#anyways the brain worms are eating good tonight

[sux2be]

taking my heart out and stomping into the ground dont you dare get another friend crush. dont fucking do it.

[loveshotzz]

My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight

steve harrington x eddie’sbestfriend!reader

Melt With You

summary: A cancelled movie night, Steve’s first high, and a realization you weren’t expecting.

wc: 2.7k

warnings: my blog is 18+ but this will be pretty safe for work. takes place in 1988 when Elvira Mistress of the Dark came out. post season four but no mention of the upside down, fem!reader, mentions of weed smoking, mentions of being stoned and being high for the first time, mutual pining, cuddling.

A/N: first I want to dedicate this to @bewilderedbunny for pointing out that Steve Harrington is Bob coded which made me fall even more in love with him. You can also thank @dr-aculaaa for putting this brain worm in my head where it spiraled and then she entertained it again and it spiraled some more. p.s. I know her movie macabre was cancelled in 86 but brought back in the 90’s but let’s pretend.

mini series masterlist -> chapter two 🎃

Steve was close. Too close.

His thigh is warm pressed against yours, long legs spread wide taking up most of the room on the couch. The cedar that clings to the threads of his maroon sweater mix with the old spice that he’s almost sprayed too much of, and you’re surprised at how much you actually like it. You blame it on the joint you both shared, and you do it again when his socked foot touches yours from under the blanket draped across your laps and your heart rate kicks up a few beats. This was just Steve, your new friend. Eddie’s new unlikely friend.

The living room in your apartment is dimly lit in a mess of Halloween colored string lights strung up along your walls that Eddie helped you hang up last week on the first official day of fall. They fill the small space in bursts of warm orange pumpkins and tiny purple bats while Elvira Mistress of The Dark glows from the screen of your TV in front of your couch. The couch where Steve is still sitting too close. 

The flicker of your candles dances across your walls and you’re tempted to blow them all out when they keep catching the corner of your eye. Maybe that's why you can't focus on the movie you were so excited about. The movie you raised a big fuss over when the group canceled your weekly night in favor of dates and work. The movie Steve still offered to watch with you saying he had no plans anyway. You really contemplate it when you realize it’s filling your living room with the kind of smell that’s eerily similar to the one embedded in the leather of the BMW you recently started getting more rides in.

When Steve laughs you can smell the berry on his breath from the Red Vines he can’t stop eating, his fingertips glisten from the half finished tub of popcorn on the coffee table. His arm brushes the length of yours when he leans forward to toss the almost empty pack of candy with the rest of the snacks and your stare immediately finds the sliver of tan skin revealed to you when the maroon hem rides up. Stomach flipping when you spot more freckles than the ones that seem to dot the endless expanses of his perpetually sun kissed skin. 

“Wow, she’s funny!” He snickers like he just got a good surprise, leaning back into the cushions. “I didn’t know she was so funny.”

The shift in his weight makes the couch dip, bringing you closer to him. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Why is your chest tight?

Turning your head, you meet his blood shot, heavy lidded gaze and lazy smile that pushes up his pink cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve Harrington so content. So relaxed. It might have something to do with the fact that the joint you both shared was his first.

“Beauty, humor and brains? How could you go wrong?” You grin and it makes the amber in his eyes light up.

“Yeah,” He stares at you for a second longer than he’d have the guts to on a normal day before adding with a sigh “tell me about it.”

There was something different about the way he was looking at you tonight, and it makes your palms sweat. The fly away honey strands that stick out wildly by his ears look softer than normal too. Why do you want to find out? Clearing your throat, he raises his eyebrows up at you in an unphased offering of his attention.

“How are you doing big boy? You coughed quite a bit earlier.” His gaze narrows at the nickname letting you know that Steve was still very much in there.

“I think it’s perfectly normal for someone who hasn’t smoked before to cough when they take an accidental big hit,” he challenges, his sock covered toes finding yours again seemingly on their own, “and to answer your rudely asked question, I’m having a very nice time.”

He tries to keep his face straight but the smile that stretches a mile wide across yours makes him snort, the whites of his perfect teeth blinding in the dark when you wiggle your feet with his. 

“Good, I wouldn’t want Robin to come hunt me down or something.” You giggle leaning back letting your own high relax you into the couch.

Your eyes find Elvira’s generous cleavage on the screen as you try to ignore the feeling of Steve’s hand touching yours when he scratches his thigh and again when he leaves it there. 

“Robin won’t care, it’s Nance you gotta worry about. Worry wart Wheeler.” The nickname rolls off his tongue too easily and makes you both stop, letting the sounds of the towns committee trying to get Elvira out fill the silence before you both fall into a fit of laughter.

It was the kind of laughter that left hot tears streaming down your faces as you leaned even further into each other trying to catch your breath, only for one of you to mutter ‘worry wart wheeler’ when the other would finally be holding it together just to start all over again. By the time it was done, and the last few chuckles subsided, his head had found a new home on your shoulder with his forehead buried in the crook of your neck. 

The smell of his hairspray, and the soft flyaways you’d wondered about tickle your nose with his hair pressed to your cheek. Your socked feet stay tangled together as you try not to think about the size difference and that stupid saying you’d heard in middle school, and you definitely try not to think about how the tip of his pinky bumps into the side of your hand and how you don’t hesitate to hook it with yours.

Cozy. Too Cozy.

There’s a comfortable silence that falls between you both when your attention is finally brought back to the movie and you wonder if he’s having the same existential crisis as you at how good this feels. Eddie would never let you live it down. You and the hair?! Steve’s amused hum breaks you out of your train of thought and you already know you’ll have to watch this again when you aren’t so…distracted. 

Elvira and Bob are fighting with a monster she accidentally concocted inside of a pot instead of the casserole she was trying to make, and his finger tightens around yours when Bob almost loses the fight before he shakes against you with a chuckle. The longer the movie goes on, the more you start noticing Steve’s similarities to the hunk who stole the Mistress of the Dark’s affections, mumbling an ‘oh my god’.

God dammit, you have a crush on Steve Harrington.

The weed makes the realization floor you more than it probably would on a normal day, because you aren’t blind, anyone could tell you how handsome the former king of Hawkins is. But no one could have warned you about how soft he is, especially right now with sleepy eyes and messy hair that smells like pine and too much hair product. They wouldn’t be able to tell you how big of a dweeb he is, or as Robin affectionately calls him a ‘dingus’. They also don’t know how good of a friend he is to anyone who’s lucky to have him, like refusing to let you spend the night alone and watching a movie he knew you were excited about just because he’d actually listened when you talked about it for weeks, even saving you the first copy in Keith’s possession. 

Too bad you’ve barely retained any of it. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, you feel the slight turn of his head and the heavy weight of his stare on the side of your face. You try not to give yourself away and keep your gaze locked on the TV where the town has Elvira ready to be burned at the stake, and Bob has to rescue her. You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, the universe just rubbing it in now. 

The side of your body he’s been leaning against starts to go numb, and no matter how much you want to stay exactly like this for whatever is left of the night, the need for circulation becomes too much. Your eyes flick down to his that haven’t haven’t wavered and that slow happy smile spreads across his pink lips when they meet. 

“You doing okay, honey.” The nickname he’s called you sarcastically in arguments sounds different when it’s wrapped in affection like this. 

“Not that I’m not enjoying -,” nerves make your throat close up and you have to clear them out before you finish, “not that I’m not enjoying this. My arm is just kind of going numb.”

Heat rises to your cheeks with embarrassment that you know is misplaced, and his eyes go wide when your words click. His reaction is fast despite the smoked joint that's snuffed out in an empty coke can on the table when he pulls away. The warmth of his body that’s invaded what feels like every inch of yours for the last hour is gone and the tightness in your chest worsens now that you miss it. Stupid crush. Stupid blood flow. 

“Oh my god, sorry, sorry, I was just so comfortable I wasn’t even thinking.” There’s stress in his tone that you haven’t heard all night and you decide that you hate it, he’s always stressed.

“Hey,” Your fingers curl around his bicep, and it flexes under the thick material of his sweater when his eyes meet yours, making you forget how to speak for a moment, “if we lay down on our sides we’ll - we’ll be more comfortable?” 

Your heart beats loud in your ears after you throw out your suggestion fully knowing there’s gotta be less than twenty minutes left of the movie at most. 

“Yeah, we can do that, like, big spoon?” He points to himself, with eyes as red as his cheeks before pointing to you with a small grin, “little spoon?”

You bite your bottom lip to contain the smile that threatens to break across your face, and it only makes his grow. 

“Yeah, just like that Harrington.” You giggle and you don’t miss the kind of glint in his eyes that sparkles because of it.

“Harrington? I thought I was big boy?” He mocks with fake offense, clumsily clambering back onto the couch letting himself fully extend.

His socked feet almost hang off the armrest but the problem is quickly solved when he turns onto his side leaving just enough room for you. One of his big hands patting the cushions in an invitation that makes you both laugh. 

“I thought you hated that nickname?” you tease, butterflies that never existed before erupting when he watches you with soft eyes climb into the spot next to him.

Your head lands in the crook of his elbow, amber and spice enveloping you while one of his long fingers curl around your hip not hesitating to pull you flush against his chest like he missed you. Maybe you weren’t the only one with a wandering mind tonight. 

“I don’t,” he agrees, lips coming up right next to your ear and you wonder if he can feel the shiver that runs down your spine, “but I kinda like it when you say it.”

Your body curls into him when you giggle with a throb in your core that makes your thighs press together. Steve chuckles, hooking his chin over your shoulder and his feet find yours at the end of the couch like they did under the blanket. Grabbing the throw off the floor, you drape it back over the two of you when you both finally get situated. 

He feels like he’s everywhere and it’s even harder to concentrate like this, especially when all his fingers are laced with yours now. The pad of his thumb rubs circles on the top of your hand, and you can feel the way his cheeks push up into a grin every time something makes him laugh. You spend the last bit of what’s left of the movie tangled up with him like this, and neither one of you try to move when the credits roll or when the screen goes black. 

The air buzzes with the kind of tension that’s laid dormant until there’s nothing to distract you from it anymore in the new silence. His breath fans hot across your neck while the strokes of his thumb get slower, adding a little more pressure to the muscle there, and feels good enough to have your eyes flutter closed. 

Maybe it’s the darkness of your living room, or the way the tip of his nose starts to trace the shell of your ear but you get the surge of confidence you need to turn around and face him. Steve doesn’t protest at all, letting you move with the kind of ease that makes you wonder if he was waiting for it all along. The small smile on his face tells you he absolutely was.

The new angle has you looking up at him from under your lashes, while his hand that held yours all night covers the middle of your back bringing you to his chest, getting you just as close as before. Your legs slot together while warm lights flicker across his face, they bounce and reflect off the lingering glaze that coats his eyes. Embers burning in a mossy ground. 

It starts to feel like Steve Harrington wants to kiss you, and you’d be lying if your said you didn’t want him too.

“Hi” You whisper, the corners of your lips pulling up because they can’t help it when he looks at you like this.

“Hi” the rich honey of his voice comes out low as he dips his head down to rest on his forearm right above yours.

The tips of your noses are dangerously close to touching, and you swear you hear his breath hitch when your feet find his again. Holding his gaze, you silently dare him to read your mind so you don’t have to say it out loud. You do it first.

“I had a lot of fun tonight.” You try not to think about how it sounds like something you’d say at the end of a date.

“Me too, I’m uh -“ a puff of hot air fans across your face when he laughs, and you notice his first sign of nerves all night, “I’m glad I didn’t make a fool of myself or anything.” 

“I have to say I’m impressed, you handled your first joint like a pro.” Your hands dare to run up his chest, plucking a piece of lint from the threads of his sweater. You feel the way the muscles in his stomach flex for you, and you have to bite back your smirk.

“I had good company is all.” He hums, the blunt ends of his nails scratching along the dip of your back, before whispering “Is this okay?”

Your eyes flutter shut with contentment you haven’t felt in a while, your whole body melting into his with a mumbled ‘mmmhm’

“Does Elvira have any other movies we could watch sometime?” His question makes your eyes pop open, and he tries to look as nonchalant as possible before adding, “you know just me and you.”

“Not a movie, per say but she has a show I like to watch where she does funny commentary on B rated horror films.” Your two feet trap one of his between them playfully to try and ease the nerves he shouldn’t have, earning you that megawatt smile that’s made half the ladies in Hawkins swoon. 

So, Steve Harrington wasn’t a mind reader.

“That sounds like fun,” He lets out a relieved sigh that you didn’t know he was holding, close enough now for your noses to touch.

“Yeah? You wanna come have fun with me?” You tease, but it comes out sounding like a double entendre that makes your skin heat up, especially when Steve closes his eyes and groans. The nails that scratch your back freeze as he tries regaining some semblance of self control. Licking his lips, he exhales a breath out of his nose before he speaks,

“Abso-“

His answer gets cut off by the sound of your front door slamming open, followed by the bellowing voice of the only other person who has keys to your apartment.

“I’ve come for boobies and I brought beer! Better late than never am I ri- Whoa, whoa, WHOA, what is going on here?” Eddie’s shock is quickly replaced by amusement, dimples poking deep holes in his cheeks when he grins wildly as he takes in the two of you on the couch.

What was going on here?

