning away the attempts to get rid of the intrusion.

The healers tried to call to him, but his eyes rolled back and he passed out, one hand curled atop his stomach.

He didn’t realize it was glowing.

_______

By day three, the curve of his belly hadn’t gone away- it had only increased. His appetite had died down a little, which was a relief, but the nausea was back, which was not.

“Have they found anything?” He asked Mana. She’d gone back to her quarters at some point to switch clothes, but otherwise had barely left his side. Mahad was there often as well, and having a friendly face nearby helped. A little.

Mana shook her head. “Nothing. Isn’t this supposed to be their job?”

“I’m sure they’re doing their best.” Mahad said, turning to Atem. “Any improvements?”

“I would say yes, but I know you’d always be honest with me, and I’d rather not lie to-” Atem froze.

Something had moved.

He settled both palms on his stomach, desperately hoping it had just been breakfast turning over, but then it happened again- something bumped up against his hands.

“Something just moved.” He whispered, and Mana quickly set her hands just below his, feeling around. She tugged his tunic up, and her eyes widened.

“Are you sure? You’ve been eating a lot, maybe you’re just full.” She squeezed his stomach a bit, and the movement happened again- this time pressing up directly against her. “....That’s not just food.”

“What else could it be?” Mahad waved the healer over.

“I… I don’t know. It must be a curse of some-” Atem jolted and grabbed for the nearest jug to vomit into. When he pulled back, Mana brushed his bangs out of his damp face.

“Throwing up, big belly, movements?” She paused, biting her lip. “Have you ever had sex?”

“I’ve… not like that, no!” Atem tried to push her away, but she just sat down on his cot.

“It probably wouldn’t be this fast, though, it took my cousin months to have her baby…”

“I’ll bring the idea up to the healers. It could still be a curse.” Mahad said, as Atem slumped back on the bed, stomach churning at the thought.

If he was right, this was certainly going to get worse, because while he looked bigger than he’d ever been, he wasn’t at full-term yet.

_________

Day four broke with a fever. Atem tried to get comfortable, but he was completely drenched with sweat, even after stripping to nothing and rubbing himself down with a towel. The sun was still in the underworld, but he was burning as if he was in the same room with Ra himself.

Mana was stretched out on the cot next to him, sleeping well enough. Mahad was off doing priestly duties, likely to be back in the morning. Atem turned over, setting a hand on his stomach. It was as slick as if he’d rubbed it down with lotion, and he sighed. Already, it was larger than when he fell asleep last night, from the stretch marks that had pulled themselves into existence. (The sweat certainly wasn’t helping the itching.)

“What are you?” He asked, running his palm along the skin, and got a nauseating wriggle from inside his body. His head spun, and he sat up. His stomach was like a rock, resting on his thighs, until he pulled his legs up. It felt like something strapped to him, hiding within his skin, and he wiped at his forehead with his arm. His yellow bangs drooped over his eyes, and he reached for the basket of bread next to the bed.

When Mana woke up, she found him dotted with crumbs and with tyrian purple eyes that had glazed over.

“Prince- Atem, are you okay?” She didn’t use his name very often, and the worried tone had him blinking.

“Mmm?”

“Is is… getting worse?” She asked while wringing her hands.

“I’m hot.” He said, and she hurried off to fetch something to drink, glancing back before leaving the room. He sunk his head into his hands, swearing he could feel the bread digest. Whatever was inside him was ravenous.

By the time she returned, the fever had stolen the minutes- it was as if he blinked and she had never left, even though the kitchens were halfway across the palace.

She held the jug up to his mouth- they’d found out that cups weren’t nearly enough for his new appetite two days ago. Cool milk sloshed down his throat, swelling out his stomach until he gasped and pulled back, bits of the creamy liquid splashing on his chin and chest.

“Better?” Mana asked, and he nodded, biting back a groan at the fullness. It faded quickly as the thing started using the milk, and his belly eased out again.

“We’ll… we’ll figure this out.” Mana set a hand on his forehead and winced, dipping a cloth in the remaining milk and setting it on his forehead. “You’re good, the gods won’t let you die like this.”

“I… I would hope not.” Atem muttered as Mahad walked in. He knelt down in front of Atem, hands hovering over his stomach, and Atem nodded permission. Mahad’s palms settled down, and slowly rubbed around with his fingers.

“Mana… may be right.” He said slowly. “It feels as if there’s something inside of you. And you’re hot.”

“He has a fever.” Mana said. “A pretty bad one, it seems like.” She settled down on his bed. “Isn’t there.... Isn’t there any magic we can use to fix this?”

