#all his scars are conveniently hidden away

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

ARRRIII PSPSPS (sorry, that was weird.) n e way SORRY BUT I FOUND THIS PICREW FROM A THREAD GOING AROUND MY DASH AND OHHH MYYY GOD. i just had to share with you... it has features of knights and ur knight!reader always has me in a chokehold. i was gonna send this off anon but i embarrass myself way too much already so pls forgive me :'3

(picrew): https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/2317684

(my version of it with knight!reader (or, me) i've played around too much with this and i need to satoru to do this with us neow.): https://cdn.picrew.me/shareImg/org/202405/2317684_b77URpli.png (hopefully it works :3)

🥺🥺🥺 HI ANON !!!!! NOT WEIRD AT ALLLLLL FEEL FREE TO PSPSPSP ME AS MUCH AS YOU WANT!!!!!!! thank you sm for thinking of me….. i did this picrew a while back but not with my silly little royals!!!!! this was a lot of fun :33

AND WAHHH . YOUR VERSION IS SOO STUNNING OH MY GOSH 🥺🥺🥺 the intimacy!!!!! the longing!!!!!! it’s so so pretty …. i love your prince!gojo design…… and knight!reader !!! our most beloved..

since you went with gojo, i decided to make one for my knight!sugu and royalty!reader !!! :3 they don’t have a canon design or anything like that, i just thought i’d give them red hair for the fox symbolism lmao . they’re very excited to kiss sugu :3 and he’s very indulgent . i think reader is a very energetic / clumsy kisser while sugu is a lot more slow and teasing. he likes seeing them pout <33

they mean the world to meeeeeee 🥺🥺🥺

[jackactuallywrites]

Hidden Paradise

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (detailed shagging)

Warnings: Unprotected sex and also shower sex which we all know is unsafe

Summary: You walk in on a man in the shower, it takes you seeing him in the skull mask a week later to realise it was Ghost, and he is very intrigued by your reaction

Notes: This absolutely wouldn’t be possible without @xxven my muse and pookie and beta reader who gave me the plot 🤍❤️ (also raven on TikTok for making a hot thirst trap that inspired a whole scene)

Word Count: 4,195 (I am very horny for ghost)

ao3 link

There was very little luxury to be found on a military base; your military fatigues were never soft, your boots were the cheapest given by the contractors, your bed squeaked every time you so much as moved an inch, and there wasn’t so much as a tealight allowed in the barracks.

However, you’d found a quiet sanctuary. Far from the rest of the buildings on the base, there was a small shower block, disused and forgotten about in favour of the newer, more convenient showers. The water pressure wasn’t all that great, and the tiles would probably never return to whatever shade of white they’d started out as, but all that mattered was that it was so wonderfully, blissfully quiet.

Silence was one of the hardest commodities to come across on a military base; there was always something going on, whether it be a training exercise with a hard-edged sergeant screaming at recruits or the grunts trying out whatever shiny new piece of equipment the government had seen fit to waste money on, but out there in the shower block, muffled by a copse of trees, there was nothing. Beautiful, precious, nothing.

Today had been yet another long lesson in tedium, worsened by the fact that your most beloved friends were out in the field, busy repairing the vehicles with whatever they could scavenge from the base. You already felt exhausted at the idea of how much paperwork you’d have to do after they’d torn through the place, and the day proved you right, with you having to go to every single place in the garages to check what stock had been taken as mechanics had an annoying habit of forgetting to write down what they’d used. It was long into the evening by the time you’d finally finished putting in the orders to replace every strange bit of junk the mechanics had used, and all you could think about was the long shower you were going to take.

The route through the forest was one of the only places you could get away with wearing your headphones and listening to music without getting scolded by the sergeant on patrol, and you took advantage of this privilege every time, blasting some classic disco music in your ears as you approached the shower block, blissfully unaware of the world outside. If not, you might have noticed the sound of the shower running.

As such, you walked into the block thinking of nothing but how your new eucalyptus shower steamer would smell, having got fairly good reviews online. You already had a favourite shower at this point, the one on the very end, with the best water pressure that the rusted old pipes could provide, though it had no door to speak of. You walked along the yellowed tile floor, passing by the empty showers until you finally reached your favourite one, only to find that it was very much not empty.

Standing under the sputtering stream of water was a tall, well-built man, his tan back glistening under the hundreds of droplets of water, highlighting the various white scars on his back, some of them small, some of them intimidatingly large. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander down, admiring the muscles in his back and perfectly toned legs, as well as a surprisingly sculpted ass. Whoever he was, he was statuesque in his beauty, as though he had been carved out of marble, and as he turned around to face you, showcasing the golden hair that trailed down from his abs, you caught a glimpse of his shaft, thick and long, yet quickly covered by a large hand.

It was that movement that broke the lustful spell you were under, and your eyes finally stopped ogling his body and flicked up to his face. You didn’t recognise him, not his pale green eyes or his crooked nose, but you could absolutely recognise the outrage on his face, and you yanked down your headphones, keeping your eyes firmly above his waist, “I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was in here.” His voice was little more than a snarl, “Get out.” You had absolutely no desire to argue with a man built like that, so you gave a quick nod and hurried back out of the shower block, not willing to spend a single second more in his presence.

~

Since your encounter in the showers, not a single night had gone past where you hadn’t dreamed about the man, his body, his hands, the dark blond hair that led down his navel, and the thick veins on his forearms. It lurked in the back of your mind, eternally present as a lustful little memory to entertain you during the more boring moments of your day.

Yet again, you were in another meeting writing down what items had been used over the week and what needed to be ordered for the next month's exercise. It was made slightly more interesting by the fact that this time, you were working with the SAS, and not just that, but with some of the most feared soldiers there were, including the worst of the worst, Ghost .

You swore you could almost feel the insidious aura coming from the man in the skull mask, as though it was radiating off him in dark waves. When he spoke, his words were sharp and to the point, never expending more energy than was strictly necessary, and rarely directing his attention to you, sitting in silence and taking notes, not that you were complaining. Every time the man spoke, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as though your body was trying to warn you that he was dangerous. It was only toward the end of the meeting that you finally spoke up, standing and reciting everything that you’d written down in your notebook.

It was times like that where you’d have to put on a brave face as if you feared the room of men no more than a pack of kittens, making sure your voice was loud and firm, forcing them to listen to you. None of them seemed particularly interested; after all, you were a perfect, albeit boring professional, yet you remained undeterred, making eye contact with each of them. Even Ghost was looking at you; you could see those pale green eyes watching you from underneath his skull mask with a strange intensity. You remained undeterred, staring back at the man as you read out the various things that were in stock and what would have to be ordered, yet there was something niggling at the back of your head. Those eyes were strangely familiar.

It took you a second to remember, and then the barely buried memory came back: the beautiful man in the shower, his body glistening, his toned muscles, and the dark blond hair that covered his navel. The words in your mouth died on your tongue, and you saw Ghost’s eyebrow raise underneath his mask as if he was intrigued by your reaction to him. You cleared your throat, hoping that the heat you felt in your cheeks wouldn’t show up on your skin as you dropped your eyes back down to your notebook, pointedly ignoring him as you focused back on your task, ensuring that you hadn’t missed anything.

Inexplicably, Ghost spoke up, interrupting your admittedly dull recital of your list, “How soon can we get a restock of the M16 mags?” His question forced you to look over at him, and his pale green eyes seemed as though they were trying to drill right through your head. You refused to back down this time, meeting his gaze no matter how prevalent the image of his naked body was in your mind, even if you did stumble over your words as you flipped through the pages, “Those mags, uh, the ammo for the M16 that is, we ordered those last Tues-Wednesday , so they’ll be in by the end of this week.”

You couldn’t see his expression under his mask, but you could have sworn that it tugged in a way that suggested he was smirking underneath the black fabric, a touch of smugness in his eyes. Was he flirting with you? There was no possible way for you to find out in the middle of a full room, so you decided to put that tantalising idea to the side, wrapping up the last few items on your list and then glancing around the room, “If there’s anything else, please send me an itemised list by the end of the day.”

With that, the meeting was over, every soldier packing up their files, undoubtedly each one as bored as you, and you had little desire to spend any more time with them, especially with the suspiciously intense look Ghost was giving you, so you gave your farewells and left the room as quickly as you could, doing your best to rid your mind of the confusing thoughts whirling around in your mind. Ghost, the supposed ‘psycho’ killer, was flirting with you. Or perhaps threatening you. You weren’t entirely sure which. And yet, you had a strange desire to find out, that small part of you that longed to step into dangerous territory. But how could you? That meeting had been the only time you’d ever interacted with the man; other than your brief encounter in the shower, it didn’t seem like there would ever be another opportunity to be alone with him.

Unless.

Regardless of how outraged he’d been previously, he’d seemed entirely intrigued by you in the meeting, almost amused. You’d seen the direction he was headed; if your mind wasn’t already overtaken with delusional optimism, you could have sworn that he was striding in the direction of the old shower block with what seemed like great determination.

This was one of those deciding moments, a fork in the path where you got to choose what the outcome would be: adherence to your usual routine or something far more thrilling. You could almost feel the clock ticking in your head, your time running short, and for once, you decided to be brave and at least a little bit stupid, heading to your barracks to pick up your things before heading out toward the shower block, adrenaline pounding in your veins as you made your way through the small woods to the brick building.

Even from the outside, you could hear the shuddering of the pipes as they desperately pumped water, your heart beginning to pick up the pace as you pushed open the heavy wooden door, closing it softly behind you, now able to hear the pattering of water on the tile floor and see the black clothing draped over the bench that ran the length of the wall. You walked down the centre of the block, approaching the last stall on the end, and yet, you couldn’t take that final step. Everything below the waist was screaming at you to leap into the shower with the man, yet your brain conjured images of the humiliating HR meeting you’d be in if you had, in fact, entirely misinterpreted what were admittedly very subtle hints. You didn’t dare push over that line with a man so far above you in rank, but you weren’t prepared to entirely give up, so you merely slunk into the stall next to his, stripping off your uniform and hanging it on the backside of the door, pulling it to and surrendering yourself to an unsatisfying shower.

The shower head shuddered as you twisted the knob for water, a few spats of water dripping out, yet nothing more. There was a good reason you stuck to that end stall; almost every other shower there had been neglected to the point of failure. You took this as a sign to give up, turning around to get your things, only to find Ghost standing in the now open doorway.

There was nothing but a towel lazily wrapped around his hips to cover him up, his blond hair already soaked, water leaving little trails down his body, pulling your eyes down. You quickly snapped your attention back to his face, your hands already going to cover your chest and between your legs instinctually. Ghost’s eyes lingered on your body before finally flicking to the broken shower head, then back to your face. You could see that intrigued twinkle in his eyes as he gave you a slightly smug smirk, gesturing toward the other shower stall with his head, “Mine works. We should share.”

You almost couldn’t believe what he was suggesting. The exact situation had been playing out in your mind ever since you’d seen him naked, yet never once had you made the connection between your shower Adonis and Lieutenant Ghost. The two couldn’t be reconciled in your head, but you quickly decided that this was a problem to be solved later, if at all. You turned your non-functioning shower off, though slightly reluctant to use the hand covering your chest to do so, and then walked out of the stall, ducking under Ghost’s arm holding the door open for you, and rounding the corner into the warm stream of the only functional shower, allowing the water to wash away all the important questions that should have been asked, only focusing on the present moment.

Though you’d chosen to face away from him, you could still hear the noise of his towel hitting the wall as he tossed it aside, your entire body tensing up as you felt his presence behind you, the nerves nipping at the back of your mind. You didn’t dare turn to look at him, trying to find something else to focus on to quiet your frenzied brain, your eyes flicking to the one bottle of his on the floor in the shower, trying to figure out what scent ‘original’ was supposed to be, and whether one liquid really could be shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

Your thoughts on his toiletries were brought to an instant halt at the first touch of his hand on your hip, a questioning touch as though he was gauging your interest before moving any further. He might have been feared special forces, yet here, you retained a level of control, of security. You relaxed into his touch, leaning back until you bumped up against his chest, and his arm snaked around your stomach, wrapping tightly around your waist as he stepped forward into the stream from the shower, his head dipping down to rest in the crook of your neck. You could feel his other hand trail a path up your thigh before it, too, wrapped around you, pulling you snug against him in a tight embrace, like a man starved for any sort of touch.

For a moment, the two of you remained in that simple intimacy, your arms resting on top of his, enjoying the sheer pleasure of his embrace. Your hands were the first to move, your fingertips gently trailing over the muscles in his forearms, admiring the strength in them, unable to hold back a smile as you saw the not-so-subtle way he flexed them for you. His hand moved then, and you followed them with your own, one trailing down over your hipbone to the top of your thigh, gently stroking the skin there, the other one shifting up until it was just underneath your breast, pausing right before he touched anywhere interesting.

Clearly, he wasn’t about to touch anywhere without your explicit permission, and you decided to test him, pulling his left hand up until it was settled over your breast. His fingers paused, and you felt the tenseness in his arms, yet after a beat, he stretched out his fingers, tracing a little pattern over the swell of your breast, circling your nipple before his hand covered your boob entirely, gently squeezing it in his hand. You could feel his breathing growing heavier, every exhale blowing air over the skin of your neck, but you had no intention of stopping, relaxing into his touch, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, your eyes closed. The hand on your thigh had grown tight, fingers digging into your flesh, and you began to move his hand further in to where you could feel a growing need for his touch.

The further you moved his hand, the tighter his grip on your chest got, pulling you closer against him until you could finally feel his hardness pressed against the small of your back. His clear excitement emboldened you further, and you pushed his hand firmly between your legs, letting his fingers slightly part your labia to rest on your clit. That action earned you a low growl from him, and he buried his face into your shoulder as he pushed his fingers further down, touching the slick wetness beginning to leak out of your needy pussy. The second he felt your wetness, he drew his fingers back from you, digging them into your hip and pulling you firmly against him, rubbing the bridge of his nose against your neck as though he was trying to ground himself in the moment.

You had no problem allowing him to take his time, focusing on the simple pleasure of the warm water on your skin and the heat emanating from his chest to your back. His hand moved back to your pussy, more determined than before, as he slid his fingers down your slit, gently probing your slick hole with his fingers. As he slowly slid one in, he let out a strangled groan, shifting his face so he could bite down on the flesh of your neck, his other hand massaging your breast as his finger began to easily slip inside you. He stretched his thumb up to rest on your clit as he gently began to pump his finger in and out of you, rubbing in little circles, and you couldn’t help but let out a little moan.

The slightest of noises from you seemed to spur him on, and he pushed another finger inside you, beginning to kiss and suck at your neck as he did so, your body easily accepting his two fingers, and so he followed it with a third, his dick twitching with excitement against your back as all three of his fingers sank inside you without resistance.

Whatever good sense you had left was beginning to dissipate in the haze of your lust, and you reached your hand behind you to wrap around his cock, slowly beginning to stroke him as he gently fucked you with his fingers. He rewarded you with a soft groan in your ear, and so you quickened your pace, beginning to pump his dick in earnest, wanting him to receive the same pleasure as you. Your body was eagerly opening up around him, and the last bit of your intelligence vanished as your desperation for him overpowered you, and you begged for stupidity in two words.

“Fuck me.”

There was no hesitance in Ghost’s touch now as he pulled his fingers out of you, turning you to face him and then bending down to grab your thighs and lift you up, pinning you to the cool, damp wall of the shower stall. You could see the lust in his eyes as he shifted to hold you with only one hand, the other quickly moving to his dick, positioning it at your slick entrance and then slowly beginning to lower you down onto him. There was no comparison to the pleasure you felt, not only from feeling him slide into you, but to watch his face as he did so, his open lips, the desperate look in his eyes, his gaze entirely focused on you as though you were Aphrodite herself. You sunk your teeth into your lip to stop yourself from moaning out loud as you felt him stretch out your insides, yet you let your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails raking his skin as you felt every inch of him.

