#air plays dredge

[airs-headspace]

YEAH BAAABAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!

[airanke]

HI F R I E N D .

[arowizards]

when brennan said hundreds of needle-sharp transparent teeth he did that for alex ward and ME. <3

[demonic0angel]

I've been playing Dredge lately and had a thought:

Danny, a small seaside town's best fisherman, and his babies, Eldritch Dani and Dan, who prefer to live underwater and come up to see their dad, who goes out fishing every day.

His nets are always full, and his boat never encounters any problems. He always steers true, never goes off course, and keeps finding old sunken treasure in his haul.

Everyone in town knows Mr. Nightingale, and his boat sailing by becomes a sort of good omen for the folk of nearby towns. He always leaves on his own, comes back with his hold full, and two small children, which weren't in the boat in the morning, go running into town with their father at their heels. Then they all go to the beach at sunset, the children dive under the last big waves, just before the sun goes down, and twin masses of glowing lights swim into the distance, waiting for their father to go meet them again the next day.

It's good like that. The town prospers, the fish are good and plentiful for just having one or two fishermen go out every day, and the little family gets to live in a community that won't question their origins.

It's when one hero (whichever, Bat, Lantern, Martian or Super, whatever you prefer) in particular gets shot out of the air and washes into Mr. Nightingale's nets that questions start being asked, most importantly, where is the children's mother, and did Mr. Nightingale get intimate with the personification of the sea, like in Ponyo?

Extra: I know the favorite of the fandom is to ship Danny and a Bat, or a Super or Flash, or even Sam and/or Tucker.

But what if, in his late teens, Danny went off to learn from other Ghosts, met the ghostly embodiment of the ocean? They spent a few years being intimate, enough that they hosted Dani and Dan's unstable cores until proper maturity was reached, got two darling little ones out of the deal, and whenever Danny sails into the horizon, he goes to meet his partner in their own element, spends his time with them and comes back with gifts from his spouse, nets full of fresh fish, and gets the children for the rest of the day, so they can grow up in both worlds. They meet up at night at the beach so the little ones can play on the sand while their parents spend a few hours cuddling and watching the sunset.

Ooh, this sounds so interesting! Something about Danny being in love with an oceanic being sounds so ethereal? Like space and the deep sea, y’know? Two mysterious, deep places with hidden depths that humans cannot fully reach.

Not only does this remind me of Ponyo, but it also reminds me of the Pirates of the Caribbean (in a way), where two lovers are separated by sea and land. On that note, we could make Danny marry Davy Jones.

I have nothing to add, but I do think it would be funny if Danny was a hermit with a mysterious past and heroes start coming to his little sea port to ask for old, sage hero advice.

[elikajinnie]

Every Move You Make, I See It - P.J

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Jay X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Murder, Death, Stalking, Predator/Prey, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Suggestive Content, Feral Behaviour, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, the endings a bit fucked up.

Synopsis: The Entity's favored killers are violent, but a new hunter has arrived—and it’s fixated on you. Man or beast, no one can tell. All you know is: you’re being hunted.

a/n: did heeseung, sooo why not jay as well? interested in heeseungs? -> heeseung

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of jay was a creative endeavour. for educational purposes: mori means killing and it takes two hits in the game before you are downed. And to avoid confusion: when he`s running, his weapon is on his back.

now playing: rock you like a hurricane -2011 by scorpions | daydream by enhypen | chase it by set it off

--

You hated the killers who weren't human or weren't human before they ended up in the Entity's realm. The Xenomorph, the Unknown, the Singularity, the Dredge, Nemesis, Pyramid Head (you weren't really sure about that one), and the Demogorgon—all of them were violent, sparing no survivors, relentless, and merciless. Anytime you found yourself in a trial and they were the killer, annoyance simmered within you because you knew the round would be painful.

Then there were the other killers who weren't human anymore, like the Hag, Freddy Krueger, the Blight, Pinhead and Chucky. You were kind of relieved when the new killer, the Houndmaster, turned out to be more humane—well, unlike her dog, but that didn’t matter.

So when the survivors of the latest trial came back and announced they had just gone up against a new killer, you didn’t think much of it. New killers weren’t exactly rare, and the Entity loved throwing curveballs your way. But then they said something that made the room pause.

“I’m not sure if it was a man or a beast. It looked… human, but it also moved like a wolf.”

Jake, sitting across the campfire with a brow quirked, asked the obvious question. “Like a werewolf?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Great. A creature killer. The worst kind.

“Are you serious?” you muttered, glaring at Nea as if this was somehow her fault. “So, what? We’re dealing with something that bites again!?”

Nea shrugged helplessly, her face still pale from the trial. “It howled. Loud. I swear I heard it from across the map, and… it was hunting me. Not chasing, hunting.”

That word made something twist in your gut—uncomfortable, sharp. You hated the killers who acted like monsters, but the ones who actually were monsters? They were a nightmare. There was no bargaining with them, no understanding their patterns, no telling yourself they were just people corrupted by the Entity. Killers like the Demogorgon didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. Didn’t quit.

Now, apparently, this new killer—a wolf, a man, something in between—was joining that list.

Jake, always too curious for his own good, looked over at you. “What do you think its power is?”

“I think I don’t care,” you shot back, sharper than you intended. “It’s probably something that’ll tear you apart limb by limb, Jake.”

They looked at you for a moment, your irritation lingering in the air, before turning to the others to explain.

“We’re calling it The Beast,” Nea said, voice low, as though speaking the name might summon it. “It manipulates the map, and it hunts with precision. I swear it knew where I was the entire time.”

A chill crept up your spine, but you crossed your arms tightly, trying not to let it show.

“It had wolf attributes,” she continued, glancing around at the rest of you. “Fangs. Claws. The whole package.” She hesitated before adding, “It’s fast, too. Faster than most killers I’ve seen. The way it moves… it doesn’t just chase. It stalks, like Myers and Ghostface. But it’s worse.”

“How can it be worse?” Lara muttered.

Cheryl swallowed. “Because it runs on all fours. One second you see it watching from a distance, and the next, it’s charging you—low to the ground, like an actual wolf.”

Your jaw clenched as you listened, the mental image piecing itself together in your mind. A hulking figure with glowing eyes, tearing through the map with unnatural speed. It wasn’t just a killer anymore; it was something primal. Something built to hunt.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, looking away toward the shadows beyond the firelight. “Another killer that moves faster than us. Just what we needed.”

Feng, ever the optimist, tried to make light of it. “Well, maybe it’s like Huntress. You know—scary but manageable.”

“Manageable?” You shot her a look. “Did you not hear what they just said? It stalks. It runs like an animal. If it’s anything like Huntress, I’ll eat my boots.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied defensively, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Nea`s words echoed in your head: It knew where I was. That wasn’t normal. Killers had their tricks—perks, instinctual guesses—but this? This sounded like something worse. Like an instinct that couldn’t be evaded.

“So, what did you guys do?” Ada asked them. “Did you escape?”

They all looked at each other, and their expressions turned grim. “We didn’t.”

The group went quiet, everyone processing the meaning behind those words. You exhaled sharply through your nose and leaned forward, staring into the flames. Another killer to outwit, another trial that would leave you with scraped knees and shallow breaths if you were lucky.

But as much as you hated the creature killers—the ones who weren’t human anymore—you couldn’t deny the shiver of unease curling at the edge of your thoughts.

If The Beast hunted like a wolf, what did that make you? Prey.

It didn’t take long before you were face-to-face with The Beast. Three trials. Three exhausting rounds of barely escaping hooks and killers that felt almost predictable in comparison. You should’ve known your luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

The moment you entered the trial, you knew something was different. The forest was unfamiliar—not the usual suffocating realm of the Red Forest or Mother’s Dwelling. This was something worse. The trees were taller, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The underbrush was thick with sharp brambles, and the fog was heavier than you’d ever seen, curling around your ankles like it was alive.

You huffed quietly as you adjusted the toolbox in your hands, crouching low as you moved forward. The leaves crunched softly beneath your boots, and your eyes flickered upward every time you passed a crow perched on a twisted branch. You weren’t about to let those bastards give you away.

Stick to the shadows. Avoid open paths. Survive.

But just as you turned a corner around a massive log, you froze. A distant shout cut through the silence, sharp and panicked. Then came a sound you weren’t expecting: bells. Not the sharp, haunting toll of the Wraith—no, this was something different. Rhythmic and unnerving, like chimes carried by the wind.

Without thinking, you bolted in the direction of the noise. Branches whipped against your arms and face as you ran, your heart pounding in your ears. The toolbox rattled in your grip, but you didn’t dare stop. When you burst through a thicket of thorny bushes, you saw her—Sable.

She was on the ground, her leg caught in a snare trap. But this wasn’t a normal trap. It wasn’t the crude, rusty bear traps you’d seen with the Trapper. No—this snare trap was made of barbed wire, coiled tight around her calf, digging into the skin. Blood dripped from the cuts, staining the ground beneath her, and her face was twisted in agony.

“Sable!” you hissed, dropping to your knees beside her.

“It—it’s a trap,” she whimpered, trying to pull her leg free. The movement only made the wire dig deeper. “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t even see it.”

“Stop moving,” you snapped, fumbling with the wire as you set the toolbox down. Your fingers trembled as you worked, trying to pry the barbed loops apart without hurting her more. The sharp metal bit into your hands, and you hissed through gritted teeth as you felt blood well up along your palms.

Keep going, you told yourself. Ignore it.

The bells rang again—closer this time. You stiffened, head snapping up as your eyes darted around the clearing. The forest was too dark, the fog too thick. You couldn’t see anything, but you could feel it.

Something was watching you.

“Hurry,” Sable whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “It’s coming. I know it’s coming.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. With one last twist, the wire gave way, and you yanked it off her leg. Sable gasped, clutching her bleeding calf, but there was no time to stop and tend to it. You grabbed her arm, pulling her up as gently as you could.

“Can you run?” you asked urgently.

She nodded shakily, wincing. “Yeah. I think so.”

The bells tolled again, louder this time—low and hollow, like they were reverberating through the earth. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the sound was followed by something worse: a low, guttural growl.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

“Move,” you ordered, shoving Sable forward as you both started running.

You didn’t get far before you heard it—a sound you’d only heard described before, but never experienced yourself. The heavy thud of something large hitting the ground, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws digging into soil.

It wasn’t chasing you. It was hunting you.

The Beast had found its prey.

You and Sable made the mistake of turning around as you ran—and the sight froze your blood.

The Beast stood at the edge of the clearing, partially shrouded in shadow and fog, but you could see enough.

It was a tall man—if you could even call him that anymore. His frame was draped in black, torn clothes, a cloak of thick fur resting over his shoulders, matted and dark with grime. In his right hand, he held a glaive, its curved blade coated with blood, the metal glinting faintly in the low light. But it was his body that made your stomach twist.

His left arm was no longer human. It was covered in coarse black fur, stretched unnaturally over muscle and ending in claws that could shred through bone. The same grotesque transformation had overtaken his legs, fur and sinew wrapped around animalistic joints.

But it was his face that rooted you in place.

Black hair hung wild and untamed around sharp, angular features. His yellow eyes burned like embers in the darkness, fixed unrelentingly on you and Sable. And when he parted his lips, fangs appeared. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Cause then he tilted his head back—and howled.

The sound was deafening, ripping through the trees and echoing in the fog. It wasn’t a human scream, nor was it the howl of an animal. It was something in between, guttural and monstrous, vibrating deep in your chest like a death knell.

Sable gasped sharply, stumbling against you as her hands flew to her ears. “Go! Go!” she screamed.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The Beast lowered his gaze, his lips pulling back into a feral snarl, and then he moved.

It was almost too fast to process. One moment he was standing still, his claws flexing—then he dropped to all fours and charged.

You ran harder than you ever had before, pulling Sable with you as the sound of claws and snapping branches grew louder behind you. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but you didn’t dare slow down. Each thud of his movement felt like a countdown, and you knew if he caught you, it was over.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

But even as you sprinted through the forest, weaving between trees and leaping over roots, you could still hear him. The low growl, the heavy breath. He was toying with you—getting closer, letting you hear him hunt.

“Split up!” you shouted to Sable, shoving her forward as the two of you reached a fork in the path. She hesitated for a split second, fear painted across her face, but she nodded and darted left while you veered right.

It wasn’t long before you realized he had made his choice too.

The sounds of his pursuit didn’t fade into the distance. The thundering steps—furred limbs pounding against the earth—stayed close. Too close. You risked a glance over your shoulder and cursed under your breath. He was coming for you.

“Of course you’re following me!” you hissed through gritted teeth, adrenaline flooding your system. Your legs burned with effort, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Up ahead, salvation presented itself in the form of a wooden pallet propped precariously between two crates. A quick escape. You angled toward it, lungs screaming for air, and forced yourself to move faster. You could hear him gaining on you, his growl vibrating through the air like a warning.

As soon as you reached the pallet, you grabbed the edge and slammed it down with all your strength. The wood crashed onto the ground, kicking up dust, and you whipped around, a shaky smile breaking across your face as you realized you’d timed it perfectly.

You’d stunned him.

The Beast halted mid-pursuit, the heavy pallet pinning him momentarily. His claws curled against the wood, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. You allowed yourself a triumphant exhale—until his eyes snapped up to meet yours.

Your blood ran cold.

His eyes were no longer yellow. They were crimson—deep and glowing, like freshly spilled blood. The shift was immediate, like something inside him had awakened. The low growl that rumbled from his chest sent shivers down your spine, and for the first time, you noticed something you’d missed before.

The collar.

Thick and black, it wrapped around his neck like a cruel shackle. And on the front—glinting faintly in the dim light—were small silver bells. The bells. That’s where the sound had come from. Every movement, every step, was punctuated by that unnerving chime.

Your breath hitched as realization struck. The bells weren’t just for sound. They were a warning.

“Shit,” you whispered, backing up instinctively.

He growled again, louder this time, the sound vibrating through your chest. Then, in a blur of motion, he brought his clawed arm down on the pallet with enough force to shatter it. Wood splintered and exploded outward, shards clattering against the ground as the remains of your so-called “safety” crumbled at his feet.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and ran.

Your heart pounded in your ears as you darted through the underbrush, branches snapping and whipping against your face. Behind you, you could hear him—close enough that you swore you could feel his breath against the back of your neck.

You didn’t make it far before you felt it.

The whoosh of air as something massive swung toward you. A sharp, burning pain exploded across your back, and you screamed as claws tore through your shirt and raked deep into your skin. The impact sent you stumbling forward, your legs nearly giving out from the shock, but you pushed through it.

Move. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a small, rotting building with a open window. You sprinted toward it, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood seeping through your clothes.

As you reached the window, you grabbed the frame and vaulted over with everything you had, landing hard on the floor inside. The room was dim, filled with scattered debris, the smell of mold heavy in the air.

You turned, panting, your hand pressing instinctively against the wound on your back. Your heart sank when you saw him.

The Beast was already leaping after you.

His massive form vaulted the window with terrifying ease, the bells on his collar jingling faintly as he landed. His crimson eyes—still glowing like coals—locked onto you and didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t searching. He was focused, utterly and completely.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, stumbling backward. “That’s gotta be a perk.”

It had to be. You’d seen this kind of precision before—Killers who always seemed to know where you were, whether it was through a heartbeat, scratch marks, or some cruel Entity-given power. But this? Those eyes were more than just for show. They were locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.

There was no time to think.

You bolted for the door on the far side of the room, practically throwing yourself through it. You could hear him behind you, his footsteps heavy but fast, the sound of claws scraping against the wood.

As soon as you were outside, you didn’t stop—you started looping the building. It was a classic move, one every survivor knew by instinct. Buildings meant walls, walls meant obstacles, and obstacles meant a chance to survive.

You rounded the first corner, adrenaline surging through your veins. The pounding of his pursuit was right behind you, relentless. You glanced back just in time to see him skid around the corner, his glaive dragging through the dirt with a metallic scrape.

Keep moving.

The building’s loop wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to give you a sliver of breathing room. Every time you turned a corner or ducked through an opening, you’d gain a precious half-second before the sound of claws and bells filled the air again, signaling that he was still there. Still chasing.

You risked a quick glance behind you, just once, and instantly regretted it.

His red eyes were still locked onto you. Even as you looped him, even as you vaulted and sprinted, he hadn’t faltered. If anything, he looked… determined. Like the hunt was enjoyable.

“God, I hate creature Killers,” you growled under your breath as you rounded the building again, already trying to think of your next move.

You couldn’t loop forever. He was too fast, too precise. And worse, the burn of the slashes on your back was starting to slow you down. You needed a plan—and fast.

It wasn’t hard for him to catch up.

You’d pushed your body to the brink, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could make another desperate turn around the building, you felt the glaive swipe across your legs with brutal precision. Pain shot through you as your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

Dust and dirt kicked up around you as you hit the earth hard. For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, trying to breathe through the pain. Your ears rang, your body felt heavy, but instinct kicked in—you had to move.

With trembling arms, you started crawling. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere was better than staying there.

Don’t stop, you thought, dragging yourself forward inch by inch. Your blood left a streak in the dirt as you moved, but it didn’t matter. You had to—

A shadow loomed over you.

You froze, your head snapping to the side as you caught sight of it—a massive, bloodied paw. It dug into the earth by your face, the claws curling into the dirt with a sickening scrape. They were long, black, and sharp enough to skewer you where you lay.

You turned onto your back with a shaky gasp, dread settling deep in your chest as you looked up—and up.

The Beast stood over you, towering and monstrous, his hulking form casting you in shadow. Up close, the details were even worse. Sharp jaw. Unnaturally long fangs, his nose perfectly straight but twitching faintly, as if he was smelling you. The red glow of his eyes had narrowed into thin slits, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Drool hung from his parted mouth, dripping down to the dirt next to you.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Your gasp caught in your throat when he leaned down.

Closer.

The world seemed to slow as he brought his face near yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath. It fanned across your skin, hot and heavy, as though he was tasting the air around you. Then he inhaled—a long, deliberate breath that sent a shiver down your spine.

Somewhere deep in his chest, you heard it. A rumble. Low and resonant, like a growl—but there was something else in it. Something almost… pleased.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared up at him, wide-eyed, unable to look away.