Atem was starting to drift, head filled with cloth as sweat dripped down his neck. His organs felt like heated blankets had been stuffed between them.

“Until we know what it is, we run the risk of hurting the Pharaoh as much as this… thing.” Mahad sighed. “If it’s something using him as a host, it’s possible it will have to be birthed and we can dispose of it, but if I can find any other solution… we’ll want that to be a last resort.”

“...What?” Atem blinked, trying to pull himself back to reality. “Birthed?”

“Only as a last resort.” Mahad assured him. “If that is what it is, anyways. We may be wrong.”

_______

They weren’t wrong. A healer examined his stomach, then showed three small balls of light. “These are magical beings.”

“...Us?” Atem said weakly, referring to himself, the healer, and Mahad next to him. She shook her head.

“There are three beings within you. Yourself, this one, is mostly developed.” She wiggled her finger a little to indicate the purple light. “You’re an adult and have little growing left to do, and your magical power is fantastic. The other two are inside of you.” The other balls were orange and yellow, and as she tapped the lights, they moved in his belly.

He almost puked again. “So… I’m being used as a vessel for something.”

“They could be human.” She tried to smile. “They feel similar to you, both in magical signature and in structure. They’ll be powerful, but… this could be a blessing in disguise.”

“I…” He looked down at his stomach. “They could be human?”

She nodded. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, my Lord, but perhaps they were sent for a reason. You are young and strong. If anyone could make it through this, you can.”

He swallowed. “I… I would like to be alone.”

She bowed. “Certainly. We’re a call away.” She turned and left him, and after a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, Mahad did the same.

Atem took a deep breath, setting his fingertips on his stomach and letting his hand slowly settle until his sweaty palms cradled the warm skin. “I don’t know what you are, or what you want. If you have magic, who knows what you could be. But… if you’re human, then you’re mine. I won’t hand you two off to some poor soul who can’t handle your magic. You’ll… well, I guess I won’t have to worry about heirs, or finding a good wife.” He tried to force up a smile, but it was weak.

“You have to promise me, though, not to kill me. Egypt’s already lost my father, I don’t want them to lose me too.” He bit his lip. “If… if you’re just a monster, if you’re even aware, this is probably funny to you, but… please, don’t hurt anyone. I… I don’t want anything happening because I was too weak to stop it.”

The things moved, warmth spreading through his belly, and for once nausea didn’t rise up his throat. He hoped that was a good sign.

_________

The worst moments were when he could feel it growing. He wasn’t used to the movement and doubted he’d have the time to fully adjust, but at least that usually didn’t hurt. It was uncomfortable and the way they shifted around made him wonder over and over what he carried, but he could pretend it was just what happened, something that anyone dealt with in pregnancy.

It grew in spurts, usually after he ate. He stuffed himself to bursting, stomach swollen and sweating, because if he didn’t, it took his ba. It took his ba anyways, energy draining like water pouring from a vase, but if he didn’t eat enough to satisfy the twins, he became dizzy and feverish, usually passing out after a few minutes.

If he was a puppet, he’d rather be aware of what it was doing.

After the food, his stomach sank as it was churned away to energy. Then, it rose again, this time harder and often with a tiny hand or foot against the skin. It burned like fire, and he could feel the skin stretching, the bodies inside becoming that much bigger in a matter of seconds.

The one benefit of it was that the tiny hands and feet looked human. It was probably foolish, but he was starting to cling to the hope that they were human- that they weren’t evil spirits sent to torment him and everyone he loved.

“What would you want? Boys or girls?” Mana asked him on the afternoon of the seventh day. He felt ready to pop already, but they were still settled comfortably.

“I… I don’t really care.” Atem said. “Boys would be nice, but I’d like girls too. Maybe one of each?”

“One of each sounds good.” Mana said. “Although if they’re girls, I can teach them magic by the time they’re old enough to learn!” Her tone was bright, but her eyes betrayed worry as Atem winced from one of the dozens of aches he had to deal with. Trying to go through a pregnancy in what was shaping up to be a little over a week wasn’t pleasant. His skin stretched, he could barely walk because his balance was so off, and he was lucky to get two or three hours of sleep a night. His eyes had bags the color of the darkest night sky.

“If either of them is a girl, she’s yours.” Atem hugged the pillow. “I haven’t even thought of names…”

“We can decide on that after they’re born.” Mana said. “Now, I brought in a sennet set. Want to play?”

Atem nodded, and even managed to maneuver himself so he didn’t have to reach over his stomach to move the pieces.

______

By the morning of the ninth day, he wanted them out. He felt like crying from the pain as they pushed his body past its limit- his stomach was like a furiously swollen thing and every movement from his overstretched skin was like a hot iron prodding him from the inside.

