#Skid Shack | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

broareweabouttoviberightnow · 2 months ago

Note

PLEASE write some stevepop where soda sees steve maybe defending or secretly being kind to ponyboy!

i love steve and ponyboys friendship

AGHH the scream I screamt when I got this request ABSOLUTELY! Adore these boys I am HAPPY to provide! fic under the cut!

"Ponyboy get your ass out here or I'm leavin' you!" Steve slams on the horn 'n Darry appears in the kitchen window to shake his head firmly. Ah, it was seven thirty in the mornin'. Steve had forgotten. Pony ducks past the open screen door to flip him off 'n Steve has to fight the urge to throw the door open 'n drag the kid out by his hair.

"I'm gonna kill that kid. I swear to God." Steve hmphs, kicks a foot on the dash.

Soda leans through the rolled down window 'n chuckles to himself. "Glory, Steve, ain't there bigger things in the world to be mad at? The injustices 'n all are a tad more serious then a bitchy kid brother, dig?" Soda snorts 'n Steve rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well, the injustices aren't about to make me fuckin' late!" Steve hollers 'n Pony makes an indignant noise from somewhere in the house. Soda cracks up. "You comin' to school today?"

Soda tilts his head to the side, opens his mouth but before he can say anythin' Darry cuts in from the porch, "He better be takin' his lil' ass or I'm gonna bust it." Soda hoots a laugh 'n wiggles his hips from where he's bent down to talk to Steve from outside the car.

"Well, I think the decision's been made for the safety of both me 'n my ass." Darry rolls his eyes, grabs Soda by the back of the shirt 'n hoists him up, plantin' a kiss to the top of his ruthlessly messy waves. He releases him 'n turns to climb into his truck.

He's halfway in when he stops 'n turns. "Pony come out yet?"

"Fuckin' no-" The screen door slams 'n Pony leaps off the stairs, hair ungreased 'n curlin' around his eyes, backpack slung over one shoulder 'n unzipped, a piece of burnt toast bit between his teeth.

He skids to a stop to let Darry drop a kiss to his temple 'n then whack him one up the back of his head. He whines wordlessly, mostly 'cause if he tried to speak he'd lose his breakfast, 'n rips open the back door to Steve's beater, crawlin' into the back seat.

"If you get crumbs in my car I'm gonna kick your ass." Steve twists around 'n Pony takes his toast from his mouth just to stick his tongue out.

Soda takes one good leap 'n slides across the roof of the beater to get to the passenger side, slammin' the door shut 'n kickin' his feet up on the dash. He idly flips the radio station until Jimmy Gilmer and The Fireballs Sugar Shack starts playin' 'n he grins 'n cranks the volume.

Pony groans 'n leans over the seat to change it 'n Steve puts an elbow up 'n shoves him back into his seat. "Shotgun picks the music 'n last time I checked you weren't even in the front, brat."

Pony narrows his eyes, scowls, 'n breaks off the crumbliest end of the bread, grindin' it into Steve's carpet where he can't see. "You don't even like this song!"

Soda twists around, throws a hand out the window, grins with his whole mouth. "Nuh uh, Pone. This is Stevie's favorite song. Know why?" Pony stops scowlin' just long enough to look confused.

"Why?"

"'Cause it's mine 'n Steve loves to please- OW!" Steve howls 'n jabs Soda in the ribs. Soda jumps, whoops 'n scrambles to the side to avoid Steve's fingers. Pony groans theatrically 'n drops his head to the window.

A horn blares 'n all three of them look up 'n realize their still blockin' Darry in the driveway. Darry leans out the window with an exasperated sigh, "Steven Thomas, I thought you were so worried about bein' late!"

...

Steve rolls into the parkin' lot goin' so fast he nearly spins out, throwin' the car into the first empty spot he finds. The clock on the dash reads seven fifty- already twenty minutes late.

"Pony move your ass." Steve snatches the keys from the ignition, spinnin' to grab his bag from the back. Pony flips him off again but wiggles out, draggin' his stuff across the seat. Soda jumps out, not even a pencil on his person.

Once they're out of the car, however, none of them hustle across the lot. It was the principle. You couldn't look too eager headed into a school buildin'. They had a rep to protect.

"C'mon." Soda leans around the corner when they get to the top of the steps, watchin' for the lady at the front to turn her back. "Pony go." Pony skids through the door, squats down low under the desk 'n tries to slip by.

So, of course, the woman takes that exact moment to look up.

"Excuse me, young man, you're late. Do you have a note or a parent with you?" Pony freezes like a deer in the headlights 'n both Soda 'n Steve groan.

"Uh-"

"Sorry, Mrs. Baker." Steve doesn't stop to think, just hoists his bag up on his shoulder 'n strolls over to grab Pony by the shoulder. "I gave him a ride today. Him 'n Soda. Sodapop Curtis, that is." He turns around to jerk his head at Soda. Pony looks back at him, frown lines of confusion knittin' between his brow.

"Ok." The woman folds long fingers together 'n looks at him expectantly. "Do you have a note?'

"Naw, I'm just sayin' it ain't their faults. I was-" He grits his teeth together, digs his fingers into Pony's shoulder, "runnin' a little late today. My fault. Traffic was a real bit- uh mess." He offers his best charmin' smile 'n wishes he had Soda's stupid big eyes 'n innocent long lashes that could let him blink his way outta anythin'. Maybe he shoulda thrown Soda under the bus. She raises one thin eyebrow but sighs.

"Well, alright then. I'll write them passes. You, however, will have to get a mark on your record." Steve does his best to look apologetic, waits 'til she turns, 'n flips her off. Soda snorts 'n tries to, poorly, hide it behind a cough. The woman glances over her shoulder 'n Soda lets his dimple show.

He definitely should have let him take the fall.

She tears two slips off a pad 'n hands them across to Pony 'n Soda. Soda shoots him a little apologetic grin 'n Pony begrudgingly mutters his thanks. Steve flicks him in the forehead 'n before Pony can open his mouth 'n say somethin' smart, Soda grabs him 'n pulls him along.

"Name?" Steve frowns, watches as Soda 'n Pony horse around, splittin' at the end of the hall to go to their respective classes. Steve has a sudden pit in his stomach.

"Huh?"

"Your name, hon?"

"Sorry, uh, Randle. Steve." She makes quick work of the papers, handin' Steve over his own pass.

"Alright, Mr.Randle," Steve cringes internally but doesn't let it show, "get to class, now. 'N don't let me see you again, today."

...

Steve's supposed to be skippin' third period with Soda but the knucklehead hadn't shown where they had agreed. Steve had hung around the bleachers for as long as he dared before sighin', concedin' he wasn't gonna show.

He pushes off the rail he'd been leanin' on, debatin' his options. He could head straight out to the beater 'n call the day a wash, come back for Soda 'n Pony when school let out. But Pony, the little shit, was just as likely to tattle as he was to keep it to himself. Plus he was supposed to have fourth with Soda, assumin' he showed.

He hesitates a moment more, hedges his bets, 'n figures he might as well just head to class 'n beg off bein' late. His English teacher was a real doll, she might even turn a blind eye.

He slips the back door open 'n ducks his head through, lettin' his eyes adjust. The hall's deserted, though he can hear some kinda ruckus bein' kicked up somewhere nearby. Some real brawl by the sounds of it.

He creeps the rest of the way in, easin' the door shut. Steve turns the opposite way as the noise, figurin' they were bound to get busted 'n if he was anywhere nearby so would he. He's just creakin' the door to the stairs open, idly listenin' when he catches somethin' that makes his pulse rocket up.

"How do you like that, huh, Curtis?" Steve doesn't even bother to catch the slam the door makes as it shuts. He's movin' before he can think, down in the direction of the voice. Someone groans 'n Steve picks up the pace.

The voices sound too young to be Steve 'n Soda's age. Which really only left-

Steve rounds the corner fast, slidin' a little on the tile 'n the scene he comes up on has him clenchin' his fists so hard half moons carve into his palms. Oh, Jesus.

Here's the thing. Pony ain't half bad in a scrap. Somethin' about growin' up with two brothers 'n a house full of boys made you either sink or swim when it came to gettin' pounded. 'N maybe the boys currently beatin' the ever-lovin' hell outta the kid knew that. Considerin' it was five on one 'n Pony was still on his feet.

Steve doesn't hesitate. One of 'em has Pony's arms pinned behind his back, Pony writhin' 'n strugglin' for all he's worth, 'n another is sluggin' the hell out of him. Landin' sloppy, wide punches along the kid's ribs.

Pony groans at each one but nothin' more. God, maybe the kid was tougher than Steve gave him credit for. When he wasn't bein' a baby.

"Hey, asshole." Steve catches the wrist of the kid sluggin' Pony 'n for a second both of them just blink at Steve in surprise. "Leave my fuckin' kid brother alone, yeah?" Then Steve cracks his fist across the kid's face 'n he goes down, hard.

Pony wriggles out, immediately turns to swing on the boy behind him. Steve catches his shoulder, gives him a hard shove. "Beat it."

Pony freezes, chest heavin', blood tricklin' down his temple that makes Steve want to put whoever did that's head through a goddamn wall. "No!"

One of the others steps up, lands a punch under Steve's elbow 'n Steve jams his palm into the kid's nose. "I'm not havin' a fuckin' conversation go." Pony scowls 'n a kid goes to sock him one. Steve grabs him by the shirt front, easily sends him careenin' into the wall.

"Fine." Pony hesitates a moment more 'n Steve gives him another push. He whips around 'n vanishes down the hall 'n around the corner.

Steve's losin' track of who's who 'n where's what, throwin' punches 'n easily manhandlin' the younger boys steadily backward. "Look at the baby run!" Steve's vision goes red 'n he grabs the boy by the hair 'n slams his head into the goddamn lockers. Tears instantly spring to his eyes 'n Steve yanks him close.

"What are you gonna do? Cry?" He throws him down 'n the kid crawls back 'n away from him, runnin' a hand over his face.

Before he can go for him again, someone's got a hand around his wrist, jerkin' him backward. Fully on instinct, he swings around to slug them one before he realizes its a teacher.

He shakes his head to clear it, bares his teeth at the group of kids now clustered together. The fight's over now 'n it's fuckin' clear who won. But Steve can't help but dig his heels in 'n lean toward them again.

"If I ever hear about you goddamn punks layin' another finger on Ponyboy, you're not gonna be able to walk your pantywaist asses home to your mama's. Got it?"

The last thing he sees before he's dragged off to, presumably, the office, is the blood drain from their faces 'n the flash of a familiar form duckin' through the crowd.

...

Steve rubs a hand idly over his achin' knuckles 'n sighs. He was acutely familiar with the view from the hall outside the office. He'd spent enough hours there they should probably put his name on a seat permanently.

He can hear the Principal as he calls Darry, hell it's quiet enough he can hear Darry's irritation from behind the shut door. Steve sighs again, picks at his cuticles. There was a good chance Darry wouldn't be mad about this, considerin' the circumstances, but he'd be spittin' nails about it until he could get him the full story. 'N he wasn't particularly lookin' forward to it.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Randle." Steve jars 'n whips his head up, but it's just Soda. He plops down in the chair beside him, sprawlin' his legs out in front of him.

"Yeah, real rare sight." Steve scoffs, dryly.

"Heard you got into some fight, huh?" And here's the thing. Maybe, maybe, Steve gave a shit about the goddamn brat that was Ponyboy Michael Curtis. But he had no interest in admittin' that. Hell, he wouldn't even be tellin' Darry if he thought he could get around bein' whooped without it. So he's not real interested in tellin' Soda. No matter how stupid it probably sounds.

"Yeah. Somethin' like that." Soda rolls his eyes, produces a folded paper frog from somewhere 'n flicks it at the wall.

"Man, aren't you just Michelangelo this afternoon." Steve shoots him a confused look from the side of his eye 'n Soda huffs. "Full of words."

"You mean like, Alan Ginsberg or somethin'."

"I'll call ya Romeo if it means you spill what happened." Soda blinks his stupid big eyes at him 'n Steve feels his ears go red.

"Nothin' happened. Just a lil' scrap. Some assholes said the wrong thing 'n so I beat their asses. End of story. Sorry to disappoint, sweetheart." Steve ribs him back 'n Soda just giggles, the bastard.

"Yeah, didn't take you for a child beater, though." Soda cackles to himself 'n Steve shoves him hard in the shoulder. "I heard they were Pony's age." Somethin' in Soda's sharp eyes gives Steve the impression he knows more than he's lettin' on.

"Yeah, what about it? Do I need an age limit on lettin' someone be a dick?"

"Nah, I'm just sayin'. You know. Kids can be cruel. To each other." Steve narrows his eyes 'n Soda just grins. "All I'm sayin' is I saw Pony. 'N I was wonderin' if you had." Steve opens his mouth to answer 'n the door bangs open, the principal takin' a long stride out into the hall.

"Steven Randle?" He catches one look at Soda 'n his shoulders drop a little lower. Soda just beams at him. "Sodapop Curtis, what are you in my hall for?"

"Well, no reason. But now that we're all here I figure you'll wanna send me to the office for skippin'. Say, think you can get ol' Dar back on the phone or d'ya think twice in one day is excessive?"

...

Darry couldn't get off for the remainder of the day so the principal elected to let him stay in the office for the final period. Fourty-five minutes had never felt so long.

Steve was nearly tearin' his hair out by the final bell. He jumps up immediately, swingin' his bag over his shoulder 'n jettin' out to the parkin' lot. Pony's already there, leanin' against the car, dejectedly.

"Hey, Pone. You ok?" Steve goes to push his bangs back from the spot on his temple that had been bleedin' 'n Pony bats his hand angrily away. "Jesus, kid, what's the problem?"

"I don't wanna fuckin' talk about it." Steve feels a hot rush of anger slips through his veins 'n he clenches his fists.

"Fine. Whatever, kid. Get in the fuckin' car." He unlocks the door 'n Pony practically throws himself into the back seat with a huff.

Ohh, he was never goin' down for that kid ever again.

Soda comes bouncin' across the lot just as Steve's lightin' a kool, nearly snappin' the match in two with short, angry movements. "Well, hey good lookin'." Soda shoots him a questionin' look 'n Steve waves a hand dismissively.

"Hey, Pep. C'mon, let's go." He ducks into the driver's seat 'n Soda climbs into the shot gun. He twists to look at Pony, the backseat clouded up with Pony's own smoke.

"Hey, Pone, how was your day?" Pony scowls 'n shoots daggers at the back of Steve's head.

"Why don'cha ask him." Soda cranks the window down 'n sticks his head out.

"Well, glory, aren't the two of you just a blast."

...

Soda's got a shift down at the DX, a rare one Steve's not on. Though, he's got an inklin' that's on purpose. They had a habit of havin' too good of a time when they got shifts together. Though, it never stopped the one not workin' from boppin' on down to bug the other, work or no.

Steve floors it so he has time to take the back roads with the farms. Soda always loved to see the horses out in the field 'n Steve had no problem obligin' him. Usually, he would hit the hills goin' fast enough to make your stomach flip just so Pone could stick his stupid head out 'n whoop but he's sulkin' too hard to notice.

Whatever. Soda still points out each 'n every horse 'n that's good enough for Steve.

When they pull up to the DX Soda jumps out before the cars even come to a stop 'n Pony tries to slip out behind him. Steve slams a hand down on the lock 'n so Pony's just yankin' on the handle.

"C'mon Steve. Let me the hell out." Steve resolutely pretends he doesn't see him.

"See ya, Soda. D'ya want a ride home later?" Soda leans through the window again 'n snatches his DX shirt from the seat.

"Sure, Stevie." He raises his eyebrows 'n jerks his head at Pony, not subtly at all. "Assumin' you two haven't killed each other by this afternoon."

"I dunno. This afternoon ain't a lot of time to work with. Maybe tonight?" Pony scowls 'n Steve makes a face at him in the rearview mirror.

"Alright, you two. I'll catcha on the flip." Soda winks at Pony through the back window 'n Pony stops lookin' like the most put-out kid in the world to grin back at him. The second Soda's turned around Pony sinks back into his seat 'n goes back to poutin'. Good God.

Steve waits for the DX door to close behind Soda, 'n then he floors it again. "Where are we goin'?" Pony's sunk so low Steve has to stretch to see him in the mirror.

"Home, dumbass. You got some shit to say. Clearly." Pony hmphs but falls silent.

Darry's trucks not in the driveway when they pull up, to be expected. Pony snatches his stuff off the seat 'n marches inside without a word, slammin' the car door behind him. Steve has to force himself to take a long, slow breath to keep himself from finishin' the job those goddamn kids had started 'n cavin' in Pony's skull.

Glory, Darry must be wearin' off on him.

After a moment, he pulls the keys out of the ignition 'n trudges into the house behind Pony. When he gets through the front door, Ponyboy's already standin' in the livin' room, spine pulled taught, jaw all set like he's bracin' for a fight.

Steve has to fight the urge not to scoff at him. He's got a bandaid over his temple 'n bruises along his ribs that make him huff every time he moves 'n he thinks Steve is gonna square up with him. God. The kid was smart but he was also incredibly stupid sometimes.

"Well, c'mon. Out with it. What's with the attitude?" Pony bristles 'n scowls, clenchin' his fists up at his sides.

"I don't have a goddamn attitude."

"Yeah," Steve rolls his eyes 'n Pony makes a low, angry noise in the back of his throat. "Sure. None at all."

"Why can't you ever mind your own fuckin' business, Steve?"

"You are my business you fuckin' idiot." Steve can feel himself gettin' pissed off, he's clingin' to his patience by his fuckin' fingernails. "So this is what I get for stoppin' some assholes for stompin' you into the curb?"

"They weren't!" Pony explodes, stamps his foot so hard into the carpet the picture frames quake. "This may surprise you, Steve, but I can handle myself. I don't need you treatin' me like a goddamn kid."

For a moment, all Steve can do is blink at him. Then he feels the last shred of understandin' slip straight out of his head. "Pony are you stupid? You know what? Sure. You can handle yourself. Handle yourself so well you end up with a busted eye 'n a broken rib you idiot-"

"It wasn't that ba-"

"Sure!" Steve throws his hands up in exasperation. "It wasn't that bad. But it was about to be! Since when do you not want backup in a fight?"

"It's not that!" Pony's red in the face now, hair floppin' down in his eyes, knuckles white.

"So what the hell is-" Oh. Oh, alright. "Is this 'cause I didn't let you stay?"

Pony's wicked glare tells him all he needs to know. Glory God almighty.

"Pony. Look. I know you're smart. Give me one good reason why I wouldn't want you to stick around." Holy fuck, Darry really had been rubbin' off on him. He gives an involuntary shake.

"Because you're an asshole." And you know what? Darry was a fuckin' saint for not stranglin' the kid years ago.

"Yeah. A huge asshole who was coverin' for your ass. Pony think. If you had been there when that fight was busted up how the fuck do you think Darry would have reacted?"

Pony bites down hard on his lip. "I-"

"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't start it. But you couldn't have gotten into it at all if you had been in class. Y'know. Where you were meant to be."

"I was just-"

"Yeah. Sure. Save the I was just goin' to the bathroom, I was just gettin' some water, I, I, I for Darry. You were skippin'."

For a moment, Pony just glares at him. "And you were just playin' hall monitor, right?" Pony mutters, but he doesn't sound mad anymore.

"Yeah, kid. Someone's gotta do a tour to make sure someone's not beatin' your head in." Pony rolls his eyes but Steve just grabs him by his shoulder 'n pulls him in. "Look. I know you can handle yourself, man. You don't need me or Soda or Darry intervenin' for your ass. But just humor me, alright? Im tryin' save us both some grief from the big man."

Pony scuffs his toe in the carpet, runs a hand up the back of his neck. "Yeah. Alright. Deal. But you can't tell Darry I was skippin'."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Tell you what. If you keep my secret, I'll keep yours."

Pony narrows his eyes, hesitates, 'n then drops his head against Steve's shoulder. "Deal."

...

"Stevie! Pony? Any bodies need to be buried?" Soda bounds in, screen door flappin' closed. He sticks his head into the dark living room.

Pony 'n Steve are curled up on the couch, Pony's head in Steve's lap, Steve absently rakin' a hand through Pony's dark hair. The second Soda appears, Steve jars Pony so hard he slides right off the couch 'n onto the floor with an indignant wail.

"Well, hello, you two." Darry follows Soda inside, droppin' his keys on the table with a heavy sigh.

"Soda! What are you doin' home?"

"Darry picked me up." Soda wiggles his eyebrows at Steve 'n Steve hurls a throw pillow at his head.

"Speak of the devil." Darry crosses into the living room, fixes Steve with a stern look. He glances down at Pony, double takes the bandaid, the way he's rubbin' at his ribs. Looks back at Steve's raw knuckles.

"Y'all got somethin' to say? I got a call about a fight." Pony twists to look up at Steve 'n Steve shoots him a little grin.

"Yeah. You know me, Dar. Can't keep me outta trouble." Darry puts a hand on his hip, looks between the two of them, his face softenin'.

"I do." He rolls his eyes 'n turns towards the kitchen. "Glory, I do."

Pony 'n Steve shoot each other a look, bite back on a laugh. "C'mon, you brat. I'm cold. Get up on this couch." Pony kicks him hard in the shin but clambers back up, leanin' his weight on Steve's shoulder 'n fixin' his eyes on the TV.

When Steve looks up again, Soda's watchin' him with a sly little grin. "Hey, Stevie?" He plops down on his other side, yankin' one of the blankets from the back of the sofa. "Pony should make us late more often. It sure puts you in a real sweet mood."

115 notes · View notes

buttercupblu · 7 months ago

Text

God is Fair|The Lost

Devotional Love with Suguru x Reader|Three-Shot

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3

the deets: sweet reminiscences of a wandering youth in a winter before a spring. you and suguru are older now and on wildly different but similar paths, you just don't know it yet. w.c: 11.4k out of still dk yet pls send help tags: fem!reader, alcohol consumption (don't drink and drive, this is a FIC for a reason plsss and ty), slight coercion, party dr*g use, territorial tendencies, a lil bit of sadism, hair pulling, lip locking, a bit o' biting, fingering, orgasm denial, a hint of emotional manipulation/gaslighting if you have brain angel’s note: don't ask me why these keep getting longer, okay? exposition loves to grab me by the throat and throttle me, idk what to say— earworm 🐛: Nangs|Tame Impala

This fucking sucks.

Napkins. Straw. Sauce...ranch? No. Barbeque. Tea. Fuck, gotta make more tea.

You were exhausted. A bit sweaty. Reeking of fryer grease and beef.

"Welcome to Shake Shack!"

And employed.

You took what felt like your 1000th order of the day, trapped in a vicious cycle of dropping baskets of fries into the fryer, then rushing back to the register to enter what you'd memorized. Often barely avoiding a crash with your co-worker who manned the grill as you cut the tight corner just as the next customers pulled up to the window.

In a town surprisingly smaller than yours, there was a high price to pay for being short-staffed.

For you, that meant having the all-too-often privilege of being the drive-through cashier and fry station manager while working with just two other team members who were also drowning on this sinking ship.

Slipping the last fry in, you finished bagging the hefty order and took and breath.

Work and college were wringing you by the neck, but things could be worse, and you handed the customer their order with a smile.

"Have a great day!"

"My tea?"

Shit—forgot it just that fast.

After waiting all of 30 seconds (give or take) for you to brew and sweeten it to perfection, the customer sped off with it with a grumble. You sighed, leaning your back against the drive-thru window. Your front register co-worker slowly peeked around the corner, having heard the skidding tires. You only shook your head and shrugged. Patience is a virtue.

The air felt so lovely, you thought during break, rubbing your arms and plopping onto a bench outside. It was always so chilly in the restaurant because...shakes, but they should allow you wear a jacket at least.

You pulled up a chair for your feet and slumped back with an exhale. Not a second into your break and you brain was still racking with thoughts.

Not of work, but of next week's exam. And your labs, and your lazy ass lab partner, and your 10-page paper and just...school in general.

You weren't failing, far from it, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to walk the fine line between getting B's and getting by. The major you chose made sure of that—healthcare was no joke.

But neither were you.

Never once a quitter, you'd rather torture yourself with the woes of medicine than admit defeat. Proving yourself day after day as you pushed through the BS, big and small.