Finally, he pulled back, just far enough for you to see the edges of his sharp grin. His lips curled as his gaze remained locked onto yours, and when he spoke, his voice rolled out in a deep, guttural tone—one that sounded as though it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… run well.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, your mind reeling. His voice was gravelly, rough around the edges, yet disturbingly clear. There was something undeniably human in the way he spoke—twisted and broken, but human all the same.

You blinked up at him, your throat dry, unable to form a response.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “But you’re slow now.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t mocking. It was observational, like he was analyzing you, trying to figure you out. He crouched lower, his furred claws pressing deeper into the dirt, his bells jingling faintly with the movement.

You flinched as his glaive scraped against the ground beside you, the noise grating against your ears.

“What are you?” you croaked, your voice barely audible, trembling as the question left your lips.

The Beast’s grin widened, and the crimson glow in his eyes seemed to burn brighter.

“Hunter.”

And with that one word, he reached down. The moment his clawed hand wrapped around you, you knew what was coming.

“No, no!” you gasped, but it didn’t matter. With an unsettling ease, the Beast picked you up as though you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder. His grip was firm—too firm—and you felt the sharp edges of his claws pressing into your side, a silent warning not to squirm too much.

Like hell that was going to stop you.

You immediately started wiggling in his hold, kicking your legs and twisting your upper body, desperate to break free. You’d done this before—countless times. It was second nature to fight, to struggle, to buy yourself just a few more precious seconds. But this time, it was different.

Your movements barely fazed him.

The Beast huffed out a low growl, annoyed more than anything, like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His bells chimed softly with every heavy step, each sound growing closer and closer to dread.

“Let go, you bastard!” you hissed, pounding a fist against his back. It was like hitting solid stone beneath that cloak of fur.

Before you could muster another attempt, you felt him stop. Your stomach dropped. You turned your head just enough to see it—the hook, rusty and towering.

“No—wait, wait—!”

You screamed as the sharp, unforgiving metal pierced into your shoulder, the pain blinding. Your body arched involuntarily as you were hoisted upward, the hook locking you in place like a gruesome marionette. Tears pricked at your eyes as you gasped for breath, the white-hot sting radiating through your arm and chest.

You forced yourself to look down through blurry vision, trying to center yourself despite the pain. That’s when you noticed it.

The Beast had turned away from you, his posture rigid. His yellow eyes—no longer the deep red from before—snapped toward something unseen, a faint snarl escaping his lips. It was subtle at first, just the twitch of his ear and a low growl that rattled through the air. Then, without warning, he took off.

Fast.

You barely had time to process it. One second, he was standing still, and the next, he was gone, his speed a blur that rivaled the Nurse when she blinked through the map. His bells jingled sharply, fading into the distance like some terrible alarm.

“Shit,” you muttered, panting as you hung from the hook. You had seen Killers leave quickly before—Michael Myers, Ghostface, even Wraith when they heard someone nearby—but this? This was different. His speed was unnatural, like he wasn’t just hunting—he was responding.

Someone had grabbed his attention.

Clenching your teeth, you scanned the area. The thick fog made it impossible to see much, but you knew better than to waste time. With shaky hands, you reached up and gripped the hook, biting back a scream as the movement sent pain jolting through your shoulder. You had to get down.

With one sharp tug, you gasped as you unhooked yourself. The motion sent you tumbling to the ground, your knees hitting the dirt hard as the metallic sting in your shoulder flared hot.

For a second, you didn’t move, staring at the ground in disbelief. You did it.

You turned your head, breathing heavily as you glanced upward, seeing the Entity’s claws frozen—hanging mid-air, its barbed talon twitching as though struggling against something unseen.

You scrambled to your feet, clutching your injured shoulder as you stumbled away from the hook. Pain pulsed with every step, but you pushed through it, dragging yourself behind two massive boulders just far enough from where you’d been hooked.

The moment you were hidden, you sagged to the ground, leaning against the cold stone. Your fingers shook as you fumbled for your med-kit, flipping it open and pulling out a roll of bandages. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered, forcing yourself to focus.

You could hear the forest around you, the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional whisper of wind and the faint creak of trees swaying in the fog. But just as you started wrapping your shoulder, the peace shattered.

A distant, loud howl cut through the silence.

You froze, the sound rumbling across the map like thunder. It was long and drawn-out, echoing ominously through the thick fog, sending chills racing down your spine.

Somewhere far off, a generator powered up with a loud hum. You flinched at the noise, your heart racing. The sound was like a signal, bright and sharp against the quiet, a neon sign for the killer to follow.

Then, almost immediately after, you heard it: two survivors screaming.

“Shit,” you whispered, yanking the bandages tight around your shoulder with a hiss. You ignored the sting, forcing yourself to finish patching up as quickly as possible. You couldn’t afford to waste time, not when the Beast was on the prowl.

Sliding the med-kit back into your belt, you pressed your back against the boulder and carefully peered around its edge.

He’s fast, you thought, replaying everything in your mind. Faster than most killers you’d faced. And those howls… they weren’t just for show. He was tracking you, tracking everyone.

And if he had heard those screams—if he was responding like he had with you—then two survivors were about to have a very bad time.

--

You crouched by the generator, your fingers working quickly to untangle wires and tighten bolts as the machine clunked and whirred under your touch. The hum of progress filled the tense silence, but your eyes never stopped darting to the treeline. You scanned the fog for any sign of movement—any flash of red eyes, any sound of bells.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no growls. No howls. No heavy, animalistic breathing. For a brief moment, you let yourself believe you were safe.

Then, a distant scream pierced the stillness, sharp and panicked.

You froze, your hands hovering above the generator as you closed your eyes with a sigh. “Again?” you muttered under your breath. He was relentless—hunting like a wolf with no intention of letting up.

You shook your head and got back to work, forcing your hands to steady. There wasn’t much else you could do. The generator needed to be fixed, and the only way anyone was escaping this hellhole was through powered gates.

The next time you glanced up, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sable limped toward you, her form emerging from the fog like a ghost. She looked like she’d barely escaped—her clothes were torn, and fresh blood streaked down her leg from a deep gash. Her face was pale and damp with sweat, but she still managed to flash you a weak grin as she knelt beside the generator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sable muttered, already reaching for the wires to help. Her voice wavered, but her hands moved with practiced precision. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you shot back, though your brow furrowed as you spared her a quick glance. “But you look bad. Did he—”

“Caught me near the edge of the map. The bastard’s too fast, but…” She paused to take a sharp breath, wincing as she shifted her weight. “I got away. Barely.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “He hooked you?”

“No, but it was close.” Sable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he wanted me to get away.”

That made you pause. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her hands fumbling with a stubborn wire. “I don’t know how to explain it. He had me. He could’ve downed me completely. But he just… watched me. Like he was testing me.”

You frowned, unsettled by the idea. “You sure he didn’t just screw up?”

Sable let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a chance. He’s too precise. The way he hunts, the way he moves—he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like…” She trailed off, biting her lip as the generator sparked briefly to life. “It’s like he’s playing with us.”

You tightened your grip on the wrench, trying to ignore the chill that crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to think about that. The Beast was already terrifying enough without the idea that he was toying with you.

“Let’s just get this gen done,” you muttered, shaking your head. “We can freak out later.”

Sable gave a small nod, both of you falling silent as you focused back on the task at hand. The generator rattled and sparked, the noise jarring in the quiet forest. You worked faster, both of you aware of how loud it was, how easy it would be for him to find you here.

Minutes stretched on, and you let yourself hope. Maybe you’d finish it. Maybe you’d—

A low, distant howl echoed through the fog.

You both froze.

“Shit,” Sable whispered, her face going pale.

The howl was closer this time, vibrating in your chest like the low growl of an engine. You heard the faint jingle of bells somewhere in the distance, growing louder—closer.

Your stomach dropped. He was coming.

The generator sparked again, and you and Sable flinched at the noise. Your hands were a blur, working faster now as dread crept up your spine. Every second counted. Every wire fixed, every bolt turned brought you closer to escape.

But then—

“That’s twice now,” a voice rumbled behind you. Low. Deep. Familiar. “You really ought to pay more attention to what’s around you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You and Sable froze mid-action, your breaths hitching in unison. Slowly—so slowly—you turned around, dread bubbling up like bile.

He was there.

Crouched in the shadows of the fog just a few meters away, half-hidden behind the curve of a tree. His yellow eyes were locked on the two of you, unblinking and unrelenting.

From this angle, you could see him clearer than before. His long glaive rested lazily in his normal hand, its blade still slick with fresh blood. His furred legs were bent as though ready to pounce at any second, his sharp claws digging into the dirt beneath him. And yet… he wasn’t rushing forward. Not yet.

Sable’s breath hitched beside you, her fingers curling tightly around a wrench as if it would do her any good. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” she whispered.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his yellow eyes narrowing as a low rumble vibrated in his chest. His gaze slid between the two of you like he was deciding which one to strike first.

“Run,” you whispered to Sable, not daring to break eye contact with him. “On three.”

“He’s too close,” she hissed back, her voice shaking.

“I don’t care—three!”

Before she could argue, you grabbed Sable’s wrist and yanked her with you as you bolted to the side, darting between the thick trees. A sharp, guttural growl erupted behind you, and you didn’t need to look back to know he was coming.

The bells. You heard the bells.

They rang in quick, chaotic bursts, each chime louder than the last as he pursued you. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped under his heavy, relentless strides, the sound too fast—too close.

“He’s on us!” Sable cried out, stumbling as she tried to keep pace.

You pushed her forward, urging her on. “Move!”

The forest blurred as you ran, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his glaive held low, his yellow eyes locked directly on you, his movements unnervingly fluid—unnervingly natural.

He’s toying with us.

“Split up!” you shouted, veering sharply to the right.

Sable cursed but didn’t hesitate, darting left as you broke off in the opposite direction. You weaved through the dense trees, ducking under low-hanging branches and leaping over exposed roots. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t dare slow down.

The bells stopped.

You skidded to a halt behind a thick tree, pressing your back against its rough bark as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell sharply, your shoulder aching where the hook had pierced you earlier.

Silence.

Where is he?

You froze when you heard Sable’s scream cut through the forest, sharp and gut-wrenching. You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening around the edge of the tree as you processed what had just happened. He went after Sable. A pang of guilt flared in your chest, but it didn’t linger long—survival didn’t allow for much remorse. Sable knew the rules of the game as well as you did.

Without wasting another second, you turned back the way you came, darting quietly through the trees until you reached the half-finished generator. It sat there waiting, wires exposed and sparking faintly.

You crouched down and got back to work, your hands moving with a practiced urgency. Your ears were still on high alert, listening for the telltale jingling of bells or the rustle of something heavy moving through the fog.

Above you, the sky let out a deep, thunderous rumble, and the faint hum of the Entity’s claws slicing through the air echoed through the forest. Your stomach sank as you realized what that meant—Sable had been sacrificed.

Hooked twice already, you thought grimly, your expression tightening. I didn’t even realize.

You pushed the thought aside and focused on the task in front of you. There was no time to dwell.

"Sorry, Sable," you muttered under your breath, twisting a stubborn wire until it clicked into place. "Guess you’re out."

The generator sputtered, the sound growing louder as it inched closer to completion.

When the generator let out a loud, jolting clunk as the last bolt clicked into place. Sparks flew, and its lights blared to life, piercing through the thick fog.

You didn’t wait.

The second the generator roared to life, you took off running, your feet pounding against the forest floor. You knew better than to linger.

Two more. Just two more.

The thought became your mantra as you ducked low, weaving through the dense trees and tall grass. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the sound of the forest around you.

You needed a new plan. The others were still out there somewhere, working—hopefully—on the last remaining generators. If you could find one, or them, you’d have a chance.

You slid into a crouch behind a massive log, taking a second to catch your breath and survey your surroundings.

Then you heard it.

A faint jingling.

Shit.

You stayed low, your pulse spiking as the sound of bells grew louder, each chime like nails scraping across your nerves. You scanned the trees, your eyes darting wildly, trying to catch any sign of movement.

A shadow.

You flinched when you saw it—a dark silhouette moving through the fog, slow and deliberate. He was hunting again, his glaive dragging faintly against the dirt as he moved.

You held your breath and stayed perfectly still, your body coiled tight like a spring. He hadn’t seen you yet. You could wait him out—let him pass.

The jingling slowed. Stopped.

You frowned.

Why did he stop?

Before you could react, a low growl rumbled behind you.

No. No, no, no—

You spun around just in time to see him emerging from the fog towards you, his yellow eyes locked directly on you. His glaive gleamed in the pale light, slick and ready, his sharp claws flexing at his side.

You didn’t think—you ran.

He was on you immediately, the bells ringing out in chaotic bursts as he gave chase. You zigzagged through the trees, vaulting over fallen logs and ducking under branches. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t stop.

In the distance, you spotted something—a structure. Another shack.

You darted toward it, adrenaline pushing you forward as the growls and bells got closer, louder. You risked a glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was gaining on you.

With a desperate burst of speed, you vaulted through the window of the shack, landing hard on the other side. You stumbled but kept moving, running for the exit on the far end.

A loud crash echoed behind you as the Beast vaulted through the same window, his crimson eyes locked on you once again.

“You’re fast,” he growled, his deep, unused voice vibrating through the air, “but not fast enough.”

You ignored him, barreling out of the shack and looping back around, trying to buy yourself time. You knew he was faster but you had experience. Loops. Pallets. Technique.

You screamed as the Beast’s claws suddenly sliced across your back, sharp and unrelenting. Pain exploded through you, white-hot and disorienting, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the agony and darted around the corner of some cages—rusted metal stacked haphazardly.

Your heart hammered as you sprinted, the sound of his heavy steps pounding behind you. You ran around as you desperately tried to put distance between you and him. Each turn felt like an eternity, every breath burning in your chest.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you skidded to a halt on one side of the cages, gasping for air.

The Beast stopped too.

You froze, your body tense as you watched him through the gaps in the rusted bars. He stood on the opposite side, unmoving. His yellow eyes, glowing faintly in the dark fog, stared directly into yours—sharp, unblinking, predatory.

And then, to your horror, he straightened up.

His hand reached over his shoulder, and you watched as he pulled his glaive from his back with a deliberate, almost casual motion. The blade gleamed darkly in the faint light as he spun it around his hand once—twice—with an unsettling ease.

The growl that followed was deep, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, but there was something else there. Amusement.

“Done running, little bunny?” His voice was low and rough, the words dripping with condescension.

Your blood ran cold. Little bunny.

“Shut up,” you spat, though your voice wavered.

He chuckled—he actually chuckled. The sound was dark, guttural, but far too human. It made your skin crawl.

“You’re a scrappy one, I’ll give you that,” he continued, tilting his head slightly as he dragged the glaive along the ground. “But you’ve been running for nothing.”

You frowned, your breath still coming in shallow gasps. “What?”

His eyes seemed to gleam as his lips pulled back into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?”

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “Noticed what?”

“You’re alone,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What—?”

He stepped closer to the cage wall, his gaze never leaving you. “You’re the last one left, little bunny. All your friends? Gone.”

You felt the ground shift beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re lying.”

Another rumbling chuckle. “Am I?”

The weight of his words crashed over you. The distant screams, the sound of the Entity rumbling in the sky—it all clicked into place. You hadn’t seen or heard anyone since Sable was taken. You thought someone else must still be working on the last generators, that maybe you had a chance.

But there was no one.

You were alone.

The Beast twirled his glaive again, the movement smooth and practiced. “You’ve fought well, but there’s nowhere left to run now.”

You tightened your grip on your side, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you met his predatory stare head-on. “Yeah?” you shot back, forcing your voice not to waver. “We’ll see about that.”

His grin widened, showing those gleaming fangs. “That’s the spirit.”

And then he moved.

You bolted the moment he lunged, the sharp whistle of his glaive cutting through the air as it missed you by mere inches. Your legs burned, your lungs screamed, but you pushed through, adrenaline surging through your veins. Run. Run. Run.

The Beast’s snarls echoed behind you, low and feral, punctuated by the pounding of his paws against the dirt. Every sound he made—growls, the snapping of his jaws, the guttural rumble of his breaths—sent chills racing down your spine.

You vaulted through a broken window of an old cabin, landing hard and stumbling but managing to stay upright. Without hesitation, you sprinted to the door on the other side, pushing it open and darting back out into the fog.

He’s still coming.

A heavy crash followed as he smashed through the window, unwilling to waste time following your path.

“Run faster, little bunny,” he growled from behind you, voice vibrating with dark amusement.

You hit a pallet, slamming it down just as he reached for you. The pallet struck his claws and chest with a loud crack, stopping him for a brief moment.

His red eyes snapped to you through the wooden slats, glowing with a furious intensity. Saliva dripped from his open jaws, long strings of it trailing to the ground as his chest heaved. With one clawed hand, he punched the pallet and crushed it into splinters.

You didn’t wait to see more—you ran.

Vaulting another window, you kept going, looping around the same structures, buying yourself time. He didn’t stop. No matter how many pallets you threw down, no matter how many windows you vaulted, the Beast was relentless.

You could hear him—feel him—close behind. The slap of his claws on the ground mixed with heavy breaths and the eerie jingling of the bells around his collar.

You passed through what looked like a slaughtered campsite—shredded tents, broken traps scattered across the dirt. A bloodied deer carcass laid limply on the ground, stomach ripped open. Nearby, a hunting lodge sat in decay, its walls splattered with claw marks. You didn’t slow, vaulting through the shattered lodge window.

As you looped through, your eyes darted across the environment.

A ruined jeep, long abandoned and covered in deep gashes. A pile of deer antlers stacked near an overturned trailer. Rusted cages lined with old bones—animal and human.

Everywhere you looked, the theme was clear. Hunting.

This was his map.

Everything—every structure, every grim detail—centered on the hunt. It was like you’d been dropped into his personal territory, a domain built to trap prey.

And right now, you were the prey.

You dashed between two more carcasses, your breathing ragged as you tried to keep moving. You could hear him still—too close, too fast.

“Run, little bunny.”

The words echoed in your head as you hit another pallet. You slammed it down just in time, hearing him growl as the wood cracked under his claws.

But this couldn’t last forever.

Your lungs were on fire, legs trembling as you stumbled around the thick trunk of a massive tree. His claws whistled through the air behind you, grazing your back just enough to tear the fabric of your shirt but leaving your skin intact.