When you finally sunk down to the base of his cock, he leant forwards to rest his head on the wall beside you, clearly struggling to contain his composure, his hand digging into the flesh of your thigh, the other splayed out on the cool tile wall. He took a second to breathe before he began to slowly thrust up into you, his hand shifting from your thigh to your hip to pin you in place. Even in your wetness, you could feel how big he was, filling you up so perfectly, and you arched your back against him, desperate to feel every inch of him inside you. His eyes were on you now, and he moved his hands from the wall to your lips, tugging your bottom lip out from between your teeth and issuing you a singular command, his gaze intense.

“I want to hear you.”

Even in your pleasure, you couldn’t stop yourself from obeying a command from your superior officer, and you let out the moans you’d been holding back, tightening your legs around his waist to pull him into you as much as possible, your fingers raking against his back as he fucked you, his hips beginning to move more forcefully against you. His fingers now moved to your hair, brushing the errant strands out of your face and then shifting down to cup your cheek, lifting your face, his voice soft, “Look at me.”

There was no mistaking the utter lust in his gaze when you looked up at him, yet you could also see quite a great deal of tenderness, of genuine care, which only served to heighten your pleasure, your hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck as you clung to him, desperately grinding your hips against him. He picked up his pace further yet still restrained himself from fully slamming into you, his grip like a vice on your thigh. His voice grew hoarser as he caressed your cheek with his thumb, clearly strained, “Touch yourself.”

In another situation, you might have felt insecure, yet you were entirely awash in lustful pleasure, and so you obeyed, reaching down with one hand to begin rubbing circles around your increasingly sensitive clit, feeling that same build of pleasure in your core as Ghost fucked you faster still, his expression growing more desperate by the second. He leant forward to whisper his final command against your lips.

“Come for me.”

Your body seemed honour-bound to obey him as your pussy clenched around his dick, your pleasure building until it finally crescendoed, with Ghost’s lips crashing onto yours as you finished, his hips moving frantically as he desperately fucked you, his thrusts stuttering as he finally shot his load deep inside you, his body crushing yours into the wall in a tight embrace. Your kisses became softer as the both of you came down from your frenzied high, his grip on your body loosening slightly, your death grip around his neck becoming less deadly.

With a satisfied groan, Ghost let himself sink to the floor, pulling you down along with him into his lap, letting his dick remain inside you as you settled more comfortably on top of him, resting against his chest as he lazily wrapped his arms around your lower back, cradling you against him. After such bodily heat, the comparatively cool water of the shower felt heavenly on your skin, washing away your intermingled sweat.

You probably could have slept there, with Ghost still buried inside you, yet he was not so spellbound. With a gentle movement, he pulled his softening length out of you, reaching over to grab the bottle of soapy liquid he’d left on the floor. Then, he repositioned you so you were now sitting in between his legs, his thick thighs boxing you in as he opened the bottle behind you. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, nor did you care, still awash in a pleasant afterglow. The touch of his fingers gently massaging the liquid into your hair was a heavenly surprise, and you practically melted into his hands, a human-sized pile of putty perfectly manipulated by him. He ran his fingers through the length of your hair, thoroughly soaping up every strand before he let the cool water wash away the suds.

Then, he got to work on your body. Never had you been so grateful for three-in-one soap as it meant you didn’t have to miss a second of his warm chest against your back as he began to soap up your body, his fingers incredibly gentle against your skin, paying attention to every single part of you, and then letting you lean back against his chest as the water washed everything away, his arms coming to rest around your waist. Every single care of yours seemed to follow the soap down the train as you relaxed into him, enjoying the way he rested his chin on your head as you closed your eyes, finally entirely at ease.

[aweina]

୨୧. secret love spot — mortal kombat one. ( 17 + ) kameos : sub-zero. smoke + johnny cage

where you mark them. cw mentions of blood. biting. some angst.

bruises were a rarity for bi-han. his battles were fought effortlessly, driven by his icy rage and agile instincts. no common man has ever been able to brag about the tiny scratch imposed on the grandmaster’s body, or even boast about the brush of their bleeding knuckles passing by his scowl before they hit the ground. although with you, it’s a different story. your mouth was a weapon, a brush filled with the most colorful hues. you expel colors of cherry red, blush pink — the occasional deep purple — all over his milky skin. his neck and collarbones was your absolute favorite. the risk of him getting caught were palpable, one mindless adjustment to his collar would show a watercolor painting. bi-han, sadly, is too careful to let that happen. he’s composed with his movements, alert of where his hands should be, and the dead look in his eye draws curious eyes away from him. it’s a game he’ll gladly partake, knowing he’ll always win and have the reward of having your soft mouth prettily biting and suckling over the junction of his neck to his sharp collarbones. the outline of your mouth and the indents of your teeth were engraved into his mind, they teasingly ghost over the veins of his neck and ache over the hardness of his skin even after days has been passed. his loved skin has yet to heal. smudges of faint reds and purples across his usual unscathed complexion makes him smile in satisfaction and swell with pride over your cute little ownership you had over him. someone as small and fragile as you could be quite terrifying, much more than the faceless nobodies that dare to challenge him. from a mark from an enemy shows weakness, but a mark from a lover shows possession.

affection came from your lips. that’s what tomas believed. for a long time, his skin ached for a touch — one that felt loving and warm. instead it became tainted with oozing cuts and aching bruises, some encasing stories of deep tragedies and hardships, most he couldn’t even remember receiving until he quietly aids his broken body under the remnants of natural light. your touch felt like a healing balm, much softer and tender than the ones that were fueled with rage and pain. tomas, naturally, became putty to the brush of your soothing lips. each peck and drag of your plush lips made him go weak, vulnerable and unfocused — the complete opposite when he is sinking his sharpened karambit deep into the flesh and bones of those who threaten him with absolute precision and the crawling fear of death. it was then until you marked him for the first time, the press of your teeth feathery light until they were heavy set on his skin — tomas made a noise he couldn’t believe escaped his mouth. the sight of deep bruises used to remind him of temporary damage, broken skin battered from hate — restless training. now seeing them peppered over his hipbones his wrists, the only thing he could think of is your affection. the way you look up at him with watery eyes, suckling and licking gently over the redden bite marks blossoming on his blank pelvis. then you kiss and whisper sweet nothings into his wrist, pursing your swollen lips to decorate blossoms of deepened bruises over his starving skin. tomas gazes down over his bare body and is saddened to see your love marks hidden underneath his clothing. battle scars were always proudly shown, why couldn’t he do the same with the marks you’ve given him?

bruises and marks were a nightmare for johnny. a deep unflattering blemish to his manicured skin, he couldn’t even stand the sight of it when he passed by a mirror conveniently placed around his presence. this would leave him stuck at home with a lousy ice pack before he could even step forth on set. although he does acknowledge the fact it shows nobility and the effort he puts into his extravagant stunts and fighting sequences, they were a total pain in the ass — especially when they tainted the sculpt of his picturesque face. they painfully ached on his skin. any graze over his broken skin made him muffle a pathetic cry in the sleeves on his shirt. they completely ruin his perfect complexion, blotches of bleak yellow and shadowy purples mocked his pride until they fully healed and vanished. he hates bruises, end of story. but … there are exceptions. one he could positively think of you, yeah … definitely you. you’re absolute dynamite — passionate and not shy to leave a few marks here and there. the warmth of your mouth was addicting, one little kiss and his skin is adorned with dozens of purplish traces and teeth marks that pooled a drop of blood. he felt like a work of art, letting you greedily paint your lips over his luminous skin that he constantly pampered. johnny noticed that you loved to mark his inner thighs, holding them between your head as you branded him with your affection — suckling ever so slowly like you were savoring the taste of his rich cologne. not only does he love the touch of your mouth, but a mouthwatering sight he’ll never want to erase from his head. he’s cocky throughout it all, a smug look on his face with his pride swelling from your affectionate mouth. only then he’s turned over he feels a very sharp bite to his ass, johnny pathetically whimpers as he’s paraded with your laughter, only to be gently soothed afterwards with the warmth of your tongue. although he still whines at the painful marks and bites and gets sacred sitting down, he’s grown more fond of the look — johnny looked good in everything after all.

© aweina : please do not copy, repost, or modify any of my content.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Adventures of YOUR part time job in the Lookismverse: Part 2

Part 1 here. G/N. You still work the graveyard shift in a convenience store. Some bizarre characters return. Part 3

Your first day on the job, your boss had told you to greet everyone that comes through the door in a cheery voice and with a customer service smile. All you could think was fuck that.

He told you it was so people could approach you for help, as if your uniform wasn't a huge flashing sign, and so potential shoplifters would be deterred. Again you think, fuck that, because at the first whiff of any danger you're going to go hide somewhere secure and out of sight. There ain't no way you're risking your life for a minimum wage part time job.

Except now you're on your own and sure it comes with a little bit of danger and wariness but you don't have to and don't plan on greeting any people again.

So you thought.

.

.

You spot him a fucking mile away. DG strides through the doors and you're not sure to ignore him completely or to say anything.

It's like he wants you to acknowledge him from the furtive glances he keeps giving you but something about his shifty behaviour makes you keep your mouth shut.

Heavens, hasn't this guy ever heard of subtle. He's in an all white get up once again, hat on, mask on and the most eye-catching blinging Chanel necklace known to man. You think you might go blind if you stare too much at it.

So does he want attention or not?

"Hi," he says, standing in front of the counter. He's empty handed.

You want to say 'Hi DG, going for discreet tonight huh?' or 'Sorry your last album sale sucked' or 'I heard they're cancelling you for bad mouthing BTS'. None of them feel right. You settle on "Welcome. How can I help?"

He asks if you recognise him this time and from the way your eyes bug out to say obviously, he then proceeds to ask how.

You pause because you don't know whether this guy is serious or whether there's a hidden camera somewhere.

After what feels like ten minutes, but in reality is probably ten seconds, you gesture at him. At everything. His hair, his white outfit, his necklace. It’s not exactly like he’s going to blend in with the crowd, is it?

He gives you a nod and leaves.

You watch him exit and proceed to climb into the flashiest car you have ever seen, parked right in front and across three (one, two, THREE!) handicap bays.

You think he's most definitely an attention seeking narcissist.

.

.

The guy that bleeds all over your floor comes in again.

You know it's him because he apologises for bleeding all over your floor and that he scared you so much you called the police. In all honesty, you completely forgot about it but even the mere mention of that pisses you off.

"It's fine," you tell him even though it's not, not really, but at least this time he's not bleeding and he has apologised twice already so as long as he's not gonna be weird, you'll accept his apology.

Except he does turn out to be a weirdo because he gives you a grin and you think he looks pretty cute even with his lip and nose scar, then he makes it weird with a wink and you think what even is this, who winks at people anymore.

He must have mistaken your cringe for encouragement though, as he continues to ask if you need any help with your shift and he can call the boys to help you out tonight as an apology for the other week.

You're not sure if this is a pick up line or if it's a threat. Either way, you decide it's the latter as you make up your mind that he must be a psychopath because only a psychopath would wink at strangers.

You tell him no. He doesn't seem deterred and tells you his name is Jake. Your first thought is to cover the name badge pinned to your chest but he's too quick. He says your name, and that he hopes to see you again.

You give him a nod and hope he leaves.

.

.

This oddball in sunglasses is unbearably smug as he slides his ID over to you.

You check out the date of birth and it's fine.

"It checks out," you give his ID back and ask him to pay for his cigarettes.

"Don't you have anything else to say?"

You frown at him because what does he want you to say? Like oh I knew you were a Capricorn (or is it Aries or Cancer. You don't know, you don't really know your signs). Or does he want you to comment that it's a flattering picture of him on the card because in all honesty, it's not. 

Still, he obviously expects something because he's standing there not doing anything.

"We take cash, card or you can pay through your phone."

That isn't what he's looking for. He tenses up, and you think he rolls his eyes at you but he's got sunglasses on-

Oh. This black eyed bastard. Does he expect an apology for the last time? Well you're not apologising for shit, you're just doing your job. It doesn't matter if he's of age. Rules are rules. No ID, no sale.

You stare at him instead with your polite customer service smile that actually means leave me alone. He stares back.

You stare. He stares back.

You stare - and you think that you must look like an idiot just standing there with a vacant smile but it's worth it in the end because the guy sighs, pays for his cigarettes and leaves.

Good. You hope he chokes on the smoke.

When your temper has cooled, you also feel a pang of sympathy as you wonder what sort of hard life he has had to look like that at 20. Poor guy, he really should quit smoking.

.

.

You're sitting outside on the curb on your break. It's technically loitering, your manager told you the first time he saw you and you consider hitting him because not only do you have to stand under terribly unflattering lights and deal with the goddamn general public for hours - now you can't even sit outside and breathe some fresh air?

Somehow you manage not to, which means you never got arrested for assault and that's pretty good, you suppose. It's nice to not be arrested.

Anyway, he's not here now, and he's not here most shifts so you loiter to your heart's content. You make sure to loiter extra hard tonight.

"What about this? So much better than fucking Duke Pyeon, right?" Someone comes up to you with music blaring out of tinny speakers. You consider sprinting back and locking yourself in the store. It's 4am and nothing good comes from speaking to strangers at 4am who like to blare shitty music.

Except he's not a stranger because you recognise the music style. It's so bad that you know that there is no way two different people on Earth would come up with the same sound. In fact, it actually gives you such a visceral reaction that you look for anything close by to jam in your ears.

There's nothing and you want to cry. For a brief moment you consider bashing your head into the ground.

You hold back, contemplate saying it's fine except you can't bring yourself to lie when it’s so clearly not. It’s not fine at all. You think it might be what the military or covert agencies play to torture people.

You don't look at him, keeping your eyes glued to anywhere but his face and mumble your break is over and rush back in.

He doesn't follow you and you give a brief thanks to whatever great overlord is looking over you and protecting your sense of hearing. 

You wonder if that guy is actually part of an elaborate plan from your boss as punishment for loitering, or if he somehow knew you took an extra seven minutes on your break yesterday and he’s now taking extra precautions so you’re not stealing any more company time.

.

.

The hair dye guy is back, this time buying another colour.

You recognise him from the H on his forehead and you know that he has unsuccessfully dyed his hair because if his hair looked like that last time then there's no way you would have even noticed the H.

It's awful. Blotchy and patchy and you're certain that you don't stock that colour. How on earth...

He tells you he's studying to be a hairdresser.

You never used to think hair could feel pain, but you distinctly hear millions of tiny screams from your own head when it realised this butcher might one day get his hands on innocent people's locks.

.

.

Just when you're on your way home, one foot out the door, you hear someone call you.

"It's me, Y/N!"

Maybe the voice should be familiar but you don't place it at all. You look at the guy towering in front of you with a blank face.

"Daniel." he says, as if that should jog your memory.

Who?? You say nothing.

"Daniel Park." You look him up and down and think what the fuck, this isn't right.

"Daniel. Park." he stresses as if you're the insane one and it's perfectly acceptable for apparently some guy you haven't seen for a year to say hi but look completely different and sound completely different.

You're not an idiot. You know puberty is a thing but jesus christ. It can't be him. Even the bone structure is completely different.

"Ok." you say because you're still not sure if this guy is Daniel or whether he's just crazy. You're 99% sure it's the latter and keep one hand in your pocket, ready to attack with pepper spray.

Although if this is Daniel Park, you wonder how good the plastic surgery technology is these days because you wouldn't mind adding an extra inch or two to your height.

"I'm just in the middle of working out," he says, "in a junkyard." he adds and you wonder what is happening in the world. This guy is definitely insane.

You're a second away from pulling out the spray but then he tells you he's gotta go or else he's going to get beat up (Again. What the fuck.). He says it's good to see you and you tell him likewise because that's the correct thing to say.

You hope you never see this crazy person again but most importantly you think about resigning because this store just seems like a magnet for freaks.

Maybe you can get a job at your boyfriend's Taekwondo studio. Surely the fact you know nothing about Taekwondo wouldn't be an issue.