[charkyzombicorn]

Funny one shot idea

After the event of ennies long/water 7

Luffy and the rest of the crew were more clingy with Robin and usopp

This is one of the most sickening fluff bits I've ever written

The walls were higher on the Thousand Sunny, and the mens' quarters were wide and tidy in a way only new things were, and Usopp couldn't tell which bunk was his anymore. He still had the tacky star blanket he bought in Alabasta because he didn't know somewhere so hot could get so cold at night, and it was stained with charcoal and ripped near the bottom but it fit perfectly in Merry because she was made of inexperienced craftsmanship and shoddy repairs. He felt like he was bringing something ugly in, putting his worn old blanket over the clean white sheets. He felt like he was visiting, like he shouldn't track mud in or mess up anything enough to be comfortable.

Then the door slammed open hard enough the sniper jumped. "Usopp!" Luffy hollered as if Usopp weren't a meter away. "You dissapeared!"

Usopp had been gone for less than two minutes. "Well I had to check the bunks for dream eels, someone had to."

Luffy looked over at the bunk in wonder. "Can you eat them?"

"You can but they dig a hole into your skull and eat your brains so maybe don't." Usopp spread his blanket over one of the bunks decisively.

Luffy chuckled. "Maybe not. But come on! I'll ask Sanji to cook the eels later!" He said, snagging Usopp's wrist in his rubbery grasp and dragging him away before he could fret about his blanket again. Usopp didn't even bother protesting.

Half the crew was out on the grass-covered deck, Robin bracketed on one side by Nami and the other by Franky, Chopper in her lap. She looked tired, but happy all the same. It was good, she seemed more comfortable than she did on the Merry. Maybe the tall walls suited her better.

Luffy offered a very exaggerated wave to the group on deck as he pulled Usopp along. "I'm back! Usopp told me there were worms in my bed that ate brains."

"Oh, the poor things are starving then." Nami teased before the group chucked a little.

Luffy laughed along. "Yeah!" He paused. "Hey."

Robin, the only one who didn't laugh, but was still smiling ear to ear, spoke up. "Did you let Zoro and Sanji in on our little plan yet, Captain?"

"Ah - I got distracted when Usopp dissapeared. C'mon Usopp!" The sniper was then dragged away, left to question what the 'plan' was.

Usopp didn't have time to revel in the new, huge kitchen when Luffy burst in. "Sanji! Food!" Luffy said automatically.

Sanji shot the captain a look, but then his features softened when he saw Usopp. "Fine, fine. What do you want?"

Luffy hummed. "The bugs Usopp found in the bunks!" He declared, and that was almost nothing like Usopp's original lie, but the confidence almost convinced the king of liars himself.

Sanji didn't appear to react safe for his face going ghost pale. "Bugs. In the bunks."

"YUP! Nami said they were hungry!"

Sanji turned back to the stove. "I see. I'll take watch tonight." He said, an unmistakable tremble in his voice.

Usopp didn't laugh but it was a very near thing. "Don't you worry, your trusted sniper Usopp blew all those bugs away!" He said. "You should have seen them, eight feet tall, human hands, wearing clothes even! They told me they were the devil's ocean woodmites, they threatened to bite the ship in two before I hit them with a fire star and blew them to smitherines!" He watched Sanji relax the more fantastical his story got, until he was humming along with the details as if it were a completely logical thing.

Luffy was enraptured, he always was, it made Usopp feel some type of way.

"Anyway!" Luffy yelled, and Zoro snorted from where he was probably sleeping - this room was too big, he didn't even know Zoro was napping in here. "We're camping on the deck to crispen the Sunny! And because Nami won't let me sleepover in the girls' room with Usopp."

Sanji squinted at Usopp as if this wasn't the first he was hearing of it too. "Christen. And tell Nami swan she's a queen for setting boundaries and coming up with such an amazing idea." He said shortly. "I'll be out with dinner in half an hour. Take the mosshead with you, he's poisoning my nice new kitchen with his man stink."

Luffy mock-saluted, marching over to the table and dragging their star swordsman out from under it. Zoro didn't wake up because of this, so Luffy just dragged him back to the door. A few distinct thunks of a head hitting a doorway and they were back on the deck. The sky was getting darker.

"You think Franky brought firewood?" Usopp asked.

Luffy hummed. "Dunno."

They made it back to the group on the deck and Luffy dragged Zoro over before sitting down, dragging Usopp down with him until he and Zoro were almost bracketing Usopp the same way Robin was being bracketed, all in a tiny circle. It was nice - Usopp might not belong in the big rooms or on the clean sheets, but he belonged here, or at least he wanted to belong here. He would work hard to keep belonging here.

Nami started talking, idle chatter she always shared with Usopp, but now there was an undercurrent of relief from her. It made guilt curdle in Usopp's throat, but he swallowed it.

Soon enough Sanji came in with a feast he could barely balance, and Robin gave him several hands, and they shared a picnic while the sky went from blue to orange.

After that, they all went back to their quarters to grab every spare blanket and pillow to make the world's biggest fort before Franky got the gas fire pit working - which inspired the fort to be dismantled so everyone could set up bedding close to the fire before it got too dark.

Robin fell asleep first, so Chopper and Nami fell asleep next to her. Luffy bullied Usopp into sharing his tacky star blanket, and Usopp fell asleep listening to the ocean and various snores.

[realmackross]

PARTIES: @nightmaretist, @realmackross TIMING: Afternoon, September 9th. SUMMARY: Inge experiences her first unhinged zombie after coming across Mackenzie, who is enjoying a treat. WARNINGS: Unsanitary tw, gore tw, murder tw, death tw PREVIOUS THREADS:  1 - 2 - 3 - Current.

Mackenzie was covered in blood and other substances that one didn’t need specifics on. The only thing anyone needed to worry about was that she was in town and ready for one hell of a party. And with a non-existent brain, she dragged her feet through the heart of Wicked’s Rest in broad daylight looking for something more to eat.

The fight she had previously been in with earlier in the day Emilio had proved to be a bit of a challenge and though Mack had been injured in the battle, the wounds were already slowly starting to stitch themselves up as she looked for more food to eat.

Coming across a car with a man and a woman sitting in it, the young zombie began beating on the driver’s side window with her fists as hard as she could cracking the glass and cutting her hands, but before Mackenzie had been able to pull the driver of the car out, they had sped off down the road screaming in terror.

As Mackenzie moved forward, she laid eyes on an unsavory looking man up to no good. But in her eyes, all she saw was food. Stalking him for about a mile, she finally managed to get close enough to him and with a grunt shoved him down before dropping down on top of him where she began tearing off his flesh with her teeth; his screams going unnoticed by the sounds of music playing from The Wormhole.

—

It was dark and dreary out, as it tended to be at night in the Worm Row. Inge was drifting through the astral, peeking into the Wormhole, wondering if tonight the place might be worth her time before deciding against it — instead, she continued on. She had half a mind to go to the casino, now that she was in the neighborhood anyway. The other half of her mind was thinking of Jeane, how she’d not visited her regular in a while to lull her into a sense of safety before returning.

Wicked’s Rest, despite being a small town, had plenty of things to offer a bored woman floating through a different dimension, looking in. She was hardly paying attention any more when she let herself reappear on the earthly plane. The Row was handy in that regard: it had plenty of dark corners. 

Her heeled boots clicked against the pavement as she moved, intending to walk towards the casino — but she stopped in her tracks at a strange sound. Inge might not have heightened senses (besides, of course, that nifty night vision), but the sounds of suffering were familiar to her. And besides, this was hard to ignore.

Glowing eyes took in the sight, a young blonde eating a man, with bare teeth. Mouth fell slightly open, though not quite of fear — it was rather surprise. Intrigue, even. Inge had met a few zombies before, though she’d never seen them in action. Still, she held a certain level of reverence for her fellow undead. And so instead of continuing her journey to the casino she found herself moving forward, unable to take her eyes off the sight.

—

Mackenzie hadn’t noticed the woman coming up behind her. She had been too focused on her gazillionth meal for the day, but he sure was tasty! With fervency, she started at his shoulder and worked her way downwards. Each piece of him was a delight, and she wanted to make sure she cleared the area before moving to the next piece. Though the brain was always the best part, that was for last, because of the effort it took to get the skull open.

Moving on from the bits and pieces of his now torn shoulder, Mack ignored his screams and with immense strength managed to hold him down to the ground with ease. It was a stray brick hitting her on the side of the head repeatedly with surprisingly strong blows that angered her. And instead of continuing where she was at, she crawled across his torso and began pulling at his arm, until she ripped it off of his body.

The brick immediately dropped out of the independent limb’s grasp, and instead of eating it, Mackenzie began beating the man with it as hard as she could until the screams finally stopped and she could resume eating.

—

Murder wasn’t the most interesting thing to Inge. There had been a few lives taken by her hands (in self defense, and one time by overfeeding – though they had luckily stayed dead), but her interest lay more with fear and terror than it did with ending lives. Still, she wasn’t particularly opposed or bothered by it, especially when done in a gruesome matter like this. Who was she, if not an artist always looking for inspiration?

So she watched, a sound escaping her at the sight of the zombie ripping the arm clean off the body in response to the brick hitting her head. Was it a sound of horror or glee? She’d have you believe it was the latter, but it could be interpreted as either. She had a strength that Inge found intriguing, a determination that was not just fatal but cruel. 

The screams ceased and it was, in a sense, a relief. She flexed her fingers, assessing how she felt about the fact that she had just seen someone die. Inge searched and searched and found little, which could be worrying but was just … fact, at the end of the day. She moved closer, her heels on the ground now relatively louder with the man’s screams gone.

—

Dropping the arm, she’d go back for it later, Mackenzie resumed eating where she had originally intended before getting smacked upside the head over and over with a brick. Grimey digits digging into the meat and muscle of the man, she yanked and ripped and pulled enjoying all the human body had to offer. Never had a zombie been more satisfied. The binge she was on had kept her strength up and even though she had just been bludgeoned with a brick, it didn’t matter, because she had seemed to be healing much faster than normal. Innately, she had loved the power she held. The satisfaction of the meals that the Flats had continually gifted her. It was like nothing else mattered. No one else mattered, and she was content going on like this forever. An addiction to something she had no control over at all.

As she finished off his torso, Mackenzie picked the arm back up and started to gnaw the meat off of it. It was a bit flabby, which had been much easier for her to chew, but had made a nice means to an end, when she had needed something earlier. However, without his screams she had been able to hear slightly better and with wide empty eyes, her gaze shot around to find someone moving towards her.

Mackenzie turned her whole body, shifting into an awkward and decrepit looking position to get a better look at her admirer all while continuing to chew on the man’s stray wing. This woman wasn’t going to keep her from consuming the food in her hand, but there was something about her that was drawing Mack’s attention, and with the popping and cracking of her form, the young zombie was soon back to her feet making breathy, eerie sounds of curiosity.

—

She seemed almost possessed, this girl. So driven by her hunger that proper etiquette had been thrown out of the window, that she was ripping apart a man out in the open – even if it was in Worm Row – and eating him. It was bad praxis, risky with all the hunters that seemed out and about in this town. She was so obviously not human, so clearly something supernatural and predatory — Inge wondered if she should try and be a good undead neighbor and try to snap her out of it. But she was transfixed herself, disgust and intrigue mixing dangerously. With her ability to make any scary thing happen in someone’s dream, there was little left that stirred her.

This? Well, it was a sight worth remembering. But when the zombie’s attention turned to her, blonde and blood covered face rotating into her direction, she halted. Inge didn’t know a ton about zombies, but she figured they were probably stronger than mares. Considering the other had ripped off someone’s arm just moments ago, it seemed at least very plausible. She remained standing, frozen, wondering what this would come to as her red, glowing gaze continued to be fixed onto the other.

And then she raised. With noise, bones clicking. Inge took a step back, but that was all, watching the young thing gnaw on the arm. “Don’t want any trouble,” she said, wondering if this really was a zombie. The ones she’d met at Dance Macabre were a lot more … sentient. “And didn’t mean to intrude, either.” Her hands remained splayed at her side, dangling without threat.

—

Mackenzie finished sucking the meat off the fingers of the arm, but instead of dropping it, she dragged it alongside her, like a small child carrying a toy. Her interest was piqued, and she wanted to know - rather taste more of the woman who was now talking to her. But in her current state, she couldn’t understand words. The only thing she knew how to do was defend herself and eat, but sometimes even a good game of chase made her “happy”, if that was even the right word.

Letting out a hiss from her throat, the young zombie continued to inch closer. Her movements came in a sort of zigzag with no real desire to go straight. Her bare feet, having lost her shoes sometime after leaving the Flats, dragged against the pavement making a scuffled noise while gravel, glass, and any other shards on the ground dug deep down into her rotting flesh. But Mackenzie couldn’t feel it, so it didn’t matter.

As she moved in closer, she let go of the arm she had been so attached to, and stretched out her own, reaching and wanting to feel the person standing in front of her. Mackenzie wanted to sink her claws deep into the woman’s skin and rip and tear and yank out anything she could grip. Then, without any regard, shove it into her mouth and savor each bite. The life of a zombie had been simple - stalk, kill, eat - and that’s certainly what she had aimed to do. It didn’t matter what you were or how you identified yourself, in her unbiased eyes, everyone was all the same. A meal waiting to be devoured.

— 

She wasn’t afraid. This was a sentiment that often echoed through Inge: her reluctance to be fearful of what she saw in front of her — but in this case it was true, in all of the ways. She didn’t fear her fellow undead, as there was no feeding off each other. There were no nightmares for her to devour, just as there was no blood in her system for vampires or proper human meat on her bones for zombies. They all existed as creatures of consumption, but they could not use one another as sources of said consumption.