And then you saw it.

The hatch.

It was nestled behind a massive fallen tree, partially hidden in the fog and decay, but there it was—your way out.

Your heart leapt in your chest as adrenaline surged through you. This was it.

You veered sharply to the right, pushing yourself faster than you thought possible. The fallen tree was a jagged mess of roots and splintered wood, but it didn’t matter. You scrambled up and over it, your hands scraping bark and dirt as you propelled yourself forward.

A deafening snarl erupted from behind you, so close it sent shivers crawling across your skin.

He’s right there.

But it didn’t matter—because you jumped.

You threw yourself toward the hatch, gravity pulling you down into its dark void. For a split second, you heard him—his enraged growl echoing through the trees, his claws slamming into the ground just inches too late.

And then you fell.

Everything went black for a heartbeat.

When you opened your eyes, you were back at the campfire.

The soft crackling of flames greeted you, warm and soothing compared to the oppressive silence of the fog. You landed on the damp ground in a heap, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

You were okay.

You glanced around, the familiar sights of the survivor camp slowly coming into focus. The fire flickered, its glow dancing across the empty logs and scattered supplies.

Your hands shook as you pressed them to the ground beneath you, grounding yourself, your heart still racing.

You did it.

You survived.

The realization hit you like a wave, leaving you breathless all over again. You were the first to survive the Beast.

The first.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you sat back, wiping the sweat and dirt from your face.

--

After that trial, when you managed to crawl into one of the ramshackle tents at the survivor camp, exhaustion dragged you under almost instantly. Your body was drained, and the adrenaline crash left you hollow and heavy. Sleep overtook you like a wave pulling you down into the deep.

But rest didn’t come easily.

The dream came swiftly, vivid and all too real.

You were back in the forest—his forest. The trees loomed tall, twisted and unkind, the ground littered with sharp branches and the glimmer of moonlight cutting through the fog. You could hear him in the distance: the soft jingle of the bells, the heavy thump of his claws on the ground.

You ran.

Your lungs burned as you tore through the darkness, stumbling over roots and ducking beneath low branches. But no matter how fast you moved, he was always there—just behind you. You could feel his presence, the weight of his stare pressing into your back.

“Run, little bunny,” his voice rumbled, dark and teasing, drifting through the fog like smoke.

You glanced back—and there he was. The Beast.

His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, locked on you with unwavering focus. He chased you on all fours, his sharp claws tearing into the earth as he moved with an unnatural grace. His glaive was gone, leaving him raw and feral, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

You screamed, pushing yourself faster, your body aching with every step.

And then—he caught you.

It happened so suddenly, you barely had time to process it. A sharp weight hit you from behind, sending you tumbling to the ground. Before you could scramble away, his body pinned you down, trapping you beneath him.

You froze, chest heaving as you stared up at him. Up close, he looked even more terrifying—wild and untamed, his mouth parted just enough to reveal sharp fangs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

But then, something shifted.

He didn’t harm you.

Instead, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his clawed arms as though you weighed nothing. You tried to struggle, but it was no use—his grip was firm, unrelenting, and yet… gentle.

He carried you deeper into the forest, further into the unknown, until you reached a cave nestled within the hills. It was dark and cool inside, the air heavy with the smell of earth and stone. He set you down carefully on a soft pile of fur—furs like his cloak.

You pressed yourself against the cave wall, unsure whether to scream or cry, but he only crouched before you, his red eyes staring into yours.

“Mine,” he growled, the word rumbling deep in his chest like a purr. His voice was dark and heavy, yet strangely… soft.

You blinked up at him, trembling. “W-what?”

“Mine,” he repeated, his hand brushed your cheek with shocking gentleness. The way he touched you sent shivers down your spine.

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “My bunny. Mine to keep.”

The growls in his voice softened into something sweet, almost melodic, as though he were coaxing you to stay calm. It should have terrified you—it did terrify you—but there was something unsettlingly comforting about the way he spoke.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

And then you woke up.

You shot up in your makeshift bedroll, a strangled gasp escaping your throat as your heart pounded violently in your chest. Your hands gripped the thin blanket, sweat cooling on your skin.

You looked around frantically, the familiar interior of the cabin grounding you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But it felt so real.

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, trying to calm your racing heart.

It was just a dream…

A dream.

Sleep was out of the question after that. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see him—his crimson gaze, his claws brushing against your skin, his voice growling.

With a frustrated sigh, you kicked off the thin blanket and stood up, walking out of the cabin. Your thoughts were too loud, your body still tingling with the residual terror—and something else you didn’t want to name.

I need to clear my head.

You started walking, keeping close to the edges of the survivor camp but wandering far enough to feel alone. You let the quiet of the place settle around you, your boots crunching softly against the dirt.

Eventually, you found yourself near the invisible barrier that separated the survivors from them—the killers. You weren’t even sure why you wandered so close. Curiosity? Stupidity? Maybe you just needed to remind yourself where the line was drawn.

But then you froze.

Two figures stood just beyond the thin veil of fog.

The Trickster and Ghostface.

Their presence sent a cold shock through your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. But it was too late—they’d seen you. Trickster tilted his head, a grin already curling across his lips, and Ghostface’s mask turned to you.

“Well, well, well,” Trickster drawled, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. He leaned casually against a tree, his golden eyes practically glowing as he looked you over. “If it isn’t the Beast’s bunny.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Ghostface let out a low, chuckling hum, his gloved hand tracing the edge of his knife as he stepped closer. “Oh, don’t play dumb. We know. You gave him quite the wild ride, sweetheart.”

You felt your face flush hot with anger and embarrassment. “Shut up,” you snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trickster cackled, his laughter loud and sharp, the sound echoing eerily in the fog. “Oh, come on. He came back furious after your little escape. Threw a fit like I’ve never seen. It was delicious.”

Ghostface chimed in, his tone teasing but low. “You’re all he could talk about, too. It’s like you’re his personal obsession now.” He mimicked the Beast’s deep growl mockingly: ‘Bunny.’

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “I don’t care what he said.”

“Mm, but you do care, don’t you?” Trickster purred, his smile widening as he leaned closer to the invisible line that separated you. “I bet you’re wondering why you’re so special. Why he didn’t mori you when he had the chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you hissed, taking a step back.

Ghostface tilted his head, the white of his mask gleaming through the fog. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like his attention? After all, he went easy on you. That doesn’t happen often, you know.”

Trickster tapped a clawed finger against his temple. “You should feel honored, little bunny. Not every survivor gets a pet name.”

You glared at them, your skin crawling under their relentless teasing. You wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go back to their side of the fog and leave you alone, but you knew better. Picking a fight with killers—even ones that couldn’t touch you here—was asking for trouble.

Instead, you turned on your heel and stalked away, their laughter following you like a shadow.

“Sweet dreams, bunny!” Trickster called out behind you, voice dripping with mockery.

You didn’t look back.

Your head spun as you walked further into the camp, their words replaying in your mind. The Beast’s bunny. His obsession. Why didn’t he mori you when he had the chance?

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, frustration and unease settling deep in your chest. Why didn’t he?

--

The drop into the trial was as dizzying as always—the world around you materializing in a disorienting rush of fog and cold air. You hit the ground with a stumble, steadying yourself with a sharp breath. But as soon as you looked up, your heart sank.

No.

No, no, no.

Tall, twisted trees loomed in every direction, their jagged silhouettes clawing at the sickly sky. Bushes dense enough to hide anything rustled faintly in the breeze, and the unmistakable scent of damp earth and decay filled your nose. Ahead, you spotted the broken remains of a hunting lodge, its rotting wood and shattered windows familiar. Then, a flash of metal caught your eye—the glint of a rusted, blood-streaked hunting trap half-buried in the dirt.

Your blood ran cold.

You were on his map.

“Damn it,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, but the words echoed loud in your head.

Your stomach twisted as you remembered the last trial, his relentless pursuit, the flash of red in his eyes, the scrape of his claws.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself. You couldn’t afford to freeze up now—not here, not on his turf.

Taking a deep breath, you gripped your flashlight and started moving, staying low as you weaved between the trees. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, like the map itself knew you were here—like he knew.

The broken-down jeep came into view, its rusting shell half-buried in leaves. You recognized it instantly—another landmark of his hunting ground. Just past it, you spotted the faint silhouette of a generator.

Focus, you told yourself. Find the gens. Fix them. Get out.

You crept closer, crouched low and trying not to make a sound. As you reached the generator, you knelt down and set your flashlight beside you.

You swallowed and started to work, your hands shaking slightly as you connected wires and tightened bolts. The hum of the generator grew louder with every adjustment, breaking the oppressive silence just a little.

But then you heard it.

A low, deep rumble carried through the trees.

Your hands froze. You didn’t even breathe as you strained to listen. At first, it sounded distant—almost like thunder rolling in—but then it grew closer. A soft, rhythmic growl, paired with the faint jingle of…

Bells.

Your heart plummeted.

Slowly, you turned your head, your blood running ice-cold. Through the thin veil of fog, you saw him—The Beast.

He stood just at the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the shadows of the trees. His black cloak swayed faintly in the breeze, the fur draping over his broad shoulders as if it were part of him.

But it was his eyes—those glowing crimson eyes—that locked onto you like a predator spotting prey.

You couldn’t move. For a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Then he tilted his head, and his lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile.

“Found you, little bunny.”

The sound of his voice—deep, rough, and unnervingly calm—snapped you out of your frozen state.

Run.

You shot up to your feet, abandoning the half-finished generator. Sprinting through the trees, you heard the pounding of footsteps behind you—heavy and impossibly fast. The bells on his collar rang softly with each movement, a haunting counterpoint to the blood rushing in your ears.

You weaved around trees and over logs, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself to move faster. But no matter how hard you ran, the growls grew louder, closer.

He’s toying with you.

The thought made your chest tighten with panic. You darted past a deer carcass, its lifeless eyes staring blankly, and nearly tripped over a hunting trap concealed in the leaves. A quick glance over your shoulder made your blood freeze.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his claws dug into the dirt with every step, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. Drool dripped from his snarling mouth, and those red eyes—those damn eyes—never left you.

You turned sharply, sprinting toward a cluster of old crates and barrels. The familiar sight of a pallet gave you hope, and you grabbed hold of it, shoving it down just as he lunged forward. The pallet crashed to the ground, momentarily blocking his path.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next.

Vaulting over a window in a broken shack, you stumbled inside, gasping for air. Your heart thundered in your chest, but you seized the moment. The shack was small and dark, its rotting walls barely holding together, but the row of lockers against one wall caught your eye. Hiding was risky, you knew that, but running blindly wouldn’t get you far—not against him.

Quickly, you slipped into one of the lockers, squeezing yourself into the cramped space. The door creaked softly as you pulled it shut, and you winced, holding your breath as you pressed your body back as far as it would go.

You put a trembling hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to stay silent. Through the thin gaps in the locker, you could see into the room—shadows cast from the broken windows danced across the splintered floor. For a few agonizing seconds, there was nothing but silence.

Then you heard it.

The faint clink of bells.

Your stomach dropped.

The door to the shack creaked as it swung open, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Slow, deliberate steps—he wasn’t in a hurry. He knew you were here.

Through the locker’s slats, you caught glimpses of him. He prowled into view, hunched slightly forward as he sniffed the air, his claws scraping the wood with every step.

Then he stopped.

Right in the middle of the room.

You bit down on your hand, trying to control your ragged breathing as your chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. His head tilted slightly, his crimson eyes sweeping the shack as though he could see through the walls. He growled—a low, vibrating sound that rattled in his chest.

“Little bunny,” he called softly, his voice rough and cruelly sweet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t hear the pounding of your heart.

“I can smell you,” he continued, dragging out the words. “You ran so far… fought so hard… yet here you are. Hiding.”

His footsteps began again, the sound of bells chiming with each movement. You peeked through the slats and saw him move toward the lockers. Your blood turned to ice.

He stopped at the first locker.

The metal hinges creaked loudly as he tore the door open. Empty.

A low rumble escaped him—disappointed but patient.

Don’t open this one… don’t open this one, you thought frantically.

You watched as he moved to the second locker.

Your heart was in your throat, your entire body shaking as you clamped your hand harder over your mouth. He gripped the handle of the second locker door, then yanked it open with a growl.

Empty again.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your skin crawl.

Then he turned to your locker.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensed as you stared through the gaps. His red eyes locked onto the locker door—onto you. You felt it.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the glaive scraping against the floor as he moved. He was toying with you, savoring the fear that radiated off you in waves.

His clawed hand reached out, wrapping around the handle.

No, no, no—

Suddenly, the faint sound of a generator powering up echoed in the distance.

The Beast paused. His head snapped up, and his growl turned into a snarl. He hesitated for only a moment, then released the locker handle.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

With one last glare toward your hiding spot, he turned and stalked out of the shack, his bells jingling softly as he disappeared into the fog.

It wasn’t until you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore that you dared to move.

Your hand fell away from your mouth as you gasped, air rushing into your lungs. You were shaking so badly you nearly fell out of the locker when you pushed the door open.

Slumping against the wall of the shack, you wiped sweat off your forehead and tried to steady your breathing.

That was too close.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, standing up on wobbly legs.

You slipped out of the shack, your steps light as you crept toward the edge of the clearing. The cool air hit your face, but it did nothing to soothe the burn of exhaustion in your chest. Just as you were about to get your bearings, a blood-curdling scream cut through the silence.

Your stomach twisted at the sound of another survivor being hooked. You could almost feel their pain.

Shaking your head, you adjusted your grip on your flashlight and made your way back to the generator you’d started earlier.

The map was eerily quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Entity’s realm and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

You eventually spotted the generator up ahead, the same one you’d been working on before everything went sideways. It was tucked between two thick trees, its rusted frame bathed in the faint glow of moonlight.

Crouching down, you wasted no time. Your hands moved quickly, twisting bolts, reconnecting wires, and steadying sparking circuits. The generator let out small electric whines as you worked, and you winced every time it sounded too loud.

Your pulse quickened when you saw the progress bar fill just a little more. You were close—so close. The distant sounds of the map felt muffled as you zoned in on your work. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.

Then you heard it.

A growl.

Your hands froze mid-movement. You didn’t dare look up.

The sound was distant at first—like an echo carried by the fog—but it was unmistakable. Him.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, forcing your shaking hands to continue fixing the generator. If you stopped now, it’d all be for nothing.

You twisted one final bolt, and the generator sputtered before roaring to life. Its floodlights lit up the area, and the familiar blaring noise followed, announcing your progress to anyone listening.

Your breath hitched.

And that included him.

Somewhere close by, a howl ripped through the forest. Loud, guttural, and far too close for comfort.

Your eyes snapped up.

The fog shifted unnaturally ahead of you, parting like something monstrous had disturbed it. Through the haze, yellow eyes burned bright as they locked onto you.

Your heart dropped.

“Of course,” you muttered bitterly, turning on your heel and sprinting into the forest without a second thought.

The Beast roared in response, and you could hear the pounding of his claws against the dirt as he gave chase. The bells chimed in time with his steps, their sound twisted and distorted as they echoed behind you.

Trees blurred past you as you ran, leaping over roots and dodging branches that reached out like skeletal hands. You dared a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it—he was there, close enough for you to see the gleam of his fangs in the moonlight.

“Move, move, move!” you hissed to yourself, adrenaline pushing you forward as fast as your legs would carry you.

You felt it before you saw it—the sharp, searing pain of claws slicing across your back. The force of the blow sent you stumbling forward, your scream ripping through the fog as blood soaked into your shirt. The Beast snarled behind you, the sound a dark promise that he wasn’t done yet.

Move. Don’t stop.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a pallet resting between two large trees. You pushed your legs to move faster, ignoring the burning sensation in your muscles as his heavy footsteps closed the distance.

With one final burst of speed, you reached the pallet, and in one fluid motion, you grabbed it and slammed it down with all the strength you had left.

The wood hit the ground with a satisfying thud just as he lunged, the pallet catching him mid-swing. He staggered for a moment, a low growl vibrating through the air as his red eyes locked onto you in fury.

But you weren’t done yet.

With shaky fingers, you flicked your flashlight on and aimed the beam directly at his face. The bright light pierced through the dark fog and hit him square in the eyes.

The Beast recoiled, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he jerked his head to the side, blinking furiously against the glare.

It worked.

You let out a shaky breath, a triumphant smile tugging at your lips despite the pain. The flashlight always works. He was blinded, even if just for a moment.

“Sorry, big guy,” you muttered under your breath, already turning on your heel and bolting away.

You didn’t have time to celebrate as you sprinted deeper into the forest, weaving between trees and broken fences.

The pounding of your footsteps against the dirt slowed as you spotted a faint glow through the trees—a generator, partially lit but still sputtering with effort. Relief rushed through you when you recognized three familiar figures huddled around it: Haddie, Ada, and Steve.

You stumbled toward them, blood still trickling from the slash on your back, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hey!” Haddie called, her sharp gaze snapping to you. “Oh!”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered, already pulling out a med-kit and kneeling beside you. “Sit. You’re not gonna last like this.”

You hesitated for only a moment before sinking to the ground, letting Steve’s steady hands work on patching you up. The sting of antiseptic burned through the haze of adrenaline, but you bit your tongue, trying to focus on Ada and Haddie, who were whispering urgently to each other as they worked on the generator.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words froze in your throat.

The sound came first. Faint, but clear.

Bells.

The soft, eerie jingle carried through the trees, distant at first… but quickly growing louder.

Steve stopped his hands mid-wrap, while Haddie’s and Ada’s both paused.

Slowly, all four of you turned to look behind you.

There, standing just at the edge of the clearing, was him.

His red eyes were glowing in the shadows, piercing through the fog like twin beacons. The glaive in his hand stained with blood, and his massive clawed arm twitched as though eager to tear into flesh again. He tilted his head, his stare locking onto all of you at once.

And then he spoke, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that made something in your stomach tickle.

“I can see you… all of you,” he drawled, his lips pulling back into a sharp grin that revealed rows of teeth. “When you’re together.”

Your heart stopped for a second.

“Oh, shit,” Haddie whispered.

Before anyone could move, the Beast lunged forward, his speed blinding.

“RUN!” Steve shouted, shoving you forward as he scrambled to his feet.

