#The eye of a needle is tall enough to stand inside.'

[ffcrazy15]

Somewhere down south of here, There's a woman with an armload of grass

Weaving a basket That'll float the Rio Grande

She'll send her baby on it The river running wild and fast

To curry the favor Of whatever Pharoah owns the land

A seed of an idea Like mustard greens

Like newborn fingers Curled and half asleep,

Awake.

The Oh Hellos, "Rio Grande" / Philip Richard Morris, "The Infant Moses and His Mother" (detail) / Laura Robbins, Cirrelda Snider-Bryan and the community of Placitas, NM: Ceramic Wildlife Mural of the Upper Rio Grande Watershed (detail) / George Loftus Noyes, "Rio Grande" / Art West, "Ballooning on the Rio Grande" / Basilica of San Clemente al Laterano, apse mosaic (detail) / Saint Joseph Edition of the New American Bible Large Type, "Moses Found in a Basket" (detail)

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-three —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: ily

In a split second, the ground seems to open up and you sink down, down, down into a memory brimming with death. Stark white snow surrounds you, soaked with blood beneath your feet. You hear the screams of your sister and Paul. A wall of grey descends over them. There are many, too many. All you can do is—

"Fucking run! Come on, before they smell us!"

Kyle tugs your arm and rips you back to the present. You trap the terror, throw the bow on your back, and sprint. Which way did you even come from? The meadow feels bigger than before. He seems to know so you follow him, fighting through head-high rue.

It doesn't seem like the Greys have taken notice to you yet given the absence of hungered screeches, but you can hear the uneven footsteps continuing behind you. You try to look back at them, but all you can make out through the plants are flashes of grey and green and amber sunlight. You don't slow down. You need to increase the gap so they can't get close enough to scent you.

"She's right over there," Kyle urges.

The tall grasses turn into pine needle covered ground. You make it back to Cherry, who must notice the shift in the air as she whinnies against the rope. Kyle slinks his rifle on his back, unties her with nimble fingers, and without warning, grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the saddle. You grip her mane to steady yourself. He swings a leg over behind you, then thrashes the reins. She breaks into a gallop, weaving through the trees. 

You look back again once she's gained some distance. They have trampled through the meadow, consuming it, and you realize with a sinking pit that without a horse, you wouldn't have been quick enough to get away. From this height, you can now see just how far back the crowd extends, to the point that they swallow the horizon. 

If they continue this way, they'll reach the camp. 

A barbed fence and trench won't stop them.

You look back ahead of you, the forest passing as a blur in your peripherals. 

"We have to get back and tell them. There's too many," you speak into the whipping breeze. "There is no month."

He tightens an arm around your middle and mutters gravely in your ear. "No, there isn't."

It feels like hours before you make it back, though the sun has yet to fully set. Blood orange streaks the sky. They must be preparing dinner. No one is outside. Cherry slides to a halt in front of the trench and Kyle helps you down with a firm hold, as if he is worried you'll be unsteady, but you brush his hand off and race inside.

You enter with such urgency that all eyes snap to you. Ghost is crouched in front of the fireplace. Price and Nereida are curled on the couch, legs entangled, as he strokes her long, black hair. Blue and Ari are looking through a magazine splayed on the table.

"Greys," you announce, looking around. You land on dark eyes that widen as they take you in. "They're here. They're coming."

"We saw them by the hundreds about 20 kilometers south. Too many for us to handle. We have to move, Price," Kyle says.

Ghost rises. You close the distance and stare up at him with unwavering conviction, ignoring the nausea that has been churning in your gut since the moment you witnessed them. 

"Ghost, we're not fucking around. I saw them. A horde. Bigger than the one that destroyed my camp. We have to get out of here. We don't have the time to wait around until they—"

"I heard you." His eyes sweep over the length of you. "You're alright?"

"Yes," you dismiss quickly. "They didn't get to us. But if we didn't have Cherry..." 

You trail off.

Price stands. "20 kilometers, Simon. They can close that distance in a matter of hours. We move now."

You see a war dance in Ghost's eyes as he releases your shoulder and nods firmly at his old captain. The stiffness in his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw show his realization that the battle he’s been fighting to grapple for more time is unwinnable.

"Dad?" Blue's voice is small from the table. 

He looks at her. "Kid, go get your things. Everything I've told you to bring if we ever had to leave."

"Where—where are we going?"

Price answers. "We start with moving a safe distance away. South, past Loughborough, like I showed you, Simon. Get your map. Gather everything we talked about. Only the necessities that we can fit in the truck."

Then, everyone moves.

A pot abandoned over the crackling embers. 

The magazine left on the table.

You rummage for your things.

Ghost throws a military-grade backpack at you.

"Use this."

You fight trembling fingers to unzip it. You don't own much. Even after cramming all your vials and pill bottles, gauze, knives, and clothes in it, there's space. He fills the rest with food from the pantry. Canned beans, fish, soup, peanut butter. A few packages with bold letters: MRE. Military ready-to-eats. 

Minutes race, and you're back outside. Moonlight floods the sky. Time feels like an enemy. How far away are they now? You swing around back to the truck. Kyle and Price have already loaded guns, food, and the deflated raft around Ghost's kayak. Blue watches them finish packing. She has a backpack of her own and Grim in her hands. Her eyes are red.

Ghost comes out with two heavily stuffed bags of his own. 

"You can't take him."

Blue tightens her hold on Grim. "I'll hold him the whole way."

"You can't."

"I can. I'm not—I'm not leaving him. He'll die."

"Say goodbye to him and get in the truck."

The look he gives her is final.

She knows it.

She kneels down and releases the rabbit.

He lingers by her feet.

Tears flow. 

"You have to stay here, okay? I'm—I'm sorry."

Kyle and Ari give their farewell to Cherry. He removes the saddle. You are tempted to thank her for saving your life, but before you can, Kyle strikes her rear and sends her running toward the north. You hope she can get out of here. 

You, Blue, and Nereida sit in the backseats. Kyle and Ari sit out on the truck bed, while Ghost drives and Price holds the map. Faded headlights cut through the night as the engine coughs to life. The silhouette of the camp outside the window is the last glimpse you steal as Ghost drives through the trees.

There isn't much talking except for Price telling him where to go. When Price unfolds the map, a small paper falls out. Ghost quickly snatches it and stuffs it in his pocket. Blue trembles beside you, but she's silent. You switch between playing with the plastic bracelet on your wrist and reopening the scab on your finger to keep your mind busy. You can't think about the what-if's—not now.

The bumpy ride softens once Ghost makes it to the road. You squint your eyes to read the roadsigns as they pass, but they're faded and it's dark. All you can make out is the letter M: motorway. It must be the M1. You crossed it on the way to the village, but this time Ghost follows it south, opposite of Manchester. 

Not even half an hour into the drive, Ghost swears under his breath. He slows down to a near-stop, causing your forehead to almost slam into the headrest. Your heart stutters when you look out the windshield. A group of Greys, not as large as the one you witnessed, but still sizable, lingers in the middle of the road. The headlights draw their shadows against the concrete—dark, spidery fingers. 

"Go around them," Price directs. "Keep some distance."

Ghost veers the truck left onto the grassy side of the motorway. The ride turns rough again and you notice Blue pressing her knuckles into your thigh. You let her. You watch the group pass through the window—maybe twenty or thirty of them. They are moving in the direction of the woods. Drawn to the terribly strong scent of the mass already congregated in there. 

When the truck fully passes them, your mind drifts. You think of small things. The growing cabbages Blue planted. If they will survive, or be trampled. Ghost's books. The shed you used to sleep. The violets by the pond, in full bloom, soon to be crushed and matted to the ground.

Ghost won't be driving all through the night. 

Price claims it would be a waste of fuel, since they haven't decided upon the safest route to continue further south towards the channel yet. One step at a time. Instead, after passing signs for Loughborough and circling around the quaint, broken town-scape, Ghost drives down a gravel road that leads to a quiet, overgrown ranch. There is a broken barn and eroded fence posts, but mostly grass. At least, that is what you make out in the dark. It should be far enough from the horde to be a safe place for sleep. 

They have two tents with them. Kyle hops out of the truck bed and sets them up with Ari, Price shining a flashlight for their eyes. Sleeping bags are thrown in. 

Nereida touches her husband's cheek. 

"Are you going to sleep any?"

"Not tonight. We'll keep watch." He kisses her knuckles.

Nereida and Ari end up in one tent for the night, and you and Blue take the other. The three men will stay awake, watching over the supplies and keeping an eye out for signs of Greys. You have the stubborn itch to stay up with them—be a fourth set of eyes—but you will yourself to leave your bow at the foot of the tent and bend down to slip inside with Blue. You help her into the sleeping bag since she has never used one before. She curls up inside it.

You are barely inside your own when she whispers, "Twix?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't like this."

"I don't, either."

Moonlight breaches the nylon walls. You can make out the shape of her nose, the glisten in her eyes.

"Are we going to go back?"

"I don't—I don't think so."

Luckily, it's left at that. She doesn't know about her dad's plan for Switzerland yet. Or maybe she is starting to put the pieces together. She doesn't ask. 

You turn on your side to look at her better. You reach a hand out of the sleeping bag to stroke her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm...I'm so sorry about Grim. He'll be okay, alright? He's a smart guy. Learned from you all these years."

"I hope so," she says, quiet. "I don't even have any pictures to remember him by."

"You have your memories of him. All of the small things. Hold tight to those and you'll never forget him, okay?"

"Okay." She shivers. It's cold now without the sun. For a few silent minutes, she simply cries. You stroke her hair, from scalp to ends, and count in your head. It does some to ground you. To ignore the fresh images seared into your eyelids. By the time you reach 248, she wipes her eyes roughly and says your name again. Her teeth are gritted, to keep her warm, or to stop from crying too loud. 

"Yeah?"

"Are you having sex with my dad?"

The question makes your fingers pause in their ministrations.

Something clenches at the pit of your stomach.

"I, um—no. No, of course not."

A shaky breath. 

"You would tell me, right? If you were."

"Yes, of course," you whisper. "Get some sleep, alright?" You give a final stroke to her hair and turn away, flat on your back. 

Sleep is difficult, but the three shadows outside the tent offer a thread of comfort, so you will your eyes to shutter. You dream of an endless meadow. The tall plants turn to hungry mouths. By the time dawn arrives, you awaken, and feel disoriented. You sit upright, looking around and wondering how you got here. You aren't in Ghost's room, in his bed, with his warm body close by. Your toes are numb. You see Blue's face slackened with fatigue, half covered by the sleeping bag, her body snuggled close to yours, and everything comes back to you in flashes. The Greys in the meadow. The quick evacuation. Pulling over for the night. It sinks in. Your stomach howls, but you ignore it, 

There are murmured voices outside.

You carefully unzip the entrance and slip outside so as not to wake Blue. The sky is a muted purple. Price, Kyle, and Ghost are by the truck bed. Price has the map in his hands, and Ghost is showing him two bright red jerry cans. 

"That's it?"

"That's it, plus what's already in the tank."

"And it's full?"

"Bit less than full now."

With everyone else still asleep, you hesitate to make your presence known. You feel like you'd be intruding. But the thought recoils quickly. The more stubborn part of your brain bares its teeth. You have a right to be apart of the conversation. You want to know what is happening. What they plan. 

As you make your way over, chilled arms crossed tight beneath your breasts, it is Kyle who notices you first. His eyes soften. Then Price—his brown eyes lift from the map as he regards you.

"Twix." He greets and you think it is the first he has said your name. Ghost is the one you fail to look at but you feel his stare. "Sleep alright?"

"Just fine." Your eyes flick to the map, noticing new marks that weren't there the last time you looked it over. "Have you guys..." As the words leave your lips, the confidence in your chest falters. You clear your throat in attempt to recapture your resolve. "Have you decided where we are going next? I mean—Switzerland is still the plan, right?"

Price's eyes sweep over you once, twice, before moving to Ghost, brow ticking as if in question. This irritates you—as if he is asking Ghost whether or not he should tell you, and you have to bite your cheek to fight a scowl. 

There is a subtle nod from Ghost that you think you might imagine, but Price looks back at you. "Switzerland is still the plan. We need to get here first—" he taps a finger on the map at the edge of England,"—to the Strait of Dover. The narrowest part of the channel. The biggest question is how. Going through London is the quickest way."

"But London is bound to be teeming with Greys," you frown.

"Precisely."

Kyle threads a hand through his hair, visibly concerned. "But going around it means more fuel."

"Well, how much do we have?" you ask, finally glancing at Ghost. You are scared of the answer.

He lifts the two cans up. "About 43 liters, plus the 30 already in the truck."

You feel relieved. "That's actually decent."

Kyle shakes his head. "Decent, yeah. But we're bound to have to end up taking side streets and stopping here and there for shit that's on the road, which wastes fuel. It's not a perfect drive."

"Well," your eyes move over the truck, then back to Price, "Can't we just go the long way, see how far the truck gets us, then do the rest on foot?"

"Are you willing to carry the kayak, Twix?" Price asks.

You flush. "I mean, it's not impossible is it?"

Ghost sets the cans down. "It's too much to carry. We can't go on foot for very far with the kayak, and we need it."

Because the raft is for six people. Not just that, you realize, as you take in just how much is filling the truck bed. All of the supplies have to make it across the water, too. It doesn't matter if six people can get in the raft if the supplies add to the weight limit like an extra person. 

Somewhere in your thinking a hand brushes over your bicep and you flinch. "Cold?"

It's Kyle. Without your response, he chucks off his jacket and places it over your shoulders. You mutter a quiet thanks and slip your hands through the sleeves. 

You don't know why, but your gaze shifts to Ghost, though you are only met with an unreadable expression before his attention refocuses on the map. He moves a gloved finger over it, landing on Colchester.

"Then we take a longer route on the water. If we avoid London and travel on the east side, we save fuel making it to the coast. The trip across will be longer than the Strait of Dover, but I'd rather take that risk than go through London. It's a fucking death trap there."

"That's a possibility," Price nods slowly, mewling it over. He rubs his beard. "Leaving from the Colchester coastline would mean maybe eight or ten hours to get across, which we can manage—with the right weather." 

"Colchester, then," Kyle says. He seems more keen to this idea, shoulders loosening. "We can take the A14 towards Kettering. Can't be more than an hour or two from here. And then the A11. It should avoid the worst of it."

Price nods and folds the map up. "We keeping moving, then. The longer we stay in one spot, the more risk." He lays a hand on Ghost's shoulder. "This was the right choice, Simon."

Ghost simply nods.

The plan seems solid enough. Drive to the channel and get across. It is the water that makes you the most uneasy, and traveling through France where no one here is as familiar with the landscape as they are England. You've tried to recall what you heard from the radios way back at the start. You know Paris, a major city, succumbed quickly. But what about the rest of it? 

You wonder if Ghost is as scared as you are to be ripped from the small semblance of safety he has had for over five years now. If he is, it doesn't show. He is back to clinical. A lieutenant. Not the man you've grown far too comfortable throwing attitude at.

When Kyle and Price leave to make a small fire with gathered kindling, he tosses the jerry cans back in the truck and grabs your arm before you can walk away.

"How is she?" he asks.

Blue, he means.

You look back at the tent. "She's doing alright, I think. Scared. But she understands." You wet your lips. "She doesn't know, does she? About us heading for Switzerland with them."

"I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet."

You nod, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "Thank you... for letting me be apart of that conversation. I know that I—I don't have as much value here as everyone else, but I am still worth keeping around. I am ready to help. Just tell me what to do, Ghost, and I'll do it. You know I will. I am stronger than I was before, thanks to you."

Ghost's head tilts downward as a breath of silence passes between you.

He doesn't comment on anything you've just said. He takes hold of one your hands. You are confused before he pries it open, grabbing your thumb and inspecting it like a slide under a microscope. The nick from when you cut your hair. The scab you've failed to let take.

"Stop picking at it, unless you want an infection."

"I can't help it sometimes."

He drops your hand. The warmth fizzles. "You still have antiseptic?"

You nod. 

"Good. Use it only for yourself. Understood?" 

"Yeah," you breathe, and wonder with a furrowed brow why he is bringing this up now. There is no chance to ask when he grabs the lapel of the jacket on your shoulders and begins to force it off. 

"Give this back to Kyle. You have your own."

Breakfast consists of jerky, beans, and water that Price and Kyle tapped from a tree. A spile. Of course, they have one. You try not to feel spiteful of how competent they are—prepared. Just like Ghost. If only Paul had such things at his disposal. Maybe he could've devised a stronger Plan B. Maybe they would've been able to get away with you that first time around.

Ghost explains to Blue the plan. That there is no going back, not now or ever. That there will be a new home for them, a safer one where they will never have to flee, far away in another country where other people have made a community, where she could have more friends. It is all wishful thinking, of course, but he has to sell it to her as something certain.

You overhear bits of the conversation as you force yourself to eat. She sounds sad and distant. Detached. Like she hears what he is saying but doesn't really hear it. Still, she isn't crying anymore. When they are done talking, she eats her breakfast in small bites beside Ari. 

By high morning, the air heats up, and you don't need a jacket at all. It is time to move onward. Kyle and Ghost take the tents down. Nereida whispers something to her husband and then disappears behind a tree somewhere. When she returns, she taps your shoulder.

"My period just came," she says, shaking her head. "Quite the timing, huh?"

Oh. "I'm sorry, that sucks. You have little towels and stuff for it?"

She nods. "Yes, luckily. Remember the rosemary I found? I use that to help fight the odor so Greys can't smell it as well. Let me know if you ever need any." You take a mental note. "You know, I was hoping getting my tubes tied would stop things like this. All it did was make it more irregular."

Your brows furrow. "Wait—you mean, you did that before the spread?"

She smiles lightly. "I never wanted to be pregnant. Really makes things less stressful now."

That makes sense, then. That her and Price don't have to worry. The question has popped into your brain a few times now, against your will, whenever you caught sight of them kissing and touching. They seem far too intimate, even in those small moments, to not be having sex in private. 

Just before taking off, you unpack your supplies and wrap up your thumb with some ointment. More than anything you want to crawl under a blanket and hide, preferably back on Ghost's warm bed. But as you crawl back into the truck, that vision fades further behind you, and you will yourself to focus on the road ahead, to keep moving. 

[k-hotchoisan]

Yunho smut with his hands? 🥴

Oh god I love his hands I want them around my neck so bad. My choking kink is off the fucking charts whenever Yunho’s hands are present. Here’s something for you, pretty. Enjoy Yunho and his pretty little hands.

Synopsis: what are the odds of getting a tattoo and getting fucked by your tattoo artist because you cannot stop staring at his fuckin hands

Warnings/genres: tattoo au!, mention of needles, slight size kink, choke kink, unprotected sex, hands kink, cream pies, fingering

A/n: I am so sorry for the amount of typos. I fucking swear this isn’t what usually happens omg

You stood before the apartment door, double checking that you got the right address—yeah you definitely did. He did mention that it was a home-based studio. Your first tattoo appointment and you were so nervous because you don’t know what to expect. Hongjoong had assured you to just go with an open mind. You didn’t know much about your tattoo artist, only knowing that his name was Yunho, nonetheless, you did really like his art style, and you soon settled on him with Hongjoong’s advice.

Back to present, you pushed the doorbell, and it echoes through the apartment. There is a silence before the doorknob clicks. The door pulls back, and before you, stood a really tall male. His sharp eyes make him look very intimidating and for a moment your heart races, and you wonder if you stopped into the wrong house.

“You are?” He asks, and rumbles you even more because his voice is so fucking deep for no reason.

You manage to find the voice stuck in your throat, as you reply, “y/n, here for a 7pm tattoo appointment with Yunho?”

His face softens immediately as his eyes brighten up. “Ah right! Yunho’s client! Come in. I’ll get Yunho in a bit”. He ushers you in as you remove your shoes.

You step inside, soaking in the interior of the apartment. It was definitely a shared space—the common areas were spacious, maybe just spacious enough to serve for two people. It was a pretty clean looking, monochromatic layout.

“Oh right, my name’s Mingi. Song Mingi, but you can call me Mingi”, he introduces himself brightly, his smile contagious. “I’m his room mate.” You smile back.

“Please excuse the mess by the way”, he laughs as he leads you through the corridor, and the both of you are standing in front of a wooden door. Mingi knocks the door before saying “Hyung, I’m coming in” with a raised voice. He pushes the door handle down and the door opens. The subtle hint of lavender hits you from the humidifier and it instantly relaxes you.

On the cushioned rolling stool sat your tattoo artist, his frame is as tall as Mingi’s, messy brunette locks tussled on his head. He’s in simple black shirt but he still looks so fucking good. He’s absorbed on his iPad, still sketching out the little details of what seems to be your tattoo.

You feel your heart beat a little too quickly the moment your eyes land on him because you did not expect him to be that attractive.

And you are gonna be stuck with him for at least a couple of hours together.

Mingi raps the door again, and that’s when Yunho looks up, and you take a good look at his face. He doesn’t look like whatever you expected him to look like, well, not that you had any pictures to reference him from to begin with. But definitely, he is pretty fucking good looking. You stay rooted at the entrance of the door, mooning over your tattoo artist in a tight black shirt while he eyes you up and down with a soft smile.

“Oh right! My apologies”, Yunho finally speaks and he sounds like honey, and it suddenly makes you slightly thirsty. “Hey. I’m Yunho. We finally meet”, he greets with a hand up.

His fucking hands. Oh my fucking gods. He has a silver ring cuffing his index finger. Then he beckons you to go over to him. Mingi tilts his head to Yunho’s direction before saying that he needs to leave, giving you a small nod before shutting the door.