Like your chem teacher—you got a headache anytime you thought about him. Accent thicker than molasses that you can't quite place, the guy wore a permanent resting bitch face and never seemed to want to be there.

With so much attitude pent up inside such a small man who was hell-bent on unleashing it, it was a good day if he didn't go off on someone over something as simple as not understanding the words coming out of his mouth.

It had to be his favorite excuse to never explain anything during class when eventually everyone would give up and blankly stare him in the face.

You were sure he got off on being a shit teacher with a crutch called tenure. Ending every semester with a smile as he passed around teacher reviews, knowing your responses were worthless—just like your social life.

Freshman and sophomore year had been the best for late night and regrets in the morning, but junior year? Whopped your ass.

Time for games or friends was over. Textbooks and Shake Shack were your best friends.

You took off your visor that always hugged a little too tight around your voluminous hair, immediately feeling relief before looking at the logo that mocked you.

The money your dad set aside, plus what he'd been saving since you were a baby, was enough to cover most of your expenses, but not all.You had to buy a car, textbooks, and other unexpected but totally avoidable costs that couldn't be covered for...reasons.

But it was fine.

Everything was fine.

School was...doable, and work was preparing you for independence and trust, Miss Independent was in her bag. It wasn't all bad, you thought, fiddling with the neon star on your lanyard. The cool metal nestled between your fingers was a constant reminder of when things were a little easier—you smirked—and the most unforgettable night of sophomore year.

Parties weren't foreign to you during undergrad—scratch that—you weren't foreign to parties who knew your name by heart. But most of them leading up to that night were always mildly disappointing.

Hollywood had painted a very vivid picture of college life, but for you and your roomie, the beginning of undergrad had been painfully black and white.

It wasn't that neither of you, especially Yuki, didn't try. Sometimes, you'd even end up somewhere sketch, following behind Yuki who was always chasing a thrill.

No, it was because there were really only two options for a quote-on-quote "good night": a sweaty, over-packed, testosterone-filled Frat sausage party with shit music and even shittier guys or an on-campus, alcohol-free, school-organized event with crowds of less than 20 that always ended before midnight.

Anywhere else actually worth a damn was 21 and up and off-limits to underaged 19-year-olds like the two of you. To you, they weren't even worth bringing up, but Yuki liked a challenge. A third option was always on the table. And one night, she swore she knew how to get your entire group on the scene and into a rave. All it took was a little finesse and a little dress. And bearing the cold of the December weather in tight skirts and fishnet shirts.

"Yuki, I swear to God," your words vibrated with each shiver, "If we don't get in—"

"You worry too much." She looked over the long line of heads in front of your group.

All week, she'd been going on and on about how "This weekend was going to kiss ass!", with the most boastful look on her face. She was only one year ahead of you but swore the connects she made her freshman year would come in clutch and be there that night. But after everything that happened in high school, you were such a worry wart now.

Always wanting to be sure everything went according to plan and worked out as it should. Especially once you calmed down after losing your shit and running around like a complete lunatic freshman year of college. But by the end of that year, things felt...off. Now you wanted to take sophomore year easy. But Yuki wasn't having it.

Once goosebumps began to creep up your skin as you took wobbled steps towards the front of the line, it was do or die.

Music bumped into your ears, battling your beating heart as you passed the crowd of annoyed faces who'd been waiting for God knows how long to get in. Yuki took long, runway-model strides. Eating up the lethal looks you and your group were getting for being so bold until she stood face to face with security.

His gaze traveled across Yuki's snug black leather shorts and matching thigh-high boots as she rested her hand on her hips, making him smirk.

"Hey, we're on the list," she said cooly, chin high as she ran a hand through her long blonde tresses. "Under Rico."

His smirk disappeared. "Who?"

"*scoff* Rico. Big Rico." She said like it was obvious.

"I don't know that name."

Oh no. Eyes wide, you shifted, hovering just under Yuki's shadow as you clung to her arms for warmth.

You were freezing, nearly nude, feet screaming from only a short walk, and now at risk of being embarrassed in front of a line of irritated individuals who'd probably been praying on your downfall the second you all beelined to the front.

The threat of being turned away burned hot in your cheeks. But Yuki kept her cool. "We should be under Rico." She gave him her name and the rest of the group's, but security quickly scrolled through his tablet and shook his head.

"Oh wait," he stopped at the bottom, "Yeah, Rico. Right here."

Yes!

"He's already gone in, but uh, he didn't mention any extras."

Fuck!

You told Yuki that you guys would be late while she was taking her sweet time getting ready.

Then security gave your group a slow lookover, but not in a 'I'm falling for your slutty outfits and checking you out' kind of way Yuki was hoping for. "You guys got IDs?"

Your heart dropped to your ass. You gaped like a fish.

fuckfuckfuck. You knew you were screwed anything you saw even a smidge of panic on Yuki's usually fearless face.

The situation she swore she had a surefire way to avoid blew right through her and the rips on the sides of the t-shirt she purposely wore to seduce her way out of trouble.

Curse words filled your head, ready to fire them off at Yuki the moment you got back to her car.

She had to think fast.

"Yeah, we um—"

"They're with us."

Your heads snapped toward the voice in unison and you had to crane your neck around Yuki's towering stature to find it, but find it you did—belonging to a Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Handsome—standing right off the entrance to the rave with a drink in hand and eyes firmly locked on you.

"'Bout time you got here, Yuki. Friends." He nodded your way.

You? Us?

For a second, you knew he had to be mistaken but resisted the urge to look around for whoever he must have been talking to. But his gaze didn't waver.

You exhaled, blushing. Relieved but wondering why this appetizing stranger was coming to your rescue.

"You're with Rico?" security butted in.

"Yeah, yeah." And the stranger waved his wristband in air, a small neon star dangling from it for everyone to see. "Now, let these ladies in. They're freezing." And he winked at you.

Yuki wasted no time brushing past the still-skeptical bouncer, greeting your savior with open arms. "Sorry we're late, dude!" Playing up the act as if she'd done it a million times before, and the rest of your group quickly snagged their VIP wristbands before funneling into the booming venue.

It didn't click that you were getting in scot-free until the stranger looked back at you, waiting and holding the door open with a nod. "Coming?"

Your feet couldn't carry you fast enough, rushing forward as he took the last wristband, and secured it snugly around your wrist before flicking the neon star, looking down on you. "Perfect," he smirked. And for the sake of your steadily increasing heartbeat, you could only nod and avoid looking him in the eye.

Damn, what luck. And you slipped inside.

You had an idea of what crossing the threshold into the rave would be like, but your imagination fell unbelievably short.

Instant sensory overload—pulsing beats thumped through your chest, vibrating through the floor and into your bones. Vibrant strobe lights sliced through the dense fog of smoke machines, mixing with the heady air thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and a faint aroma of smoke.

Every corner seemed alive, packed with swirling seas of bodies moving in sync with the relentless EDM rhythm and snatching so much of your attention that you almost forgot your manners.

"Thanks! Thank you!" you tried to shout, feeling yourself slowly defrost in the humid, rave air. "And Rico."

Stretching your arms out, you admired how the fluorescent purple lights made your shirt, neon nails, and cute new star accessory glow in the hazy darkness. They subtly reflected on the stranger's muscle tee you didn't realize was so close to you. Becoming aware of his gaze at the same time he caught yours.

His drifted over your fishnet shirt, white, tight, and highlighting your already glistening skin adorn with oils and powders—yours drew to his silver eyebrow piercing then to the colorful ink cascading from behind his ears, down his neck, and disappearing into his shirt.

He looked like an undergrad student but would've had to start on a piece like that years ago to finish something so intricate that also flowed onto his arms.

Would his chest be tattooed, too? Now you were staring at it.

Blushing, you looked away, realizing you were actually chest level with a man who practically towered over you.

"Who's Rico?"

Your brows furrowed at the same time a glimmer of light caught a sneaky piece of jewelry, snug on the corner of his bottom lip. Smugly smiling, he held out his hand, urging you to take it.

What the fu—

For the second time that night, you were speechless.

Confusion flickered across your face as you hesitated, studying his confident vibe and easy smile that invited you to continue to trust him.

That calm and collected aura that had finessed your way into a forbidden space when you were ready to throw in the towel and give Yuki the old "I told you so."

Something about him was tempting—maybe the air of mystery draping over him that made you both curious and cautious.

Amidst the chaotic surroundings and nerves settling down after winging your luck, his so-sure presence demanded your attention. But it also made you wonder what he was doing it all for.

Regardless, it wasn't the time to get all psychological. Yuki and the others were already far ahead, soon to be lost in the crowd if you didn't catch up.

He bit his lip, watching your reservations gradually melt away as you nervously took his hand and returned his smile—welcoming yourself aboard the first ride of the night.

He easily parted the sea of people as you followed behind, almost immediately finding your group thanks to your roommate. Always easy to find, she unironically stands out in a crowd—tall, loud, and bursting with energy like everyone else lived in her background.

After socking her in the arm hard enough to bring her down a little for leaving you behind, your unofficial guide for the night suggested you all hit the bar for a round of shots, his treat.

Yuki held her hand to her chest with a smile, immediately forgetting the dull pain in her arm. Leaning in close to you, she whispered, "Okay, Mr. Moneybags." And he soon returned with an amount of alcohol that could rival a Frat Party.

Picking a shot up from the tray, he toasted, "To a great night."

"A kick-ass night!" Yuki added, and you rolled your eyes but clinked shots.

The neon green liquid that looked like coolant and battery acid had a baby flooded your system, making you wince with each swallow. Fruity, sour, and stronger than anything you'd had before. It set your insides of fire, and you tried your best not to show it, but Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected thought it was cute.

"I'm not a kid," you commented when he suggested you slow down on the shots you were clearly struggling with. Damn Yuki and her 'see a shot, take a shot' rule. She'd always start with two and made sure everyone kept up with each other. "You don't have to baby me."

But how couldn't he with a pout that cute sitting on your face flushed from the eccentric liquor?

"Why'd you help us anyway?" you asked, leaning on the table your group surrounded.

He mimicked your actions, sharp brown eyes glinting as he explained that he was simply a Good Samaritan who happened to be in the right place at the right time to help some girls in need. "Some really cute ones," he said into your ear.

Your cheeks warmed—and not just from the alcohol—as he drew back just close enough to barely graze your ear with his soft lips.

He was flirting.

And you were a terrible flirt—always residing in the back seat, never driving the car. Letting things happen to you instead of engaging. An approach that almost always ended in disappointment.

But there he was, this sinfully attractive man, openly vying for your attention—and shamelessly unafraid to say it. Clearly already into you, evident by his increasingly intimate actions, and assumed you were too because you were still in his face and hadn't run off just yet.

So you wouldn't need to do much more, right? Just do what you've seen in the movies.

Pretending to be unfazed, you brushed off his compliment with a smile, tucking a braid behind your ear. "So...knight in shining armor, you got a name?"

He chuckled and straightened his stance, suddenly making you feel even smaller than before.

"Naoya," he smirked.

You raised your next shot, bright and pink like your shiny lipgloss. "To Naoya," you toasted, quickly downing it with a sly smile that said you were far from innocent. But the OPs couldn't stand to see you be great, sending a dribble to free-dive down the corner of your mouth.

Cupping your chin before you could react, Naoya swiped his thumb across your skin and nonchalantly placed it in his mouth.

"Sweet."

And good fucking God, you didn't know if he was talking about the drink or you. Watching him subtly roll his thumb between his lips made you exhale regardless. Just like—

Thankfully, Yuki came to your rescue, pulling you into the lively crowd before you could probably do or say something stupid.

Unrestrained laughter echoed from your circle, dancing to the pulsating beats.

Yuki, always the life of the party, twirled and pulled everyone into her orbit—your group and strangers alike—while Naoya stuck close. Every few minutes or so he'd mingled with the group he came with, letting them put a dent in most of the shots he bought, but he had a different interest in mind. Stealing flirty peeks at you as you bounced to the techno beat, effortlessly drawing your attention back to him, even in a sea of lingering gazes.

Each time your eyes met, a thrill shot through you that was both exciting and slightly unnerving.

The magnetism between you was undeniable, but another part of you wondered if you were getting too much into your head. Whether it was simply lust making him devour you with his eyes or if it was really just you. There was always the chance he could be just like all the others. And a waste of your time.

But you could only ping-pong your thoughts for so long, and in the end, the thrill of what-ifs, alcohol, and a hint of rebuked behavior outweighed your apprehension until it wasn't enough to matter.

Silly, even.

His attention was simply more intoxicating than the alcohol coursing through your veins.

Just the thought of being the focus of someone so undeniably captivating was enough to entice you to stay within his sight, kick caution to the curb, and give him a show.

Hungry glances swarmed your way, but Naoya just stood back and took you in.

Flashes of your supple cheeks under your reflective skirt, your hair brushing the nape of your neck in those high, perfectly grippable pigtails. Fleeting thoughts of how they'd look in his hands.

A sway here, a caress of your body there, and it was easy to lock him in. Making him give less than a fuck about the "competition" or how they nearly broke their necks to get a glimpse of you.

Because as he watched your fingers lazily glide up your velvety thighs, over your chest, and up your tender neck without a second of broken eye contact between you, he knew this meal was just for him.

And so the night went. Playing the Yandere game. Occasionally being stolen by Yuki or one of the girls to build up a sweat and tease the crowd with bumps and grinds and lingering hands on each other's waists. Syncing with one another. All of you lost in the moment and savoring the night that was far from over.

Until you blinked and a few hours had passed, drenched clothes clung to every body, the once-exuberant crowd thinned out, and the blinking venue lights signaled that the night's event was drawing to a close.

Yuki's face couldn't have been more distraught as she smoothed her sweaty hair back to showcase her pouting face. "What the fuck, dude, it feels like we just got here??"

You opened your mouth, ready to scold her and remind her that, once again, this was entirely her fault for being slower than a DMV line while getting ready, but decided it wasn't worth your breath.

However, Yuki's infectious energy was raging at its peak with no signs of fading, and made sure everyone knew. But what could you do?

Choke your anxiety down and try your luck again with another club, or God forbid, crawl back to frat parties?

Staying in the dorms and bingeing Rom-Coms and junk food would be more entertaining.

Still, Yuki made her problem everyone else's—whining and groaning. Loudly protesting that the fun was just getting started and going on as if her soul was being crushed. Theater was robbed the day she majored in Sociology.

So dramatic. And it should've been easy to say you were fine with calling it a night and returning to your much warmer bed.

But that would've been a lie.

Just a teeny tiny itty bitty one. But big enough to matter.

And you internally rolled your eyes so hard you could almost see stars.

Because Naoya was the reason why.

God, you hated yourself.

The promise of something more was enough to blow hearts into your eyes as it snuck in and wrapped you in its clutches. Trapping you in one of the most intense instances of sexual chemistry you'd felt in a while—budding, simmering, and patiently waiting to spill over.

It was mildly irritating, your mind filling with thoughts of where things could go with this guy you barely knew. That little pinch of hope for a chance of something happening—even after playing hard to get all night.

You wondered if you'd ever see him again.

Ah well. That's nightlife for you.

It was fun while it lasted, but Yuki's voice brought you back to reality, growing increasingly more annoying as your hearing started to return to normal.

Seconds away from you throttling her and telling her to grip, Naoya made his presence known again, having overheard Yuki's pleas to extend the night.

"I know a spot."

Surprise failed you because, of course he did.

Mr. "I know, Rico." It was kinda weird Yuki hadn't asked about Rico the second you all stepped inside but with the crowd as thick as it was earlier, finding him would've been nearly impossible anyway.

But this was too perfect—the savior suddenly swooping in twice in one night with open arms and no hint of wanting more. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe your super quiet, nearly non-existent hopes and prayers for a main character moment had been answered.

But you weren't young enough to be that much of an idiot.

Still, was it a bit silly to be so sketch? Second-guessing this "Good Samaritan"? This casual guy tucking his thumbs in his pockets and holding a self-assured, but trusting smile whom you didn't know from a can of paint?

The back and forth was exhausting.

As if reading your thoughts, his head slightly tilted, signaling the words you wouldn't say.

Could you? Would you?

The unspoken questions hung in the air like Yuki clung to your shoulders, practically begging you to live a little.

Either the night ended there or could evolve into something new.

You just had to use your words.

But a sigh was enough to make Yuki squeal, answer in hand before you could speak.

"Let's gooo," and she beelined out of the rave just as they were shutting down the bar and switching on the lights.

Goosebumps made an abrupt comeback. The transition from humid rave heat to brisk winter air instantly sobered your group, seeping into your pores and drying your sweat.

After making sure Yuki was good to drive, you practically ran to her car. Coincidently sitting just a row over from Naoya's.

Yuki gawked at the sleek, red sports car. "Well, color me impressed." Its blinding headlights flickered as Naoya unlocked it.

You hadn't known someone with a car that nice since the Geto's.

"Follow me to the next spot?" he laughed, leaning on the car's roof.

If there weren't so many of you, he'd tell all of you to hop in and make yourselves comfortable, but he also knew your guards would be up—as they should.

His head tipped at Yuki, but he kept his eyes on you. "Keep her safe, ya?" And ducked into the car.

Your face didn't feel so cold after that.

"Girl."

You squinted in disbelief.

"Is this a junkyard?"

In the middle of old car parts and rusting scraps of metal, a steel warehouse glimmered in the moonlight, confirming that it was. Strobe lights shot out, lighting the bubble of space in the darkness as it came into view.

And just when you thought there had to be some mistake, some wrong turn taken at some point down the long, dark gravel road through the trees, Naoya's car cruised through the chain-link fence, finally stopping in the dirt path after the 30-minute drive outside the city limits.

This was unreal.

Alt Rock—Phoenix?—vibrated through Yuki's car, barely contained by the warehouse walls as it blasted into the open air.

"What the..." You lost your words for the third damn time that night.

The hell is this? Who is this guy???

Asking questions had been the least of Yuki's concerns earlier. Or during the lengthy drive there as you repeatedly asked her if she knew where you guys were. She was just happy to have her prayers to keep the night going and finish burning energy answered—damn how—and repeatedly said you guys would be fine.

But a warehouse?? A damn warehouse???

An after-hours club, house party, hell, even a dive bar came to mind when Naoya said he knew a spot.

What a spot to know and you noticed the numerous cars scattered throughout the dirt yard as you looked around.

Black leather skirts and oversized jackets littered the crowd. Ripped stockings and Demonia's hugged nearly every leg.

This was a scene you weren't familiar with, not that you discriminated, but other than Yuki, the rest of you would be glaringly sticking out like a sore thumb. Neon colors clearly weren't the move here, and you all looked like walking glow sticks in a sea of scene kids and black lipstick—sure to be noticed the second you stepped out of the car.

You knew you should've trusted your gut.

"At least the music's good," Yuki said as if reading your thoughts. Her head bobbed to the seductive beat. “🎶He’s just tryna be cooool.🎶”

You could strangle her.

"C'mon, lighten up," she said, unfazed by your distressed face. "Think of it as an adventure." She turned to the back seat. "Right girls?"

Shoko had stopped caring long ago, and Utahime, still buzzing from the rave, was down for whatever.

Freshman year you probably would've shaken you by your shoulders and called you a pussy by now.

But why were you acting brand new? You knew what this was. Been knew from the moment you agreed to go out with Yuki this weekend that something as crazy as this happening had always been on the table.

She was always so daring, so spontaneous and unpredictable. Always relaxed and in control no matter the situation—all of what drew you into her in the first place. The perfect roommate.

She reminded you of what you used to be—what you were trying to get back to. Even if it meant repeatedly pressing all of your buttons.

You pinched your brows together, secretly regretting the day you born.

"Fine."

"Fuck yeah!" And not a second later, her car whipped into a makeshift parking spot so fast you almost got whiplash.

Just ahead, Naoya hopped out of his car, cooly walking up. "Ha, you made it," he joked, but your resting bitch said nothing was funny.

"Okay, okay, look, I know what this looks like," he began, apologizing for not giving you guys a heads-up. But trust me."

A breeze danced across his face, tousling his bangs and showing off the subtle glint in his pretty brown eyes. And as if on cue, his lips curled into the signature smile you knew was coming, once again offering his hand.

"Will you?"

...Godfkindammit.

What the hell is happening here?

Those butterflies just would not give you a break. And neither would Yuki if you turned him down, especially after coming this far already.

You cursed under your breath and took his hand, hoping the flutters would go away, but only passed them on to him.

His lip ring flashed as he smiled, his fingers lacing with yours.

"Super sweet."

And welcomed you into his territory.

Throughout your life, you've learned that looks can be deceiving. And if you had forgotten, example A stood front and center in that moment.

On first glance, it may have looked like a glaring OSHA violation, but what the warehouse lacked on the outside, it made up for with a jaw-dropping inside.

Head falling back, you marveled at the intricate web of large steel beams weaving throughout the vaulted ceiling. Dancing light bounced off the metal, one-up the rave and casting colorful shadows on the floor, walls, and everyone inside.

Drum-heavy bass and gritty guitar riffs ripped through the speakers, welcoming you. Pulling you into an underground world that was very welcoming to Naoya too.

A hot commodity, nearly every face you saw couldn't help but smile and greet him on the walk-in. Unable to resist his charm. Pandering for even a hint of attention even though his hand remained fixed on you, pulling you through the crowd and bringing a blush to your face. It was clear you were his guest.

Oak and orange blossom clashed with the sharp tang of industrial machinery, heavily perfuming the air thanks to the dense, edgy crowd, but at least it wasn't as packed as the rave. Quite the opposite actually—the space here was wide open, yet surprisingly insulated against the cold. It'd be hard to get lost, but you still told Yuki not to run off because you knew what was coming next.

"Shot o'clock!"

Surprising.

And this time, they were on her.

"A toast, to Naoya." The glass glistened in the lights as she held it high. "And this totally cool spot."

She linked arms with Shoko and Utahime and they tossed their shots back together. Leaving you out—no doubt on purpose.

Naturally, Naoya looked to you, completely oblivious to the ritual but willing to play along if you were.

You steeled your nerves, deciding to get the girls back for that later, and snaked your arm around his muscled one. Snug. Close. No big deal. People totally don't do super intimate things like this at weddings or anything.

Looking him in the eye, you grinned. "To you again." And downed the shot in sync, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat. Spreading a fuzzy feeling through your body all over again and helping you settle into the reality of the night.

This environment was different.

There was an air of exclusivity in the space—his vibe—this place meant for the in-crowd—something to be a part of that he had access to and personally invited you into.

Like remnants of high school. Drawing you in like a magnet.

And this time, you stuck close to Naoya. Baiting his attention again.

His lingering gaze drew curious glances from your friends that you were quick to brush off, but even you couldn't ignore the nuzzle heat from the way his eyes bore into your swaying frame.

As if you weren't already fully aware, your favorite two-toned brunette, Utahime, kept raising eyebrows at you and tipping her head his way real "smooth-like". Totally not right in front of him where it was super noticeable and embarrassingly obvious.

When she got fed up with your shy act, she lovingly wrapped her arms around your neck, making you both sync to the beat. With a slightly tipsy smile on her face, she said just loud enough for you to hear, "Go get that dick." And quickly twirled you around until you posted right in front of Naoya.

A ditzy look plastered on your face as you froze. Slowly meeting his eyes with a flushed look of embarrassment that pulled a smile out of him. You looked so cute trying to hold yourself together and seem unbothered. But if it weren't for the alcohol swimming through your system, you might've bailed.

Yet, liquid courage ran through you, hell-bent on making you step into your bad bitch shoes because confidence lived in your blood.

If there was any chance of finding out if this was real or not, it was now never.

Eyes locked—his having never stopped eyefucking you—you both smirked. With a tip of your hand and slightly wobbly knees, you invited the man who made you ache between your thighs to dance.

With a small laugh, he gently bit his lip, finding you cute enough to plant a kiss on your wrist then pull you close. "About time," he said, fingers digging into your waist.

What a pretty face you made when you were surprised. But you surprised him right back when you twirled around, your ass grazing his front as you closed the gap between you.

If he was going to beg for your attention, he had to prove he could handle it, and gradually, you relaxed enough to dance—curves winding in beat with the flowy rhythm—enticing him to take the bait and dance his hands along your waist. Syncing rhythm, closeness, and heat to slowly rebuild a sweat.