The air erupted in chaos.

You turned just in time to see the Beast barrel into the group, his glaive slashing outward. Haddie screamed as she was hit by the blade. Ada dove for cover behind the generator, her flashlight slipping from her grip.

Steve grabbed your arm, dragging you up as you stumbled.

“Go, go, go!” he yelled.

You bolted into the trees, your legs screaming in protest as pain flared through your back. From behind you, you could hear the heavy thud of the Beast’s footsteps and the ragged sound of his growls.

A scream echoed through the clearing—Haddie’s voice.

You glanced back for a split second and saw him standing over her, his claws raised, his red eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He’s looking at me.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep running, Steve at your side as the two of you crashed through the brush. Branches whipped against your face, the fog curling thicker the deeper you went.

The sound of Haddie's scream suddenly cut through the fog like a blade, sending a shiver of dread through your body. You could barely register the sound of Ada's scream following shortly after.

Tears stung your eyes as the wind howled through the trees, but you blinked them away.

But then you heard it—snap.

The world tilted as a sharp, searing pain shot through your leg, and you collapsed to the ground with a scream.

"Shit!" you gasped, clutching your thigh.

Your hands trembled as you looked down, the panic rising in your chest. You’d stepped into a snare trap. The sharp sting was immediate, its barbed wire coiled tightly around your upper thigh, the more you moves, the more the wire tightened, digging deeper into your skin with every movement, the barbed edges cutting into you like they were meant to hold you there—forever.

“No, no, no,” you panted, struggling to pull yourself free, blood began to trickle down your leg, warm and sticky, as you gasped, the pain making your vision blur.

“Help,” you cried out hoarsely, your voice breaking.

Steve, who had been ahead of you, didn’t hesitate to come back after hearing your scream. He rushed back to your side, his face pale as he looked down at the trap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath, kneeling beside you. His hands were frantic as he assessed the trap. “It’s too tight.”

You bit back a groan, trying to hold yourself still, but every small movement made the pain shoot deeper.

“Hold on, just… just hold on, alright?” Steve's voice was steady, despite the panic in his eyes as he worked at the wire. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop, trying to loosen it around your leg.

His movements were careful, slow, and you could feel every second ticking by like a countdown. The Beast could be right on top of you, you didn’t know.

“Steve, hurry!” you begged, the tears you had been blinking away now threatening to fall freely.

“I’m trying,” Steve muttered, his teeth clenched as he twisted the snare, trying to get it loose. “You’ve got to stay still, alright? You’re making it worse moving.”

You nodded, fighting against the urge to scream, biting down on your lip as you did your best to remain still.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said finally, relief flooding his voice as the wire loosened just enough for him to work his hands under it and pull your leg free.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in your leg as Steve pulled you to your feet. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

“We need to go—now!” Steve urged, his voice tight with urgency. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the fog, clearly sensing the Beast’s presence growing closer.

You nodded, swallowing the panic rising in your chest. The last thing you needed right now was to get caught. You limped, your leg barely holding up as you tried to keep pace with Steve, but every step sent a jolt of pain through you.

He kept his pace faster, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were still moving. “Just a bit further. We’ve got to make it to the generator—then we can heal, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were focused entirely on the uneven ground beneath your feet.

And then, just as the rustle of movement caught your ear, Steve spun around, blocking your path. His face was tight with fear.

“He’s close,” he said breathlessly.

You nodded, trying to steady yourself against the pain in your leg, but it was getting harder to move. Every step felt like an eternity.

“Steve…” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can…”

Before you could finish, a blood-curdling howl echoed through the air, the sound unmistakable. The Beast had caught your scent.

"Go! Run!" Steve shouted, urgency in his voice.

You stumbled, torn between the need to run and the instinct to stay with him. "What about you?" you asked, voice strained as the Beast’s growl grew louder.

Steve shot you a look, his expression grim. He didn’t have time to argue. “You heard what he said,” he panted, pulling away slightly. “He can see us when we’re together. We’re better off apart.”

You wanted to protest, to grab his arm and drag him with you, but his eyes were already scanning the fog, watching for any movement. His resolve was set.

He gave you a slight push, his voice soft but firm. “Go.”

Without another word, Steve turned and bolted in the opposite direction, breaking away from you. His footsteps disappeared into the thick fog.

You hesitated for only a moment before you took off running, forcing your legs to move despite the pain.

You were alone now.

You found a quiet place to heal, between two thick trees. The tension in your shoulders was unbearable as you worked, each slow, painful motion making the process feel like it took a lifetime.

But then, a scream.

Steve’s scream.

The sound tore through the fog, sharp and raw. Your heart clenched. The scream was cut short, but it was enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

Steve was on the hook.

Without wasting another second, you groaned as you pushed yourself to your feet, your leg screaming in protest. You couldn’t afford to leave Steve behind. You couldn’t. Not when he was still alive and needed you.

You looked around nervously, trying to get your bearings, but the dense fog made it almost impossible to see anything clearly. You limped toward the source of Steve’s scream, heart pounding, knowing you had to be quick.

You passed by broken trees and fallen branches, your breath quick and shallow. Each step was more painful than the last, but you pushed through it.

The sound of Steve’s struggles echoed faintly ahead, his voice barely audible but enough to urge you forward.

Hang on, Steve. Please hang on, you thought desperately.

When you reached the clearing where the scream had come from, you saw Steve struggling, dangling from a hook.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know where Haddie was—if she was even still alive—but Ada? You weren’t sure.

All you knew was that you didn’t see him close by, and so you took the chance. You rushed forward, limping toward Steve, your heart pounding in your chest as you neared the hook.

But then, you heard his voice—a strained shout.

“Stop!” Steve yelled, his voice tight with fear.

You froze, mid-step. Your eyes locked with his, confusion rushing through you. He was staring at you with wide, frantic eyes, almost as if warning you.

You didn’t understand at first, but then you heard it—the subtle scrape of claws on the ground.

From behind the hook, he emerged, his body low to the ground, his yellow eyes fixed on you. His mouth was twisted in something between a snarl and... a smirk? It was unsettling. He wasn’t even trying to hide his hunger now. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your heart skipped a beat as he crawled closer, his sharp claws scraping against the dirt. The bells jingled softly, but it felt like they were ringing in your ears, louder with every passing second.

Your eyes darted between Steve and the Beast. The decision was clear.

Without another thought, you spun on your heel and ran.

Every muscle screamed in protest, but adrenaline was the only thing fueling you now. Branches whipped past you, the fog pressing in around you, blurring your vision. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, each thundering step closer than the last.

You heard him, the low growl vibrating in the air, and then the unmistakable sound of his bells—ting-ting-ting. You thought you could feel the ground beneath your feet trembling, his pace quickening as he closed the distance. You tried to cut left, darting around trees in an attempt to break his line of sight, but he was still behind you.

In that moment, you realized the truth: he wasn’t chasing you to catch you. He was chasing you because he enjoyed it. He was savoring this. The thrill, the fear that radiated off you, the helplessness that grew with every passing second. You were his prey. And he was playing with you like a wolf with its catch—only, you weren’t meant to escape.

You felt the slash against your back, a sudden, agonizing pain raking across your side. The scream tore itself from your throat as you stumbled, falling to the ground in a heap. Blood welled up from the wound, pooling around you, but you barely noticed it, your mind too frantic to focus on anything but the Beast who loomed over you.

You turned your head, gasping for air, your vision swimming as you fought to stay conscious. The Beast stepped over you, his massive, clawed feet brushing the dirt, and for a moment, everything went still. He stood there, towering over you, his presence suffocating, making it feel like the world had closed in. His red eyes locked onto yours, glowing.

He didn’t move, just watched you, his expression unreadable. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow and ragged, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes were mesmerizing, wild and filled with hunger.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still, the forest around you fading away into nothing. There was no escape. No hope.

A slow, almost sinister smile spread across his face as he leaned down, his claws brushing against your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. His breath was hot and heavy, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as if he were searching for something in you—something he wanted to claim. You shuddered under his touch, your body unable to move, paralyzed by fear.

"You're mine now," he murmured, his voice a guttural growl that sent shivers down your spine. His fangs gleamed in the low light, sharp and ready.

You couldn’t fight him. You were too weak, too broken, and all you could do was stare up at him, eyes wide with terror. The Beast crouched lower, his form blocking out the sky above you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your soul.

Then, without warning, he licked your cheek, his rough, warm tongue brushing against your skin like a dog's. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. His hot breath fanned across your face as he sniffed at you, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent, his gaze lingering on your every move.

You felt an uncomfortable twinge of vulnerability, but you couldn’t move fast enough to get away. His eyes darted downward, now focused on your leg, the one still bleeding from the snare trap. You hadn’t even noticed until now how much blood had soaked through your pants.

Before you could react, he suddenly ripped open the fabric of your pants, exposing the wound. The rough sound of tearing fabric filled the air as his claws made quick work of the material, revealing the injury beneath.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, confusion and fear flooding your mind. What was he doing?

You gasped when the Beast's rough tongue suddenly brushed against the open wound on your thigh, the sensation shocking you. It felt strange—like something was pulling at you from within, and you instinctively flinched.

"Stop..." you gasped, though the words came out weak, as you tried to crawl away, desperate to get some distance between you and him.

But before you could get far, his sharp claws sank into the soft flesh of your thigh, gripping and pulling you back to him. The pressure was intense, and you couldn’t move. He held you there, unyielding, as his tongue continued to lick at your wound, collecting the blood.

You whimpered, trying to push against his hold, but his grip was like iron, and no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t escape.

As the Beast continued, the warmth of his tongue against your skin became oddly less weird. The fear remained, but you couldn’t deny the strange sensation of being so completely under his control. His actions were relentless, but they were also slow, as though savoring something delicate.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. You heard soft whines escape from him, and it sent a cold chill down your spine. You met his eyes again, and you could see the remnants of your blood, mixed with his saliva, dripping from the corners of his mouth. The sight made your stomach twist.

He slowly licked the blood from around his lips, his gaze never leaving you. His breathing was deep, his chest rising and falling with each inhale. He crawled closer again, his eyes intense, and for a moment, all you could hear was his heavy breathing.

Then, with a low growl, he spoke. “You smell so... good,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly. “You taste so sweet...”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to be savoring them as much as he had savored the blood from your wound. His voice dropped even lower, his words tinged with something darker.

“You’ve had me going crazy ever since I first caught a scent of you. I can’t get you out of my mind.” His eyes gleamed, hungry and wanting.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your mouth. “I crave you,” he repeated, his tone possessive, as though the very thought of you was driving him wild.

Fear mingled with something else in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure what it was, but his words were like a trap, a pull that made it hard to think clearly, harder to remember why you needed to escape.

His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, and before you could react, the Beast leaned in, his face inches from yours. Your heart raced in your chest, fear and confusion coursing through you. Then, without warning, his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was rough, urgent, as if he were trying to claim you. You froze, unable to process what was happening. His mouth was warm, and for a moment, everything seemed to disappear around you, your thoughts clouded by the shock of the moment.

You felt his hands, still strong and unyielding, keeping you in place as his lips moved against yours. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and the unexpectedness of it left you breathless, your mind unable to fully comprehend his actions.

For a long second, time seemed to slow. He pulled away just enough to gaze at you, his red eyes intense, searching for something in your expression. The kiss had left you disoriented, unsure of how to feel, and you could see the hunger in his eyes.

Before you could gather your thoughts, he whispered low, “My little bunny.”

His grip tightened for a moment, and you could feel the intensity of his words as they settled in your chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low, but there was an unsettling tenderness to it. "But I have to kill you now."

Before you could react, he flipped you over with ease, pinning you beneath him. His paw pressed down on your back, the weight of it overwhelming as his gaze locked onto you.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to push against his hold, but it was useless. His strength was far beyond yours, and every attempt to free yourself only seemed to make his grip tighten.

"Please," you gasped, voice trembling as you struggled.

But he didn’t stop. His eyes were locked on yours with an intensity that sent a chill through you, and his body felt like a heavy weight, pressing you into the cold ground.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" you asked, your voice desperate. It was all you could think of to try to connect with him, to find some way to understand him.

He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. There was a flicker of something—something almost human—in his gaze before he growled, a low rumble vibrating through his chest.

"Jay," he said simply, the sound of it rough but clear.

You repeated it softly to yourself, tasting the name on your lips. "Jay."

He paused again, almost as if surprised- "You're the first one to know it." A flicker of something—maybe amusement, flashed in his eyes.

But then, without warning, he threw his head back, releasing a haunting howl that echoed through the night. The sound seemed to reverberate through the very air, a chilling symphony of raw power and unbridled emotion.

As the echo faded, Jay lowered himself, his jaws parting slightly as he moved closer to you. There was no mercy in his eyes, no hesitation. With a swift motion, he sank his teeth into your neck. The pain was sharp and intense, but before you could even process it fully, darkness claimed you, and everything around you vanished.

You gasped as you fell back into the survivor camp, unharmed, alive, as if nothing had happened at all.

The others were going about their business, completely unaware of the nightmare you had just experienced. The tension in your body remained, though, a tight knot in your chest that wouldn't loosen.

You knew you couldn't tell anyone what had happened. No one would understand. They would think you had lost your mind.

Shaking the lingering thoughts from your head, you stood up, your legs a bit unsteady. The sharp, eerie silence that had enveloped the camp was suddenly pierced by the unmistakable howl from the direction of the killers' area. It echoed through the foggy air, loud and clear, that it made the other survivors nearby glance up in alarm.

The howl was different from the usual ones. It was the triumphant cry of a successful hunt—an announcement to the realm that the beast had claimed his prize.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

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[beanarie]

(my take on 8x14-8x15. bucktommy. danger. athena. rooftop. lesgo.)

~

Tommy's lungs have been replaced with a fifty year old vacuum cleaner, constantly going over the same tiny spot again, and again, without doing the actual job. The sound it makes is a little alarming.

"Tommy." Evan sounds like someone dredged a violin from the bottom of the sea and tried playing it, the syllables loud and shrill and discordant. "You're- You're gonna be okay."

"Huh," Tommy says in acknowledgment.

"The air ambulance will be here any second."

"Huh." He lets his gaze slide away to the darkening sky.

"No!" Evan says. "Hey. Hey. Tommy? Look at me." Tommy does. Evan's eyes are full, spilling over. "I didn't mean it. Of course I have feelings for you, okay? I love you. You have to stay with us."

Oh. Tommy arches his back slightly, pushing at the ground with his shoulder blades. Athena yells out and tightens her grip, but those couple of seconds earn him enough air to whisper. "D-Don't start lying to me now."

Evan looks like he's the one drowning at 800 feet. He lays his hand on the side of Tommy's face. "Will you ever get out of your own way?"

Tommy closes his eyes and finds himself in Evan's kitchen, finishing up the scrambled eggs. Evan likes his dry as a bone and with a sprinkling of ketchup. Which is weird, but he's a WASP.

Evan walks in and, god. He's a painting. Tommy can't decide what specific style, but this one would be old, and retroactively held up as an example of queer art because of how lovingly the subject was rendered. The early morning sunlight highlighting the two day scruff on his face, the curls perched on top of his head just so.

Anxiety thrumming in his body like an electric current, Tommy asks for another chance. He doesn't apologize for leaving. He doesn't know if this chance reconnection is strong enough yet to deal with the initial breakup and the issues behind it. But he wants to try. Evan closes the distance between them.

"And- And you're not scared I'll break your heart anymore?"

"Not as much," Tommy confesses. Wait, it's too soon for that. He starts again, more definitively. "No."

"Okay," Evan says, nodding in rapid succession as his tentative smile widens to a grin. "Okay, good. Yeah. Let's do it. Please?"

He's so beautiful that Tommy regrets having to close his eyes when they kiss.

Tommy's back is against the fridge and they're laughing like they did last night, giddy and grateful.

Why is it so bright all of a sudden?

"Tommy?" Evan's hands are splayed along the back of his head, almost supporting his neck. The air feels thin. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Tommy gets a flash of a face. Rendell the aeromedic.

Athena Grant.

A gun.

There's blood in Tommy's mouth. He coughs and doubles over, trying to spit it out. He ends up on the floor, alone and shivering in the kitchen that used to belong to Eddie and Chris Diaz. "Evan?"

Evan is gone, but he can still hear his voice, competing in an amateur chorus with several others. "Come back," he's saying.

[bbydoll18xx]

This Is Me Trying

'I just wanted you to know that this is me trying.'

Azzi Fudd x Reader

Based on this request (sorry it took forever lol)

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.1k

Themes: depression, mild alcohol abuse, hurt/comfort

A/N: hiii so here i am trying out writing for someone other than Paige, and I really hope you like it! If this is a decent success I may write for other people as well :) And of course it was time to write a fic to go along with my most favorite song of all time (folklore stans rise up)

Lets do thisss

also sorry this is lowkey kinda depressing i am a sad girly

~

Your lack of sleep was showing in deep purple bruises under your eyes that no amount of even the heaviest concealer could adequately cover. You haven't slept well in days, and today’s shift had not helped your exhaustion. The day was filled with incessant neediness, people cussing you out, and an endless amount of shit.

Literally and figuratively. 

You walk into your apartment, just wanting nothing but to fall into Azzi’s warm and loving arms, but you’re met with the still darkness of an empty home. Your girlfriend was in Las Vegas playing against the Aces, and she would not be home until tomorrow afternoon. 

She had promised to call you after the game, but you weren’t sure if you would even make it through your shower, much less wait up for her by the phone for another three hours. 

Your eyes fill with tears, the feeling of overwhelming loneliness mixing with your exhaustion, and as you throw your stuff on the floor, dredging your body into your bathroom, letting the downpour of water drown out your own tears. 

You had become quite accustomed to hiding your feelings behind bright smiles and fake laughs, desperate to clutch onto the need to prove to everyone that you were okay.

Even if you really weren't.

Your girlfriend had enough stress on her, and the idea of her needing to worry about you, too, was enough to send guilt shooting through your entire body. 

You had kept up your facade all throughout college, choosing to take long, solo car rides until you had to pull over, the tears swimming in your eyes nearly blinding you. And when you were strung along to the bars with Azzi and the rest of her teammates, you drowned your sorrows and fears with liquor, numbing your thoughts and your body until you were delirious. 