It was, perhaps, why she preferred to befriend her fellow undead. That, and the fact that they wouldn’t die on her of old age. So Inge watched, her morbid curiosity exactly that. Some humans took to the internet for these sorts of things, but she found that dull and uninspiring. Here, the blood on the pavement was real. Shiny. Metallic. The way the other dragged her feet, moving with pure yet dulled instinct … where else would you find this?

She kept coming closer. Inge thought, for a moment, to recognize the other, but she didn’t try to figure out where she knew her from. That could come later. As the arm thudded against the ground, she took careful mental note of the sound, the way it flopped. Every detail was remembered, filed away to be potentially used later, on one of her sleepers. She looked at the way those blood stained arms reached for her, “You won’t enjoy how I taste,” she said, taking two more steps back but remaining there, her red eyes wide.

—

With her meal not moving, Mackenzie edged closer and closer until she was there. Right at her fellow undead, but in her demented state of being, she couldn’t surmise that, like the zombie herself, was a part of the undead. Instead, she found herself within arms length and without any hesitation she reached out to grab the woman. Her cold dead and dirty hands met with skin that was equally as cold. She just couldn’t tell it due to her lack of being able to physically feel anything, especially in this state. 

All Mackenzie saw in this moment of time was another potential meal. Of course, when she finally did decide to lean in, she was going to be in for a rude awakening. It hadn’t been the first time she had dealt with a mare, but she was in a completely different state of mind. And even though she lacked knowledge of the supernatural, with a functioning and properly working brain she could tell there was something different about Mateo, especially when he just popped off into the shadows; which had annoyed her to no end. But currently, she was as dumb as a box of rocks.

Without hesitating any longer, Mackenzie bared her teeth and bit down into the arm of the mare. But what she found was a strong distaste for it. It was like chewing rotten leather. Normally anything with maggots she had enjoyed, but this was not pleasurable. Biting down again, she tried to find pleasure in her meal, but just couldn’t. It was like pulling the skin off of a five day old rotisserie chicken. Dry, hard, and nearly impossible to choke down without it getting caught. This was not the meal Mackenzie had expected.

—

She should have been more careful. This was a recurring theme in her life, of course — Inge forgetting the way even she had to practice some type of caution in situations like these. The zombie was surprisingly quick suddenly, ignoring her words and warning. Before she could jump away to evade her grasp, those undead hands were on her and there was no way for her to slip into the astral or the shadows that surrounded her. Like any other non-mare, she was bound to the place she was in — no longer able to rely on her ability to technically teleport. 

Something washed over her that she refused to call fear and so called it panic instead. “I won’t taste good,” she shrieked, trying to tug her body out of the other’s grasp by placing her hands against her shoulders and pushing. Inge lacked any kind of supernatural strength, and even by human standards she wasn’t very strong. 

And so before she could do anything the other was moving like a creature of great hunger, sinking teeth into her skin, breaking through it. Inge let out a sound, then a scream, her nails digging into the other as she tried to push her, limbs scrambling. “Stop! Stop!” But the zombie bit down again, glitter trickling down and dusting the floor beneath the pair like freshly falling snow. There were no nutrients in her body for the undead thing, but that seemed to not stop her, nor did her sounds of pain. Inge wondered if her own arm would be ripped off next. “Please, it’s — I’m not — stop!” 

—

The woman’s squirming made no difference to Mackenzie. With her grip tight, she accepted that this meal wouldn’t be the absolute best, but that was okay. It was still something to chew on. Something to make her teeth stop hurting from eating everything from deer husk to dirt and rocks. If it was there for the taking, it was Mackenzie’s. But jeez this lady’s scream was shrill. Even it made the zombie stop chewing for a moment and look up with her head cocked to the side and her empty eyes wide. But just as quickly as Mackenzie had looked up, she was back to her meal, going in for another bite and ripping at the hide of the mare.

One thing Mackenzie hadn’t realized in her demented state though was the trail of destruction she was already leaving behind her. If she survived this, there were going to be countless numbers of people she was probably going to have to face. Brody was going to be the least of her worries. But with no self-control and unable to think logically, she was screwing herself over a little more with each passing blow she offered to those who had been in her vicinity.

Without letting go, Mackenzie began moving in closer and working her way up the mare’s arm headed for her shoulder, and then one of her favorite parts, the neck. Of course if she could get to the brain, that would be chef’s kiss, but it took the most effort, and until she had built her strength up a little more for cracking skulls, she would keep enjoying the gray jerky of Inge’s arm.

—

Sometimes Inge wondered about the biology of mares. There was something strange about them, wasn’t there? No blood coursed through their veins, instead there was strange glitter — what did that mean for the rest of her biology? There were bones that could break, that she had learned the hard way, but what of her organs? Muscles? Her interest in biology was lacking, but she wondered it again now, as the zombie ripped open her skin, sinking her teeth into her muscles.

She needed her blood, even if it was glitter. Needed her muscles, no matter what they were made of. And no matter what it was that she was built out of these days, she felt pain the same way her human self once had — and so the sounds of pain continued to instinctively leave her mouth. Glitter smeared and drizzled, getting over the blonde as she moved up and up, inching for Inge’s neck.

This was bad news, but it also meant she regained some of the control over her arm with the zombie’s teeth no longer buried in her upper arm. Gritting her teeth and letting out a scream that was half-shout, she tried to gain some momentum by swaying back, then pushing at the other with both arms. There were tears of pain in her eyes, but adrenaline fueled her movements as an elbow connected with the other’s jaw, one of her feet kicking at the other. Inge had once taken self-defense classes, had once worked on her fighting technique — but all that was forgotten now. Any hit she could get in would do, anything to get the zombie off of her so she could run off into a different dimension.

—

Mackenzie hadn’t noticed the glitter coming out of the mare’s veins until she had raised back up and caught a glimmer of something in the light. To any normal creature, the feeling of small specks of whatever on your tongue would alert you that you were feasting on something not quite right, but for the zombie, it was just another day and another meal - until that particular gleam.

Letting out a breathy noise that sounded like something of confusion, Mack looked down and saw all kinds of sparkles. It was distracting. At least for the time being; her one active brain cell currently occupied by curiosity rather than hunger. And in that brief moment it had given the other woman all she needed to send a firm hit to the jaw of the zombie, breaking it and sending it sideways while the kick left Mackenzie stumbling backwards.

Moans escaped her crooked mouth as it was stuck in an uncomfortable position. Mackenzie probably couldn’t feed on skin, muscle, and bone if she couldn’t close her mouth, but there was a lack of panic as she started to move forward again with the goal of snatching up the rest of her glittery meal. She could make the grinding of bone on bone work if need be, but first she’d need to catch the other woman again, and this time, instead of taking her sweet time, she’d go straight for the mare’s brain - something softer and more nutritious anyways.

—

It worked, against all expectation. Inge managed to get the zombie off of her, making her stumble back and away from her. There was a small moment there, in the time of separation where she made herself glance down at her arm. A flesh wound, deep and gorey stared back at her, all glittery and a complete, ugly mess. 

She had been hurt aplenty before, her body marred with scars put there by a handful of different hunters. But she’d never seen something like this on herself and though she enjoyed ugliness, grit and violence, she despised it on herself. Inge looked away, staring back at the zombie with wide eyes who seemed fixated, focused on one thing and one thing alone. Getting those teeth back into her flesh.

No way.

The last thing she did on the earthly plane was press her hand against her shoulder, fingers dirtied with her own non-blood. Inge gave one look at the zombie and before she could get her grubby, bloodied hands on her again she was gone, popping into the astral dimension where the blonde zombie could not and would not reach her. Where she had to scramble, but could do it without a fellow undead creature wanting to eat her brains. Where she could figure out where to go next because this time, she did need help.

—

Setting her sights back on the mare, Mackenzie started to inch forward again. She was determined to reach the woman and resume her feast, glitter and all. And with a forward motion, the zombie lunged at her fellow undead only to stumble forward and crash hard to the ground face first with her meal vanishing into thin air.

Smacking the pavement with her face, Mackenzie felt her jaw pop back into place. One problem was solved, but with nothing to eat now, it seemed like a waste. Groaning, she slowly dragged her arms forward and used her strength to push herself off the ground to find her footing.

With hisses and groans, the young zombie looked around for the mare still confused by everything. All she had wanted was to finish off what she had started, and with what sounded like a sigh, she began to shamble forward searching for something to satisfy her appetite since her fellow undead clearly hadn’t been the answer. It would take Mackenzie the rest of the day, aside from some smaller animals, but as light faded into darkness, the zombie found the bright lights of a grocery store that was open late, calling her name.

[ais-for-alex]

It’s Not Fair

Hi hello, so I wrote most of this little story quite awhile ago and never finished it but today reading over it I just felt the need to give it an ending (it’s not the best ending but it’s an ending) anyway, I hope y’all enjoy a little short story about Leo experiencing anxiety 🥰 as always these characters belong to the lovely @lumosinlove

It’s not fair.

The thought wound its way into Leo's mind, twisting and sliding into every nook and cranny of his brain as easily as a serpent sliding through marshy river reeds.

It’s not fair.

Leo sighed and rolled his shoulders out hoping to relieve the coil of tension that had tightened in his muscles. The day had started so good too. He had woken that morning to the feeling of Logan pressing soft butterfly kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his neck, Leo’s face pulled into a sleepy smile as he blinked his eyes open taking in the sight of Logan’s bright eyes and atrocious bed head.

“Good morning baby,” he mumbled, voice scratchy from sleep. Logan grinned back and leaned in, catching Leo’s mouth in a slow chaste kiss.

“Bonjour mon amour,” Logan whispered back against his lips. Leo didn’t want to move even an inch, because right there in their bed with Finn snuggled into his chest snoring softly and Logan’s lips warm and plush against his own, that was his favorite place in the world.

Everything had been going smoothly, practice had been hard but good, his day perfectly ordinary in every way. So why?

Why on earth did he feel this way? Why had his heart began beating fast as hummingbird wings? Why were earthworms burrowing and churning through soil in his stomach? Why did invisible ants scurry across his skin raising goosebumps in their wake?

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that out of the blue Leo’s entire mood could flip, that his happiness could sour and curdle with unfounded anxiety. It wasn’t fair that the good could turn so very bad without so much as a warning.

Oh, boo hoo, who ever said life was fair? Leo shook his head, trying not to listen to the stupid mean thoughts in his head. Get over yourself, your little discomforts don’t matter. Suck it up.

Leo breathed in deep, trying in vain to settle the uncomfortable squirming inside him. After he had gotten home from practice Leo retreated out onto their little balcony, the cool evening air felt nice against his skin. The coarse wicker of his chair bit at his legs, through the thick denim of his jeans; the sharp pricks simultaneously felt very far away but also somewhat comforting, grounding him in the world around him. Leo’s eyes were locked onto the Gryffindor skyline but they had long since glazed over blurring the buildings into one gray streak across his vision, smudged pink clouds just above it.

Distantly he heard the glass door slide open and Finn’s soft voice, “Hey Nutter Butter, Lo was wanting take out tonight. Any strong opinions on Thai?”

Leo opened his mouth to answer, his eyes still staring blankly into the distance, but he couldn’t seem to get enough breath into his lungs to form the words. Each inhale making his chest tighter and tighter until Leo wished he could take a knife and cut himself open just to relieve the pressure.

“Leo?” Finn asked, concerned as he stepped out onto the balcony, coming a bit closer. Finn must have recognized the glassy vacant look on his face because he let out a sympathetic sigh, “Oh, sweetheart.”

Settling down onto his knees so they were at the same eye level, Finn pressed his palms against Leo’s thighs smoothing them up and down the tense muscle soothingly. They had been through this enough times for Finn to know that when he was lost and hurting, Leo craved nothing more than the contact. The warmth of his partner's hands on him more comforting than anything else.

“Come here baby,” Finn whispered, his hand rising to cup the back of Leo’s neck and gently pull him into his shoulder. Leo could feel his fingers thread into his hair as Finn pressed a kiss to his temple, “It’s ok my love, everything’s gonna be ok,” he murmured.

“Guys? You decide what you want for dinner? Cause I am not above ordering without-“Logan said walking out onto the balcony only to cut off his sentence when he saw the tender way Finn was holding Leo.

“What happened?” Logan asked, concern bleeding into his voice as he came to sit on the arm of that wicker chair, his hand settling warm and heavy on Leo’s back.

“I don’t- I-“ Leo tried, somehow his mouth unable to even form the simple phrase I don’t know.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that at random everything could be stripped away leaving Leo raw as an exposed nerve.

“Oh, mon amour,” Logan sighed, sad and sympathetic, “shhh, it’s ok you don’t have to answer.”

Leo’s breathing was as shaky as his trembling body, he let himself lean into their touch until his back was pressed to Logan’s thigh, face still buried in Finn's shoulder. The position was awkward, but Leo honestly couldn’t have cared less all he could think about was the warmth of their hands soaking into him. All he could think was how he desperately wished their touch could burn away the feeling inside him.

But sadly no matter how much he wished their love alone was enough, that wasn’t how life worked. But despite the fact that Finn and Logan couldn’t fix him Leo was still so incredibly grateful for their support, their love.

And in the moments when it felt like he was locked in a grave buried alive under cool dry earth. With tangled tree roots trying to twist and burrow through his body, absorb the nutrients of his life, they were the ones that made Leo want to dig himself out. They were the ones that made him want to claw his way back to the surface rather than surrender himself to the worms.