He had no idea how much of it was the speed of the pregnancy and how much was the fact that it was twins and his height, but honestly, considering it was like lightning against his body every time he so much as lifted his arm to grab a piece of fruit, he didn’t much care why it hurt.

It was almost a relief when labor came, but then the pain doubled and he couldn’t hold back a whimper, and then a full scream. He bit down on a leather strip someone had offered him as the healers tugged his legs apart, and even that motion made tears streak down his cheeks from how sensitive his body was.

The healers brought his bed to a quieter side room, which he was grateful for- he didn’t want everyone in the ward seeing this, especially when he started sobbing as his body bucked and he had to push against hips that hadn’t had near enough time to widen properly for birth.

In the end, the head healer had to use magic to nudge his hip-bones to the side, enough for the twins to even fit. He felt fluid gushing down his thighs to pool beneath his legs and butt, but was afraid if he craned his neck to see it would all be red.

“My pharaoh…” One of the healers was awed as she held out the firstborn.

It was human, with milky hair. He blinked, vision blurry.

“Is… it…?”

The healer toweled it off. “It’s human, and… a girl.”

“A girl…” He said, before crying out. Her sibling wasn’t out yet. Their head stretched him again, but when they finally emerged, he slumped back, exhausted.

“Another girl. Both… they both look like healthy girls. I never would know otherwise.” The head healer settled the first one against his chest, and she yawned, still shiny from the birth.

“They’re… okay?” He stared down at her. “They’re…”

A soothing sort of coolness surrounded his lower half- a healing spell, likely. “You’re all going to be just fine.” The head healer smiled, and if he didn’t feel like he’d been drowned and set on fire at the same time, he would have smiled back.

[supportforindieauthors]

Elvis by Alan Guffy

I’ve been in this room for close to an hour. It’s cold in here. They’ve taken my clothes and left me in a thin hospital gown on a folding metal chair. The only light comes from a fluorescent tube hanging from the ceiling. No windows. Hell, not even a door. But I can make out a thin seam in the concrete that I suspect will swing inward if they want it to. 

How long have I been here? Hours? Days? It was lunchtime when they took me. I’d ordered ramen and was waiting for the delivery guy. They blindfolded me and shoved my head into a football helmet full of speakers that blasted screaming metal for hours. I can’t tell you if we walked down stairs, took an elevator, or boarded an airplane. 

Who took me? The army? CIA? It certainly feels like some Guantanamo bullshit. Whoever they are, they know what they’re doing. Something about the noise, all that screaming in your ears for so long, then to be dropped into utter silence—I couldn’t yell if I wanted to. The only sound is the hum of the florescent bulb. Sometimes it’s deafening. Like a mosquito in my ear. Sometimes I don’t hear it at all, and the silence makes me wonder if they’ve forgotten me. 

Overhead, the fluorescent bulb flickers. For a split second it goes out and the room is submerged in darkness. When it sparks back to life, it’s half as bright as it was before. The room’s not silent anymore. I can hear my own breathing. Hurried, shallow breaths. If I’m not careful I’ll hyperventilate. 

“Good morning,” a voice says. It comes from a speaker concealed somewhere in the ceiling. I can’t see it, but it’s better than the alternative. (What alternative, you ask? Well, how about that I’m dead and that’s the voice of God? Or how about that I’m crazy and there is no voice? There’s a goddamn speaker. Trust me.) 

I want to answer, but I can’t. Answering would break the silence, and right now the silence is implacable. 

“You can talk to me, it’s OK,” the voice continues. “There’s a microphone in the room. I’ll be able to hear it.” 

I try to force an “Okay” back to him. What comes out sounds like the wheeze of gas from an empty aerosol can. I try to gather some spit, but I get a glob of phlegm and start to cough. 

“We want to know what happened to you,” the voice says. 

The coughing makes my mouth wet enough to talk, but my voice is hollow and foreign. 

“Is this about my dog?” I ask. Of course it is. I’d known that since they stuck me in that 

Helmet. The hum of the speaker resumes, but the voice doesn’t speak. I think of a boy with a walkie talkie holding down the button while trying to think of something to say. I suddenly want to tell him that he’s gumming up the line, and the impulse almost makes me lapse into giggles. 

“Yes,” the voice says at last, matter-of-factly. 

I’m closer to the brink now. I can’t shake the image of a stone-faced major in a green beret and mirrored aviators staring at me from across a table and shouting in drill-sergeant staccato, “You will tell me about your sick dog solll-dyer!” 