You were the golden girl. 

You knew what jokes to crack for which group of people you were around at the time. Your grades were stellar. And you had bagged the prettiest, sweetest girl in probably the entire universe. 

So, you resented yourself for feeling anything other than being on top of the world, because it was actually quite the opposite.

It got worse once you graduated. 

Azzi was often gone, traveling for away games, and that left you alone to process the unimaginable emotions that came with your budding nursing career. Feelings of loss and incompetence clouded your brain constantly.

Today was no different. 

You had lost a patient, a kind, gentle woman who finally let go, taking her last breath while gripping your hand, completely alone. 

It broke you, and the devastating reality had sunk into your chest, crushing all of the air out of your fragile lungs. And you were now gasping for air, leaving you feeling bereft and vulnerable, like an open wound. 

Maybe that’s all you’d ever really be, and you could not help but think that you were the festering wound in yours and Azzi’s relationship, threatening to slowly tear it apart until the two of you were left standing in the tattered shreds of what used to be. 

You wanted things to be okay so, so badly, but the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and longing had set in, chilling you down to the bone. And you were scared. 

So you would just continue on pretending. 

Azzi comes home the next day, and you put the mask back on the second she walks through the door. You’d be lying, though, if her presence didn’t make you feel the tiniest bit whole again. You melt into her arms, drinking in her presence, as she rubs your back soothingly, her face pressed into the crook of your neck. 

Maybe everything would be okay, if only you could be honest with her.

~

Azzi lays in bed next to you, and you indulge in the way her smell has permeated the soft bedsheets again, after days of the scent slowly becoming less and less potent. She smells warm and comforting, and you nuzzle into her, desperate for her to fix every little part of you that was screaming out in insecurity and despondancy.

A low sigh escapes your throat, secretly wanting your girlfriend to pick up on your mood, and because she knows you better than anyone else, she does. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” She questions, her tone filled with concern and worry. She places a hand on your cheek, coaxing you to look into her eyes, and the glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the kindness emitting from her deep brown irises. 

“I–” You begin, taking a deep breath and then stopping. Trying to put all your emotions into coherent words was quite the task. And honestly, you were terrified of how Azzi would react. 

Her thumb strokes your cheek, as she sits up fully next to you in the bed, eyes still peering into yours.��

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” she murmurs gently, and something clicks inside of you.

It was Azzi. You could tell her anything, and it would never even come close to dimming any of the love she felt for you. 

In that moment, all the anxiety you felt about coming clean seemed silly, like it had been built up in your head to great heights, and here it was now, crashing down all around you.

“I’ve been really depressed,” you mumble, your cheeks feeling warm from her touch and the prickling of shame. “For a long time, actually. And I really fucking miss you. I hate feeling like a needy girlfriend, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

The confession pours out of you, and as the air stills between you, your heart races as you watch Azzi’s face contort into a look of hurt and confusion.

“Oh, baby,” she breathes, scooping you up and setting you into her lap, legs draped over hers as she interlaces your fingers with hers. 

“I’ve been missing you, too. And I didn’t want you to feel like you had to sacrifice your career for mine,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss onto your temple. 

Your shoulders sag in relief, and you connect your lips in a kiss. There were numerous unspoken words shared as your lips entwined in a sheer display of passion.

As you break apart, you gaze back into those dark brown eyes, pupils now blown wide. “Guess this means we’ll have a lot more time to be doing this,” you giggle, wagging your eyebrows at Azzi.

She shakes her head fondly. “Just want my sweet, happy girl back,” she whispers in your ear.

Little did she know, you already were.

~

I really hope everyone enjoyed this. I have been toying around with a lil Pazzi fic, so let me know if you'd be interested :)

xoxo katy

Taglist:

@fullladypanda-blog, @omg-imtumbling, @tenaciousglitternerd, @oldcrdigan, @paigebuxkets, @the-other-half , @patscorner , @dietcokesmom , @tndaqltoifwy

Want to be added to my taglist? Comment or send me a message!

[hetalian-veteran]

America's Storage Room Cleaning: The Moment that Changed Hetalia

Hetalia: Axis Powers Episodes 17 and 20: America's Storage Room Cleaning Parts 1 and 2 are probably some of the most consequential episodes of not only Hetalia, but for the Hetalia fandom as a whole. Both for how it broke away from Hetalia's satirical mold, as well as how fans reacted to it. Or at least how I reacted to it.

This episode, which aired in 2009, has been talked about to death. So much so that almost all conversations about it have been had. However, as someone who can't seem to shut up, I'm offering my two cents.

This is the episode where we not only get a deeper look into America's character but also get to see the American Revolution. And instead of portraying this conflict in a funny or satirical light, the whole thing is played out like an emotional, character-driven tragedy.

Let's start by talking about America. We all know how he is. Loud, obnoxious, optimistic, in your face, ambitious, light-hearted---he's more or less portrayed as a giant kid. Seeing as he's still a relatively young nation regarding his history, it makes sense. Especially since most of the other countries in Hetalia are much, much older. In fact, his physical age is stated to be about nineteen years old. Pointing to him being an adult but still being quite young and inexperienced.

As a result, you don't expect to have many serious moments with this character. Not only because of the way he's portrayed, but because of Hetalia's genre being comedy. Up until this episode, you're given numerous laugh-out-loud scenes, funny one-liners, and even a few problematic jokes along the way. Overall, Hetalia is not a series meant to be taken seriously. Still isn't, even in 2025.

But this is what made America's Storage Room Cleaning so jarring.

This is an episode that nearly drops everything Hetalia is known for. There are no laughs. Hardly any jokes. No silly one-liners. No slapstick. No problematic moments that make you cringe and think, "Ooooh, this hasn't aged well." If anything, I'd say this is an episode that has aged like a fine wine. (And no, I'm not just saying that because I'm American).

While going through an old storage room in his house, America mentions that he often has a hard time cleaning it out, as its contents manage to dredge up all kinds of bad memories. Mentioning that it's not always easy looking at one's own history.

And it's here where we get our first look into the history between Britain and America. We've gotten little glimpses of it before in prior episodes when the Hetalia crew was trying to hype us up for this one. But here is where we get to see the pieces put together.

America goes through a few different items, each one detailing a different part of his and Britain's history together.

We see a set of handmade toy soldiers that Britain made for America when he was a young child. One that Britain put a lot of work into, seeing as he nearly broke his hand. America even mentions that Britain painted each soldier with a different face, further showing just how much time and effort he put into the gift.

We see an old suit. One that Britain got for America as he got older. Britain emphasizes the importance of dressing nicely in public. Even though America isn't a fan of the suit, he agrees to keep it and only wears it for special occasions.

These scenes give you the impression that Britain and America have, or at least had, a close relationship in the past.

And then we get to the bayonet. The one with a deep scratch in the side.

Upon seeing it, America is quickly reminded of a confrontation he had with Britain during the American Revolution. Standing in the rain and backed up by an army, America declares his independence from Britain. The latter of whom is deliberately shown to be alone, with no army at his side.

And then America says this:

"Britain! I am no longer a child, nor am I your little brother."

This establishes the nature of their relationship. While not related by blood, they're family. Growing angry, Britain charges at him. America blocks him with his bayonet. The gun flies out of America's hands, and Britain is given a clear opening to shoot him. But he can't bring himself to do it.

Falling to the ground, Britain begins sobbing. As America looks on, we get flashbacks to Britain and America when the latter was a child. Britain holds out his hand with an offer to go home. An offer that a happy, smiling little America cheerfully accepts.

Then the scene flashes back to the war, with Britain continuing to break down in front of his little brother, questioning why and how everything got this way. To which America tells Britain that he knows why. Watching the disheartening scene unfold, America sadly says:

"What happened? I remember when you were great."

The whole episode gives you such an insane, in-depth look at America's character, and even Britain's to an extent. The story is portrayed as a tragedy of two brothers torn apart by conflict. Brothers who love and care about one another but no longer see eye to eye. One desires control, and the other desires freedom and independence.

By depicting America and Britain as family, this episode gives you a vivid window into how this could be seen as a tragedy, but one you know is necessary for one of the characters to grow. It almost plays out like a soap opera. There's just so much you can read into. I feel as though I've only scratched the surface with this post.

The reason this episode is, in my opinion, the one that changed Hetalia and its fandom is because this is the episode where we truly got to see the sheer brilliance of Hetalia's potential.

World history is hardly a pretty picture to look at. History, real history, is often violent. Ugly. Controversial. Unsettling. Complicated. And in some instances, downright horrifying.

And yet, on the other side of the coin, history can be incredible. Inspiring. Powerful. Though-provoking. Intellectually stimulating. Beautiful. And at times, even hopeful.

America's Storage Room Cleaning is an amazing episode because of how they portray such an incredible moment in history. It's treated like it's a serious and intense drama. Because, for America and Britain, it is. It's an episode that prompts the audience to think, "If this is how the American Revolution is portrayed using these characters, then how can other conflicts be depicted?"

And I believe it was this episode of the anime/chapter of the comic that led to the creation of the historical side of the Hetalia fandom. Now, I have no doubt that side of the fandom would've formed eventually, regardless of whether or not Hetalia tried to play it straight. But this episode absolutely fueled it, as evidenced by the copious amount of fanart, fanfiction, fanon, headcanons, and cosplays this episode has inspired.

I know there are other moments where Hetalia delves into serious territory. Joan of Arc, the battle of Grunwald, the protests in Russia, etc.

But this is the moment where the audience caught a glimpse of what Hetalia could be. The potential to portray history in such a unique and different way, the likes of which you don't see everywhere else.

[gxr25256]

The Ruins of Earth - Seekers x reader

🌵 Tranformers (Post-Apocalyptic AU).

🌵 The Decepticons have conquered Earth, leaving humanity in ruins.

🌵I'll try this for a bit. Remember: I'm not very good at it 👀.

-------------------------------

The sky was a smudged gray, casting a cold, washed-out light over what remained of the city. Buildings stood like jagged tombstones, their edges crumbling, splintered, and silent. Some days, the wind would send a loose piece of metal skittering down the cracked roads or rattle the empty cars left to rust. Otherwise, everything was still.

Below the surface, in the belly of a half-fallen office building, you crouched among scattered papers, their edges yellowed, flaked, and cracked from dust. The basement was littered with remnants of a world you barely recognized anymore. You had been lucky enough to find this hideout after wandering the ruined streets, and here you had managed to carve out some semblance of a life.

The ceiling is cracked, tangled with exposed electrical wires, and the single window on the far wall had long since shattered. Every now and then, a patch of sunlight filtered through, glinting off dust motes that swirled lazily in the stale air. It reminded you of better times—a stark, painful reminder of a past life that felt both close and impossibly far away.

You settled down on the cold concrete, setting your pack beside you. Inside were your treasures: a faded family photograph, a pocket watch, and a collection of scraps—small things you’d managed to scavenge that had kept you going. Some days, you’d sift through these items, each one tugging you back to memories that hurt as much as they comforted.

You stared down at the photo, feeling a pang in your chest. It was taken on a summer evening just a few months before they had come, when you and your family had still gathered in the garden to laugh and share stories under the stars. You remembered the warmth of your father’s arm around you, the way your mother had laughed, and how the smallest things—a shared meal, a joke, a sunset—had seemed so ordinary back then. Now, those were the moments you clung to like lifelines.

But here, in the darkened shell of a building, they were ghosts that haunted you. The faces stared up at you from the photo, as if asking, How much longer?

You didn’t know how to answer. Each day felt like a small miracle that you were still alive. They had laid waste to everything, turning cities into rubble, hunting down humans with a relentless efficiency. Survival required caution, silence, and instinct. Your hideout, tucked in a labyrinthine part of the city, had been a haven so far. But each passing day felt like playing a game of Russian roulette, and you knew that eventually, luck would run out.

The floor creaked—a sound you’d grown used to, but still one that made your muscles tense instinctively. Any sound outside the room was dangerous. You rose, carefully checking the faint tripwire traps you’d set by the entrances, crude but effective. Your heart thudded faster at the thought of one snapping. If it did, it would mean they were close.

They. The Decepticons. Machines built for one purpose: total, merciless domination. You shuddered as your mind dredged up flashes of their patrols: enormous metal bodies moving with purpose through the streets, the deadly glow of their optics as they scanned the ruins for any sign of life. You’d watched from hiding as they tore through buildings, shredding walls like paper. They were ruthless in their search for survivors, sparing nothing and no one.

They didn’t just kill; they hunted. The knowledge of that, of being part of a vanishing species in the face of such a brutal enemy, wrapped around you like a cold, crushing weight.

The wind howled outside, sending a shiver through you. You’d learned to navigate the city’s ruinous maze, moving with the shadows, slipping through alleyways, always watching your back. But every day, the Decepticons seemed to draw closer, tightening the noose with their relentless patrols.

The last human you’d spoken to was a scavenger named Mira. She’d been tough, gritty, with a quiet intensity that had made you think she could survive anything. She’d warned you about the Decepticons’ latest tactics, their setting traps to lure out survivors, their growing patrols in this area of the city. But that had been weeks ago. You hadn’t seen her since. Her face lingered in your mind as yet another ghost.

The hum of an airplane engine broke the silence, sending a jolt of adrenaline through you. You froze, every sense heightened, listening intently. It was distant—likely a patrol passing through the streets above—but even so, the familiarity of it triggered an instinctive wave of fear. You’d heard that sound too many times. Each instance had ended with a building being leveled or a life snuffed out.

Your heart pounded as you crouched low, moving silently through the office wall to peek through the cracked window. Outside, the city lay in shattered silence, but a faint glimmer of metal caught your eye, just visible through the haze. A Decepticon, its massive form standing out from anything else around the ruins. It moved methodically, its gaze sweeping the rubble as if it could sniff out human life in the air itself.

You crawled away from the window, slipping back into the shadows of the room, praying that the dim light and debris would keep you hidden. Your heartbeat roared in your ears as you crouched, body tense, waiting. Minutes stretched on, stretching into an eternity as you listened for any hint that the Decepticon had moved on.

But the silence persisted, thick and oppressive. Part of you wanted to risk a glance, but your instincts screamed otherwise. That was the problem now; you’d lived in silence for so long that sometimes, even the slightest noise felt like a gunshot. Every step, every creak, every breath seemed like it could betray you.

As you tried to steady your breathing, your gaze drifted to a pile of old papers strewn across the floor. One caught your eye—a page from an old newspaper, yellowed and faded. The headline read, Hope for Tomorrow: Humanity’s Technological Golden Age. You almost laughed at the bitter irony. The hope they’d once touted had been torn away, replaced by cold metal giants who knew nothing of mercy or compassion.

A loud clang from outside startled you, pulling you back to the present with a fearful jolt. You remained still, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps outside were getting louder, a heavy, ominous rhythm. You recognized the sound: The unmistakable footsteps of the Decepticons, its weight causing the building to shudder faintly. They were close—too close.

The footsteps paused, and your heart seemed to stop with them. The faint hum of machinery echoed down, accompanied by the cold, mechanical sound of a voice you couldn’t quite make out. Your mind raced, considering your options. Running wasn’t possible; any movement risked drawing their attention. And yet, staying still felt like sitting in a cage, waiting for the predator to find you.

The Decepticon’s steps resumed, slower this time, each one punctuated by a metallic creak that reverberated through the building.

And the footsteps halted again, this time right on the other side of the wall you're leaning against, and you froze, body taut with fear. The building groaned under the heavy weight of machinery, dust drifting down in fine particles that tickled your face.The walls around you seemed to close in, your hiding place shrinking as the footsteps grew louder, closer. As if the Decepticon was zeroing in on your location, as if it were playing with your fears.

Then, with a metallic clang, you heard the Decepticon move again. Just when you thought the danger had passed, a deafening explosion ripped through the building, and the entire roof blew off with a force that sent you sprawling. A cry escaped your lips as you hit the ground, pain radiating through you.

Gasping, you struggled to your feet, but as you looked up, a chill gripped your heart. Through the swirling dust and debris, a pair of red optics glowed, locked directly onto you. Fear surged through your veins, and before you could even think, a scream tore from your throat.

Maybe your luck has run out.

----------------------------------

[airs-headspace]

SIR????????????????

[sungbeam]

this time, with breath

ji changmin x gn!reader

1.2k words, obvious tension, ig u could call it pining if you wanted to, fluff(...?), very light swearing, slow dancing with the friend you really want to be more than friends with, i also write in PRESENT TENSE??? absolutely unheard-of.

a/n: suddenly had a burst of inspiration tonight. blame it on this gorgeous edit of leehi's only

“It's pretty simple.”

Changmin holds out a hand to you—his left for your right—your fingers slotting against his like twin pieces of wood carved perfectly to fit the other. He coughs once, avoiding your eyes as you do the same, guiding your other hand to rest on his shoulder before settling his right hand on your waist. 

You feel the warmth of his palm over your side, the nerves there sensitive. The tension in your shoulders pull as you pretend you're not bothered. 

The position has you toe to toe, noses not nearly close enough to be brushing, but in proximity enough where you could count the eyelashes behind his glasses and smell the faint scent of aftershave on his skin. Your pulse pounds somewhere at your throat; your carotid artery has always been strongest around him. 

“Pretty simple for you,” you choke out in an attempt to lighten the heft in the air. Maybe it's the dim lighting as you and he stand in the middle of your living room, less than two breaths apart; maybe it's the faint knowledge that you are alone in this apartment together; maybe it's just the way his palm melts against yours. “I've got two left feet, y'know.”

He huffs out a laugh—breathy, barely there. It grazes your cheekbone in a phantom caress that seems to collapse all your nerves running from your face, down your spine in an intricate line of dominoes. “Yeah, don't worry. I know.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hey! What's that supposed to mean?”

“That my feet still hurt from when you stepped on them two days ago.”

“That was an accident,” you say, rolling your eyes, and giving yourself a chance to look away from his stare. 

(If you only stand here, did his hand in yours spell out something different?)

“There was dog shit on the ground and I didn't see it in time.” 

It's a defense Changmin's undoubtedly heard at least five times since the incident, and he doesn't really care that you sound like a broken record. He's the one who keeps egging you on to say it again and again; he's the one who keeps dredging up that brief moment when your body brushed up against his. And maybe your winter jackets prevented any true skin to skin contact, but it didn't take away from the fact that he wants you to remember. 