[kawakalalala]

Outlaw: 1

INTRODUCTION POST!

wc: ~1.8k

tags: pretty much just kissing, nothing too crazy yet!

a/n: thank you all so much for being patient with me while i crank this bitch out! i’m really excited to see what u guys think :3

You’d heard the voice before. Hundreds of times. His voice rattled your bones like a late August thunderstorm over the lake.

“Hands up.”

You turn with your hands in the air expecting just to see Jerry Anderson, the sheriff who’d been after you since you were old enough to run.

There was never even a thought to not run. You could weasel your way out of anything; you’d been running your whole life. But something in you kept you from grabbing at the gun on your hip.

“Ain’t nowhere to run no more, huh?”

You weren’t sure what came over you. ‘Easy’ wouldn’t have even begun to describe how quickly you could kill this man. In a hundred ways. But you knew what you needed, and you knew what the way to get that was. It was surprising for you to see a second person, behind him, taller and broader, with a face hidden by the shadow of a hat.

“Looks like it.” You drop down to your knees and lay down your revolver, kicking it out of reach. The Sheriff was surely on top of the world right now. He’d been trying to get you for years after the killing. It was personal, but not on purpose.

The broader figure starts to move, slowly becoming illuminated by the soft glow of your campfire.

You couldn’t remember the last time you saw Abigail Anderson. You almost didn’t recognize her, but there was no way you could've forgotten the way her freckles bit her cheeks, the soft bump in her nose, and the softness of her jaw. She’d worn her hair in a braid then too, but now it was long enough to dangle past her shoulder blades. Had that much time really passed?

She passed you and walked up to Belle, the liver chestnut overo mare. She wasn’t as fast as she was when you met her; she needed a little more grace around turns, and her white fur started to bleed into warm brown on her face. You loved her more than you could love anything, because there wasn’t much to love about the life you led.

“Don’t tie her to your horse,” you turn to face Abigail, “she’ll bite him in the ass.”

She exhales with the faintest likeness of a laugh.

“How d’ya suppose we’ll get her back to town then?”

You shrug, knowing she’d follow you wherever you went. You don’t notice you’ve been handcuffed until you go to stand up.

Jerry Anderson was kinder to you than he should’ve been, considering what you’d done to him. His hand is heavy on your shoulder as you pull yourself onto his wagon.

✦✦✦

You wake up to the light from your cell’s window prodding at your eyelids. Large enough to see everything, (including Belle, hitched up outside, still sleeping).

“They decide where I’m goin’ yet?” You shout at Abigail, scribbling away on some papers near the front door.

There were a handful of things that were convenient about your position: the sheer size of your town made it so it was only necessary to have a few cells in the sheriff’s department. (if you could even call it that.) And that you always had company.

“No. We ain’t even sent out the mail this mornin’. Give it some time.” She laughs.

“Whatcha doin' over there?”

“Nothing,”

“Well ‘nothing’ seems quite time-consuming.”

She finally turns around and looks at you, and you see her clearly now. The light scar across her cheek, her soft blue eyes, her supple, soft pink lips, and the toothy smile she gives you when she asks, “What are you getting at?” Seeming only slightly annoyed.

“Nothing.”

“I’ll be sure to get the mail with your papers sent out today,” A smile pulls at her lips, but you don’t notice it.

You’re picking at your nails when you ask, “This all you do all day? Seems like I’m a mighty fine companion to keep around.”

“What do you do all day then? Steal and kill?” She turns back around in her chair.

“Pretty much,” you stand up and stretch, a groan escaping your lips. “I love murder.” You try to stay as deadpan as possible, but you can't hold back a giggle, sitting down with your back against the cell door and peering out the window at Belle.

“I’m serious,” her tone changes, “Why on earth would you want to live runnin’?”

“It was freeing once, “ you tell her, the back of your head against the heavy metal bars of the door, “but freedom gets lonely sometimes.”

“Seems real convenient that this revelation is gettin’ had after you been caught,” there's an edge to her voice, but it’s still smooth and cool, like a stone in the palm of your hand.

“It ain’t no revelation, darlin’, I just finally made a choice,” you say matching her edge as best you could, “and your Daddy ain’t do no catching, I let him have me. ”

“Bless his heart,” she says, “but I’ll believe you there. He couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the directions were on the bottom.” You both laugh, and for a brief moment, you forget what brought you here in the first place.

She turns around to look at you. For a brief moment, you and Abigail are 12 years old again. The wind whispers her name, and you’re watching the sunrise on your walk to school. You like her because she doesn’t talk about boys. She doesn’t talk about much of anything. You like her company, and she likes yours. At the end of your twelfth summer, she doesn’t want to walk with you anymore, and you don’t ask, or even wonder why. You walk to school alone until you drop out at 15. You turn to look at her.

The door opens, and you watch as Jerry walks in. The way he looks at you makes your stomach churn.

“Mornin’ sir,” you smile at him, and he ignores you.

“You can put her outside y’know,” he says to Abigail, like you aren’t even there. “them stalls under the barn lock.” He laughs, and your blood boils.

“We’ll see.” Abigail tries to forget about the hard part of this job. She’s always trying to forget about the hard part of this job. She knew you once.

You hold your tongue until Jerry leaves. He talks to Abigail a bit longer, and makes another offer to “get rid” of you for her.

Part of him stays when he walks out the door. Suddenly you realize what you’ve done. The fantasy of a free life might’ve been attainable if you were a less successful bandit, but there’s no way you’ll ever be a free woman.

You’re never going to be free. You’re going to die here, with a failed childhood friendship and a man who wants you dead. You’re never going to feel the sun on your skin again.

You’re going to die here or somewhere worse. You’re going to watch your life walk by you and you’re stuck behind bars because of a stupid one-off thought you had. Your breathing gets heavy and your head spins, and suddenly you’re grabbing onto anything you can get ahold of.

You should’ve fucking shot him.

✦✦✦

“What in the hell was that?” her voice is cool and smooth, even when she tries to have any semblance of urgency.

“Dunno.” You’re both on the ground. Her right hand cradles the back of your head, holding your hair off your neck, and her left holds a glass of water to your lips.

“That ever happen before?” Her eyebrows are furrowed with concern, and you stay silent, taking a sip.

She doesn’t seem to mind. She watches you intently, readjusting her hand on your neck. You set down the water and look at her.

“Why’ve you been so damn kind to me?” Your eyes well with tears, and her furrowed brow softens, just a little. “I’m a criminal, Abigail, I’m not- I’m not a good person.”

“I ain’t a good person neither.” Her voice is almost a whisper. “Have some more water.”

“Okay.”

You’d never been one to listen to anyone. You were entirely uninterested in being told what to do. But the way she spoke to you was different. You didn’t seem to have a problem taking orders from her, because she genuinely seemed like she cared. She wasn’t patronizing or arrogant.

“I’m sorry I stopped being your friend.” Her hand is warm against your skin.

“That was so many years ago.”’

“Don’t make me less sorry.” Her hand moves slowly from your neck to your jaw.

“I’ll give you a second chance,” Your eyes dart from her blue eyes to her lips, and for a moment, everything goes silent.

“I’d like that I think.” She inhales sharply, and drops her hand. “I got some paperwork to fill out. D’you need anything?”

“Yeah, I think so,” You say before kissing her softly, just once. You pull away and look at her, and you lift one hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She looks at you like you electrocuted her. “Think that’s all.”

Something clicks in her head and she lunges to kiss you. It's sudden, but it’s soft. She’s soft. You reach down to replace her hand on the meeting of your neck and jaw, and she places another hand on the small of your back. Tension releases in your shoulders that you hadn’t noticed was there in the first place. You place a hand on each of her shoulders and push her backwards, still following her lips with yours. You can feel the muscle in her shoulders, but she’s pliable and obedient in your hands.

Your tongues dance against one another with the same cadence as the wind in the grass at the end of your twelfth summer. And as the light of the sun on your twenty-sixth summer falls over the same grass, you pull away from Abigail to look at the small smile pulling at her mouth, the flush across her cheeks, her pupils blown and her lips only slightly swollen.

“Whatcha lookin’ at me for?” Her voice is almost a whisper.

“You’re beautiful, Abigail. Damn near the most handsome woman I ever seen.”

She can’t bring herself to say anything in response. She can’t even bring herself to look up at you. She can’t bring herself to lock you back in here, and sit out at her desk and watch, let the state take you away and hang you for your crimes.

“I’m gonna get you out of this goddamn place.”

“You’re what?”

[whitherwanderer]

Galena, a Rusty Reforger & Pyrite, a Deliberate Deadeye feat. @shroudandsands

In one of worlds fourteenfold, a hyune reforger scales the crags of Alexandria's cliffs and ruins in search of precious electrope, artifacts, and other reusable materials. A scope is trained on him, a voice in his ear, coolly reminding him to watch his footing (as if it needed to be said).

The spotter is an ex-hunter who keeps the levin-cursed monsters and defective sentries off his back with a careful eye and a dead aim. She's also his wife, which makes it that much harder for her to watch him test his scavenging prowess over the deep canyons and crumbling spires that scar the land. Trust him as she does, she has her reasons to be wary.

Galena's methods are unusual. Instead of combing the ground, he climbs. The old kingdom's ruins hide valuable artifacts and electrope caches that would be out of reach for most, but more worrying is his choice not to wear a regulator despite the many obvious dangers. Among the reforgers, it's not wholly unusual for someone to refuse a regulator, but those who know the two hyune know well: it's not a choice made lightly.

———

Deep in the heart of Everkeep, Pyrite stalks the alleys of Solution Nine with a portion of the materials her husband gleaned from the old kingdom. It's how he can offer his support for the organization Pyrite now dedicates her time and talents to.

And an ex-hunter always finds ways to keep herself sharp; sentries vanish, dismantled and sold for parts in True Vue's less reputable markets. Weapons from the manufactories on the lower floors go missing and wind up in rebel hands. Credits grease the palms of the right people for the right intelligence and the doors of high clearance warehouses are left unlocked—by accident, of course.

As an agent for the rebel group Oblivion, the regulator Pyrite wears is a compromise allowing her to take advantage of Everkeep's systems while avoiding suspicion. But for all its conveniences, the regulator is also a grave reminder. Should Galena's hands ever slip, all she'll have of him is the recordings and images hidden away on encrypted data shards—assurance that they'd keep their promise never to forget again*.

———

No mourning, and yet no relief from the aching holes in their memories. All they have is the hints of a loss whose shape they can identify by feeling around its dark edges: an empty room, a closet full of clothes too small for either of them. A name that Pyrite herself chose, always lingering in the back of her mind but slipping through it like a sieve. An image of shade—a face that Galena chases through dreams and wakes up with no recollection of.

Loss enough to take immortality and toss it into a canyon. Pain enough to use that immortality as a weapon against the system that stole from them something so precious it becomes their reason and their resolve. Something that would be worth dismantling a miracle. *OOC Note: This was drafted before the Arcadion raids came out, which answers a critical question I had about the regulator mechanics. A person wearing a regulator will, in fact, remember someone who does not wear one after their death. So that final bit in Pyrite's section is wrong! Oh well.

[apathyofthesympathetic]

@somerandomdudelmao oops my hand slipped

Donnie smiled giddily to himself as he plugged the tiny cord into Casey’s mask, absolutely stoked by the opportunity to analyse and pick apart something of his own creation that he’s never seen before. The technology crammed into every nook and crevice of the mask had him smothering an excited churr, treacherous tail wagging non stop as he wondered what amount of data and information could await him.

He was, for once in his life, so incredibly glad Leo decided to open that big mouth of his. It was, after all, his comment that led to them addressing Donnie’s curiosity and Casey nonchalantly handing over his tech.

His computer takes a suspiciously long moment to download all of the data, and suddenly he’s met by at least three dozen folders and files, all storing incredible amounts of data by the looks of it. The majority of them were labelled in seemingly random letters and numbers, except there was something about it that felt more organised for the purpose of looking random rather than actually being random. He opened one of the folders and was met with more folders, maybe fifty of them, all labelled in various kinds of gibberish. 

It took a good minute or two of wondering why the fuck would he organise files in such a way to recognise his simple-but-complicated titling system: the one Donnie’s been implementing into his recording files for years now. His brain began automatically translating the letters and numbers into their actual meaning, while something in the back of his mind screamed that this was an invasion of Casey’s privacy. 

Donnie soon realised he folder he’s currently perusing should be labelled with the year, but was instead labelled with a simple 21. Maybe it meant 21 years into the apocalypse? Casey never said how long it lasted, but he did say he’s sixteen, so it’s not too far of a stretch of the imagination that the apocalypse could’ve lasted that long.

He’s clicking on another folder just as he realised the implications of there being recordings stored in Casey’s mask.

He was, essentially, perusing through Casey’s memories.

That was bad. That was an invasion of privacy, and he should absolutely be unplugging the mask and telling Casey about this (assuming he doesn’t already know), and yet. 

And yet he doesn’t. And yet he doesn’t unplug the mask and he doesn’t delete the data, and he does select a random file and click onto fullscreen to watch something he may regret seeing.

He’ll only watch one.

Judging from the angle, the camera (probably something stored in the mask) was propped up against something, giving him a decent view of what looked to be some sort of medbay. Someone was lying beneath crisp white sheets on a bed mostly out of frame, and someone else…

… 

Donnie was seated at a surprisingly old looking computer, typing furiously away at a speed that’s more than a little impressive for someone with six fingers. He’s hunched over in a way Donnie knew wasn’t comfortable as he worked, occasionally leaning forward and shifting more of his face into the view of the camera. He’s covered in scars of varying severity and age and appeared to have gained several more markings, including three purple stripes that trail from his chin down his neck. He’s significantly taller by the looks of it, and was wearing not only a version of his battle shell, but also his mask and goggles.

It’s kind of like looking into a warped mirror, even though Donnie could only see maybe a third of his torso, the rest hidden by the camera angle. It made the breath freeze in his chest as he watched this twisted version of himself work in silence, eventually slumping in his chair as he stared at the grainy image of his future self.

Donnie - the one in the video (he’s going to refer to him as Donatello for convenience’s sake) - paused his typing and leant forward, furrowing his brow - god he had worry lines - and frowning in a way easily recognisable as his ‘I’m talking to an idiot and I have to be civil about it’ face.

Donnie couldn’t look away, even though, objectively, nothing interesting was happening. His future counterpart was simply typing, working on something while guarding a sick or injured patient. He silently watched at least two minutes of Donatello typing monotonously before something interesting happened: the person on the bed shifts.

Donnie couldn’t see who the patient was thanks to the camera angle, but his curiosity was soon satiated at the awkward little “uhh” sound Casey let out, sounding noticeably younger. Donatello jolted so violently at the sound a keycap literally went flying, and the small corner of his face Donnie could see displayed a very complicated emotion. Donatello was up and exiting the frame in less than a second, presumably grabbing Casey’s arms while a limb from his battle shell extended to grab something above the camera. Casey had just enough time to ask “Uncle Tello?” (oh come on, Leo and Mikey get master but he gets uncle?) before Donatello was speaking overtop of him.

“How are you feeling? Any pain?”

“No.“

“Hungry?”

“No?”

“Thirsty?”

“A little.”

Donnie heard another mechanical limb reach out and grab something, presumably a glass or mug.

“Want to destroy humanity?”

“Is that a symptom or a suggestion -“

“Do you need anything?”

“Umm…” A short second of silence. “Where is sensei? Is he okay?” 

Donatello moved to sit on the edge of Casey’s bed, allowing a small portion of his body to be displayed to the camera.

“I remember I attacked him,” Casey continued, and okay, what??

“Yeah, well.” A small sigh. “You didn’t succeed.”

“But I tried,” Casey’s voice wavered, “he’s not mad at me, is he?” 

“I don’t think so,” Donatello said, voice both soft and stern. “But he has his responsibilities, so he couldn’t stay here all day - he tried though.”

“Hm.”

Donnie could practically feel his future self panicking through the screen - thankfully, though, he seemed to be saved by the proverbial bell, and faint footsteps became audible as two people rapidly approached the medbay. Donnie managed to catch the end of “pretend I’m dead, and use your brain instead of mine for once” as he heard mechanical doors slide open, light illuminating part of the floor.