Your head, light as a feather, fell back against his chest, exposing your shimmery neck. Sugary sweet scents you doused yourself in earlier drew him into your sweet spot, stifling your breath as his grazed your skin, erasing your final remnants of hesitation.

The instinct to draw your hands to his hair reminded you that the freedom to let go was a drug. A heady, intoxicating sensation that mingled with the pleasure of his hands slipping along your thighs and climbing up your sides like ecstasy until you opened your hazy eyes and stared it in the face. Pale blue, tiny, and snug between his peace fingers.

Gasping, you swiftly faced a grinning Naoya.

"What is—"

"X", he replied so casually, as if he hadn't just practically shoved a drug in your face without warning.

What the hell was with this guy???

The anxiety you worked to snuff out all night quickly clawed its way out.

From the moment you met Naoya, he'd been a walking enigma who kept going for broke.

The borderline reckless and carefree attitude could even one-up Yuki's, and freshman you definitely couldn't hold a candle. At least the unhinged version of you knew better than to throw caution to the wind and go around looking for randos who happen to do dRUGS???

What if you were like an undercover cop or something, you thought, crossing your glitter-covered arms.

Was his brain constantly on go—never taking a second to think before acting—or was he so confident in himself that he didn't care if others judged him?

It kinda sounded familiar...and was awfully cringe to think about.

But fuck that, how often did he do this?? Go around seducing girls, saving the day, then dragging them to nowhere to—

"An adventure."

What?

Aw, fuck.

God, fuck, there she goes again.

Feet away, yet in your ear, in case you thought you could ever escape her.

Yuki's annoyingly convincing voice echoed through your head like peer pressure on steroids, telling you to chill the fuck out and stop overthinking. Asking you in the most mocking tone your brain could conjure up, "What are you so afraid of?"

Sure, you were a virgin to the world of party drugs...but you couldn't say you'd never been curious.

Degrassi, Skins, and shows alike all set the bar for what college life was supposed to look like long ago, and drugs almost always had a seat at the table—glimmering and glamorized all over television. Surrounded by fun and pretty people.

But you knew fuck all about ecstasy outside of what high school Health Ed class said it would feel like: energy and euphoria— compressed into a colorful little pill.

It wasn't...the best argument against it.

Still, you were a little virgin baby. Aside from alcohol, you'd only flirted with Mary Jane, and that was only a couple of times at a few frat parties freshman year. You didn't exactly have a bucket list for drugs.

But there it was, an opportunity presenting itself.

And as skeptical as you were about Naoya—the mystery, the conveniences, the 'too good to be true' personality that kept poking you in the gut—those same yellow flag, along with his cunning, almost taunting demeanor, dared you to step up to the plate.

Even now, his confident gaze swallowed your doe eyes with a look you couldn't turn away from—thumb gently pressing into your waist with a silent reassurance. In a 'you don't have to do it' kind of way that seemed to take all the weight off.

Still, he tipped his head, gave you a firm squeeze and a grin, and said, "Take it with me—if you want." And sat the split pill, SKY written on it in tiny letters, right on the edge of his pink tongue.

You thought about home. And then you thought about the thrill you'd been searching for all your life. God...

If this went wrong, at least the girls were nearby to kick his teeth in.

You swallowed hard.

There was only one way to say yes, and it rushed out of your mouth before Yuki's voice could taunt you again.

"An adventure," you breathed, quickly diving in before anyone could see—wrapping your tongue around his and tasting bitterness on yours. Ignoring your racing heart from the sheer audacity to be so bold.

His lip lingered on yours until he was sure you swallowed the metallic pill, a small string of slick glistening as he pulled away.

"An adventure," he repeated before flashing his trademark smile and pulling your arms around his neck.

It finally hit you what Naoya reminded you of. Something you used to look for on purpose. Something that required a bit of work and a firm resolve.

Effort.

A challenge.

And it was time to play catch up.

Minutes felt like hours waiting for something, anything, to happen, but Naoya's secure grasp held you and your attention as you danced. Firm. Warm. Melting.

Melting?

Indeed melting—fingers dipping into the divots of your hips as if they could sink through like butter—coaxing your head to lazily float back under the wavy touch. Wavering a moment and brushing Naoya's fingertips with the ends of your waist-length pigtails that were growing increasingly easier to grab.

Pretty steel beams. Were they always this mesmerizing? Or close? Like they would sink to your level just so you could grab on. Or maybe you'd always been 20 feet tall and never knew?

Naoya snickered, holding the weight you practically threw into his arms. Admiring the strobes of light bathing your softly rising and falling chest as you fell into a trance—your body turning to jelly before you even realized it was happening.

But the awareness of your suddenly heavy eyelids and increasingly ridiculous thoughts of the ceiling slapped you down to earth, sending you into a mini panic. Head, heavier than ever, pulling forward until your fluttering eyes met Naoya's blown-out gaze. Staring. Drinking in every subtle change in your warm, flushed face.

A satisfied smirk played on his lips, watching your mouth part and breaths slow. Dying to close the imaginary and real gap that opened and shut between you all night until he once again flushed his skin against yours. And this time, a switch flipped; it wasn't just his proximity making your chest buzz. You swore you were sharing vibrations.

Warmth grew in your core at his touch. The oh-so-unbelievably soft yet coarse yet caressible feel of his skin pulsing against yours. Flooding your veins, spreading from your tongue to the tips of your fingers.

You were tingling.

And couldn't stop tingling.

And knew you couldn't stop tingling no matter how hard you tried, and for some reason, the euphoric thought made you break out into an uncontrollable grin.

"There she is." Naoya lifted your chin, vibrant colors blurring together on his face like a kaleidoscope.

All you wanted to do was stare at him, the array of colors on the cement floor, and the dizzying visual rhythm beating with the music. Like Nang was literally seeping into your bones, begging you to float and finally touch those steel beams.

God, you'd never been so happy you made a decision. That you chose to be here—that he chose you—that you trusted Yuki, the girls, and yourself enough to get out of your rut and end up here. In the arms of a guy you wanted nothing more than to finally give in and slob down from head to toe for being so hot and intoxicating and slyly nibbling on his lip ring every single time you locked eyes.

"Here I am," you said, teasing a grin you hoped was as good as his. Feeling alive, truly alive for the first time that year—completely immersed in the chaotic blend of lights, sounds, and bodily surrealism. Bliss peeled away your breath as his feverish hands danced along your body in a way that was too much and never enough.

Dainty fingers found your outstretched neck, pleasure etching on your face as you caressed the sensitive areas begging to be touched. Fingertips, music, ego, and air binding like sex in a sinful combo—evident by the full display of the undercuff of your ass, eliciting stifled moans from Naoya as your hips swirled into him.

That state of you was telling, and he hoped he didn't give you too much, but your ass looked so goddamn perfect, molding around the growing ache in his already tight jeans. Like you were trying to pull something out of him, but he only laughed to himself because he was sure you'd actually melt into a puddle if he sank his hands into your plush cheeks.

You looked amazing—you felt amazing—everything was amazing—and should always feel like this, you thought.

This high, this joy, this love—it was universal.

Easy.

So very easy to give and take—and deserving,

Everyone deserved love in some away.

And suddenly you were an ecstasy evangelist, slipping from Naoya's arms into the pulsating crowd.

Naturally gravitating to a drunken Utahime, her swaying form coming into focus with bright and infectious laughter amidst the haze. So happy. So carefree. You just had to have some, reaching out to grab her hand and pull her close.

"Isn't this—your breath felt so light, "—just the best?" You shouted over the music, your voice a mix of exhilaration and disbelief.

You laughed, the sound almost lost amongst the beats, as you tugged Utahime closer. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and amusement, but her attention drew to the sheer ecstasy etched onto your face.

"Seriously," you said, pressing her hand to your chest, "This is everything."

Utahime's smile was warm, but her brows slightly furrowed. "You've, uh, finally come around, ya?"

She hadn't seen this side of you since you'd met. A state that was a little beyond tipsy, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Shoko sidled up—the least drunk in the group—casually draping her arm over the girl you knew she'd been secretly dating since the beginning of the semester. Cigarette tucked behind her ear like she was going out to smoke soon, but holding a knowing grin. Her gaze swept over you, lingering for just a moment too long before she said, "Someone's certainly having a good time."

Correction, you were having a fantastic time. Everyone should be, you thought, so glad to have all of your girls with you before realizing that someone was missing. And like you knew she would, Yuki had run off. Probably huddled up by a wall, towering over some poor guy or girl by now.

But Shoko's tone flew right over your head—the heat of the crowd catching you in its web. Your body hadn't stopped moving since you came into the circle—a complete slave to the contagious energy and music. Leaving your swaying hips all vulnerable, freely out in the open and unattended to.

Such a shame, some guy thought, someone should take care of that.

It wasn't until you felt a pair of hands glue to your waist and heat against your back that you stopped mid-motion. Rough, almost aggressive, and hasty gropes squeezing your hips but losing you in the manic energy. And as if it were a natural extension of the night's chaos, the sensation rolled your body into the unfamiliar touch in a way that felt out of your control.

And pissed Naoya off.

He'd been watching the entire show from where you left him, allowing you to go off to be with your girls, not a slut for anyone else.

He tsked, his usually smooth demeanor cracking as he glared. Watching you casually give away what was his to some random guy. As if he meant nothing. As if you didn't owe him.

And the sight of the guy's face—smug and sleazy as if he'd hit the jackpot—and his grubby hands inching closer to the grand prize between your thighs, sent Naoya right over the edge.

He moved swiftly through the crowd, eyes locked on you, pulling you away so quickly you missed the way his jaw clenched. Grip firm but controlled as he wove pasted a stunned Shoko and Utahime, through the space, and out into the cool night air.

The warehouse loomed above, its graffiti-splattered walls bathed in the glow of the quarter moon. Fingers gliding over the dusty lines, you traced the art, trailing Naoya who pulled you behind him until he reached the back.

He took a deep breath, trying to mask his unexpected jealousy, but the way you were being so ditzy and cute and oblivious to the world only added fuel to the fire.

You didn't mean to, his reaction was just so funny, especially when he looked so flustered trying to hide his lingering scowl with a slick grin that, for the first time that night, didn't reach his eyes.

And you wouldn't stop fucking laughing, even as he kept walking towards you until your back hit the warehouse wall.

But that smile was deceiving.

His hand shot out, grabbing a hold of your face, fingers digging into your cheeks and tilting your chin so he could look into your glazed-over eyes.

"Such a pretty girl," he murmured. your lips feeling like putty as he teased with his thumb,

Though his words seemed sweet, a twinge of unease sparked in your chest watching his eyes turn dark, sadistic. Hungry. The playful facade shattering, earning your undivided attention and bringing your giggles to a halt when you realized he wasn't fucking around.

Your eyes widened. Whatever you'd been teasing all night had finally awoken and stood at your door. Ready to devour your faltering heart as slow, heavy breaths escaped your glossed lips.

He had to taste them.

And did, lips crashing onto yours, teeth and tongue dominating your mouth until you moaned into his.

Your arm wrapped around his neck, searching for leverage against the furious energy, before feeling it pin to the wall. His other hand slipped from your face, ghosting from your jaw to your neck—squeezing lightly, almost growling, and stealing your breath.

He pulled away, his eyes following his finger tracing the maze of net resting over your chest. Taking your glinting belly ring—the perfect match to his lip ring—between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting a slight groan from you when he tugged.

He smirked—the face you made when you winced was even prettier than your surprise face. He wondered what other ones he could get out of you.

And just when you thought the torture was over, his fingers slid around your back, finally twisting into one of your pigtails with a pull.

Your head snapped back and his lips attached to your neck, breath hot against your skin as he inhaled your intoxicating scent—biting, sucking, trying to mark you. Mind flashing to the guy he should've punched for even looking at you.

You gasped, being forced to use your free arm to hold onto him when his leg swept between your thighs, propping you up on his knee.

He groaned into your neck—your panties were absolutely ruined—damping his skin with so much stringy slick, he struggled to keep himself from rutting into you.

But your hips wouldn't stop moving even if you tried. Grinding into the friction that felt like fire every time your clit bumped into a rip in his jeans. So disgusting lewd, but you were growing so warm with each pulsing thump. Unashamedly needing more. And painting his skin with juicy kisses.

Damn, he thought, smirking against your skin at your whimpers. Wondering if you'd start panting like a dog in heat as your fucks to give flew out the window. Mind only fixed on the lip-biting flick of your feverish clit that made your walls clench around nothing.

But he wouldn't let you cum that easily. At least not like that. No, he needed to do it himself.

He pinned you still, grip tight on your waist and lips finding yours when you whined from the lost of sensation. Sneaking a hand under your skirt and making you moan into his mouth when he grabbed your ass. Finally feeling your soft and warm and plush curves melt into his fingers.

"I want you," he said between kisses.

Your mews as your pressed into his touch told him you wanted him too, but he needed to hear you say it.

Fingers crawling under your things, he drew slow, long hot lines across your skin until they reached your parted valley. Your breath hitched, knowing where he was heading, but you spread wider, hoping he would hurry and get there faster. Inching closer and closer to your sweet heat with a slow breath, he brought you nearer and nearer to a rapture you seldomly experienced when he suddenly stopped at the precipice.

"Say it."

Your brows furrowed.

"Tell me what you want."

You spit out the only thing you knew. "I want you." And your mouth fell open feeling a warm pad on your clit. His thumb just resting there, feeling you throb through your thin g-string. Waiting to see if you'd be so bold as to hump him again. Whining and writhing instead, you fell prey to the touch that was light to most but dizzying in the world of E.

"You want me to what?"

Your cheeks warmed. God, was he gonna drag it out of you if you didn't say it?

Once more, you latched your mouth onto his to avoid saying so, only to accidentally bite the inside of his bottom lip when two fingers roughly pushed inside you.

"Fuck, you're so tight." And warm and soaked.

He didn't even care that you almost bit a hole into him, only focused on stuffing you full until resistance finally gave way and swallowed his fingers.

Your stomach tightened, legs drawing together only to be blocked by his knee as his fingers swam deeper than the nails you dug into his back until he bottomed out.

Fire grew in your hand, his grip sliding from your arm to pin your wrist. You started to squirm. It was too much at once.

And made Naoya's dick stand on ten watching your body resist but betray itself by continuing to make his fingers glisten in the moonlight.

You poor things who couldn't make up your mind, Naoya thought. Teasing him all night only to run from his fingers.

If you were squeezing that tight around two little digits, he wondered how you'd feel on his dick. How long it would take for your eyes to roll into the back of your head.

How quickly he could pull an orgasm out of you.

He let your arm fall, his slipping under to palm your ass and pull you closer. Tightening around your waist so you couldn't escape his fingers brutally pumping into you.

"ff-fUCK!" A gasp ripped from your chest, your eyes screwing shut at the blazing sin that just rippled through your body.

What was thAT???

A funny button in you was assaulted over and over and over again, forcing your walls to clench on command and send fiery tingles straight to your clit.

Desperate hands scrambled to find purchase around his neck, holding on for dear life. You felt yourself go tense at the relentless rhythm, but even moreso at the unfamiliar face shooting through your core. Slender fingers rutting in and pumping out—running juices down his wrist.

The squelching sounds penetrated your ears, mouth falling open as drool began to dribble down. You felt your brain fizzling out, eyes going cross—he was hitting that same spot over and over and over again. Dragging the breath from your lungs with every dip. And the few whines you failed to suppress that did slip out, couldn't compete with his merciless strokes. Purposefully working an angle that sent swarms of vibrations to your curling toes.

An unfamiliar warmth began to pool in your walls, making his dick twitch feeling your little pulses start to clench around his fingers. You were so close so fast, but then he slowed.

"Now tell me what you want."

You could die.

Literally die from the embarrassment, the desperation, the filthy way you were still trying to steal back even a smidge of that foreign but addicting touch by attempting to wiggle your hips you knew he wouldn't allow out of place—if you weren't hoping to die on his fingers first.

But a desperate pout formed, knowing he wouldn't give it to you without you folding.

And your pathetic pussy begged you to bend.

"I-I wan..." He grabbed your chin when your lips pursed closed, slotting his thumb between them to open them again.

No more hiding, no more silence, no more games.

His other thumb pressed right on your clit, fingers curling and stilling right against that magic button that blew fireworks into your rolling eyes. He was gonna make you talk.

And with a shaky breath, defeated and damn near pleading, you begged. "Please...make me c-cum." Looking at him like you were feeble and yearning. Like his demand was all that mattered. "Please."

There it was.

The submission he'd been waiting for all night.

Flushed cheeks and helpless doe eyes. Puffy lips slowly closing around his thumb and planting desperate kisses.

Neediness staring him in the face.

No longer caring that he literally had you wrapped around his finger.

He smirked, fighting the urge to cum just from sight. Right where he wanted you. Less was said.

You gaped when his knee moved, swiftly falling a few inches before he lifted your thigh—pressing it against the wall to spread you wide.

Sounds of your vinyl skirt stretching ripped through the air, and you should've been worrying about the possibility of it tearing if it weren't for fingers stealing your focus again. He hummed feeling easily slip back in, middle and ring fingers this time to hook perfectly inside and blow your g-spot to absolute smithereens.

Crying out, you almost drew blood from your lip as your body went rigid, clinging to him. The sensation you were just ready to sell your soul for relentlessly spamming on 1000.

If it was borderline too much before, with this new angle that lended him direct access, it was torturously too much now. But he could care less if you clawed his back to death as you tried to run to and run from the mouth-watering intensity.

Your pussy sounded so good for him, making him moan and grind his dick into your thigh like it was an extension of his fingers. Leaving hot kisses on your neck as his thumb drew dizzying circles on your clit. Making your toes flex and shaky foot slowly rise up off the ground. Obliterating what was left of free thought as your breath hitched.

He took in your rapturous face, feeling a rush of power and control surge through his veins. The authority he had over your body as he wrestled moans out of you filled him with an intoxicating sense of dominance.

Every gasp, every tremble, only fueled his intention to give you exactly what you didn't know you needed all night. To completely unravel under his command.

The fiery pool returned with a brain-altering vengeance and your pulses grew stronger and closer until he was absolutely positive you were seconds away from tasting heaven. And looking dead on into your blurry eyes, he finally gave you permission.

"Cum."

And the tight coil ruthlessly snapped. Walls surrendering to the all-consuming touch that sent your eyes rolling as your pussy harshly clenched on his fingers. Body arching into the fervid touch before you stopped breathing and your colorful vision went white.

Pornographic moans finally broke from you, loud and lewd and desperate enough you were sure you could draw a crowd.

And what a sight it was for Shoko to witness the very moment you tumbled into rapture, cigarette she stepped outside to smoke almost slipping from her lips.

The only witness of you climbing aboard the ecstasy train didn't think it would have led you this far, but the pledge you made earlier that year to swear off your freshman-year antics—sex and relationships included—was clearly long forgotten. Utahime didn't believe you, often provoked you even, and Shoko, not knowing you as well, just took our word for it.

But there you were, living out your wildest Skins dream. Holding hands with the Little Death with a side of alcohol and ecstasy. Cries falling on deaf ears and he continued to fuck you through your blinding orgasm.

Main character energy, she thought as she lit her cigarette, turning to leave before she was noticed. Taking note to maybe try that with Utahime one day.

Minutes later, you returned on the scene with Bambi legs, finding Shoko leaning against the entrance door. She stayed up front to make sure you made it back in safely and ignored the slick running down your legs you couldn't clean up until you got to the restroom. Naoya gave her a knowing win as he trailed behind you, but she got a weird feeling.

She was all for you finally having a bit of fun, but there was something specifically about Naoya that didn't sit right with her.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself, too cocky and self-assured. Or maybe it was his sly smirk that seemed to hint at something slightly predatory, looking at you in a way that felt less like affection or even lust and more like possession.

But maybe she was just thinking too hard and this was just a simple hookup you needed to shake off your shackles, put yourself back out there and never see the guy again.

That's what college life was. Hookup, discard, and repeat. Just another wild night to bank in your core memory.

And the night had certainly been beyond magic, and definitely home to one of the most intense orgasms you'd ever had, and when you thought back on it, that was one of the few times someone else managed to get you off...ever. But when you really took a moment to think about it, especially knowing what you know now, the more you chalked it up to probably being because of the drugs.

In actually, the frantically hot and spontaneous encounter that had you talking to God (very...interesting conversation) probably wouldn't have been that great if you were in your right mind, but your intoxicated hormones in the heat of the moment didn't care because it was a hell of a lot better than what you were used to.

Before that night, having big the 'O' during sex was like a myth to you.

Satisfaction either always narrowly escaped your grasp or was never on the table from the beginning, and for a while, you thought it was normal to always be left hot, bothered, and wanting more, ever since you first learned to do the horizontal dance.

Your own satisfaction was never a priority, never thought of or talked about, not even to yourself. With every partner, you made sure they were well taken care of, that they met sweet relief with heavy breaths and a smile on their sweaty faces every time. While your desires laid brushed aside, unspoken and unexplored.

But that night with Naoya was different—he was the first to turn the focus on you, the first time someone had taken care of you, even if it was grasping at straws.

He pined for your attention. He gave you effort. A night full of impulsivity, unpredictability, mystery, and challenge—all wrapped up in a flaming hot bow.

Everything you thought you lost, everything you thought you needed in a boyfriend.

Having one of those was a staple in high school that you missed out on because of your hectic and busy schedule on the road. So when you got to college, you sure knew how to pick them. Freshman year was a joke.

You went through one relationship and one 'situationship' before throwing in the towel in favor of hookups. At least those were less painful and had a clear deadline for when they would end.

No surprises, no heartaches, no one to blame. Just a mutual parting

But Naoya was something you simply could not walk away from, and by the way he stuck to you like glue for weeks, randomly popping up at your campus and whisking you away into his world for hours on end until you made him your boyfriend, neither could he.

Everything about being with Naoya was perfect.

His eagerness to chauffer his passenger princess around in his real-life Hot Wheel, taking you to the coolest spots, just like that night, and introducing you to all kinds of mesmerizing people. Always ending the night with feverish, snaking hot that groped your willing body into submission and made you feel more special than anyone else he could ever know.

His.

The ideal boyfriend: attentive and charismatic. A constant thrill.

A bit too much of a thrill.

Slowly, but surely merging into a slightly loose canon as unexpected droplets of a storm began to form. His charm and attention and lust and want and need for you were still there, but so were the cracks that gradually began to chip and show.

For one, Naoya wasn't in school, which was fine; instead, he called himself an entrepreneur. Though, exactly what he did was always a bit of a mystery.

His days were filled with handling sketchy 'business deals' and half-baked schemes that, over time, almost always failed and ended with him turning to you to help bail him out.

Your brains, your beauty, your sweet charm.

Whatever he could use to settle a deal and handle business.

It was what girlfriends did, you thought. Supporting your man was something you never second-guess, never even questioned as you knew he would have your back as much as you had his.

Until he didn't.

Having a habit of making big promises and diving headfirst into opportunities that almost always seemed too good to be true, that fearless confidence you fell in love with, once landed him in an embarrassing mess.

Weeks spent bragging about a "surefire" investment with one of his partners to not only end up in the red but also behind bars. And on the phone sounding like a kicked puppy. Asking you to bail him out.

It was the first time either of you had been thrust into such a serious situation, even if it was just a small charge, but Naoya swore it wasn't a big deal. Admitting that he had made mistakes but promising his intentions were pure.

"I did it for us," he said, voice lined with shame and apology, repeating that you deserved better but that he was trying—really trying—to give you everything you needed. So full of regret for even slightly jeopardizing what you two had built and you had never heard him so vulnerable and sorry as he promised it would never happen again.

Dragging your heart into the ground.

But as painful as it was to hear your boyfriend plead to save your relationship, nothing could have prepared you for the pain of swiping your card and watching the last of your savings disappear to keep it going.

Making up your mind that this was just another storm to weather amidst the whirlwind of hurricanes that was Naoya because he had been so good to you. Surely you could look over his idiotic mistake and help him out this one time. He only did it for you after all.

To you, he had his quirks. To everyone else, he was shit.

But being there for him kind of reminded you of why you chose healthcare.

Your pocket vibrated, making you let go of your souvenir and memories of that night as you fished out your phone before sighing.

Speak of the Devil, you'd just thought him up.

"Hi, baby."

"Hey babe, how's my Doll?"

You relaxed on the bench, blushing. He sounded like he was in a good mood—always did when he used the little nickname he gave you that made you feel so small and safe.