Leo didn’t know how long they sat with him, just letting him draw strength from their stability while the cool evening air washed over them. He didn’t know if his shaking was from the cold or the anxiety but then again he didn’t really care.

Eventually, Finn and Logan guided him back inside their home; they wrapped him in warm blankets and held him close until the trembling subsided.

“How you doing, Love?” Finn finally asked once Leo’s body seemed to have relaxed a bit. They were laid together on the couch Leo wrapped up tight and curled into Finn's chest. He soothingly ran his hands up and down Leo’s body and pressed a kiss to the little fluff of hair that was visible from inside his blanket cocoon.

“M’ok,” Leo whispered, his voice a bit rough from the raging forest fire of emotions that had burned hit inside him.

“Yeah?” he asked softly, worry clear in his voice, Leo just nodded.

“You hungry? You haven’t eaten since this morning, it might help to get something in your system.” Leo shrugged and snuggled in closer, tucking his face into Finn's shoulder.

“You just wanna stay here laying on me?” Leo nodded once more making Finn huff a soft laugh and kiss his head again.

“Alright baby, how about this: Lolo will get food, you can stay here and when he gets back if you don’t want to eat you’ll have some food for tomorrow. That sound ok?”

Leo tightened his hold around Finn and mumbled a quiet, “love you.”

And though the words were muffled by the blankets wrapped around him Finn heard, “I love you too Le, I always will.”

Read on ao3

[rosy-cheekx]

Alone Again, Naturally

Three times Martin should have called for help.

(I twisted my ankle on Sunday and was bummed bc I missed my partner so…this happened…oops.)

-

1.

Martin’s phone was missing, though he was pretty sure he knew where it was. That thing, that wormy, writhing mass of a woman had it. Destroyed it. His only chance of rescue from this nightmare. Replaying the image of dropping the phone, abandoning it as he ran, would do him no good. His coworkers hadn’t noticed he was missing, or if they had noticed, they hadn’t stopped by. And they shouldn't, of course, it would only put them in danger. But still, it stung a bit, to know that he’d been gone for what, three days now? and no one cared.

He could become a statement from this, Martin realized, his death narrated in Jon’s smooth, clipped voice, and then they would finally learn what happened to that large, oafish researcher who was transferred to the archives with them and disappeared overnight.

Martin sighed through his nose noisily, as if he could expel the dark thoughts with the sound. “Christ, Blackwood. Getting awful morbid there.” Talking to himself had become a staple of his isolation. For one, it drowned out the ever-present knocking on the door and the squelching rustle of the worms. He honestly wasn’t sure whether the sounds were still real or if they had become such a constant that his brain just filled them in anyways.

His voice was the only other sound available to him with his computer not working and his phone gone. His clock radio had played static on every channel, and he had been grateful for the white noise at first. But the longer Martin left the radio on, the sound began to morph from the hissing of dead air to a choir, indecipherable and haunting. There were no words and yet he could understand the message: come home to us. We need you, we miss you, let us show you how much we love you. With us, you’ll never feel lonely again, we promise. Martin had come to, hand on the doorknob to his flat, radio in hand. After that, he had removed all the batteries from anything that could make noise. Since then, he could only trust his own voice; everything else was a trap.

The can opener, unfortunately, had been electric too. He had been so proud of his purchase, a real attempt at adult cooking. (He never seemed to use the manual ones and could never get the grip right.) With the power out, assumedly caused by Prentiss, he had to get creative when it came to “making dinner.” For Martin, this meant sawing open a tin can with a serrated knife, eating it with a fork, and praying no metal shavings were lurking in each mouthful. Tonight’s feast: another can of tinned green beans and the last can of pineapple. He didn’t even like green beans, why had he ever bought these?

Martin gritted himself against the awful sound of metal on metal as he cut into a tin of beans, hissing sharply through his teeth and letting his mind wander. Maybe he could strain the beans? Let them dry? It would probably be better than the wet and soggy mush he was bound to find. Maybe he could put some crackers on them for a crunch? Pretend it’s a bad soup? As he was finishing his indelicate surgery, Martin tipped the can into the sink a little, hoping to strain the bean juice and improve the meal even a little. As he removed the last of the lid, he saw it.

There, in the sink, wiggling its way out of the drain. Another worm. Martin shrieked and jumped back, dropping the can in the sink with a clatter. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and began to stuff them down the sink, plugging up the drain as best he could. For extra measure, he plugged the faucet as well, suddenly terrified of accidentally swallowing one in a glass of water. Once the adrenaline rush had passed, Martin felt it: a stinging in his palm. They must have jumped at him, must have bitten him. It would be over soon, he knew it. He would be like Prentiss, a mass of tiny bodies. He braced himself to feel something, but nothing changed. Martin frowned, chewing on his lip in confusion, and hazarded a glance down to his hand. There was no worm in his palm, nothing wriggling and biting deep into his muscle, just a slice along the flesh of his thumb, dripping blood from where he must have cut himself on the tin can.

Sheepishly, Martin rolled his eyes at his defeatism. Did it hurt like hell? Yes. But he wasn’t going to become a worm monster. Not today. Grabbing a few more sheets of paper towel, Martin hissed in pain as he pressed them to his wound, making his way shakily to the paltry first-aid kit he kept in his bathroom. He was clumsy in his wound care, only able to use one hand to open the kit and the individually wrapped plasters, while the other pooled blood in his palm uselessly. The antiseptic had stung like hell and the plaster was off-center, but eventually, the job was done. Martin had managed.

“See?” He asked himself softly. “All better. We didn’t want the green beans anyways.” Martin was alone, but he would be fine. He could take care of himself.

——

2.

Martin’s phone had become less and less useful since his time in the Archives. Sasha and Tim had been distant in the end, their group texts dwindling into occasional messages regarding whether not someone had contacted so-and-so regarding their statement. He and Jon had called and texted quite a bit, before the Unknowing, when Jon had been in China, America, and wherever else Gertrude’s breadcrumbs had led him. But since the explosion, their messages lay at a standstill, a “good luck! come home safe :)” still waiting to be sent to “Jonathan Sims--Boss.” He used to call his mother every week, but the outgoing calls had dwindled as she returned less and less of them, until he received an apologetic voicemail from Steady Waters Care Home a few months ago.

Now, the only messages he received were his work emails and an occasional text from Peter with a request or two regarding The Magnus Institute. Not even spam calls reached him anymore. That was all fine by Martin. He was busy running the institute; he didn’t have time for social calls, even if he wanted any, which he didn’t. Martin had taken to leaving his phone in his work office, knowing he wouldn’t need it outside the building anyways. It was becoming something like a desktop mouse to him in its versatility.

It was a Thursday, and it was late--Martin’s watch read 11:09. Thursdays were Martin’s days to deliver paperwork to the archives. He could only ever do it at night when he was sure Jon had either gone home (or was asleep at his desk at the very least). Peter Lukas had been working Martin to the bone with all the paperwork he would hand off with a wave of his hand and an “I’ll be back next week Martin. Please don’t call me,” and this week’s stack of statement requests, financial approvals, and quarterly reviews would fall to Martin instead. Who knew running a front for feeding an all-seeing eldritch deity would require so many business expenses?

Martin. Martin knew. He had reviewed and approved each and every one.

It was the week after Halloween, so the list of those eager to give a statement was longer than usual. Hellweek, Tim used to call it, a grin on his face as Jon would frown and shake his head. The stack of folders Martin carried in his arms eclipsed his eyesight as he carefully made his way down the hall, the Lonely silencing his footsteps and the shuffle of his clothing. The elevator was broken this week, thanks to a visit from one of the Fairchilds. Martin clumsily opened the door to the stairwell, turning to the side slightly to see the steps that descended into the basement he knew so well. Cautiously, he began his way down the stairs, arms clutching the stack of paperwork and binders tight to his chest. The basement was eerily silent; even Martin’s muted steps echoed in his ears.

The door to the Archives creaked slightly, and Martin realized his mistake: he hadn’t propped the door. The thin streak of light that painted his way down the steps thinned and faded in time with the slow squeak of the door. The click of the latch sealed his fate: Martin was in the dark. He didn’t mind the dark, in principle, though his new awareness of the Fears heightened his concern considerably. He stepped down slowly, feeling for the steps with his foot as he went.

Halfway down the stairs, Martin heard a soft flutter as a few papers shifted in his stack. He hoisted the pile and tried to readjust it as he stepped once more. The combination of the changes in the balance of the papers and his weight combined were too much for his brain to process at once and he overcompensated on his step, putting his weight down a little too early. Martin felt the rush of adrenaline as he tried to catch himself, hands clutching uselessly at the paperwork in his hands as if it could save him and he felt himself tumble to the ground. Falling sideways, he hit his shoulder hard on the steps, momentum carrying him down the remaining steps to the floor. The loose papers not held in binders and folders scattered in what Martin was sure was every direction.

Martin was frozen on the floor, pain pulsing through his shoulder. He sat up tentatively, patting himself down as he set down what remained of his stack of folders. He wasn’t bleeding, but his ears were ringing and his arm hurt like hell. Listening carefully for the sound of anyone reacting to his presence, he rotated his shoulders carefully, wincing as throbbing radiated up his arm. He must have dislocated it. Patting his legs down, Martin found his phone in his pocket. He must have forgotten to put it on the charger. He...he could call someone, should call someone. His shoulder was dislocated.

He could call Jon.

He pulled up his text messages, the cursor blinking back at him, blinding in the dark. Jon was surely awake, he knew that man’s sleep schedule was worse than his.

good luck! come home safe :)

safe :)

safe.

“Shit.”

He couldn’t call Jon. It would undo everything he and Peter were trying to build up. It was all for Jon anyways, to keep him safe, to keep them all safe. No. He had to do this alone. It was best that way.

Martin sat himself up carefully. He had taken enough first aid courses (rather, he had watched them for free on the internet) to know how to set it back in place and he knew it would not be pleasant. He drew his right knee up, and clumsily unknotted his tie, using it to secure his arm to his knee. Martin closed his eyes tight and leaned away from his knee, rotating his shoulder as he stretched away, wincing in anticipation until he felt the wet pop of his arm slotting back into place. Sparks shot through his vision, his only grounding point in the dark, and he huffed out a cross between a moan and a curse.

He carefully made a fist with his re-set hand, tensing the muscles in his arm. Determining it to be good enough, Martin felt his way to his feet and grabbed the wall to steady himself. He knew there was a light switch somewhere--ah.

The light clicked on and he winced at the sudden change, letting his eyes adjust behind the safety of his lashes. When he opened his eyes again, he surveyed the mess of his paperwork, gathering it methodically. It took him another half hour, back against Tim’s old desk, to resort his files before setting them in the file basket he had installed on the door to the Archivist’s office, the rest going on the desk of Jon himself. He would see them all in the morning. At least Jon was home, resting.

When Martin emerged from the Archives, he glanced down at his watch, wondering if it was too late to hail a cab. He frowned at his watch; the face was cracked, the hands stuck at 11:11. He must have cracked it in his fall. “Make a wish,” Martin mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. He was pretty sure his wishes were out of reach, hopeless. As long as he would be safe after all this, Martin could sacrifice a few wishes.

——

3.

Martin was on a walk. He had been doing that a lot, since his and Jon’s escape to Scotland. There was something comforting about the long stretches of rolling hills and rocky cliffsides, utterly devoid of menacing fear entities or bosses hellbent on destroying the world. Jon would come with him sometimes, especially in the early days when leaving each other’s presence was challenging to say the least, but Martin sometimes just needed the space. He loved Jon, he knew he did, and Jon did too, but sometimes the presence of another would build up and stifle him, an unbearable heat radiating off of Jon until Martin had to just go for a bit.

It was raining today, a bassy rhythm beating down on Martin’s umbrella as he walked a familiar cliffside path. He could see a rocky beach below him, waves made of roiling ink, more black than blue. The rain was comforting to him, distinguishing this ocean spread before him from the ocean of the Lonely and drowning out any thoughts that passed through Martin’s head. He stepped around a patch especially muddy gravel, glancing down and seeing a ghost of a reflection staring back at him.

Martin had been in a cold place today, withdrawn from the rest of the world. He had felt the fog blossoming over his mind and had known he needed to go for a bit, center himself, remind himself he was real. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither would his sense of self again, though he was making progress. Jon understood that sentiment, perhaps better than anyone else in the world, and had kissed him softly at the doorway, squeezing his hand in an unspoken promise. Martin tensed his own hand in a fist, still feeling the heat of Jon’s calloused palm under his, reveling in the idea that someone loved him the way Jon did, that someone loved him the way Jon did and that Martin loved Jon back. Martin felt his body solidifying under the rain, felt the wind buffet against him rather than pass through him.

Martin was thinking about going home when it happened.

Home, or Daisy’s safehouse, was a humble affair: reinforced windows, minimalist, a few guns hidden in the floorboards, lots of fresh fruits and vegetables from the village down the hill. It had been easy to reassign this place in Martin’s mind as home. He hadn’t felt at home since...well, definitely not since Prentiss. Maybe not before either.

The rain was letting up, and the brolly was forgotten in favor of letting the rain drop down into his hair, sopping his curls and plastering them to his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so content to be in the rain. Things weren’t good, but they were the best they’d been in a while.

The next thing Martin knew he was on the ground, ankle twisted and both shins scraped, blood and dirt mingling on his legs. He tried to stand up and cried out as his ankle immediately gave way, the hope of putting weight on it dashed on the rocks of the beach far below him.