He snorts. “Yeah, alright,” he drawls in a vocal tone that's low and lazy, and the corner of his mouth curls upward in a half-smirk that can only mean he's teasing. “But I swear to god, this'll be the easiest dance you ever do.”

“Willing to bet on it?” you ask in incredulity, shifting on your socked feet. 

Changmin cocks a brow at you, and you see it appear over the top rim of his glasses frame. “Stop stalling.”

“Damn.”

It almost gets a full smile out of him. You see his lip quiver, and you count it as a win. 

Your dance partner-slash-friend turns his head toward his phone laying on the coffee table nearby. “Hey Siri, play Only.”

“Playing Only by Leehi.” 

Your pulse leaps so hard you can feel it twitch against the meat of your neck. “Only?” you query with a chuckle that sounds unnervingly anxious. “Never took you for a romantic.”

He gives a shrug with one shoulder, the movement stiff. It's unlike him, you realize, as someone you understand to be graceful and effortless—a breath of air in his own right. “It’s a good song. Okay, just follow my lead.”

“Okay,” you whisper, your head immediately ducking to watch his feet and yours to prevent any collisions or overlap. “And by the way, I'm not refuting that it's a good song—”

“Eyes up here.” 

Your body moves as a marionette strung to the will of his commands. You meet his eyes again, and you have no other choice but to hold them—to hold two things that have the ability to make your every will crumble. “Why?”

Your bodies are moving in a loose diamond: back, right, left, forward; back, right, left, forward. And it's to the slow rhythm of Leehi's croons and the piano; time stands still… there is nowhere else in the world to be, but here, with his hand wrapped around yours and your eyes wrapped up in one another's. 

Briefly, you register the bob of his throat. “Hyperfocusing on your feet will make you fuck up,” he reasons quietly. “Just—the music will sway you.”

“Do you do this often?” you ask. “Think about slow dancing to this song, I mean.” You hope your hands aren't truly as clammy as you think they feel. “Is this on a playlist of other slow, romantic ballads, Ji Changmin?”

“What's with the interrogation?”

“I only ask because I'm curious.” The words coming out your mouth surge forward from the nervous pounding of your heart. It beats in three-four time, increasing in intensity as the song crescendos. 

Changmin doesn't answer the question. “You wanna spin? I think you're ready for a spin.”

Your eyes blow wide open. “Uhm no. What do you mean spi—” 

The curse on your tongue is lost in the wind, as Changmin effortlessly twirls you outward until your arms are extended and your fingers barely latch onto the other. In that brief pause, your eyes meet again, and it's the beam of delight on his lips that make your ankles want to twist, a muscle in your heart contracting violently. He's pulling you back toward him again, then, one half of a piece of string that physically cannot take being apart from the other. 

And in the beat of time that your world is spinning, you realize you don't know where to look. 

But in the blur, it's Changmin you see. 

Your feet fumble over one another, and his fingers hold fast to your own, clutching yours in a grip of iron as if he sensed your stumble before your brain could. Your body hits his chest, and you're bunching his shirt in your fingers. 

His hands have left yours and found the curve of your waist, chest rising and falling in rapid movements even as the song in the background is slowing to a close. “Sorry, I” —he’s lost his head for a moment, his voice, his words; and he swallows when you raise your head to look at him— “should've taught you how to spot first. That was my bad.”

“No, you're fine. It's fine,” you reassured him, pulling back. 

It's jarring how cold your waist feels where his hands have fallen away. 

Changmin grasps the back of his neck. “See? Not too bad, right?” The question comes with a slight upward intonation, toeing the water. 

You nod. “Yeah, no. For sure. You made it easy.”

He smiles then, the corners of it digging into his cheeks to form wells of contentment in the flesh. You miss the way his hands hesitate in the air between you two, because he has never hesitated before. “You'll be fine with whoever they pair you up with,” he says to you.

“Right.” It's stupid; you almost forgot you were learning to dance for an event, and not just because you wanted to know what it felt like. “Thanks.” For a moment there, you could fool yourself into thinking that there was something more. 

“Sure,” and he looks at you like it's nothing close to what he really wants to say. 

When you bring it up to him, he waves it away—a breath that has become air—and tells you it's something for another day.

a/n: pls remember to reblog if u enjoyed!

tbz m.list

permanent taglist 1: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @gluion @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @coffeebymofy @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @deoboyznet

[sandsorghum]

synopsis: Higuruma makes *you* breakfast in bed for the first time

wc: 1.7k tags: fluffy! (unlike his eggs) . established relationship. romance.

a/n: inspired by @breekento's absolutely lovely photoset. a lil idyll, a smidge of indulgence. i couldn't help myself when he's so boyfriend-shaped [to the best of his abilities because...it's higuruma after all]

You were both supposed to be paying off some fairly massive sleep debts;and you hadn't even been incurring them in the usual fun ways.

The tradeoff of being slumber deprived to be a little depraved - ok, maybe more than a little - was hardly a dilemma for you and Higuruma; something you had figured out together early on in your relationship. Just one more way the two of you complemented each other, a pair of stubborn night owls turned lovebirds.

But work has been brutal; you're up to your neck in revisions to proposals for the sustainability bureau, and Higuruma's latest case had him building his defense strategy from scratch twice over now.

You can't remember the last time you shared a dinner that wasn't microwaveable. And pretty soon even the heaps of instant ramen packets were replaced by looming piles of onigiri wrappers, threatening to spill out of the bins - because fiddling with tiny sachets of powdered soup and rinsing out pots became too much of a luxury. So it was lots of take out, and very little making out.

You came to cherish the front doorstep to your apartments, a sacred altar where your bodies crossed each other in the morning bustle, swift as pedestrians, surrendering to serendipity; yet Cupid's best efforts could only conspire to the briefest, briskest brushes of your mouths before you hurried off towards your hectic jobs.

Evenings fared little better. Slouching past where he'd be collapsed on the couch at 2am, you'd drop a peck on his forehead when you could, if you had the strength to peel back the post-its with comments on penal code sections and the stacks of annotated alibis, gentle in your excavation of the mountainous documents, even as you know there's never any erosion of Higuruma's workaholism.

So you got good at deciphering the same crabbed handwriting on the fridge's notepad, mostly apologies and promises, before they dwindled down to hasty scratches of frowny emojis, blotting out dates on the calendar. All of it sincere, and all of it thwarted.

Weeks grated by like that, with their numbing addendums of cancelled grocery lists and rainchecks, strings of his snarky texts and your grumpy selfies becoming the lifeline of your relationship.

A month or maybe two, passed and finally, finally the pitches were accepted, as were the plea deals. Surely things could go back to normal now?

So, when you rolled over this morning anticipating a long overdue snuggle against Higuruma's chest, to instead find only a cold spot on his side of bed, the chagrin prickles through you so sharply it pierces through the groggy fog of sleep you still very much need.

"Hiro..." The pillows, absent of even his scent have the further audacity to muffle your grumble. But then you feel a slightly self-conscious chuckle roll honeywarm over your spine, and the dip of the bed as it welcomes the return of a weight that never should have left it at this hour.

"Sorry darling, I got hungry. Figured you might be too."

Your head creaks to the side, a warm scent wafting through the final defenses of your pillow fort. It's one you haven't smelled in a very, very long time.

"Masako's?"

Higuruma chuckles at the disbelief in your voice, still slumber-hoarse.

"That's right, made the pilgrimage all the way to Yoyogi. Just for you."

You hear the scrape of a knife and a rich, buttery aroma mingles with the morning air. Then you hear Higuruma's voice, dredged in huskiness from his drowsiness, drawling close to your ear. "So, forgive me yet?"

Your huff is already half buried in the pillow as you turn away from him and Higuruma sighs, wishing you'd at least treat him to your scowl. But he'll play along, after all it's been a while since the both of you could squander a morning on feigned pettiness.

"It's cute when you pretend to hold out on me," he muses, teasing his fingers through your locks before a heated palm comes to cup your cheek. "But the bagels are getting cold."

You can't help leaning into Higuruma's touch, purely instinctive, a vine supine toward its sun. But still you manage to mutter, "W'er s'posed to cuddle this mrngh."

You feel the grin in his voice long before it sneaks up to the corner of your lips. "We'll have the whole day to cuddle..."

Higuruma's aquiline nose dips down your neck, stopping just short of the spot he knows elicits a hitch in your breath. "Or not cuddle."

Drat him, and those nimble fingertips, just starting to skim beneath the hem of your shirt, summoning butterflies so swiftly you're uncertain if the swoop in your belly is from their innocently tickling antennae, or his digits' dexterous pretense of roaming your skin idly.

"For now, I'd like you to acknowledge the attempt I'm calling an omelette."

Now that has your eyes snapping open and jolting upright, shuffling around to stare at your partner who, for all his towering intellect, has never been able to distinguish a whisk from a sieve.

"You cooked? I didn't hear anything. What happened, were the batteries dead in the smoke alarm?"

"I'll have you know I actually replaced them recently."

Your skepticism retreats as you register Higuruma's mildly wounded expression. He turns to the side table, retrieving a breakfast tray and setting it before you. True, the yellow oblong by the perfectly browned discs is a little squat and misshapen, but it's distinctly missing the burnt, greasy odour you've come to reflexively associate with even his best attempts.

But this morning, you aren't even seeing any flecks of black. In fact, you start to notice the specks of green.

"Scallions?"

You raise the dish, squinting at the garnish, before lowering it to stare at Higuruma.

"Who are you and what have you done with my lover?"

"I guess I'm just some other man who's fallen for the charms of your terribly exacting egg standards," he deadpans, ruffling your hair and pressing a fork into your hand. "Now dear, if you'd be so kind as to make your judgment."

You take a sip of tea, made exactly how you like it (black, half a teaspoon of sugar, sans milk or creamer - maybe this man seated across from you isn't an impostor after all) and once you've washed down your bewilderment, set to properly tackling breakfast.

You take a breath, and let your fork cleave through the omelette. It cuts through cleanly, and doesn't wobble once on its way to your mouth.

It's...edible, you decide. Serviceable even, provided you were getting served at a road side gas station. But then you remember who cooked it, which practically makes it a 3 Michelin Star meal.

"It's good. Properly seasoned and everything." You smile, taking another bite.

"So how many dozens of eggs did you go through before you achieved this masterpiece?"

Higuruma shakes his head and huffs, casting his eyes heavenward. "Oh ye of little faith."

"In my defense, this is a novelty, Hiro. You've never spoiled me this way before."

You chuckle, tweaking his cheek, and his put-upon morose expression falters, as affection glimmers in his eyes instead.

"Three-quarters are still intact," he informs you, watching you sip your tea.

"Three quarters of the carton?" Your lip curls knowingly around the edge of your mug, and something stirs within Higuruma.

"Of the tray," he confesses, pulling your hand into his, starting to rub soft circles against your wrist.

"Couldn't be too cautious, hm?"

"I had Wikihow's assistance. And it's not my first time cooking eggs, you know."

You chew on the bagel for a quiet, contemplative moment.

"But the first time serving them?"

Your partner shrugs, but the way he averts his gaze for a moment tells you what you need to know. You squeeze his hand, and he looks back up at you.

"Thanks, Hiro. For making the morning special." You brush your forehead against his, savouring his happy hum reverberating against your cheeks as you put the tray off to the side.

"With this display of confidence, maybe you could even try tamagoyaki some time."

"Well, now that seems a tad ambitious-" Higuruma begins to equivocate but you shut him up with a kiss, tossing off the quilts and clambering into his lap, your appetite truly having been awakened at last.

He lets your hunger rush over him, falling backwards as his tongue greedily clambers towards yours, feeling a burden lift as your weight presses him back into bed, as your hips settle into their slow, needy grind against his. He kisses you, drinks you in more deeply, tasting the tannins of the tea he'd over-brewed while fussing with that dang omelette, but mingling with your scent and sweetness, it's nothing short of the most potent ambrosia. Higuruma groans, he's been parched of your taste and starved of your touch for weeks and weeks and he wants - needs you to drain him of these reservoirs of ache and desperation that have been suffocating him for so long.

Delirium and his desire floods through you, Higuruma's hands skittering everywhere, almost antsy enough to shred the fabric off of you. Higuruma nips urgently at your lips and you let his tongue, his limbs, his scent coil around you, entwined in his essence and embrace. His name spills from you in shallow gasps, pleading for a minor reprieve from the pleasure, but he persists, busying himself at your nape, suckling eagerly, flint-edged nose and canines planting tender bruises. It's only when you flinch slightly from the overstimulation of his roving mouth that he relents, reluctantly, tipping your head back to assess his efforts.

He likes what he sees; Your skin glowing in roses, dewy with his sweat and spit. Your famished gaze, devouring him as he devours you

"Maybe you should spend more time in the kitchen after all," you giggle, running your hands through his scalp, and you feel that burst of familiar wet heat as Higuruma quivers underneath you, a sodden spot growing and twitching against your core.

He presses his lips to you once more, his smirk both scalding and saccharine as he murmurs, "Never mind my rudimentary culinary skills darling, I'm going to spoil you in all the ways you already know, and then some."

@houseofsolisoccasum

[vindicated-truth]

“Why are you smiling at your phone?”

Dongsik pries his gaze away from the screen to look at the older and infinitely more handsome version tilting his head curiously.

Joowon looks over Dongsik’s shoulder, and his eyebrows fly to his hairline. “Why do you have that photo?”

Dongsik grins at him. “Your brother sent it to me.”

“I don’t have a brother,” is the automatic knee-jerk response, which just makes Dongsik grin wider. Joowon sighs. “When did hyung send that to you?”

Dongsik watches as Joowon gracefully returns to the Western-style pasta he’s been cooking in his kitchen—an acceptable compromise between Joowon’s preferred cuisine and Dongsik’s love for noodles. Dongsik has yet to completely endear Joowon to noodles with broth, and he’s just thankful Joowon is gamely willing to try anything Dongsik offers him, so this is just him returning the favour—even though Dongsik has never understood the appeal of pesto.

“Prosecutor Kwon sent it to me just now. He was clearing away some of the stuff at your house and chanced upon this photo album.” Dongsik waves the phone screen. “Said this was his favorite.”

Joowon looks up from the sauce he’s been mixing in the pot. “Why did he send that to you, then?”

When did the two of you become close is the true, unasked question, and Dongsik smirks. “Because Prosecutor Kwon wanted to gush about how cute you were as a baby without you killing him for it.”

Dongsik laughs out loud when Joowon just glares at him. “Clearly I was not a baby in that photo,” Joowon huffs. “I was seven years old when that was taken.”

“Oh?” Dongsik’s interest is piqued now. “So you remember exactly when this was taken?”

“Yes.” Joowon lifts the tasting spoon to his lips and seems to find the sauce satisfactory. “My mother took that photo when the school called to ask about my piano recital, which I never got to participate in because my father sent me to England right before the concert.”

Dongsik stills.

Joowon turns off the heat from the stove and looks up when the silence stretches for far too long. “Dongsik-ssi?”

A million questions come to Dongsik’s lips and he doesn’t know what to address first. He wants to ask about Joowon’s mother and how much of a presence she had been in Joowon’s life. He wants to ask about the bastard of a father who sent an innocent child thousands of miles away to live alone without even a support system.

But he doesn’t want to dredge up any more painful memories that Joowon might not be ready—or even want—to face again, so instead he asks about the most fascinating discovery of all:

“You play the piano?”

Joowon seems startled by the question, as if it’s one that he hasn’t expected Dongsik to ask. “Yes,” he answers simply.

Dongsik watches as Joowon moves to set the table, and normally Dongsik would help, except at the moment Dongsik is too captivated by the way Joowon’s features are fighting to stay neutral as he speaks. “I was able to continue the practice in England. When I did not yet know the language, music was the only way I could express myself.”

There’s a significant pause before Joowon deliberately returns to the stovetop to fiddle with the noodles so Dongsik can’t see his expression. “My father didn’t come to any of my performances, even though I called home several times to invite him. After that, I just—stopped trying.”

Dongsik is grateful that Joowon’s back is facing him, so he’s able to quell the white-hot rage that flares within him with alarming swiftness. The hand that is gripping his phone tightly returns it to his pocket as he closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath.

Fucking bastard I hope the fires of hell burn you a thousand times over.

He opens his eyes, pastes a smile on his face, and walks up to the kitchen counter. “Let me help you with that, Joowon-ah.”

Joowon blinks as Dongsik lifts the pot from beneath Joowon’s hands, which are left hanging in mid-air, and begins transferring the pasta to two bowls. “I’ll start grating the parmesan then,” Joowon comments with a hint of amusement in his tone.

They lapse into comfortable, companionable silence as they finish preparing dinner side by side—practiced and familiar—just as they have for so many nights that they have spent together in Joowon’s apartment, like this.

“White?” Dongsik peers at the wine bottle Joowon places on the table when they both finally settle down to eat. “You prefer red.”

“White wine goes with this type of pasta better,” Joowon explains as he takes the seat adjacent to Dongsik.

Dongsik’s mouth quirks. “I see,” he muses as he twirls the pasta on his fork. “And here I thought it’s because I prefer white.” He pops the pasta into his mouth—and pauses.

Ever attentive, Joowon immediately asks: “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I can prepare something else if you—”

Dongsik raises a hand to forestall Joowon’s spiraling concern—and transparent insecurity—as he chews thoughtfully. “Huh,” Dongsik says as soon as he swallows. “You know, I never liked pesto.”

Joowon looks visibly crestfallen and opens his mouth, presumably to once again offer another fare, when Dongsik shakes his head and continues. “I’ve just now figured out that it’s not the sauce itself that I don’t like, but the way it’s cooked.”

He meets Joowon’s eyes and smiles. “And I like the way you cook.”

Joowon blinks, a vision of adorable confusion, before his features settle into something akin to mild chagrin. “There is no need to be polite with me, Dongsik-ssi, I would rather have your honesty. How else would I improve my skills?”

How else can I be better for you is the true, unspoken statement, and something inside of Dongsik’s chest twists.

“Joowon-ah.” Dongsik reaches out and clasps Joowon’s hand. “I like it.”

Dongsik holds Joowon’s gaze just as determinedly, and Dongsik is delighted to see Joowon’s ears redden at the unwavering attention.