You have no choice but to inch closer to Yunho, who’s smiling at you like a fucking golden retriever, and you wonder to yourself ‘this dude is a fucking tattoo artist?’ Yunho beckons you to take seat on an empty stool across him as he mentions to give him a couple more minutes to finish up the design draft. You nod, even if he doesn’t see it since his attention is back on his iPad. You quietly stare at the way he makes his strokes with his Apple Pencil.

And you get a closer look at this long, slender fingers. You’ve never met anyone with such pretty hands before, yet the way he holds the pencil is so gentle, and almost attractive for some reason. It’s especially the way his fingers are veiny and long—his joints are angled in such a way it frames his fingers so fucking prettily. Yunho looks up and catches your gaze, and you flinch slightly, thinking you are caught in the act.

“Eager to see your design?” He asks playfully, a small smile tugging the corner of his lips. Oh thank fucking god.

“Yeah of course. I wonder what you came up with”, you quickly say, pretending to peek over at the iPad.

He brings up the iPad higher to his eye level and it’s the way his fingers curls around the tablet. He flips it over to you and you soak in the design he drew out for you. It’s what you wanted. You also don’t miss out how clean and neatly trimmed his fingernails are.

“Is it to your taste? Got any last minute changes you want before I print it out?” He asks, as he stands up and walks over to the printer. You shake your head slowly, trying not to swoon at how deliciously tall he is.

He beams. “Great! Then I’ll print a couple of sizes out. Take your pick okay? I’ll go grab some water for you.” You nod as he disappears out of the room through the door. The printer starts up and it begins to print out the stencil.

You look around the room. Despite it looking small, it was pretty cozy looking. The room has comfortable lighting, with lamps, which you assume are for the tattoo work. There’s a small space just behind the empty stool you’re seated on, with smaller studio lights pointing towards the wall, which you deduce is probably where he takes photos of his finished products. His tattoo machine sat near to the tattoo bed, which was cling wrapped for sanitary purposes, including the pillows. Finally, a small desktop computer set up was against the wall, perpendicular to the small studio lights, with a printer at the side. The door knocks, a short pause before it pushes open, and it’s Yunho with a drink in hand.

He walks over to you and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours and it takes you so much nerves to have any wild thoughts. You take a sip to distract yourself as you hear scissors cutting through the tracing paper. As you open your eyes, Yunho is so fucking near your face that it makes your heart jump.

“Oh gosh! Did I scare you?” Yunho laughs as he takes the cup from your hand. “My apologies.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. You just move so quietly”, you joke. Yunho smiles in reply as he places the cup on his desk.

“I need you to lift your shirt up for me”, Yunho instructs, staring at your abdomen.

Fuck, for a moment your mind plunges into some unknown territory. You forgot that your tattoo placement was above your hip. You roll the fabric up high enough, and you fucking jump when you feel Yunho’s fingertips brush against your skin, on your waist. “It’s here right? The placement that you wanted?” He confirms, his touch not leaving your skin. “Yeah”, you manage out.

He cuts a piece of tape to adhere the stencil onto your skin before bringing you over to the full length mirror right by the bed to let you confirm your placement. After a few adjustments (and hell of of him touching your waist with his bare hands which was definitely giving you insane haywire thoughts), you came to a placement which you are satisfied with. He sticks the stencil to your skin, much like a temporary tattoo, pulling out the tracing paper and letting it dry, before having you lie down in the bed as he prepared his inks.

“First tattoo?” He asks as he checks his gun.

“Yeah”, you reply, playing with your fingers from the nervousness.

Yunho chuckles. “That placement might hurt a little though. You’re a brave one.”

You only release a nervous laugh—wondering if it is for the tattoo or because of Yunho. He turns to you, tugging against his ring to remove it before snapping black latex gloves on before pushing your shirt higher. You bite you lip.

How the fuck does his hands look even better gloved? The black latex only enhances the length and shape of his hands, which curls around his tattoo gun.

“I’m gonna start now. Let me know if you need a break, yeah?” Yunho assures. You know it’s probably a customer service thing but god, why did he have to be so attentive?

He switches on the gun and it buzzes. He begins tattooing and sure enough, the placement you picked definitely hurt quite like a bitch, but you force yourself to pull through it.

“Is this okay? Does it hurt?” He asks before continuing.

“It does, but I think I’ll be fine”, you reply, thinking of something else to distract yourself from the pain. Throughout the session, Yunho makes conversations with you, making you laugh when you probably shouldn’t because he was stabbing needles at your waist but still. He was amazing at breaking the ice, especially in such a seemingly intimate space. You feel yourself unwind a little, and although it still hurt, you don’t feel so tense anymore. Nonetheless, you could not shake the thought about his hands running down your body every time you glance at Yunho doing your tattoo.

“Yeah, I don’t know why I even wanted to get a tattoo when I have a shit pain threshold”, you say in between soft giggles to cover up the pain and soreness that was starting to sink in.

“But you’re doing so well for me”, Yunho replies absentmindedly with a smile. Your head spins the moment he says that, butterflies were invading your stomach. What the fuck was that even? Now your stomach in twisting into knots when he’s praising you like that.

“We’re almost done. Hold on a little longer for me yeah?” He assures again, as you bear through the pain. It’s over quickly as he smoothes over your tattoo with a final swipe of the paper towel. He moves back a little to admire his work. He looks satisfied. He pulls his gloves off and sits you up gently, your stomach still fluttering as his fingers brush against your skin. He brings you to the full length mirror, and there you admire how gorgeous the tattoo looks.

“It looks amazing” you gasp, turning your side to have a better view of it. Yunho looks proud. He has his phone in his hand now and requests a few photos, which you obliged to of course. He adjusts your shirt before snapping a few pics.

“I really like how this turned out,” you gush. “Thank you Yunho.”

Yunho shakes his head. “Thank you for entrusting me to it, especially as your first tattoo.”

You laugh in response, and you don’t realise that he’s kneeled down at your waist, preparing to stick on the second skin. He sticks it on and instructs you on proper tattoo care before making another appointment for a touch up. You thank him and left the apartment, heart still beating in your ears.

You’ve developed a way too big of a crush on your tattoo artist now.

The touch up appointment came way too quickly than you thought. To be fair, you were still not over it, and as much as the tattoo scabbing and itch , it couldn’t compare to way Yunho’s hands kept brushing against your waist, as he checks on your tattoo. But in the past month, all you think about was Yunho and his fucking hands. Even now, when he’s only taking a look at your healed tattoo, your mind in swimming in the most dirtiest places you wanted him to touch.

You shut your eyes and bite your lip so no weird sound comes out from your mouth. You feel Yunho’s breath right at your waist as it tickles your skin, a soft sigh escapes your lips as your tattoo artist continues to rub against the tattoo.

And it doesn’t go unnoticed by Yunho.

He could very easily just tug your pants down and you would let him because fuck, he’s all you can think about now. Yunho stands up, and definitely notices how flushed your skin is looking, and he decides to test waters. He traps you at the tattoo bed, and you hear your heart in your ears as he inches closer. Now he’s pretty much towering over you as his fingers are tracing against your waist, sending goosebumps down your skin. “Your tattoo healed so nicely”, he says, hooking his index finger and thumb to your chin so you’d meet his gaze. Your gaze travels down to his pretty lips and he takes it as a sign to cup your neck and pull you in for a starved kiss, sending your mind into a fucking frenzy, and fireworks to go off in your eyelids. He tastes even better than you thought. Your eyes flutter open as he pulls back, catching your breath.

“Won’t Mingi hear?” You ask. He shakes his head. “Not anytime soon, doll.” His little pet name making you flush even harder, and it all goes down to your pussy, which is getting wet enough already, no thanks to your little fantasies and the fucking kiss.

“Now, stop thinking about him when I’m here.”

His hands touch your waist again, as he lifts you onto the tattoo bed, the plastic crinkling beneath you. You watch him breathlessly as he tugs against your bottoms, and your clothing articles drop to your ankles. Yunho doesn’t let them touch the ground, instead, he folds it hastily onto the other side of the bed, before turning his attention back to you, or your wet and sopping pussy.

Yunho licks his lips, before stroking your thighs to coax you to spread your legs open, and you do, your eyes following the way his fingers are stroking your thigh, alongside the ticklish feeling it was sending straight to your cunt.

“Such a pretty pussy, doll”, he compliments, his fingers trailing down your slicked cunt, before stopping right at your hole. He hears your little whimpers and cries, and it goes right to his hardened cock that’s pushing against his pants. But he knows being patient reaps the best rewards. He can be patient for you. Yunho’s fingers slowly plunge into your cunt, and your back arches in pleasure, because oh my fucking god, his fingers are long enough to hit a spongy area and it was sending fucking stars beneath your eyelids. Shivers tickle your spine as Yunho’s lips land soft kisses against your skin on your neck. His finger fucking was sending you into the heavens.

A kiss on your cheeks makes your eyes flutter open, and you meet Yunho’s gaze.

“I’ve noticed”, he sighs, slowing down his finger fucking in you. “That you seem really entranced by my hands since our first session.” Then he plunges his fingers in again, another cry leaving your lips as your eyes roll back.

Fuck. He found out.

“You have such pretty hands”, you admit, hiding your face with your arms, wondering what was more embarrassing—the fact that he found out about your fixation with his hands, or that he’s fucking your cunt with said fingers.

“So I should make really good use of it, right?” Yunho chuckles, adoring the way you’re squirming under his touch. He pulls your hands off your face and holds them down, and oh god, he was truly trying to drive you insane. He picks up the pace and every time his fingers press against your g-spot, your moans only grew louder and more desperate, and Yunho is progressively losing his rationale. He wants to fuck you so bad right now, and the thought of him railing you on his workspace only heightened his arousal, because he has never done that before.

Your orgasm only builds up even more quickly when he thumbs your clit after releasing your hands. Your hands are clawing his arms.

“Yunho, please. Oh god. That feels so fucking good. Gonna cum.”, you cry, lifting your legs higher, and that only encourages Yunho to pick up the pace, and the words that leave his lips-“cum on my fingers baby. You know you want to”- and a whimper escapes his lips the moment he feels your walls clench against his fingers, as moans pours out of you when your orgasm floods your senses. Yunho lets you ride your orgasm out, slowly pushing his fingers in and out again, enjoying your cunt squeezing his fingers. He pulls out slowly and you barely catch your breath, as your gaze meet his. His fingers are full of your slick and cream, and plasters it on his lips, giving them a lick before sucking this pretty fingers, covered in your arousal, fucking clean. That does nothing but throw your head into a frenzy, and your cunt clenches at nothing, as you struggle to keep your composure.

But now Yunho is the one starting to lose it, as he haphazardly wipes his fingers on his slacks before hastily pulling his pants down, his cock springing out, glimmering with precum already, very evident thanks to the studio lights. God fuck, as if his hands weren’t pretty enough, his dick is too. Yunho bites his lip, staring at how fucked out you looked, especially since he hasn’t even fucked you good yet. He pushes your knees to bend even more, before lining his cockhead to your hole before sinking his cock right into you. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open at this point. Your cunt feels slightly sore, and your walls are hugging his cock so well that Yunho is fighting not to just fuck you senseless. Yunho groans at the sensation, but he leans in for another hungry kiss with you, before his hand snakes around your neck.

He pulls back. “I’m sorry. I really need to fuck you so bad right now. Fuck.” You can’t help but find that so endearing that he’s holding back. Your fingers tug your folds open more, letting him sink his cock further deeper into your heat, which makes him squeeze your throat. It feels so fucking amazing to have Yunho choke you out like this, and you make it even more evident by clenching around his cock.

He doesn’t hesitate this time, and starts fucking you so deep and good, that you fucking swear you see a bulge below your belly button every time his cock hits your cervix. The sensation of Yunho’s cock stuffing you full every time he thrusts into you paired with his hands around your neck—softly squeezing and letting go—is only pushing your second orgasm to hit you.

“I would have never guessed that you’d get off my hands this much”, Yunho hums, looking at the way your eyes are rolled back as his balls slap your ass every time he fucks into you, your hands grabbing onto his arm, clawing again from the bliss he’s fucking you into. “Do you like them that much?”

You fight every nerve to focus on answering him, eyebrows scrunched. “Y-yeah. Fuck, I fantasise you choking me out like this since that day. I dream about letting you do whatever you want to me with your han-“ getting cut off from a sob as his cock fills you up again—or did he just grow even bigger in you? Ah, fuck, it doesn’t matter.

“Naughty girl”, Yunho mutters with a smirk, his free hand slapping against your ass, the sound rippling through the room, making you arch your back even more.

“Yunho, p-please’, you stutter, the knot in your stomach so taut. “I think I’m gonna cum again”. Now you’re sobbing. This only encourages Yunho to tighten his grip around your neck as his strokes become harder, and you snap—broken sobs leaving your throat as your cunt fucking squeezes Yunho’s cock, the sensation of his hands around your neck only amplifies your orgasm as stars burst in your eyelids, and you cream so fucking much, that it gets onto the cling wrapped bed below you. Yunho immediately loses it, his thrusts becoming straight up ruts. He releases his grip from your neck, and the oxygen returns immediately, leaving your heaving. Yunho is leaning into your ear, as his both hands are now on your waist as he fucks desperately into your overstimulated cunt.

“You’re so fucking adorable, y/n. I’m cumming too”, he grunts, as he ruts a final time before a soft moan hits your ears, then a flood of his warm cum right into your spent pussy, and oh god, did that feel amazing. Yunho stays by your side for a moment, before straightening his back, and pulling out, not missing a beat at the way his cum just trickles down your inner thigh, out of your hole.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry. This is your work space and all”, you panic, taking a handful of tissues that Yunho had offered to clean yourself up. Evidently, that doesn’t get to him because Yunho immediately rushes over the moment he notices the red marks around your neck.

“Shit, did I choke you too hard?” He asks rather frantically, lifting your chin up, rubbing against your neck gently. You shake your head, suddenly wanting to just kiss him again, but you hold yourself back. “Also, don’t worry about this. My next appointment isn’t until 4pm. I have time to clean up. You alright though?”

Fuck, why did he have to be hot and gentle? It was genuinely driving you nuts. “Is it okay if I use the toilet?” You ask, fitting your clothes on. Yunho immediately nods, rushing to the door to leave it open for you, as you gingerly head to the washroom.

You sigh as you leave the washroom, wondering if it was about to simply be a one time thing, because you were falling for your tattoo artist, hard and fast. Your gaze meets Yunho’s the moment you shut the door behind you, and Yunho has cleaning supplies in his hands. Suddenly your face flushes again, thinking at the mess the both you made.

Yunho’s smile doesn’t falter though, and you see a tint of red colouring the tips of his ears, which you could have definitely missed if you hadn’t noticed closely. There’s a strange air of silence between the both of you, that is, until Yunho speaks.

“My 4pm client is my last one for the day. I’ll text you when I’m done, if you’re down for dinner?” He asks, rubbing the nape of his neck shyly. Oh my fucking god. You laugh softly, because, holy shit, you never expected this outcome, and then you nod. “I’ll be waiting, Yunho”, you reply.

Yunho steps forward to you and strokes your head. “I’ll see you to the door then. And then I’ll see you tonight.”

[librababe99]

The Wolverine's Heart

❥・CW: Old Man Logan, Female Reader, age gap, mentions of violence and past trauma, emotional vulnerability, sexual content, body worship  ❥・Word Count: 1649

Summary: Tonight you wanted to show Logan just how loved and cherished he is....

(Masterlist)

The small cabin, nestled deep within the wilderness, was far removed from the chaos of the world. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the steady rhythm of nature was the only sound that filled the air. The tall pines, their needles whispering secrets to the wind, surrounded the cabin like silent sentinels, guarding its solitude. Inside, the warmth from the crackling fire cast long shadows on the walls, dancing with a life of their own.

Logan sat in his worn leather chair, nursing a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the glass as he absently rolled it between his fingers, his mind a thousand miles away. The years had not been kind to him, and the burden of a life lived too long and too hard weighed heavily on his shoulders. His once rugged, indestructible frame now bore the marks of time—scars that never fully healed, a limp that never quite disappeared, and the ever-present ache in his bones.

But there was one thing that had kept him grounded in the face of it all—you. You had come into his life like a breath of fresh air, a balm for his soul. Despite the years that separated you, despite the scars that marred his body and the ghosts that haunted his past, you had seen something in him worth loving. And that love, gentle yet fierce, had slowly worked its way into the cracks of his heart, filling the empty spaces he thought would remain forever hollow.

You watched him from the doorway, the flickering firelight casting a soft glow on his weathered face. His eyes, though hardened by years of battle, held a depth of emotion that never failed to take your breath away. You had always admired the strength in him, the unyielding determination that kept him going even when the world seemed intent on breaking him. But tonight, as you stood there, you felt an overwhelming need to show him just how much he meant to you, to worship every part of him that he so often dismissed as damaged or broken.

“Logan,” you called softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up at you, his expression softening as his gaze met yours. “Yeah, darlin’?”

You crossed the room to where he sat, placing your hand on his shoulder. The heat from his skin seeped into your palm, grounding you in the moment. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

His brow furrowed slightly, a mixture of confusion and hesitation crossing his features. “You don’t have to do that, kid. I’m fine.”

You knelt beside him, your hands resting on his knees as you looked up at him with a determination that matched his own. “I know I don’t have to, Lo. But I want to. You’ve done so much for me, and I want to give you something in return. Please, let me do this.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as if looking for something he couldn’t quite name. Finally, he gave a slow nod, his rough exterior cracking just enough to let you in.

You rose to your feet and gently took the glass from his hand, setting it on the table beside him. Then, with a tenderness that belied the fire burning within you, you began to undress him. His flannel shirt, worn and frayed at the edges, slipped from his shoulders, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, marred with countless scars. Each mark told a story—of battles fought, of losses endured, of a life that had been anything but easy.

Your fingers traced the lines of his scars, your touch light as a feather. “Every one of these is a reminder of how strong you are,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’ve survived so much…You’ve lived through things that would have broken anyone else. But you’re still here, and I’m so grateful for that.”

He didn’t respond, but the way his breath hitched told you he was listening. You continued to undress him, your movements slow and deliberate, as if each piece of clothing you removed was a layer of armor he no longer needed to carry with you.

When he was finally bare before you, you took a step back to drink in the sight of him. His body, though weathered by time and hardship, was still a masterpiece in your eyes. The strength in his muscles, the resilience in his bones, the raw masculinity that seemed to emanate from him—all of it was beautiful to you.

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “You’re beautiful, Logan,” you murmured against his skin. “Every part of you.”

A low rumble resonated deep in his chest, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your head as he pulled you closer. His touch was firm, but there was a gentleness in the way he held you that made your heart ache.

“You don’t have to say that,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut him off, your lips brushing against his skin as you spoke. “I want you to know how much I love you, how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’ve given me so much, Lo Let me give you something back.”

You began to trail kisses across his chest, your lips worshiping every inch of him. You kissed each scar, each mark, each place where life had tried to break him and failed. And with each kiss, you felt him relax a little more, the tension slowly leaving his body as he allowed himself to be vulnerable with you.

Your hands roamed over his body, exploring the hard planes of his muscles, the rough texture of his skin. You marveled at the way his body responded to your touch, the way his breath hitched when your fingers brushed against a particularly sensitive spot. He was a man of few words, but his body spoke volumes, telling you everything you needed to know.

When you reached his abdomen, you paused for a moment, taking in the sight of him. His stomach, once taut and defined, now bore the softness that came with age. But to you, it was just another part of him to love, another part of him that made him who he was.

You pressed a kiss to his navel, your lips lingering there as you whispered, “You’re perfect to me, Logan. Every part of you is perfect.”

A low growl escaped him, and you felt his hand tighten in your hair. But it wasn’t a sound of anger or frustration—it was a sound of need, of desire, of a man who was slowly allowing himself to be loved in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

You continued your journey downward, your lips and hands worshiping every part of him as if he were something sacred. And to you, he was. He was your protector, your confidant, your lover. He was the man who had seen you at your worst and loved you anyway, the man who had stood by you through everything, even when he had every reason to walk away.

As you reached his thighs, you took a moment to admire the strength in them, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed under your touch. You kissed the scars that marred his legs, the ones that told stories of battles fought and won. And then, with a reverence that took your breath away, you moved further, pressing a kiss to the most intimate part of him.

He let out a sharp breath, his hand still tangled in your hair as he fought to keep control. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not tonight. Tonight was about him, about showing him just how much he meant to you, about worshiping every part of him until he understood that he was worthy of love, that he was worthy of your love.

You took him into your mouth with a tenderness that belied the fire burning within you, your tongue tracing the contours of him. His taste was heady, intoxicating, and you reveled in the sounds he made as you pleasured him. The low growls, the sharp intakes of breath, the way his body tensed and relaxed under your touch—it was all a symphony to you, a symphony that played just for you.

You took your time, savoring each moment, each sensation. You could feel him trembling beneath you, could feel the way he was slowly losing the battle for control. But that was what you wanted. You wanted him to let go, to give in to the pleasure, to allow himself to be loved in the way he deserved.

And when he finally did, when he finally let go and allowed himself to be vulnerable with you, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He came undone in your hands, his body shuddering with the force of his release, and you held him through it all, your touch gentle and loving as you brought him back down to earth.

When it was over, when the last tremors had subsided, you pulled him into your arms, holding him close as you whispered words of love and reassurance into his ear. He clung to you, his body still trembling slightly, and you could feel the way his heart pounded against his ribcage, could feel the way his breath came in shallow gasps.

But more than that, you could feel the way he had finally let down his walls, the way he had finally allowed himself to be loved without reservation, without fear. And in that moment, you knew that this was just the beginning.