Stress slowly left your body as you vented about work and how you were not looking forward to getting off only to clock right back in to study for your upcoming exam when you returned to your dorm.

"Aw, baby." You thought you could hear him pout through the phone. "How 'bout we blow off some steam when you're done? A little reward?"

You raised a brow. "Whatcha got in mind?" Hoping it wasn't the usual invitation to just 'solve your problems' with sex or some wild night on the town.

"One of the guys found his Nintendo 64, and I thought we could borrow it and play some games, ya?"

"Oooo," you sat up. "What games?" You hadn't had time to plop down in front of a TV to watch a show, let alone play a game in years.

"Uhh, mostly action, RPG and fantasy. Some kid games like Mario Kart and Lego Racers, but I was thinking we could 1V1 in J-League."

And suddenly, you were back in a familiar living room you hadn't seen in years.

Plush, brown carpet soft beneath your thighs, you sat cross-legged, Wii controller cool in your hands. Room dim, the glow of the TV casts flickering lights across your eyes as sounds of fast-paced music fill your ears.

Suguru nudges your shoulder, "C'mon keep up." And smiles.

And you gently smile back, feeling pulled into the waves of nostalgia. The memory and others alike always so soft, so easy. So comforting to fall into the world of one of the last times you two had fun together, before he made high school hell.

Now you were sure he was off somewhere traveling the world and living his best life.

Your life.

What it was supposed to be.

The walls were back up to shield you from the bittersweet ache.

Naoya was right. Mario Kart was for kids.

"You still there?"

"Ya, babe." You sighed to yourself, reminding yourself that those who needed to be in your life we're here now, not in the past. "I would love to. You're best." You smiled.

He laughs. "In bed, too."

..debatable.

extended angel's note: i hope you guys didn't mind the little "diversion" this story had to take (i am not in control) BUT i promise it all serves a purpose. your basket should be good and full with enough little easter eggs now to finally close out the story in part 3 where it all comes together to absolutely blow your angsty socks (and panties) off. it'll all be worth the wait (is highkey the morale of the story 🤠) thank you for rocking with me

p.s. sorry for the Naoya jumpscare but how are we all feeling about your lovely boyfriend 🤩💗

tag list: @7thsthings @elliesndg @jirishnesensei @blkkizzat

157 notes · View notes

persephone-writes · 27 days ago

Text

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Hourglass

James Potter x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Four ☆ Series Masterlist

Description: You try your best to help Sirius with his brother, even if it means trusting your abilities in Divination more than ever before.

Word Count: 7.9k

You were unable to find Sirius, at least while you were in Hogsmeade. After a few hours meandering around the village with only a vague interest in the shops, James, Peter, and Remus went back to the Three Broomsticks to see if Sirius was drowning his sorrows in butterbeer…or a half dozen shots of firewhiskey. You and Lily split up to check the shrieking shack, however unlikely it may be that he would go there of all places, and Marlene and Dorcas walked the streets as a last ditch effort. None of you were able to locate him.

With a dark cloud hanging over your heads, you all left Hogsmeade in the early evening before dinner, your steps slow and dragging down the path towards the castle. As she had done while you searched the shack, Lily tried to look on the bright side of things.

“It’s probably a good sign we haven’t found him. It means he’s probably still with his brother.”

James, whose hands were shoved into his pockets and his head hung, lifted his face for a second, his eyes finding hers. “Or it went badly and he's gone to hide.”

“Do you really think Regulus would attack him?” Marlene asked in a whisper.

“Not that kind of hiding,” James muttered, his gaze finding the ground once again.

Remus kicked a pebble with the tip of his shoe, sending it skidding along the path before it fell into the grass, hidden within the green. “He’ll be back tonight,” was all he said, his voice betraying his hopeful words.

The short conversation hit another lull, leaving you to stew in your own thoughts, however melancholy they may be. You wished you had a prediction, an inkling, anything to tell you what would happen with Regulus, though you were just as blind as everyone else. You could try, you supposed, stealing another few eggs from the kitchens or borrowing Steve Zielinski’s crystal ball. Even so, you had serious doubts that your elementary skills would result in anything substantial in the way of Regulus’s future.

You all went straight to the Great Hall with the measly hope you’d find Sirius already sitting at the table, though he was nowhere to be found. It was lively tonight, fueled by Hogsmeade and the promise of no classes the following morning, though your group added nothing to the exuberance. You ate in relative silence, save for the sound of Remus repeatedly stabbing slices of pork chops with the thick metal prongs to add onto his plate. You lingered there until the very last scattering of students began to get up to leave, your group eventually following.

“I wonder where he is,” Marlene mumbled, her voice barely discernible despite the fact that you were standing right beside her.

You trudged up the staircase towards the tower, trying to think of a suitable thing to say. You had no clue where he could be, if he was still with his brother or not, or if James was right and he was tucked away somewhere wallowing in the agony of his brother's future. You didn’t dare bring up the latter point again, not when you could see the hurt behind Marlene’s eyes. You hadn’t pressed her on the topic of Sirius lately, though you had a good enough idea that it was bothering her more than she was letting on.

“Remus is right,” you began, speaking close to her ear. “He’ll be back tonight.”

☆ ─────── ₒ*ₒ☾ ☽ₒ*ₒ ─────── ☆

It was another early morning on Sunday, though a dream had not been what awoke you. Dorcas was snoring again, having forgotten to cast a silencing charm. Marlene and Lily appeared unaffected, neither stirring behind the curtains of their four-posters. It was a wasted effort to fall back asleep, so you gave in to the early morning sunlight. You dressed for the day, lugging your books into the common room like you had done a thousand times before, hoping that you could make some use of your extra time.

Sirius had not come back the previous night, at least not to the common room before you went to bed. You assumed he must have staggered up to his room at some point, the need to sleep likely overpowering his desire to self isolate.

Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of him as you set your books on to one of the common room tables, flattening out a roll of parchment as you flipped one open. You’d have to actually practice Transfiguration later, though notes would do for now. It was as good a way as any to rid your mind of what your friends had said to you the day before, Lily’s words breaking through most of all. “Even if you don’t have the sight, you’re gifted, more than you give yourself credit for.” Trusting one’s gut was always a good thing, though their confidence in your abilities was reaching James-level trust. You couldn’t even figure out your own future, much less anyone else’s. Lily always was too kind to you.

Your quill tapped against your parchment as your eyes glazed across the same sentence over and over, your mind refusing to accept the words into recognition. Like a fist banging on a door, your problems would not allow you to focus on anything else. You couldn’t shake what you had thought the evening before, the ideas that had popped into your head on the way back to the castle…

You didn’t bother removing your things from the common room, rather gathering them into a neat pile and shoving it to the far side of the table. Without much of a plan other than going to the kitchens, you left the tower, making the long trek down to the basement. The castle was completely silent, though the kitchens were anything but.

As soon as you pushed open the painting you were met with various clatters coming from the far rooms, the house elves moving swiftly to and from the pantry, weaving around one another as if they could predict the others movements. Silver trays floated in the air behind them, bags of flour sent flurries of powder as they were plopped onto the floor, whisks spun rapidly in massive bowls of batter. It was controlled chaos, and you only hoped that your presence wouldn’t push it over the edge into complete disarray.

“Excuse me,” you muttered as you tried to walk between them, though you were less talented at knowing just where they were about to step than they were. A few looked up at you with furrowed, irritated brows, others ignoring you completely.

It was only when you made it to the pantry that you heard the sound of your name. You spun around, finding Isby staring at you from across the room, her large ears pulled back.

“Isby,” you said, trying to soften her hardened eyes. Her hands were on her hips, her little feet stomping towards you as you smiled. “Good morning.”

“Miss L/N never said she would not be returning,” she grumbled, glaring up at you. “I hads to call on the Headmaster, I was so worried.”

The regret over forgetting about Isby hit you instantly like a cannonball to your chest. In all honesty, you thought she’d be happy not to have so many students piling into the kitchens so often.

“I’m sorry, Isby,” you said, trying your best to show your sincerity. “I didn’t know you’d worry.”

“Professor Dumbledore put Isby in charge of your care in the kitchens. Isby takes her job very seriously,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Everythings all right now,” you said, though you weren’t sure how truthful that really was. “Professor Dumbledore had it taken care of.”

“Taken care of,” she said under her breath, her large eyes darting across the floor. She glanced up again, her ears shifting back to their normal position. “I has forgiven you.”

You smiled warmly, crouching down to meet her at eye level. “Thank you, Isby, for everything.”

“Miss L/N must stay out of trouble,” she began, briefly looking around at the other house elves, still bustling around the room. “Isby must go.”

You stood back up, watching as she disappeared in the pandemonium, which now appeared more like a hive of busy bees than house elves.

You gathered a few eggs, a bowl, and a pastry for later, wrapping it up in a napkin before making yourself a small space at one of the house elf sized tables, smiling at the memory of sitting there with James. You didn’t let yourself think of it long, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Setting the bowl in front of you, you thought of Regulus as you cracked the first egg above it, imagining Sirius running towards him through the Hogsmeade bustle. You peered down, watching as it splattered against the sides. You hummed to yourself, searching for any discernable shape or pattern that you recognized from your textbooks, though at first glance, you noticed nothing. Maybe ovomancy wasn’t for you.

After a few more minutes of trying to make out some sign, you gave up, waving your wand and getting rid of the first egg. The kitchen was still loud, filled with the hissing sound of sausages and eggs frying followed shortly by their smell, the oven doors opening and slamming shut over and over, the pitter-patter of a hundred little feet flying across the stone floors. You rested your elbows on your knees, your head falling into your hands as you tried to shut it all out. With your eyes closed, you tried to think of Regulus again, this time imagining something you hadn’t seen.

Regulus, his black hair slicked neatly back, his grey eyes like storm clouds, a color you could see even from passing him in busy corridors, his pale arm, held out as a wand touched his skin, an inky mark creeping its way onto the surface, the same one you had seen in the Prophet, suspended in the sky above the scene of a wicked crime.

Quickly, you opened your eyes, grabbing the second egg and cracking it a ways above the bowl. It splattered in the same manner, hitting the bottom before moving up the sides like waves in a tempest, nearly spilling over the lip. Your keen eyes stared as it settled, shifting back and forth before slowing, the clear white marbling in the broken yolk. Just when you thought it was finished, the deep yellow began to swirl once more, refusing to remain stagnant as its predecessor had. You held your breath without meaning to, your jaw clenching as it took a new shape, forming with other wayward blobs to create new masses, separating from others in the opposite manner. In a few seconds, you could see the picture it was forming, distinct against the white of the egg. An hourglass.

With a quivering hand you flicked your wand again, the egg disappearing and leaving the bowl clean. You could feel your breath shuddering too, your eyes staring blankly at the kitchen in front of you. Without much thought, you grabbed your pastry, forgetting the bowl as you walked from the kitchen out into the basement corridor, your mind mostly blank. You felt half asleep as you made your way back to the common room, your feet feeling as if you had heavy, metal boots on, like the ones on the knights in the Entrance Hall. You weren’t sure you had gotten anything clearer in your entire life, and for whatever reason, it frightened you beyond belief.

When you made it back to the common room there were only a few students mulling about, their curious eyes following you as you went over to the table where your things were piled, taking them into your arms before you flew up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories. Ever since the public display of near-violence between James, Sirius, and Zephyr, it was difficult to shake your housemates' newfound interest in you. Still, you were thankful no one seemed to be brave enough to press you on it, ironically enough. You likely had James to thank for that.

Your roommates were awake when you slammed the door behind you, the pastry still clucked between a napkin in your hand. They all stared at you, each with the same perplexed expression.

“Where’ve you been?” Lily asked, folding up a jumper to put back into her trunk.

“Studying,” you said, motioning with your books. You looked down into your other hand, noticing the pastry had been all but decimated. “Went to the kitchens, too. Do you want this, Dorcas?”

She smiled, waltzing over to take the pastry from you, not phased by the fact that it had been flattened. “This’ll hold me over,” she chuckled, taking a bite out of it.

You dropped your books off at your desk before getting ready for breakfast, even though you had already done everything you needed to this morning. Your friends waited patiently as you idled in the lavatory, saying nothing as you paced the small room. You ran the faucet, just so it would sound like you were doing something rather than wasting their time. You hadn’t the mind to feel guilty about it, staring at your reflection in the mirror as if your eyes, backwards from the way the world saw you, held the answer of what you should do. With your thoughts a little less scrambled, you were able to reason that Sirius had not gotten a straight answer out of Regulus. It was likely his brother was still debating over what he should do, though just as it had been a week prior, Regulus’s time to decide was running out.

You shut off the water, rubbing at the crease between your brows before facing your friends once again, your mind marginally clearer.

“You didn’t see Sirius at all, did you?” Lily asked as you walked down to breakfast.

“No,” you said, your mouth pulling to the side. “I hope he’s doing all right, or as good as he can be.”

“James won’t let him hide for too long,” said Lily, her voice suddenly brighter than yours, less weighed down. You didn’t know where she got her serenity from, but you wanted some of your own.

Sirius was at breakfast, though he looked like he’d been run over by a pack of hippogriffs and then dunked head first into the Black Lake. There were deep purple bags under his eyes, bold against the sickly pallor of his skin. He was worse than you’d ever seen him before, almost as if he were deathly ill, and distinctly depressed. His countenance was no better than his looks, his shoulders rounded forward, his neck angled downward towards his plate, nearly empty save for the sausage and toast Remus had given him. He touched nothing, not even his tea.

You, and surely your dormmates, were all itching to ask him the same question: how did it go? Though, no one dared to say a word about it. A few meaningless, hollow comments about classes and quidditch were thrown out just to break the tension a bit, but little else was said. It was probably just a victory they had gotten him down here, you realized, making it unlikely any would try and push their luck.

“You should come to the library with us,” Lily said to the others as you all stood to leave the Great Hall. You had forgotten you had made plans with her to do so. “First thing after breakfast, Y/N. We need to start seriously preparing!”

“Who?” James asked.

Lily shrugged. “All of you.”

You knew what she was trying to do, though it didn’t seem like she was attempting to hide it too thoroughly. James looked to Sirius, though his eyes were far off, staring straight ahead as you left the hall.

“You wanna go, Padfoot?” James asked.

Briefly, Sirius’s eyes drifted towards James, his mouth barely moving as he mumbled, “Sure.”

With Sirius’s blessing, that meant Remus and Peter would follow, or so you hoped. You all went back to the common room to get your things before going back down the library, your assumption being correct. Remus lugged more books in his bag than any of you, even Lily, who seemed to bring almost her entire eight-class course load. Peter seemed to obey only for Sirius’s sake, looking almost as upset as him as you found your places at one of the only free tables large enough for all of you to fit. The library was fairly full, just as it was every weekend, though the fact that you were nearing the end of term only made it more congested. The only reason you were likely able to get a table with eight chairs was due to Lily’s instance of getting there so early.

Unconsciously, you found yourself sitting beside James, taking out your things from your bag without so much of a thought about your choice. As soon as you flipped open your advanced Astronomy textbook, the realization of his closeness sent a flurry of nerves through your stomach like a jolt of energy before it faded away. It was getting more difficult to force yourself away from him during casual moments, moments when you weren’t thinking about how you ought to act or where you should look. The longer you two were together, really together, the more you had to fight against it, even more so than you had before. It was if you floated to his side, pulled in by a gravitational force of blinding, warm light that seemed to radiate off of him at all times. As you attempted to continue jotting down your notes, hoping you were acting inconspicuous, you realized that he probably did the same, though you just hadn’t noticed, too caught up in the sight of him to recognize if you had walked closer or if he had beat you to it.

At one head of the table, Sirius sat in a grumpy stupor, his eyes still agonized by heavy, drooping lids. He sat back in his chair, not bothering to look down at any of his school work, which you were sure had been piling up for him over the past week. You peeked at him out of the corner of your eye, your leg bouncing as you thought of a way to get James alone so you could pester him for details.

Your quill hovered above your parchment as you decided what to do, giving in to your first instinct after only a brief moment of deliberation. You scribbled something down in the margins, slanted to the right so that James could read it more easily. You glanced up, looking around at the rest of your friends. They all were fairly engrossed in their own work, other than Sirius and Peter, though neither were looking your way. Lily, the most important person to consider, was staring down into a giant, leather-bound book, her brows scrunched as she muttered the words so softly you couldn’t hear.

Your eyes darted back towards James as you tapped the tip of his shoe with yours, trying not to lose yourself in the picture of his face, downturned towards his own work, his lips barely parted. His head perked up, turning towards you as his glasses slipped down his nose. Instantly, your eyes shot back down to your own paper, inching it closer to him. He took your meaning immediately, reading your parchment as you went back to pretending to study.

Follow me in five minutes.

After a few seconds you folded up the parchment, sticking it into your textbook before closing it. You stood, taking your copy of Advanced Astronomy into your arms before heading towards the stacks. You only got a few steps away before Marlene turned around, watching you leave.

“Where’re you going?” she asked, whispering.

Remus and Dorcas’s head popped up as well, though Lily stayed entirely occupied, lost in her reading.

“I have to cross reference something on pulsars, you know, the type of neuron star that—”

“Forgive me for asking,” she mumbled, turning back around.

You spun on your heels before anyone could see your triumphant smirk, all too pleased with yourself as you escaped into the long rows of tall shelves, twisting and turning like a labyrinth in the wide space. You didn’t go far, ducking away beside one of the large, pointed windows, the morning light washing the dark wood with golden light. You leaned against the shelf, your fingers tapping against your book as you watched a few students pass, all quiet as a mouse.

It was definitely less than five minutes when James found you, or rather you found him, stepping out into the aisle as you watched him whizz by. Any other time you would have chastised him for it, though you knew it was the last thing he needed.

“James,” you whispered, catching his wrist.

As your hand slipped away he grabbed it, holding you as he swiveled his head around to see if anyone was watching.

“We need to talk,” you said, “but not here.”

He nodded, letting go of your hand as you walked as quickly as you could without it reasonably counting as a jog to the furthest, most undisturbed corner of the library. It was the same place you had gone after Zephyr reappeared in Gryffindor Tower, when James had guarded you so fiercely you couldn’t believe you didn’t realize he was in love with you.

“What happened with Regulus?” you asked, your voice still hushed.

James’s face fell, his expression so grim it made your chest ache. “He talked to him, but he doesn’t think it made any difference.”

Your heartbeat quickened, dread mixing with the awful concoction already churning in your stomach. “What did he say? What did Regulus say?”

“I think the main gist of what Regulus said was ‘butt out’ and ‘fuck off’,” James answered, his expression pained as he imagined it.

“He didn’t seem unsure, or like he might not go through with it?” you asked, some of your hope drifting away. You longed to grasp it, force it back towards you where you could hold to it as long as possible.

“Padfoot didn’t say much,” he sighed, running a hand through his curls, dark in the low light. “But I’m not entirely sure I trust him, either. He’s never had a clear head when it comes to his brother.”

You thought for a moment, your textbook held tightly against your chest. “Did he offer a place for him to stay— with him, in London?”

“They already live in London.”

“You know what I mean,” you said, staring at him expectantly.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. His hands came down to his hips, his head slumped forward for a beat. “We’re just lucky he’s out with the living right now. I didn’t exactly push him for answers,” there was a clip to his tone, though you knew it wasn’t because of you.

Sirius was your friend, but he was James’s best friend. You knew he had a way of taking things on, carrying burdens even if it wouldn’t lighten the others load. It was one of his best traits, something that made you love him even more, though his innate dramatism did not help him in hiding it.

You set your book down on the table, stepping back in front of him so he had to look you in the eyes. He did without question, his irises shaded by his lashes, heavy in your quiet corner. You stroked his cheek, warm to the touch, frowning all the while. You hated every bit of all of it; the immeasurable amount of pain Sirius was feeling, the uncertain fate of Regulus, and James’s breaking heart. While not your top priority, you tried to soothe him the best you could, running your fingers along his hairline.

“We can help him,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear. You tried to think of something else to say to ease some of his worries, though all you could settle on was an ill-fated statement that you knew he would argue against. You said it anyway. “It’s no different than the way it was before, when he thought Regulus was lost.”

“I’m not sure he ever thought he was lost,” he said with a sadness trembling in his voice, his eyes fluttering shut. He brought his hand up to rest over yours, keeping it in place. When he opened his eyes again, he let out a short, worn breath, laced with the unmistakable sting of sorrow. “I think he always thought there was a chance…that maybe one day Regulus would, I don’t know, change his mind.”

Your face crumbled, though you caught yourself, forcing a brave front, even if you knew James would be able to see through it all too easily. It was always worth a try, if it were for him.

“There's still a chance. Like you said, you don’t know what really happened. Who knows how Sirius is interpreting it,” you paused, your eyes drifting from his. “This morning I went down to the kitchens before anyone else woke up— I couldn’t sleep. I tried ovomancy, y’know, the egg thing?”

You looked back up, James nodding.

“I thought of Regulus, just to see if I really could predict his future, or at least get a reading,” you continued, taking a breath that shuddered in your lungs. “I saw an hourglass, which seems pretty self explanatory.”

A flash of horror crossed James’s face, though you pressed your palm tighter to his face, cupping his jaw.

“No, no, James, this is good. It means he hasn’t decided. If he was certain, or fairly certain, why would time be running out? It would already be out.”

Horror was replaced by realization, realization by a faint glimmer of hope. He pressed his lips to yours quickly, pulling away before you could even register what he had done. He broke out into an astonished smile as he looked back at you, laughing quietly to himself.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed. “Bloody amazing.”

You shook your head at him, using the freedom of your newly released hand to brush a curl behind his ear. “It’s nothing, really—”

“It’s everything,” he said, grabbing your hand to cradle it against his chest, fully enveloped between his. “When are you going to realize how gifted you are, how special this is? I’ll prop you up forever if I have to— actually, I’ll do it even if you do realize— but you should start giving yourself some credit,” his voice dripped with honeyed warmth, his words rushing out in a low voice fighting against exultation.

You didn’t know what to say, forgetting how to speak, though you didn’t need to. James was off again, still caught up in the excitement of your discovery.

“You have to tell Sirius. You don’t mind, right? You don’t have to, but I think we should—”

“Of course, I will,” you interrupted. “I didn’t know when it would be the right time. He’s very…fragile right now.” It felt odd to say, wrong to call Sirius such a term. He was strong, almost impossibly so, though there was no other word you could think of that would adequately capture what you saw today. You couldn’t blame him, either. If it were you, you would’ve been a heap on the floor years ago, absolutely useless.

James’s thumb rubbed across the back of your hand, gnawing at his lip as he considered what you said. “You’re right. I’ll find a good time to do it, maybe tonight. For now, could you keep it between us? I think he’d be pretty peeved if everyone else knew before him.”

“Of course,” you said with a single nod.

After a beat James reached up to cradle your face, kissing your forehead before letting out a single, small laugh into your skin. “My girl’s hot and she can predict the future.”

You scowled at him, hitting his arm softly. “It's not a prediction, it’s a reading,” you corrected, your ears burning up. You hoped he couldn’t feel the heat in your face, though you were fairly certain that he could, and that he was probably reveling in it.

“And brilliant,” he said, still beaming. He pressed the back of his hand onto the side of your neck with a smirk, sending a shiver down your spin. “You are hot, though. Was it something I said?”

“I think I have dragon pox. It’s highly contagious. You better get away from me or you’ll catch it,” you said, your voice flat.

He laughed, a bit too loud for the library, though you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. His eyes shined, some of his earlier worries gone, at least for the moment. You were happy to have done it, even if you knew it wouldn’t last.

“You’re worth a trip to Poppy’s.”

He leaned in, kissing you a bit longer this time, dragging it out just to the edge of something more, something fuller. When he stepped away he still looked impish, motioning for you to follow as he slipped back into the winding shelves towards the main aisle. You grabbed your textbook to follow him, shaking your head.

☆ ─────── ₒ*ₒ☾ ☽ₒ*ₒ ─────── ☆

You guessed James must have found a time to tell him, because all throughout breakfast on Monday, Sirius kept stealing glances your way. You weren’t sure if he was trying to hide it or not, though every once in a while you’d catch him peeking up from his food, his eyes darting over to your face before returning back to something else in a quick, flashing movement. After the first couple of times you turned away from him, allowing him to stare at you without the embarrassment of being caught, though you weren’t sure it was even possible for you to embarrass Sirius. Like James, it took true humiliation to knock away his front of pure confidence.