Leo - a very much taller and older Leo with a freaking metal ARM - dashed into full view of the camera, and Donnie barely had time to take in his appearance before, with a quick shout of “Sensei!” Casey practically flung himself into the turtle’s arms. The turtle in question looked suddenly very conflicted and concerned as his hands hovered over Casey’s back, listening to his little repetitions of “I’m sorry.”

He seemed to realise that Casey would not, in fact, fall apart at the slightest touch, and gently placed his metal arm (METAL. ARM) on his shoulder, patting Casey’s head with the other. “You don’t need to apologise, Case,” Leo said, sounding like his voice hadn’t aged a day despite the twenty-two years that’d supposedly passed, “you didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, you did amazing!”

In one smooth motion Leo was suddenly cradling Casey in his arms and turning in a circle, a movement somewhere between twirling him and just holding him as he spoke, “You were literally too cool for the kraang! How can I blame you? Haha, Casey Jones is now certified cooler than aliens!”

Despite the joyous laughter filling his ears, Donnie felt dread creeping up his spine as their words began to paint a very unsettling picture.

“Maybe even I won’t stand up to him now!” Leo laughed, now holding Casey bridal style in a way that finally displayed his bandages to the camera.

“Pfffhaha!” Casey laughed, smiling so easily despite the bandages and cast covering his arms. He used the arm not in a sling to reach up and grab Leo’s mask tails, tugging on them with a smug smile that matched Leo’s as he successfully blinded the slider.

“Oh no! My only weakness!” Leo crowed dramatically, slumping onto the ground as if bested by a mighty foe, Casey giggling childishly as he slid down to sit in his lap. “Donnie,” Leo said, facing the direction of the purple genius, “can you help Raph lead the resistance instead of me? I think I’m defeated.”

And just as Casey let out another boisterous laugh and Donatello his own amused chuckle, the recording ended, displaying their smiling faces as the footage sat frozen on the last frame. 

Donnie exited fullscreen with a slow blink.

Was he misreading the situation, or had Casey been… kraangified? 

That… would explain a lot of his scars. Not that Donnie could exactly confirm or disprove his theory, because it would reveal that he knew of and had access to these recordings.

Speaking of which, he really should stop watching these. He really should unplug the mask and delete the footage from his computer, and finish his examination before giving the mask back to Casey with an explanation regarding the footage.

C’mon, Donnie, just exit the fucking files, you’re being insane. This was a ridiculous invasion of privacy and he’d probably try to kill - or at least maim - Casey if he did this to him but god damn it, his hand. Won’t. Move.

It’s like he’s hovering his hand over a hotplate. He had the autonomy and know-how, but no matter how much he tried he couldn’t even brush the red hot surface. His hand was hovering midair, only inches away from doing something part of him will inevitably regret, but that’s all it would do. Hover. His eyes were glued to the screen as he scrolled through the files, and god, there were dozens of them - hundreds, even.

Donnie exited the folder and perused through the 21 folder for a moment, before clicking the last folder listed. They seemed to be organised and labelled as different weeks, so this one would’ve taken place around Christmas time.

He clicked on the first file, entered fullscreen and pressed play.