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed! While this is technically a standalone fic, I do have a 2.7K story thats completely done (its smut 🤭 and definitely dives into some new territory for me compared to other work I've posted) so you could look at it as a continuation of this little "universe." I'm curious if y'all would want that later tonight or maybe tomorrow? I don't want to release anything to quickly😭 - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): foul language, suggestive themes, brief non-consensual grab (non-graphic)

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Part One of Ink & Needle

Inside the club Riot Room, you meet a masked stranger.

Chapter Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

The puddle in the caved pavement ripples as a raindrop shatters its silent surface. Small, but growing larger and wider until the water is still again. Another raindrop falls from the sky and the process is repeated.

A beginning. An end. A beginning. An end. A—

Fresh start.

New roots.

The brick that starts the riot.

All things have a beginning. This moment is no different, because it feels like the start of something, and for so many fucking reasons.

And it’s not just the water. It isn’t only the water. There is a neon sign, and its reflection is in that tiny pool. A bright pink that is at odds with the old London architecture surrounding it. Maybe the color is melting, or maybe it’s your imagination, and your brain has finally kicked off and this is its farewell salute.

Why, when you are here for someone else’s beginning, does it really feel like yours? It’s not sour or sweet or foul or sticky but heavy as if your boots are filled with liquid cement.

This is supposed to be Evie’s night. This is her bar crawl. This is her marriage. This is her bachelorette party. But now you’re at the last place of the evening, and everything is suddenly barring down like an avalanche.

Riot Room blares the pink neon sign. It’s loud, and the very edges of your consciousness ache from how bright it is. You’re not even standing that close.

Below the sign is an archway with an open gate. A tall man in all-black stands off to the side of it checking IDs and handing out wristbands. From the open gate comes a pounding, shredding beat that you’re not sure is heavy metal, electronic, or a combination of the two.

Riot Room is completely different from the other places you’ve visited tonight. The four places before this were all quaint pubs with odd names and a nostalgic sense of comfort. Riot Room is a club. There is nothing quaint or nostalgic about it.

Two scantily clad women in black leather wearing large coats trot by, their heads bent close as they talk to each other. Their lips are painted a dark purple that resembles bruising as if they’ve been kissed roughly.

To your right, Sam’s gaze drops to span the length of one of the women. She looks on in appreciation, her pink-painted lips pursing with interest. Her dark skin is speckled with gold dust and her tight curls are bundled up on the top of her head in two big buns.

Sam’s gaze draws away from the woman’s bare legs. Her gaze falls on you, and you grin widely, knowing she’s been caught. The corner of her mouth quirks with a hint of smile.

She leans in until your shoulders touch. “It’s not like you weren’t looking.”

You lean in a bit more until your noses are close to brushing. “But I wasn’t the one who got caught.”

Sam laughs and pulls away, the sound of it bright and airy. She waves her hand as if trying to ward off evil.

Once she’s caught her breath, Sam leans around you, addressing the two women standing to your left. “Ready, ladies?”

Jade tilts her head, her blue ponytail shifting to fall over her right shoulder. She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “Did you pick this place, Sam? Seems like a ‘you’ kind of place.”

Sam nods toward Evie with one of her buns. “The bride-to-be agreed to this.”

You and Jade turn in unison. Evie shrugs. “I did.”

Jade snorts and holds out an outstretched hand toward the club. “You hate these kinds of places.”

“Oh my god,” mutters Sam throwing her arms up in the air, her gold bangles clacking against each other.

Evie laughs softly, and the sound is sweet enough to rot your teeth. That’s the thing about Evelyn Green. She is the nicest, most kind-hearted, selfless person you’ll ever meet. Rarely does this woman do anything for herself, and putting this evening together for her was a struggle. Not because she’s difficult, but because she wanted tonight to be about everyone, not just herself.

Evie’s button-nose scrunches slightly. “I told Sam I wanted to come. When am I ever going to go to a place like this after I marry Archie?”

Jade’s lips form into a thin line and she shakes her head. “Archie is the most un-pretentious rich boy I’ve ever met in my life. He’d love you even if you were a plastic bag. And he hates all those events the two of you go to anyway.”

“Yes,” agrees Evie. “But he’s required to go, and once we’re married, I will have to attend as well.” Her face falls slightly, and it’s understandable.

Evie’s fiancée comes from wealth—the old money kind. Archie’s great grandfather is of British nobility, and while Archie isn’t titled, that doesn’t really seem to matter. He is well-educated, and many of his closest friends and colleagues all run in the same circles.

Evie is not from that life. She grew up a poor coal miner’s daughter in southern Missouri. She managed to scrounge up enough money to move to Columbia to attend Mizzou and met Archie during an exchange program. She was in a park, and Archie was playing soccer with friends. Knocked her in the side of the head with the ball. Archie sat with her in the ambulance and the two went on a date the next day.

They’re in love, and it’s a gorgeous, beautiful thing. But not all of Archie’s family is supportive of their marriage. Many look down on her for her background. Evie acts like it doesn’t bother her, but you know different. Those events they attend together cut deep, tear into her until there is nothing left but her forced smile.

Jade sighs loudly and then turns toward Sam, pointing at her. “If I find out you forced her—”

Sam groans and then grabs Jade’s outstretched forearm, tucking Jade against her side as the two of them walk arm-in-arm towards the club. “Oh shove it, Jade,” mutters Sam.

Evie giggles and holds out her hand to you, wiggling her fingers. Grinning, you entwine your fingers with Evie’s and follow the bickering duo.

They argue all the way to the door. IDs are checked. Wristbands are handed out. A cover is paid. And then you’re walking through the gate, under the archway, and into an open courtyard.

That heaviness returns, and your boots feel like lead. Something about this place is different from the rest, and you cannot put a finger on what you’re sensing. It’s a change in the direction of the wind. It’s a falling autumn leaf. There is a shift happening, and you’re not aware of where it might come from.

The night sky is directly above your head, and you can see every star in the sky. To your immediate right—just inside the gate—is a coat check. Next to it is a stage where a man in a Jason Voorhees mask stands behind a DJ booth. He is shirtless, well-muscled, and covered in fake blood. Though both feet are on the ground, the rest of his body shakes and writhes with the intensity of the music. The bass is the loudest aspect, rattling around in your body until you start to feel dizzy.

On stage with DJ Voorhees are several other masked men. They too wear hockey masks, but they are all painted a different color. They don’t wear shirts either and they jump around on the stage, pushing and shoving each other, occasionally dropping down into the crowd to do the same before running to the stage.

The crowd is thick but mostly near the front of the stage. Beyond them on the far side of the courtyard is the bar. It’s long, spanning nearly the entire wall, with several bartenders and barbacks working along it. Next to the bar near the stage is a set of stairs that leads up into a building. People enter and exit through the door. There are windows but they’re entirely blacked out and you have no idea what might be back there.

You scan the length of the bar and find another set of stairs on the other end. This one descends and next to it is another gate—this one much smaller than the entrance—guarded by security. The back wall of the courtyard—the one facing the stage—is lined with people, but there is walking space between them and the crowd near the stage.

Evie’s smile widens, and you suddenly don’t care anymore. This is for her, even if you feel uneasy. Her happiness is the most important thing right now.

“I’m grabbing us drinks,” yells Sam over the music. She gestures with her thumb over her shoulder before she heads that way.

Evie steps a bit closer to you. She’s nervous but eager as she squeezes your hand.

One of the masked men jumps off the stage and into the crowd. They all yell and then he pops up, throwing himself in people’s faces. You instinctually step forward to block Evie as he darts around a club-goer and appears directly in front of you.

“Fuck off,” you yell when he pushes himself into your face. All you see is the purple-painted hockey mask and he won’t fucking move. He just stands there like an ill omen that won’t allow you to look away.

You’re about to speak, your lips and tongue forming the shape of what you want to say. Then, he disappears, as if knowing your intention.

Jade snags your upper arm and leans in, her gaze fixed on the point the guy slipped away to. “I’ll stay with Evie. Go check on Sam. Make sure she isn’t just buying us tequila shots.”

Evie reluctantly gives up your hand as you navigate the congested dancefloor. You have to twist your upper body to avoid collisions. Just through the crowd, you can just make out Sam’s buns. A man steps into your path. He isn’t looking—likely too drunk to even notice that you’re right behind him—and you step out of the way to avoid is wayward swagger.

But there are too many goddamn people, and you can’t avoid them all. Instead of him, you bump into someone else.

“Shit. Sorry. I—” You glance up. “Oh fuck.”

A wraith stands before you, all cold shadow and violent foreboding. Dark eyes surrounded by pale eyelashes observe you from behind a black balaclava. Around the mouth are skeleton teeth but they’re a tad faded which only adds to the ominous presence of this strange man. He is tall, and you have to bend your neck to see directly into his face, and that doesn’t even take into account how broad his shoulders are.

Space is non-existent. The only thing you understand about your surroundings is him. This man is a being out of hell, a creature of fire and blood, and yet you’re drawn to him. You are a pale moth, a gentle creature, and he is the pyre in which you will burn.

He takes hold of your upper arm, and his grip is strong. His strength is both a threat and a comfort. He could snap you in two, but it’s placement and how firmly he holds on to you tells you otherwise. This man is dangerous, and yet through the hardness is a softness in the brow that you recognize as concern. His dark eyes narrow, and as he pulls you closer to him, he leans in before his gaze moves to a stop over your right shoulder.

“You okay?”

It isn’t the wraith gripping your upper arm who’s addressing you. You glance over your left shoulder and meet a softer expression. Black hair cut short, tanned skin, and kind eyes. This man is completely different from the one that still holds onto your arm.

“Fine,” you murmur but realize he can’t hear you over the music. “I’m fine.” This time you project, and he nods.

“Gaz!” He turns away, and a different man holds out a plastic cup full of beer to him.

Gaz takes it and then this newcomer turns in your direction. You want to leave, to walk away, but that’s difficult when your upper arm is still in a vice grip. You shake it, trying to throw the stranger’s grasp, and make no ground. His hand stays put.

“Who’s this?” asks the newcomer, and you recognize the accent as a Scottish one.

“Some wanker ran into her. Knocked her right into Ghost.”

“Fucking hell. You good, Lt?”

Ghost doesn’t say anything, or if he does, you don’t hear him over the music. Shaking your arm again, you attempt to free yourself for a second time. Ghost still doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs you a little closer until you feel his body heat.

You hate being told what to do, and you especially hate men who cannot take a fucking hint. You try again, ready to smack the balaclava right off Ghost’s face if he doesn’t release you. But he does, and his grip is gone so suddenly that you nearly topple backward.

Acting bolder than you feel, you give Ghost your best scowl before turning toward Gaz, your mouth forming into a smile. “Thank you,” you say, excusing yourself quickly and heading toward the bar.

“What kind of a name is Ghost?” you mutter to yourself just as Sam turns around from the bar. She cradles six drinks in her arms like a newborn baby.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You reach for them, grabbing one before it tips over to spill across the floor.

“Jade sent you, didn’t she?” laughs Sam, handing you another plastic cup. “Can’t trust me after that tequila incident.”

“No comment,” you answer, making sure the drinks you’re holding are secure and won’t slip out of your grasp.

When you return to Jade and Evie, the two women have their arms wrapped around each other, swaying in a little circle, giggling hysterically. The moment you and Sam appear, Evie is pulling away from Jade, reaching for the gin and tonic you hold out to her. When the drinks are distributed, Sam and Jade have one in each hand while you and Evie only hold one.

Before this, the four of you visited four different pubs, and had plenty of drinks at each establishment. While it’s nearing the end of the night, there isn’t any reason for you to go overboard. Slowing down might be best, especially if Sam and Jade are going to double-fist drinks the rest of the night. Tomorrow—technically today at this hour—is supposed to be a spa day with some of the women from Archie’s family. Hungover is the last think you want to be while dealing with them.

As your lips suction around the head of the straw, you feel a pull, a tug toward the back wall of the courtyard. You resist the urge, refuse to look because you know who you’ll find. Instead, you suck on the straw, focus on the bite of the gin, sway your hips until the pounding beat is all you know in your veins.

But the pull won’t release. It won’t slacken. And the more and more you resist, the more it aches to not look, because no matter how startling his appearance is, it intrigues you, makes you think about how long it’s been and how you wish to be touched.

Would he keep the balaclava on? Would he take it off? And why does that intrigue you?

You start to turn, to surrender to the tug, and then snap back to reality, nearly knocking into Jade as you force yourself away from looking. The drink in your plastic cup sloshes harshly against the side but doesn’t spill over.

Evie leans in, her lips close to your ear, and she nods in the direction of the tug. “That guy won’t stop staring at you.”

“Who?” you ask innocently, knowing exactly who Evie is referring to.

“Mystery masked man.” Evie grins, her straw caught between her upper and lower teeth.

This time you look. There he is. Ghost, as his friends called him. He leans against the wall, the same small group of people surrounding him from earlier. They’re all talking, but Ghost is staring in your direction, and his gaze is locked in on you.

You quickly glance away and shrug even as a dull heat warms your limbs. “Looks like trouble.”

“Looks like a good time if you ask me.”

“Evie,” you gasp, bumping her shoulder.

“What?” she laughs, sucking up the last bit of her drink.

Jade goes up on her toes, her head swiveling back and forth. “Who are we looking at?”

Sam catches on and twists, glancing in the same direction. She’s successful first. “Oh my god.” Sam leans in until her cheek is pressed against your own. “That man is staring at you.”

“I know!” You pull back a bit, but Sam doesn’t let you go far.

She bumps your shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

“And say what?”

“Hello. Have anyone waiting on you? No? Great. Let’s get out of here. You can even keep the mask on.”

You roll your eyes. “No. I’m not doing that.” You reach out and snag Evie’s arm. “And it’s her night. Why would I leave y’all for a hook-up?”

Sam finishes one of her drinks. She removes the straw and pops it into the other cup, doubling it up by putting the full plastic cup into the empty one. “Listen, if you won’t. I will. The guy next to him with the dark hair is an absolute snack. Even the older guy with the weird mustache is making my daddy issues purr.”

Jade’s eyes widen slightly. She nods enthusiastically. “Oh he is quite nice.”

“Right? Girl. I could take him and not in a fight.”

“Fine!” you exclaim. “I’ll go talk to him.” You turn toward Evie. “If you’re okay with it?”

Evie grins around her straw. You know what it means. Evie wants you to go because she wants to see everyone happy, but you wouldn’t call yourself excited. That heavy feeling is back, the one that feels like a new beginning.

The issue is that fresh starts are a cleansing. They are often a renewal. You think of cold water, of a slate wiped clean, but there are other markers for such things. Fire destroys but it also creates the opportunity for new life. Controlled burnings are a thing, and this man—this Ghost—can only be fire.

“I need a refill anyway,” you mutter, turning toward the bar, some of your confidence slipping.

You take a deep breath, the alcohol in your blood singing, giving you a feeling of lightness that makes your feet move of their own accord even as they want to drag. It is confounding. You don’t know what you want.

Slowly, you navigate through the crowd, moving ever closer to your wraith. He watches you the entire time. As you draw nearer, and your gazes lock, he straightens. Ghost pushes off from the wall like he’s expecting you to come to him. You notice the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his right hand clenches and unclenches in anticipation.

The gesture is so surprising, you lose all your nerve, walking right past him and to the bar. You don’t have to see him to know that he’s watching. His gaze is a drill, and you sense the bite of it at your back. Your palms are sweaty, and you discard your empty drink in the nearest trash bin.

You order another gin and tonic, handing over a crumpled pound note to the bartender. As you turn around, you notice that Ghost is gone. He isn’t leaning against the wall or even lingering with his friends. They’re still there, chatting away, but Ghost is missing.

Your heartrate kicks up and it’s suddenly so loud you don’t hear the thunderous pulsing beat of the music. It’s like you’re standing in a dark train tunnel, and everything is narrowing down to a single point. The crowd near the bar has grown in the last few minutes. People walk up and down the stairs next to the bar, and now that you’re actually focused on the building, you can some of the interior lights.

Evie, Sam, and Jade are out of sight, but you know they’re probably rolling their eyes, ready to question you about why you didn’t approach him. Better to accept your defeat and move on. Yes, there is a tug, a tether attached to this stranger that you cannot seem to shed, but you don’t know this person. There is no harm in not pushing this further, in moving on, and pretending you never met him in the first place.

“Whatever,” you mutter to yourself, as the roar of the music comes rushing back.

As you squeeze between two people, one of the mask-wearing men from the stage appears from nowhere. It’s the same guy from earlier. The one with the purple hockey mask who threw himself at you and Evie. You step back and bump into someone. That momentum only pushes you closer to him.

Purple-mask cages you in, lunges repeatedly like he’s going to grab you or hit you. It’s intimidating. Awful. You want to tell him to leave you alone, but the music is so loud you’d have to scream.

You step to the left to try and move around him, but he only puts himself back in your path. This time, you form the shape of a bite, ready to sting with your words, but all conscious thought leaves you the moment his hand makes contact.

He does touch. And it is not gentle.

He tugs on your jacket, then your top, then your jacket again. You bat is hand away, try to move out of range, but he is so much faster. His arm goes around you, and then he drags you in like you asked to dance.

“Let go!” You yank your arm free, but the guy still holds firm, guiding you deeper into the crowd.

Everything is hot. Tight. Overwhelming. Stealing all breath.

You pull again. “Let go!”

This time he does. This time, he disappears.

Ghost looms like a dark shadow, his hand around the guy’s neck. His palm is large to the point that Ghost’s hand easily encases the man’s throat.

“Touching a woman without her consent isn’t polite. In fact, I’ve killed men over less. How about you apologize to her, yeah?”

It’s the first time you’ve heard Ghost speak. Even over the music, you easily hear the rough, gruff timbre of his voice. It’s harsh like liquor and yet entirely smooth when it washes over your body and floods your senses.

Ghost drops the guy and he immediately bolts, darting through the crowd and pushing people out of his way. Ghost does not run after him.

Instead, he turns toward you and lowers himself enough to get close. All you see are his eyes which at first seemed dark, but now look like how light shines through a whiskey bottle.

“Did he hurt you?” The concern in his voice is genuine, and somehow that pleases you. There is a small trace of anger, but it’s fleeting, and not worthy of attention. Ghost isn’t worried about your purple-masked assailant. He’s worried about you.

You shake your head. “No.” Lick your lips. Breathe deep. “No. I’m fine.”

His pale eyelashes look like little halos. Is the hair on his head the same? Is it darker?

“You sure?” he asks, this time starting to straighten a bit.

“Yes. I just—I need some air.”

Ghost nods. “Come with me.” His hand gently rests against your elbow, and you accept it. This touch is not a threat, and you surrender to him, allowing him to lead you away from the crowd. They part easily as if on instinct. Maybe Ghost is truly that intimidating.

Ghost leads you to the far edge of the bar near the secondary set of stairs. He does not escort you down the stairs but to the other archway you noticed earlier. The security guard nods at the two of you and then you step down onto damp pavement in a little alleyway.

Your rescuer immediately pulls out a pack of smokes from the inside of his leather jacket. He selects one and then holds the pack out to you. You reach for one. It’s a reflex. You tend to smoke when you drink because it prevents you from drinking more than you need, but sometimes all you do is chain smoke and then you can’t talk the next day. It’s a terrible habit but one you haven’t been able to kick.

“Thank you,” you murmur once your cigarette is lit. He simply nods and pushes up his balaclava to suck on his own.

You try not to stare but you catch the faint hint of a long scar along the edge of his jaw. Beneath that, his entire neck is a solid black tattoo. You’ve seen them before, where people blackout parts of their body in ink. His stretches across the muscles in his neck, and when he inhales, you take note of every ripple of muscle. The strength there is astounding.

Glancing away quickly, pretending you weren’t admiring him, you clear your throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Ghost cannot be his name. There’s no way.

He exhales, the smoke drifting up into the air. “That important to you?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you for a moment. “Ghost.”

Fuck. Why’d you think he’d say anything different from a man wearing a balaclava out in public. It’s not his real name. That’s obvious, but you’re not sure if you want to push the matter. Yet it does make you wonder why he didn’t give you his real name.

You decide not to push it, giving him your name instead. As he exhales, the smoke fans upward to crown his head like a pair of horns before twisting off into the night sky.

“Why’d you scowl at me?” he asks, ashing his cigarette.

You run your tongue over your front teeth before speaking the lie. “I didn’t scowl.”

“But you were angry,” says Ghost, pointing his cigarette in your direction before he takes a drag.

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you counter, growing annoyed with this line of questioning.

“Someone knocked you down. You didn’t speak or look at me. And I’m the one you ran into. I was concerned.”

“For a complete stranger?”

“I’m a compassionate person.”

You sigh and roll your eyes. “And yet you threatened to kill the man who touched me.”

Ghost points toward the gate, emphasizing each word with a light thrust of his hand. “The threat was deserved.”

I’ve killed men over less.

His words rattle around in your head. What normal person says something like that? The fact that he said it without fear makes you question what line of work he’s in.

Ghost drops his arm and takes another drag on his cigarette.

You should be afraid. You should walk back inside to your friends. That’s the safe thing to do. It’s the smart thing. But you’re feeling a bit bold—and a little annoyed. You want to know where this goes or if it’ll lead nowhere at all.

Straightening your shoulders, you drop your cigarette and put it out with the toe of your boot. “My friends think I should fuck you.”

It’s out of your mouth before you have the chance to think twice. Ghost’s hand pauses halfway to his mouth.

His head tilts slightly, and then turns in your direction. “What?”

You hate repeating yourself, but you’ve already said the words. You cannot take them back.

“My friends noticed you staring at me. Told me to talk to you. If I didn’t, one of them would have.”

Ghost fully shifts in your direction. He takes one step toward you. Another. There is a dark swagger there, and he’s trying desperately not to smile.

“You want to have it off?”

Yes.

“Thanks for the offer but I really should leave.” You start to step backward as if to return to the club.