After breakfast, Remus and Peter went off to do who-knows-what, leaving you and Dorcas to go back up to the tower while the rest went to a double period of Arithmancy, a subject you were quite happy to never have taken. The two of you sat on the overstuffed red sofa by the fireplace, surrounded by other sixth and seventh years with free periods doing the same thing as yourself. It was warm enough that a fire was unnecessary, its melody of crackles and pops strangely absent from the usual noises of the common room. Now, it was simply hushed voices or a stray laugh, the scratching of quills and the turning of pages.

As you did your homework, the sounds began to wear on you, mixing with one another in a low cacophony of jagged, disjointed parts to an awful song. You fiddled with your quill, your jaw tight as your eyes bore holes into the page. You could feel your heart beginning to bang, harder and harder, against your chest. Soon, the air was suffocating, leaving you no other choice but to pop up from the sofa in a sudden jerk.

Dorcas looked up at you, pushing her thick, curling hair from her face as she watched you gather your books. “What's wrong?’

“Nothing,” you muttered, glancing around you at the other students. A few were watching you, some of whom you knew quite well, though none brave enough to meet your eyes once you caught there's. The beating of your heart had not slowed, leaving you unconcerned with the curiosity of your classmates. Briefly, you wondered if you were going mad from stress.

Your daze was only broken by Dorcas, who said your name as you began to walk away. She stood up, though you only shook your head, ducking out of the common room like a rabbit being chased by a fox.

You didn’t need a crystal ball to predict what would happen in your future. “What's up with you? Why are you acting so weird? Is anything wrong?” The gentler questions would come from Lily, though the meanings would all be the same. It wouldn’t matter, though, because this time you could tell them. With Sirius in the know, the only silver lining was that for once, you didn’t have to keep secrets.

Even so, you knew Sirius would be furious with you for meddling in his family life, in his life, using a form of magic he placed no weight into. While he was kind enough to keep his comments to mere jokes, you knew how he truly felt. He thought you were foolish for believing that you, who wasn’t even a Seer, could somehow gain any insight into the future. You also had a sneaking suspicion that fate (or at least the very probable chance that something would happen), terrified him to no end. He had already been dealt a bad hand, and you couldn’t blame him for raging against the idea that it all was set in the stars, that he had little control of what happened to him next.

You agreed with him, at least in part, for one always had the power to change their decisions, to decide on a different course. But how often do people change their minds once they’ve started on a certain path? You didn’t know, and the uncertainty of the answer haunted you as you rushed through the corridors, your feet seeming to know where you were going better than you did. The walls faded into a blur of limestone pillars and carvings, the puffs of orange flames turning into streaks of vibrant color against the grey.

You found yourself on the fourth floor, turning into the empty classroom you had frequented a dozen times before. You weren’t sure if you were planning on taking the mirror passage into Hogsmeade, hide away in its cavern, or stare into the mirror itself, though all of these choices were made moot when you saw Sirius standing in the room. His back was to you, staring into the mirror. As soon as you opened the door he turned around, his eyes widening. He fixed himself quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets as she sauntered closer to you, completely at ease.

“Hey, L/N,” he drawled, though his mouth was missing the teasing smirk that so often went with that tone.

“Hey,” you said, just barely getting the words out. He still looked sickly, only slightly better than yesterday. His hair was pulled back into a low, loose bun, strands sticking out in a state of dishevelment. Normally, it would have seemed suave on him, perfectly imperfect, though now it looked just as it would on anyone else: frowzy. “Bunking off?”

He shrugged, his shoulders falling in a heavy, dead movement. “Double period. It gets pretty boring after an hour and a half,” he said, sounding wearier the more he spoke. He looked down at his uniform dress shoes, polished and shining. “Didn’t know that breakfast food knew the future.”

You chuckled softly, meandering further into the room. “It’s not really the eggs that know, it’s just how they fall. I do all the heavy lifting.”

You were overjoyed to hear him laugh, even if it was strained.

“Even though I don’t believe in any of that shite,” he began, a forced smile creeping on his lips, “thanks for not telling anyone else. You know how fucking fussy they can be.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m still too angry with you to pamper,” you joked.

He raised his brows. “Then why’d you read my brother's future?”

“That was a favor to Regulus,” you said with a wave of your hand. “He owes me, but he doesn’t know it yet. One day I’ll make him buy me something nice and expensive, y’know, to call it even.”

You knew he was far too clever to miss what you were implying, though it’d take a lot to miss it. Regulus will come back to you. You weren’t even sure if you were that confident, though Sirius didn’t need to know.

He rocked a bit on his toes, his head turning sharply away. His mouth fell, twisting into a doleful grimace. “I’ll pass on the message,” he mumbled, the words gritting between his clenched teeth.

Your heart panged, your fingers tightening around the spine of your book. You knew you shouldn’t be joking about it, taking things so lightly. Your apologies rushed out, much like Marlene’s had, escaping you before you could stop them, “I’m— Merlin…I’m sorry, Sirius. I know that I shouldn’t have meddled in your life. I feel awful about it, really.”

He sighed, looking back at you once you were finished. “You’re unbelievable.” He shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “You’re a real fucking guilt machine, aren’t you?”

His anger all seemed to flow inward, absorbed into his own chest before any of it could reach you. You watched his face distort again, his brows angled and pinched.

“What?” you asked, taking a hesitant step towards him, just to test the waters.

He was still chuckling, though it was sour, ugly in the air. “Meddle all you want, Y/N, I don’t care about any of it. I fucked with you for how long?” He motioned to you, letting his hand drop against his leg. “I was a dick, and you keep forgiving me. I’m a dick to everyone and somehow none of you will leave me alone,” his volume rose, exasperated as he continued on.

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything else, coming to stand only a foot away from him. “Stop it, Sirius. This is— you’re not thinking clearly. We’re your friends, we understand. You don’t have to be happy-go-lucky all the time.”

“Why aren’t you upset with me about Marlene? What about that?” he asked, trying to egg you on.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “She’s over it, so there’s no reason for me to hold a grudge on her behalf. I know I wouldn’t want her to, if it were me.”

“We both know she’s not over it,” he muttered, entirely different from how he was a moment ago. He was smaller now, whatever had been building within him settling to a low, ruminating simmer.

“It’s fine, Sirius. It's a teenage romance. By the summer she’ll be good as new, and probably dating someone else,” you said, hoping your words were true.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, sucking on his teeth while his eyes ran along the floor. You waited patiently, studying his tortured expression.

“James really loves you, you know. It’s disgusting,” he whispered with no humor despite his clear attempt at jest.

You filled your lungs with air, slowly letting it out. “I know.”

“And I thought Lily was bad,” he said, chuckling a bit this time. His eyes, brilliantly grey, met yours. “When we’re alone I never hear the end of it.”

A smile twitched in one corner of your mouth, though your face was still dominated by a growing sadness. “Must be awful for you.”

He began to walk away, his steps slow and uncalculated, moving at his first instinct in no clear direction.

“With Lily it was all lovey-dovey, gushy stuff,” he mocked, sending a sharp pang through your nerves, though he couldn’t see, turned away from you. “I didn’t think it could get worse than that, but Merlin, was I wrong.”

A strange feeling of relief washed over you, easing a flash of worry that somehow James’s obsession with Lily was greater than his for you. You felt guilty for it, though you couldn’t allow yourself the time to dissect the meaning.

Sirius laughed under his breath, his head bent towards the floor. It was another long pause before he continued, the ache in his voice poorly disguised through his whisper, “It’s the same way his parents are. I mean, they don’t go on and on about how in love they are with each other in front of me,” he let out a breathy laugh again. “But you can tell, when you look at them.”

Your feet might as well have been glued to the floor. If you wanted to move, you couldn’t, frozen in place as you listened to him. His voice was crushing, full of a pain so foreign to you that your mind could not wrap around it.

“I don’t think he knows how lucky he is to have parents like that. He knows, in a way— it’s not hard when you have me as a comparison,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure my parents ever really loved each other. I can’t really imagine either of them loving anyone.” He stopped walking, his hand resting on one of the small, wooden desks. “I guess it’s not hard to understand why he’s good at it and I’m not. It’s so bloody easy for him. If he were anyone else I’d fucking hate him.”

Your mind reeled, wondering why he was choosing to tell you this. Perhaps it was self-retribution, you thought, for all the secrets of yours he somehow found out about. Still, even though he had acted poorly, even though he had been a bad friend, you didn’t know if you deserved to hear any of this.

“You could go back there, you know,” you said, somehow finding your voice. It was small, but enough. “The Potter’s would have you back in a second, if you asked.”

He nodded, peeking over his shoulder. Your eyes met briefly before he looked away again. “Yeah, I know.”

“If you bought Marlene a butterbeer, she’d go out with you again,” you said, trying to force some lightness into your words. It seemed to have worked, for his shoulders shook in what you assumed to be a silent laugh.

When he didn’t say anything, you continued, “I know I said she’ll get over it, and I wasn’t lying, but she doesn’t have to.” That seemed to catch his attention, his head picking up. “She still likes you, Sirius, but she’s also still a little livid. If you treat her like a normal boyfriend she’ll be head over heels in no time. You might have to…repair some damage, but it’ll work out, if you want it to.”

“If I want it to,” he repeated, an edge to his tone.

You ignored it, nodding even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah, if you don’t drop her like you do with everyone else,” you said softly, trying to ease some of the harshness of your words. Still, you cringed as you said it. “I think it would be good for you, good for her, too. I really think that one day you might love her as much as James loves me. But even if you don’t, even if it doesn’t work out, at least you can say that you tried, that you gave it your best shot.”

You wondered if you were talking about Marlene or Regulus, though you weren’t sure it mattered. The point stood for both, whether Sirius liked it or not.

“Can’t you just hex me again?” he said, finally turning around. His brows were raised, his face otherwise blank.

“Maybe some other time,” you said, matching his expression. You studied him as he walked closer, passing you as if he was heading to leave. You spun around, wanting desperately to stop him, to keep him here just a little while longer, where he was forced to listen to you. “Did James tell you what I thought it meant, the hourglass?”

Sirius stopped, spinning back around. His face was dragged down, his eyes tired. “Yeah.”

“Then you know,” you began, your lingering sliver of hope for Regulus building back up again. “It means he isn’t settled, he’s undecided. Snape was right.”

His name made Sirius recoil a bit, as if his body was ridding itself of a mild poison. His jaw set, the rest of his body tensing. “If I promise to try, will you leave me alone?”

You couldn’t help your smile, not wide enough to show your teeth, but enough to show him that you were pleased. “I cross my heart.”

“You’ve got a deal, sister,” he said, whipping open the door and striding out, not looking back as it shut behind him.

The bell tower rang, marking the end of second period. You had to go to History of Magic, though you were surely going to be late, given that your bag was all the way up in Gryffindor Tower. However, you still couldn’t help but turn around towards the mirror, drawn in by the image you knew you’d see. It wasn’t as if Professor Binns would notice your tardiness, anyway.

Slowly, you walked towards it, tall and proud where it was sitting in the corner. The nearer you got, the clearer the image became, materializing like a ghost beside you. James was standing next to you, nearly pressing against your shoulder. He held the same bright smile that you loved the most, easy and entirely unforced. His hair was a mess of wild curls, barely tamed, wearing the jeans that always sent your cheeks ablaze. Every few seconds he would glance at you in the reflection, the happiest he could be, his own face blushing when he met your eyes. It was the same thing that you’ve seen for over a year, though now you knew it was real, more than just a fantasy. The only difference was your hands, each wearing a ring.

☆ ─────── ₒ*ₒ☾ ☽ₒ*ₒ ─────── ☆

After classes on Tuesday, you and James retreated to the east side of the lake, too far for anyone to see anything other than two blurry dots, sometimes shifting amongst the grass. The transistor radio rested beside you, playing an acoustic song that you knew but James didn’t. You hummed along to the tune, your back against his chest as you gazed out across the water, the sunlight warm against your face. James kissed the side of your head, resting his cheek against you.

You already told him about your conversation with Sirius, leaving out everything but his promise to try and get through to his brother. James was happy to have heard that, though you could still feel it in the way he carried himself, in the way he was playing with your fingers, that it had lifted very little weight from his worries.

“I like this song,” you said when it changed to another, just as slow. “This DJ has good taste.”

The water lapped at the shallow shore, mixing with the fingerpicking, the soft accent of the man singing about love.

“This one, I know,” James said, his voice rumbling against your back.

You chuckled, twisting your head to look at him. “How cultured of you.”

He pouted at your teasing, his brows pinched as he reached up to touch the side of your face, feather light along your jaw. “Good thing I have thick skin, around you,” he grumbled, moving down to the side of your neck. His thumb brushed just under your chin, moving languidly over your throat.

You buzzed, your head thrown back to rest against his shoulder. All your clever, biting jabs were forgotten, washed away by his mouth as he kissed the corner of your lips, then your cheek, then just beside your ear.

By some miracle, you found your wit again, making a dissatisfied noise as your eyes shut. “Don’t be a tease.”

The back of your eyelids, orange from the light of the sun, were set in shadow as James chuckled, leaning down again. He kissed you, and the swell of love resounded like a thousand violins, all playing a single, sublimely beautiful note.

Chapter Twenty-Four

☆ ─────── ₒ*ₒ☾ ☽ₒ*ₒ ─────── ☆

Tag List: @floverisland @ilovejamespottersomuch @googie-jeon @tvnile @eli-com @lovelyteenagebeard

#james potter/reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #james potter fanfiction #marauders era #james potter fluff #james potter #marauders fandom #hp marauders #harry potter fanfiction

47 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 2 years ago

Text

The latest installment of "literally nobody is happy about Bill being the Mystery Shack's prisoner," chapter 8:

Bill attempts to manipulate the humans with the only weapon he still has at his disposal: using his own body and their own species's hygiene taboos to gross them out.

Also featuring: dramatic arguments with Ford, a surprise bath, and me trying my level best to convince you all that hair is the most disgusting substance in the universe, let me know how I do at that.

Masterpost here! August 31 2024: edited for TBOB compatibility!

A few days into summer vacation, just before dawn, Dipper and Mabel were woken by a series of thunderous crashes and pained screams, followed by Bill's piercing, maniacal laughter. They were armed and out the bedroom door in seconds.

Mabel said, "Who did he kill?!"

"I think he blew up a wall to escape—"

They skidded to a stop at the top of the attic stairs. Bill had tumbled halfway down, crashed into the wall where the stairs made a ninety degree turn, and was now sprawled upside-down on the landing, giggling.

Dipper lowered his weapon. "What."

"I ff—" Bill was interrupted by a wheeze of laughter. "I forgot how stairs work."

He spotted the kids—Dipper holding a metal claw hammer, Mabel holding a kitchen knife longer than her forearm—and abruptly stopped laughing. "Wow, you kids came ready to commit murder! Just waiting for the first excuse, huh?"

"Shut up." Dipper looked at Mabel. "Wanna go back to bed?"

"I think my blood is all adrenaline now."

Dipper sighed. "Yeah. Let's get breakfast, I guess."

They trudged down the stairs, shoulders pressed to the wall to stay as far from Bill as possible. As they passed Bill, Dipper muttered, "You could at least get out of the way."

Bill—who'd been about to gingerly sit up—lay back down and spread out across the landing. "Think I'd rather mildly inconvenience you!"

Mabel threw in, "And take a shower! You smell like an outhouse."

"That's my human-repellant forcefield."

The twins headed to the kitchen for a snack they could take out of the shack, but were blocked at the doorway by Stan. "Hold on. Don't go in there. You smell that?"

Dipper and Mabel sniffed the air and grimaced. Mabel stuck out her tongue. Dipper said, "Ugh. We thought that was Bill, but it's worse down here."

"One of two things happened," Stan said. "Either a squirrel and a raccoon fought to death under the fridge and started rotting; or the space demon cast some kind of stink curse. Personally, I'm hoping for dead wildlife. But until I find out, you two stay out of the kitchen."

There were several more crashes as Bill tumbled down the second half of the stairs, a groan, and a muttered, "What am I getting wrong?"

Stan rounded on Bill. "Hey! Demon. Don't suppose you happen to know why the kitchen smells..." He gestured vaguely, "like that."

Seated on the floor, Bill had been absorbed in prodding his limp left arm; but at the question, he looked up with a worryingly bright smile. "It just so happens I do!"

"Explain."

He twisted his left arm with his right, jammed it back into its proper position with a pop, and straightened himself up. "Funny thing—you know how I can't open doors? Because of the curse your brother put on me? Of course you do. Well—it's the darnedest little quirk of human architecture—I don't know if you noticed, but it just so happens that all of the toilets in this house are behind doors!"

Stan's face blanched. "Oh no."

"At any given time, this body I'm in is freely secreting about half a dozen different bodily fluids—snot, spit, sweat, I could go on—and you humans are perfectly comfortable with that. But you think one bodily fluid is special and can only go in the special white bowl. Me, on the other hand—usually, I'm an energy being that doesn't leak all day! So your fluids are all equal to me! I don't care about your special white bowls!"

Hotly, Stan said, "You're in my house—"

Suddenly twice as angry and twice as loud as Stan, Bill said, "So if you think I'm going to lower myself to asking three times a day for permission to use a STUPID TOILET for YOUR COMFORT—"

And that was when they started screaming.

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Let's eat out."

Mabel nodded. "You know that burger place where Wendy gets breakfast—?"

"If we hurry, we can probably meet her there."

By the time they'd changed and come back downstairs, Ford had joined in the argument, Abuelita had set up a folding chair to watch it like a wrestling match, and the volume had doubled. (Bill: "BE GRATEFUL I USED THE SINK INSTEAD OF YOUR CEREAL BOXES! NEXT TIME I WON'T BE SO MERCIFUL!" Stan: "I'M GONNA INSTALL A DOOR KNOB ON THE KITCHEN FAUCET AND THEN YOU'LL NEED MY PERMISSION TO DRINK, YOU LITTLE—") Dipper and Mabel squeezed around the crowd, slid out the door, and biked into town.

They decided they'd just stay out the rest of the day.

They'd been doing that a lot lately.

####

When they made it home that evening, the first person they ran into was Soos, relocating a detached door. "Oh, hey dudes! Okay so, update on the Bill situation." Soos leaned the door against the wall. "We removed the door on the downstairs half bath and nailed up a curtain instead, so, now it's curse-accessible, but Bill can't lock himself in and do—" he wiggled his fingers, "secret Bill things. So. If you wanna use a bathroom with a real door, you've gotta go upstairs now."

Mabel considered that. "The bathroom with the tub still has a real door, right?"

"Yeah dudes, it's fine!"

Dipper said, "So... do we have a way to get him to shower...?"

Mabel said, "Yeah, whatever Bill's been doing in the kitchen sink—"

(Soos said, "And the trash can, it turns out.")

"—it definitely hasn't included sponge baths."

"And I'm not really comforted by his 'human-repellant forcefield' comment," Dipper added.

Mabel nodded. "I'd kinda like Bill to clean up before he gets as bad as Dipper last July."

"Hey."

Soos pointed toward the attic. "Ford's working on that right now." He whispered, "He's got a theory that Bill's just just too proud to ask for permission to use the facilities? So maybe if we ask him to take a shower, he'll go, 'oh, okay, I'm doing you guys a favor,' and then he'll agree to be let in and out of the bathroom."

Dipper grimaced. "I don't like the idea of begging him to shower. I know he'll be smug about it."

"Uh... I'm fine with it." Soos shrugged. "Better smug than smelly."

####

"All right, Cipher."

Every time Ford came upstairs, Bill was curled up in the window seat, one side pressed against the glass. If it weren't for the crumpled jerky and granola bags and the empty energy drinks scattered beneath Bill's window seat—or the occasional downstairs argument—Ford would have suspected Bill hadn't budged in days. It made him nervous. There was an ice pack on Bill's left shoulder that had sat there so long it was completely melted.

"You got the bathroom you wanted. Now, would you take a shower?" Ford mustered up all his willpower as he prepared to mortify himself, and added, "Please."

It was important to note that Ford had spent his youth as the golden child; Stan had been disowned before his desire to please his parents had a chance to wilt and die; and Ford had barely seen Shermie's teen years. He'd spent his own adolescence isolated from his peers, and hadn't gotten to know any youths except Dipper and Mabel since then.

All of which was to say, the look Bill Cipher gave Ford, shocking in its ferocity, was utterly alien to him; but would have been familiar to millions of humans around the world. It was the same look received by authoritarian parents whose tyranny had squeezed a little too tight, and whose offspring had realized they were grounded so severely they no longer had anything left to lose.

It was the wrath of the defiant teenager.

And then the most pleasant smile snapped on Bill's face, quick as flicking a light switch. "What's in it for me?"

Ford blinked in disbelief. What needed to be in it for Bill? It was a shower. "Being... clean?"

"Eh."

"You can't enjoy being dirty."

"Not a bit! I feel filthy and it's horrible," Bill said cheerily. "Every inch of me feels tainted and corrupted. The touch of my own flesh is nauseating. But, ya know what? I felt exactly the same when this body was 'clean'." He put exaggerated air quotes around the word. "So why would I waste my time scrubbing the top layer of filth off the second layer of filth."

Ford's shoulders sagged. "At least use deodorant?" he pled. "Change clothes? Brush your hair? Something?"

"No, no, absolutely not, aaand no. What's the matter, Stanford? I've been staying out of your way! You don't even see me up here. The stench can't be getting to you that much—after all, you've gone waaay longer than this without showering, stinky!"

(The back of Ford's neck heated up as he realized at times he had, in fact, gone without showering for far longer than Bill had even existed in this body. Science is more important! Bill had no excuse.)

"You smell like burnt hair, by the way," Bill added.

Ford grumbled, "It's faster than shaving."

"And it has got to overpower the smell of a little stale sweat. So what do you care how this body smells?" Bill's grin widened. "Awww, is the guilt starting to set in? Must be hard to pretend you're a hospitable host rather than a kidnapper when your 'guest' is living in squalor—"

"Enough," Ford snapped. "So this is what, your way of protesting your own captivity? This isn't something we're doing to you, you're doing it to yourself! You have to realize how stupid this is!"

"Buuut it's wooork-iiing," Bill said, a singsong lilt to his voice. "It's getting on your neee-eeerves."

"You're going to cause yourself problems in the long run! Diseases, infections—don't tell me I have to explain germ theory to you, you're smarter than that."

"Course I am! When the plague was running rampant, I was the one mocking your species's failure to pick up bathing." Bill scoffed. "I'm flattered you're so concerned about my health, but you can relax. I've been washing my hands and brushing my teeth like a good little potential disease vector. But you humans are so safe inside your modern fortresses with minimal carnivorous bugs and flesh-eating fungi—most of your modern hygiene expectations are cosmetic, because your culture's trained itself to be disgusted by humans' own natural scent. I'm more willing to put up with itchy dandruff than you are to put up with the smell."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is—" Ford paused. "You've been brushing your teeth? Where did you get a toothbrush?"

"I've been using the dish brush and liquid dish soap in the kitchen." Bill laughed. "Wow, look at you—lecturing your prisoner on poor hygiene when you didn't give him any way to clean up! That's not a good look, pal."

Ford made a mental note to find a spare toothbrush for Bill. He flung his hands out in exasperation. "But—why put up with itchy dandruff at all? Why refuse to shower, of all things? And don't say to be annoying—you're cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"Because cutting off my nose is the only bargaining chip I've got, and you know it."

Seeing expressions on Bill's face—smiles and scowls and smirks and sneers, mouth and tongue and cheeks and eyebrows—still felt wrong. No matter what expression Bill put on, it always felt to Ford like he was using his face to tell some sort of lie. But his eyes—Ford was familiar with Bill's eye, and doubling it didn't banish that familiarity. He knew this heavy, hard, distant look. It was the same look he'd seen just before Bill had shown him, through his own eye, the sight of his home dimension burning. The same look he'd seen when Bill told Ford that the monster that had destroyed his dimension would eat him alive. Of all the looks he'd seen in Bill's eye—curved crescent with sadistic glee, literally red hot with fury—something about this heavy look chilled Ford the most. It was, somehow, the cruelest he'd ever seen Bill: not because the look was malicious (it wasn't); but because it was so detached.