This tickles me, but then I think of my dog. Then I want to grab the drill sergeant and smash his face into cherry cobbler. 

“Okay,” I say. “My dog died yesterday.” The voice doesn’t reply. It lets me sit in silence until my nerves can’t take the possibility that there was never a voice at all. “I killed it.” 

“Start at the beginning.” 

I inhale sharply and steeple my fingers. I run my tongue across the roof of my mouth, not happy with what I feel there. I let the silence continue for longer than I like. A compressor kicks on and blows cold air on me from the ceiling; gooseflesh breaks out across my naked arms and neck and belly. It blows until my knees start knocking together. I rub my bare shoulders and stare into the farthest shadows of the room. 

“I don’t know for sure when it started.” 

“But you have a guess.” 

“Yeah,” I admit. “I have a guess." Saturday I took him out for a walk. We went up and down the street and I could tell something was itching him. He kept jerking and pulling and catching a whiff of something. I usually would’ve dragged him home after he pooped, but I’d been working a lot and he’d had to spend a lot of time inside, so I decided to be a good dog dad and indulge him.” 

“What’s the breed?” 

My voice hitches. I’ve been trying to keep some distance from the details. He isn’t going to let me. 

“Beagle corgi mix.” The compressor cuts off. 

“Okay. Continue.” 

“He started pulling toward some woods behind my property line. That’s when I caught a whiff of something foul.” 

“Describe it.” 

I consider this. “My grandparents lived on a lake, and when I was a kid I used to dig up earthworms and take them down to the dock in a little can of dirt with holes in the lid for fishing. We kept them in the fridge when we didn’t need them. But one morning, mid-July, I got called up for breakfast and forgot the worms. I didn’t go back down until that afternoon. I smelled them before I was halfway there. What was left in the can...they weren’t worms anymore. Just a pulsing wad of rotten jelly. That’s what I smelled coming from the woods.” 

I run my tongue across the roof of my mouth. There’s a blister there from something hot I must’ve eaten and I press my tongue against it. 

“The closer we got the harder Elvis pulled.” 

“Elvis?” 

“That’s my dog. Elvis Pressley.” 

“Okay,” the voice pauses. I hear a pencil-scratch amidst the white noise of the intercom. “Continue.” 

“So Elvis was pulling and my backyard has a steep drop at the property line. I lost my balance and fell. Once that happened, the leash was out of my hand and all I could see was that dog’s chubby butt bouncing off into the trees. 

“I was a little freaked out. Elvis never runs off, but by the time I picked myself up he was gone. I started calling for him and I brushed myself off and headed into the woods.” 

“Okay. And this was the property behind your house?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Does anyone live on it?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Who owns it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

The air cuts on again. It’s colder now than it was before. 

“You need to cooperate with us,” the voice says. 

I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. “I’m trying,” I say. My voice cracks. 

No reply. I’m sweating, in spite of the air. “I kept on into the woods, calling for him. The smell got worse. I had to scale down a gully where a brook cut across the property.” I hesitate. 

“Yes?” the voice presses. 

“Well, there hadn’t been a good rain for three or four weeks. But the ground was spongy. Like a marsh at low tide. My feet sank into mud almost to my ankles, and I had to catch myself on trees and watch my step. And the smell. Christ. The smell was overpowering. Only this time I couldn’t close a tin and dump it into a lake. That’s when I saw Elvis, rooting his big stupid face in a muddy hole about thirty yards up the hill. But I couldn’t get any closer. The smell was bad enough as it was. Any closer and I was going to vomit. Or worse.” 

“Worse?” 

I almost snap. I almost scream that I don’t fucking know. I just know I didn’t want to be there. I just know that something bad was there and it wasn’t somewhere I wanted me or my dog to be. The only reason I’d gone as far as I had was because of that dog. But I couldn’t go any farther. If I had, maybe... I shut the thought down. 

“I don’t know. Like maybe it would kill me.” 

More scratching. Then, “What happened next?” 

“I called for Elvis. He didn’t come. He was eating something. I called him again. I finally screamed so loud he looked over his shoulder. He had this brown, phlegmy slime running down his jowls. He looked at me for a second and went back to eating.” 

The memory of my dog’s eyes makes my whole body tighten. They were sad. Contrite. Afraid. Those eyes makes this almost unbearable. 

“I just stand there and let him finish,” I murmur. “Once he does, Elvis trots back over to me like nothing happened. I scratch him and hug him and he licks my hands.” My voice cracks. 

I swallow against my constricting throat. “Everything’s OK.” 

I have to stop and breathe. The voice doesn’t prod me this time. Maybe it knows it doesn’t have to. I’ve opened a door now. Just like Elvis, I can’t stop. 