Ghost must realize this because he moves like a bullet, blocking your path, planting one hand against the brick wall behind you. Your gaze falls on his hand and you notice all the tattoos. They cover his fingers and the back of his hand, disappearing under the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

“You’re taking the piss.” Ghost is smiling now but it’s not nefarious or cruel. He’s politely amused, and that is somehow worse. He leans in until you can smell the rich scent of his cologne. “You want to fuck or not?”

You swallow, desperately wanting to say yes. “I have to stay here. Can’t leave my friends.”

Ghost shakes his head and lowers his voice. “We don’t need to leave.”

The thick lust in his tone worms its way into your bones. From there, it oozes from the marrow, sinking into your blood and nerves, consuming every piece of you until your autonomy is nearly snatched from your control.

“You’re being awfully bold,” you murmur.

“You suggested it. I’m simply finishing it.”

“Don’t play games.”

“I’m not.” Ghost straightens a bit. “But I don’t want to unless you’re willing.”

He is sensing you hesitation, and it’s not that you don’t want to. It’s that you’re making excuses because that’s what you do. You step around things, shimmy by issues, and try to avoid as much as you can.

You cross your arms and pop a hip. “I am willing. But I don’t believe you when you say we don’t have to leave.”

He smirks. “So I can’t bend you over that box?” Ghost nods his head at a point behind you but you don’t even look.

“Very funny,” you deadpan.

Ghost straightens his back and his hand falls away from the wall. “This place has an underground area. Mostly employee only but there are a few back rooms where the…musical guests stay.”

“You know an awful lot about this place. Take women down there often?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Never. I like to scope a place out first.”

I’ve killed men over less.

What does he do for a living that he wears a fucking balaclava out in public and wants to “scope a place out” first? Every possibility flows in and then directly out of your head. Any of them could be possible.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself.”

He shrugs. “Up to you. Come with me or don’t.”

Ghost’s word and tone are casual, but you see the tension in every muscle and in the way he carries himself. There is a hesitation in him. A fear that you might say no. But the gin in your veins is strong, and it’s singing, convincing you to go with him.

When do you ever take risks?

“Okay,” you murmur. Then, more loudly. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Two

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[wickedsmille]

batman, robin, sentient super suits, oh my!

I got this idea stuck in my head and rather than committing it to the 15 page graveyard of other story ideas, I actually wrote it! (I'm so proud of me :'3) The aforementioned is. . . . The suits/costumes are sentient! With limited autonomy!! And their own personalities!!! So, yep. This one might actually make it onto AO3 when part two is done.

Probably rated T because Jason. Did not edit because nope. Sillies at the end because of Jason's Tim!feelings and stellar repression skills.

(Here's Part 2!)

-----

Imagine Jason’s surprise when Bruce leads him down to the Cave, the Batcave, and he spots the costumes of Batman and Robin innocuous in their cases. The bright lights above them shine down, illuminating the bright colors of Robin and glistening off the dark planes of armor of Batman. All four feet of Jason was vibrating with excitement. Patiently with a small, private smile, Bruce guided him towards the cases.

The closer he gets, Jason notices how they’re not on mannequins. A few more steps and he can’t spot any internal structures keeping them up or wires suspending them. Curiously enough, the costumes seem to be standing of their own accord. He didn’t question it as he came to stand right before the glass. His hand rose to press against the case, mouth open wide in awe and eyes about the size of dinner plates.

Now, just picture how a tiny, baby Jason reacted when the Robin suit recoiled. The fabric gathered together and plastered itself to the other side of the case away from Jason. The neck of the suit shifted back and forth like an invisible body was shaking its head. Pulling his hand away as if he’d been burned, Jason took a staggering step back and looked to Bruce for answers. The man stared at the case, eyes narrowed and mouth pinched into a thin line of disapproval.

It was then Bruce explained the nature of suits and the heroes they choose. Here Jason had thought Bruce created Batman and Robin, not the other way around.

Apparently one night, after getting the hair-brained idea to take to the night to fight crime with nothing but his wits and an arsenal of R&D weaponry, Batman came to him. The suit was in his study hanging off the clock. As he stepped inside the room, the suit slithered off the clock to stand before him. Tall, dark and imposing. Written in quickly disappearing fog on the glass of the clock was the name Batman.

Robin was all Dick until he decided to leave it behind. It came to Dick mid-swing from the chandelier. One second he’s flipping through the air to reach the banister, the next he’s flailing wildly after misjudging the distance. Robin caught him, the sleeve of the suit wrapped tightly around his wrist. Then the suit skittered down the stairs to the main foyer, wild and energetic as it seemed to do a round-off, onodi, bridge, illusion and finished with a needle. Again and again till Dick’s face lit up like the sun itself. Robin became a permanent fixture next to Batman from then on.

Robin was devastated after Dick left it but it still took months for Bruce to coax the suit into engaging with Jason. He did everything he could to help. Sitting and even sleeping in front of the case. Whispering his secrets and wants to the layers of kevlar and nomax. He told Robin things he could barely admit to himself let alone anyone else. It was after Jason confessed how much he loved his mom and dad in equal measure that Robin finally accepted him. That night, when Bruce opened the case and once more tried to take the suit out, it came easily where normally it was immovable. 

The tight fabric slipped on like it had been made for Jason and Jason alone. Deep down, he knew it hadn’t been. The suit made his chest hum and his skin tingle but it was like wearing someone else’s skin. The discordant feeling didn’t stop Jason from fully losing himself to the magic of Robin. Even when Dick loudly protested Jason using the suit but what could he do? Robin chose Jason, eventually, even if Dick hadn’t. 

Maybe that’s why Robin couldn’t as effectively protect him from the Joker as Batman did for Bruce night after insane night tangling with the rogues. 

For a long time, Jason didn’t have a suit aside from the grave clothes he clawed his way back to the land of living in. Time gets fuzzy from there but he doesn’t remember another suit coming to him. Not then and not after Talia took him in, healing his body while his mind stayed locked up till she tosses him into the Pit against her father’s wishes. Jason suffered under the League and its training, shuffled off periodically to one master or expert or another to learn more about demolition and explosives, firearms and sharp shooting, spy craft and more. 

When Red Hood comes to him, Jason is just coming back to his clay walled room with its moth bitten wool blanket and wood cot, blood on his knuckles and the beginnings of a nasty shiner. He’s who-the-hell-knows where. Talia never did see fit to keep him in the loop no matter how loudly or persistently he pestered her for details. She dolled out what she wanted when you wanted to achieve whatever twisted goal she’d cooked up in her head. Like siccing him on Bruce and the whole of Gotham like a living nightmare tailor made to make Bruce hurt.

Seeing a suit laid out across his cot has been the most significant deviation from his routine in a long time. Long enough the site of the black tactical gear and heavy armor visibly startles him. His hand tightens around the handle of his door as he stares unabashedly at the suit. 

“What the fuck is that?” he asks, pointing to the red helmet facing the doorway at the head of the bed.

The sleeve of the leather jacket raises up a couple inches. The buckle around the wrist rises up straight and Jason doesn’t need to be a genius to know his suit just flipped him the bird. He returns the gesture and the lenses of the helmet flare a bright white before going out again. 

“Well, aren’t you cheery.”

The entire upper part of the suit shudders in what he assumes is a shrug. Cheeky. He kind of hates it.

He’s trying very hard to not look a gift horse in the mouth despite his suit’s apparent attitude. It’s not as showy as Robin, thank god. There’s a cliff with his name on it, ripe for pitching himself off of, if he got a gimmicky costume. He’d take his chances rolling back into Gotham in a t-shirt and jeans then toss on another pair of undies and tights. The mercenary look is much preferred and appreciated.

Besides, despite the attitude, this suit is his. Not some hammy down Bruce needed to coax into accepting Jason.  

“What am I supposed to call you?”

The lenses of the helmet light up again but this time they stay on. Cautiously, he takes a couple steps closer. The suit doesn’t move again, patiently waiting for him. Nothing happens so he closes the distance and gingerly picks up the helmet. The metal of it is warm beneath his fingers and a hum starts deep in his chest. The helmet slips on easily and fits like a glove. A wash of colors and symbols scroll across the HUD as it springs to life. 

The screen blanks out entirely then a burst of red that settles into the words Red Hood. Then Lets fuckin do this bitch it reads.

“Huh,” Jason says. “Huh.”

Red Hood is an asshole apparently though he can’t deny the poetic justice of taking on the old name of his murderer. Terrorizing Bruce is going to be so fun.

Jason leaves for Gotham that night. 

Within three months, he has his claws in Crime Alley and a burgeoning drug empire. It takes him six months to properly align the pieces around the board so he can set his plans for Batman into action. He’s a veritable force of nature when he’s wearing the Red Hood. Bullets glance off the armor, knives slip right past and the brass knuckles sewn into the gloves teach as effective a message when he needs to get up close and personal. It allows him the space and strength he needs to wrestle the city under his control so he can start making moves.

He becomes the Red Hood.

Things don’t go as planned though, per say. 

He barely hobbles away from the confrontation with Batman and the Joker. At least this time, with the Red Hood, he does walk away. 

The world is a whirlwind of sights and sounds, colors and impressions. He works himself down to the bone till the bitterness and anger dissipate enough for him to feel like a person again. Separating Jason Todd from the Red Hood, making the distinction rather than losing himself to the suit, is one of the most difficult things he’s ever done. 

Red Hood isn’t happy about it and makes it known with the hard hits he takes. Not enough to threaten his life. Until Jason is facing down at least thirty heavily armed guys and the building is rigged to blow. The suits can do a lot of things like help Batman become one with the shadows and keep the laws of gravity from gripping too tightly to Robin. Red Hood is built for protection through thick armor for Jason and a nasty assortment of weaponry for those who hurt others. 

But they do have their limits. 

Jason just never thought he would reach it except he does and it leaves him bleeding out in some dingy back alley in Gotham. He presses hard against the wound on his side around the jagged piece of metal sticking out to stem the bleeding. His head is throbbing in time with the beating of his heart. The harder it pounds, the more it slows, the less Jason thinks he’ll make it out of this one. He’s fuckin’ clawed and crawled, sweat and bled and turned himself inside out again and again and this is how he goes? Bullshit. Straight up bullshit.

He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and forces himself to focus as the HUD flickers on and off. The light of it is faint as the air filtration system hums loudly. A tiny icon pops up in the corner that hadn’t been there before. Some simple silhouette of a person’s bust. It clicks open without his say so and the screen darkens before it springs back, determined and stubborn. 

Pictures and words flash across the display, too quick for him to properly make any of it out since his brain is as good as scrambled eggs at the moment. It centers on a cartoon version of Batman’s face, complete with comically severe scowl. Jason frowns and shifts, wincing at the white hot flare of pain shooting up his side. And his arm. Shit, guess he’s not just dealing with the shrapnel in his side.

“Don’t you dare,” Jason rasps in warning. 

In answer, his suit selects the icon and, to his immense surprise, it immediately connects to the comm network the Bats use. You know, the heavily encrypted one only the masters of top tier hackers have ever been able to get into. The one he isn’t supposed to have access to. At least, he didn’t think so. Things haven’t been bad with Batman and his clown car of other bats and birds. They haven’t been good either. 

“Hood,” Batman acknowledges with a hint of confusion and trepidation. Jason groans but it tapers off in a pained grunt as he shifts and the metal lodged in side moves with him. “Hood, report,” Batman demands, confusion abandoned for concern. 

It’s touching in that I-wish-this-weren’t-happening-but-since-we’re-here kind of way. 

He doesn’t say anything so his voice modulator whirs loudly in protest of his silence. Fucking suit. Civilians truly don’t know how lucky they are to not be dogged and bullied by sentient costumes and, wow, when he thinks about it that way it is incredibly weird. He may not be thinking clearly either since he’s pondering the very existence of the hero communities suits rather than answering. Concussion, maybe? Probably, he decides as a wave of nausea rises up.

Swallowing past the bile, Jason projects as much chipper nonchalance as he can when he replies, “Not much going on here. Might’ve gotten blown up. A little. Tis but a flesh wound.”

“Location,” Batman growls. 

“The intersection of Nun-ya-business and Fuck-off,” Jason says because he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t take every chance to be a shit to Bruce. Although, now may not be the time for it since black spots are dancing across his vision and he feels the bad kind of numbness sneak in. 

Jason’s locator flips on and a message goes direct to Bruce with his coordinates. Red Hood is a traitor. He’d rage at his suit for being so presumptuous and taking liberties. Most suits back down on playing such an active role after they choose their wearer. Maybe an automatic switch in imaging or restocked first aid supplies in a pocket. Never this. His suit is a busy body. To think, the fearsome Red Hood with all its holsters and extra layers of armoring and plating, a mother hen.

Not the worst thing, he guesses, as he loses consciousness.  

Coming out of a three day sedation to the bright overhead lights of the medical bay in the Cave with Batman looming over him, fully suited up and staring, a traumatic enough experience Jason readily steals his alternate-universe’s Red Robin suit. Unlike his own universe, this one doesn’t have to deal with fabric capable of higher thinking. The Red Robin suit is just that. A suit and nothing more, nothing less. It’s simple and perfect when he’s still angry at the Red Hood suit.

Running a few patrols back in his Gotham proves him wrong. Very, very wrong. 

He forgets to restock his belt and his hand meets an empty pocket on the belt where there should be smoke pellets. Except he used them the night before when breaking up a gang initiation. The armor plating doesn’t shift the quarter an inch Jason needs to avoid getting nicked with a knife. Plus switching between lenses in the mask manually is annoying. And needing his hand to work the comms? Horrible. 

Playing as Red Robin, the incredibly unexceptional and totally normal super-suit, shows him how spoiled he was with the Red Hood. 

Thoroughly frustrated, Jason tears into his safe house and tears out of the suit. He kicks it off into the corner then kicks it again because fuck this. He’s over it. So over it. Hopefully Red Hood isn’t salty about being benched and relegated to the cache he has hidden in the ceiling. 

Moving aside the ceiling tile and sneezing from the dust and what he hopes isn’t asbestos, Jason grabs the lock box. He pulls it close then lets it drop unceremoniously onto the floor. Sue him, the thing is heavy. A ball of writhing unease makes a home in Jason’s gut as he kneels next to the box and starts methodically disarming the security on. His hands hesitate opening the lid. 

What if the Red Hood decided to fuck off to parts unknown wherever these things go when they get retired?

Then he realizes how stupid it is to be mostly naked aside from his undershirt and shorts, scared to face the consequences of his own actions. He built the mythos of the Red Hood on forcing the human shaped garbage of Gotham to pay up on their moral debts. Being brash, antagonistic, caustic and aggressive he’ll own up to but Jason has always prided himself on shying away from hypocrisy. So he holds his breath and flips open the lid -

To the suit, crammed in the small metal box, lifting the sleeve of the leather jacket on top and flipping him off with the wrist buckle. Again. 

“You son of a bitch,” Jason laughs, back handing the buckle. Looking over his shoulder at the disarray of the Red Robin suit, he adds, “Look, it’s not me. It’s you.”

The next night, when he gets suited up and pulls the iconic red helmet of the Red Hood on, Jason stands over Gotham and feels whole. Jason and the Red Hood and Jason-as-Red-Hood, co-existing peacefully within and around one another. The pieces click together, making him feel lighter than he has in years. He thinks this must be how Bruce feels when he’s Batman or Dick when he’s Nightwing. When you know who you are. Robin was an ideal he clung to desperately even if it never quite fit right and Red Robin was a bad idea he needed to understand the nature of suits.

They weren’t his, not like the Red Hood is because it’s an autonomous extension of himself.

Because he’s not completely heartless even if the Red Robin suit lacks any sort of intelligence, Jason takes pity and dumps it in the Cave. Let Bruce or Lucius dissect the thing so they can unlock the secrets of suits. Or use it to mop the floors. Whatever, he doesn’t really care. At least it’s not his problem anymore. 

Then Tim steals the suit. It’s a theme with Tim, apparently. Jason would take it as a goad and beat his ass if Tim didn’t leave and come back different. As is, when he first sees Tim looking pale and world weary in the Cave with an equally exhausted looking but alive Bruce next to him, Jason is feeling too many things too quickly to focus on Tim’s sticky fingers. In no way does looking like warmed over shit excuse Tim for constantly taking his stuff but he can delay payback. There’s feelings he needs to repress at seeing Bruce whole and right there.

Tim doesn’t abandon Red Robin like Jason did. No, he keeps it. Why, Jason has no clue. It’s punishment enough to wear a plain Jane suit like Red Robin so Jason elects not to confront him. If Tim wants to punish himself, it saves Jason the time he would take to do it. As time goes on, they start to get along so why shake it up for something stupid like the Red Robin suit, he thinks. 

Landing softly on the roof Tim’s crouched on, Jason’s heavy boots barely make a whisper of noise as he creeps up on Red Robin. He’s bent over with his arms extended so he can scare the shit out of him. 

Jason doesn’t get the chance to. About five feet away, back still turned to Jason, Tim asks him dryly, “Can I help you?”

With a sniff, Jason straightens up. “Yeah, by not being such a fun sucker.”

“Oh, so sorry,” Tim says while not sounding at all sorry, “next time I’ll let you jump scare me so I totally blow my stake out.”

“Thank you,” Jason replies.

He can feel Tim’s eye roll even if he can’t see him. “Did you come here because you’re bored or do you need something?” Tim asks.

With a shrug Tim can’t see, Jason answers, “A little of column A, a little of column B.”

“As you can see, I’m indisposed at the moment either way.”

“Alls I see is you sitting on your ass.”

“Exactly, now shoo.”

“I will not be shoo’ed,” Jason says as he comes around and sits down next to Tim. “I am un-shoo-able.”

To prove his point, Tim twists so he’s facing Jason and makes the actual shoo’ing motion with his hands. It says a lot that Tim will give him a hard time considering their past. Never once has he shied away from Jason since he and the others got chummy again. If it were him, Jason would incessantly badger and pester and be a complete dick. But Tim has never been like that, even when he should. Like he should with Jason.

Quiet reigns over them. Tim goes back to surveying the building across the street and Jason absently watches too for lack of anything better to do. Truly, he was bored. Patrolling Crime Alley was slow, for once. Who would’ve thought? Tim happened to be the first person he came across as he was traipsing the city just because he could. Lucky him. 

“How’s the suit treating you?” Jason asks casually, honestly curious. Tim has been wearing it for months now.

A subtle tension stiffens the set of Tim’s shoulders. “Fine,” Tim says cautiously. 

“Why even keep it on? I tried since it’s all, ya know, not a semi-conscious being literally handling my tits and bits for hours a night. Didn’t work out so well for me, obviously.”

Tim chews on the inside of his cheek while his hands tighten around the binoculars pressed to mask. It’s a testament to Jason’s growth that he lets Tim think through his answer without disrupting him with a heckle or five. Plus he’s invested. He really wants to know why the hell Tim is keeping Red Robin when the alternate-dimension suit is so sub-par compared to the costumes they have. 

“I don’t have any others,” Tim finally replies, voice quiet and tight. 

Oh, oops. Looks like he stepped on a landmine without meaning to. The thought that a suit wouldn’t immediately choose analytical, ambitious and surprisingly badass Tim Drake hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

“I get that,” Jason says. “Can’t tell you how many times I’d turn a corner when I was with the League and hope there’d be a suit. Some signal like, yeah, you’re ready to leave these shitheads behind.” 

Man, he did not mean to share some deep-down, touchy-feely bullshit. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Waiting for the Red Hood was agonizing. Empty days spent learning how to snap a person’s neck and the most painful bones to break, how to engineer car bombs, what kind of scope it takes to blow someone’s brains out from five hundred yards. Never feeling ready because he didn’t have anything but his ratty jeans and tee and standard issue League garb. Wishing he’d be released from the never-ending violence that is the League because nobody else seemed keen on letting him go easy. At least with the Red Hood, he was able to convince Talia it was a sign from a higher power on how truly ready he was to ditch them and enact her not-at-all-subtle machinations.

The silence makes Jason feel awkward and uncomfortable but Tim is thoughtful when he responds, “I’ve never been chosen by a suit before.”

“Really?” Jason can’t help but ask. 

He thought Robin would’ve been scrambling to claim Tim. Robin did give Tim pants, after all. He’s always wondered if Robin kept the scaly panties just to troll Jason since it wasn’t happy with his wearing it. 

Tim nods. “I, well, Dick and Bruce were in trouble and I was there but Robin didn’t. It didn’t want anything to do with me. Alfred tried getting it to see some sense but I eventually had to wrestle it on. Robin wasn’t happy with me.”

“Huh,” Jason says because he doesn’t actually know what to say but leaving Tim hanging feels like a crime in and of itself.

Like the psycho he is, Tim laughs. “Yeah, pretty much. Robin fought me my whole tenure but I like to think I did alright. Besides, I don’t think Robin is very happy with Damian either after he forced it on. You should hear the arguments he gets in with the suit.” A vicious little smirk curls up the edge of Tim’s mouth. It’s a ruthless thing Jason likes the look of. 

Now Jason really can’t cash in Tim’s debt to him for taking yet another suit from him. Tim repurposed what was essentially his garbage because he had nothing better to use. Kind of sad, now that he thinks about it. And Tim fucked off to parts unknown with a regular ass suit to do the impossible. Actually did the impossible. Tim really is the best of them, in Jason’s humble and will-never-be-voiced opinion.

“I can imagine. You got some video footage of one?” Jason questions, steering the conversation back to safer waters. 

“No, I would never keep something like. Come on, I’m a good guy,” Tim says sarcastically.

“The only thing good about you is that mouth.”