Bill got to his feet, wincing as he uncurled his hunched back. He stretched, spine cracking, as he sauntered lazily toward Ford. "Can I speak frankly with you, Sixer? I can't do a lot of tricks in this body. Heck, I'd try to tell you I don't have any tricks right now—but you'd accuse me of lying, blah blah blah; so let's at least agree I can't escape or kill you all, or I would have! As far as I'm concerned, this body—" he gestured grandly at himself, "—is a dirty sticker stuck on the bottom of my shoe. It's worth less than nothing to me. But it's all I've got at my disposal. So I'm going to be disgusting, until you start doing me favors."

"Favors," Ford said. "And if we don't?"

Bill shrugged, hands raised. "Then I guess I'll keep being gross! But I cannot overemphasize just how little I care about your culture's hygiene preferences, or how far I'm willing to go to irritate you. This morning's hazmat crisis in the kitchen was just a warning shot. You will cave first."

As unnerving as that heavy look in Bill's eyes was, simply seeing it wasn't what rattled Ford. It was knowing that Bill could wear that cruel, detached look when the victim he was committing quiet, passive violence on was himself.

Bill stared Ford down for a moment; then apparently took Ford's silence for victory. "I want a drink strong enough to rot a bootlegger's guts, a hot meal that hasn't been cooked by Grandma Guilia Tofana down there, or—" Bill pointed toward the attic window that his curse prevented him from opening, "a breeze and some fresh air. I'm flexible. Let me know when you're ready to negotiate." He returned to his seat in the window. "I won't be far."

Giving Bill "a breeze" would obviously give him an escape route. Bill was no doubt angling to accumulate tiny, "harmless" favors until he tricked the humans into doing something that would let him escape; but... Ford eyed the empty junk food bags on the floor. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Bill eat anything except for unrefrigerated factory-sealed snacks he could forage from the open kitchen shelves—or if the last fresh food Bill had tasted had been Abuelita's cyanide cooking.

Bill wanted Ford to pity him. That was what this whole charade was about. Ford hated that it was working. Not because of Bill's performative filthiness—but because Ford knew, too well, what it was like to be trapped, powerless, and hungry in an alien dimension; and because even when Bill was all but confessing he was trying to exploit Ford's pity, he was still trying so hard to pretend he wasn't afraid.

"I'll let you know what Stanley says."

Bill didn't turn away quite fast enough to hide his smile of triumph. "I'll be waiting." He settled back down into the same position he'd held for half a day and stared out at the night sky.

####

After several days in this body, Bill could definitively conclude that sleep was the worst part of being human.

In other circumstances, repeatedly blacking out and coming to, only to realize he couldn't remember anything for the past several hours, might just mean he'd been to a great party. He was no stranger to dissociating for a few billion years—you couldn't outlive the births and deaths of whole realities without getting really good at meditating to pass the empty time—but the difference was at least he could see what was happening around him! And sometimes he did cool things while he was dissociating! At any rate, he didn't need to worry about anything bad happening to him, because he was awake, able to defend himself, and—oh yeah—immortal.

But sleep was different. Sleep left him helpless. Sleep made him dream.

Usually he didn't remember dreaming, even though he knew he must have dreamt for at least a couple hours. He hated not knowing what had been happening around his physical body for all that time, and he hated not knowing what he'd been doing in his dreams. Anything could have happened to him during those missing hours in the mindscape.

The few dreams he remembered were little comfort. Nightmares about dying, about screams and screams and screams, about faces and places he was frankly galled to find still haunted him... things he'd spent his entire imprisonment in the Theraprism fighting to keep safely buried in his subconscious, only for this infuriating human brain to let them crawl from their graves like zombies.

But the subject matter wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that, while he was dreaming, he didn't know he was dreaming.

He didn't understand how that was possible. He couldn't remember how the dreams started, what trick they must have pulled to persuade him that this was reality even though he couldn't remember what had happened five minutes earlier, or how they hypnotized him into unquestioningly playing along with their bizarre impossible Wonderland plot lines. Waking up was more terrifying than his nightmares, as he reoriented himself to reality and had to grapple with how helplessly delusional he'd just been—and the knowledge that it would happen again, and again, and again.

Bill knew how human minds worked. He knew how humans dreamed. He'd been swimming through their dreams for millennia. This was normal for humans, and the knowledge that it was normal was the only thing keeping him from going mad with terror.

But the fact that it was normal for humans didn't make any of this okay. Because he was not human, and he should not be vulnerable to the same subconscious blindspots he'd been exploiting for thousands of years. He was the Magister Mentium, the master of minds! He hated losing control of which realities he chose to believe were real. He hated blacking out for hours at a time. He hated being so foggy-minded and vulnerable in the mindscape.

Most of his diet of the past few days consisted of energy drinks. His throat constantly blazed with heartburn. He needed a better solution—and maybe he could think of one once he got a decent meal, or a drink that could help him sleep without dreaming.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was weak.

####

But in spite of the caffeine, at some point Bill must have fallen asleep—because he woke up.

For once, he didn't wake from the searing heat of psychic fires.

He woke from the deadly chill of ice cold bath water.

"HELP!" Bill flailed, bashed both elbows and a heel against porcelain, and went under. He came up spluttering. "Mayday! Charybdis! Carpathia!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. From the other side, Stan shouted, "We considered your terms, and uh—we decided we're rejecting your demands, you get nothing, aaand you've gotta bathe."

Bill heaved himself out of the tub, flopped on the floor, and lay there wetly. Like a fish out of water, if the fish had given up the will to live. "Texq exmmbkba?" What happened?

"We dropped you in the tub," Ford said. "And we're going to do that every time your stench becomes intolerable, unless you bathe voluntarily. Is that clear?"

("What the heck language is he speaking now?" "Not a language. Caesar cipher." "You're tellin' me Cipher was Caesar, too?")

Bill coughed out a mouthful of water. "I'll drown myself."

"No you won't."

"It'd be fun. I'll enjoy it."

Ford hesitated. "Knowing you, you probably would. But you could only do it once."

"I'll slaughter you both."

Stan laughed. "Sure, if you ever reach us!" He jiggled the doorknob tauntingly.

Bill dragged himself across the floor and pounded on the door. He hollered, "I'll make meat linguine out of your skins with an orange peeler! I'll cook it in bone broth made by boiling your teeth!"

There was an awkward pause. Stan said, "I don't have teeth."

"The two of you are a loser who was only ever likable when you were pretending to be your brother and a puffed-up self-pitying nerd who never learned that no one's impressed by a child prodigy after age twenty-two! The biggest impact you'll ever have on each other is derailing each other's life dreams, and all your friends are worse off for knowing you! Your father died ashamed of you both and if he knew the truth about your lives he'd have been even more ashamed! Sherman has no positive memories of you, your obituaries will spell both your names wrong, and I'm going to feed your souls to an ouroboros that will repeatedly digest and defecate you for ten thousand years!"

After a couple more minutes of threats, insults, and beating his fists bloody on the door, Bill had to stop to catch his breath. Ford calmly said, "Have you got that out of your system?"

A pause. "Think I'm good now." Bill slumped to the floor again, his cheek pressed to the cool, damp floorboards. "Okay. Name your terms."

"You're not coming out of there until you've bathed," Ford said. "We'll let you out when you tell us you're clean. If you're not clean, we close the door again. If you want to sit there and sulk, then we'll leave, and once you're clean you'll just have to wait until somebody feels like checking on you. Is that clear."

Locked in and abandoned to wait and wait and wait for nothing at all... He shivered. "Clear as crystal." He pushed himself to his hands and knees and tried not to look at the walls.

"Good. On the cabinet by the tub, you'll find a towel, washcloth, brush, comb, bar of soap, and shampoo. Are you familiar with how to use all of them."

"Sure! Of course I am!" Bill picked up the bar of soap, dipped it in the water, and experimentally rubbed it on his forearm. "For half a year, I bathed your body more often than you did."

Ford yelped, "You what?!" Stan spluttered as he tried not to laugh.

"Didn't you notice how much more the humans in town avoided you when you stopped letting me take your body overnight?" The soap wasn't soaping like it should. Why wasn't the soap soaping? In a flash of inspiration, he peeled the cardboard box off the soap bar. It had been a while since he'd needed to use bar soap; thirty years ago, Ford had kept the bathroom stocked with Dr. Scrubber's 28-In-1 Body Wash.

"I... thought that... I was sweating more from stress." Ford sounded like he was being forced to reevaluate his entire life. Waiting thirty years to dump that revelation on Ford had been a great idea. "Why were you bathing my body."

"Your odor was offending your pet bumpkin! I didn't want him to stage a mental health intervention!" That, plus Bill had needed to wash away the evidence that sometimes he took Ford's body on midnight joyrides to Portland when he'd finished his portion of the portal calculations.

"Okay, great," Stan cut in, "so you know how to shower. You freak." (Bill decided not to point out that calling him a freak had about as much impact as calling him a triangle.) "Clean clothes next to the shower supplies. Got it?"

He glanced at them. "Yeah, yeah."

"Good."

Ford said, "If you get this over with in a timely manner, without wrecking the bathroom or wasting the toiletries, we can talk about letting you choose a shampoo brand for next time."

Bill considered pointing out that that was a pretty stupid bribe to offer a creature who didn't have the slightest emotional attachment to organic toiletries; but then he remembered one of the cults he was affiliated with in New England made a shampoo line using its traumatized worshippers' tears, and he grudgingly decided he'd like to support them if he could. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."

"No." Ford was enjoying this. And after the mortifying reveal that Bill had scrubbed down Ford's naked body, he'd just angrily decided to enjoy it even harder.

"Gimme an hour. Been a while since I've done this start to finish, I'm outta practice."

"Fine. We'll be back in sixty minutes."

Bill could hear the creak of the floorboards as the Pines left, and the fading sound of Stan's voice as he quietly asked, "Do you think what he said about Shermie..."

Yeah, Bill hoped that haunted him. He reached for the towel, and then jerked back his hand, startled, at the sight of another person in the bathroom.

"Oh." Bill experimentally waved a hand at the human, confirming that the strange alien looking at him was a mirror. There used to be more mirrors in Ford's shack, but he hadn't seen any since he arrived—they were among the "potential weapons" the Pines had hidden away—but apparently they'd overlooked this bathroom. "Hey, there." He stared glumly at the face he was trapped inside.

He'd never seen it before.

He'd seen glimpses of his new body from his temporal peripheral vision—looking into the kitchen and seeing himself examining the junk food on the counters a couple of minutes in the future; looking at the stairs and seeing himself walk up them a few minutes ago. But he'd just taken in the perimeter of the uninteresting puppet and ignored the details. He'd never looked at the face.

Up until now, he'd kept imagining himself as a triangle. Some half-dead shape fraying golden curls around the edges, fused atop the rib cage of a humanoid puppet. Seeing the reality felt wrong, disorienting, like staring at an optical illusion but not being able to pick out how it worked.

He tore his eyes away from his own face. Forget it. He didn't have time to feel bad for himself. He had access to a mirror in the middle of the night and no one supervising, and that meant he could send an SOS to the mirror realm. He had friends in the mirror realm! Well—"friends." He had people whose arms he could twist into helping out, leave it at that.

He flipped the lights off, stared in the mirror—trying to focus only on his own eyeballs—and whispered, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary." Maybe she wouldn't recognize him in a human body and take his call?

But nothing. "Come on, pleeease," he whined. "Bloodymary-bloodymary-bloodymary please! I'll owe you my life!" Nothing. Why were all of Bill's exes petty psychos who'd excommunicated him or gotten restraining orders against him for no good reason?

He sighed, flipped the lights back on, and morosely searched for any sign of himself in the reflected face staring back at him. It was like trying to find something reminiscent of Chopin's piano Nocturnes in the shape of a lawnmower: a task so impossible it was unintelligible.

The only thing at all familiar was the color of the hair; not quite as bright as the dazzling electric gold of his true form, but still achingly similar.

Gold splintered into long, needle-thin splinters—splinters with the flexibility of a contortionist, splinters that had been twisted out of shape, splinters that curled like the legs of a dead bug.

"Well, whaddaya know," Bill sighed. "It only took a few dozen eons—but you finally grew up to look like your mother. Ha. Ha ha." The joke left a bitter taste behind his eye. (Eyes.)

Hopefully, he asked, "Oihpromsyd, uoy taht si?" It would be a relief on multiple levels to find he felt so grotesque because he was being haunted by Mr. "Guy Who Lives In Your Mirror And Makes Your Reflection Look Grotesque" Dysmorphio. "Suoedih leef yllaeeer I—krow tseb ruoy fo emos eb attog sah siht!" He waited for his own reflected face to twist in pleasant surprise—either at a human that could speak Rorrim or at the rare compliment to Dysmorphio's work—revealing that the reflection was actually the demon in disguise; but nothing. There went another potential rescuer. Bill already knew the Eye Stealer didn't haunt any mirrors in this shack, no point trying to call him. He didn't stand a chance of reaching anyone else in the mirror realm unless they just happened to pass through this mirror—and unless they were friends, they'd be no more eager to help out thwarted dimensional tyrant Bill Cipher than any of the humans in town would be.

He'd had enough of staring at this face he was stuck in to last him a lifetime. He broke eye contact with himself, tossed the clean shirt over the mirror, discovered the bathroom had a second mirror, and took off the shirt he'd been wearing for most of a week to cover that one, too. He unpeeled the rest of his clothes, trying to avoid looking too close at the human body as he did—it seemed worse now than it had when he'd first gotten this body, with the image of that alien face seared into his memory, knowing he wasn't on this body but dissolved inside it.

Once he'd cleaned this body and perfumed it up to the humans' persnickety standards and gotten out of here, he could handle future hygiene issues by scrubbing off in the sink in his curtained bathroom downstairs. He'd only have to go through this indignity once.

So let's go, Billy, just get it over with—and use the time to think up new ways to irritate the humans into doing what you want.

####

He tried first bathing in the filled tub, until the cold water had him shivering so hard he couldn't properly coordinate his hands; then drained it and tried showering; and then filled it with warm water and attempted bathing again. After the fifth scrub-down he even gave up on soap and tried clawing off layers of skin with his fingernails. No matter what he did, he still felt filthy.

But he'd be dead from blood loss long before he scraped off enough skin to feel clean. He didn't have to actually get clean; he only had to be clean enough to satisfy his captors.

Most of him, he supposed, was clean enough for a human's tastes—any signs of peeling dead skin scrubbed off, no visible dirt, no noticeable scent but the smell of soap—but he doubted the hair would pass muster. It still had asphalt dust in it from almost a week ago, not to mention whatever his scalp had been shedding since then.

But, unfortunately, the hair was the worst part. He could scrub skin with no trouble; but when he was bathing, sunk down to his chin, trying to feel weightless again, the hair floated around him like a grotesque ghost, closing in. When he was showering, it dangled on his face, clinging to his skin, like it was trying to creep under his eyelid and down his throat and choke him. Just knowing it was there turned his stomach; touching it made his throat burn as energy drink bile tried to escape his stomach.

Maybe if Bill brushed the tangles out first. That would knock out some of the dirt without him having to touch it himself. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the growing tingling pain in his legs as his circulation was cut off distract him from the feeling of hair sticking to his cheeks and shoulders.

He tried to brush it out with his eyes shut, and his knuckles accidentally dragged across the filaments, wet, clammy, clingy. He yanked the brush free and felt hundreds of hairs jerking against their follicles. He forced himself to try again with his eyes open, holding the brush by the very tip of the handle. The bristles sank into the lumpen tangled mass of dead curling skin, and, as he tugged it down, slowly peeled the soggy strands of flesh apart—

His stomach hurt with the force of his retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and barely managed to get his dinner on the floor instead of on himself.

Voice a shaky, plaintive whine, he said, "Stop doing that to me." He shut his eyes, pressing his sweaty forehead to the cool rim of the bath tub. (Should he have aimed for the tub? Maybe the toilet? Would the humans get on his case for getting sick?) He jabbed a finger into his abdomen around the area where he'd decided the anthropomorphized spirit of indigestion lived in humans' guts. "Chumbo. Buddy. You're not helping," he hissed. "If I'm already neauseous, purging a load of bile does not help. It makes—it—worse. Why are humans built like this."

The Pines were tyrants. If he begged to be let out with his hair still grimy, the best he could hope for was mockery. Any pleas for mercy would cost him dearly. He wasn't getting out of here until he'd dealt with the hair.

He stood shakily and pulled the makeshift curtain aside on one of the mirrors. His vision was bleary from soap; the soggy hair draped in a loose, disheveled triangle shape around his head, like a mangled corpse. He shuddered and let the fabric drop.

A knock on the door. "It's been an hour, Cipher."

Ford. Bill rubbed his throat and hoped he didn't sound like he'd just been sick. "Gimme another hour."

"That's ridiculous. It takes less than ten minutes to shower, how could you possibly need two hours?"

"So I'm out of practice at scrubbing skin folds! Give me a break! How many hundreds of showers have you taken since the last time I did this? Do you know how hard it is to hold a bar of soap for more than half a second with a mere five fingers?"

There was a pause. "You can't hold soap."

"My hands are small, Stanford."

"Fine. One more hour, but that's all you get."

"Fine, I don't care! If I'm not done in an hour, kick down the door and call the hygiene police on me." Bill was pretty sure you couldn't even get a call through to the hygiene police from this dimension. "Go away. I'm focusing."

If the Theraprism's stupid reincarnation machine was supposed to—ahem-hem, snooty director voice—"divinely designthe body most well-suited to the soul about to inhabit it," then why had it given Bill hair. Sure, he liked human hair, but he liked hair the same way he liked humiliating misspelled tattoos: on other people's bodies, not his. Why hadn't the machine dumped him on Earth bald and balloon-smooth, let the patchy human fur patterns grow in over time? Why hadn't it at least given Bill less hair—why did it need to be so long—

But his hair didn't need to be long, did it? Bill didn't need to have hair at all. Hair was the easiest human body part to self-amputate, easier even than fingernails or ears. Inspired, Bill started searching the bathroom cabinet drawers—et voila. The Pines had no doubt removed any razors or scissors before leaving Bill in this bathroom, but he managed to find a bottle of hair removal cream. Probably courtesy of Question Mark's girlfriend. Cosmetic acid: one of humanity's many endearing little quirks. This would liquefy the roots of the hair, and Bill could get out of here.

He considered whether to melt the hair off the rest of the body. Honestly, he hardly noticed the faint fuzz on his arms and legs, it could stay. The thicker patches extruding from the soft crevasses of the human body triggered that same rotting corpse feeling the scalp hair did, but to a much lesser extent: they were smaller and he could actually see with his eyes that the hairs were growing from the skin rather than spilling out of some dark wet wound. Head first; then he'd annihilate the other three patches if he had enough cream left.

It was easier to touch the hair when he was powered by rage, sliding his cream-coated fingers through the clingy filaments in service of burning it all away. The tingle on his scalp was a welcome distraction from the feeling of the hair itself, and feeling the tingle gradually blossom into a full agonizing blaze was a relief. Chemical burn. That was a luxurious pain—it tightened his lungs and squeezed tears of bliss from his eyes, so good he almost forgot there was another goal to this pain.

Maybe it would damage some of his follicles enough to prevent the hair from regrowing. Maybe he could wring some pity out of his captors—see this damage, isn't it hideous, look what you made me do—how long could he milk that? A few weeks?

He tolerated the burn as long as he thought he could get away with it without requiring hospitalization, then turned the shower on again. The ice cold water didn't wash the dead hair off fast enough. Some of it stuck to his skin; some was brittle, but not quite fully dissolved.

And that one, last, tiny inconvenience was more than he could stand.

The hair stuck to his chest, his arms, his hands as he ripped it off. Dead flesh, peeling apart and rotting, dead flesh all over him. He ran his hands over his head, fingers trembling with disgust, and tore out clumps of hair to fling to the ground. His eardrums boomed with his heartbeat. If there had been anyone else in the room he would have murdered them with his bare hands just to purge some rage. Over and over, desperate, obsessed, get it off get it off—

Until his head was so smooth that the pain of the chemical burns masked what few fibers were left. Until the icy shower left his skin so cold it hurt. He stepped out of the shower, triumphantly tore the shirt down from the mirror to see the results—and froze in horror.

When a cloud of gold hair had dangled down from his scalp, he'd looked like a triangle rotting apart—the corpse of Bill Cipher.

Now, he looked at his face, and he didn't see Bill Cipher at all. He'd destroyed the last of himself.

At his feet was a murder scene, all mangled golden gore.

####

(if you enjoyed—and/or were horrified—let me know what y'all think!!)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #my writing #my art #bill goldilocks cipher #gravity falls fanart #fanart

466 notes · View notes

the-universal-sun · 5 months ago

Note

Maybe Mabel finding out about Stan’s regression and having tea parties with him or something?

I think it would take a while and a lot of talking between Stan and Ford for Stan to feel comfortable regressing in the shack with the Twins, Soos, and Melody around. But! After enough time, they would explain it to them, Stan and Ford can't always use the "sick" excuse when the Dipper and Mabel want to hang out with them when Stan's regressed.

The twins don't really fully grasp it, but Mabel is enthusiastic about it, as she is everything, and Ford promises to share his research on it with Dipper so he can understand it. Soos and Melody are pretty okay with it, knowing Stan's had a pretty hard life and who doesn't want to relive their childhood now and then?

Now that everybody who lives in the Shack knows, Stan and Ford feel more comfortable with Stan being Little in other areas of the Shack, most often the living room, which is where Mabel comes across a regressed Stan for the first time.

"Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan! I just heard Ducktective is coming out with a movie! We have to go-" The hyper almost 15 year old skids to a stop at the living room doorway, voice stopping mid-sentence as she takes in the scene before her. Her Grunkles are there, sat a the coffee table with some old black and white cartoon on, the volume set to low, just loud enough for back ground noise, but low enough to not be distracting.

What really caught Mabel's attention was not the TV, it was her Grunkle Stan. And well Grunkle Ford too, but she was focused on Stan. He was sitting criss cross and lifting a tea pot, the kind made of the thick porcelain for children, to pour something, she can't tell from this angle and distance, into a cup in front of a stuffed Opossum. There was a bear with another cup in front of it, and Grunkle Ford was sitting down with one, too. Was it-? Could it really be!?

"Grunkle Ford! Is Grunkle Stan Little right now! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! And you're having a tea party! Dipper, come down here! EEEEE-" Ford cut her squealing off with shushing and waving his hands at her, trying to calm her down, knowing loud noises could spook Stan-Lee right now-and cause him to retreat into himself.

"Mabel, while we appreciate your enthusiasm, this is a very delicate moment. Stan-er Lee-isn't good with sudden and loud noises-" he gestured to his brother, who is hunched over with his hands over his ears, his breath is beginning to pick up.

Mabel puts her hands over her mouth, mouth frowning and brows turning down in upset chastisement. Her foot begins to rub the floor beneath her. Ford softens his voice, knowing Mabel didn't mean to upset her Grunkle, her naturally loud persona and excitement just gets the best of her at times. "It's okay, Mabel, just use your-ah inside voice, yes? Come sit down next to me." He switches his attention over to Stan as Mabel walks over, gently grabbing his hands and pulling them down. He rubs Lee's back and talks in a quiet tone.

"Mabel's going to join us for the tea party, if that's alright with you of course, Lee." He gets a shaky nod from his brother, who knows Ford would never truly force him to go past him comfort levels. Stan likes Mabel, and he knows she'd never be mean to him when he's Lee, when he's feeling smaller. "That's good. Should we introduce her to your friends? You can just point and I can name them." Ford smooths back Lee's hair, earning a slightly larger smile.

Mabel stares at the scene with stars in her eyes. Her Grunkle Stan-Lee?- was so cute like this! s he always like this? And Grunkle Ford is so gentle and sweet with him! And they're having a tea party?! Mabel feels like she just died and went to heaven! She already loves her Little Grunkle! She does her best to quiet her squeal for him, letting out a quiet but still high squeak instead. She nods as Grunkle Ford tells her the names of the ragged looking teddy bear and the Opossum-Poindexter and and Shanklin 2-and waves back with a bright smile when-when Lee waves to her with a small smile. She doesn't trust herself yet to not yell, so she settles with a large smile, seeing Lee's shy one in return, as Grunkle Ford sets out a cup for her and Lee goes to fill it up. She has a blast at her Grunkle's tea party, quietly spreading gossip with Poindexter and Shanklin 2 as Lee's soft giggles and Ford's small chuckles answer in place of them.