Martin Blackwood crawled to a tree, leaning his back against it, not minding the dirt that was sure to collect on his back and rump. He winced and massaged his ankle, already feeling it begin to swell under his fingertips. With his free hand, a silver scar shining between his forefinger and thumb, he reached for his phone from his jacket pocket, hands shaking as he clumsily dialed the only number in his list of favorites.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice was warm through the tinny speakers. “I hope you’re well.” It was carefully not a question, though Martin caught the notes of careful concern.

“Tch-” Martin sucked air through his teeth. “I fell, Jon. I twisted my ankle, I think? Can’t-ah-can’t walk.”

“Oh. Martin, dear,” Jon’s voice was softer, and Martin could practically see his love’s fingers, itching to do, to fix. “Do you need me to—I can come get you, if you like. I haven’t…I haven't looked. But I can, if you want me to.”

Martin smiled despite himself, hearing Jon’s cautious phrasing. “Please, yes. I’m pretty sure I’m near a picnic park, if you want to drive there and get me? Not sure this is a drivable trail.”

“Did you pass anyone?”

“…no?”

A pause. Martin heard static crackling through the phone. “No one will be there. I Know where you are, Martin. I’ll be there soon.”

Ten minutes and enough ice packs to ease the pain of a full rugby team later, Martin was laying in the back of Jon’s small car, heat blasting on him to dry his now-soaked clothing. There were perks to having an all-knowing partner, it turned out.

Later that evening, Martin was tucked into the couch, his head pleasantly nestled in cushions and his feet in Jon’s lap, who was carefully massaging his feet and ankles, probing for any long-term injuries with his Eyes. A mug of tea grasped between his hands, Martin sighed softly and felt warmth flood his face. He hadn’t been alone this time. He wouldn’t be alone ever again.

[poptod]

Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them to Me), pt. 7, (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Protection.

Notes: idk when i started writing smut so willy nilly but here it is, another fuckening. Pretty big warning though: dubious consent. It’s clearly consensual later on but at first there is no given consent. WC: 6.8k

+

He had yet to leave your side, taking you with him in every which direction as he, in his own words, marketed himself. It was a process that consisted of being charming and making witty jokes; simple things that had people trusting him. You stood mostly silent beside him, wringing your hands, stuck in distant thoughts. If anyone referred to you, you didn't notice.

They did, though––but if anyone asked about you, Ahk would make up a quick explanation, one he knew you wouldn't mind.

Your silence was originally your constant state, traipsing about the palace with a chain keeping you at Ahk's side. Over the short course of time between Amun first awakening and coming to stay with the Persian nomads, he had already grown used to your laughing, the snide comments always on your razor-sharp tongue, and that lively spark that filled your eyes whenever your heart thumped in your chest.

"You're quiet," he murmured as the two of you walked. You gripped reins in your hand, keeping your camel with all your bags beside you.

"I don't... like travelling with people," you said through gritted teeth, side-eyeing a group of whispering friends to your left.

"It's safer, isn't it?"

"For you," you mumbled bitterly.

"Oh, you're above joining in a caravan?" He said with a teasing lilt.

"I am simply experienced in this," you said, sure to speak under your breath, "and I know how to take care of myself."

Due to the size and needs of a caravan such as Mahud's, you would need to stop thrice a day, each time setting up a little bit of a home at the riverside. Inbetween those breaks, your legs ached with a familiar burn. Long walks had been your staple for a long while. Though your long break from the lifestyle had left you a little out of shape, your previous experience allowed you to navigate your way back in without too much trouble.

Ahk was taking the physical exertion overall well, despite his aching hunger. The stops would allow him to eat, a fact he was very happy to learn, going by the massive grin on his face when you pointed it out. At a few points he was partial to complaining, but always ceased if you glared at him.

The next stop for the slow-moving caravan was by an outcropping stream flowing from the Nile and out into the desert, allowing a small oasis to grow further from the river itself. Although there appeared to be no fruits growing on the tall trees, a few men and women took up nets and spears, wading out into the water to look for fish.

Numbness filled up your legs as you collapsed on the ground, leant against your camel who had also drawn to its' knees. Heat had already pooled in your face and in your feet, burning from the long day, and ready for anything to drink.

"Here," Ahk said as he rounded a bush, kneeling beside you in your shady, isolated spot.

He handed a cup to you, filled with hot tea. Not the most satisfying drink, but it was safest, and you dutifully sipped away. As you watched the other travellers Ahk shifted his position, scooting nearer to you and pressing himself to your side. Instantly his heat began to overcrowd your senses.

"Ahk, it's too hot for me to be touching anyone," you said, shifting away with your back to him.

You probably should've expected him to pull you into him and keep you there, which made you feel all the more foolish when he did it anyway and you didn't expect it at all.

"Ahk..." you whined, half suffocated by his arms wrapping tight round your chest, his face buried in the back of your neck.

"Mmm," he hummed as he took all of you in, nuzzling you with his nose. "I am... tired."

"I'd be astounded if you weren't, but you can't sleep. It's still day and we won't stay here long," you said matter-of-factly, pushing his face away from you.

"I'll just keep you here," he decided, his voice muffled through the fabric of your shirt. "Sleep forever."

"Right," you said, rolling your eyes.

You wormed out the moment he loosened his grip, much to his disappointment.

By nightfall the distant murmurs of a city sounded from ahead, blurred with singing crickets and the steady flow of the Nile beside you. Ahk had spent the rest of the day trying to cheer you up, mostly with bad jokes, but the sentiment was nonetheless there. Still, being surrounded by people for the past fourty-six hours had already taken its' toll. You hardly spoke, your chest felt caved in on itself, and your eyes were trained on the ground below you.

The city ahead, while heralding certainly crowded streets and filled taverns, would suffice as a hospice away from people who had come to learn your name. Whispering in your ear, Ahk informed you this was the city Piye had wanted the two of you to stay at for a little while. If things got worse, you'd move further south, and if they got better, you would return north down the nile.

While at first you tried to sneak away without Mahud noticing, Ahk insisted on giving the man a proper good-bye, and backed this up with the fact that you had been lent a camel. You wouldn't be able to take it with, but it was still a nice consideration for the trip to Aswan.

"We'll be stopping here," Ahk said once Mahud's attention was on the two of you. "We're to meet a friend soon."

"Ah, then I wish you safe travels," said Mahud, patting Ahk on the shoulder with a firm hand.

"Thank you. To you and your family as well. Will you be staying here tonight?" Ahk asked as he gestured to the outer markets of the city, filled with traders who came from far away to make their living, and couldn't afford a roof over their heads.

"I believe so. Tomorrow we make our money and head off again."

"Good luck to you then," Ahk said, silently urging you to say your own farewell.

"Good-bye," you said quietly, bowing your head respectfully.

As you entered the outer rim of the city, the first thing you noticed was the quiet. It wasn't all that late––the sun had set only a little while ago, and it always did that much earlier in the day during the colder months. So you kept your footsteps quiet, instructing Ahk to do the same when he didn't pick up on the eerie silence.

With no one around to direct you every which way, you had to rely off what memory you had of Aswan, as little as it was. You had visited several times, but never for very long. Most of the city was still unexplored to you.

The long light of burning torches cast itself upon the street in front of you, approaching from around the house to your right. Instantly you were darting for cover, hiding the whole of your body behind a large barrel, while you watched Ahk look around the corner.

"Ahk, you fucking idiot, get over here," you hissed, the pounding in your heart begging him to listen to you.

He looked over his shoulder, finding you mostly-hidden, and quickly made to do the same. His spot was on the opposite side of the street, guarded by a practical wall of broken-down stalls. Once Ahk was fully secured you slipped back behind the barrel, calming your quickened breath as footsteps passed you by, numbering somewhere in the tens.

Only when you were fully assured that whoever passed you was not coming back, you joined Ahk in the middle of the road and continued onwards.

"Did you get a look at them?" You asked immediately.

"Yes, but... I'm not sure if I actually saw what I saw," he said, his brow furrowed intensely.

"What does that mean?"

"They had these.. heads on them, feathered and beaked, with massive eyes. Fucking jacked, too," he muttered, pausing to check both ways before crossing the next street.

"Like your Gods?" You asked.

"Like Horus," he said with a nod. "What on Earth are they here for?"

"Just guessing right now, but they might have something to do with you."

He took your hand, and after a long while of searching the streets, you found yourself at the step of a tavern whose lights had long gone out. Again, strange; neither of you remarked upon it, but you did turn to each other with dubious eyes. The smell of mead still came from it, not yet soured or rotten.

Ahk took a cautious step forward, reaching for the door and easily pushing it open. Inside there was the expected darkness, surrounding the knocked-down chairs, broken tables, and spilt beer. Both of you stopped, your shadows stretching before you on the wooden floor as you scanned the whole of the abandoned room. The bar, where you were sure there was once an attendant, was left unmanned and covered in shattered cups, sticky with sweetened alcohol.

The door behind you swung shut, making you whip around. Fortunately it was only Ahk letting go of the door, leaving it to join you nearer to the center of the room, where you could try and peer over the counter.

"Um..." you said.

"Good evening," said a voice, accompanied soon by a man popping out from behind the bar. "How may I help you?"

"Uhhh.. what... what, uh, happened here?" Ahk asked, his expression contorted as he glanced around the room.

"Nasty Egyptian soldiers. They've wrecked up the place, and every time I fix it they come back in and ruin it, so I stopped fixing it. The party's upstairs, if that's what you're after," he said with a too-bright grin on his face.

"Really? And they don't notice that you're up there?"

"Well, they are bird brains," the man said as he leant in, though spoke in a much quieter voice.

"Wait, are they the soldiers with the bird heads on them?" Ahk asked as a revelation came to him.

"Yes, sir. Where've you been?"

"Travelling for the last couple days. How long have they been here?"

"About a week or so now," said the man, looking away as he recalled. "Heard they're crawling all over the other cities, too. So you folks want a room?"

"... sure," you said in a quiet, low voice when Ahk failed to answer.

He handed you a wooden coin with a symbol engraved with fire, informing you that the door with the same symbol was yours. There were no locks and he made sure to tell you that, as well. After offering to carry your bags and earning a 'no,' from you, he pointed you up the stairs, and returned to his spot hidden beneath the bar.

"Odd man," Ahk whispered to you as you climbed the steps.

"Ahk!" You scolded, hitting his shoulder. "We're still in earshot."

How the Horus soldiers hadn't managed to find this place was beyond either of you, as the moment you entered the upper floor you were bombarded with the tunes of dancing music, twirling and playing with the veins of each listener. The thick scent of searing meat filled the whole of the room, rivalled only by the scent of sloshed beer. Most of the food and drink came from a single corner, where a large cask of beer had been set up alongside a furnace, where the one manning the food also managed the distribution of drink.

All around you, people sat and stood, dancing in the middle or resting on the sidelines. Every crate and usable chair was taken up, most people taking seats on the floor instead in great groups of public conversation. You instinctively grew closer to Ahk, trying to keep as far away from others as you could, even as he began to wade through the crowd.

"Hey, don't you think it's a little loud in here? Won't the soldiers find us?" Ahk asked a random stranger, who had happened to stand as the two of you passed her by.

"Egyptian soldiers are hardly valued for their intelligence, young man," she said with a knowing chuckle, before continuing on to the bar.

"Told you," you murmured in his ear as you watched her disappear in the crowd.

"Oh, shut up."

After setting away your bags and manually jamming the door, you rejoined the party on the second floor, partaking in what food and drink you could afford. Piye had given you a good deal of money, but you had no way of knowing how many days or months you would have to stretch that amount across. It was better to keep a good eye on your finances, something Ahk didn't know much about, and left in your capable hands. Though, that hardly stopped him from complaining.

"We got more food when we were staying with Mahud," he whined, his cheek squished against your shoulder.

"That's because it didn't cost any money," you said.

"You are a cruel lover."

"I am, but this has nothing to do with that since we are not lovers."

"We're not?"

"No," you stated, leaning your head back against the wall with closed eyes. "We are, at best, accomplices."

There was no ignoring the sudden change in his energy. He grew quiet, as he so rarely did, and hardly moved to breathe.

As he sulked, you took care to remind yourself of what he was capable of––the strange things he'd said to you, even if they weren't entirely harmful, that had set you in a month-long mood of unease.

"You will stay here. Any attempt on your behalf to leave and I will have to punish you. Understand?"

"Then I am a prisoner," you said, your voice hoarse and broken.

"You are what you make yourself," he said in a much more stern tone, looking down at you with knowing, wary eyes. "If it is a prisoner, then so be it. But you will be, throughout all actions and situations, mine."

"I..."

"You belong to me."

He had not relented in his usage of that claim. In times of peace, in political unrest, he had kept you with him. In times of great bounty, of danger and uncertainty, you had not left him once, and you wondered how sick you would've gotten if you were to go back in time and tell your freshly-met self that you would spend the longer half of a year with him.

You supposed that, in the end, you had joined his collection. The only catch was that it cost him everything else in his ownership, including his kingdom. And yet he seemed perfectly content to lean on your side, even if harsh words came before the silence, and to wait till you returned his affections.

As he touched your shoulder, his muscles went lax, letting him fall limp against you. The moment he intook your scent he was gone, hypnotized by his own adoration for you.

Though your mind fell into a quiet stupor, dancers still circled the room in beat with music. For a moment you wondered how they'd react if they found out the Pharaoh was in their midst.