Even though he’s the one that said it, Jason’s brain overloads and crashes all in the span of a nano second. That was definitely flirty. In no possible universe, dimension or other-world would that line not be considered flirty. He didn’t mean to do it. Right? Right, because flirting with Tim would be weird enough Jason would need to submit himself to a litany of invasive tests just to figure out what in the hell is wrong with him. Slips of the tongue do happen-

Bad analogy to use now that he’s thinking about Tim’s mouth.

“I get that a lot,” Tim says, brushing off Jason’s folly easily. 

“Get some,” Jason encourages lamely. 

In another feat of extraordinary social ineptitude, Jason reaches up and ruffles Tim’s hair but he does it too hard. It ends up being some weird combination of a noogie and hair pet. He stops that right away and instead uses Tim’s head to lever himself up. Obviously he’s not going to recover from this interaction. Several fatal blows have been dealt. The only sensible thing to do is escape as quickly as he can and go scream out the embarrassment into the void. 

Tim squawks in protest and bats away Jason’s hand. His brows are furrowed and sporting a deep set scowl as he no doubt glares at Jason for using him as a hand hold. Whatever, all the better if Tim is pissy. It means he hasn’t noticed Jason being a complete and total moron. Or picked up on the way the shivering, shimmying pool of warmth building in Jason’s belly is making him grimace and sweat.

Hands up in a gesture of surrender, Jason backs away. Satisfied, Tim goes back to watching his building. Jason backs up another step when, weirdly enough, Tim’s cape moves. Like a full on flap to the side. It opens up a brief glimpse to Tim’s backside, boots and belt and skin tight leggings, before the heavy material settles again. There’s no breeze tonight though Tim might have been fiddling with it or something. 

Jason can’t be sure. Doesn’t really care. He has a hasty retreat to get to. 

He means to retreat but Red Hood, the motherfucking, traitorous dickbag the suit is, must take some measure of joy in Jason looking like an idiot because Jason trips on the laces of his boot on his next step. Now, he’s sure he tied them. Double, triple, quadruple knotted with a complicated pattern Bruce taught them all so this exact thing wouldn’t happen. Yet, flailing and just barely saving himself from belly flopping onto the roof, when Jason looks back his laces are definitely undone and the culprit of his current predicament.

The one in which Tim turns oh so slowly with an eyebrow so high it disappears into his hairline. Judgement is pouring off Tim in palpable waves. He meets Tim’s gaze and wants to melt through the roof. 

“That wasn’t me,” he instantly denies.

“Uh huh,” Tim says dubiously which makes Jason glower. “Thanks for reminding me why I like having a regular suit.”

“You sure you don’t want to take Red Hood for a ride?” 

Jason decides he’s going to stop talking for the rest of ever. He had wanted to annoy Tim for lack of anything better to do. Not test the limits of how much mortification a person can feel before their will to live force quits. Things have gone so, so wrong. 

Tim wrinkles his nose at Jason’s offer. “No thanks,” he says simply. 

Nothing in his tone gives him away so Jason isn’t even sure if Tim picked up on the accidental and subtle as a sledgehammer come ons. He’s not about to point them out so he rolls over, ties his goddamn shoes and gets up. Carefully. In case his suit decides to do something else unforgivable. Thankfully, he doesn’t have any issues getting to the edge of the roof or setting himself up to grapple off. 

“We can play How Much Gasoline Until the Nomax Melts if you want,” Jason threatens his suit, voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder, to Tim Jason says, “Okay then, see ya, Red.”

While Jason has been preoccupied with the simple task of traversing the roof, Tim has already gone back to his task. Binoculars up, body pitched forward as he intently watches something, he waves lazily over his shoulder.  No indication is made that Tim needs him to stay and act as back up. Must be a survey and report only kind of night. All the better because Jason would rather eat concrete and sleep on glass than stay with Tim for a few hours.

He has some more emotional repression to get to in the form of whatever he’s feeling about Tim. Very important stuff.

Stay tuned for a part two! (For real this time.)

[thelovelylolly]

It Will Come Back

Summary: It can't be unlearned, I've known the warmth of your doorways... Warnings: mentions of injuries, blood, and violence, kinda hurt/comfort, reader is described as smaller/shorter than frank, let me know if i missed anything :) Word Count: ~1.9k Notes: first fic of 2024! first off, frank castle with a hozier song makes me go bonkers. second, my requests are open and my guidelines are in the pinned post so please send them in :)

You met Frank in a very unconventional way. You weren't able to sleep one night, your gut telling you something was going to happen, when he slumped against your window on the fire escape. You heard a thud and raced to your room, seeing a dark figure being lit only by the dim streetlights.

You considered the risk of letting him for a second, then crossed your room and opened the window. His body was limp, but he was awake as he fell back into your room. You tried your best to break his fall, but he was heavier than you anticipated. You both grunted as you pulled him all the way into your room and helped him into your nearby desk chair.

You gave him a once over as you closed your window, unsure if you were his saving grace or next victim. He was covered in blood, sweat, and bruises, so you guessed you were safe. He didn't seem as dangerous as he could be. You noticed his dark gaze and tensed body, even if he was injured. His nose stood out to you most, the one thing that made him seem familiar.

"Are you gonna just stand there and stare at me, or are you gonna help me?" He grumbled, groaning as he sat up more in his seat.

"Sorry," you replied softly. "What can I do?"

His gaze darted around your room, like he was trying to figure you out just from what you had in it. "You got a first-aid kit?"

You nodded and went to your bathroom, quickly returning with a first-aid kit in your hands. You turned the tall lamp next to your desk on before setting it down. Your turned back to him, getting a better look at him under the light. His dark hair matched his dark eyes and some of the dried blood on his face. He had some bruises already blooming on his face and a few cuts, nothing life threatening there.

You cleared your throat, stopping yourself from staring at him too long. You popped open the first-aid kit, hoping you had the things he needed. "Where are you hurt?"

"Got slashed pretty good on my left side," he answered, lifting his arm a bit to show you the cut in his clothes and skin.

You nodded and reached for the zipper on his black hoodie. "Can I take this off?"

"Mhm," he hummed.

You quickly unzipped it and pulled it off, careful not to irritate his cut or any other injuries he may have had. You dropped it onto the floor and grabbed the hem of his shirt, lifting it up just enough to see the gash.

"Can you hold your shirt up for me?" You asked quietly. His hand replaced yours, holding his shirt up while you grabbed some of the gauze from the kit to press onto the bleeding cut. You used one of your hands to press the gauze and the other to grab the stitch kit you had inside the kit.

"Can I ask why you have a the stuff for stitches at the ready?" He asked as you got the needle and thread ready.

You laughed dryly. "Can I ask why you showed up at my window with a giant gash in your side and probably other injuries you're not gonna mention?"

"Fair," he replied, a tired smirk on his face.

"You want anything to numb the pain, or are you good? You seem like you've done this before," you said, surprised how easily you fell into this banter with him.

"I'm good, just do it," he grumbled.

You moved your gauze away, taking a deep breath to calm your shaky hands before starting his stitches. You heard every sharp inhale and long exhale as he took deep breaths to get through each stitch. His hand holding up his shirt gripped the fabric tightly, his knuckles turning white. You went as fast as you could without hurting him any further.

It felt like an hour, but in a few minutes, you were done. You tied the thread up and cut it, quickly placing the needle on your desk and grabbing more gauze to hold against it. You pressed the gauze with one hand again and grabbed gauze wrap with your other.

"Can you sit up please?" You asked, glancing up at him. He glanced down at you and held your gaze for a second before looking away and wordlessly sitting up.

You quickly wrapped the gauze wrap around his midsection and finished up, ignoring the way your face heated up when his gaze met yours. You grabbed the bloody gauze from earlier off the floor and put it with the needle you used before standing up.

"Anything else?"

He shook his head as he dropped his shirt back down. You quickly cleaned up the kit and tossed the used needle and gauze into your trashcan. You picked up his hoodie and handed it to him.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome," you replied with a soft smile. "You wanna crash on my couch? I don't think you should go anywhere far in your, uh, condition."

He nodded quietly. You helped him up and led him into your living room, letting him put some weight onto you as he walked. You lowered him onto the couch and he sat down with a sigh. You went into your small kitchen and got him a glass of water and some painkillers, setting it on the coffee table after walking back.

"Can I get your name?" You asked, sitting in the chair across from him.

He popped the pills into his mouth and downed them with the water. "Frank," he answered, setting his now half-empty glass down.

"Like...Frank Castle?"

Frank's gaze jumped to you, eyes a bit wide with surprise.

"That's why you look so familiar. I've seen you on the news and in the papers," you quickly add.

"Ah, thought you'd freak out on me and call the police," he replied, leaning back on your plush couch.

"I think...I don't agree with your, um, methods, but you're cleaning up the streets. Making it a bit safer for people like me to walk home at night, y'know?"

"Glad you see it that way..." He trailed off, waiting for you to give him your name. You did, and he echoed you, almost like testing it out.

"Well, I'm going to try to get some rest," you said as you stood up with a smile. "I think you deserve some. Goodnight, Frank."

"G'night."

------

Since then, you let Frank into your apartment late a night to stitch him up and let him sleep. It wasn't anything more than that. Sure, you two bantered or talked about random subjects, but it was mainly to distract each other from the blood or wound. You were just there to help him, and you two never crossed the unspoken boundary you both had. You silently agreed to be acquaintances, maybe friends.

Then Frank started to cross that.

He started to drop by earlier in the evening, no bruises or blood on him. He'd just show up at the window he always came in, and of course, you'd let him in. You were confused why he would show up this early and not hurt like usual, but you found it nice that he was there without the need to be sewn back up.

He'd come in for a bit, you'd give him a drink or offer him dinner, and you two would talk. You'd spend a long time talking, or sometimes just enjoying each other's company, until it got dark enough and he left to do his job. Sometimes, he'd come back in the early morning hours to get patched up. Other times, he wouldn't show up until the next day when he'd stop by to spend time with you.

Soon enough, you saw a slightly deeper version of him rather than the surface level one you met. He still had some things covered up, but he had revealed enough to cause you to start falling for him. You wanted to stop yourself so you wouldn't make things complicated, but you knew if he wanted to, he'd leave and never look back.

That's what scared you. Your feelings would be one sided and once he figured it out, he'd stop coming by just to hang out with you and eventually, stop coming by for you to patch him up. You didn't want him to leave any time soon, but you knew it could easily happen.

"Hey, you okay? You zoned out there," Frank asked, gently putting his hand on your shoulder to bring you out of your thoughts.

You looked over at him, who was sitting on the other side of the couch as you. "Yeah, I'm good. Just a bit tired."

"I can go if-"

"No, no, stay," you quickly say, cutting him off. "I, uh, I like your company."

You watched his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn a little pinker as he looked away from you. He ran a hand over his face, like he was trying to rub the blush from it. You looked away from him, playing with the hem of your shirt. You thought you had crossed a line and made him uncomfortable.

"I'm gonna get some water," you said quietly before getting up from the couch and going to the kitchen.

You quickly grabbed a glass and filled it up with water. As you drank it, you thought you'd hear Frank's heavy footsteps head to your bedroom and the window open. You thought you'd hear the sounds of Hell's Kitchen flood in through the open window as he left. Instead, you heard his footsteps approach you slowly.

You finished your drink and put your glass in the sink before turning around to face him. He wasn't very close, but in your small kitchen, it felt closer than it was.

"Why do you come here even when your not hurt and you don't need anything?" You asked, breaking the silence between you two.

Frank sighed. "'Cause you're...you. I don't know, I'm not good with words. But ever since you started to help me out, I...I wanna keep coming back to you. I think I fell in love with you or something because you keep pulling me back here."

You smiled softly at his confession. "I think I fell in love with you, too. I was just scared you were gonna leave if I said anything."

He smiled back, stepping closer and closer to you. A comfortable silence fell between you two. One of Frank's hands fell to your waist and the other tilted your face up to look at him. Your hands naturally wrapped around his neck, holding him close. Your eyes darted to his lips before meeting his eyes.

You caught his gaze dipping down before meeting yours again. You started to lean in and Frank met you halfway. When his lips met yours, the months of banter and drinks and dinners together made sense. He had quietly been telling you he cared about you, maybe even loved you, for so long.

You melted into the kiss and his touch, pulling him as close as you could. It was sweet and slow. You could tell from the way he held you and kissed you just how much he wanted this kiss, how much he wanted you.

When you pulled away, you both stayed close to each other, leaning your foreheads against each other. He brushed his nose against yours as you both smiled.

"I'm not gonna leave you, sweetheart. I will come back."

[valas-illyn]

When I come to, I'm laying on some kind of hospital bed. My hands are cuffed to the sides. I don't immediately remember where I was before this, how did I get here? Where is here?

The lights in here are low, but still bright enough. The now opening door reveals a comparatively blinding hallway, and a silhouetted figure composed of writhing vines. Something about the perspective seems off, but I can't make it make sense.

Someone, somewhere, in another room is scared, terrified even. Angry too. Bursting with emotions, they want to scream and sob and thrash and rage. It sounds like a lot.

I just feel tired.

The thing moves into the room, and the door slides blessedly shut.

Affini. That's the word. Suddenly the perspective clicks into focus and the room makes sense. Affini are 10ft tall alien plants with a penchant for keeping other sapients as pets, the room is sized for them which is why everything feels wrong. I'm tall for a human but I'm not that tall, the bed is human sized though so it must be on some kind of raised platform.

My mind drifts off again, lost in visualising the technical specifications for a 5ft high hospital bed. Extra trains of thought spinning off into imaging what other situations one would even be needed, or in the comical image of a human nurse trying to wheel one about. Yknow, they're always complaining that they don't have enough space on the wards, with a 5ft high one you could have modular bunk beds that just roll over each other, you could double the capacity of a hospital. You'd have to add teeth to each leg and an electric winder to hoist it up and down though. Maybe some kind of quick release mechanism for emergencies? You could-

"Petal?" The affini is standing over me, the voice is... Soft. Not quite feminine, but maybe feminine by their standards, what do I know? Do affini even have male and female? Well, it'll do for now. Her voice is a gentle rustling rasp that I can barely believe is capable of human speech. "Petal, it's time to wake up."

I roll my head towards her. The someone is getting loud again. "I'm awake." My voice is flat, lifeless. Too deep. It sounds wrong.

She seems to shrink, like she's slumped. Relief? Despair? Maybe she's just tired too. How do you read the body language of a bush? "Good, I am Luminara Verdis, fourth bloom. Pronouns she/her. What should I call you?"

I was right, feminine. I try to answer, but instead I just yawn. Long and deep.

"still a little sleepy? Let's give you something to clear those sedatives out of your system." *She leans over and a loop of vine extends towards my neck. A light glints off the end of a sharp, needle-like point dripping with something viscous.

Sudden and visceral. An emotion floods through me, but I couldn't put a name to it. I yell "No!" far louder than I intended as I throw myself away from her, straining against my bonds. I realise my legs are bound too.

The bed wobbles and she holds it steady with a vine, preventing me from tipping it over in my... Panic? Panic. That's what it is. Somewhere deep inside, a part of me sees the absurdly tall bed again and wants to chuckle, another part of me notes the axis of the tilt and the centre of gravity, and mentally confirms the platform hypothesis.

"ok, its ok petal. Calm down." She makes a show of taking the needle away but I keep my eyes in her. My breathing is ragged now. My ribcage feels like it's shuddering.

"No needles." My voice is as shaky as the rest of me, but I say it with some force. I would be pleased by that if only I knew why I seemed to be so upset.

I settle back into the bed and try to rub my face with my hand, only I can't because it's still cuffed to the bedframe.

"No needle." She agrees. Her voice is full of pity, sorrow. She's making an effort to be gentle with me, I can tell that much.

A voice in the back of my mind whispers "needle. Singular. No promises past now." I tell it to be quiet.

"i- I'm awake now." My voice is steadier now, my body more controlled. The panic has faded, gone off to that other room. I can ignore it now.

"I can see that, I'm so sorry for startling you petal but I promise you I'm here to help. What's your name?"

"I'm- i-" my voice falters as my mind scrabbles for answers. "I don't know. I can't remember, there- there was more than one I think?" I know I should be frightened, or concerned.by this. But I'm not. I dont have the energy for it now the adrenaline has worn off, instead I'm just... A bit perplexed.

If I could read plant faces... I'm assuming she is showing the concern that I'm not feeling. I had best stop that before it becomes something, like another needle. "I-it'll come back to me, it always does. I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

She shows me a smile and says "Luminara. Lumi, if you like."

I smile back and tug at my restraint again. I really want to rub my face and it's bothering me that I can't. "Why am I chained to the bed?" I try to hide the frustration from my voice, transmuting it into concern instead.

"it's for your own safety, flower. Do you remember what happened?"

I raise an eyebrow at her. She chuckles.

"I guess not. You were in an accident before we rescued you. You were badly hurt and terribly confused, and you kept trying to attack the vets. They didn't know if you would still be violent when you woke up."

That makes sense. I have brief flashes of pseudo-memory; fear, anger, terrible terrible pain. I dont think it was an accident though. It feels like it was going on for a long time...

I shiver, and shake the sensation from my head. I'm still tugging on the cuff gently, I'm not sure I can stop, the feel of it is keeping me calm.

"I don't think I want to remember... Could you untie me please? I just need to rub my eyes."

[saafhiree]

Just Kill Me in Your Heart

In the icy stillness of a winter night, two hearts stand on the brink of unraveling. As the silence between them deepens, one question lingers—was love ever truly enough to hold them together?

𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐤𝐞𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫—𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏.𝟑𝟐𝟎 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚 𝐭𝐰 : 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞

It was a cold winter, the kind that gnawed at your skin and lingered in your breath. The frost clung to the air, every inhale stung like a needle in your chest. The wind howled softly, bringing with it an icy edge that crawled up your spine, uninvited and unrelenting.

Under the soft glow of a street lamp, a shadow–long and lonely–was cast over two figures, a tall boy and a girl. The silence stretched between them felt colder still, for the spaces deepening with each passing moment, a stark contradiction to the fact that they were walking side by side this very second. The unspoken truths hovered around them like a mist, thick and suffocating.

Tonight, it might be just twice as cold, twice as bitter.

Tsukishima Kei, with his long strides trying to match your pace, at a loss for words. His headphones rested idly around his neck. Hands buried deep in the warmth of the pocket of his jacket, pondering as to should he strike a conversation with his lover, you, who was unusually quiet tonight. He stole glances every now and then, hoping to catch a glimpse of the thoughts you wouldn't share through unreadable expression. But each time, his confidence faltered before he finally looked away, eyes fixed on the snow crunching softly beneath his feet.

While you, the figure running through Tsukishima's mind, walked just beside him, your steps steady but distant. You held your gaze up, admiring the faint silvery glow of the moon, casting a mystifying light over the barren trees and the snow-dusted ground. How you wished you were just as calm as the moon, but the storm inside you was raging relentlessly. A testament to the pain subdued over years of your relationship.

"Kei," you breathed out slowly. A puff of white cloud followed suit. And through your peripheral vision, you saw your boyfriend lifted his head to the sound of your trembling voice.

"Why did you agree in the first place, when I asked you out?" There. The biggest enigma you couldn't solve, no matter how hard you pondered. Then, maybe, his answer was the only key to your confusion.

"I don't know." But it betrayed your wait.

"I thought I'd feel satisfied for once." You chuckled bitterly. "But maybe it's me whose hopes are too high." A faintest flicker of guilt crossed his nonchalant eyes.

"That's the problem, Kei. You never know." Your steps halted. "And you never bothered to know." And Tsukishima's too.

"I bet you also never know how much effort I put into holding on to the last straw. How much I've tried to keep us afloat."

Your words stabbed deep into his heart. You had nothing to lose, so you bravely stared into his uncertain eyes, fighting against the fear rising slowly in your chest–and perhaps in his too.

"But one thing you can be sure of, (y/n). I chose you, and that fact is enough for everything." That was a pathetic excuse, it was known to both of you. You felt the ironicity, he was only willing to "try" when you were ready to let go.

And that wasn't even close to the effort you had put over years of this relationship.

"Choice, was never enough to begin with," your voice cracked, like the brittle branches weighed down by the snow. And this time, his gaze faltered, slipping to the ground as if the truth you hurled at him was too heavy to bear. "I tried, Kei. I really did. Maybe you'll say you did too, but love isn't something you could just choose."

He flinched, just barely. Maybe your words cut deeper than either of you anticipated.

“Love isn't a decision you can just make and leave to rot. It needs work, real and relentless work which comes from both of us."

You took a shaky breath, fighting to steady yourself. For a brief moment, you thought you saw something–guilt, regret, or even shame–in his averted gaze.

While Tsukishima stood in silence, throwing back to old days when you two first met.

Just how did you two meet?

Maybe it was his curiosity for the brave retort to his sarcasm, sharp gaze that never backed down. Maybe through your love of many things they shared. A cute apatosaurus keychain dangling in your bag. A guileless girl, having her first crush.

It surely did sparked something.

He yearned for your company—perhaps those conversations had stirred a faint longing in his quiet mind. How your cheerful laughter echoed, lingered in his lonely room; your warm greetings set a mood through the customized notifications in his phone, the gentle sweetness of those strawberry shortcakes you baked, and how his exhaustion ceased the moment he saw you welcomed him after practice.

So he embraced the commitment, thinking it might bring light to his dull, monotonous days.

But his heart was never truly ready to love. Such a profound and meaningful emotion felt foreign to his routine. For him, love was a weight too heavy to bear, a burden that pressed too hard against the boundaries of his solitude.

And just now, as he heard your slightly breaking voice–demanding an end to this relationship, only he realized how much you give, but never take. His mistook the familiarity for something as big as love. And his light–you, finally exerted your shine.

“I love the memories we shared,” his words came out unexpectedly low.

“To me, you are my light,”

“And you said, to turn to you anytime,”

"I have you, don't I?" Those words came out barely audible from his lips.