She loves hanging out with her Grunkle Stan. Whether he's Big or Little.

Stan loves hanging out with Mabel, his favorite great-niece, whether he's Big or Little.

Ford's just happy he got through the day with no tears or upsets. And that he got to hang out with his favorite great-niece and his favorite Little Brother.

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #gravity falls stanley #gravity falls headcanons #gravity falls stanford #gravity falls agere #mabel pines #dipper pines #fandom agere #sfw agere #age regression #agere headcanons #gravity falls age regression #gravity falls soos #age regression headcanons

52 notes · View notes

phoebepheebsphibs · 11 months ago

Text

Thinking about a ROTTMNT Human AU I was gonna make, and randomly remembered a huge plot...

(I'm in an infodumping mood again)

So basically this human AU follows Yoshi Hamato, aka Lou Jitsu as he adopts four little boys from "Draxum's Home for Lost Lambs". (Raph was the unplanned child of a struggling single mother, who was forced to give him up for adoption. Leo and Donnie were the only biologically-related kids out of the four. Their parents died in a car crash. Mikey was a dumpster baby, found in the alleys by Draxum.) <This is important to the plot! There's a lot more to the story, but it's all subject to change and still in the rough draft state.

Leo, having found a flier for some cool event in the woods (like a musical festival or something) wants to go by himself, but is instructed by Yoshi to take Mikey with him. Leo has an argument with his Dad over it, but Yoshi remains adamant that he take his little brother. Leo grumbles the entire time he and Mikey ride up, and even has an argument with Mikey during the drive where he says something along the lines of "I wish I wasn't your older brother". Before Leo can take it back or Mikey can refute, the two get into an accident after a truck runs Leo's moped off the side of the road and onto a cliff ledge.

Leo wakes up in his bedroom, the day having restarted. He finds that no one remembers Mikey, no one knows who he is! Leo does some investigation and discovers that there is no evidence that Mikey ever even existed. In desperation, Leo visits Draxum's orphanage to ask if Mikey was ever found or adopted, and Drax says no, he has no record of Mikey. Leo realizes that it is possible Mikey was never rescued as a baby and may have died. Draxum suggests that Leo go to the last spot he saw "Mikey" at. Leo does, and has a vision of what happened (from the audience's POV, Mikey just simply yelled at Leo to "look out" before the screen cut to black), and Leo sees that a speeding delivery truck ran them off the road and clipped the back of Leo's moped, causing them to skid and spiral, knocking them into the barrier and sending Mikey flying off the side of the cliff while Leo was thrown several feet forward. Leo realizes that he's dreaming and goes to the vision of his real self and begs him to wake up because Mikey needs him...

Leo wakes up, calls 911, and manages to climb down the side of the cliff to rescue Mikey.

A helicopter arrives shortly afterwards and rescues the two of them, though Mikey is in a coma. At the hospital, Leo explains the situation to everyone, even the argument. Raph and Donnie comfort Leo after he admits what he said to Mikey before the wreck. Micheal stays unconscious for three days before waking up, and Leo is the first to see him. The two talk it over and Mikey slowly recounts his memories leading up to the crash, even remembering the argument, though he tries to gaslight Leo into thinking he doesn't. Leo apologizes profusely and comforts Mikey, saying that he "got a glimpse of what a world without his little brother was like" and that he never wants to see that again. Mikey also tells Leo he saw the truck that hit them, specifically the logo on the side of the van... it was a delivery truck for the Foot Shack...

There's more after this, but for now that's all I'm sharing!!

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt leo #rottmnt human au #infodump #writing angst #writing ideas #writing plots #baja blast #portal pals #tide pod duo #mikey and leo #leo and mikey #rottmnt leonardo #rottmnt michelangelo #lou jitsu's kids

129 notes · View notes

cs-fox · 4 months ago

Text

FLARES | OC X GN!READER

AS requested by @ghostindeath !!

tweaked her a little from the foxhound series so she has more of a military esque personality…. and more resembles my oc ♥️

and she’s a Lieutenant now !! Private!reader

______________________________________________________________

Your new lieutenant was terrifying.

She walked around base silent as hell, a steely, dangerous look in her sleet-grey eyes. You didn’t know anyone - that is, all of the new recruits alongside you - who didn’t steer well clear of Fox.

But you didn’t have much choice when you were in the middle of a warzone.

You lay, gasping and writhing on the floor of some old shack that had been repurposed as the place a man dressed in all black had chosen to rip apart your guts in.

Blood flowed freely from the open wound on your stomach. Despite being mostly a superficial wound (your mind trying to over-dramatise the situation) it didn’t help your gag reflex from triggering. The warm and sticky russet fluid soaked through your shirt, gloves, and anything you tried to use to stem the ooze.

Your assailant had fled after you managed to shoot some bullets dangerously close to his head. Just as you were going to call for a medic, Fox skidded into the room, the torch on her weapon slicing through the dust clouding up from the floor.

‘Fuck - Lieutenant!’ you groaned.

She dropped to her knees beside you, ripping off the cap of a stimpack as she moved. You had no chance to protest as Fox jammed the needle into your thigh.

The effects were almost instant; you gasped, pupils shrinking as you surged upwards, but Fox’s iron grip kept you from moving.

She was obviously helping you, but it was hard to remember that fact when her freezing cold gaze was trained on your wound. Anyone would have thought she was trying to kill you with that stimpack.

As Fox was tying off the new binding , tight around your midriff, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye. Your Lieutenant grabbed the weapon holstered at your thigh - but she’d forgotten one crucial point. You sheathed your pistol on your left hip. Fox had pulled your flare gun on the man brandishing an AK-47.

God save you - she didn’t care.

You squeezed your eyes shut as a bright, scarlet flash screeched through the room, and when you dared to open them again, you saw a grimy-faced Fox kicking a mangled mess of smoking, bleeding flesh in the shape of a man clutching a gun to the side, before returning to her place at your side.

‘Alright, Private?’

‘Y-yeah,’ you squeaked, and she hauled you to your feet.

‘Let’s move.’

______________________________________________________________

#call of duty #fanfiction #cod #oneshot #fanfic #call of duty oneshot #x reader #oc x reader #original character x reader #reader insert #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare #cod modern warfare #modern warfare

20 notes · View notes

rita-repulsa-ke · 5 months ago

Text

the talk

Agatha and Rio talk about their relationship on a road in the past. Brief mention of animal death (a mule). For this fic, I am going with a headcanon I just made up, that Rio isn’t allowed to kill anything directly, thus Agatha.

“What are we calling this?” Rio asked her as they walked along a dirt path too pitiful to be described as a road, toward a collection of shacks too unimportant be worth describing at all.

“It’s a village. Too small to be a town.” Agatha answered. “Maybe a hamlet?” She was hot, tired, hungry and otherwise inclined to be grouchy, the days of travel starting to wear on her, not helped by Rio having made her kill their pack mule on the third day.

“It was his time,” she’d said and then had gotten as close to genuinely angry as Agatha had ever seen her when pressed on the subject, which had been enough to make even Agatha decide to change topics. She’d also refused to let Agatha reanimate it or use the fresh corpse for any of the several excellent uses she could have put it to, insisted they bury it. Agatha had caught her sitting at the grave, conversing casually with thin air.

So overall, another mundane day in her life of traveling with Death, but now they had to cart all of her books and supplies around by hand. It had not put her in a better mood, though at least Rio had agreed to help.

“No,” Rio said, coming to a sudden halt. “I mean, what are we calling the two of us.”

“Two of us works for me.” She didn’t really want to have the relationship talk. She couldn’t think of why they would. They were—whatever they were was fine. Boundaries were things drawn by other people, made for Agatha to cross.

There was silence behind her, but it was a portentous, dangerous silence, she could picture the way Rio was toying with her knife with enough clarity that she started the casting for a ward spell under her breath. Maybe one with a little extra pizazz, for the fun of it.

“If I left—“ Rio said.

“You will,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t, not because it was untrue, but because said aloud, it did sound ever-so-slightly pitiful. It was just, everyone did. She’d gotten used to it. She even liked it, some variety in the faces around her, no time for any one person’s company to grow stale.

Rio was suddenly behind her, almost on top of her, so fast Agatha had to acknowledge she never would have gotten her spell off before a knife had sunk into her ribs.

She’d work on that.

No knife, though, not this time. Arms came around her midsection, a body of wiry muscle conformed to her back. It surprised her every time to feel Rio’s heart beating against her. Not an unpleasant surprise, she simply never expected her to have one.

“In the middle of this terrible excuse for a road, where anyone could see? Scandalous,” Agatha said, gone too still, unsure of why she was being hugged from behind like a child’s beloved doll. It made her heart beat faster, for many, many reasons.

“…scared,” Rio mumbled against her shoulder.

“What?”

“You’re scared,” Rio lifted her head, spoke against her ear. “Of commitment. Of being left alone. Of being abandoned, unwanted, discarded, shunned—“

Around the eighth synonym, Agatha decided that was enough. It took work to trigger the ward spell so close to her skin, with Rio glued to her like that. It was an elegant, impressive use of the craft, all so she could cackle like a mad woman when the force of the spell sent Rio flying. The other woman hit the ground in a crouch and skidded to stop her own momentum in a way that suggested physics had only a loose hold on her.

“Oops,” Agatha said, still laughing.

“I won’t,” the other woman said, rising to standing, unruffled. “I won’t leave.”

“Is that a threat or—I mean, I’m just not sure how to take that.” Did she sound nonchalant? She must.

“Take it however you like. You generally do,” Rio said, head tilted, hip cocked, smiling unpleasantly.

Whatever else they were, Agatha needed her. There were things she could not do, plans she could not enact, without Rio by her side.

Time to make peace, then. “I don’t like naming things. Names have power.”

Rio doubled over with laughter. “You are,” she singsonged, sashaying toward Agatha, playing with her knife like a promise. “Such a coward.”

In Agatha’s Sight, she was a blaze of power, a radiant column of glorious green flame, breathtaking, deadly, world-ending, an apocalypse given form and purpose.

“Come here,” Agatha said, opening her arms to invite Death in. There was an easy way to solve this little snag and then they could be on their way once more.

Succubus, Rio had called her once and she’d only partially meant it as a compliment.

“There’s smoke,” Rio said.

The non sequitur took her a moment to comprehend, then she whirled to look at the horizon, at the column of smoke above the hamlet or whatever they were calling it, it didn’t really matter. Soon it wouldn’t need a name.

She muttered a word so foul the grass near the edge of the path withered and died. “Go,” she snapped, summoning her magic. “You’re faster.” Death arrives where and when it must, Rio had told her once, as though Agatha didn’t know the exact spell the other woman used to travel beneath the earth.

Still, she did it better and faster than anyone Agatha had ever seen, without ritual or even a spoken word. She’d spent months trying to understand how, before giving up on the whole thing in frustration.

“Say the magic word,” Rio crooned.

Agatha turned toward her smiling, spread hands crackling with power. “Bodies. As many as you like. Save the witch on that stake and I will create a killing ground just for you.”

“Romantic,” Rio said, as the dry dirt of the path sucked her into the earth.

Agatha pursed her lips as she took to the air. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It kind of is.”

From here, go read scars. It’s very romantic, albeit written before the finale.

#agatha all along fanfic #agatha all along #agatha x rio #Still have the bug too lazy to write long-form fanfic for them #Let’s write drabbles instead #Rita does agatha

24 notes · View notes

chlobliviate · 8 months ago

Text

Wolfstar Microfic - Faster

Words: 839

@wolfstarmicrofic

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

Remus would forever be grateful to Sirius for spotting the moon, dragging him back into the shrieking shack, kissing his temple and locking the door before he could transform. Even with the wolfsbane, he wouldn’t wish it on Harry and his friends to witness the transformation.

Even with Remus' mind, the wolf was restless. He could smell Sirius and Peter. Peter. He knew Hermione had hit him with incarcerous, but worried all night about whether they’d finally got him.

After he turned back, groggy and exhausted, but uninjured, the door swung open. He swallowed the disappointment at not Sirius standing there, but Dumbledore.

“Good Morning!” He said jovially as if the events of last night were a regular occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

Remus frowned, “Albus, tell me—”

“I’ll get to that, Remus. How are you feeling? Was the potion adequate?”

“Yes, thank you.” He muttered, “I didn’t sleep much, but I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it!” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger are all safe and unharmed, other than Mr Weasley’s leg which is already on the mend. Severus is… his usual self.” Remus snorted, “He has made a point to inform the ministry of your condition, which will no doubt filter down to parents and students in due course. I want to make myself absolutely clear, Remus, that you belong here. No complaints from parents or questions from the wizengamot will change that. I hope that you will stay.”

Remus stared at the wall, everyone would know. Surely parents would withdraw their children, and send them to Beauxbatons where they weren’t being taught by a monster. Of course, he couldn’t stay.

Dumbledore interrupted his train of thought, “The students respond to you and they enjoy your lessons. You would be doing yourself and them a disservice if you let this change things. Just, think about it.” He nodded, “Onto more serious matters.”

“Is he…”

“Aurors came to collect Mr Pettigrew in the early hours of the morning. He is awaiting trial now.”

“So he gets a trial? Not just thrown in Azkaban, no questions asked?” Remus snarled. “He spent twelve years in there, Albus.”

“I’m well aware,” Dumbledore Held up a hand, “He will be given a full pardon. He’s in the hospital wing currently being fussed over by Poppy.”

“He’s not… they didn’t take him back?” Remus blinked at him.

“No, Remus. He’s a free man.”

Remus didn’t care if he was being rude. All he could think of was Sirius, and he ran from the shack, through the tunnel and out of the Whomping Willow, not caring if anyone saw him exit. He ran faster than he ever had and when he came skidding to a halt in the hospital wing, a small sea of curious faces greeted him.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were gathered around Sirius’ bed while Madam Pomfrey hovered. Sirius sat cross-legged on top of the sheets, chatting animatedly to Harry, wearing clean robes, with his hair tied back and, wow, he didn’t know that Poppy could work miracles, but apparently she could.

Sirius instantly leapt from the bed to the protests of Harry and Hermione and threw his arms around Remus.

“You’re alright.” Remus whispered, “I’ve got you.”

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

“I am pleased to introduce you to our new Astronomy professor, Professor Sirius Black.” Dumbledore smiled over at him.

Sirius got to his feet and bowed slightly, smiling at the cheers coming from the Gryffindor table. As he sat back down, Remus’ hand returned to his thigh and he linked their little fingers together.

Remus, after much debate with Sirius and Harry, had agreed to stay on at Hogwarts. When Dumbledore offered Sirius the Astronomy position he’d pinched himself several times because being back at Hogwarts with Sirius seemed too good to be true. Dumbledore had written to them a week after term had ended to ask if they’d like separate quarters, or to share, and that had shattered the levy that had been holding back everything they hadn’t said since they were teenagers. Choked ‘I love you’s, angry ‘I missed you’s and serene promises. Forevers.

Travelling on the Hogwarts Express with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville was delightful. Much better than it had been for Remus the previous year, not a dementor in sight. Sirius slung his arm across the back of the seats and Remus leaned into his shoulder. He noticed Hermione shoot Ron an ‘I told you so’ look, but that was all. They’d told Harry over the summer when he’d finally come to live with them at Grimmauld Place and he was thrilled for them, Lily and James’ son through and through. They’d absolutely gutted the house, slashing the portrait of Walburga until the ribbons of canvas were finally silent. All the silver adornments changed to gold, and heavy, dusty curtains were thrown away to let the light in.

It would only be their home for a few months a year for the foreseeable future, but it was their home. Better late than never.

#fanfic #wolfstar #ao3 #fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #marauders #wolfstar microfic #remus loves sirius #sirius loves remus #fix it fic

48 notes · View notes

dirtytransmasc · 2 years ago

Note

TW: VERY DARK AND SUICIDE ATTEMPT (kind of)

Prompt :

He was six

Norm found him with his wrist slit

“Why’d you do this kiddo?”

“I wanted to get rid of the demon blood”

Jakes reaction

Neytiri stitched him up with an unreadable expression

IF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMY

I UNDERSTAND, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE THIS IF ITS TO DARK!!!😭

oh my fucking god... it hurts so bad, but its so good. I love dark angst, there aren't many places I won't go, so have no worries anon.

head the trigger warnings above, I don't get super graphic, but I don't skid over any details either. disclaimer, mama!neytiri brain worms are liquefying my brain, so this is a little (a lot) neytiri-centric, cause I can't help it, its the worms I swear.

also, there are like 0 resources on na'vi medicine, so I'm just fucking winging it man, I'm gonna pull some shit out of my literal ass and we're all gonna have to just be ok with that. ~~~

norm wishes he could say he was shocked, surprised that this little boy wanted to hurt himself, let alone went through with it. he should have been gutted, more than he was at least, angry, put off, something. but not that its happened, he saw it from a mile away, he should have noticed, should have stopped it. all he felt was guilt, burning up his heart and knotting up his stomach as he put pressure on spiders tiny wrists, holding his lulling body in his arms. spider was just a kid, a baby, but he's muttering about 'getting rid of demon blood' and 'not belonging' and it being 'better off' if he was gone. it was somehow worse in his childish wording, his perfect innocence and naivety only just beginning to crack as the pain in his little chest began to swell.

it had been the odd quietness from spider's 'room' back in the cave marui's that alerted him to something being wrong. spider was quiet, in a way; when he was out playing with the kids he was loud, laughing, face filled with light and joy, even if something cold still glinted in his eyes. but when he was on his own, having been left behind or told off by some adult, human or na'vi alike, for getting in the way, he would sulk off to the little marui by the shack. but even if he would sit amongst himself, playing with the few figures someone had put time aside to make, attempting to weave a new piece of jewelry or basket, mending the sad little knife he wore on his side. he was always doing something, could be heard humming or sniffling, the sound of his knife on the wetstone or the clunking of wooden figures on each other were a constant. so when norm heard nothing but silence, his gut ticked up, the hair on his neck bristled, his legs carried him much farther they would on the average day until he was staring at spider and his little bloody arms and his little bloody knife and his sad little eyes.

it took only a split second for norm to come back to himself, to rush and pick the boy up before he had enough 'sense' to try and back away (spider never wanted trouble, never wanted to get in the way or be a burden, the fact he didn't try and hide worried norm more then it would of if he did, which was even more concerning in its own right).

he just held spider as tight as he could, his big blue hands easily covering his human wrists, trying to think of what he should do. he should say something, other then "its ok" but what does he say? what do you say to a six-year-old who just tried to kill himself, no, no, "get rid of the demon blood" coursing through his veins?

he wasn't going to lecture him, spider made it clear why he did it, comfort wasn't his strong suit. he could just look at his puffy little cheeks, one side of his mask blooded as he had attempted to wipe his cheek on instinct. so he just repeated a mantra of "I'm here" and "it's ok" and "your ok" until he reached the infirmary, trying to prtend he didn't feel spider slipping further and further away with each passing second.

in the flash of just a few seconds fueled by adrenaline alone, he knew he regretted everything. he was spider's caretaker sure, but he was no father, jake wasn't either, and the boy didn't have a single maternal figure to his name. no mother to kiss his brow at night or admire his accomplishments. he had no one, not truly, and norm allowed to happen, was not only complicit in it, but played a direct role in it. now he may not get to make that up, may not be given the chance to step up, to fix this.

he carried spider to the infirmary hut, knowing he would find someone, anyone, there who could help. part of him knew that mo'at had seen something in the child that brought some sort of pity from her, that maybe just this once, spider wouldn't be so alone in her presence.

when he entered the pod, he found mo'at showing neytiri something, explaining different herbs to her, though he didn't pay enough attention to it the lesson to pull out any identifying features of the herbs in question. both turned to look at him when they heard his rapid breathing, their gaze then shifting to the bloody boy in his arms, the ever-so-faint fogging of the glass that made up most of his exopack, and the ghostly parlor of spider's skin.

"put him down," mo'at commanded, before norm could even speak, clearing her pallet in an instant, "what happened to him?" her voice was firm, almost knowing.

"he...cut himself...intentionally...I don't know how long ago, but I found him in his pod alone and brought him right here."

"intentionally?" neytiri hissed, removing the boy from his arms when he couldn't get himself to comply with the order and holding him so she could listen to the weakening beat of his heart. she tied turniquotes around his upper forearm with the strands of clothing handed to her by her mother, absent-mindedly rocking the little thing where he rested held between her free-er arm and her chest, when the last bits of his consciousness were directed to fussing, no doubt from the pain. she couldn't bring herself to bind them too tight, just enough to control the bleeding, her hands and a bit of cloth could handle the rest.

(mo'at almost lectured her, but she saw that look in her daughter's eyes and knew it would be pointless, a mama bear gets what she wants)

norm had never seen the protective fire in her eyes, normally directed at her children, burn so bright for spider in the last few years she had known him. it scared him, it felt so unnatural that the very gaze he had learned to trust in most cases, froze him like a deer in headlights.

but that question, the tone of it, made his gut sink. how did he explain this, spider was just a baby, and he had slit his own wrists. that on its own was gut-wrenching, but the reason? Eywa have mercy.

"he said... he said he wanted to get rid of his demon blood, so he... he used his own knife and cut his wrists... its a common form of self harm back on earth, to cut yourself, but I don't even know how he would know to do that, why he would do it... I know why, but..." norm felt defeated. he should have seen something.

the look on neytiri's face made him want to tuck his tail between his legs and run off. she placed spider down as gently as one could, face scrunched up with pain and anger as she keeps pressure on both of spider's wrists.

"get jake, he is with the young hunters." she spoke quietly, her voice almost bitter. she didn't know if she blamed him, if she was angry with him, she barely understand how to feel about spider harming himself. all she knew is that he had just given her some of the most heartwrenching news she had heard in her life, so he was getting some of her mirth. norm nodded, racing off with his tail tucked between his legs, only hesitating to take another worried glance at the boy.

neytiri took a deep breath before turning to her mother. "he will need stitches, right?" she had never dealt with an injury quite like this before, the conscious effort in the wound made it clean and to the point, unlike a wound in battle. it strived to do quick, efficient damage, and now, either because she could barely let herself think straight, or because she genuinly didn't know, she couldn't think of the best way to treat it.

"yes, my daughter, but that is the least of his worries. he cut a large vein, those are very difficult to mend, stopping the bleeding will be difficult. he's already lost quite a bit of blood, so we need to be careful. the best thing would be to put a root paste to help clot the bleeding, wrap it up, and stitch it later." mo'at turned to her morter and pestle as she spoke, mixing different herbs, berries, and roots into a dark brown, almost purple, paste.

neytiri, nodded absently, while she picked through the basket at her side for bundles of lumped fibre and soft cloth to hold against his arms. luckily for him, while he did manage to do some damage and with the help of the tourniquets, one wrist had already stopped bleeding a fair bit, and the other was manageable.

in the silence of the hut, her mother working quietly behind her, turning every once and a while to check his breathing or giving her a tincture to clean his wounds with, neytiri was left to think.

demon blood.

he had done this because of the words she and so many spat at the sight of him. he had tried to rid himself of his sins, the sins of his father, the sins of his people; but were they really his to begin with? what had he done, in his six years of life, to have earned the hate he received? was the blood he carried in his veins enough to justify pushing a child to this?

no, she decided, no it was not.

seeing him so pale and lifeless in norms arms woke something in her, something deep in her gut, maternal rage coursing through her with something vicious, and even if she didn't deserve it after all she had done to him, pushed him to do, her heart was attempting to claim his as her own, and she didn't know what to do with that feeling. then she realized, that the maternal drive that prowled in her stomach like a thanator ready to pounce, not only saw the world as a threat, but saw her as a threat.

her mother handed her the salve and she was grateful for anything to do to take her mind off of the few revelations she managed to have while waiting.