“What? It wasn’t me, I swear!”





~~~





His brothers (plus Casey and April) were just finishing cleaning up after breakfast when Donnie burst into the kitchen, clutching Casey’s gear to his chest and with his purple hoodie slung over one shoulder, shouting, “SHUT UP LOSERS WE’RE GOING TO THE ZOO.”

Pretty much everyone did that slow blink of what the fuck did I just hear, staring at Donnie with expressions ranging from pure bafflement to startled surprise.

“…What?” Leo spoke up, putting down the plate he was in the process of drying. 

“I had a revelation while reviewing Casey’s tech,” Donnie started, holding out said gear to the human, “thank you, by the way - it was very informative.”

“You’re welcome?” Casey squeaked, accepting the gear and placing most of it on the table he stood next to. 

“But yes - the revelation!” Donnie slid the purple hoodie off his shoulder and began squeezing the fabric as a stim, smile spreading slightly when he saw how Casey eyed the fabric with recognition. “Casey grew up in the apocalypse, yes? That means that he’s missing quite a few experiences we deem normal nowadays, such as eating certain foods or watching certain -“

“Yes yes,” Leo interrupted with a roll of his eyes, “we’re working very hard to introduce him to fast food, science fiction and Lou Jitsu. Your point?”

Donnie smirked triumphantly as he slammed both hands on the table (a little louder than he intended), “Animals.” 

Casey blinked. “…Animals?”

“Animals,” Donnie nodded, “what with the those-that-shall-not-be-named rampaging across the world, it’s not hard to assume that a lot of animals would’ve gone extinct, or at least become very rare. Tell me, Casey - have you ever seen a horse?”

“What’s a horse?” 

“See!?”

“You don’t know what a horse is!?” Mikey exclaimed, practically materialising in front of Casey. “Even I’ve seen a horse! What else have you never seen before!? Sheep? Cows? At least tell me you know what a kitten is!”

“U-uhm, I do know what a cat is,” Casey stuttered, leaning away from the hyperactive teenager. 

“Have you seen one?” Raph asked, giving him a look that said ‘your life as you know it depends on how you answer this question’.

“No?” 

“We must rectify this!” Mikey shouted, darting out of the kitchen and ignoring Donnie’s mutter of “why do you know what rectify means but not imminent?”

“We must!” Raph agreed, practically sprinting out of the room. April rolled her eyes and opened her mouth, only to close it as a faint crash could be heard from somewhere else in the lair. She promptly disappeared to look for the source.

“Great!” Donnie said, “Now that that’s settled…” He turned back to Casey, holding out the ball of fabric that was his hoodie, “Wear this. Just for today.” 

“Oh, thanks Unc-Donnie,” Casey stuttered, accepting the outfit and promptly putting it on. It fit him almost unreasonably well.

“What!?” Leo exclaimed, and Donnie had the distinct feeling that if he was still holding a plate it would be shattered across the ground. “You’re giving him your hoodie!? You don’t give anyone your hoodie! Not even Mikey!”

“Oh shush,”  Donnie said, rolling his eyes and blushing slightly. “I do so, stop being dramatic. Besides, it’s cold out and Casey doesn’t have any winter clothes.”

“Then we can get him some!” Leo sputtered, gesturing wildly as he struggled for words. “Why are you giving him your hoodie!??” he eventually hissed.

“Would you believe me if I said out of the goodness of my heart?”

“NO!”

“Well then, I guess l’ll never tell you.” With that, Donnie walked past Leo into the living room, planning to grab his winter jacket from the cupboard, only to stop as Leo grabbed his upper arm and whirled him around.

“What’s going on with you?” Leo asked, voice low as he gave Donnie a surprisingly concerned look. He searched his twin's eyes for a long moment, taking note of his deep eye bags and his missing mask, and how he adamantly refused to make eye contact. He saw how his hands shook as they were folded against his plastron, and that he looked a little pale and off-balance.

“Nothing.”

“Donnie…” as Leo looked closer at his twin's face, he could’ve sworn he saw dried tears covering his cheeks. But that’s impossible, because Donnie never cried.

His mouth flopped open and closed uselessly for a moment, before Leo finally spat out, “Are you okay?”

His question was enough to startle Donnie into making eye contact. Eye contact with his brother who, objectively, deserved to be asked that question a thousand times more than him.

Donnie’s eyes wandered over to the cracks in Leo’s plastron, held together by fibreglass and covered by resin, and suddenly he was surging forward and wrapping his arms around Leo, burying his face in his neck willing himself not to cry.

They were both frozen for a long moment, before, slowly, Leo slid his arms around Donnie’s softshell and held his twin close. They both felt as Donnie’s breath stuttered in his chest, and as he pressed his snout deeper into Leo’s shoulder and neck. “I’m okay,” he whispered, and they both knew he was lying.

And with that, Donnie withdrew without another word, walking away and leaving Leo to ponder what the fuck just happened.

[candycandy00]

Could you right a zombie apocalypse au with dabi? I don’t have any idea about how it could go but always love the only one bed trope haha

The Trade Part 1 - A Dabi x Reader Zombie AU

Splitting this into parts because it was getting too long. Part one has no smut (but there will be plenty in part two, don’t worry!).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Smut to follow in part two, strong language, violence, implied (failed) rape attempt, etc. 18+.

The first time you saw the mysterious black haired man in the woods, you were convinced he was one of them. After all, in the shadows of the trees his extensive, deep purple scarring had looked like wounds. He’d walked slowly, almost lumbering. It wasn’t until later that you realized his unusual gait was due to him dragging a large animal behind him. 

When he emerged from the forest and into the sunlight, with you watching silently from the tree line, you finally understood that this was no zombie. It was a scarred man who had just killed a deer for his supper. 

From there, you followed him to a clearing by the road, where a rusty white van was parked. You stayed hidden just inside the woods as you watched him set up camp around the van. He drove plastic gardening stakes into the ground all around him, then wrapped some sort of wire around them, marking a perimeter. He then methodically tied empty cans in sets of threes to the wire, every few feet. It seemed like a lot of work, but it would definitely alert him if a zombie wandered into his area. 

He didn’t seem to have any system in place to detect human interlopers though, as they could easily spot the cans and step over them. Either he was foolish enough to believe he was completely alone out here, or he was confident enough in his ability to defend himself that he wasn’t worried. You hoped it was the former. 

He started a small fire, then went to work skinning and cleaning the deer. You took note of the fact that he seemed to have plenty of supplies, including bottled water. You couldn’t help licking your dry lips. You’d been drinking water from a nearby river, but it was unfiltered, and sometimes made you sick. You drank as little of it as possible, so it kept you alive but you were persistently thirsty. 

When he began cooking the deer meat, you had a battle on your hands to keep your stomach from growling loudly enough to give away your presence. You reached into your tattered backpack and pulled out the last strip of rabbit jerky you had. A family you’d met over a week ago had given you some wrapped in paper, and you’d made it last as long as you could. Aside from a fish you’d managed to catch in the river and three potatoes you’d dug out of an abandoned garden, the jerky was all you’d eaten in ten days. 

The deer meat smelled delicious, but you didn’t dare approach. You had to observe this man for a while first. He’d pulled several things out of his van, so it clearly had lots of supplies inside. If you could learn his habits, maybe you could steal from him. You’d certainly done it before, to anyone who seemed to have more than they absolutely needed. 

Eventually you retreated further into the woods and climbed into a tree to sleep. It was the only way you could rest while knowing zombies roamed about. The next morning, the man with the van was gone, and you cursed yourself for sleeping so soundly. 

Two days later, you spotted the man coming out of a convenience store that had obviously been looted already. It was in a tiny, empty town, and you’d crept in to look for food. When you heard loud crashes and bangs coming from the store, you ducked into an alley across the street and watched. 

The glass door of the shop burst open as a zombie was seemingly thrown outside. As it tried to stand back up, the black haired man stepped out of the store, holding an aluminum baseball bat. He pressed his boot into the zombie’s chest to hold it down, then swung the bat, smashing the zombie’s head with one hit. 

Two more zombies followed him out of the store, and three others lumbered over from nearby streets, attracted to the commotion. You felt a sense of panic, even though you were hidden and far enough away that you could easily flee before any of them reached you. Zombies in general did not scare you. They were slow and dumb and easy to lure into traps. You’d killed plenty with your hunting knife. But in groups, they could be terrifying. Any more than three at a time sent you into flight mode. 

The man was surrounded by five zombies, but he didn’t seem worried or scared at all. In fact, he seemed… pissed off. 

He swung the bat with a fury that made you more nervous than the zombies did, splattering blood and brains all over the concrete beneath his feet. When only one was left, he hit it over and over, long after it had stopped moving and its head had been reduced to mush. 

“Motherfuckers!” he screamed. Then he panted as he regained his composure. He shoved the bat into a sling at his back and went back into the store. Later, he emerged carrying a crate full of stuff. You couldn’t see much of what he had, but you were pretty sure he had found some useful items left behind by looters. 

He climbed into his van and left. This time, you were not alarmed by losing sight of him. Clearly the two of you were traveling in the same direction, and even though he was traveling faster in his van, he was apparently making stops along the way, probably to hunt. You’d catch up to him again, you felt certain of it. 

You decided to venture into the store. It was very likely that he had cleared any zombies from the interior, and it had been several minutes since the fight outside and no other zombies had appeared. 

Inside, the shelves were almost completely bare, save for some trash and items deemed too useless to bother carrying around - toys, a pair of foam flip flops, a cane that looked too flimsy to be a proper mobility aid. You got down on the floor and looked under the shelves. A fellow survivor you met two months ago had told you about this trick. “People tend to be in a hurry when they’re gathering supplies,” he’d explained, “so they end up dropping stuff. Some of it ends up kicked under the shelves and the people who come in later don’t think to check there.”

Beneath the shelf to your right, you found a package of expired gummy bears. You ripped them open and shoved a handful in your mouth, savoring the juicy sweetness. They were the best gummy bears you’d ever eaten. When you had half the pack left, you rolled it down and pushed it into your backpack for later. 

Under the shelf to your left, you found a bottle of shampoo that was open and spilling out. You grabbed it and closed the lid. There was still over half a bottle left! You hadn’t shampooed your hair in over a month, so this would be a luxurious treat.

You found a few more items under the other shelves: a single battery that would fit your flashlight (you hoped it wasn’t drained), a small box of bandaids, and (most precious of all), an unopened bottle of sweet tea. 

These treasures safely tucked in your backpack, you left the store and headed in the same direction you’d seen the white van leave in.  As you passed by the alley you’d hidden in earlier, a pair of pale white hands suddenly reached out from it and grabbed your arm. You jerked free, repulsed by the feeling of cold, damp flesh on your skin. 

A single zombie shambled out of the alley, arms raised in front of it as it reached for you again, mouth biting the air in anticipation of tasting human meat. You backed away from it as you slid the hunting knife out of the holster on your thigh. In most cases, you chose not to fight or kill zombies. It was messy and, even in the best circumstances, risky. Plus it was a pain to sanitize your knife in a fire before using it to skin the small animals your sometimes caught. 

You looked back at the store. Should you lure it in there and shut the door? But that would leave a rather nasty surprise for the next person who came along and decided to check the store for supplies. You sighed and pulled your backpack off as you continued backing away, keeping a modest distance from the zombie. If there was a struggle, you didn’t want to risk your backpack being ripped or damaged. It was sturdy and easy to carry, and who knew when you’d come across another one? You dropped it on the ground and backed a few more feet away. 

Once you felt you were in a good position (plenty of open space in all directions so you could flee if necessary), you stopped and waited for the zombie to get closer. Once it was near enough to almost touch you with its outstretched arms, you quickly ducked around behind it and shoved your knife into its ear. The arms dropped, then the body collapsed onto the pavement. You retrieved the knife and breathed a sigh of relief as you wiped the blade off on the zombie’s shirt. 

Poor bastard. He died in the most hideous lime green T-shirt you’d ever seen. 

You picked up your backpack and left the small town, excited to drink some of your tea later in the evening. 

It took you four days to find the man with the van again, and it was totally by accident. You’d followed the nearby river to a waterfall. You’d grown up in this area, so you remembered there being a waterfall around here somewhere. Figuring it would be a great place to wash up and use that shampoo you found, you followed the sound of rushing water until you spotted it. 

The waterfall wasn’t huge, but it was high enough that falling from it would probably be dangerous. The water at the base of it, near where you stood, was only around four feet deep, as you recalled. You and your friends would occasionally go swimming there during particularly hot summers. You remembered picnics under the shade of the trees that lined the river, laughter as you took turns running into the falling water. The memories made you feel numb more than anything else. 

As you stood there beside a tree, you heard a loud splash. You ducked behind the tree by reflex, then peeked around it to see the man emerging from the water. Had he been under for the whole three or four minutes you’d been there? All your thoughts suddenly froze in your brain when you realized the man was completely naked. Apparently he also thought this was a good place to bathe. 

His body was marred by the same deep purple scarring that covered parts of his face and arms, like a patchwork. There was something oddly mesmerizing about those scars. He was lean, with just the right amount of muscle, and his black hair glistened in the sun as water dripped from the tips and ran down his torso. 

As he stepped out of the water, you couldn’t help stealing a glance at the rather impressive appendage between his legs. Even wet and cold, it looked pleasingly large. 

The man walked over to small brown bag and pulled out a towel. How had you missed that bag? Regardless, he toweled off and then spread the towel on the ground and sat down. He pulled a can of what looked like beer from the bag and cracked it open. Then he pulled out a tattered paperback book and leaned over on his side. 

Was he seriously just going to relax by the river… naked? That’s when you noticed the handle of some sort of weapon sticking out of the bag. He certainly wasn’t defenseless. You’d seen his incredible strength a few days before. 

With a start, you realized this was a great opportunity to check out his van. It had to be parked close by, and the man clearly planned to be there for a while. You took one more long look at his well toned body before tearing your eyes away and heading back into the woods. 

The trees were tall and their dark green foliage nearly blotted out the sunlight above you. But there was enough light to spot a white van amongst the browns and greens of the forest, so it didn’t take you long to find it. 

You approached carefully, remembering the man’s tendency to use traps and systems to alert him of danger. The leaves were moist and slippery under your feet, perfect for remaining silent as you stepped lightly around the van to reach the back. Then your heart dropped to your feet. 

The back doors of the van were covered in wire lined with metal cans. It would be physically impossible to open them without causing a huge racket. You checked the side doors, and they were locked tight. You had some experience breaking into vehicles, though you were definitely no expert. You peered in through the window, only to spot more wires and cans tied to the inside of each door. 

You sighed and walked away, heading back to the waterfall. When you reached the trees you’d hidden in before, the man was pulling on a faded black T-shirt over his ripped jeans.  He looked good in them. He gathered the rest of his belongings into the brown bag, zipped it up, and walked off in the direction of his van. He passed within twenty feet of you, but you were perfectly still behind a tree. 

You waited for a while after he left, to be sure he didn’t return for something he forgot, then you moved close to the water, slipped off your backpack and pulled out a few items. A change of clothes, a towel, and the shampoo you’d been saving. You stripped off your clothes, leaving only the thigh holster with your knife snapped inside. You washed the clothes you took off in the water then draped them over low branches in the nearby trees to dry. 

Finally, you stepped into the water and dipped your whole head in to get your hair wet. The water was cool, but not enough to be uncomfortable. It looked crystal clear and clean, and it soothed the various cuts and scrapes you’d incurred over the past several days. 

You squeezed out some shampoo before tossing the bottle onto the shore and lathering up your hair. It smelled heavenly! Like fresh flowers and honey. You rubbed the lather all over your body, figuring that if men had been using one product for their hair and bodies for years, so could you. 

Once you were covered in soap, you went over to the waterfall and stood under it, letting it rinse you clean. It felt so close to an actual shower, you nearly cried. 

You played around in the water for a little while, then stepped out and dried off before dressing in clean clothes. You relaxed by the water, just as the man had done, while waiting for your wet clothes to dry. The sun, reaching you now that you were out of the woods, felt warm on your skin. 

You left back through the woods, but just before you broke free of the tree line by the highway, you heard the distinctive sound of someone walking. Someone alive. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched, the noise so close that you whirled around to look for the source. 

Two men approached from the direction of down river. You could smell them from several yards away. Apparently being so close to the river had not inspired them to wash up, at all. They appeared to be in their mid thirties, both sporting unkempt beards and long, scraggly hair. Both carried backpacks, rifles on their backs, and numerous knives attached to their belts. 

These were exactly the sort of people you tried to avoid. In your time on your own, you only approached certain types: women, families, small mixed groups that seemed to get along with each other. You never approached single men, much less multiple men together with no woman in sight. 

Usually, you were extremely vigilant. You always spotted other people in plenty of time to hide or flee if they seemed like bad news. In the early weeks of the outbreak, when you’d first ventured out on your own, you’d met a younger girl who was exceptionally good at sneaking around and avoiding being caught by the living or the dead. You’d traveled with her for a while, learning her techniques as well as how to use a knife. Since then, you’d always managed to evade danger. But today you had dropped your guard. Perhaps the shower had been a little too relaxing. 

“Hey there,” one of the men said, throwing up his hand in a wave. 

You debated whether you should make a run for it or not. They had rifles, so they could probably shoot your legs out from under you if they wanted to. You stood completely still, watching them as they got closer. 

“You out here alone, girl?” 

“No,” you said, trying to keep your voice firm, “my friends are waiting for me just up the road.”

You hoped they would believe the lie, that they’d rather avoid getting into a fight with a group they knew nothing about. 

“That’s funny,” the other man said, “we walked along the road for a long time and we didn’t see anyone waiting for you. Are you sure they didn’t leave you behind?”

His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe you. Shit. How could you get out of this situation? You kept yourself steady and replied. “Really? Maybe they parked in the woods. They do that sometimes, for the shade.”

“Good idea,” the first man said. “These trees sure do block out the sun. They block out a lot of stuff.”

“Well,” you said casually as you turned toward the road, “I better head over there before they get worried and come looking for me.”

You made it a few steps away, walking at a leisurely pace to feign nonchalance, when you heard fast, heavy footsteps running toward you. Glancing back, you saw one of the men rapidly closing the distance, holding up the butt of his rifle like a club. 

You broke into a run then, but you didn’t make it far. The rifle struck your head, your vision blurred and darkened, and you felt yourself falling over. You were unconscious before you ever hit the ground. 

*****

When you woke up, you heard the sounds of a crackling fire before your eyes adjusted to the bright orange light against the murky darkness of the forest. 

You were lying on your side on the ground, close enough to the fire to feel its heat on your skin. Your hands were tied together in front of you with thick, coarse rope that rubbed your wrists in an unpleasant way. One of the men was sitting nearby, skinning a rabbit. The other, the one who had knocked you out, was standing on the other side of the fire, stoking it with a long stick. Your backpack was lying a few feet away from you. 

Afternoon had turned to dusk, still light enough to see without a fire or flashlight, but dark enough to make you wary. From your experience, fires in the woods at night were not the best idea. The glow sometimes attracted zombies, so only groups with enough people to keep watch normally lit them. You had stuck to small fires in the daytime, just lit long enough to cook some food or boil some water from the river. Zombies didn’t know to look for smoke.  