A single tear cascaded down your cheek.

“If that's what you really feel, then why am I the only one trying?” The whisper etched with the biting breeze.

His mind replayed the scenes he had ignored for too long. The soft vibration of his phone silenced by indifference, the untouched bento left to cool in his locker, the fleeting glance you gave him in the hallway–filled with the hope he refused to meet.

Your vision blurred, each blink releasing another drop, tracing a hot, stinging path down your trembling chin.

“And if that light is what you've been holding on, to keep us in this situation, even though it's falling apart,"

"Then, just kill the light. Just kill me in your heart."

The moon peered down on you, pitying you.

“You have me, Kei. That is true,” your voice breaking at last. “But I never have you.”

Your words settled over him like the cold of the snow. But he said nothing, he couldn't. Because he realized he couldn't hold on to something as radiant as you.

And maybe that was what hurt the most.

“We should end this,” you said firmly, after what seemed like unbearable silence. The words tasted bitter at the tip of your tongue, but it carried the end you two needed.

He didn't stop you.

You took a step back, then another. The distance between you grew quickly, but he didn't do a thing. He didn't know how, and you had nothing to hold on to anymore.

As you turned away, you dared a single last glance over your shoulder. Tsukishima Kei, still standing beneath the light of the street lamp. His headphones still rested idly around his neck. Hands still buried deep in the warmth of the pocket of his jacket. His expression was a mix of guilt and uncertainty.

And though, you couldn't see the flicker of emotion in his eyes anymore, you knew it was there.

Because this time, you were the one walking away.

And after some time passed, Tsukishima's eyes held upwards. An empty street with snow blanketed in a muted hush. But it was not only the street that was empty. It was also his heart. And the vastness of the night only amplified the weight of what was gone. What never could return.

[srslyblvck]

── LOVER BOY !! wolfstar

❛ 𝖻𝗎𝗒 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂’𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾𓈒𓈒

ooo. chapter one !

ooo. series masterlist !

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE LITTLE STREET IN Cardiff was picture-perfect, especially this time of year. Snowflakes dusted the cobblestones, twinkling lights dangled from eaves, and shop windows glowed with Christmas warmth. Tucked away from the bustle of the high street, it was a corner where individuality thrived. On one side stood Moonlit Ink, a small but reputable tattoo shop, its façade muted save for the intricately painted crescent moon sign. On the other, a new arrival had thrown the lane into a festive buzz: Fleur Sauvage, a flower boutique, freshly opened and impossible to miss with its warm yellow door and an explosion of seasonal arrangements spilling onto the pavement.

Inside the flower shop, Sirius Black was putting the finishing touches on a wreath of holly and ivy. His black leather gloves, lined with red stitching, were tossed carelessly onto the counter, revealing tattooed hands that danced over ribbons and greenery with surprising delicacy. He was wearing a loose button-down under a wool peacoat, the collar half-popped in a way that seemed to say, Yes, I woke up looking this good.

"Et voilà," Sirius murmured, stepping back and eyeing his handiwork. He grinned, satisfied, before glancing at his reflection in the glass door to adjust a stray strand of dark hair.

That was when he saw him.

Next door, standing in the doorway of Moonlit Ink, was a man Sirius hadn't noticed in his few whirlwind days of moving in. The man was tall, dressed in a soft sweater under a thick winter coat, his hands shoved into his pockets. He was pale, with tawny brown hair that curled slightly under his woolen beanie. He looked... Sirius searched for the word. Careworn? No, that wasn't it. Shy? Close. Kind. Definitely kind.

The man was watching Sirius with an expression that hovered between curiosity and suspicion. Sirius, naturally, decided this was an invitation.

"Salut!" Sirius called, his voice ringing out in the stillness. He crossed the snowy pavement in a few long strides, wreath swinging from one hand. "I am your new neighbour!" He gestured grandly toward the flower shop. "You must have noticed. It's hard to miss, no?"

The man blinked, clearly startled, but didn’t retreat. “Uh, yeah,” he said, voice quiet but pleasant, tinged with a Welsh lilt. “Hard to miss, indeed.”

"Well, you don’t sound thrilled," Sirius said with mock offense, clutching his chest as though wounded. His grin softened the tease. "You’re the tattoo artist, no? Moonlit Ink. Lovely name, by the way."

“That’s me,” the man admitted, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Remus Lupin.”

"Enchanté." Sirius thrust out his hand, which Remus shook after a moment’s hesitation. Sirius noted the warmth of his grip, the faint calluses. He liked that. “Sirius Black. And my shop is Fleur Sauvage. It means ‘Wild Flower.’ Very chic, very me.”

Remus gave a faint smile. “Seems to suit.”

Sirius leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So, tell me, how does one man the tattoo needles with such... sensitive hands?” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis, a mischievous glint in his grey eyes.

Remus flushed. “I, uh…” He trailed off, visibly flustered, and Sirius had to bite back a laugh. The reaction wasn’t unexpected, but the genuine sweetness of it took him slightly by surprise.

“I tease,” Sirius said, stepping back to give him space, though he made a mental note of how Remus’s blush crept to the tips of his ears. “I’ll be popping by soon enough for some work of my own. A man can never have too much ink, no?”

“You… you have tattoos?” Remus asked, glancing over Sirius’s arms, visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His tone was quiet, but Sirius swore he heard a note of interest.

Sirius smirked, tugging the collar of his shirt to reveal a swirl of black ink that snaked over his collarbone. “Many. Perhaps you’ll see them all. In time.”

Remus blinked, his lips parting as though to reply, but instead, he simply nodded. Before the moment could stretch into awkwardness, Sirius clapped his hands together.

“Well, I shan’t keep you standing in the cold. But you must come by soon, eh? I’ll make tea. Or mulled wine, if you prefer. And I’ll insist on a tattoo tour.” He winked and turned toward his shop, the wreath swinging jauntily as he went. “Happy Christmas, neighbour!”

Remus stood there a moment longer, watching as Sirius disappeared through the bright yellow door, the scent of pine and cinnamon trailing after him. A faint smile lingered on his lips as he turned back into his own shop, shaking his head at the absurdly charming whirlwind that had just entered his life.

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #52 — The DJD Once Again Prove to Be an HR Nightmare

Ratchet and Drift, looking fresh as hell in their matching paint jobs, stand on the cliff they made their cool entrance on last issue, as they snipe at each other over whether or not Drift personally knows the DJD. Considering how Tarn and Friends had a space-cocaine induced freakout over seeing Drift on the quantum duplicate Lost Light, they may want to talk a little quieter, especially with the face Helex is making.

You better watch out, Ratchet— this man's going to do Sakamoto-got-all-the-way-to-pencils shit to you!

The Pet takes the opportunity presented by our recently returned newlyweds being too busy flirting to pay attention to the fight at hand, leaping to chew on Ratchet's head. Luckily, Ten is an ally, even when he’s been beat to shit, and punches the shitty little Pomeranian into the air. Kaon, card-carrying freak and dog dad, takes this abject display of animal abuse about as well as he can.

Ratchet, having his gun eaten by the mouth pervert, is beginning to worry that he, his rich boytoy, and a mostly out of commission Ten might be sliiiiiiiiightly outnumbered against a dozen Decepticons, two of whom belong to the Super Murder Death Squad. Drift, after a bit of needling, heelies a dude’s face off, jumps into the air, does a bunch of sick flips, blocks a laser with a sword in such a way that it looks like he got shot in the dick, and then lands, like, 70 feet away to scoop up the Pet and threaten to chop its head off if Helex doesn’t stop trying to vore his boyfriend.

Kaon, #1 dog dad, orders everyone to fall back. Helex, who has Ratchet like 70% inside his smelting chamber by this point, can’t believe that Kaon’s ruining the fun. Helex releases Ratchet, letting him crowd onto Drama Point with Drift and most of Ten, as the Decepticons circle them. Drift, unfortunately, didn’t think past doing sweet flips to show off after his sabbatical from the comic run, and they’re back in the same situation they arrived to, but now one of them is holding a crusty little dog.

Then a platform descends from the sky, and we see what Ravage has been up to.

Grand theft auto!

Yes, it turns out that this cat can drive, and well enough to get the boys up and out of danger, though Ten’s size means that the lovebirds have to dangle off of his remaining arm. Drift still hasn’t put down the Pet. Sure hope that thing’s been socialized to cats.

Oh, who am I kidding? Kaon wouldn’t have bothered.

Speaking of Kaon, he looks like he’s about to cry, because someone’s kidnapped his princess baby angel, and Helex doesn’t even CARE, the heartless bastard, as he orders the other Decepticons to fire on the shuttle. They, of course, hit it, as there’s at least ten of these guys firing, and they’re all decently tall. The shuttle begins to lose altitude, and Ravage, who does not have traditional hands and is currently using his tail to man the control stick, attempts to crash as close to the “fortress” as possible.

Meanwhile, over at Megatron’s plinth, we get back to that whole thing where he surrendered himself to Tarn. Tarn, feeling an excuse to monologue coming on, says that he’s well aware of Megatron’s new schtick, and he’s not a huge fan of it. Megatron clarifies that he wishes to give himself up so that the rest of the Lost Light crew stranded on this planet might live, because this is his fault to begin with. Tarn agrees, reminding him that he paid for Tarn’s plastic surgery. Megatron states that he only brought Tarn to his side to hurt “someone”.

Three guesses who Megatron could have possibly hurting by bringing Tarn over to the Decepticons, and the first two don’t count.

Megatron thinks that by bumming around space on a borderline vacation, he’s returned to who he used to be (maybe he got his teaching license, who knows) and that the war was a waste of time. Tarn gets kind of intense here, because if Megatron wasted his life, what does that make Tarn? Tarn, who has decorated his home with nothing but Decepticon symbols? Tarn, who has had corpses nailed to his wall for the last couple million years? Tarn, who wears a fuckoff stupid mask every single day of his life, even while eating and trying to kill himself with space meth cut with time travel and gas station dick pills? Also, what about all the other guys who died trying to realize Megatron's ideals? What about the little guys, the cogs that made the machine run? What about Steve from accounting, whose husband left him, because he was too busy trying to balance the budget on Megatron's body remodels and Optimus Prime punching bags that also doubled as body pillows to come home? What about Steve, huh?

Megatron basically regrets everything he’s ever done, not that Tarn cares. Megatron then reveals that whole thing where Rewind tried to retroactively kill him as an infant, and how he sort of wished it had worked.

Tarn starts beating the shit out of Megatron before the guy can start going on about how his parents are Brainstorm and Whirl, though Tarn promises that this is just a healthy dose of tough love, as surely the wimp before him isn’t actually who Megatron is. Megatron doesn’t fight back, instead just staring sadly at the Autobot badge Tarn slapped off of him. This is really starting to piss Tarn off, as he was really hoping to beat some of the fire back into his former mentor and idol. This is when he starts trying to choke Megatron, even though their species doesn’t breathe. Still, I’m sure Tarn’s stiletto nails hurt something fierce.

Megatron then recalls his conversation with Velocity, and states that if the fool’s energon DID alter his personality, it was probably for the best, and he wouldn’t want to go back. Tarn, who has based his entire selfhood on the thing that Megatron threw away to live out his probation on a cruise ship, takes this statement with all the tact and level-headedness we’ve come to know him for.

Tarn is just one more double fusion cannon blast to the chest away from smiting Megatron utterly, and he’s fully committed to doing so. However, he gets distracted by the sound of Elton John’s “The Bitch is Back” coming from across the field.

WHO LET THIS MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF HELL

Anyway, it looks like Ravage can, in fact, drive pretty well, as the shuttle did crash pretty close to the “fortress”. Swerve, who still really wants to make up for his shitty boss behaviors and also accidentally dragging Ten into a microcosm of hell, lets Ten know that they saw his floor graffiti, and that it might actually work. Magnus, who still has his arm off, does his best to not kick Swerve across the room as he scurries underfoot, as he drags Ten inside the building.

Skids intercepts Ratchet to welcome him back, and also ask how the hell he knew to come to Necroworld. Apparently he and Drift had received a call from the handy dandy phone that he had given First Aid, who First Aid had then regifted to Velocity, just in case some bullshit happened. Velocity’s introduction to Ratchet is rough, as she manages to call him grumpy, old, and stubborn as a mule in the span of about fifteen seconds. Ratchet is mostly concerned with the fact that the Lost Light replaced him so soon after his return. Nobody tell him about Velocity’s track record with the medical exams, he might just shoot off into space to beat First Aid to a pulp for leaving her by herself.

Over in what might be a closet, Rodimus runs across Drift sitting in the dark and sharpening one of his swords. Drift seems to have used his exile to remember that he does, in fact, have some semblance of self-respect, as he doesn’t immediately forgive Rodimus for throwing him off the ship that he paid for, only to have given himself up as the real culprit behind the Overlordening, like, a week later, thus negating Drift’s sacrifice, and then never coming to find him, despite the fact that they’re supposedly friends, and, again, the ship is in Drift’s name, as was the crew’s allowance money. How the Lost Light has survived financially without Drift is unknown.

Rodimus knows that he sucks and is the worst, but he was really worried that Drift wouldn’t like him anymore, so he’d sort of been kicking the issue of “finding my ex-TIC to tell him he got publicly humiliated for nothing” down the road, to the point where Ratchet had gotten sick of it and went to solve the problem himself.

Of course, the meta reason for Drift not being found was so that Shane McCarthy could have his OC back, as well as Ratchet, for the miniseries Transformers: Drift— Empire of Stone, well known for being sort of silly and introducing the phrase “be shoosh” to Drift’s lexicon. In it, Ratchet found Drift traipsing around the edge of the galaxy being a neutral (in terms of war) hero to organic species affected by Decepticon aggressions, before crashing on a planet where Drift, back when he was “Deadlock”, had found a mystical stone army, one that Gigatron (a dude who totally isn’t anime Megatron) wanted to harness the power of, so that the Decepticons might claim victory over their enemies. Hellbat, Gigatron’s second in command, had gone mad doing nothing but killing over millions of years, and had been modifying the stone army in secret to do his bidding so he could "kill everything". Then the stone army woke up, Hellbat died, Gigatron died, and Ratchet went to take Drift to get detailed, because he looked like he'd been ridden hard and put away wet.

Also, if you think about it, having two former high-ranking Decepticons turning to the Autobot side being on the Lost Light’s high command might have been too many redundancies to make Megatron’s arc stand out. Perhaps, had Megatron not been added to MTMTE’s roster so late in the game, Rodimus WOULD have gone looking for Drift, finding him just in time for the DJD to catch wind that they hadn’t actually super nightmare death murdered Deadlock after all.

Drift, who can’t say no to Rodimus's puppydog face, lets Rodimus sit with him on the floor, as he apologizes for the fact that by coming here, Drift and Ratchet have unwittingly signed up for Tarn’s Political Theory and Dismemberment Slam Poetry Night, but he mega-promises that they’ll come up with something together to get through this. Drift appreciates the sentiment, but knows that Rodimus is just saying this to make him feel better.

Back at the worst fan club meetup in the galaxy, Tarn elbows Overlord in the throat and tells him to fuck off. Overlord tells him that he knows Tarn never finished his degree and only acts like an academic for the aesthetic. Tarn transforms to shoot him while reminding Overlord that at least Megatron’s spoken to him in the last few thousand years. The two duke it out with their tank modes, Overlord KRUMPing all over Tarn, before the theatre kid kicks him off and questions why exactly Overlord is even alive, given that he chainsawed his head off last year. No word on if he’s bothered to ask this same question about 75% of the people he’s here to super murder.

Overlord simply states that someone found him floating out in space and fixed him up, because it turns out that they both wanted to go after Megatron and kill his ass dead, because Overlord is sort of sick of not getting the attention he so obviously deserves. When Tarn, ever the opportunist, attempts to make a team up deal, Overlord tells him to shut up.

And then they realize they lost the old man they were fighting over.

Great work, fellas.

Over with the Autobots (and Cyclonus), Rewind’s outside, looking at that memorial to the disappeared and trying to figure out why the Necrobot laid out the names in the way that he did. He’s currently near the top, where you can see most of Roller’s name, someone whose name ends in “gator”, and Dreamwave Production’s smoldering corpse, which makes me wonder if Alex Milne ever did get all the money he was owed from his work with them. Rewind, who last dealt with the DJD not even a year ago, is trying really, really hard to not think about how many needles they’re going to jam into Chromedome’s eyes this go around.

Of course, Nautica, who has come out to find Rewind, doesn’t give a shit about Rewind’s PTSD. She wants relationship advice! She’d ask Chromedome, but apparently he’s taking a nap, still worn out from stabbing Tailgate in the brain after he rainbow-exploded all over the ship. Which happened months ago.

You know, at the rate he’s been going, Chromedome probably wouldn’t have lived too far past sunset anyhow.

Anyway, Nautica wants to know if, on Cybertron, you have to be besties before you can get hitched, because that’s how it works on some of the other colonies. She specifies that this ISN'T how it works on Caminus, which is good, given how problematic that would be, considering you need to be best friends with someone by the time you're five weeks old, and there's no telling if they're cool with platonic polyamory. Rewind informs her that it’s either one or the other on Cybertron, no double-dipping, and god help you if it’s a situationship. Nautica is asking this because she’s realized that she can’t waffle about on committing anymore, seeing as she’s probably going to die in the next hour or so, and she’d rather use that time to enter a queer-platonic partnership than get her face fixed.

Back at the Peaceful Tyranny, Tarn has, in fact, managed to bring Overlord to reason, much to Deathsaurus’s confusion and derision, if his squiggle face is anything to go by. Overlord, smug as fuck, informs Deathsaurus that in exchange for his compliance, Tarn has agreed to let him personally murder Megatron while everyone watches, because surely Tarn couldn’t actually kill his idealogical idol, because he’s a pussy. Tarn is being very brave about this, only letting the spot blacking on his linework show on his face, as his fists shake with rage.

Then Kaon shows up, begging they pull back their forces until the Pet has been returned, and the spot blacking gets a little heavier.

Tarn, who has had a very long day of tactical meetings, phone calls, facing his fallen idol, having a very unsatisfying beatdown with said idol, and dealing with known freak Overlord, handles Kaon’s inability to be a big boy about misplacing his shitty little dog with all of the tact and decorum we’ve come to know him for— he gives Kaon a big, beefy hug, acknowledges just how much Kaon loves that shitty little dog, and then makes sure that Kaon never has to worry about a thing ever again.

That’s a series wrap on Kaon! Let’s give him a hand, folks!

Tarn, who has had just about enough of Overlord in the last half hour, smashes Kaon’s head onto Overlord’s tits, covering him in viscera, as he demands he be treated with respect, because this is HIS house, where HE’S paying the bills and calling the shots, so help him god. Nickel is very displeased that Tarn’s killed one of the Twinksome Twosome. No word on how Deathsaurus feels about this, considering that a big reason he’s working with Tarn is because he refused to kill the rest of the DJD when demanded to do so, thus showing his dedication to his men. Also no word on how the rest of the DJD are going to handle Tarn decapitating their weed man.

Tarn tells everyone to pony up, as they’re about to go over and handle all the silly little bastards hiding out in the Necrobot’s “fortress”.

Speaking of which, it looks like Megatron made it home, despite Tarn blowing his tits clean off with that cannon blast. Rodimus and Ratchet carry him inside, as Magnus is probably too busy not getting his arm put back on to help, and Megatron is using the last of his energy to hold the Autobot badge Tarn slapped off his chest earlier.

Sure hope Ratchet didn’t forget to tell Drift about his old boss being co-captain of the ship, or else this is going to be a very nasty surprise for both of them— we've already seen that Drift loves to freak out and kill sick people.

[ffcrazy15]

i think Rio Grande should be our new pro-life antifacist anthem

Girl, that and Passerine and New River and-

Their four winds albums are just chock full of Christian antifascist bangers, there are just so many!

[the-kr8tor]

Thread the needle

Thread the Needle Masterlist

Prologue >>> Chapter 1

God, you're so late for class. Your white sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor, feet running as fast as you can. Your hastily thrown backpack struggles to cling on to your arm. You regret going out last night, on a school night too.

Almost running past the classroom, your feet skid to a stop in front of the door. Taking a breather you take a second to fix your appearance, fixing your backpack properly, breathing out a puff of air, you mentally ready for the weird stares thrown your way once you open the door.

You open the door with a loud creek from the old hinges, cursing the metal for the loud intrusion. Grimacing from the sound, your eyes roam around the room, surprised to see that the professor's late too. You sigh in relief, sitting down in your station, you decide to clean up the mess that you left yesterday in haste.

While picking up loose threads, misshapen cloths and cluttered tools littered around your space, you accidentally listen in on a conversation.

"Did you hear? About our last project?"

"Yeah, I have a friend from the other class, heard it's a doozy. Can't believe Mrs. Williams' making it forty percent of our final grade "

Unbelievable, you thought. And here you go thinking that taking fashion as your major was gonna be easy. You sigh, pondering what kind of next stress is gonna befall you.

Suddenly the door opens with a loud creaking sound– your ever fashionable professor saunters in, clad in her stiletto heels, posture perfect and neck always covered in pearls. God, you want to be her when you grow up.

She stands tall in front of the whiteboard.

"Since this is your last two months here, I'm gonna make this last project the biggest and hardest one you've ever done," she doesn't beat around the bush, going straight to the point, speaking in her posh accent, making elegant gestures as she talks, "This final project will be sixty percent of your final grade, therefore if you fail this you might not graduate this year"

Various sounds of protests can be heard around the room, some groaning in pain, others straight up scream in anguish, but you just look at Mrs. Williams like she grew a second head.

Sixty percent?! This close to graduation? Does she not want anybody to graduate? You think, biting your tongue just in case it slips out.

"You've gotta be joking Mrs. W!" A classmate of yours shares your sentiment.