"put more of the salve where the bleeding is stronger, then wrap it tight, be careful to not make it so tight it takes off his hand." the older woman guided, watching over her daughters work.

neytiri scooped it out bit by bit, slowing rubbing it onto the wounds while her mother blotted away the blood, her ears dipping whenever the boy his with pain or tried to pull away. she just wanted to make him better, to take him up into her arms and tell him it was alright like she would if he was one of her own children. but she knew she couldn't, he would wake up and see the monster who filled his little mind with such awful thoughts of himself, that he would be just as scared of her as he always was, and that she could bring him no comfort. so he was extra gentle as she finished off the paste, and held him like delicately as she wrapped the bandage around his wrists, gushing him gently each time he cried out, combing back his hair when she felt she was finished.

then jake came barreling in, breaking up the delicate silence that for a single second allowed her to believe it was just a normal day, that the new found fantasy of just being able to mother this child was true, that allowed spider to lay in peaceful sleep with her shawl over him. norm was trying to hush him, before he woke the baby, but there was no stopping jake, not when his face was full of pain and anger, looking as if he would plow down a titanothere just to get to spider.

neytiri knew jake had taken to spider more than he had let on, but the beast in her belly screamed that he hadn't done enough either, that he didn't earn the right to worry either. but she hushed it, knowing neither had the right to claim anything, not even over each other.

"ma'jake, quiet, or you will wake him and... he will be in pain. so let him sleep while he can," she attempted to soothe quietly, resisting every urge to just scoop him up when jakes loud entry did in fact stir him.

jake sat across from her, his hand resting on spider's chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of the boy's chest. "did he really?" he asked, eyes begging for her to tell him it wasn't true. she knew he would much rather hear of a freak accident over this, but she couldn't give him that mercy.

"yes, it would seem so." her voice was short, worn, despite barely saying a word this whole time.

jake crumpled a little, much more on the inside then he attempted to let show on the outside. neytiri was used to it, jake dealing with it all on the inside, bottling it up till he burst. she placed her hands over his, both of them being reassured by spider's breathing.

"but he is still here, we can and will help him. we will make sure he never feels this way again. I will right my wrongs, I will treat him as he has always deserved, and I hope one day he can forgive me. you will do the same. for now we just have to wait." she spoke gently, still worried about waking spider. she was partly talking to herself, making the promise she had worked her mind to final, she swore it on eywa. she saw jakes eyes finally close, knocking the tears he had been fighting to keep in down his cheeks.

he nodded, slumping into a lazy, defeated-looking, criss-cross position, talking spider's little hand in his, using the wet cloth from mo'at to clean the blood from his finger, the calloused palms of his hands, his muscle-toughened arms.

jake was no stranger to this, to harming yourself, even if he had never taken a blade to his wrists. trying to imagine that pain in such a little body terrified him. how was he supposed to wrap his head around little spider, the stray cat amongst the village, always smiling and laughing, always trying to help everyone, always up in trees or tussling with his kids, his blonde hair like streaks of the sun running about the village, battling such demons. he tried to imagine what he must have been feeling when he took his knife to his wrist. was he scared? relieved? confused? was he desperate and looking for a way out?

no, no norm said that spider wanted to get rid of his "demon blood" which as somehow more nauseating. it was their faults, him, norm, neytiri, The People. they hurt this child or they let it happen. they expected him to take every glare, every spit of acid, everything he was forced to endure, and to still remain a happy child. jake never once stopped to think what effect that may have on him, and now he was paying for it.

he ached, spider was small, he could fit in jakes hands even at 6 years old. he was drowning in neytiri's shawl even if on her, it would barely cover her upper arms, he had just started fitting his exopack a little less than a year ago. he was still just a baby, and they almost let his life end. had norm not found him, he would be dead, still and cold in his makeshift marui, in a pool of his own blood. the image that accompanied the thought that flashed in his made him feel sick. even with all that he denied feeling about the boy, no matter how hard he tried to push him away, no matter what he let him go through, the thought of spider dying, especially like that, alone and scared and in pain, terrified him. to have a child die for any preventable reason, was a disgrace on The People, especially their chief of all people.

chief.

he should have been the example. he should have led his people to find love for a defenseless child who wanted only to be loved and accepted. he had failed.

he let a finger caress the side of spiders face, along the edge of spider's mask, lightly pulling at the curly baby hairs that rested there,

"will he be alright?" he didn't know who he was asking, norm or mo'at. both would have very different opinions, norm more literal, mo'at more spiritual. he didn't know which he wanted.

"physically, yes. he is lucky, his blade was simple, his hand faltered, and he didn't seem to have a death wish. he didn't do too much damage, its manageable. emotionally jakesuli? time will tell." mo'at was the one to speak, the look on norms face spoke the his fear of setting neytiri off like he almost had earlier.

neytiri looked to her mother with a pain expression, her tail beating nervously where is laid near spiders head, ears still folded back.

"his mind is plauged with pain and desperation, things no child should even be aware of. he was driven to harm himself, in ways that will be permanent. it will be our actions going forward that determine his future. I fear if we do not undo the damage now, we will lose him in the years to come... what I fear more and that the damage has been done and cannot be undone. we can only hope for the former/"

neytiri damn near let out a cry, turning from her mother, eyes clenched as tears welled up in them. she found jakes arms, both leaning over spider like a makeshift shelter. just like they should have his whole life, they should have shielded him from the world, protected him from the hate of others. spider stirred once more, and this time jake couldn't resist the urge to scoop him up.

spider looked up at both of them, his little eyes tired and glossy, something small and painful in his gaze. he began to wiggle out of jakes hold, balling up nervously, but when neytiri grazed fingers through his hair, he stopped. this was the one thing he had ever wanted, deep down. not to be accepted, not to be one with the people, not even to be na'vi. he just wanted to be held, loved, by a mother, any mother. with his judgment too clouded by all his emotions, the desperation, the pain, even the blood loss, and maybe and even simpler reason being just being a child; spider let her hold him. he couldn't think about her years of neglect, the harsh words, and harsher glares, not in that moment, that could come later. right now, he needed a mother, and neytiri was willing, so he sunk into her hold, welcoming the embrace of either parent.

the road to spider's recovery would be long and hard. jake and neytiri had a lot to make up for, to apologize for, holding onto their guilt for years as they waited for spider to reach an age were their apologies would actually mean something to him. he would have to be watched constantly, habits would be broken, tears would be cried. things would never be 100%, there would always scars and phantom pain, but that was ok.

~~~

a note for my regulars; I'm back, maybe sorta kinda. I've hit a rough patch with my adhd, I can't do thoughts, or social interaction really, but I'm starting to bounce back, so more regular posting may return shortly.

#I have such a hard time writing norm for whatever reason #which is why I found every excuse to not have to write dialogue for him #sorry norm <3 #also #I'm a bitch for the “neytiri having her eyes opened to motherhood/mothering spider in response to him getting hurt/sick” trope #its got me in a literal chokehold #its so good and so angsty #and neytiri's mama bear instinct vs logic fighting to the death #shes having a mild crisis #more like major. but potato patato #spider socorro #miles socorro #miles spider socorro #neytiri #jake sully #norm spellman #mo'at #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water

383 notes · View notes

grunkle-no-more-colombian-nights · 3 months ago

Text

Hey all! Sorry for the wait on this chapter. I started up a second job for the holidays and have been sick twice this month already so it’s been hard to take the time to write. I promise it won’t be a constant issue. Thank you everyone who has followed so far and I can’t wait to keep going with it all. Happy holidays to all and thank you again ❤️❤️❤️

No More Colombian Nights - Feral

Stan swallowed hard as the old brown pickup truck skidded to a stop in the gravel not far from their little group. Ford was out of the truck yelling before Soos could throw it into park. Stan rolled his eyes at his brother’s normal theatrics, sure he had been going over his words since he had jumped in the truck.

“Stanley! What in the world are you doing out here? Trying to get eaten a second time tonight? And why is Wendy here?” Ford huffed, meeting his gaze with stubborn frustration. He couldn’t deal with it.

“Ford, take the kids home. I have some general hero-in’ to do again.” He growled as he got into the back of his car, taking the bat back from Wendy and making sure the pelt was safely tucked away before he slammed the door shut. Soos was already ushering the kids into the back of the truck, amongst strong protests from both.

“No, Soos I need to be there. As Ford’s official assistant I have to take notes!” Dipper grunted and struggled against Soos’s arms as he spoke, desperate to stick around and see the end of this. Mable similarly whinged, nearly climbing Soos in attempt to escape getting taken away.

“Grunkle Stan wait, we can help. Please! We’ve fought Gideon a bunch of times!” She called as she got over Soos’s shoulder. Ford and Stan groaned nearly simultaneously.

“How did you not notice they got into your car?” Ford asked, rubbing his clearly exhausted eyes. Stan scoffed at that.

“Yeah, like I’m the one who shoulda been watchin’ them tonight.” He rolled his eyes, pointing at the lump that still sat squarely on the side of his concussed head. Ford pursed his scowl, clearly not having much of an argument to that.

“What are you going to do? Go fight a child to find a potentially dangerous anomaly who could kill you both?” Ford protested as Soos called out.

“Dudes, uh I’m struggling a little bit!” Mable had maneuvered her way to the back of Soos shoulders, clinging to the back of his head, her hands over his eyes as Dipper went through his legs, nearly tripping him in the process.

“I can’t in good conscience let you go do this alone.” Ford stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Soon the kids had overtaken Soos, quickly escaping him and clinging to their Grunkle’s arms. Soos came up behind them, panting with the effort of trying to get them into the truck.

“Sorry, dudes. They’re so wiggly.” He huffed, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“I’m not going back to the shack.” Dipper declared, his sister nodding in obstinate agreement. Stan groaned, this was getting too complicated. Wendy crossed her arms as she watched them all struggle to decide how to proceed.

“I feel like this would be easier if I went alone. Sneakier at least. It won’t be very subtle if we roll up with a whole crew.” Stan sighed.

“Dude, you barely made it in Tate’s house. There’s no way you’re going to fight Gideon and his goons alone.” Wendy was shaking her head. It didn’t seem like he was going to have a choice, and his own panic was growing as the minutes passed, all too aware that Honey was not in good hands.

“Fine. Everyone get into a vehicle. We’re headin’ to the old abandoned bar in town. Park a block or two down. Don’t want to be caught before we have a plan.” Stan gave instruction before he moved to get back into his car, jumping into the drivers seat as he waited for Wendy to climb back in. Much to his frustration, she had clearly been instructed to go to the other vehicle, being replaced by Ford who fell into his passenger seat with a huff.

“Sixer, if you’re gonna lecture me the whole way back into town I’m gonna make you go sit in the truck bed.” He grumbled, not even in reverse yet. Ford shook his head, raising his hands as if in feigned surrender.

“Clearly you’ve made up your mind. I’m not here to fight you. I’ll help you even, but we will need to have a discussion when we get back with her.” Stan jammed the car into reverse, peeling back the car quickly and speeding out of the area as he scoffed at the offer of “help”.

“Yeah, no offense Sixer, but you’ve already helped me enough tonight.” Ford looked mildly offended at the implication, unwilling to let it rest.

“Once again, you would have been eaten without me, Stanley.”

“Once again, you really don’t know what you’re talkin about, poindexter.” Stan couldn’t deal with this conversation a second time around. “Your mind machine, it lets you walk through my thoughts, yeah?”

“In laymen’s terms.” Ford said, waving his hand through the air.

“Wait to make any decisions until you see for yourself what was happenin’ on the beach.” He could see out of the corner of his eye Ford considering the possibility.

“Fine, I will reserve my judgement until I can review your memories of the situation. But don’t think that means if she attacks before then that I won’t protect you or the kids.”

“She’d never.” Stan said, sure of her gentle nature. He could see it in the way she talked to the kids, how she encouraged and adored them already. He pressed hard into the gas, speeding his way towards the old bar he had been told the gang had been known to hang out in now. Wendy and Soos had kept him up well enough on the town while they were gone he guessed that would be where they headed first.

Soos was behind him, keeping up just barely as he barreled down the highway and into town. Stans heart squeezed in his chest as they pulled up two blocks from their target, trying to think of the best way to break into the place. He hopped out, followed by Ford as Soos was pulling up just behind them, putting it into park as the rest of the crew piled out.

“Ok, we need to approach with caution. First, we….” Ford started, trying to head the infiltration before Stan cut him off.

“I’m going in on my own first. If you hear a scuffle come back me up.”

“Grunkle Stan, I think it would be best if someone goes in with you. Your head is still pretty…lumpy.” Mable grimaced as she pointed at the bruised lump on his head. “I brought my grappling hook. Or I could just…knock on his door. We haven’t spoken since last summer. I’m sure he’d be….excited to talk to me.” She shuddered uncomfortably. Stan shook his head.

“No offense sweetie, but if he did take her, he’ll be expecting someone to come looking. It’s the middle of the night. If you just show up it’ll be obvious.” He stated, getting into the back seat and donning his brass knuckles before running his hand over the silvery blueish pelt. Ford was clearly annoyed with having been interrupted.

“I was going to suggest a distraction as well.” Ford said through grit teeth, annoyed with his brother’s determination to do this on his own as well as his interruption.

“How many goons does he normally have around him? Last summer it was a whole prison crew…” Dipper asked, sounding concerned as he spoke.

“I know Ghost-eyes still hangs around him pretty regularly. The rest seem to be in and out. So anywhere from two to ten?” Wendy said with a small huff, rolling her eyes.

“Ok, Mable, Dipper. I need you to stake it out, keep your distance but figure out how many people are moving in and out of the hangout. Once we know that I’m gonna have Wendy and Soos create a distraction, get them out of there while Ford and I find her inside. Plan?” The group nodded nearly in unison, looking determined to get this plan over with. With that, they began to make their way down the street to the old bar that had shut down and now served as Gideon and the Discount Auto Mart Gangs hang out. The building looked a bit dilapidated; with boarded up windows and crumbling brick it was a mostly unassuming place. The only thing that made it clear people were inside were the small amounts of multicolored trickling light that shone through the boards on the windows. Dance music muffled behind the locked door, giving a strange sense of liveliness in the otherwise dead street.

They sat in the bushes across from the building for a moment observing. After a few minutes Ghost-eyes pulled up, jumping off his motorcycle with a fairly large bag of salt and fish food. He kicked the door in before kicking it closed, the lights and sounds of others pouring out as the door slammed behind him.

“Mable, Dipper, there’s a sky light on the roof. Go up there and see if you can see who all is in there.” Mable nodded, clearly determined to make good on her promise to help. Dipper seemed a little more reluctant but Mable grabbed his hand, yanking him across the empty street and into the back alley. Stan pumped his fist as he heard the grappling hook make a tink noise as it attached to the roof, Mable and Dipper quickly making their way up and onto the flat surface. They all watched as minutes passed, the two having disappeared behind the old sign that denoted it as an old bar, and back to the skylight Stan recalled being there from his frequent visits when the place had still been open. After about ten minutes he heard them drop back down to the alley, escaping back to the bushes they all hid behind.

“Right now only Gideon, Ghost-Eyes and Killface are there. They have a big tank in the back, but it’s pretty dark and hard to see in there past their dance lights. There is an open part to the skylight thought. May be the best way to get in after the distraction. Ghost-eyes was pouring a bunch of salt into the tank for some reason.” Stan nodded, taking it all into consideration as he tried to decide the best course of action.

“Right, Soos, Wendy, this is where you come in.” Both nodded in determination as well. He smiled at them both, all these crazy kids willing to help break his girl out. What more could he ask for in his little family? “You guys will need to draw them out and keep them out for a little bit. Do what ya gotta. Break things, scream, yell, whatever ya gotta do to keep those guys out of the building. Wait until I give the signal and then go. Once we’re good to go, meet us back at the shack.”

“I’ve got some fireworks in the back of the truck. I picked them up for the Summerween party in a few days, but I can get more.” Soos offered.

“Perfect. Let’s go, Sixer.” Stan stood creakily, groaning softly as his knees complained from the crouched position they had been holding. He could hear Ford reluctantly move behind him, keeping close and quiet as they snuck their way back across the street.

The alley was dark, smelling of wet cardboard and indescribable human bodily smells. He crinkled his nose as he looked for a pipe or fire escape to climb. Stan heard a grunt behind him, his brother finding a small pipe about half way up the building that he jumped and grabbed onto, pulling himself up and climbing. Stan rolled his eyes. He moved back under where his brother had climbed up, trying to do his own jump, grabbing the pipe but failing to actually pull himself up.

“Sixer, get over here and help me. Fucking show off.” He whispered harshly, waiting for Ford to peek back over. His shadow finally materialized over the side, slinging a rope down that must have been left on the roof at some point. Stan yanked it to test the strength, making sure it wouldn’t snap when he did put his full weight to it. With a grunt he hoisted himself up, trying hard not to think about the height as he did. He panted softly once he was up on the flat roof, not bothering to look behind him as he straightened himself out, pushing into his back a bit to try and soothe the aching that clenched. Voices caught his attention though, moving him towards where Ford was crouched.

One of the panes of glass of the skylight in the old building was cracked and broken, letting the gruff voices mix with the little gleeful one. Gideon’s little chuckle made his blood boil as he moved to look into the dirty glass, seeing what his niece and nephew had already confirmed for him. Killface sat close by as Gideon paced in front of them, monologuing as he normally did. Ghost-eyes silhouette stood near the back.

“Drop her again! We have to figure this out tonight.” Gideon yelled in his squeaky little angry voice. “Those Pines are going to start sniffing around any minute. I’m sure of it. And we need this to go right if we’re going to start up our plans!”

“Yeah boss, we got that…but how do we know she’s actually a mermaid? She hasn’t changed at all since we’ve been dunking her. I know what those old dudes were saying when we went to go screw up that date…but she hasn’t done anything since we got her here.” Killface’s voice was timid with his question as a muffled growl cut through dully. It was high and low at the same time, sounding just as otherworldly as it had before through the coughing as a machine hoisted her back up to the surface.

“Maybe she needs more salt? Mermaids are like salt water fish right? I had an aquarium once and you couldn’t keep the freshwater and salt water fish together. They would die if they didn’t have the right water.” Ghost eyes offered.

“I am not a fish!” It was Honey, her voice unmistakable, breathless, coughing and shaking. He could barely see her in the dark, the water thrashing as he caught a glimpse of her bound wrists writhing against the restraints that were being used to winch her out of the water tank. It was like seeing red, Stan’s breath getting ragged as he heard her struggle to breathe. Ghost-eyes climbed a ladder that was leaning against the tank, adjusting the restraints as she thrashed and chomped at him with her teeth. Stan’s fist ground into the gravel of the roof as he silently willed her to sing, to use the strength he’d seen her use to break free, but the next time she opened her mouth to do anything, Ghost-eyes’ solid fist went into her stomach, making her grunt loudly and whimper in pain.

“I said drop her again.” Gideon’s voice became more of a threat as Ghost-eyes climbed back down the ladder to do as he said, releasing the lever that had been used to hoist her out of the water. A splash followed as Honey’s form sank back down to the bottom, her bound fists pounding against the glass. For the first time he could see her face, her eyes as black as they had been when they had first been attacked. She looked feral, inhuman in the way she shuddered and moved against the bottom of the tank. Her dress had been near torn apart by the violence they had faced that evening. Why wouldn’t she sing?

He hadn’t realized it, but as he sat and watched Ford had already called for the distraction to start. Wendy and Soos started setting off fireworks towards the building, one crashing through a broken window and setting off inside, making Gideon scream and the two men to start yelling as a fire broke out from the sparks. He cursed under his breath as Gideon began yelling commands.

“Killface! Get me out of here! Ghost-eyes, get her out! We need her!” Killface picked up Gideon and they slammed out the front door as Wendy sent a firework towards them, sending them scrambling as it exploded near them again. He couldn’t wait any longer, the fire was starting to spread. Ford was clearly thinking clearer than he was as he smashed out the skylight and jumped in onto the pool table that sat right bellow them.

“Stanley, move it!” Ford yelled from inside, smoke starting to plume as Ghost-eyes charged him. Stan jumped down himself, regaining his wits as he tackled Ghost-eyes, planting his fist into the man’s face, repayment for the fist Ghost-face had placed into Honey’s stomach. Ghost-eyes yelled as they struggled with each other, grunting and grappling around the smoke filled room. His eyes began to water as Ghost-eyes took another swing at him, glancing off his shoulder before Stan shoved him hard back and over a chair, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Ford was struggling with the lever, wrenching it back and forth to no avail. A mechanism was jammed. There was’t time to fix it, the building would be burnt down before they could escape.

“Ford move!” Stan yelled, grabbing a chair leg that had come unattached and running as fast as he could with it in his hands into the front glass panel of the tank. It cracked, smaller cracks webbing across the glass before it finally shattered, the water washing through the room and putting out some of the fire that had started to lick the ceiling of the room. Without hesitation he swept Honey off the ground, her wet, frail body tensing in his grip as he threw her over his shoulder. Ford ran to the back door, slamming it open with his shoulder before calling back to his brother.

“Stanley! This way!” Honey gnashed her teeth viciously at him, the growl emanating from her chest deeply disturbing as she struggled to free herself from him.

“Doll, it’s just me. You’ve gotta’…” his words cut off sharply as he gasped, trying to keep moving while her sharp teeth sunk deep into his shoulder. “Fuck.” He growled, trying to keep his wits about him as he made his way behind Ford out to the front of the building, shifting Honey so she sat back further and could no longer bite him. Sirens had started to blare somewhere near by. Blubbs and Durland would be by soon for sure to see what all the commotion was about. Thankfully Soos and Wendy had already gathered the kids and left. Gideon and Killface were no where to be seen, much to his relief.

“Ford, something is wrong. She’s not recognizing me.” He gasped softly as she violently writhed in his grasp. It was like trying to hold a wet cat, the way she hissed and spit. Ford opened the back car door.

“We don’t have time. You wanted her so now we have her. Let’s go.” Stan nodded, knowing they really didn’t have the time as he shoved her in the back seat, grabbing her pelt and throwing it over her before he jumped into the front seat. Ford slid over the hood, jumping into the passenger seat as the peeled out, barely escaping the large flood light that was being panned near the half burnt building. Ford panted, taking a minute to glance at Stan, whose shoulder was soaking his shirt in blood.

“You’re going to need stitches. Did she do that?” Ford winced as he looked into the back seat, hearing her growl in an animalistic way. “Her eyes haven’t always been like that, have they?”

“No, I’ve never seen this. Like I said, something is wrong.” He grumbled as they flew down the highway towards the shack. “She needs a hospital.”

“Well we can’t take her to one. She’s an anomaly, Stanley. Agents would be there before we even had any idea of the damage that’s been done.” Ford shook his head, clearly uncomfortable with the direction things had taken.

“You’ll have to do it then. You know… medical stuff, yeah?” Stan asked cautiously, knowing Ford would be deeply unhappy with the request.

“Stanley…” Ford rubbed his eyes with his fingers under his glasses. “I can keep her under observation in the lab until we decide what to do with her and until I go in and deprogram you. But that’s it. She bit you while you rescued her. Is that not enough proof for you that she is not what she has put into your head?” It was almost a plea, his brother trying to convince him out of his feelings. That had rarely worked in the past though, and it certainly didn’t apply here, he thought. But better not to fight it yet, it was clear Honey was not ok. This would be his best chance at convincing Ford of her gentle nature, although she was not doing a good job of it now. He could hear her in the back seat, whimpering and preening like a wounded forest animal.

“Fine, keep her wherever you want for now. But she needs help. It’s the least you could do for me since you hurt her earlier.” Stan pressed, pulling into the shack’s parking lot. Ford groaned, but didn’t protest further as Stan killed the engine, taking a moment to peek over the back seat at Honey’s curled up form. She had pushed herself into the furthest corner of the seat, her pelt wrapped tightly around her body as she shuddered and whined, her black marble eyes indecipherable.

“We’re gonna get you inside, babygirl.” He whispered, almost more for himself than anyone else, but she heard it regardless, her eyes shifting in his direction with a feral growl rumbling from her chest. Without warning she launched herself towards him, landing into the front dash with a painful crack as both the brothers bailed and shut their doors behind them, leaving her an angry and thrashing creature inside Stan’s car. Her face was pressed against the window glass, fogging it with her furious breathing as Stan stared helplessly at her. Ford dusted himself off, walking back toward the shack with some sort of authority as he called behind him.

“I’m going to get some sedatives. Don’t let her out.” With that it was just the two of them, his hand resting against the window as she shrieked and thrashed. Pain gripped his chest as he listened to her, his eyes wide as she tried to gnash at his hand through the glass.

“What did they do to you…?” He whispered into the closing night, waiting for Ford to come back with some form of relief.

9 notes · View notes