Aswan was a very Egyptian-type city considering it was still within the borders of Nubia. That meant less worker camps, less fear of Egyptian soldiers, and less knowledge on the impact the Pharaoh stressed upon higher up Nubian cities. Keeping that in mind, you assumed they would try to cozy up to him––spend some of his riches, flirt a little––however it was also possible they worshipped Amun and had already heard of Ahk's treason.

Music began to fade from your mind as the faint sound of footsteps sounded from below you, seeping through the cracks in the mud and wood. They appeared more succinctly the closer you listened, and soon you could identify the number, all marching in unison.

"Ahk," you shook him awake, eyes trained intensely on the floor, "we need to get out of here."

"What?" His sleepy face gave way for concern. "What? What's happening?"

"There's soldiers coming," you said, your grip on his arm tightening.

"Well – the man at the front said they come by every now and then. They haven't found the upstairs yet, they probably won't now," he said.

Muffled voices muttered from below the floor. Ahk opened his mouth to speak again, but you quickly silenced him with your hand, carefully tuning back into the conversation beneath you. A loud crash was followed by silence, and that combination had you jumping to your feet.

"What is it?" Ahk asked, much more panicked now that he noticed your own fear.

"They're coming upstairs," you said as you backed up through the crowd, disturbing those you bumped into.

"They're – oh fuck." Ahk's expression dropped. "The soldiers are coming!"

Ahk yelled his warning over the music, certainly loud enough to assure the soldiers that there were, in fact, people up here. Lutes and harps stuttered to a halt, the pounding of footsteps now clear through the walls.

Panic seized the partygoers. People trampled over one another reaching for their belongings casted aside, hurriedly adjusting them back onto their bodies and making for the windows. Like rats they climbed out, writhing over each other into a mass of fabric and limbs, followed eagerly by you and Ahk. Massive backpacks made it so you were the last out and the only two to see the soldiers yourselves.

The pounding door had you stuck in a trance, only able to back up towards the window. As it slammed open, you finally caught sight of the falcon-headed soldiers, their sharpened spears and sharper eyes, staring empty-minded at you as Ahk pulled you out the window.

"This way!" Came a voice from above you.

You and Ahk quickly looked up, finding a young woman offering you a hand from the rooftop. Ahk took no hesitation in grabbing it, allowing her to hoist him upwards. When he reached down to find your hand, he felt nothing, and panic struck his heart like a searing knife. He ducked his head down, watching the room upside down.

Muscled arms wrapped around your chest and face, blocking your mouth from making practically any sounds at all. The only sound you could make was from kicking your legs frantically.

He jumped back to his feet on the roof, spinning round to the woman who had helped him.

"I need a sword," he said in a rush, desperate eyes already begging.

"Um – ask Imar, I believe he has one," she said, pointing to the man who worked at the bar downstairs. Ahk thanked her in a rush and left.

"Imar!" He called as he jumped from one building's roof to another, approaching where most of the party-goers had gathered. "I need a sword, or a weapon of any sort. Crossbow even."

"I've got a sword, but I need it. There's a stock of axes over there. Don't know who they belong to, though, so take at your own discretion," he said. Ahk once more gave his thanks before running off.

The kink in your neck had only gotten worse the more you struggled, spiking pain down your spine and into your skull each time the soldier's golden bands pressed into the side of your neck. Your already travel-worn shoes were now nearly in shreds, pulling and pushing on the rough gravel roads, occasionally cutting the soles of your feet open. Thus far you had not been allowed to speak, one massive arm nearly cutting off your oxygen supply.

Although you couldn't tell for sure where they were dragging you, you assumed it was towards a temple, as the buildings around you slowly grew more complex and well-kept. A temple seemed a proper place where you could be thrown into whatever underworld Amun lived in.

Being a commodity fought over should've scared you more. There was a panic seizing your nerves, but you were numb to the surprise, instead saving your energy till you could outsmart the soldiers.

Squawking interrupted your harsh breathing, crying out from behind the falcon soldier. You opened your eyes to the dark of night, spying through the shadow-filled alleyway a running figure, followed by the heads of soldiers falling from the city's silhouette. It was then you recalled a very important fact––Amun and his soldiers might've been strong, but Ahk held within him a hunger unlike that of the starved. The hunger of the rich––of pigs and cannibals. A hunger that terrified you to your core.

The first soldier in your sight that emerged from the shadow of buildings soon stopped in its' tracks, tumbling down past its' own knees as the falcon head slipped off human shoulders. Your shocked eyes watched intently, darting upwards to see Ahk with a broad axe.

His blade came down on the last remaining soldier walking behind your captor, blood splurting from the veins and splattering on his face. Much of it landed on your foot, leaving a trail of red as you were dragged, legs still shakily kicking.

He held a finger up to his lips, hushing any muffled screams that might've come from you. Whatever he had planned, you let him do what he deemed necessary, and kept quiet to avoid the suspicion of the soldier restraining you. He raised his axe high above his head, as though he were to strike you down. Terror filled your eyes when the blade came screaming down, splitting the soldier's head in two before it could ever reach you, leaving no mark on you but the pouring blood of the falcon head. The grip on you loosened, and as you pushed yourself away the corpse fell to the ground.

Blood and nerves squelched as Ahk tore the weapon out of the skull, a horrible crack resonating in the empty street when the base of the skull finally split. He panted, droplets of blood falling into his open mouth as he turned to you, eyes frozen and wide.

"You alright?" He asked softly, in a tone so out of character from his current state.

"... yeah," you breathed out.

The axe clattered onto the ground, followed shortly by Ahk falling to his knees. From there he crawled the short distance to you, gently wrapping his arms around your middle, and pulling you into his lap. He buried himself in your neck, hid away in your warmth. The blood covering his midsection soaked through your shirt.

"Ahk, we need to leave, you know there's more of them," you said, though you did not cease in stroking his hair.

"I know," he mumbled, pressing himself tighter to you for a moment before releasing. "They didn't hurt you?"

"Nothing but bruises," you huffed. "Let's go."

You kept near the entrance to the tavern as Ahk wandered back inside, checking behind the counters and in the attic for any trace of the fleeing people. From the roof you could hear muttering, though you couldn't see anyone, and you could vaguely make out the words they were saying.

"Are you the one they're looking for?" A woman asked.

"I did anger an Egyptian god, yes," Ahk said with a curt nod.

"Imar!"

The man from the downstairs bar appeared from over the horizon of another tall rooftop. He was drenched in sweat, practically glowing in the dim moonlight.

"Yes?"

"These are the ones they want," she said, gesturing to Ahk.

"Really?" He said as he dusted his hands off. "The hell did you do?"

"I, um, attacked a God in order to save my.. um... Amoke," he answered rather sheepishly.

"You cannot stay here," Imar said firmly.

"I'm sorry, but we have many other people looking for protection. We will not risk them for two people who have private business with whatever kind of God you worship," the woman said.

"I understand. Keep safe. Do you have any ideas on where we could go for the night?"

"Try the old graves up on the hill. They hate desecrating the dead," she said before sending Ahk back off down the stairs.

Footsteps drummed for a moment before the door swung open, revealing the Pharaoh still covered in blood. By now it had dried, leaving much of it to flake off his clothes and skin, now a muddy brown instead of the vibrant red of before.

"Have you ever slept in a grave before?"

"What?"

You had expected him to ask, considering what you heard of the conversation, but you weren't wholly convinced he would actually allow himself to sleep in a tomb.

"A long while ago, I died for a little while. Well, I guess not that long ago. Two or three years. My brother killed me," he began as he started off down the steps, taking you with him as he directed you through the streets, "and I was buried. Piye returned from their banishment shortly after and dug me out of my grave... used their gift to give me life once more."

"... you're really expecting me to believe that?" You asked, almost ready to burst out laughing.

"You saw Amun come to life. There are flowers growing out of your arms. What part of my story is unbelievable to you?"

"Right," you mumbled. "Good point. So... did you sleep in that grave or something?"

"It's complicated, but I was conscious for some time, locked underground. Not Piye's magic. Khonsu's, I believe. Either way, it's not horrid if you have someone with you," he said, patting you on the back with a smile.

"Did you have someone with you?"

His expression fell, the hand on your shoulder going with it.

"I did," he said softly, offering no more than a bittersweet twitch of his smile.

Ahk caught it before you did––the trampling of numbered footsteps, growing steadily louder the closer you came to the upcoming street. You remained within your own thoughts, plagued by questions, and mostly ignorant to the slowing of his pace. Eventually he had to grab your hand, forcing you to hide behind the shadow of a tall building. You opened your mouth to say something, but he set his hand over your mouth, staring at you with an intensity that had terrified you only a little while earlier.

"They're coming," he mouthed in your ear, breath barely passing his lips as he spoke.

Steps grew louder and he pressed himself against you, squishing you to the wall with his chin on your shoulder. Pressure tightened around your chest, constricted your breathing, hastened the beat of your heart as you relied solely on your hearing.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

The clattering of armor, weapons, and shields rang through the marching steps, sending the imagery of shining, sharpened stone and arrows glinting in the moonlight.

"We need to go," he said beneath his breath.

Before you could ask what he meant, his hand encircled your wrist once more, pulling and forcing you down the other side of the alley. Chirps and squawks came from behind, making your pulse rush and swell beneath your skin. They would find you––bird brains though they were, they were still soldiers of a God, with eyes adapted for darkness. They would pull you into their hell and murder your... your Ahk.

Your Ahk.

You arrived back in your body when Ahk turned into an open, empty street, running uphill as he trained his sights on the tomb-filled mountains.

"We're not actually going to stay in a grave, are we?!" You asked as you ran, trying desperately to keep up with the long strides of the former Pharaoh.

"It is our safest bet," he said, tightening his grip on you. You still attempted to squirm out, however fruitless your struggle, and the proceeding panic had you soaked entirely in fear.

He kept you running till your legs burned, till he was fumbling over his own steps, too full of adrenaline to fully control his feet. Pebbles, rocks, and dust filled your sandals, scratching at your skin as it clung to your sweat. Your throat was still too tight to take in enough breath, leaving you part-way wheezing. Soon your own legs began to give way, scraping your knees and palms across rough dirt.

"Come, up," Ahk muttered as he helped you back to your feet, casting wary glances towards the city still ringing with the cries of falcons.

A few more minutes of scrambling up unused paths and you came to the foot of the hill, where the first graves had been set up. The long tunnels led into darkness, to a place you had never been before, where death would paint every wall. Few things in life truly terrified you––death was not among them, but the cruel afterlife of the Egyptians did. The tales you'd heard of the spells necessary to memorize, the weapons, the escorts, the protective magic one needed to have to brave what they called Duat had done that to you.

He didn't take to the first grave you saw, whose door was sealed shut from the outside with rope and wood. In fact he took you past halfway up the hills till he finally found a hole in which to hide, shoving you into the overwhelming darkness, and shutting the door partway.

All that you could hear was the trembling of your own breath, echoing in the empty, dank chamber. Despite the chilling cold the ground beneath you seemed wet, as though it had rained within the earth.

Clicking came from somewhere in front of you. Instinctively you pressed yourself against the wall, surprised to find not a cave wall but a carved granite wall. A flame burst before you as you realized this, revealing the whole of the cave, each wall covered in paintings of life and magic. Hieroglyphs lined every scene, rivalled only by the collection of yellow and white stars painted onto the lapis ceiling.

Your eyes scanned the walls around you and the ceiling, wandering down the pillars and towards the dirt floor. Across from you, Ahk leant his back against the wall, a flicker of light dancing on cloth ripped from his skirt. Now the material covered only the upper half of his thighs, leaving little to your imagination as he drew nearer to you.

"I'm afraid Nubian graves don't quite compare to the luxury of Egyptian graves," he said, setting his hand on your knee and running it up your thigh.

"When will we leave?"

"When our hunger becomes too great."

Ahk might've had good impulse control and lots of self control, but you did not.

"That'll be in days!"

"You're not very patient, are you?"

"Not when I'm stuck in a fucking tomb!"

"Screaming won't do you any favors, Amoke," he reminded you with a quirk of his brow.

Though you hardly had the consciousness of mind to recognize what he was doing, his hands had set to separating your legs, wedging himself inbetween them instead.

"I don't think the volume of my voice has anything to do with our predicament," you said scathingly, crossing your arms and turning away.

"Well, no, but you will hurt your voice. And my ears. This is a small room."

He had a point, but you were adamant in your decision to avoid his gaze. So instead you looked to the floor, your arms still crossed, and a small pout on your lip. Your eyes widened as you felt warmth on your neck, soft and somewhat wet. Ahk was kissing at your neck, one hand dangerously high on the inside of your thigh and the other squeezing your waist, in the middle of a tomb.

"What the hell are you doing?" You asked, beginning to worm in his grasp. The curt movements soon turned to struggle, your heart racing as he simply held you tighter, biting harsher at your neck.

"I could've lost you so easily today," he said softly between the ministrations of his lips.

"Amun almost kidnapped me, too, and you didn't act l –" he bit down and you gasped, "like this."

He simply chuckled and continued.

"I wanted to," he admitted after a moment. "He had no right to do anything to you. I've already lay claim."

"What?"

"You're mine. I found you first." Motions began to grow rougher, hands tightening on you as kisses became hurried and desperate. "My beautiful little toy... I won't let you go, never."

"Ahk, we're in a grave," you said, attempting to pull his hands off you.

In one swoop his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head. The weight of his body still rested between your legs, keeping them apart, and allowing him access to push and grinded himself against you. His strained breathing kept your shuffling feet company, a distraction from the heat welling in your stomach.