"Do I look like I'm someone who makes jokes, Flash?" The professor raises a neat eyebrow, side eyeing your classmate.

Fuckety, fuck fuck. You internally swear. This is so much worse than forty percent. Outside you might look calm but inside you feel like spontaneously combusting right there on your chair.

Mrs. Williams stares at her class silently. The entire room feeling the dark aura she exudes, they all clam up immediately.

"The project - find someone, I do not care if you're already close, or you're strangers to each other. Just someone who's willing to model for you-"

"For the record everyone, I'm available" Flash interrupts the professor, with one look from her, he sits back down defeated and embarrassed.

"This project requires you to make an outfit," she continues, staring daggers at your classmate "not just any other piece you have ever made. You have to cooperate with your model, in creating it."

That's easy enough you thought, you've already worked with models before, like changing some aspects of the clothing to match their sizes, and changing some designs if they're not comfortable wearing it.

Mrs. Williams raises her index finger, "This outfit, it has to encompass the both of you, so it's a requirement, a necessity, to pick a model that has an entirely different style from you"

Different style? Your mind goes to him immediately, with his heavy leather boots, spiked accessories, and overall Punk aesthetic, compared to your fluffy cardigans, sneakers and plain button ups. He's perfect for this project. The only problem is how in the world are you gonna convince THE Hobie Brown, your best friend of ten years, to model in front of the entire graduating class.

Mrs. Williams' voice brings you back to the present. "They, whoever you pick, must be willing to fully participate in making, and modeling it. They don't even have to be a student here, all that matters is that the final product must be a perfect blend of both yours and their style"

Flash raises his hand this time "How would you know that they have a different style from us?"

"Next meeting you must bring them, and" she emphasizes the last word "a picture of them with a timestamp from a year or two ago, this prevents cheating. And if I ever find out that you edited the photo's timestamp, don't even think about graduating"

"Um, ma'am, when are we presenting it?" A brave classmate of yours raises their hand.

"You have a month to work on it, the show will be three weeks before graduation, if you'll even be qualified for it"

You swallow down your anxiety at her last comment. Bringing Hobie in class will be a bitch and a half itself. You're already thinking about how to convince him.

"And remember this project fosters teamwork and cooperation with each other. Do not forget it has to be a perfect blend, not some smorgasbord of an outfit." The professor adds.

Great, now armed with the great task of convincing Hobie, you think, if he still owes you a favour, maybe you can call it in for this.

[sharksscripting]

Disobedience

Azriel Shadowsinger/Eris Vanserra/Cassian

Includes: Threesome, Double Anal Penetration, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Blindfolds, Anal, Hickeys, Anal, Sex, One Bed.

Word Count: 2.1k

—

On Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51699415

On Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1399115522-𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐑-𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬-𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞-𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐬-𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚-𝐱

—

"Well I don't like this any better, little lord." Cassian snaps, his eyes narrow at Eris' complaints.

"This is outrageous! Just because I am your ally doesn't mean I have to go on pointless missions with the two of you." He says the word 'you' as if he was disgusted, Eris was.

Azriel's shadows swarm around Eris' arms, tightly around his wrists. The High Lord of the Autumn Court glares at them but they remain put.

"Control your beasts, Shadowsinger." Eris snaps, Azriel only rolls his eyes.

"We're almost there, calm down, princess."

Eris glares at the man, the nickname calling was deemed unacceptable.

The trio continues to walk in the cold Winter Court breeze, it felt as if needles were being poked against their flesh with every movement, well, for the Illyrians. The fire magic that Eris possessed made it easier for him to move in the harsh weather conditions.

He notices Azriel and Cassian step closer to him when the breeze becomes even worse than before. "You Illyrian dogs can't handle the cold, hm?" Eris teases.

"Oh shut up, Vanserra." Cassian snaps back. "Keep walking." He slaps his hand against the High Lord's back, Eris whips his head over his shoulder and raises his fist when the shadows prevent him from doing damage.

Cassian smirks.

Eris scoffs and continues to walk, he mumbles something along the lines of 'Illyrian brutes' as they stroll through the snow.

A few minutes later, twenty five to be exact, they reach the inn. The building was oddly beautiful, dark oak walls up to ten feet tall, large windows with steel metal accents, light blue faelights covering the outside, illuminating the surrounding snow.

"Wow." Cassian states before stepping ahead the other two and pushing open the door, he holds it open, Eris only scoffs as he walks inside, instantly engulfed by the heat, the two Illyrians follow in suit.

Eris walks over to the innkeeper and requests a room, Azriel and Cassian follow him again.

"There is only one room, I'm so sorry, sirs." The innkeeper explains, he grabs the key to the room and hands it to Eris.

Eris glares at the man and Cassian slaps his arm again.

"Relax, firecracker. Scared to stay with us?" The Lord of Bloodshed teases.

"Whatever."

The three make their way to the room, Eris unlocks the door and pushes it open, the sight he sees only enraged him further.

"Oh for fucks sake! I'm not sharing a bed with either of you!" The High Lord exclaims. "It's bad enough to even be by you two, but to be in touching distance?" Eris glares.

Azriel shuts the door behind him after Cassian steps inside. "We can't sleep on the floor, our wings will be harmed by the floor." He motions to the obviously standing out splinters that litter the dark oak floor.

"I don't care. I'm not sleeping on the floor or sharing with you!" Eris retorts, Azriel's shadows tighten on his wrists. "And get your beasts off me! I shouldn't have to tell you twice!"

Cassian glares right back, he grabs Eris again, this time both of his hands and pins them behind the High Lord's back.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Eris snaps.

"You want to be such a brat? You'll be treated as such. Get in time out, lordling." The Illyrian smirks.

"Cass." Azriel warns.

He groans but lets Eris go, shoving him when he releases his wrists. The High Lord instantly whips around and summons his fire, burning blue.

"How dare you!" Eris exclaims as he pounces, now the Lord of Bloodshed was on his back, flames being held by his throat.

"Eris." Azriel snaps, he walks behind him and lifts him up, throwing him over his shoulder.

"Both of you fucking brutes need to stop touching me!" Eris shouts, he flails his legs and kicks the spymaster in his stomach hard.

Azriel coughs but doesn't let the High Lord go, he takes Eris over to the singular twin bed and tosses him on it. Eris adjusts himself on the bed, now sitting criss cross on the mattress.

"Relax, please." Azriel sighs then walks back over to Cassian and says offers him a hand, he takes it and stands up.

"I still think you need to be taught a lesson, Vanserra." Cassian walks over to the bed before stripping off his clothes, Eris tenses. "What? Weren't you the one who said it was gross to sleep in day clothes?"

Eris instantly snaps back into reality. "Y-Yes." He stammers out before doing the same, he strips off his clothes, now only in his boxers before tugging up the blanket and going under the thin layer of white cloth.

Azriel does the same as the other two before lying down, his chest facing Eris.

"I don't want to be in the middle." Eris states.

"Well you have to, our wings make it impossible for either of us to be there." Cassian says before the bed dips, he lies down behind Eris, his strong arms resting behind the High Lord.

"Besides," Azriel starts. "You're a heater, keep us warm." He smirks.

"Oh fuck off, I'll purposefully make it so you can't feel any warmth." Eris states before grabbing both of the pillows on the bed, he shoved them in front of his chest and behind, unfortunately, this action causes the two Illyrians to fall off of the bed.

"You dick!" Cassian shouts before grabbing the pillow and yanking it away from Eris' back, within a second Cassian pulls Eris' hips against his own, now spooning the High Lord.

"What the fuck are you do-" Eris halts when he feels something hard against his rear. "Where the hell are your boxers!" The High Lord exclaims.

"What? They are still my day clothes." Cassian smirks, Azriel yanks away the other pillow before lying down in front of Eris.

The High Lord's eyes flicker down to Azriel groin and his cheeks burn a bright red when he realizes he too is nude.

"Y-You two are both perverts!" He exclaims.

Azriel grabs Eris' cheeks with his single, scarred hand. "Then why haven't you stopped us? You do have the power against us... Illyrian dogs, yes?" The Shadowsinger smirks at his teasing.

"You are Illyrian dogs!" Eris tenses when he feels Cassian's hands trail down his body, stopping on his arse. "What are you doing?"

"Stop me." He says before yanking down the High Lord's boxers, Eris' pale cock springs free, the tip red and aching, leaking with pre. "Oh? What's this? You're already so eager for us, Eris." Cassian moves his lips to Eris' neck, kissing it softly, the High Lord whimpers.

Azriel brings his hands down to the others cock, he moves his own against Eris' and grabs both of their cocks and begins to stroke them both.

Eris moans. "You.. fuckers!"

"Yes, we are going to fuck you, Vanserra." Azriel smirks and increases the pace of his hand.

Cassian brings his fingers to the High Lord's mouth. "Suck." He demands, Eris complies and opens his mouth, his tongue gliding over the pads of the others hand.

Once Cassian deems his fingers wet enough he brings them back to the others hole, he slowly slides in his index finger, dragging a loud gasp from Eris' throat.

"Cassian..." He whimpers, Azriel forces Eris to look at him before his shadows cover his eyes, making the High Lords senses heighten. "Ah!" He moans as Azriel's free hand begins to toy with his balls, his cock still being stroked by his other.

"You like that, hm?" Cassian teases. "You like being fucked by the dogs? Is that what you like, Vanserra? Maybe you're the bitch."

"Fuck... you." Eris says between whimpers and gasps, his breath only hitches when Azriel's shadows swarm his nipples, pinching and pulling the sensitive buds.

"We are fucking you, princess." Azriel kisses his temple before he tightens his grip on the others balls.

"No! Cassian... fuck... if you don't-" Eris gets cut off by a loud moan when the Lord of Bloodshed thrusts his entire, thick length into the others rear.

"Stop whining, bitch, you take what we give you." He snaps, his hips begin to rock, moving the small bed with every single thrust.

"More! Please!" The High Lord pleas, not caring for the others warning. "A-Azriel..." Eris moans, the Shadowsinger's eyes widen for a moment, not ever hearing his actual name from the other's lips. "I want you too... inside." He begs.

"We'll split you in half, princess." Azriel warns, his other hand tightens his grip on their cocks, fucking them with his hand.

"Do it, Az." Cassian states. "He's preped."

The spymaster hesitates before nodding, he aligns the tip of his cock with the High Lord's hole, slowly sliding in, the feeling of Cassian's cock brushing against his own making the sensation even more pleasureful.

"S-So close!" Eris stammers, moaning. "Please, please let me cum!"

"Has the bitch finally learned their lesson?" Cassian asks, biting down before sucking on the other's shoulder and leaving a deep, dark hickey.

"Yes! Please, please!" Azriel moves his thumb over the head of Eris' cock.

"Then what are we, princess?"

Eris whimpers. "Dogs, you Illyrians are fucking... dogs." The High Lord whines as Azriel squeezes the base of his cock, not allowing him to cum.

"Try again, bitch." Cassian states, hitting his prostate directly.

"Ah! N-Not... oh! Please let me cum!" Eris begs, Azriel begins to stroke his cock again, fucking his own into the others hole.

"Say what we are, princess." Azriel purrs before connecting their lips, kissing the High Lord hungrily.

Once the kiss breaks away Eris speaks, "Strong... strong fucking warriors! Now, please let me cum!"

"Go on, baby, cum." Cassian says before sucking another hickey on the other's neck.

Within a second his release shoots from his cock, covering Azriel's lower stomach with his load, Azriel smirks at the sight before pounding his hips harder, he grabs Eris' left leg and flings it over his shoulder, with the new angle he hits Eris' prostate directly, Cassian smirks and doubles his efforts.

Overstimulation rings through the High Lord of the Autumn Court, he whimpers and moans as the Illyrian warriors fight over his prostate.

"Take it, take it, bitch." Cassian snaps before cumming deep inside of Eris' ass.

"Fuck, princess!" Azriel shouts as the same time, his own release leaks into Eris' hole, leaving the High Lord stuffed with the warriors cum.

Slowly, Cassian pulls out, Azriel remains put as his shadows move to grab something.

The dark clouds around Eris' eyes move, making his sight return. However, they move to around his neck and form a sturdy collar connected by a leash.

"What... are you doing... Azriel?" He asks between pants, the other shadows return with a large, thick, black butt plug. Azriel slides out and slams the plug into the others hole, locking his and Cassian's cum in Eris' arse.

Azriel tugs on the leash, making Eris come closer before connecting their lips again, he slides his tongue into the other's mouth before trailing his mouth down his throat.

"How's it feel to be our bitch, Vanserra?" The Shadowsinger hums.

Eris mumbles a response. Cassian smirks and trails his hands down to the others rear, fondling with his ass cheeks.

"Rest, Eris." Cassian states.

This time, the High Lord doesn't fight, sleep overtakes him within a second. Azriel strokes Eris' cheek with his thumb.

"Why are you being so soft with him?" Cassian whispers.

Azriel tenses before kissing Eris' forehead. "He... He is my mate, Cass, the bond snapped half way through." The Shadowsinger explains.

Cassian's eyes widen before smiling. "Well at least you have somewhat of a better relationship now, yes?"

Azriel chuckles before nodding. "Yes, yes I do." He looks at Eris again. "I can't promise I won't be mad if you try to fuck him again, Cass."

The Lord of Bloodshed's laugh booms in the small room of the inn. "No, I just needed an outlet, plus, we put him in his place finally." Cassian smiles. "My mate... it's complicated."

"Nesta's complicated?" Azriel teases.

"How did you..."

"I am a spymaster, it is my job, Cass." He chuckles. "She doesn't hate you." Azriel adds.

Cassian smiles at that, "Eris doesn't hate you, Az."

"I know." Azriel states before wrapping his arms around his mates frame, holding him tightly, his left wing covers their bodies as another blanket, Cassian does the same with his right.

The three slept peacefully that night, even with the eagerness of the mission they found a way to keep content, especially the Shadowsinger.

[davycoquette]

put the world between us

It’s impossible to discern one bleak parcel of land from the next in this place. You pass cornfield after wheatfield, driving into the blaze of sunset posited at the far edge of the earth. 

How can it be this is the place Shay Ferrick comes from? You look at his scabbed knuckles on the steering wheel, the blue veins on his wrist, his forearm with its own field of coarse dark hair across it. A tiny scratch on the surface like it came from a skipping record’s needle.

Then you skip straight to staring at his face, at how his wiry stubble follows the angle of his jaw. Imperfections register as perfections; even the patchy, shitty shave-job — even the tiny flake of dry skin left after he scraped a blemish off under his nail. His nose seems sweetly short on his face and that makes the corner of your mouth hook halfway into a smile. 

Under his aviator shades, his eyes are the best part of all. You can’t see them just now, but you can picture them crystal clear all the same: they’re dark. Almost black. And they sit under his bushy eyebrows and he gets two distinct wrinkles between those eyebrows right before he grins whenever you’ve just said something funny, and shoot, you wish you could come up with something, now. You make an idiot out of yourself all the time trying. You’re so resolutely in love with this guy — in love! Who knew you’d ever get to feel like this. It’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life.

“The fuck’re you lookin’ at?” he asks.

“You,” you say, earnest.

He swings a glance your way, and your moonstruck face reflects back at you from either lens of his sunglasses. Then he looks at the road, then back at you, then back at the road.

“Well, quit.”

“Y’know Housman? Alfred Housman?”

His face screws up. “Who?”

“Y’know, Last Poems —”

“No, Shy, I don’t give a shit about that. C’mon, man.”

“I was just thinking about something else he wrote. It went like—”

“No, c’mon. Don’t recite poetry at me. I hate that.”

“Okay.” You sit chewing the inside of your cheek for a beat, then add, “It’s just—”

“Shy,” he says firmly, and your name coming out of his mouth in a hot gale of exasperation makes your heart swim.

“Yeah, okay,” you agree, and grin out the window like a schoolkid with a crush.

For the next hour neither of you speaks, then a severe house juts out of a wheatfield. A windmill turns slowly beside it. At the same time as you’re clearing your throat, Shay confirms, “This is it.”

This is it. This is the place where he grew up. This is the place where he first learned to walk. Where he learned how to read and speak. Where he first built the walls that stand around him, or, no — where he dug the moat anyone who tries to get close is bound to drown in. It’s flat and unending, oppressive. The sky is bleached diluted blue. The sun festers, its fire razing outward, a tiny pinprick in the cloudless vastness. It makes you uneasy, and you love it at once.

A whip of cold, dry air blasts you in the face as soon as you open the car door. You rise and stand on your stiff legs and a little breeze bends the top of the grass. It shimmers like golden water around you. The windmill turns with a metallic shriek. The porch door swings shut.

“Hi, there,” says the tall, thin woman who just has just come outside. Her cheeks are gaunt and her face is long, and her hair is coarse and dark and tied back. She wears old blue jeans with flour handprints on the thighs, and a flannel shirt and house boots. You think she has his dark, soulful eyes, but there is something at once callous and dry about her, and you want to step onto the porch and grab her by a fistful of her shirt and demand, “Did you love him enough?” And, “Why would you live here? Why would you make him live here, in this place?”

What you say is, “Mrs. Ferrick.”

“Hi,” she repeats, barely sparing you a glance.

The smell of biscuits and cigarettes wafts out onto the porch.

“Hey, Mom,” Shay says, and lugs a duffle bag out of the back seat with him. “This is my buddy, Dick.”

You wait for a third, hi, but she ignores that altogether. Instead, she says, “Dad went to go get somethin’ at the store. He’ll be back any time now. You all come in.”

“What store? We’re comin’. Dick, get your bag.”

You open the back door and grab your backpack, sling the strap over your shoulder, and squint at the thin length of road in front of the house. You imagine Dad driving hours upon hours to reach just a store, to reach anything at all.

“Hardware store. Spigot on the side of the house needs fixed. I figured you could take your sister’s room, and he could sleep in yours.”

Shay looks at you, then at his mother. His nose wrinkles. You smile serenely.

“Alright,” he agrees, and that’s how you wind up in his childhood bedroom. 

There’s nothing childlike about it apart from the size of the bed. Sitting on the edge of it with your backpack between your boots, you look up at the light cover on the ceiling — a bowl of dust and moths — then at the dresser with the mirror sitting on it and the chip in its leg you just know he kicked there when he was, oh, fifteen.

A little scrap of metal sits on top of the dresser in front of the mirror. You know what that is, as unidentifiable as it seems: it’s a piece of The Airplane. That story feels like something you can clutch to your heart — it’s The Airplane that fell out of the sky when Shay Ferrick was just a kid. That fell like an angel outta Heaven and crashed like flaming hell in the field with the pilot smoldering inside it. Shay found that scrap of metal with Dad years later.

You stand and pick it up.

“Don’t,” Shay says, taking it out of your hand and laying it down again, “do anything weird in my bedroom. In my parents’ house. ‘Kay?” 

He lays his hand on your shoulder and pushes you down onto the bed again, and your heart flies up into your throat like a chimney sweep who got sealed in.

“The less you wanna talk, the better.”

“As it pleases you,” you reply, and lean down to unlace your boots. “I’ll lie up here a while.”

Then you do, while he goes downstairs and makes stilted conversation with his mother. Their voices carry up through the cold carcass of the house while you lie on your back with an arm tucked under the musty pillow. The lace curtains are open and the dust on the glass lights the whole window golden, but you make out an airplane gleaming thousands and thousands of feet away. The windmill creaks. Then you can hear the plane’s engine, then nothing again, until,

“Well, you’ll move back here, won’t you?”

Then Shay’s sharp whispering. You can’t make out the words. The little smile that lives at the corners of your mouth when you’re with him is vanishing, however, loosening and uncoiling, and your heart knocks to be let out.

Now she’s whispering, too. Everything ends in question marks.

Your friend don’t know?

He clears his throat and says he’s gonna smoke a cigarette. Asks if she wants to come out with him. That screen door slams shut, bounces. You sit up again and slide down to the edge of the bed, then glance out onto the barren lawn. 

He’s out there, looking up toward the window. You can see it on his face; you heard something you weren’t supposed to hear. He knows better than believe you could ever miss anything. And now you know this; it sits like a lump of concrete in your stomach: Shay Ferrick is afraid of you.

[necroromantics]

🧺 — Laundry And Taxes

chapter 11. // christmas special // (masterlist)

AN: Helloo to all the readers of L&T, happy holidays to everyone and Merry Christmas for anyone who celebrates :] Heres my present to you 🔥

Standing on the station platform, tickets to Alabama in their hands, Natalie looked out at the approaching train. She leaned over to the boy waiting patiently next to her, and told him that she had never been on one before.

“Seems like we experience a lot of firsts together,” Toby grinned as Natalie punched his arm.

The girl sat on the window seat, resting her head in the palm of her hand as she looked out at the passing scenery. Toby laid back in his seat and closed his eyes, everything was in motion. The white winter landscape was complemented by tall, passing evergreen trees. Natalie watched the unspoiled morning skies mingle with the fluffs of clouds, and listened closely to the pleasant chatter of the two passengers seated behind her. By the sounds of it, they had only just met on that train, and were both headed south to see family. She glanced over at the boy resting quietly beside her and thought to herself how strange it is to meet someone you must’ve known lifetimes before.

The pair held fire in their eyes and their bags over their shoulders as they hurried down the streets sprawled with snow. Once they approached their destination of a tiny house decorated with an abundance of Christmas lights, Toby knocked heavily onto the front door. After waiting for a minute, the door creaked open, a familiar tall, blonde man wearing a Santa hat stood with a toothy grin on his face, welcoming the two inside. Brian gave Toby a hearty pat on the back as he led the boy to the living room, Natalie following silently close behind.