The two men didn’t seem to be conversing at all, so pretending to be asleep to listen to them was pointless. You pulled yourself to a sitting position, your knees pulled up in front of you. They hadn’t bothered to take your knife from the holster on your thigh. Had they simply not noticed it? Or did they think you were this little of a threat? 

The man standing at the fire noticed you were awake and flashed you a smile. It was a repulsive smile, accompanied by dark eyes moving over you hungrily. You could guess why they had taken you captive. You’d heard plenty of stories. You glared at him and steeled yourself for a fight. 

“We’ll have dinner first,” he said in his rough voice, gesturing toward his friend with the stick. “Then we’ll have dessert,” he added with a grin, pointing the stick at you. His friend chuckled. 

You suddenly felt like throwing up. These men were disgusting, with their leering stares and stinking bodies. The thought of one of them touching you for even a moment sent ripples of revulsion through your entire body. 

Shame it wasn’t the handsome black haired stranger with the scars. 

Wait… did you seriously just think that? Ugh. You’d been out here in the woods for far too long. 

You tried to stay calm as you assessed the situation. The good: you still had your knife, and your hands were tied in front of you instead of behind you. Cutting yourself free would be easy once you got away. You also knew these woods fairly well, and were accustomed to moving around in the dark. The bad: there were two of them, and they were clearly much stronger than you. They both had those rifles too. 

You glanced around, taking in the now blazing fire and the positions of the two men in relation to it. You almost smiled. This was nearly identical to a scenario Toga, the girl you’d traveled with, had told you about being in before she met you. And you remembered exactly how she’d said she escaped. 

You scooted over a bit, making a show of wincing and leaning as if your backside was sore. You needed to have both men on the other side of the fire from you. The one sitting on the ground cleaning the rabbit would be easy. The other was pacing back and forth, occasionally stirring the branches and logs in the fire. If you timed it just right…

There! As soon as the pacing man got close to the other one, and they were both across the fire from you, you suddenly kicked out both your legs, shoving your boots into the base of the fire. Sparks and embers flew everywhere, flames reached out like glowing hands and crawled along the ground, alighting leaves and twigs. The sitting man yelped and fell backwards, the other one cursed and backed away from the flames, but he was too slow. Fire danced up his pant leg as he screamed and tried to put it out by slapping at it with his hand. 

In the chaos you got to your feet, grabbed your backpack off the ground, and ran into the trees. You heard one of the men yelling for the other to go after you, then a screamed reply of “Fuck you, I’m on fire!”

Once you’d ran so far that you could no longer hear their shouts or see the glow from the fire, you huddled next to a tree and used your knife to cut the rope, freeing yourself. You holstered the knife and pulled your backpack onto your shoulders, then looked around for a hiding spot. The woods were getting darker by the minute, but that was an advantage for you, not them. 

Eventually you found a tree that was perfect, and you climbed it quietly and carefully. You tucked yourself against the trunk and nestled into the branch, an action deeply familiar to you by now. Around half an hour later, you heard one of the men run by your tree. By that time it was so dark that you would’ve been shocked if he’d spotted you. After that, you only heard the usual sounds of the forest as you drifted off to sleep. 

The next morning you didn’t climb down immediately. You used your high vantage point to look out over the area, scanning the woods for any sign of the two men. Would they give up on you, deeming you too much of a hassle to deal with? Or would last night’s events only make them pursue you more doggedly? You couldn’t be sure, but you also couldn’t spend the entire day up in the tree. After watching for a few more minutes and feeling certain the men were not close by, you climbed down to the ground. 

You headed to the river first to wash your face and fill your water bottle. You doubted you’d be able to start a fire today, for fear that the smoke would give away your location, so you couldn’t boil the water. You grimaced at the thought of drinking raw river water again, but you’d sip it if you absolutely had to. Having an upset stomach was better than being dead. There was maybe a mouthful of sweet tea left in the bottle you’d found in the store, but you wanted to save it for as long as you could. 

When ready, you made your way back through the woods and to the trees that lined the highway. You didn’t dare step out into the open. Too many dangerous folks traveling the roads. But you stayed close enough to be able to see the highway at all times. You rarely saw cars going by these days. The last one you’d seen, besides the white van, had been over a week ago. 

You walked through the edge of the forest, moving in the same direction you had been for a few weeks now. You didn’t have a particular destination in mind. You simply wanted to keep moving, keep away from people, stay near the river where you could always get water and sometimes even catch fish, stick to the woods where you could occasionally catch a squirrel or a rabbit. It wasn’t a great life, but it was all you had at the moment. 

You’d walked nearly the whole day when you saw a very welcome sight: the white van parked just inside the woods, several yards ahead. You were surprised that you’d caught up with him so quickly, especially after being slowed down by those two assholes last night. 

As usual, you approached it carefully. When you got close enough, you realized the back door was standing wide open. No wires or cans had been strung up. The driver’s side door was open as well. 

What the hell was going on? 

There was no way the man would leave his van like this. Even if he suddenly had to shit, he wouldn’t leave his stash of supplies completely unguarded. Had he been attacked? The image of the two men flashed in your mind. The black haired man was strong, but they had guns. They could have forced him out of the van. But in that case, where were they? 

You circled around the van from a distance, looking for signs or clues as to what had happened. You strained your ears to listen for footsteps, but you heard nothing. Could the man have been attacked by zombies? Maybe he stepped out to pee, was suddenly surrounded, and had to run deeper into the woods to get away. 

Mind racing with possible explanations, you decided to watch the van for a little while, in case someone came for it. After nearly an hour, the woods were getting dark again. If you were going to make a move, now was the time. You took a deep breath, then walked over to the back of the van. You peered inside, and to your hungry, desperate eyes, it looked like the holy grail. The entire back of the van was filled to the brim with supplies. 

You climbed up into it and looked around in wonder. There were cases full of canned goods, bottled water, snacks, and even a few packs of beer. There were boxes with things written on them like, “bandages,” “batteries,” and “soap”. Curiously, there were several boxes of black hair dye. It almost looked like the storeroom of some convenience store. 

All of this was too suspicious. You didn’t dare grab a lot of stuff. What if the man really did have to suddenly relieve himself? Or had to run from zombies but was circling back around to his van? You decided to be cautious and grab only a small number of items, things he probably wouldn’t even notice. Then you could watch the van from an afar and grab more stuff if he never came back. 

You opened your backpack and shoved in two bottles of water, a can of peaches, a can of pork and beans, a bag of potato chips, and two chocolate candy bars. The carbs would come in very handy. You’d had so little energy lately. Pleased with your choices, you zipped up your backpack and pulled it on, then turned to exit the van. 

You stopped dead in your tracks. Standing right outside the van, staring at you with one hand on his hip, was the black haired man.  He looked at you with a deadpan expression and said, “Looks like I caught myself a thief.”

[gottawritesomething]

Treat the bite

Small scene I wish was in the game while romancing Gale. Treating an owlbear nip to Tav's hand.

_______________________________________

Gale had tried to warn Tav of the dangers of picking up stray furry menaces, especially ones that grew to be great, terrible beasts. But she'd smiled her biggest cheekiest smile and he'd been unable to continue the argument. In fairness, they got along famously; it followed her around camp, cooing like a baby bird. He could hear her chatting away with both the cub and Scratch from his position by the tents. When last he’d seen, she was feeding them both scraps from dinner.

"Please be polite... see how polite Scratch is when he takes a treat? Yes, exactly, he's letting me keep all my fingers... just..." He heard a small yelp and low hiss of pain. He shook his head; he’d tried to warn her...but Shadowheart had turned in for the night, and it was hardly gentlemanly to leave a lady in pain. He carefully closed his book and strolled over to where he knew she'd be. She was looking with great interest at the tree above her, with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Evening..." He attempted nonchalance.

She pursed her lips. "Oh, hello, excellent night for a walk." a fine attempt at subtlety. He smiled, hoping to come across as charmingly chastizing rather than patronizing. 

"If perhaps, someone had been injured in a manner I had suggested was a potential danger... Would someone like assistance with that hypothetical injury?"

She smiled and then winced.

"Hypothetically, that'd be appreciated."

He reached out his hand. "May I?"

She carefully revealed her hand; a nasty gash ran across her palm. The cub seemed to have nipped her near the thumb. She gently placed her hand in his. He brought it up to his face to examine it closely, conveniently blocking his own rapidly heating face from view. Still, he caught her eyes as she watched him with interest; they gleamed.

“So what's the prognosis? Will I live?” With the slightest smile dancing across her mouth.

“I'm aghast you think I'd let any lasting harm befall you. You'll live, at least while in my company.”

“I'll have to keep your company then.”

He cleared his throat, ignoring the rumbling in his chest. He mumbled a healing spell, watching the skin knit itself back together. He absentmindedly ran a thumb down the site where the cut had been, Feeling for any disturbances in her skin the spell might have missed. His thumb slid over old scars, products of misaimed spells or an errant magic surge, so many hidden stories. He wished they had time for her to tell him each of them.

He released her hand, taking a moment to collect himself before meeting her eyes again. 

“There, barring any unexpected run-ins with whatever mysterious culprit was the source of this bite, you should be good as new.” He makes a sweeping bow, “Now, if there are any other services a wizard such as myself could provide for a lady such as yourself, don’t hesitate to ask.”

She softly chuckled. 

“For your sake, you may want to be mindful of your phrasing. It is why our companions have taken to calling you ‘My wizard’.”

“There are worse fates…” 

Gale suddenly felt he’d very much overstepped as Tav’s eyebrows shot up. He was considering his best option of escape when she smiled at him.

“I’d hope so.” She said softly. Gale’s heart leaped in his chest. He instinctively covered the orb with his hand. Quickly, he nodded and bid her goodnight as he retired to his tent, attempting to soothe the growing light from his chest.

[yunalinwrites]

saved by the bell (sneak peek) | fushiguro toji x reader

summary: fushiguro toji never makes first moves--until he happens to meet the teacher of the son he hasn't seen in years.

strangers -> fwb -> lovers

takes place in 2006 around the star plasma vessel/hidden inventory/premature death arc; megumi is a first grader

about reader: female, around 30 or older, teacher, has a soft spot for megumi, speaks kind of formally, has daddy issues

warnings: none rlly rn, toji's kind of an ass

notes: not sure how many chapters this'll be total but this is only the beginning of the first chapter; currently working on the third. also familymart is a japanese convenience store chain

hope u like!

He'd only just stepped out of the FamilyMart, been on the street for all of two seconds before he heard the call of his name.

"Fushiguro?"

It was tempting, given the desperation in the repeated shouts, but he didn't bother looking towards their source. It's not like he really recognized the voice, and he sure as hell wouldn't recognize her face; he made it a point to never look them in the eye.

"Fushiguro?"

It was starting to become irritating, though. It was nasal, kind of sounded like the one from last week... No, a broad like that would know better; she played the same games he did. So, maybe the one from last night? Yeah... Didn't seem like she knew how to keep her strings to herself.

"Fushiguro!"

Well, whoever it was, she was only getting closer. The calls were getting louder, and so was the splash of her heels against the wet concrete. Realizing this, he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath through his nose, letting the rain run down his dark hair, over the scar on his lip, and into his mouth as he opened it and whipped his head around in annoyance.

"Thought I told you not to--"

"Sorry, excuse me!"

You shoved past him, catching his widened eyes with yours for but a moment before continuing to run frantically and nearly slipping when you came to a halt and crouched down.

"Fushiguro!" you exclaimed, adjusting your umbrella to accommodate the little boy. "There you are. I told you not to run off like that!"

The boy kept a fixed gaze ahead of him, only interrupting it to wipe his eyes as the rain dripped into them, his usually spiky black bedhead weighed down completely against his face.

"Where on earth did you go?" you asked, examining him for clues.

"There's a monster," he replied plainly.

Finding nothing of note, you checked your watch with one hand and used the other to hastily grab his, barely registering his claim.

"Well, there certainly aren't any monsters on the bus. Not to mention, it's warm and dry. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket with a wave of texts--the faculty group chat, you figured--as you moved to obstruct his view with a smile. "Your classmates are wondering where you went."

Still unfazed, he tugged on your blouse and pointed. "Can't you see it?"

You didn't really have time to humor him--the incessant pings now replaced by your melodic ringtone--but still, your eyes followed the end of his little pointer finger, looking hard for a monster but finding only a man.

You scanned the sight as much as the umbrella would let you, the spokes ending just below his eyes. There wasn't any "big purple worm" that you could see, like the boy was mumbling on about, but you weren't really listening; what you were looking at at the moment didn't make you feel much safer--a bulky, brick wall-like frame hidden behind a black T-shirt and gray sweats, a fist clenched tightly around the handle of a milk jug, and, most notably, a rugged scar running perpendicular to scowling lips.

Quickly, you pushed the boy's hand down, not even thinking to correct his rude gesture as your voice darkened, "Come on, we need to go."

You stood up from your crouch, pulling the boy along with urgency and speeding up as you passed the stranger, the umbrella angled so it sheltered the boy and covered your face.

The man watched you walk away, staring at your polka-dotted umbrella, trying to burn holes into it, but to no avail; you simply disappeared into the crowd of the street without so much as a glance back.

When he was sure you were gone for good, all he could do was look down at his clenched fist. All he could do was look at the milk jug it held, and think about what just happened, how comical it was.

He'd only just stepped out of the FamilyMart, been on the street for all of two seconds before he heard the call of his name--his son's name--for the first time in three years.

***

plz follow for more! hopefully i can post the rest soon :)

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

What would make mean Konig all red and flustered you think?

I think if newbie started complimenting him and being absurdly nice to him out of the blue that would definitley get him all embarassed and worked up 🫣 maybe even defensive because he's rlly self concious and has bad self esteem

“König, have I ever told you what nice shoulders you have?”

König stiffened under your touch almost immediately. Your fingers were clenching on new knots now as you continued to rub his back, forcing a frown on your face when he didn’t ease up. You knew that him being suspicious was part of his withdrawn nature, but seriously? This was enough to have him tensing?

“What makes you say that?” he asks finally, turning to look at you. 

You sigh and come round to the side of his uncomfortable plastic office chair, casting your eyes over the mountains of paperwork he has to fill out. Apparently Kortac wanted details on his last mission, they’d been unhappy with the fact that two of their soldiers had failed to return home and now König had to make a detailed account about it - thus the need for a massage. 

“I just wanted to let you know I liked your shoulders,” you shrugged. “Is that so bad?”

“It is,” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes at you. 

They look like slivers of blue moonlight through his mask. You tilt your head at him and smile, your lips spreading wide, and lean against him, burrowing your head under his chin. Now you can feel his heartbeat, can hear the thumping crash grow louder as he further questions your motivations. 

“And why’s it so bad?” you hum.

The rhythm in your ear is growing louder, you can practically hear König starting to lose it. 

“Because there must be some ulterior motive to your flattery that I’m not aware of.”

His tone is flat, but his body would be hammering out a techno beat on a heart monitor if it could. You grin all the more at the thought and shake your head, breaking away from him so that you can look him in the eyes. 

“There’s no ulterior motive. I just wanted to let you know that I like your big broad shoulders. They feel so good to rub like this, feels like there’s so much of you. There’s plenty other things that I like too,” you say, raising your eyebrows. “Like your lips…”

“My lips? What about my lips?” he asked, sounding ever more unsure of himself.

You feel your own heart start to jump. You’d never caught him so unawares like this. It made you feel powerful, made you feel like you were the one in control for once. To think, all it took was telling him how much you admired him. 

“Well…” you smile, reaching your hand out to the hem of his mask. “I just think they’re so nice and soft, they’re perfect for kissing. I really like a man that looks after himself.”

He grunts at that, visibly frowning at you now. Everything else he might’ve been concentrating on is forgotten, his full attention is on you. His whole body is practically vibrating with tension and he could hardly seem to cope with the compliments coming his way, no matter how superficial. 

You bat your eyes at him and gently pull up his mask, exposing said lips to the air, but nothing more than that. He didn’t like to expose his full face to anyone, not even to you, preferring to blindfold you rather than take it off for his convenience. Though that was beyond your reasoning. Afterall, even despite how little you’d seen of him, you thought that he was beautiful, and it wasn’t like you were going to sell out his identity to anyone.

“My face is covered in scars,” he grumbled, finally finding words. “My lips as well - they’re not perfect.”

“Doesn’t matter if you have scars. You’re still fun to kiss,” you say with a smile, just before leaning forward and taking his mouth in yours.

You hum in satisfaction when he groans and after a few seconds you break away, revelling in the way he keeps his eyes closed afterward. Your ever observant superior was slacking now. His eyes were hidden by his makeup, lost in a sea of black. Though there was a creeping pink blush working its way to the bottom of his cheeks and neck, breaking through the clash of pale skin and black makeup, treacherously giving away how much you were affecting him. 

“Yeah… They feel pretty perfect to me. That reminds me as well - your voice! You have such a pretty voice. I love it when it gets all deep and growly especially. Love the way you take charge, König…”

He opens his eyes again and when he does it almost breaks your heart. They’re wide with confusion and lost adrift in a sea of emotions that you could never-endingly explore. There's a sadness that lurks beneath those depths - you were sure of it. He didn’t exactly share old stories from his past with you, but you knew enough about him to know that he hadn’t been shown much love.

“You must tell me the real reason why you’re saying all this,” he whispers, voice practically choking back a whine. 

“I told you the real reason,” you hummed. “I just want to tell you how handsome I think you are. In case you weren’t aware, König…I think you’re very handsome.”

You dropped your voice almost conspiratorial at the end, and it was that last sentence that had him whimpering and turning completely red. You’d never seen him like this before, it had your mouth dropping open in awe before you could think to clamp it shut.

He fixed his eyes on you then and growled, tugging down his mask and shooing you off of his lap. 

“König-”

“Don’t! Not another word,” he rumbled, hunching back over his work. “I don’t need to hear your lies.”

You huffed out a breath and frowned at him, watching as he furiously returned to his work, scribbling like a madman as he fought back for his self control. You opened your mouth, ready to combat his denial, but he held his finger up at you before you could free even a miniscule decibel of sound.

“I’m serious. Go attend to whatever it is you should be doing. Not. Another. Word.”

[cauldroninthecrystal]

Do you have any headcanons for the krang siblings? And any fun facts about Tonga and Tui?

I’m so sorry this took so long to answer! I wanted to sketch for this ask! :D

Long description here —>

- York is deaf, so that is why he has hearing aids. For most of his life he lived it in silence, and only got hearing aids once he was an adult.

- Though he has hearing aids, he prefers not to speak, and never had a desire to learn how. He is pretty shy and introverted, thus he wears a mask.

- He prefers to communicate through ASL, possession/bio growth, and screeches. (This is me giving a reason why Krang 3 doesn’t speak)

- All Krang that have bio-growth abilities have these scar-vein marks on their palms and forearms.

- All or most bio-growth Krang wear gloves. They are all kinda like Elsa from Frozen.

- I have said it before in previous posts, but Keerah has a beautiful singing voice. However, she hides it because of how the Krang society is: Show no weaknesses, and only the strong prevail. Keerah believes her singing voice is a flaw she has.