“I’m glad,” Joowon returns just as softly, before he clears his throat. “So am I also allowed to eat now?”

Joowon looks pointedly at his dominant hand that Dongsik is tightly holding, and Dongsik sees on those lips the smile that Jowoon is fighting against—and failing.

“Of course,” Dongsik says amiably as he lets go and returns to his own plate. “Can’t have my little prince go hungry.”

“I am not a prince,” Joowon huffs as he digs into his own plate, and Dongsik bites the inside of his cheek to stop the grin threatening to form at how Joowon has not protested Dongsik’s possessive use of ‘my’.

They eat in contented silence for a while—the pasta really is delicious, and white wine does go well with it—and when Dongsik is down to the last few bites, he takes a deep breath.

“Yuyeon-ah plays the piano too.”

Joowon peers at Dongsik over the wine glass, the rim touching his lips as he processes Dongsik’s revelation.

Belatedly, Dongsik realizes he’s made use of the present tense.

Slowly, Joowon sets the wine glass back down on the table. Dongsik watches the way Joowon’s fingers—slim and long the way a pianist’s fingers are, heartrending in the familiarity—fiddle with the stem.

“Does Yuyeon-ssi perform at recitals too?’

Dongsik swallows against the sudden lump that forms in his throat as Joowon makes use of the present tense, too.

“Yes,” Dongsik answers softly. He smiles, eyes crinkling against the sudden blurring of his vision. “And we never miss a single one. Our mother, our father, and myself—we always sit front and center at every single one of her recitals.”

Dongsik lifts his head to look at Joowon, expecting the familiar pity he’d see in people’s eyes whenever he talks about his sister, or—although thankfully less frequent now—the familiar underlying guilt he’d always see shadowing Joowon’s incandescent gaze. 

Instead, Dongsik is met with a gaze as warm as the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, wrapping him in a sensation that’s distinctly similar to an embrace.

It takes Dongsik’s breath away.

“She must be very good,” Joowon murmurs with a gentle smile, and Dongsik has to fiercely fight against the sudden urge to cry.

“She is,” Dongsik affirms, voice watery and breath shaky, as he unfurls his palm on the table and this time—it is Joowon who interlaces their fingers together.

“She is.”

—

“What are you doing here?” Joowon bursts out.

“Why yes I’m fine, Joowon-ah,” Hyeok answers wryly as he steps up and grips Joowon’s shoulders affably. “Thank you so much for asking, especially since it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

“We had lunch together at work last week,” Joowon deadpans.

“And a week is an incredibly long time!” Hyeok throws his arms wide. “Come here.”

“Do not—!”

Dongsik grins widely as he meets Joowon’s sullen gaze from across the room as the younger man finds himself hoisted into Hyeok’s bear hug—very much against his will, Dongsik can amusedly see.

“… embrace me.” Joowon glares at Dongsik over Hyeok’s back and silently mouths, ‘Why is he here?’

Why did you invite him is the true, unasked query, and in response, Dongsik instead turns towards the living room where the rest of their visitors are waiting.

From the entryway, Joowon follows Dongsik’s gaze—and his eyes widen.

Hyeok releases him just then, and Joowon stumbles both at the sudden action—and in shock.

“What are you all doing here?”

Jihoon waves enthusiastically from his seat. “Hi Joowon-hyung!”

This time, it’s Hyeok who catches Dongsik’s gaze and silently mouths in disbelief: ‘Hyung?’

Dongsik grins. Hyeok and Joowon are more alike than either of them will ever admit at gunpoint.

“Dongsik-ah had us all have this date blocked in our calendars for a while,” Jihwa explains from her seat beside her brother.

“Said we had no excuse for not coming since we could file for official leaves early on,” Gwangyoung adds at Joowon’s befuddled expression.

“Which was a hell of a thing to explain to the supervisors at work,” Ohsub grumbles from his seat at the head of the table.

“Chief Nam Sangbae won’t mind,” Dosoo pipes up brightly, catching Dongsik’s attention at how he, too, makes use of the present tense. “Especially now that his residence has become our official reunion house.”

Little Huimang burbles happily from her father’s knee, and Seonnyeo rests her head contentedly on her husband’s shoulder as she strokes her daughter’s hair.

“But why?” Joowon exclaims as he looks at each new person with increasing degrees of bewilderment as Hyeok moves to take his seat as well. “What’s the occasion?”

His seeking gaze finally lands on Jaeyi, who bestows upon him a knowing little smile.

“I believe,” she muses, “we were promised a special performance.”

Joowon stares at her. “What are you talking about?”

From his vantage point near the newly-installed upright piano, Dongsik finally pushes himself away from the wall he’s been leaning against while watching everything unfold before Joowon.

He holds out a sheaf of paper, and Joowon looks up at him questioningly.

“I’ve never been that good at reading sheet music,” Dongsik admits ruefully as his fingers lovingly caress the paper. “So I’ve never really managed to interpret Yuyeon-ah’s original compositions.”

Joowon, to his credit, has always been one of the smartest people Dongsik has ever known, and has always been preternaturally fast at picking up clues.

And with the way Joowon’s beautiful eyes have widened in utter shock, Dongsik knows Joowon has pieced together all the clues now, too.

“Joowon-ah,” Dongsik tells him softly. “I would love to hear my sister’s music once again.”

The papers audibly rustle as Joowon takes them with trembling hands. He shakes his head swiftly as he grasps for one final missing piece to the puzzle.

“But why are you all here?” Joowon breathes as he looks up at the sea of expectant gazes staring back at him. “Why would you all file official leaves at work for—this?”

Why would you do this for me is the real, desperate question, and Dongsik moves to take his seat beside Hyeok.

Front and center.

“Because, Lieutenant Han,” Seonnyeo smiles at him, “you always make time for family.”

Dongsik closes his eyes then. He senses movement as the audience settles behind him with bated breath.

He hears a seat being pushed back, a piano being opened, a music sheet being settled into place.

And for the first time in more than twenty years—

Yuyeon has finally returned.

—

모두 함께 노래 부르자 힘찬 노랫소리 슬픔 가려지도록 괜찮을 거야 시계의 바늘처럼 다시 돌고 돌아 제자리로 오겠지

Let's sing together To cover the sadness with the powerful song It's gonna be okay, like the hands on the clock They'll go in circles back to their places

—

Title and lyrics from "Circles" by SEVENTEEN

Happy New Year, my beloved Beyond Evil fandom ❤️

Also posted at AO3

—

Now with a missing scene.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - In-Law - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Meet the parents. Zaun-style.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Visiting bells are done," he says.

Sevika swallows. "I—"

"Go on." Silco hooks a finger into his waistcoat, checking his pocketwatch. "This won't take long."

Questioning the flat certainty of the order would be futile. Sevika's eyes flick once from him to Samik. She looks conflicted. Then the concern ebbs; the armor resolidifies. With a terse nod, she exits the chamber. Her father isn't spared a parting glance.

The chamber door bolts shut. The two men are alone.

The Eye of Zaun and the Wharfside Devil.

Samik's eyes are a stealth-crawl over Silco: from the tailored lines of his suit to the volcano glow of his eye and the gnawed-at skin around it. Fascination flickers in his stare; disgust is smothered in his jaw. Not an unusual reaction—from free men or inmates alike. Not all monsters are born equal.

Samik says, "You better explain who you are, buddy."

"In a moment."

A polite reply, and none at all.

Silco circles around the table to Samik's side. He trails a fingertip along Samik's empty chair and rubs it between his thumb, contemplating the rust. "

You're not wrong," he says. "Dredge is a step below Stillwater." His stare slithers across the bare lamps and weeping cinderblock walls, then up to Samik's face: a flecked mirror. "A fixer-upper is due."

Samik edges closer. "I asked who the fuck you were."

Silco doesn't answer. He settles into Samik's chair, one leg folding over the other. No ground ceded, but a playing field leveled.

Samik says, "You're—what? A Warden?"

"No such thing."

"What then?" His dark eyes hook into Silco's bad one. "A circus freak? 'Cause that's one nasty scar. Looks like a dog took one chomp too many."

"The dog lost." Silco gestures with a pale splay of fingers. "Care to sit? I'm not contagious."

Samik remains standing. Silco surmised as much.

He withdraws his smoking case and tips a cigarette into his mouth. Samik's wary expression flickers with interest. A fellow smoker. Fitting, given they already share the dubious designation of Unfit Fathers.

Flicking open his lighter, Silco sets the cherry alight and takes a drag. Smoke wafts through the dank chamber.

"I'm curious," he says, "why you turned down your daughter's offer."

Samik bridles, "Don't need her damn offer."

"A matter of pride? Or a misguided bid at distance?"

Samik's expression is undaunted. But something shifts in his eyes. A wary glint.

"Who are you?" he repeats.

"Consider me an emissary."

"Emissary. Real fancy word. Don't hear 'em often behind bars—except from chucklefucks who think their blue-blood airs will save 'em from a shiv. Let me guess. You're sent by the guy who runs things? Hoping to cut a deal for my parole." His lip curls. "Must be scraping rock-bottom, hiring gofers with ugly-ass faces and not a lick of sense."

Silco nods, pleasantly. "I hire talent, actually. Cutthroats, chem-fiends, cons—even the occasional child. But every rule has its exceptions. If I'm feeling exceptionally tolerant, I allow for fools to join the ranks. And you? You must be exceptionally foolish, Samik Mitra, to have thrown away your shot at freedom. All for a badge of pride. Or a bullet to the brainpan."

He reaches into his coat pocket, and flips a sheet of paper onto the table. It is a map. Traced in crude charcoal on a stolen sheath of parchment. It outlines, with fiendish exactness, a tunnel network beneath Dredge prison.

Samik's face stays composed. A vein throbs on his temple.

"This was recovered from your cell yesterday," Silco says. "An escape route through Dredge." He smooths the map thoughtfully with his fingers. "Three days from now, the convicts will stage a riot. During the chaos, you'll use this route to slip past security. You've old friends in Factorywood. Men and women willing to look the other way while you flee. At the harbor, one of them has paid for your safe passage aboard a ship. Bound for Smuggler's Cove. From there, I imagine your plan was a gradual return to glory. Resurrecting yourself, reputation and crew alike. You'd shed no tears for your daughter, who has been your punching bag since childhood—but would not hesitate to leverage her status once you'd returned. You'd force her to serve your ambitions. Repossess the flat that your eldest daughter deeded to you, out of duty if not love. And if Sevika didn't comply? You'd retaliate with everything in your arsenal. She knows that much; I certainly do. You're not the type to let a grudge go unanswered." Softer, "Even if it gets you killed."

Samik's jaw grinds. He says nothing.

"Mr. Mitra. I regret to be the bearer of bad news. But your plan will get you killed." Observing the spasm that crosses Samik's face, he unhurriedly adds: "We know it all. Every inch of those tunnels, mapped by you and the rest. Every conspirator in the riot. The transport you'll seize to escape. The dock where you intend to depart. The funds required to grease every step. My blackguards have already infiltrated the prisoners' ranks, and ended the riot before it began. The tunnels are scheduled to be demolished by dawn. Rest assured, though: your contacts were well compensated. Nothing like the threat of chemical castration to stir civic duty into the loins."

Samik inhales—a horrid rattle. Sweat twinkles on his brow.

"Take heart, Mr. Mitra," Silco murmurs. "There is good news to offset the bad."

He withdraws his lighter. The crackling flame edges along the crinkled sheet until it curls and catches fire. The acrid whiff overrides the spice of brightleaf.

Samik's hand darts out. Silco crooks a brow.

The challenge is plain:  Go on, if you dare.

Samik's hand drops. His expression suggests a tug-of-war between stubbornness and bargain. He settles on the latter. Smart man.

"What are you after?" he asks.

Another Stillwater reflex. Nobody gives up something for nothing. Every favor has a price attached.

Cost; reward.

Silco turns his cigarette end slowly against the table's edge, shaping the cherry into a point. "Zaun's a city built on the bedrock of second chances. I see no reason to deviate. Your stunt was ill-advised. But I concede it was only because you haven't kept abreast of politics. The Undercity you knew is dead. It has given birth to something else. Something greater than us all."

"And what's that?"

"The promise—" a streak of glowing red mottles the gray on the burning map, "—of progress."

Samik watches his old hopes go up in smoke. He says nothing.

"Rest assured," Silco goes on, "your record will not reflect your plans. Next week's hearing will proceed as scheduled. Sevika will testify. Knowing her as well as I do, she will testify in favor of your release. That's the kind of woman your daughter is, Mr. Mitra. She'll vouch for family, even if they've shown zero loyalty in return."  The sharp points of his teeth glint, a mouthful of splintered bones. "One word from me and her testimony will mean zilch."

Samik maintains his composure. But it's a brittle façade. His gaze keeps passing from the charred map to Silco. It lingers on his bad eye. His face spasms with denial, and something else.

Recognition.

"You're not a man to accept handouts," Silco murmurs. "I respect that. Truth told, if you'd folded the easy way, you wouldn't have merited my time. But because I'm acquainted with your reputation—" his tongue curls contemptuously around the syllables, "—I believe you are worthy of an offer. I have one. If you'd like to hear it."

"What are you talking about?"

"After your release, I've work for you. Real work. The type suited to your talents."

Samik shakes his head. "I don't make deals with freaks who won't even share their names."

"You know my name."

Samik stares. The devil, alive and awake, shaking loose his iron fetters. Except his features are carved in doubt, so acute it is almost denial.

When you've been trapped in a dungeon for decades, belief in what is real is the first thing to go. The second's belief in redemption.  Samik Mitra lives somewhere between both impossibilities: unable to fathom a future worth dying for, unwilling to die a compliant cog in someone else's war-machine.

That's what the prison break was meant to be—severance from two worlds in transition; freedom in total exile, gained at all costs.

Pity he forgot whose city he's in.

"No," Samik says. "No fuckin' way."

Head tipped back, Silco takes a deep pull of smoke, then performs an old jailhouse trick. He parts his lips, letting the cigarette adhere to the tip of his tongue, almost swallowing it, then catches it, still lit, between his teeth, smoke roiling from the corners of his mouth. His eyes do not blink.

The greeting is plain: No fuckin' way?

Try the truth, then.

Samik's jaw works. A depthless disquiet leaks at the edges of his composure. Whatever he glimpses in Silco's stare, it exerts its own terrible thrall: the dark hazard of encountering oneself at the farthest ambit of possibility.

Silco stays, legs crossed, in the chair. They've entered a territory they both recognize as beyond civility's scope. And yet, for the first time, Samik seems unsteady on his feet. The bare skin of his sinewy arms is stippled in gooseflesh, as if it's cold, which it isn't. His body holds the rigid hammerlock of a boxer primed for a fight he's determined to win, but won't.

He'll yield, and in yielding, take the five steps across no-man's-land to the empty chair. Silco isn't the Eye of Zaun for nothing. He'll tangle Samik's gaze with his own and drag him to the edge.

No doomed man denies himself a miracle.

There it is. One foot, then the other. Nowhere to go except forward.

Slowly, Samik occupies the chair Sevika had vacated minutes before. His wide-legged posture broadcasts nothing so feeble as submission. But behind his carefully-cut facade, old instincts are reorienting themselves.

This is no not a poker game or a fighting pit.

This is warfare, played under the cover of ceasefire.

"So, you're him," Samik says slowly. "The Eye. My girl's boss."

"The very same."

"Never knew her to work for anybody. Maybe alongside. Never under. She ain't a pushover. None of my brats were. But especially not her." He sneaks an appraisal: torn between the ingrained desire to best an unknown threat, and the fatherly urge to ward it off his flesh-and-blood. "Must take a firm grip to keep a wildcat on your leash. That right?"

"Very firm," Silco says, relishing the burn of smoke in his throat: rich, heavy, intoxicating. "But she isn't leashed."

"That right?"

"She runs with me because she chooses to. In good faith. Same way she made her offer earlier. In good faith. But since you were disinclined to take it, I'm here to offer mine."

 Dark eyes scour Silco's mutilated features. "That being?"

"Work for me," Silco says softly. "Or don't work at all."

The airwaves recharge: rage seaming together with danger.  The small chamber ripples as the smoke coalesces into its own miasma.

"Is this a threat?" Samik says. "Or a bribe?"

"I don't threaten my allies. Nor do I bribe my enemies."

"So we're either?"

 "Depends." 

"On what? Whether I make nice? Tuck my tail and and play fetch for you like a good boy?" 

At Silco's nod, he laughs. The belligerence is camouflage, concealing an ego rubbed raw. He'd plotted to exit prison on his own terms, without regard to old bonds or older fealties. Now, he sits face-to-face with the evidence of his failure.

Humility's a rare taste to develop at sixty-three; he spits the dregs between Silco's feet.

"Fat chance," he sneers. "I ain't built to grovel. Least of all to a bastard who doesn't care dick about me or mine."

"You're right," Silco agrees. "I don't care. But I do owe mine." 

Again, the dark eyes size him up. Trying to strip away flesh from bone, and excavate deeper strata. Impossible. Silco's mismatched eyes are obscured by the smoke spindling to fill the space. His silence is its own dimension of enigma.

"What—" Samik stops, swallows. "What's in this deal?"

Two fingertips cradle the smoldering cigarette. The cherry winks, an unholy red, then wanes. Only the glow of Silco's bad eye endures.

"A week from now," he says, "your daughter will testify. You will be released. You will be given the rundown of your duties. Nothing too complicated. Mostly night-work at the waterfronts. A slit throat here, a bashed skull there. Enough to remind any unwelcome guests that Zaun's house is in order."

"Meaning," Samik extrapolates, "I'll do your dirty work."

"Don't mistake it for grunt labor. Every corpse you send floating down the canals earns my appreciation—and compensation. Enough to establish your place in Zaun's hierarchy. Enough, in fact, to make retirement a possibility rather than a pipe dream.  All I require is proof of your fealty—everlasting." The notched edge of Silco's lip quirks.  "Your choice, Mr. Mitra. Stay in the shadows or earn your legacy."

 Samik catches his lips between his teeth. Sevika does that sometimes, when she's feeling ambushed. It must be hereditary.

"And," he asks, "if I say no?"

"You'll be released, regardless. Given clothes, coin, papers. Then you'll board the next vessel to Bilgewater."