“At first everything seemed fine. Elvis was a little lazier than usual. And hungry as hell. But I didn’t think anything of it. 

“Then, Friday I came home from work and I couldn’t find him. There were wads of fur on the carpet, some wet with half-clotted blood and hunks of skin. I searched all over the house. He was under the bed. He wouldn’t come when I called him. I got on my hands and knees to pull him out, and he snarled at me. I started thinking rabies. I called the emergency vet, but they were no help. They wanted me to bring him in for an exam, so that’s what I tried to do. 

“I got back down there with a flashlight.” I pause. My whole body is trembling so badly that the chair, slightly unlevel, is tapping against the concrete floor. I squeeze my knocking knees together, shove my hands into my armpits. 

“He was lying in a puddle with his face on the floor. He’d pulled out half his fur along his shoulders and belly. He’d scratched all the fur off his muzzle and had big bite marks all over himself. I think he was trying to get to his throat but he couldn’t reach it. He recoiled from the light, snapped at me and growled. I flipped up the mattress to grab him, but I missed.” 

This is a lie. I hadn’t missed, but how can I tell the voice that what I grabbed had the texture of a boiled egg? And that while my fingers sank deep into him, they found nothing to hold on to? Whatever meat he had beneath that membrane of skin was no more substantial than a clot of mayonnaise. 

“He slipped by and bolted down the stairs.” 

“What was he lying in? On the floor?” 

“Blood,” I lie. “I followed him downstairs. He’d left a trail,” I hesitate, then add, “Of blood. The pantry door was open and I could hear him” Slurping. Sucking. “eating. I snuck up and shut him inside so I could find my bottle of Benadryl. It puts him to sleep like a baby. 

“While I dug around the bathroom all hell was breaking loose in the pantry. He threw himself against the door over and over again. I heard something splinter inside. The next time something cracked. 

“By then I’d found the Benadryl and mixed it in a bowl of vanilla ice cream. I set it by the pantry. The tantrum stopped. He just scratched and whimpered like he’d done when he was a puppy and wanted to go outside.” I grimace. Tears are welling in my eyes. 

“Did you feed it the ice cream? Or let it out?” 

That’s the question, isn’t it? But I don’t answer. Why should I? Why should I tell him that as soon as I’d gotten home, before I’d seen the hair or found my dog, the smell had hit me in a wave? That rotten worm smell, so strong that it sent me retching and puking into my shrubbery. Why should I tell him that when I shined the flashlight on Elvis, his throat was swollen into a fleshy wattle that looked like a sack of marbles (or a clutch of eggs)? Why should I tell him that the Benadryl is a lie? And that I’d not gone into the bathroom, but into the garage, to sift through old boxes until I found where I’d stored the rat poison. 

“I gave him the bowl,” I say at last. “He ate every drop. He must’ve been sicker than I thought...it killed him.” I sigh, stare up at the ceiling, and add, “And that’s what happened to me. I swear.” 

The voice considers this. “We didn’t find a body.” 

I darken. “I burned it.” My voice is strangely mechanical. I’d expected to feel shame, but I feel nothing. Perhaps I even feel satisfied. Yes, I burned him. I burned my dog, and I would burned him one hundred times over if I could. Because even after he’d finished the rat poison à la mode, after the convulsions had stopped and his body was lifeless and bleeding from his eyes and mouth, that wormy, stinking clutch beneath his jaw still throbbed with life. 

“Disappointing,” the voice said. “But at least the harvest wasn’t a total loss.” 

What harvest? Before I can voice my question, the fluorescent tube above me pops and flickers again. Then it dies completely and I am enveloped in a womb of darkness. Minutes pass. 

“Aren’t you going to turn the lights back on?” I yell. 

No response. Then, the mechanical click of a lock turning over, and the seam in the wall retracts. It was never a door. It was a window. And as it pulls away, revealing an ink-black void of stars and the familiar blue glow of Earth, no bigger than a nickel in the distance, I hyperventilate. 

“Relax,” the voice commands. “Stress is bad for the babies.” 

Babies? 

No, I think. Then I scream it. 

I try to clamor to my feet but they’re gelatin. And I begin to realize how very, very hungry I am. How hot. I’m suddenly grateful for the cold air still filtering through the room. Something opens in the wall behind me. I hear a shuffling of moist bodies. The smell of rot makes me gag at first. But as the minutes pass, it doesn’t bother me so much. I trace my tongue across the top of my mouth. The blister that I can’t remember getting is still there. Now there’s three of them. 

They’re soft, and when I push my tongue against them, I can feel something wriggle. 

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