"Ahk..."

"You are a most beautiful sight," he murmured against your flushed skin. "Truly fit to be a god yourself."

The fear rushing through your blood was one unfortunately familiar––that same fear when you first met him. When he tied you to his bed for hours. When he stood above you with angered eyes, scanning the whole of your over-exposed body.

"This isn –"

"You told me you didn't love me... do you remember that?"

"... yes," you said, still unable to meet his eyes even as he pulled away to look you in the face.

"Then I suppose I have nothing to lose," he murmured, leaning into gift the softest of kisses, barely gracing the bow of your lip, "as all I want in this realm is your love."

"And what of your kingdom?"

"My kingdom is my duty. I do not enjoy ruling, but it is something I must do for the safety of families who now rely on a government to protect them. You, however..." he trailed off for a moment, biting into his bottom lip with a grin, "... you I enjoy very much."

A quick kiss to your lips and he resumed what he started, letting your entwined hands fall in favor of feeling you. His touch slipped up your shirt, feeling the heat of your skin until it grew too much to bear, and he began untying the knots of your clothes. Once he pulled the fabric off your shoulders, he leant back to pull his own coat off. The space gave you ample time to wriggle out of his weakened grasp, though you barely raised to your feet before he grabbed your ankle, pulling you back down and scuffing you in the process.

You turned onto your back, watching with heavy, quickened breaths as he pulled you to him till your hips met, hands and piercing eyes pinning you into place. For a split second an image flashed before your eyes––rope in his hand, silk beneath you, and a servant watching it happen. You shook your head to clear it away, opening your eyes in time to see him lay you flat on the earth.

"I love you," he murmured with a reverence so deep you could swear there were tears welling in his eyes. The hands on your hips slowly ran up your waist and over your chest, squeezing and teasing your senses. "Beautiful..."

He dipped down, like a hand of God descending from heaven to grasp the unholy that sits beneath. Kisses landed on your sternum, trailing up towards your neck, where his nipping teeth had already left dark marks. Unsure what to do with yourself, you let your hands sit above your head and allowed him to do as he pleased.

"I have waited forever to indulge in you," he said, the heat of his words beneath your jaw.

Your eyes flew open.

Haji warned you about this––or maybe it was Naguib, but he didn't seem to like you all that much. Either way, you recalled a spare bit of information given to you concerning the Pharaoh; he might've originally locked you in the castle to have his heirs. Was this what he was doing? Giving into what he'd first taken you for?

"Will you give me this?" He asked, inches away from your face, your leg kinked up upon his hip.

"What?"

"The easiest form of love," he said through a crack in his voice. From here you could clearly see what you'd spied earlier––tears. "I cannot seem to win your personal love. But I will take anything you give me, and I want this."

"... what?"

He ground his hips into yours, till you could clearly and distinctly feel something hard pressing against you. A soft groan fell from him. Part of you already knew what he meant, but another part was still stunned into stupidity, your wide eyes nothing but empty.

"I need you," he murmured.

Even with all the thoughts in your head, you couldn't manage a single word. Your mouth hung open, gasping when stimulated, but mostly silent with your own confusion. There was an appeal to Ahkmenrah––his beauty, his intelligence, his humor. Quite the array of good traits even without the fact that he held massive amounts of power, or did at one point. Yet you still couldn't let go of what you'd seen him do. It loomed over you like an eclipse, blocking your thoughts and stilling your mind in its' presence.

He didn't have the strength within him to stop himself. He would need your ardent refusal, even though he knew silence was a quiet no, to regain his control. It was a funny thing, seeing him so desperate––a man as composed as him, as aware of himself as him would be remiss to be such a shameful sight.

And it was you.

You driving a Pharaoh to his knees. You taking a man whose very essence was his control over his identity and tearing his image apart. Making him a devil in his people's eyes. You weren't even asking him to ruin himself, to take himself apart just to appeal to you even in the slightest––he was doing that himself. Willingly.

Your chest felt concave upon itself as he continued, numb to the realizations in your head. He pulled off your skirt, the ties in your clothes, till both of you were nude, him still locking your body to the ground. From this angle he could thrust against you, almost fucking your thighs as your wetness grew. Gasps and moans built in your mouth despite your efforts to keep an even expression. He delighted in your own embarrassment, laughing when you squirmed with your eyes shut tight and a hot blush on your face.

"Gods, you are... perfect," he said, devolving into a long, soft moan as the head of his cock began to prod at your entrance.

A rush of excitement––or perhaps just the simpler anticipation––ran through you, and you couldn't stop the sounds that left you as he pushed in. He stretched you, filled you perfectly, and for a moment you wondered if you had been denying yourself a taste of bliss. 

As he kissed you, bitter iron filled your mouth and painted your tongue. At first you wondered if he had bitten too hard (or if you had), but in a short time you realized it was the dried blood, still caked onto his face and body.

Blood passing between your lips. Mingling with your breaths and moans. It became hard to distract yourself with the forceful thrusts of the Pharaoh above you, your mind instead set fierce upon your sense of taste, and the watchful, hooded eyes Ahk looked down on you with.

He soon noticed your sudden daze, and his thrusts slowed down, going deep instead of fast.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly, though he didn't stop his movements entirely.

Your wetness squelched slightly, making you shut your eyes tight with embarrassment, your arms coming to hide your face from sight. Of course, Ahk was having none of that––he took your arms, carefully pinning them to either side of your head.

"A little shy, are you?"

"... this is my first time," you finally mumbled, turning away so you wouldn't have to see his reaction.

"Oh."

He stopped grinding into you. But you couldn't help yourself––you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him back into you and moaning when he was fully sheathed.

"Fuck," he groaned, eyes rolling up into his head. "Perfect little pet."

He pinned you to the floor as he finished, keeping you from scrambling away. There he kept you, warm on his cock, filling you with his seed as you whined helplessly.

Although he made an effort to take care of you, gently stroking your skin and kissing away what marks he made, the whole of the day left you both exhausted, and the bout of 'exercise' certainly hadn't helped. In the end you asked him to stop worrying and simply sleep at your side; he acquiesced, using his arm as a pillow as he faced you.

"Still hate me?" He asked, and though they would've been teasing words out of anyone else's mouth, you found sincerity in his expectant eyes.

"No."

[fancifulwhump]

so, the bad news is, i’ve fallen completely in love with a show about a band full of ghost boys??  julie and the phantoms is such a fun show  ---  the characters are incredible, the music is brilliant, and it has some unexpected whumpy gem moments, too!!   

this idea has been a worm in my brain since the first episode   ;   basically, the band has a habit of eating questionable food from alleys and out of the back of trucks, which comes back to bite them big time.    i figured, there’s no way that’s the first time they’ve ever gotten food poisoning... so, this fic was born.   i really had to get it out of my system, y’all.

if anyone wants more j.atp whump content in the future, i’ll happily provide!

a case of food poisoning  :  reggie, alex, luke, and bobby  /  j.atp   ;    6000+ words     ( nausea, vomiting, emeto )

Things don’t start feeling weird — for Reggie, at least — until they’re all piled into Bobby’s beat-up van, on their way back from a gig.

Those tacos aren’t sitting right. That’s all he can think, because they really haven’t settled since they went down. It’s been an hour since the four of them crowded around that alleyway food truck, shelling out a fraction of their latest pay for the nearest thing that could be called dinner. No one’s accusing street food of being gourmet... but for four kids living on band wages, plus what little Bobby and Alex made from their part-time jobs, it’s a godsend. Cheap, tasty, and usually not poisonous. Who could ask for anything more?

Tacos have always been Reggie’s favorite... but as the van rattles down the road, jostling its occupants with every pothole, he’s starting to regret going in for that second helping. Or the third.

Or, let’s be honest, the fourth. The fourth might’ve done him in.

Still, he shouldn’t be feeling like this. His friends tease him all the time — for such a skinny guy, Reggie can finish a whole pizza by himself, and put away a steak in under five minutes. It’s a talent, really. He’s always been able to eat without having to worry about the consequences — eating itself is its own pleasure, when dinners at home consist of “whatever’s left over” way too frequently. He doesn’t really... get full.

The longer the tacos sit inside of him, though, the heavier he feels. His stomach is tight against his belt, swelling out slightly beneath his dark t-shirt. If unbuttoning his pants were an option, he’d probably do it, just to have some room to breathe. Doing it here isn’t an option, though — not with Luke pressed up next to him, and Bobby and Alex in the front seats. He’d elbow his best friend in the face if he tried, and probably be noticed before then.

Reggie’s just got to grin and bear it... at least, until they get back to the studio.

“Great work tonight, boys,” Luke declares, leaning towards the front of the van. An arm suddenly loops around Reggie’s shoulders. The impact jars him, sending his stomach into a split-second free fall. If Luke notices the uncharacteristic tension in Reggie’s shoulders, he doesn’t let on, doesn’t even look at him. “I can hear record agents knocking on our door already!”

“You mean, the door to Bobby’s garage, where we all basically live?” Alex replies. “Wow, yeah. They’re going to be impressed.”

“Who gave them our address?” Bobby adds from behind the wheel. “They better not show up on Tuesday, my mom hosts crochet club.”

Luke’s shoulders shake; his smile is so bright, it’s practically luminescent in the dark. Reggie gets sucked into it for a moment before catching himself staring. With a thick swallow, he turns his head away. How can Luke have so much energy, when Reggie feels like he’s been hung out to dry? (Maybe off the back of a pick-up truck, and run over a few times for good measure.)

But silence isn’t like him, and of course Luke notices. He sends an elbow into his ribs — not enough to hurt, but an unpleasant gurgle ripples through his full stomach anyways. Reggie can’t help the arm that comes up to cradle his gut, or the way he hunches over, despite that only making the pressure worse. Anyone looking at him could tell something’s off — and with that realization, can’t worry them, can’t be a downer — he turns with a bright, forced grin.

“Just thinking about how on fire we were! Did you see those babes at the front table? They were checking me out the entire show, I’m telling you.”

Luke chuckles. That’s more like him, and it pushes any suspicion firmly off his shoulders. Able to breathe a sigh of relief, Reggie slowly eases himself back. It does feel a little better to be sitting — and looks less weird, too, even when a hand comes up to massage his stomach.

Yeah, he’s definitely bloated. His gut gurgles uncomfortably beneath his palm, loud enough to fill the rest of the car — but with the radio blasting, it’s mostly drowned out.  The longer he sits back, the more the pressure in his stomach increases. He’s gone from feeling full to swollen. Even as he tries to massage the discomfort out, the heavy feeling only gets worse.

They hit another pothole, jostling the car. Reggie lurches forwards. Unwillingly, a loud burp slips past his lips.

“Dude,” Luke exclaims, smacking him on the back.

“Really, Reggie? In my car?” says Bobby from the front.

Blindsided, Reggie shrinks back in his seat, pressing a fist to his lips. His face feels hot. Actually, every part of him feels hot; suddenly, his trademark leather jacket is heavy, oppressive instead of familiar. His t-shirt clings to his skin — when did he start sweating? — and all the added sensation does absolutely nothing to soothe his swollen stomach. There’s no reason to be embarrassed with his friends, his band, but…

Talk about not sitting right. That burp came out of nowhere, taking him from full to queasy.

“Sorry,” Reggie mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. One hand comes up to cup his stomach again — gently this time, just in case. His stomach flips, and he can’t help wincing. It’s useless to put up any mask, no more pretense that he’s feeling fine… anyone who looks his way could definitely tell something’s up.

Thankfully, his friends aren’t looking. Bobby’s focused on the road, while Luke’s busy chattering to the front seats. Alex’s eyes are closed, forehead pressed against the glass window; no matter how the van rattles, it doesn’t jar him. Reggie admires his fortitude, because every time they hit a pothole, his stomach leaps into his throat.

Maybe… maybe something was wrong with those tacos. The thought occurs to him like a revelation — one of those awful ones you don’t really want to consider, so you put off ‘til the last minute, like we have a pop quiz in calculus today, or that mole probably isn’t normal. There’s just no way all this churning in his gut is just from indigestion, though. Unease nags at him, the heady flavor of the tacos still lingering in his mouth. They haven’t ever tasted like that before.

To be fair, it’s street food. What do you expect? Of course it’s going to taste a little gnarly.

But the tacos — just thinking of them makes his stomach lurch. A low gurgle ripples through his core, and Reggie hunches in on himself, both arms around his stomach. By turning towards the window, he’s able to create a barrier between himself and the rest of the car. No one needs to see the way he’s sweating, or clutching his belly like it’s on fire. No one needs to worry about him.

Another burp forces its way up his throat. Reggie swallows it back, leaning his head against the cool glass window, and just tries to rest.

It’s no use. The longer he puts it off, the more the nausea grows. His stomach does cartwheels with every bump in the road. There are a few scary moments where he’s sure he’ll have to shout for Bobby to pull over… but they pass, and Reggie is left a little paler than before, breathing a little heavier.

By the time they pull into Bobby’s driveway, he could almost cry with relief.

Luke is the first one out, smacking Reggie’s shoulder again on the way out the door. Alex follows at a more sedate pace; his energy always lags late at night, but something about the way he’s moving seems weird. Off somehow… careful. Reggie’s so focused on watching Alex’s stiff descent from the car, that he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t moved at all… until a sudden rap on the window startled him.

Bobby’s peering in at him through the dirty glass. Sheepish, Reggie opens the door, and slides out of the van.