- I gave her a pre-prison dimension injury, I think it makes her look cool. Also, prosthetics are really cool to design.

- She can play the electric guitar

- Keerah was definitely a gladiator back during the height of the Krang Empire.

- She definitely snores

- Kish needs reading glasses. I think it’s really funny.

- His boots definitely have heels on them, I think Kish has a bit of a feminine side.

- He has a soft spot, and deeply cares for his siblings. However he has to keep up his powerful, leader role, so he doesn’t show this side of him often.

- He likes to pamper himself a lot, and takes up a lot of time in the bathroom relaxing in the bathtub.

- Tonga loves the stars. Something about how they sparkle and gleam has always fascinated them. They leave their home in the Hidden City every night to star gaze on the rooftops of New York.

- For the first couple of years after Tonga arrived on Earth. They spent their life in the wreckage of their space-pod, which they turned into their home. Tonga wanted to try and figure out who they were.

- Tonga loves Boba Tea, and cats!

- They also have a pet frog named Charles

- Because Kish/Krang 1 has that weird ability to take away mystic powers….for plot convenience. I decided to change it into something else.

- All Krang have a bit of mystic power (thus the connection between them and the turtles). If they master/control this power, they can change into a more human-like form without the need for a cloaking broach (incorporating a little of my own au in here).

- Because of Tonga’s memory loss, they don’t remember they have this power, or know how to use it. So their friend Cameo made them a cloaking broach as a gift. . . After a lot of pestering from Tonga. (Cameo belongs to @themagicbrew)

[stsgluver]

ADORE YOU TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis. touya struggles to differentiate himself from his father.

wc. 2.01k

tags. slight angst, slight fluff, non-quirk!au, not proofread

the first thirteen years of touya’s life were not happy and joyful and full of memories that every young child should be able to reflect on with peace and nostalgia. they were filled with harsh slaps that left nasty purple bruises, extensive scoldings for minor mistakes and the constant hope that his dad would be too drunk when he came home to even remember that there were five other occupants.

he had been forced to mature faster than other kids his age, often meaning that he had little to no friends as he could never understand or find common ground among his peers. not that he had the time for friends. most days it was him picking up and dropping shoto off at the local nursery whilst fuyumi ensured natsuo made it to school on time. 

enji was smart enough to keep the bruises on his children hidden but never spared rei the same mercy. so often times, after checking off the completion of homeworks, and making a simple dinner from the ingredients still left in the otherwise barren kitchen, touya found himself sifting through the dwindling contents of the house’s first aid kit to cover up any of the newer injuries on his mother.

she cried almost every time, apologising over and over, and promising it wouldn’t be this forever. touya would give her a kiss on the forehead and a tight-lipped smile as he nodded, his hopes of that peace for them dwindling after each altercation with enji. but he was getting older and he was getting angrier and that terrified him because however justified he may have been to feel such rage, it made him question how different he and his father truly were.

fuyumi was different, she coped by trying to understand and do better as if there was any resemblance of a traditional family left to fight for. touya couldn’t comprehend such naivety and hated the way his sister’s hopes would shatter each time he’d crush it with a cruel remark about their piece of shit for a dad. and yet he equally longed for such an empathy towards someone who’d brought them so much suffering because maybe that’s how he’d be able to separate himself and his father as two different coins and not two different sides of one.

it wasn’t till touya turneed thirteen that rei had finally got the courage and means to leave enji. for as long as he could remember, his mum had been working night shifts at the local 24/7 convenience shop, leaving for her shift after enji had fallen asleep and returning before he’d woken up. it wasn’t out of the ordinary for her to return, cash in hand, asking him or fuyumi to hide it in their drawers so their dad couldn’t find it and gamble it away.

despite the physical struggle they’d suffered all their lives with enji, he left the family with little to no resistance – even going as far as to sign away his parental rights for all four of his children. not that that meant anything, he’d checked out of being a dad on day one and touya had been forced to take on that paternal role for his younger siblings.

the transition from their four bedroom house to a two bedroom apartment hadn’t been easy. food was scarce and touya’s heart broke as he watched his mum sacrifice meal after meal and having her own room so that natsuo and touya could share one and fuyumi and shoto could share the other. they had found some peace, but the scars that enji had left them with was as clear as day in the shadow of bruises that still lingered on their skin and mind.

that rage was still there.

touya hated his father, hated what he’d become and what he’d done to their family and he swears if he ever saw that man again he’d–

“found you.”

touya coughs, shaking his head of the thoughts as he splashes cool water over his face. he doesn’t look up as you push the door to the bathroom open slightly more, slipping into the small space to close the distance between the two of you.

“was worried,” you murmur, reaching up to take your boyfriend’s face in your hands as you force him to actually look at you. “you came out here twenty minutes ago. thought you got lost,” there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips but touya can’t amuse your gentle teasing right now.

“you can’t get lost in a house with half a dozen rooms and one corridor,” he mutters back, gently pushing your hands away from him as he reaches into the drawer above the sink. there’s an undertone of venom in his voice and it takes everything in you not to feel personally offended by the rejection because you know its not you he is rejecting. they say time heals wounds and yet here he is, five years free and he still feels like that same kid who was pushed down the stairs for not walking fast enough. the same kid who couldn’t protect his own mum and siblings.

you watch as he pulls out a familiar tube that’s almost empty, the one he uses to try and reduce the appearance of his scars. it's curled up from where he's tried to get every last drop of the cream. as if though this his holy grail that could rid him of any trace of enji.

“you’re beautiful yknow that?” you tuck an overgrown strand of his hair behind his pierced ear, clearing the are on his cheak where a thin white line runs across from the corner of his lip. you mean it too. you've always thought he was beautiful, telling him on an almost daily basis just to see the faint blush that starts on his cheeks and fades to the tips of his ears. even the dark black hair was beginning to grow on you (natsuo and shoto had thought it would be funny to swap out his usual shampoo for black hair dye).

he hums, if it's gratefulness for the compliment or the moving of his hair you’re not too sure. maybe both. maybe he just wants you to leave him alone.

“i can do it for you,” you offer when he struggles to get any of the cream out. the tube should've been thrown out four late night breakdowns ago.

touya huffs, leaning against the sink with the tube in his grip, avoiding your eyes as he nods his head in the direction of the door. “go back to bed. i’ll be there in five," his voice is rough and evident with a lack of sleep and you want to grab the closest blanket and coddle him till all the negative thoughts are forgotten by the blissful comfort of cotton.

when his gaze does meet yours you don't miss the redness in his eyes and the tears that stained his skin. he clears his throat, "you've got an early lecture. you need to sleep."

"how am i supposed to sleep without my boyfriend?" you retort and he looks at you unimpressed, like you shouldn't be looking at him as if though he's the center of your universe (which he is) and risk being late to your eight am lecture that you always complain about needing extra beauty sleep for.

you press a gentle peck to the side of his face and take the tube out of his hands, not letting him respond to your rhetorical question. he’s too tired to argue and you refuse to leave him by himself when he’s like this. the hatred touya has for his father still has this tightening choke-hold on him and it manifests in a disliking for any part of him that overlaps with his recollection of that man: his piercing blue eyes, the (former) bright red streaks in his white hair, that rage.

“i’d never hurt you.” touya’s voice is barely above a whisper and your heart breaks at the tears that are welling up in the corner of his eyes, visible even under the flickering bathroom light. “i’m not him.”

“i know that baby,” you promise with another peck, this time against his chapped lips. you squeeze on the tube and get a small drop onto your finger, holding it up for him to see, “you sure you still need this?”

“please,” he nods and your heart breaks a little to see how quiet he can be on nights like these. ones where every time he closes his eyes he's plagued with memories of what used to be to the point where the scar that can hardly be seen by anyone else against his pale complexion, becomes this nasty, ugly, raw gash to him that he’s stuck with. stuck with forever as a permanent taunt that he can never escape his father.

a silence falls between the two of you as you dab the cream into his skin, touya’s eyes watching you intently looking for any sign of disgust as you brush his cheek gently.

“all done,” you smile half-heartedly as you take a step back, screwing the lid back onto the tube for it to be put away. you knew what you were signing up for when you got involved with touya. you’d been volunteering at your aunt’s nursery since before you could remember and you’d seen touya often with his youngest brother. the staff had often gossiped about the state of his family’s affairs and you’d taken it upon yourself to sneaking a few extra treats from the pantry to slip into shoto’s bag, making him promise to share it among his siblings.

touya takes the tube from your hands and returns it to its position in the drawer, gently closing the door. that silence settles again as you both stare at one another, touya’s gaze full of pain and yours wishing you could reach out and kiss him and erase every memory that hurts him. he'd let you try.

he’s the first to break it.

“c’mon,” he murmurs, intertwining his hand with your smaller one as he leads you back to his room. it's the first bit of contact he's initiated as of yet and you don’t hesitate to follow.

you’re the one who pushes back the covers and gestures for him to climb into his double bed first before sliding in after him. within seconds he’s pulled you tightly into him, his hair tickling your chin as his head rests against your chest. one hand wraps around him and you use the other to caress his head as you let him rest. you don’t want to think about the hours and hours of sleep he’s probably missed.

“i love you so so much,” you tell him softly, sifting your hand gently through his black locks, “don’t know what i’d do without you.” you mean every word and touya wants to scoff because how can you need him… but there’s this sincerity in your voice that even he can’t ignore. 

he tilts his head up and you catch a glimpse of those deep blue eyes that contrast against the darkness of the night that envelopes the room. “never leave me.”

“i could never, baby,” the hand that was drawing small circles on the back of his shoulders cups his cheek, “i promise i won’t.” for the first time since he’d been awoken by his past that night, touya finally feels some sort of relief from the tension that had taken over his body.

“i adore you,” touya breathes, knocking his nose against yours lightly as he leans in for a kiss. not just a peck – an actual kiss that personifies just how much he does adore you, his lifeline, his one source of relief in a world that’s shown him no mercy. you mimic his passion, wanting him to know just how much he means to you and how deeply you love him.

[zarvasace]

No pressure, but if you want to, Wars getting stuck in a place where no one can understand his signing in the disability au?

this got out of hand I'm sorry I hope you like it

supposed to be seen, supposed to be heard

Gen, 4k words, Warriors-focused. Others are there but at the end. A little angst, but ends on a good note. AO3 link here!

It hurts, a little. He's the captain, the Hero launched into fame, the face of the entire war. Sometimes going into towns in other eras feels like a step backwards, like he's fallen down the steep slope he's been climbing.

Like sliding down a steep slope, barely controlled, with dirt shifting and rolling under his boots, Warriors feels time itself move around him. He's grown accustomed to the feeling, much as he dislikes it. He resists calling out, and reaches for the person nearest—it's Twilight, this time—but feels his fingers close on nothing but the detritus of the timestream. 

He feels weightless, nothing on him or around him. Air slips into his lungs like silk. It barely seems to exist, and briefly, Warriors can't get enough. 

The fall stops, and discarded equipment rolls around Warriors's feet as he tries to regain his balance. His stomach stops a moment after he does, twisting and churning in currents that make him a little nauseous. He stands on unfamiliar rocks, at the bottom of mountains he doesn't particularly recognize. That's not unusual, though. He barely recognizes his own mountains, for all that he's been staring at them his whole life. 

Warriors puts a hand on his sword hilt and turns in a circle, looking for any immediate threats. Upon seeing that he's alone over here, he lets his hand fall, though his guard stays up. No monsters appear to be aiming to make him their next meal, but there are no brothers to share the burden of observation with, either. 

He crouches with his knees rather than bending with his back to pick up the things that fell through the portal with him. Luckily, he has his own pack, with everything but his shield. That's all right, though, he can use Twilight's until they meet back up. They've found that all their equipment comes through portals, but usually with whoever they're closest to at the time, not necessarily who it all belongs to. Warriors has Legend's broken cane and one of Wild's jars of lotion, too. He twists the top off to see which kind—oh, yep, definitely a hot one. It smells like peppers and lava. The light burn scars on Warriors's hand almost seem to tingle at the smell. 

After stashing away what he can, Warriors slings Twilight's shield on his back and looks around a bit better. He doesn't… he doesn't see a castle. Odd. That's usually the meetup spot, since it's pretty obvious in every era except for Wind's and Sky's. This isn't Wind's time, though Warriors can see the sea off past the fog, and it isn't Sky's, since there are definitely towns down there. He wonders if the castle is just hidden, somehow. Hyrule’s world has multiple castles, and none of them are in obvious places. Perhaps it’s something like that, here.

Well, nothing would happen if he just sat there frowning. Warriors picks what he hopes is the best path down to the valley and starts down, one step at a time.

It feels a little strange to be alone. Warriors has always had some sort of battalion at his back, soldiers or brothers, or at the very least, a fairy. He misses Proxi something awful. Her help translating his signs aloud had been essential once he'd stopped speaking entirely, before anyone else knew the language. She'd always been just the right combination of scolding and comforting, too. He could probably use a little bit of both at the moment. 

The voices and noise drift to Warriors on the wind, so he hears the wagons long before he sees them. He finds a conveniently large boulder to hide behind as the group rattles around the bend—four large, colorful wagons pulled by horses. Warriors watches for a moment, counting perhaps eight men, five women, and one boy learning to drive the wagons. Lucky for him, the horses aren't too temperamental. They're big animals, with long hair and hooves the size of the boy's head. 

One of the men walks alongside the front wagon where the boy is, one painted with pinks and greens and flowers, making comments about driving. A sturdy woman drives the second big wagon, leaning back and chewing on a piece of wheat. A man plucking a guitar's strings sits next to her, in front of a stylized painting of a sun. It looks like the third wagon is painted with an autumn theme, and the fourth is covered in the delicate blues of winter. Quaint. 

There may be more people in the wagons, Warriors thinks, but he has no way of knowing. The rest of the people he can see mill about the wagons, staying clear of the wheels and the animals. A few have instruments, like the two young women playing some sort of game involving chasing each other and smacking the side of a wagon with the tambourines they held. They're pretty girls. 

Well, this troupe doesn't seem like a threat. Warriors has been known to be burned by assumptions like that before, but he decides to go with his gut this time. He steps out from behind the boulder and watches the spring wagon pass. 

One of the more energetic women spots him first, a redhead with a sultry aura and a form-fitting pink costume. She calls out to him—"Link!"—and smiles with white teeth when he looks over on reflex. In a matter of seconds, she has his hands in hers, the tambourine girls have begun a complex rhythm, and the redhead is pulling him out onto the road.

"Dance with me," she demands, and what can Warriors do but smile back at her and do his best? 

He doesn't really know the dance, but the woman doesn't stumble as she pulls him around and around, between wagons. Someone laughs at them, and the tambourines grow louder and softer. A woman pulls out a flute to accompany the tambourines, and Warriors can hear the guitar start up. His feet move like they're possessed. 

"You've forgotten the steps," the woman says, her voice clear but quiet beneath the impromptu music. She looks a little sad. Warriors wants to tell her that he never knew them to begin with, that he's not the Link she probably knows, but there's no time to let go of her hands, or to even try to speak. He just laughs and tries his best to step in time with the rattling tambourines. 

Warriors keeps to his toes, and the impacts of his feet shudder his bones. His veins pulse with the guitar strings, and his breath follows the flute. It's heady, a sort of intoxication that Warriors hasn't really tasted before. The dances he's familiar with have a similar way of holding hands, but they're more structured and less… well. This dance is like a fire. It spreads, spurring more people on to join them.

"Ah, so you aren't the Hero I know," the woman says as the dance brings them close together again. She doesn't seem upset, at least. "Still. You're doing a wonderful job."

Warriors's next try at spinning her includes a sweep of his arm that could be interpreted as a thank you sign. 

The dance does have to stop at some point. It slows, and people laugh as they return to walking. Warriors gasps for air, losing it just as fast in short laughs. He bows to the woman who'd dragged him into this, and she bows extravagantly back. Her hair is too red to be truly natural, but it fits her sharp expression. 

"Well, I'm impressed, stranger," she says, fiddling around with her golden jewelry. The wagons continue to move, and she walks with them. Warriors follows. "Or perhaps not quite a stranger, hm? Where did you come from? It's a long way to the nearest town." 

Warriors hesitates. Perhaps… He raises his hands to sign. 'What is your Link like?' he asks. 

The woman gives him the Look, the one that's caught between confusion and apology. It tells him that she knows that signs can be a language, but that she doesn't know it, herself. She doesn't call for anyone, either, which means that there's a good chance nobody in this troupe knows sign language. 

He nods to himself, then pulls his bag around to his front to rummage inside. He knows he has a notebook in here somewhere… 

"What's wrong?" someone asks the woman, whose face has turned a bit redder to match her hair. 

She shrugs. "I don't think he can hear."

Warriors sighs and glances up, but doesn't catch anyone's eyes to tell them that yes, he heard it. He emerges triumphant from his bag with a notebook and a pencil (that he should really sharpen, how had he been letting it get so dull?) that he immediately uses to write a note. He uses good handwriting, instead of his usual scrawl, then offers the book over to the woman. 

I can hear, I just have trouble speaking. You can call me Wars, I'm a bit lost. I'm looking for Hyrule Castle. 

The woman squints at the writing, and for one heart-stopping moment, Warriors thinks that she can't read it. 

But she nods, and looks up at him. "Oh, that makes sense. Hey, Wars, nice to meet ya. I'm Din." 

Warriors blinks at her, and his question must be clear on his face, because she smiles again and hands the notebook back. 

"I'm not the goddess, no. I'm just her oracle. So, you're on your way to Hyrule Castle?" 

He takes the notebook and keeps it ready, but he doesn't have to use it for a simple question like this. He nods in confirmation.

She snorts. "Well, then you've gotten real turned around, pretty boy. The castle's a couple days away, at the least. We're headed to the Hyrule border, though, you're welcome to join us until then. Strength in numbers, all that."

They aren't in Hyrule? Warriors rubs at his chin in thought. This oracle seems friendly. Warriors knows that none of the goddesses are actually evil, even the one whose champion usually turns out to be. He doesn't feel unsafe walking next to her, though being in such a large, untrusted group makes his neck itch. Still. He's in an unfamiliar land. 

He writes another note. I'd appreciate that. I can pay you for your troubles, and contribute to any manual labor or guard duty. He pauses, then adds a little more. Your Link wouldn't happen to have pink in his hair and a prickly attitude, would he? 

Din takes a moment to parse through his words, nodding along. "Sounds like you know the brat." At his nod and rolled eyes, she smiles her sharp smile and continues. "Come on, let's introduce you to Jovan, since you'll be here for a little while." 

---

Jovan is an affable man, a bit pushy, but every good leader needs to be a little annoying. He's all too happy to accept Warriors's help with guard duty. When they stop for the evening, Jovan's son Rishu scrambles out of the wagon driver's seat to show Warriors his swordplay. 

Warriors can tell that the boy learned a little from Legend. He can't exactly tell him what to change, but Warriors does his best to correct Rishu's feet and show him how to swing for more control. He's not sure the lessons get across very well, but he tries.