"Bilgewater?"

"There is no better city to lose yourself in. Or to find your death by way of rebirth." The quirk becomes a grin: not pleasant, but unsettlingly intimate. "Besides. Your boys are settled there."

"My boys?"

"Rohan and Raakesh."

Samik's breath stops. His eyes glitter in naked shock.

"You didn't know? After your arrest, the Wardens split your children. Sent the girls to the orphanage, and the boys abroad. Both Rohan and Raakesh were set up to work for a shipping-baron. They earned their keep, and excelled. Raakesh made his start as a fisherman, and now owns a fleet of trawlers. Rohan was offered a clerkship at the docks. He parlayed it into ownership of the site, and is now the Harbormaster."

The revelation strikes Samik like a blowback from a Gatling gun. His jaw unhinges.

"They... they're alive?"

"Alive and thriving." Silco takes an idle pull of the cigarette. "I've met them. My network has import-export interests in Bilgewater. Your boys help keep the trade lines flowing. They write to Sevika from time to time. Not a lot of warmth, given their history. Still—they reach out every year, without fail, on Bloody Sunday. The anniversary of Nandi's death." Smoke spirals through the Silco's slitted smile. "I wonder if they still remember their old man? Especially after nearly three decades of his absence?"

A shadow crosses Samik's face. Ego's taken the backseat. Hope, pitiful in its scope, wrestles in its stead.

"I didn't know," he says hoarsely. "Didn't know they survived the Wardens."

"They did. As well as fatherless boys can. But they aren't boys anymore. They're grown men. Ones who, I must add, bear absolutely zero resemblance to their sire." The smile's gone; Silco speaks with lethal precision. "Sevika reached out to them with news of your impending release. She asked if they'd testify. On your fitness as a father; your merits as a man. You know their answer? They asked her why she bothered. Told her to waste neither coin nor paper. They wouldn't lift a finger to aid the man who'd put their childhood six feet under. In Raakesh's words: 'He's rotting because of his own choices. He made us pay for them once. Now there's no price we won't pay—except the price we'll make him pay."

Samik exhales: a gut-stabbed hiss.

"You're surprised? Don't be. Rohan and Raakesh still carry the scars of their boyhood. It's not grudges they nurse, but grief. They've put their pasts behind them. Settled into prosperity. Raakesh has a wife, and a child on the way. Rohan has mistresses aplenty, and more bastards than I've got fingernails." A shrug. "None named after his old man."

Samik's palm creeps up his face. He makes a rough sound, halfway between snarl and sob.

"Don't misunderstand me. If you showed up at Bilgewater, they'd not hunt you down for a reckoning. But nor would they welcome you with open arms. As far as your boys are concerned, you're already a dead man. And sons," silkily, "are much like daughters. Once they've carved a future on their own terms? They don't look back."

Silence wreathes the chamber. Samik's jaw spasms; his knuckles pop. A rupture of emotion that deep is never without violence. But without a real outlet, the only flipside is despair.

Silco offers no comfort. Just a half-lidded scrutiny: iced over with knowledge.

He's been in this man's seat. He understands, as only experience permits, that the loss of a child's love isn't a tragedy, but a debt collected long overdue.

"Fuckin' hell," Samik breathes. "Why give me a choice to begin with?"  

"We all reap what we sow, Mr. Mitra. You wanted your freedom. Here it is. The only question is whether it'll be lonely."

"I'm no friend to loneliness. Learned that pretty damn fast."

"Lucky you're getting a second shot. Most ex-cons don't."

Silence, and Samik's ragged breathing. Then—

"You said," he mutters, "I could start over."

Silco nods.

"But I'd be starting over in Zaun. Old haunts. New possibilities. Bilgewater's no beginning. It's... a burial. Except the corpse still breathes." 

 Silco nods, again.

The seconds seep, one by one, into minutes. They're both old inmates. Between them sits the knowledge: no man is ever truly cornered. Just corralled by circumstance.

And in circumstances like these, a smart man sees beyond the bars. A smarter man sees further ahead: beyond today's loss, to tomorrow's gain.

Cost; reward.

"It's not a fair bargain," Samik says thickly.

Silco tips a shoulder. "Nothing worthwhile is."

Again, Samik scrubs his sandpapery jaw. Calluses on silver bristles: marking a tally for his options: a new beginning with strangers, or old memories among familiars. Out of place among loved ones, or isolated among killers with no love lost in between.

His palm closes into a fist.

"I'd bet," he growls, "you've never fought a single bare-knuckled brawl since you started your climb. Too clever to dirty your dukes. Too smart to risk your neck. Instead, you stack your cards and rig your odds—then get folks with bigger biceps and no brains to take the fall. Ain't that right? That's why my girl works for you. It's why you keep her at your six. Why you wanna keep me. Insurance." His glower takes Silco's measure in full—and finally parses the meaning behind the epithet. "I'd bet that creepy eye ain't the half of the lesson life's beat into you. I'd bet it took someone dear—someone close—to knock it home. Never fight fair. Just fight til the other guy's in the ground."

Silco thinks of Vander: rescuer, rival, lover, betrayer.

A lesson that's never stopped bleeding.

"I think—" His smile bares the ruminants of razored teeth, "—you should give me your answer."

 Samik doesn't flinch, but his demeanor alters. Agitated; caught in a chokehold he can't snap. Again, the seconds seep; the smoke spirals.

Finally—

"Deal," he mutters. "I'll join your crew."

"Wise choice." Silco leans back in his seat, hands splayed across his waistcoat, cigarette burning in his steepled fingers. "Sevika will confirm the arrangements."

"Arrangements?"

"Once you're out." Silco ticks them off his fingers. "Your shift schedule. Your assigned posts. Your compensation rate, plus extra. A cut of the earnings per assignment, to be shared with the crew. And of course—your accommodations. Especially since your original residence—the flat Nandi deeded you as part of her Will, has already been claimed."

"By who?"

"Me," Silco says. "Last night."

A frisson skitters up Samik's spine. Outrage, molten and indignant, pours his dark eyes.

"You're fucking insane," he growls. "Bad enough that you think you're in charge. But stealing a man's property? And Sevika's gone along with it?"

"She is my second-in-command. She trusts my judgement—as I trust hers."

"You've got no right butting into my family business—"

Silco's upper lip peels back to bare the full array of teeth. It is no smile, but a chilling simulacrum: the deepwater predator finally riding to the surface.

Samik stops short. The airless chamber shrinks, a tide of coldness spreading. Never mind that he severely outclasses this spindly stranger in a fistfight. He still possesses that instinctive dread of the unknown, that inclination to roll over and bare his throat.

Stillwater hasn't stolen his humanity. Only hardened it.

Silco's humanity has bled into something else entirely.

"Mr. Mitra," Silco says, and the pitch of his voice is brimstone permafrosted into a eternal twilight. "Do not speak to me of rights.  You forfeited yours as a father long before I entered Sevika's orbit. Or her bed. You dug your grave; I staked my claim. And I do not need blood to declare it. I claim by loyalty. By choice. Mine—and hers. And for every morning after, as she rises to serve my city—I'll ensure my mark is made. Until there isn't a man in Zaun who would dare dispute it. Starting with you."

Samik recoils, half-cringing from the fallout of the truth. Half-torn between rage and revulsion—until his pride overpowers everything else.

"How fuckin' dare you—?!"

"I dare," Silco cuts through the tirade, "because your daughter gave me leave. Last night—beneath the roof where you will never again set foot—she permitted me to make my claim. Not to replace you—but erase you. And believe me when I say: if you weren't hers and Nandi's father, your erasure would come with the sweet catharsis of a severed throat."

The pulse throbs in Samik's throat. He's a fearsome beast, a seasoned veteran, a survivor. But he's seen enough brutality in his days to scent death at its rawest: without recourse.

Without end.

"Bastard," he whispers. "Fucking bloodsucking bastard."

Unspooling from his seat, Silco flicks the cigarette across the table. It skitters to a stop, smoke coiling from the cherry.

A parting gift.

"One week," he says. "Hold your tongue. Mind your manners. Your freedom's a heartbeat away."

"Wait just one godsdamn minute—"

"After, you'll join the crew on the evening-shift guard duty at the docks. You'll report to your designated checkpoint and perform your work without fail. Supper is at sunset. I dine with my crew every Tuesday. Your daughter's conferred an invitation, which you would do well to accept. After the meal, I'll show you to your quarters. Five streets over from mine and Sevika's. Enough proximity to maintain contact. Not enough to force conversation. It's Fissure tradition for in-laws to stay cordial, but not kissing-close, Mr. Mitra. So let's try cordial, shall we?"

The jibe—in-law—slams like a gavel. Samik's brows contorts: the rage stoked on a decade-long forge, fed on fresh indignity.

Except he cannot retaliate. Cannot lash out. Can only swallow his losses: pride, hope, family.  Silco has his number: an ogre with no luck and nowhere else to go. And the ogre knows it; feels every pound of humiliation grinding his bones to powder.

His voice holds a fritzed-out flatness.

"Go to hell." Then, cordial, indeed, "Sir."

"Already there." With a grave flourish, Silco nods. "Welcome to Zaun, Samik Mitra."

He glides out without a backward glance. The cigarette, and Samik's silence, smolder in his wake.

[trixy812]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ You have all my support ɞ˚‧｡⋆ pt 2

{Nanami Kento x reader}

ִֶָ࣪☾. Content: kento nanami x reader, just fluff, comfort, friends to lovers, nightmare, digimon mentioned!, i really think nanami looks at memes like parents look at memes xdxd (don't forget we are in year 2007ish)

ִֶָ࣪☾. Summary: It was inevitable. Kento Nanami and you became friends.

ִֶָ࣪☾. AN: Hello! I bring you guys part two, I took longer than I expected. Yesterday, I had a very calm nightshift and decided to finally write this second part, i really liked how it turn out. I really want to encourage you all to leave comments because that would help me a lot now that I'm just starting to write! extra: i really want to thank my twiniieee @totallygyomeiswife because she helped to organize my thought and how i want this fic to keep going.

Edit: I noticed some inconsistencies so, I corrected few words & numbers! Thank you again for reading 📚 I am excited to keep writing this 🥰

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4

Omakes Reader meets Gojo First time

🅼🅰🆂🆃🅴🆁🅻🅸🆂🆃

It’s been several months since Haibara’s death, and while Nanami remains the serious, reserved man everyone knows, something has subtly changed in him. In these past months, he’s allowed himself to trust you, finding quiet comfort in your friendship. You've always been there for him, offering support without demands or expectations. Yet Haibara’s memory still casts a long shadow, and sometimes his dreams dredge up painful scenes, reminding him of everything he's lost.

One night, after an especially vivid nightmare where he relives those haunting images of Haibara, Nanami wakes up, gasping for air. Without thinking, he picks up his phone and sends you a message:

Are you awake?

Your response comes almost immediately.

Of course! I’m always awake. You couldn’t sleep again, could you?

Despite the lingering weight of his nightmare, Nanami can’t help but smile slightly.

Do you ever actually sleep?

It’s my superpower! you reply, adding a sunglasses emoji.

Just as he’s about to put his phone down, he sees a notification from you—an image attachment. Curious, he opens it to see a meme of a concerned-looking dog, accompanied by the huge caption: “Your life is as worrisome as my face!” Nanami frowns, confused by the image.

Whose dog is that? he asks.

That doesn’t matter! Just laugh! It’s funny, right?

It seems we have different definitions of funny, he replies, teasing you. But he’s unable to stop himself from smiling, finding a strange comfort in your lightheartedness, and grateful for the brief escape from his thoughts.

Later that day, the two of you meet up at an arcade. You've set your sights on a claw machine with a Palmon plush, and after several failed attempts, you’re determined to get it. The lights and sounds around you barely register; all your attention is on the machine and on winning that Palmon.

Nanami watches from behind, arms crossed, his expression showing his skepticism. “Are you seriously going to keep going? You’ve already spent 3,000 yen. This is ridiculous.”

Without looking away from the machine, you throw him a quick glance. “Yes! I need it. Palmon is beautiful, and I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t win it.”

Nanami raises an eyebrow, doubtful. “Is it really that important?”

“Obviously!” You pout, looking at him with that mix of determination and stubbornness he’s come to recognize. That blend of energy and defiance stirs something in him, and he blurts out a suggestion he hadn’t even thought through

“Come study with me at Jujutsu High.”

The proposal surprises both of you, and you stop playing for a moment, though you keep your hand firmly on the joystick to hold your spot. Smiling, you look at him with a mix of affection and amusement.

“That’s not going to happen. I’ll never be a sorcerer. Not even you could change my mind, Nanami.”

A faint blush rises to your cheeks as you say his name, wondering if you’ve let slip too much. You seem about to say something more, but he interrupts, his voice soft and sorrowful.

“I’m alone now. I was left alone”

His words strike you, and though you want to tell him how much he means to you, how you've had a crush on him for months now but you know it’s not the right moment. He’s still too vulnerable, and you wouldn’t want to take advantage of that. Instead, you try to lighten the mood.

“My dad always used to say, ‘You go to school to study, not to make friends,’” you say, imitating your father’s voice and holding a finger under your nose as if you had a mustache. Nanami watches, but the sadness doesn’t leave his gaze.

Finally, you look him in the eyes, speaking with quiet sincerity. “You have all my support, Nanami. You know that, right?”

Nanami meets your eyes, and for a moment, his expression softens, the sadness easing a little. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and you notice a hint of peace behind his smile.

“After school, you probably have homework, just like me,” you suggest, taking a breath. “How about you come to my house every day after classes, and we do it together? Studying will be easier if we have each other’s company.”

Nanami looks at you, a bit taken aback by the suggestion, but he finds himself surprisingly comforted by the idea. Even though he knows your schoolwork might be very different from his own, the thought reassures him.

“And what about your hospital volunteering? Don’t you have to go?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice.

You wave his concern off. “I’ll do it on weekends. There are fewer people, and I can hide what I’m doing more easily. Don’t worry.” You think to yourself that you will have to do an extra year of volunteering because you are going to reduce your hours a week, but it doesn't bother you at all.

Nanami nods, and without another word, he steps toward the claw machine, nudging you aside gently. Reaching into his pocket, he inserts 100 yen. And as the good sorcerer he is, it looks like magic, the claw captures the Palmon on the first try.

As soon as you see the plush descending, you let out a shout of pure joy, bouncing with excitement. Nanami pulls it from the machine and hands it to you.

“Thank you so much, Kento!” you exclaim, hugging the plush tightly, and realizing, as your face flushes, that you’ve called him by his first name.

Nanami blinks, surprised, but then he smiles, seeing you so happy. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Haibara in your lively expression, just like that day when you met, and the thought fills him with an unexpected peace.

“So, what time should I be coming to your house to keep up with your ‘plan’?” he asks, his tone faintly teasing.

Unable to help it, your smile grew even wider, thrilled to have the Palmon in your hands, happy that Nanami won it for you, ecstatic because you know you'll see him more often, just as you've dreamed awake before going to sleep, you respond, “Let’s meet at Akihabara station after school, and then we can go together. Does that sound good?”

Nanami nods, satisfied with the plan. “Perfect.” With a slight blush, he murmurs almost to himself, but just loud enough for you to hear, “Keep calling me Kento.”

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4

Omakes

Reader meets Gojo

First time

-

🅼🅰🆂🆃🅴🆁🅻🅸🆂🆃

[fandomnerd9602]

Rusty Compass

Jack Reacher x Sibling!Reader

The neon sign of the Rusty Compass bar cast a jaundiced glow across Jack Reacher's face. He nursed a beer – his third, probably, judging by the empty bottles lining the counter. Rain splattered against the window, washing away the neon in blurry streaks. Not a bad night for a ghost town, Reacher thought, swirling the last drops of his beer.

Then, the bell above the door jangled. A gust of wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and teenage angst. A skinny figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, blinking against the sudden brightness. Reacher squinted, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"You lost, kid?" he rumbled, his voice as gruff as his military background.

The figure stepped into the light, revealing a mop of rain-soaked hair and wide, eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. It was a young kid , barely sixteen, face pale and drawn. Yet there was a stubborn echo of Reacher's own face in there too.

"Are you Jack Reacher?" the person asked, with a voice barely a whisper.

Reacher raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. He wasn't exactly in the habit of advertising himself. "Depends who's asking," he drawled, playing along.

The young adult took a shaky breath. "My name is Y/N. Y/N Reacher. I'm your sibling."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Reacher had no siblings besides Joe, or so he thought. His past was a tangled mess, buried deep within him like a scar. This kid, with their haunted yet familiar eyes, was dredging up memories he'd spent years suppressing.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions. Rain hammered against the roof, a drumming accompaniment to the internal war raging within Reacher. Curiosity battled distrust, a tug-of-war played out in the depths of his gaze.

Finally, he sighed, the sound like a weary sigh of an old mountain. "Get yourself a lemonade, kid," he muttered, gesturing to the bartender. "Let's talk."

The next few hours were a blur of stolen glances and hesitant words. Y/N, it turned out, was the result of an indiscretion, a secret Reacher never knew existed. Y/N spoke of a childhood spent in shadows, a mother's love a fragile shield against a harsh world. They spoke of searching, of yearning for a connection that felt undeserved.

Reacher listened, the calluses on his soul softening with each story. He saw himself in Y/N’s eyes, the same hunger for belonging, the same wariness of trust. It was a mirror he couldn't ignore, a reflection of the man he could have been, should have been.

By the time the bar closed, a silent pact had been forged. Reacher wouldn't turn this scrawny kid away, wouldn't let them wander the same lonely road he once had. He wouldn't be the father the kid never had, but maybe, just maybe, he could be the sibling he never knew was needed.

They stepped out into the rain, the moon a pale smudge behind the thick clouds. The road ahead was still shrouded in mist, but it didn't look like an endless escape anymore. It looked like a shared journey, two Reachers, bound by blood and circumstance, carving their own path through the storm. And for the first time in years, Jack Reacher didn't feel alone.

The Rusty Compass faded into the darkness, leaving behind the echo of unspoken promises and the flicker of a fragile hope. The rain kept falling like a baptism, washing away the past and paving the way for the new. Jack Reacher, the lone wolf, had found his pack. And sometimes, that’s all the shelter you needed from the storm.