“Good to see you’re not in handcuffs yet, man.” Brian said

“Yeah, good to see you’re still growing out that awful mustache,” Toby teased back. In the living room, Tim sat in his recliner chair with an afternoon beer in his hand. He was sporting a red Christmas sweater that presented the words “Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal”. Beside him, there was a small Christmas tree perched atop the coffee table. Toby snickered to himself at the sight as he walked over and played with the plastic pine needles.

“Damn Tim, you really went all out this year huh.”

“Cut the shit,” Tim said, swatting the boy away.

Brian sat himself down onto the couch and grabbed the remote, turning on the television to whatever sports channel was on, letting it play quietly in the background. Taking a seat beside Brian, Toby looked over to Natalie who had been awkwardly lingering in the entrance, her arms crossed over her chest, her body pressed to the wall. The girl glanced over the room of men and furrowed her brow. She never liked proxies. Toby stared at the disinterested girl for a moment, watching her quietly reside in her own little world, before Brian spoke, catching the boy's attention.

“So you’re living in North Dakota now? How’s the weather up there treating you?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s alright. I’m used to all the snow from back home in Colorado, so it’s not too bad.”

As the two men continued to exchange their small talk, filling in the silence that hung over the room, Tim took another sip of his beer.

“You still hellbent on getting back to the old world?” Tim chimed in, causing Toby to look over with an irritated glare.

“So what if I am? Whats it matter to you?”

“Just wondering,” Tim lifted his bottle to his lips once again as he turned his head to look over at the football game. There was a long pause of tense silence for a moment, Toby’s gaze still directed at the man in a trained glare.

“Better to just leave all that shit behind anyways, right?” Brian said, leaning over to Toby to recenter the boy's attention over to their friendly conversation.

“Sure,” Toby muttered, looking down towards his feet for a moment, “What’re you up to now anyways?”

“Just working, trying to save enough up to get back to school, you know?” Brian groaned as he threw his hands back, stretching the tension out of his tired body.

“Yeah? Where do you work?”

“If I tell you that, I’m gonna have to kill you,” The man teased with a grin, to which Toby rolled his eyes in playful annoyance. Natalie watched from a distance as the men caught up with each other's lives, as if there had been no brutality between them. She watched as Toby joked with his colleagues; ones who had beaten him bloody many times before. She watched as Toby’s hands reached for the remote to switch on a channel that played Christmas music; hands that have killed countless people. She watched as Tim eased himself into the casual chatter, throwing in a sarcastic comment or two, bickering with the boy sitting across from him. They were a lively bunch, and as Natalie leaned back against the wall, her indifferent expression subtly hinting disdain, she wondered what gave them the right to act as if nothing had happened. The girl was no saint, and she knew this to be true, she was cruel and vicious, a killer, but she would never find herself sitting amongst men like these, pretending as if blood didn’t drip from her mouth from all the throats she had ripped out. They were rotten and vile, and it seemed her best friend was the worst of the worst.

A soft knock to the front door put a quick stop to the conversation, and Brian walked over to the entrance, past the girl who hadn’t said a word since she arrived. Toby’s head peered up, listening closely to the sound of Brian inviting somebody in. He wasn’t told of anyone else joining them that Christmas evening. As the stranger entered the living room, both Natalie and Toby’s eyes widened. The familiar man held his hands in the pockets of his dark gray sweater, his dark eyes glancing around at the three lounging around the room. Jack smiled awkwardly at Natalie as she shamelessly stared at his newly human appearance, her gaze meeting his. Toby, on the other hand, had been staring out of discomfort. The last conversation he had with Jack had been a fight months ago back in Mississippi. He knew Jack was never one to hold a grudge, yet the boy couldn’t help but feel a weird sense of unease when the man sat down next to him.

“Good to see you again.” Jack smiled.

“Yeah.”

Brian entered back into the room with a case of beer, breaking through the stiff atmosphere, and sitting on the couch next to the two others. He pulled out a bottle and handed it over to Tim, who had already drunk through his previous one, and then handed another to Jack, who shook his head.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” he declined.

“Suit yourself,” Brian exclaimed, popping off the cap and taking a sip. The four men talked amongst themselves as Natalie listened in, drumming her fingers along to the beat of the holiday tunes quietly playing from the TV. She couldn’t help but glance over at the clock, counting down the minutes until she could be free from that dreadful place. When she initially agreed to come to Alabama with Toby, she hadn’t considered how out of place she would feel. Tim never liked her much, Brian and her never really talked. They had both deemed her a weak point for Toby back in the old world — something in the way. There was always the expectation that she would turn on him, sell him out, be his downfall. And in a way, it was true. Whenever Brian snuck a glance over at the lingering girl, he noticed she would always be looking at Toby.

Once the clock had struck 5pm, Tim pulled himself out of his seat, tapping Jack to follow him into the kitchen.

“You too, Toby. I ain’t preparing dinner all by myself.” Toby groaned as he stood up, shuffling irritatedly behind the two men. As he passed by Natalie, he nudged into her with a sore smile, to which she playfully hit him back. The two would laugh at nonsense together as though it made perfect sense, bumped into each other as though it was an embrace. There was an awkward tenderness between the youths who had never been loved, and had to figure something out. Natalie had the tendency to lie through her gritted teeth. Not intentionally by any means, but she deluded herself for so long, so desperately, she was nearly a master at the art of self-deception. Brian had noticed this feat, and on that lively Christmas evening, begun to pester the girl.

“There’s plenty of seats, you don’t need to keep standing around you know,” he called out to the girl who only raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded his head towards the empty chair across from him, and Natalie huffed with annoyance at the bothersome man as she strolled over to take her seat. Brian sat with his bottle in his hands, the sound of bickering coming from the kitchen filled the open air.

“You and Toby live together now, huh?”

“I guess,” Natalie said with a stern look, crossing her arms as she leaned back into her chair, staring at Brian as if she were in an interrogation. The man only smiled back at her, his Santa hat draped over his head.

“Good to hear he’s found someone who tolerates his bullshit,” Brian said as he reached into his case of booze, “Want a beer?”

Natalie shrugged her shoulders in agreement as the man pulled out a bottle.

“Just remember, you can’t save that kid.”

“Great. I never wanted to. I wouldn’t know how to anyways.”

“So, do you love him?”

“What’s it matter to you?” she glared at the man.

“You got a fire between you two,” Brian continued to tease as he handed the drink over to the girl, who snatched it from his hand.

“Then I guess I should ask Santa for an extinguisher this Christmas.”

The man grinned at the witty reply, chuckling to himself as he glanced over towards the boy angrily storming into the living room, ranting to himself. Toby huffed as he collapsed into the couch beside Brian, sinking into himself.

“Toby, get your ass back in here,” Tim shouted out from the kitchen.

“Go fuck yourself,” the boy shouted back. Brian grimaced awkwardly as he took his leave, taking one last look at the girl who had once again been staring at Toby, before making his way into the kitchen to help with dinner.

Once Brian was out of the room, Natalie switched over to sit herself down beside Toby. She nudged her shoulder into him as the boy looked back at her.

“Stop being so cranky Toby, it’s Christmas.” The girl spoke as her eyes met with the boys who stared back at her. Toby let out a deep sigh and leaned into the girls side. He was warm, she was cold. The smell of the turkey and stuffing breezed past the two as Brian waltzed into the room once again, this time to alert them that dinner was ready, and to come get their plates.

The group, with food piled onto their plates, sat together as they made up for all of the lost time. On that drunken Christmas night, with loud chatter and laughter filling the fireplace warmed air, everything was fine. Bloodshed was past, sickness had wilted away. As five human beings sat victorious in that livingroom, ridden with battle of another world, their festive cheer only confirmed the triumph of man. The war was over, and they had earned their evening.

Toby sipped his booze as he watched Tim stumble over to his seat, sharing a tale of a time he had lied his way out of a speeding ticket.

“You’re a great actor, you should star in a film,” Brian teased with a grin.

“I will strangle you,” Tim threatened.

Natalie felt a hand shift over onto her own, and glanced down to see Toby’s fingers interlocking with hers mindlessly. She thought well of him. Even when he drank, she thought he was a good boy. The girl squeezed his hand back, and drifted away from the jokes and festivities to lose herself in her thoughts. He had already made plans to head back to Colorado to spend Christmas morning with his family, leaving Natalie to catch the midnight train back up north.

Once the late night tiredness had washed over the group, Toby found himself arguing with Tim, who alongside Brian, had too many drinks to drive the boy to his destination.

“How am I supposed to wait until morning? You agreed you’d drive me tonight.”

“I could drive, I haven’t been drinking.” Jack spoke out, stepping between the argument. Toby looked over at the man with his offer, and scrunched his brow with reluctance, before ultimately giving in and agreeing to the new arraignment.

Toby stood at the door with his backpack over his shoulder, saying his goodbyes to the drunken Brian and Tim as he waited for Jack to gather his things. Natalie hung around by the boy's side without a word as she waited for him to finish chatting with his colleagues. As Jack slipped on his shoes, and opened the door to head for the car, Natalie threw in a quick goodbye to her friend, and snuck away back into the livingroom as she waited for her train back home, which was going to arrive in two hours.

Tim and Brian chatted with each other as they sobered up, and cleaned the dishes in the kitchen, leaving Natalie alone in the other room after Toby and Jack had left. She leaned back into her chair as she stared mindlessly at the fireplace, watching the flames dance and flicker. In her dreams, her house is always on fire. She couldn’t bring herself to let go of the violence, even as it burnt holes into her. The dead girl with nothing to lose, the horrible girl who can’t escape. A loud ringing from her cellphone snapped the girl out of her daze, bringing her attention to the number presenting itself onto the screen as she flipped it open. It wasn’t one she recognized, but as she hesitantly answered the call, she knew the voice on the other end well.

“Merry Christmas, Natalie.” The woman spoke roughly. She sounded tired, a bit irritated.

“Mom?”

“Just thought I’d call and wish you a good Christmas. But if you don’t want to talk to me, just say so,” The woman snapped. Natalie’s heart began to beat like a snare drum in her chest. She hadn’t heard her mothers voice in years, it made her sick to her stomach.

“Why would you bother calling me?” The girl asked quietly, and harshly.

“I guess it’s a crime now to want to talk to you since you left home. You know damn well you’re all I have left, so show some respect to your mother.”

Natalie scoffed. It seemed she hadn’t changed one bit.

“Sure, whatever, Merry fuckin’ Christmas.” She slammed her flipphone shut as she ended the call abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt a flurry of rage and shock. The walls felt like they were closing in on her, suffocating, choking her. Natalie quickly stood to her feet as she rushed out the front door to get some fresh air.

The outside was quiet as she sat herself on the front door step. It was late into the night, and everything was still. Natalie blinked back the sting of tears rising to her eyes as she took a deep breath in of the frost and mildew. She knew something bad had happened, she tried her best not to think about it. The Christmas lights hanging off of the edge of the rooftop reflected off of the white ground, sparkling. Suddenly, it began to snow. The girl watched as the snowflakes danced gently down through the night sky, landing on the streets and in her hair. Natalie felt warmth fall down her icy cheeks as she surrendered to her tears, quietly sobbing to herself as she looked out into the dark. Despite everything, the world was still so beautiful.

Toby stared quietly out from the passenger seat window, watching the snow as it fell. Jack remained silent as he drove down the highways of Alabama, keeping his eyes straight and his hands firm on the steering wheel. The boy sniffled to himself once in a while, coming down off of his evening buzz. He had always hoped for a mother, a father, something bigger than himself to tell him who to become. But as he stared out of the window into the dark abyss of the night, wartorn and battered, the world seemed so empty.

A few miles into the drive, Jack pulled the truck into a gas station parking lot, announcing that he was grabbing himself a cup of coffee, and that Toby should take a bathroom break before they continued with their long drive to Colorado. The bell jingled throughout the store which was nearly completely empty as the two men entered, Jack heading towards the coffee machine, and Toby to the toilets. The boy pushed past the door and quickly noticed all of the vandalism scribbled onto the walls, like a page from a book had been torn apart and plastered everywhere. His hand ran across some printing on a bathroom stall and read over a confession of sorts a passerby had left in a place they must’ve known they’d never return to. He read the admissions of guilt spread across the room, as if God had been listening. Memories of the old world rushed into his mind like the Great Flood, and he thought about all of the times he would wake up in places like these, thrashed and wrecked, with no recollection of what had happened, or the times he’d find himself leaning over the dirty sinks coughing up blood. His lungs must’ve been rotting. He never knew of anything that didn’t hurt.

Toby spent no more time in that bathroom as he rinsed his hands and quickly left back outside to the truck. Jack quietly placed his coffee into the cup holder next to him and continued to drive down the dark highway, into the night. The silence remained still between the two men, only the occasional car passed by them. Toby tapped his fingers against his knee as he thought to himself.

“You’re living in Alabama now?” He awkwardly asked, avoiding eye contact as Jack glanced over to the boy.

“Yeah, I am. I moved there mid-November. I thought it’d be easier for me if I was around people I knew. Like dipping my toe in the water,” Jack explained. He had turned away from his college room with his head down, running to Latin texts in the depths of an isolated forest. Jack started to find himself seeing the dead through the midst of the maple and oak trees which dangled hanged men from its branches. It seemed that he had no choice but to face what he had done, and find himself in the bustling streets of humanity once again. He wrote letters to his mother explaining a false reasoning for why he had left his education. He wrote them praying. Every letter he received back he collected as punishment for the sins he had committed. Jack kept them in a box under his bed.

“And you? Has North Dakota been keeping you busy?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Toby replied, fiddling with his thumbs as he kept his gaze down to his feet, “I actually started a small lumbering business for myself. Chopping wood and stuff.”

“That’s great to hear. Good for you,” Jack smiled.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, thanks for helping me out. Always putting up with my bullshit,” Toby eyed his shoes, he didn’t want to see the satisfied look on Jack’s face. He didn’t want to think about how smug he must’ve been after hearing those words fall from the troubled boy's mouth.

“You’re not as difficult as you think you are, Toby. I’m not the only one who puts up with you.”

Toby looked over at the man driving, and shook his head. He remained untended to, like an overgrown tombstone, sick with decay. It was as if, from the moment he was born, that boy had never needed anybody else. He never asked for help, or reached out for support.

“I’m on my own. Always have been.”

“What about Natalie?”

“What about her?”

“She’s always been by your side, hasn’t she?”

The boy stayed silent for a moment. Toby didn’t know how to tell Jack that she, too, had left him to dig his own grave many times. She, too, loathed him. It didn’t matter, he thought, he didn’t need her, or anyone, anyways.

“Everyone who tries to stomach me eventually chokes me back up, Jack. Nat isn’t an exception.” There was a childlike loneliness in Toby’s voice as he spoke. One that made Jack quickly come to the unfortunate understanding that Toby wasn’t a soldier, or a war hero, he was just a boy. And the burden of always being the one who grits his teeth and fights an old man's battle must be far too heavy for a boy to carry.

“Does that bother you?” Jack asked. Toby shrugged his tired shoulders.

“After you’ve done and seen all the shit I have, nothing really bothers you anymore.”

Jack looked over at the other once more, a golden boy made to conquer, his eyes were desensitized and dark. Toby was entirely indifferent to himself and the world around him. He knew nothing of the time that had passed him, only that somewhere, at some point, there was a war being fought, and he was now far from the battlefield. That boy had long since lost his innocence, and his homesickness lasted forever.

“Do you actually feel bad for the things you’ve done?” Toby spoke again.

“You know, Toby, my guilt doesn’t mean anything. Apologizing while I killed someone doesn’t make me any different than someone who didn’t. I still took somebody’s life, I still sinned.”

“When I killed my dad…” Toby’s voice trailed off for a moment, “It was the happiest I had ever been, like all of those years of fear finally amounted to something. And I would do it again in a heartbeat. I'd rather have all of that suffering make me into a monster than for it to be for nothing at all."

“You don’t think you had any other choice?”

“It had to be done. Sometimes things just have to be done.”

“I understand,” Jack replied softly as he continued to drive.

“Hopefully God understands,” Toby said quietly to himself, turning his head to look out of the window once again. He tried to describe something unfathomable. Fate, the God neither of them believed in, whatever explained it.

"I guess just knowing that somewhere, my dad is still out there... I can't help but miss him. And I don't know why." The boy confessed, staring up at the stars in the night sky as they shined down brightly on the two men. There was a sense of knowing that he would be carrying that rage with him until he died.

“Do you love your father?”

“No, I hate him more than anything. If you met him you’d understand. Why else do you think I do the things I do?” Toby sat up straight in his seat, chuckling sorrowfully to himself, “I became the exact thing I was so fucking scared of growing up. And nothings going to fuck with me ever again.”

“You’ve suffered enough, Toby. I know you have a lot to carry, you did what you had to do to survive, I get it, but you can put it all down and still be safe.”

“I know that, I’m not stupid. I know I’ll have to listen to everyone someday and just let all of this anger go. But it’s like it clings to me like some scared little kid and begs me not to. And I’m not going to betray myself like that.”

“It takes some time, but there’s always the option to make peace with the past whenever you’re ready. You just need to stop looking in the wrong places for redemption,” Jack said.

“Yeah you’re right, time for me to become Mr. Goody Good,” Toby joked back.

“It really is that simple, you know. One day, wake up and decide to be kinder to yourself, and maybe others. You have been through too much to treat yourself so badly.”

The boy stayed silent, the quiet ambience of the drive filled the air. Toby hadn’t realized that he had been doing nothing but torturing himself the entire time. He didn’t know how to treat himself with anything but violence.

“I’m proud of you, Toby.”

The words Jack spoke drilled holes into the boy's burning chest. Toby looked over at the man who was staring ahead, keeping his eyes on the road, before turning his gaze back down to his hands. He had to do the impossible when he left it all behind, but he was alive, and that was his start. The boy was given no other choice, he needed to make his way in that world, it was just another thing that had to be done. He had always assumed that everybody around him looked at him through his fathers eyes, full of hatred and disgust. Toby assumed that his bitterness had left him intolerable, and it had never occurred to him that there would ever be people in his life who would tolerate him anyways. The praise of his violence in the past was replaced with a soft ‘I love you regardless’ when Toby bared his teeth. He then thought to himself how awful it was that his happiness hurt too.

Soon, the sun began to rise over the western landscape and Jack pulled up to Toby’s mothers house. They sat silently for a moment in the truck before Toby spoke.

“Thanks for everything, Jack. You’re a good guy.”

“You too, Toby.”

The boy dragged his tired body to the front step of his childhood home and waved as Jack drove off back to Alabama. It was late into the day, and Toby hadn’t told his mother he was coming over for Christmas. He thought for a moment about all of the time he had spent fighting against the world, and he had slowly come to the understanding that soldiers either die, or they return home from the war. As his luck would have it, on that snowy Christmas afternoon, it seemed he had made it out of the combat zone alive, regardless of what he had done. And now, it was his job to find peace for himself despite it all.

When he entered through the front door with a spare key his mother had given him, he glanced over the empty house, a tall Christmas tree standing in the livingroom. Toby called out for his mom, and sister, only to find that nobody was home. He turned around to look at the driveway, and noticed both of their cars were still there. Closing the door behind him, a sense of dread building, the boy quietly made his way through the house, cautiously examining every room. In his mothers room, he noticed a suitcase on the floor which had been half-packed. Toby bent down to look through the items packed away, before jerking his head up as he heard the sound of the front door opening.

Toby slowly, and silently, walked towards the entrance of the house, lifting his hands up as he prepared himself for a fight. A loud scream filled the house as Lyra jumped at the sight of the intruding boy, putting her hand over her chest as she realized who it was.

“Jesus, Toby! What's wrong with you!” She yelled as Connie quickly rushed in after her screaming daughter, only to relax as she saw her son awkwardly apologizing.

Connie rushed up to Toby, hugging him tightly and laying a kiss on his cheek. Lyra rolled her eyes and shook off the lingering adrenaline, walking up to give her little brother a hug as well. His mother explained that they had planned a surprise trip to North Dakota to visit him, but he had gotten to them first.

“We were down the street visiting Mr. Mulner and his wife. You remember Caroline. She had a fall a couple of weeks ago. Everyone in the neighborhood has been bringing them giftsfor Christmas," Connie explained to the boy the exciting happenings in her life as Lyra rinsed off an empty cookie tray in the kitchen sink.

“Wow, spreading Christmas cheer. How’d you get Grinch over there to come with you?” Toby teased, nodding his head over to his sister who only rolled her eyes.

“So, are you going to be leaving again?” Connie asked with concern in her eyes. She could never keep tabs on him anymore.

“Yeah, eventually. I’ve been living up North with that girl I was telling you about and-”

“You’re living with a girl?” Lyra interrupted with shock, having been listening from the kitchen.

“Shut up Lyra, don’t act surprised,” Toby argued back.

“Don’t fight on Christmas you two,” their mother scolded with a sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Toby spent the day with his family, helping his mother cook dinner, and listening to Lyra’s latest gossip. The sun seemed to set as quickly as it rose, and the evening draped its darkness over the sky once more. After dinner, Connie went to bed early, and Toby sat in the livingroom with Lyra as they bickered over which Christmas movie to watch.

“Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie you dork,” she said.

“Fuck you, Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas movie.”

The warm glow of the lights that wrapped around the Christmas tree illuminated the livingroom as Lyra groaned and turned on Die Hard. Toby thought about all of the things he had talked about with Jack, and wondered if Natalie had gotten home safely yet. He thought about how strange that the place he thought of to be his home was no longer the place he sat in, but instead a small, old farmhouse in North Dakota. So many things had changed in such a short amount of time, and for once, as he sat by his sister under the roof he grew up in, he felt as if he could make something more for himself. For once, he felt a sort of happiness that didn’t hurt.

“Merry Christmas Toby,” Lyra whispered over to her brother, reeling him back in from his thoughts as he looked at her with a smile.

“Merry Christmas.”