A few more kids crowd around as the adults start to make dinner, dying for sword lessons, too. Their parents shrug at Warriors as if to say that he's welcome to entertain them for as long as he can. He's not exactly a child whisperer, and he can't lecture them without a clear voice—oh, how he wishes he weren't alone—but once again, he tries. He steals some sticks from the path and puts them in the children's hands, adjusting their small fingers and helping them hold the sticks straight out as if they were swords. 

When one of the little girls asks why he doesn't speak, Warriors taps his throat. It doesn't give any kind of answer, but at least one of the kids thinks it does, and they start to concoct a story about how he sailed across the sea to rescue his true love. He doesn't quite hear the entire story, but he gets the gist—there were sea monsters on his journey, and an underwater Zora witch who took his voice, and now his true love is in Hyrule for some reason. He seems to be a good distraction, though. It's a bit overwhelming, but the kids stay with him until the adults call them over for dinner and for bed. 

As it turns out, nobody but Din the dancer can read Warriors's writing. Apparently his language is just different enough that it doesn't translate to whatever these people can read. With Din distracted by musicians and rehearsals, Warriors is left without a way to communicate, short of charades or pictures drawn. That can get battle plans across sufficiently, at least to soldiers who know the symbols he uses, but it's useless for contributing to conversations. 

The troupe asks him a lot of questions, at first, but his answers don't satisfy, and they have to redirect their attention. Laughter ebbs and flows around the few campfires like the ocean, and voices twist around the music practice like leaves on the wind. It's comfortable, but loneliness presses up against Warriors's heart like it hasn't in months, all the stronger for its long absence. 

Even if he tried to speak, Warriors doesn't think anyone would understand him. He knows that it takes effort and practice to hear past the shaking gravel in his voice. Knowing that he can't communicate, even if he tried, is worse than just pretending that he's keeping silent on purpose. He doesn't have a choice. The laughter muffles in his ears, and Warriors's smile becomes harder and harder to prop up when someone looks over at him. He can feel the black hole of involuntary alienation pulling his posture down, down, down. 

Instead of giving in, Warriors stands up and leaves the friendly warmth to relieve the guard sitting up against a barrel. He's an older man, and not paying much attention as a guard ought to. He takes Warriors's silent offer of a relief far too easily, but Warriors isn't too mad about it. They're just a group of performers, after all, and he doubts a guard is really necessary. From the way that oracle spoke, she could take things in hand if she needed to. 

Still, it's nice to feel useful. Watch duty is something Warriors knows how to do. He physically taps his chest to dispel the black static there, the hollowness in his shoulders that threatens to put tears in his eyes. It works. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that the voices behind him belong to his brothers. But closing his eyes is not watching, so he leaves them open.

He faces the valley, with the wagons stopped just off of the road and in the shadow of the mountain. The sun dropped behind the range long ago, and the moon casts her early blue light over everything Warriors can see. It's quite lovely, actually, the way the lights in villages sparkle like a reflection of the stars. 

Warriors turns to the mountain to look it over, his eyes trained to spot irregularities and moving silhouettes. He doesn't see any, which is a good sign. He still makes a lap around the exterior of the wagons, mentally marking a perimeter. Lanterns hanging outside the wagons glow softly, quieter than the campfires. A few insects buzz around them. Warriors's boots make crunching noises on the rough dirt, but he's quiet enough that nobody really notices him. 

It hurts, a little. He's the captain, the Hero launched into fame, the face of the entire war. The popularity of sign language grew exponentially because of him, making the world just a bit easier on him and the many other people who preferred to communicate with their hands rather than their voices. Sometimes going into towns in other eras feels like a step backwards, like he's fallen down the steep slope he's been climbing.

The others, though… they understand him, most of the time, and Sky even speaks up for him. He knows they value his opinions and thoughts, knows it through hard-won confidence from dozens of reassurances from all his brothers, who actually noticed that he's prone to feeling ignored and overlooked. 

He's supposed to be seen, and he's supposed to be heard, so his chest aches a bit when he isn't. 

Warriors makes it back to his original spot overlooking the valley, and stops there. It's a bit elevated from the rest of the camp, so he feels pretty comfortable staying there to watch. He doesn't think the troupe has much in the way of a formalized watch rotation, but one of the women comes over to tell him to wake her up in a few hours, so he won't push himself too far making sure they're safe. 

As the last fires retreat into embers, sleeping as much as their tenders, Warriors pulls out his ledger to review. The moon lights the pages enough to read. He already has so much trouble keeping track of the Chain's inventory and maintenance needs, it's going to be awful trying to catch back up. He wishes he had Wind's pirate charm to at least see the others and know where they are. Just because he was dropped in a peaceful place doesn't mean they were. He'll be upset if someone manages to suffer an injury due to snagged chain mail because he wasn't around to nag them into repairing it. 

Sometimes, yes, Warriors does wish the Chain acted more like an organized group of soldiers. They need to learn to report truthfully and thoroughly, to follow orders, to keep clean and organized. But at the same time, it's that lack of following orders and doing things their own way that makes them so effective as Heroes. He likes them just the way they are, really. He also likes keeping track of things. The ledgers and calendars and maintenance logs help him feel like he's contributing, and that this crazy adventure of theirs has some form of structure. 

Warriors slides the ledger back into his bag and makes sure everything he needs is still in there. The only things that don't exactly belong are Wild's lotion and Legend's cane. Sky was planning on repairing it; Four had an idea about paper mulch and glued wood that Sky seemed excited to try. Warriors smiles to himself and sits back. He hopes the others are okay, but there's not much he can do about it until he finds them again. Knowing them, they will be. 

---

It doesn't take long to find them, in the end. The portals never dropped them off too far from each other, thankfully, though Warriors thinks that this may be one of the greater distances. He'll need to record that. Records are essential to making predictions, and thus, making plans. 

He's busy helping to tie down a tarp over the autumn wagon, as the sky has darkened with slate-blue clouds that hang heavy with rain, when he hears voices near the front of the group. 

"—don't happen to have seen a blond idiot with armor and a blue scarf, have you?" 

Warriors smiles, but it looks like Din heard that voice at the same time he did. She perks up from near the summer wagon, and smacks the guitarist on the shoulder as she runs past. He dutifully starts up a tune, and Din drags another Link into a dance with nothing more than a demand. 

"Dance with me!" 

"Din! Wait, there's not even any mus—oh." Legend comes into sight, around the side of the spring wagon, with Din clutching his arm and dragging him into the dance. The tambourines start up again, and this time, so does a set of drums hanging out of the winter wagon, played by a very enthusiastic, talented teenage girl. 

Warriors watches for a moment, concerned for Legend, but it looks like it's a good day for him. Legend seems a bit hesitant, but his eyes widen when he notices Warriors peeking up over the autumn wagon. Din pulls Legend around, and since they're stopped, more people begin to join the music or the dance. Legend relaxes, and when the entire rest of the Chain comes to investigate, he manages to drag them into the dance, too.

It's far more chaotic than that first one Warriors participated in yesterday. Legend knows the dance, but none of the others do. Warriors doesn't know it, either, but he runs up to grab Hyrule's hands before the poor kid can throw himself or someone else off the cliff on accident. The chorus of greetings he gets as they notice him—"Wars!" "Warriors, we found you!" "You okay?" "You're okay!" "We were worried!"—fills up that hollow bit in his heart nicely. He laughs and spins Hyrule around, careful to keep them well away from hitting anyone. 

Four parks off to the side before very long, and Warriors briefly considers going to check on him. But he knows that Four really is the sort of person to enjoy watching more than participating. He's over there laughing as Din launches into an acrobatic maneuver that Legend shouts at her for, but he flows along with it like he's done it a million times before. Warriors foresees some sharp complaining about joint pain tonight, but Legend can make his own choices. 

Twilight gives up on trying to follow the dance and starts doing one of his own. Wind somehow ends up on Twilight's shoulders, laughing and occasionally kneeing Twilight in the face on accident. One of the tambourine girls takes it upon herself to personally show Wild a bit of the dance. She's definitely flirting, and Warriors isn't sure if Wild realizes it, but he's definitely flirting back. Time appears to sort of know what's going on, and Sky just looks delighted anytime he finds himself near someone playing an instrument. 

This dance is objectively worse than the first one Warriors participated in with the troupe, full of missteps and overbalancing and a few discordant chords. But there's more music, more good-natured cursing, and Warriors isn't alone. He misses a lot of cues hauling Hyrule around, but Hyrule laughs with abandon every time Warriors spins him around. 

The drums echo off of the rocks. Time takes a shot playing with the musicians, using an ocarina that Warriors hasn't seen before. Twilight almost drops Wind. Four picks up singing the predictable chorus of one of the songs, his voice not bad. 

The rain breaks them up, but not before everyone gets soaked. 

---

Later, Warriors rants a bit to Sky at a speed nobody else can follow, and gets some very validating empathy. Sky admits to feeling the same way, sometimes. Warriors is willing to bet that they all do, one way or another. 

If everyone's greetings filled up that dark space in Warriors's heart, then Wind's tight hug and Legend's casual elbow on his shoulder overflow that space until it heats his fingers and his toes. Wild makes Warriors's favorite tea—he makes everyone's favorite teas or cocoas, for the rainy day, but it strikes Warriors deeply that Wild didn't just notice which he liked, but made it just for him. 

In the absence of anything else to do, Four and Sky start on repairing Legend's spare cane. Wild is glad to get his jar of warm lotion back, and makes sure that Legend gets some, after all the dancing they'd done. Twilight and Warriors switch shields and compare notes on weights and shapes. Warriors catches up with whatever inventorying he has left to do. 

He's very, very glad he's not alone on this adventure.

[frost-eyed-autumn]

And the world moved on, as it should.

Life paused for no man. A steady stream of cars bustled by. People walked to jobs and school and frivolous ventures. Shops opened and beckoned in customers, and corporate towers welcomed in their morning workers so night-shift crews could go home.

The world had been still while he raced like a bat out of Hell through the darkness as little more than a blur. Now it was his turn to stand still as the rest of the city woke up around him.

He took a long drag of his cigarette as he watched Ango sniff about the yard, letting out a cloud of smoke slowly with a thousand-yard stare into the dirt.

It wasn't fair, but since when had it ever been?

He couldn't just quibble and whine. Stomp his foot and scream and demand things his way like a child. He wasn't a damn toddler throwing a fit. He was a beast with jagged fangs and claws and bristling with rage crawling just beneath his skin, ready to crush mountains if need be.

But it didn't matter. No amount of howling and snarling and clawing would set his world right, and he couldn't help being anything but that wounded animal with scars hidden in its pelt that wanted to lash out and make its enemies bleed.

He took another deep drag of smoke.

It wasn't fair. But when had it ever been?

He always got to get away with just ruining his life, and then get to reap all the rewards for himself.

That snide and callous way he sowed seeds of doubt in the thoughts of his family at that arcade, so that they stabbed him in the back.

The sadistic way he grinned with those dark, empty eyes promising to cut him a deal for their lives if he became the Port Mafia's puppet.

The way he sold out his friends' lives to an assassin come for him without a care that he was ripping away everything that mattered to him all over again, and even put Shirase's life in danger despite their deal.

The way that bastard mocked and celebrated the deaths of their own people in the Port Mafia, just because it would take him one more rung up the ladder of corporate success to become an Executive and hold charge over all the little lives beneath him. Lives that were entirely meaningless to him ; that could be discarded at any moment of his own convenience.

That bastard who had dragged him so very deep into the dark, wounding him every step of the way he could find an opportunity, only to abandon him there.

He just left.

Skipped his way from the dark into the light, getting to start over with a clean slate and a shiny new life, with people who all got to be blissfully unaware of the raging hurricane that Dazai had always been in his life, wreaking havoc wherever he happened to touch down, coming back season after season to kick down everything Chuuya had tried to rebuild all over again.

It wasn't fair.

It made him sick.

Only once had someone reached out a hand and offered him a place in the light, back when he wasn't in so deep. Dazai's stupid schemes and games had seen that ruined too before he could entertain more than a passing thought. He'd thought he was so funny back then, when he scribbled down "eat shit" instead of his signature on that plea contract. Just another thing in a long list of regrets he had looking back.

And now that a path of destruction had been carved irreparably through his soul, that jackass got to just skip through life, pretending to be a good person with people who believed it.

Who doted on him. Who fawned and comforted and defended him like this wasn't a man with the blood of hundreds on his hand, who had enjoyed every moment of killing, or at the very least, turned his nose up at it in disregard and without pity, even when the lives lost were his own people.

A man whose eyes dilated with dark glee and excitement at the prospect of torturing people. Of making them hurt and scream and beg, and to give them not an ounce of mercy. To lap up their pain like it was the most delicious treat in the world.

He could walk in the light all he wanted, but he was still a devil.

A deceiver. A fraud. A vile little creature who smiled as he burned down your life.

All while getting to sidle up to his unsuspecting prey to be pitied and held and babied by people who all thought he was wonderful.

That stupid tiger brat. That pompous Book Boy. Even by his own damn sister.

While he stood out in the rain of Dazai's storms, with his skin trembling at the memory of a knife in his back shying away from every touch that might be another strike when his guard was down, drenched wet and pointed at as the bad guy.

What a sick fucking joke.

His head tipped back until it rested against the wall behind him, taking another deep drag until his lungs were so full he almost choked, breathing out another grand cloud.

Whatever.

He had always been everyone's boogeyman even when he was small. An angry, vengeful monster that could level cities in a blink, that even the people closest to him were afraid of.

Whose only real purpose was to bare his fangs at everything else that scared them, and he could never even do that right.

His throat tightened for a moment and breathing came out with a shake, cursing under his breath at the water that collected in the corners of his eyes, reaching up with a free hand to wipe it away with the pad of his gloved thumb.

He forced himself to take a few deep, calming breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

His cigarette hand trembled. Anger, probably. Something else, maybe.

It didn't matter.

It wasn't fair. But it didn't matter.

He glanced down at the nose that bumped against his thigh, resting his cigarette on his lips to free up his hand so he could pet over Ango's jaw and massage one of the dog's ears between his fingers, the akita leaning more into his leg. He was warm, and soft, and managed to draw a deflating sigh from him.

He sunk back against the wall behind his shoulders, letting it hold up his weight right now, even if the cold stone lacked any desperately desired warmth, humming a low tune under his breath.

(When you're drowning in the water, think to yourself) ("You're lucky to be alive, and see this life through these eyes" ��)

It wasn't fair, but he'd keep pushing through like always, no matter if it hurt or not. That's what he always did, and it had carried him this far. He'd already had plenty of chances to quit. It would have been as easy once as speaking a small little phrase to just lay down and give up, make all that pain go away, to erase all his problems, but fuck that.

He'd rather be everyone's monster, battered and bloody, than be anything like that stupid suicidal fuckhead.

But he was still everyone's monster in the end, wasn't he? Even when faced against someone like shitty Dazai. For the Port Mafia - for the Boss - that was never an issue. There, he could be pointed in any direction and lay waste to anyone Mori commanded.

There, he was praised for what he was underlying it all: a glorious, devastating weapon. He wasn't expected to be anything else. No one asked him to soften himself for their comfort and sensibilities.

But a weapon had no place when things were quiet, and calm, and there was no fighting to be had. At least not so far as anyone else concerned themselves with.

(Can't you see that something has to change before it's too late? ♪) (Or you'll suffer the wrath of the storm that you create ♪)

When he'd stepped out, it had taken no more than seconds. Things had gone back to the calm everyone else desired, and that he couldn't be satisfied with.

Not with him there, getting to cozy up to whoever he wanted with all the feigned innocence of a house cat and get whatever he wanted, unguarded and completely unafraid of a coaxing hand hiding a blade in the dark, being cooed over by literally everyone within sight.

He dropped the stub of his cigarette and crushed it under-heel.

Somehow, there, he was the problem, and Dazai was their faultless little Golden Boy. Like he always fucking was, everywhere he went.

Dark, light, it didn't matter. People flocked to the bastard like flies to honey and treated him like he was the best god damn thing to ever happen to them.

Gods, was he the only fucking person that saw right through him for what he really was?

He gave a low growl in his throat, petting Ango's ears a few more times as he pushed off the wall and went back inside, working his jaw.

Once again, like always, Dazai gets everything he wants, while complicating everything for him.

Whatever. If that was who made them happy, they could keep him, and he'd be sure to stay out of their way.

See if he cared.

[hirazuki]

Me, harmlessly doing fic research: :)

Tolkien Wiki: Eol had "servants similar to himself."

Me: ......................... okay, I know this almost certainly means similar in demeanor (published Silm says "silent and secret as their master") but I'm a slut for the former thrall version of Eol's backstory, so what if we take it to mean that they were other escaped thralls of Angband?

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

What if, whether through genuine escape (a rare occurrence) or by Melkor intentionally letting them "escape" to sow distrust and discontent among their kind with their mere presence, even if they do not prove to be his spies, they find their way back to their original lands and homes, only to be shunned and persecuted, just as Melkor had forethought?

(^ which is canon, the text actually goes into it but for the life of me I can't remember where, right now).

What if, through endless wandering thereafter, trying to find a place where they can reside, their footsteps lead a few of them past Nan Elmoth?

What if the primordial night of the world that was, which still resides in this isolated stretch of woods, nestled in safety and secrecy among the roots of ancient trees hidden away from the sun, calls out to them, offering refuge from the sunlight to them, too?

What if Eol, travelling back from the deep mansions of the dwarves in the Blue Mountains, chances upon them: lost in the forest, tangled in the enchantment that had been laid on it in the twilight of Middle Earth when all was young, and that lingers still?

What if, in looking upon them, he immediately recognizes the marks of thralldom -- the scarring, the burning, the bowed backs; misshapen or missing limbs; hollow stares and cracking skin, of a degree more severe than his own, that cannot conveniently be explained away as a result of smithwork, that make it impossible to eke out an existence in even the mildest of conventional society -- and decides to take them in?

What if, quietly, word somehow spreads -- borne by beast or trickling stream or on the chill of northern wind -- that there is a place for the survivors of Angband in the sunless woods, and more start to appear; sometimes in twos, rarely in threes, but mostly alone, ragged and haunted and fever-eyed?

What if Eol, who had been ill at ease within the Girdle and fled from it -- choking, strangling thing that it is -- right into the hungry, snatching all too inviting embrace of this lightless forest, a recluse and his forge, nothing more than a fading echo of the twilit world, suddenly finds he has near-silent footsteps in his hall and low voices in his kitchen and the space that seemed superfluous for a single occupant is now, altogether, not enough?

What if, with every expansion of his abode, his anger at the Noldor for what they brought upon this land -- initially a dim, philosophical thing, that snarled when prodded but, all in all, rather easily fell back into slumber -- also magnifies, until it produces fangs and claws that won't retract, and, in growing large, grows sleepless, too?

What if, with every arrival seeking a position in his service -- Avari, skin shining with sweat, hunted from within and without; Sindar, who can no longer recall the play of starlight upon leaves; even a Noldo, whose shattered eyes render them more alike than not -- his fury grows blacker, unchecked in his isolation from all else, until it matches the shadows that swallow the forest floor?

What if, with every soul he saves from the ravages of daylight, he forfeits a piece of his own?

WHAT IF