As soon as he’s standing, his stomach protests. A wave of nausea rolls through him, serenaded by another angry gurgle. There’s no missing this one, and no distraction from it. Reggie slumps against the van door with a breathless huff; immediately, Bobby’s at his side, gripping his forearm to keep him upright.

“Whoa, dude — you look awful.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Reggie grits out. “You’re gorgeous as ever.”

Actually, Bobby looks… serious. Dead serious, even more than usual. His eyes are pitch black, taking in Reggie from head to toe; when his brows furrow, he looks worried, but not surprised.

“Don’t tell me,” he says. “It’s your stomach?”

If Reggie opens his mouth, he seriously might hurl; his only reply is a stiff nod.

“Shit.” Bobby drags a hand through his hair, then slams it against the driver’s window. Reggie watches, with a distant sort of fascination, as he walks a full circle around the side of the car, shaking his head. “I knew something was up. Those tacos tasted weird from the start.”

“Maybe we should’ve listened to Luke and gone with street dogs.” Reggie lurches, a sudden hiccup surprising him: hastily, he presses a hand over his mouth, avoiding Bobby’s gaze.

“Alex’s stomach was grumbling like crazy in the car — I could hear it over the music. Over Luke.” When Bobby looks back, his lips are pressed in a grim line. “And I’m not feeling so hot either, man.”

“Great,” mutters Reggie, shaking his head. “Just fantastic.”

Figures, they’d all get hit with something gnarly at the same time — Sunset Curve is a brotherhood, after all. Even if that means puking their guts out in the same tiny garage bathroom —

Well, okay, Bobby lives here. He’s got a whole house, and a bathroom all to himself. Lucky dude.

Reggie doesn’t realize he’s started swaying until Bobby’s suddenly right beside him, instead of a few feet away. This close, Reggie can tell his friend’s a shade paler than normal… but it would be easy to write off, with how concerned Bobby looks. Concerned over what? Over him? Reggie tries to straighten up, but a sudden cramp of his stomach convinces him that’s not a good idea.

“Come on, man,” Bobby says quietly. “Let’s get inside. You need to lie down or something.”

“I need to —“ Reggie cuts himself off with a deep, queasy belch. A fist flies to his mouth automatically; he can’t help moaning. “Shit. Sorry, that’s — gross. I feel really gross. Really weird, Bobby.”

“I know, man.” Bobby tucks an arm around his shoulders; Reggie’s grateful, because suddenly, he’s not sure he could walk on his own. As he slumps into his bandmate, Bobby takes on most of his weight without even a murmur. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

They make it into the garage without incident. It’s no surprise to find Luke and Alex already settled in — as settled as Luke can get after a show, anyways. He rides the adrenaline of a great show until the very end, and can never rest until it’s all burnt out. Usually this means finding him passed out somewhere that isn’t the air mattress, and waking up with a crick in his back the next morning… but Luke is Luke, and he never changes.

Alex is curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow; his head lolls, distant gaze focused on a crack in the wall. Luke, on the other hand, is a ball of energy. He hops around the studio on the balls of his feet, deftly avoiding stray wires and lumps in the carpet. He’s got his songbook in one hand, and a guitar pick in the other. 

“That riff in the middle of Get Lost — where’d you even come up with that, Bobby, it was genius! And, and Alex, when the rhythm picked up —“

“I thought I was a little off in the first number.” Even Alex’s voice sounds listless.

“No, man, you were great.” Luke pauses just long enough to rub a hand over his face, bouncing on his heels like a boxer in the ring. When he drags his hand back through his hair, Reggie notices a sheen of sweat on his brow. The garage is actually pretty chilly in mid-January; there’s no good excuse.

Bobby leads him over to the couch, and Reggie practically collapses onto it. When Alex turns, his dull eyes spark to life with alarm. “God, Reg,” he hisses, immediately pressing a hand to his clammy forehead. “You look like a wreck!”

“We’ve got a problem,” Bobby tells him. 

Alex meets his gaze, and understanding dawns. His face falls, eyes going wide.

Reggie can only contribute a hiccup. 

“Oh, come on,” Alex mutters, pulling his pillow tighter against his stomach. “We had to get food out of a shady cart, couldn’t just stop at a diner or something…”

“The cart was, like, right there.”

“Yeah, sitting there suspiciously!”

A loud, long gurgle emanates from Alex’s side of the couch — yeah, okay, Reggie definitely heard that one. He hunches forward, grimacing; whatever color the revelation leant to his face, it just as quickly drains away.

“Boys,” says Luke, suddenly sounding uneasy. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“There’s no point blaming anyone,” Reggie insists, looking between Alex and Bobby. “Except the guy who sold us the tacos, right?”

“I don’t think we can sue, Reg,” says Bobby.

“He shouldn’t be in business selling stuff that’s literally poisoning people,” insists Alex, burying his face in both hands. “We can definitely report him. That’s got to be an option, right?”

“Oh, sure. If we all make it through the night.”

“You guys…” Luke cuts in again, and there’s a tremor to his voice. 

Finally, Reggie looks up — just in time to see the last bit of color drain from Luke’s cheeks. He’s left chalk-white, a stricken look on his face, caught somewhere between uncertainty and fear. Slowly, a hand drifts to his stomach. “Um,” he says, and sways a little. “You guys don’t —“

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. An indescribable sound bursts out of him  —  less a gag, more like choking on his own stomach. Luke lurches forward, a hand clamped to his mouth.

“Shit,” Bobby exclaims, springing to his feet. “Oh, shit!”

Luke stumbles back, waving Bobby off with one hand. The other remains clasped against his lips, holding whatever it can back; for a moment, Luke just sways, eyes squeezing shut as his stomach continues to moan and roil. Each breath comes heavy through his nose; each exhale is perilous. When he finally straightens back up, he’s gone completely colorless, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Ah, man,” he mutters, trembling.

Alex is on his feet now too, and takes a cautious step forward. “Luke,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“I was… a minute ago, I was —“ Luke cuts himself off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth again. He swallows something back, then shakes his head. “I’m okay. Gonna be okay.”

Somehow, this isn’t convincing. Alex hesitates, arm still outstretched. “Are you sure?”

Luke opens his mouth to reply; instead, he lurches forward with a strangled noise, and a rush of vomit spills down his shirt.

“Shit!” Bobby exclaims again, emphasizing each syllable.

Luke’s last wave of energy hits him all at once. Suddenly, he’s sprinting; he clears the coffee table like a track-and-fielder in the Olympics, leaps clean over stacks of boxes and duffle bags, before vanishing into the bathroom. The door slams shut being him.

This doesn’t matter; the walls are like paper here. They can still hear the gagging, the cursing, the whimpers — even without the privilege of seeing it.

“Well,” Alex says, glancing between his remaining bandmates with a grim smile. “Looks like we’re in for a fun night.”

From inside the bathroom, a long moan agrees with him.

----------

It’s around midnight by the time Reggie finally loses his dinner. By then, Bobby has retreated to the privacy of his house. Luke is firmly camped out in the bathroom, with no signs of dragging himself out any time soon. Reggie ends up stumbling outside, on his hands and knees in the patch of dirt behind the old garage building; it’s hardly the classiest place to do it, but he can’t just march up to Bobby’s front door, push past his parents, and hurl all over their new porcelain flooring.

Alex lingers nearby, shivering in the chilly night air. He rubs Reggie’s back through the worst of it, muttering the same soothing platitudes all moms like to whip out when their kids are sick; Reggie murmurs something along those lines around a mouthful of acid, and isn’t surprised when Alex cuffs him in the head.

“If I’m your mom, you were an accident.”

Reggie snorts, scrubbing tear-stained cheeks with his flannel’s sleeve. “Pretty sure I actually was.”

Probably too dark, but Alex doesn’t say so; he just helps Reggie stand, a reassuringly steady presence when Reggie can barely find his own feet. Together, they make their way back inside the garage. From the bathroom, Luke’s suffering is still ringing out in vivid technicolor — Reggie’s learned curses tonight his dad doesn’t even know. Alex’s worried gaze flickers across the studio as another moan rings out; he lowers Reggie onto the couch, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before pulling away.

“I gotta go check on Luke.”

Reggie tracks his friend’s movements across the garage, not missing the way Alex stumbles across his own feet. Now that he’s not supporting anyone else’s weight, it’s obvious what a task it is to carry his own. He’s ghost pale, still shivering despite having come in from the cold, half-shrunken into his baggy hoodie. His brows are drawn tight together, the way they tend to when he’s fighting off a wave of worry… but it’s clearly more than that, given the shadow of queasiness haunting his face. He looks like he’s about to fall over… and if he does, he’s screwed, because Reggie doesn’t have the strength to go over there and pick him up.

“You need to rest, Alex,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn.

Alex glances back at him; there’s no life in his dull eyes, no gleam of fondness or frustration. He only looks exhausted.

“I don’t think any of us are getting much rest tonight,” he replies. When his lips twist, it can barely be called a smile. “Try to get some yourself, Reg. It’ll help.”

To his credit, Reggie tries. He leans back against the couch, letting his eyes drift shut. A low knock rings out, followed by Luke’s answering moan; Alex cracks the door open and mutters something too low for Reggie to hear. There’s quiet for a moment, then the sound of another gag. The bathroom door clicks shut; Reggie doesn’t have the energy to look up to see whether Alex is in or out.

His own stomach, at the very least, doesn’t care. It gives a sudden twist, and a low snarling noise rings out; Reggie can feel it, like his stomach’s tying itself in knots inside of him, just expecting him to deal with it. The pain is another thing — probably the worst thing, if the nausea wasn’t so overwhelming. It comes in waves, but when it comes — well —

He’s left doubled in on himself, breath coming in short gasps as he clutches his stomach with both hands. It’s all he can do to breathe; each cramp spasms through him, making his body distort and gut groan with fury. Reggie groans too, from the agony of it all — and the realization that, even having just ditched the remains of the tacos outside, they're not finished with him yet.

What could he have left to throw up? Jesus, it felt like he was coughing up his soul out there.

“I’m okay, I can walk on my own — geez, Alex, really. Don’t…”

“You think I want to get close to you? You smell like something died.”

Luke’s voice is hoarser than the time he blew it out practicing for the school talent show, but he manages a chuckle anyway. “So you wouldn’t kiss me if I asked?”

Alex snorts too. “Not even if you paid me.”

Reggie can’t see them, but he can imagine Luke’s careful, wobbling steps — the way he holds himself up by stubbornness alone, one arm still looped around his stomach. Alex lingers at his side the way he always does, ready to help the second it’s needed… only when the chair springs creak, and Luke lets out a low sigh, does Alex finally let himself sit down as well.

“That took everything outta me,” Luke mutters, voice muffled by the hands pressed to his face, “Literally. I feel dizzy, man.”

“Drink some water.” 

“No way, my stomach…”

“Luke, you need to. You just hurled up all the water in your body.”

“It’s not gonna stay down.”

“Then it comes up. At least it’s something.”

There’s a long moment of silence before a water bottle crackles in Luke’s unsteady grip. He takes a few shallow gulps before setting it aside; leaning his head back, he brings one hand to his stomach, where it hovers uncertainly for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says, and gives a weak hiccup. “I think — I think we’re good.”

“Okay.” Alex heaves a heavy sigh, and settles back, finally. 

For a little while, there’s only silence. Luke’s allowed his eyes to shut, while Alex has slumped against the side of the chair, head pillowed on his arm. They’re all drifting. Every few minutes, the quiet will be broken by someone’s stomach gurgling, or an uncomfortable huff, but for the most part… no one dares break the tenuous peace that’s settled over the garage.

At least, not until his stomach seizes up with another cramp, and Reggie can’t help whimpering.

Alex stirs. His eyes are glassy, face colorless. “Reg?” he mutters. “What’s — what’s wrong?”

Except it’s far beyond Reggie’s ability to answer at this point; the pain is too great to even try. He just curls in on himself, clawing at his stomach with both hands as if that alone can stop the pain. It convulses once, and he sees red; his entire body is on fire, burning him up from the inside out, and he can’t take it anymore, he really can’t…

“Hurts,” he gasps, and a moan follows when another cramp rips through him. “Hurts so bad…”

Alex stares at him for a long moment, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. At what point it sets in, it's impossible to say… but suddenly he’s pushing himself up on unsteady legs, gripping the side of the chair for balance.

Reggie’s eyes widen at the way he sways. For half a second, his own pain is forgotten. “Alex, you —“

Alex just waves him off. Instead of stumbling towards Reggie, he turns on his heel — making his way back, instead, to the mini-fridge plugged in at the back of the room. Another cramp momentarily blinds Reggie, forcing him to curl back in on himself. He can’t follow Alex’s journey, or even worry whether he’ll make it there in one piece. By the time the pain grows dull again, Alex is shuffling back towards him, a fresh water bottle in hand.

“Dude,” Reggie groans. “I can’t. I’ll die.”

“You have to, Reg.” Alex’s voice is small, between labored breaths. “There’s nothing — nothing in your stomach. It’ll help the pain.”

“You don’t know that, it could make it worse —“

“Reggie.” Alex is right by his side now, bent low to look at him… and his eyes are gentle. Soft in that classic Alex way, the trust me way, the it’s going to be okay, I promise way. He’s always the same — always means so well — and he’d do anything for anybody else, if it just meant they didn’t have to suffer. 

Forget mom; sometimes, Reggie looks at Alex and thinks, “Yeah, this is what a big brother’s supposed to be.” Of course, Alex would know. He has a little sister he’s not even allowed to see anymore, not since his parents kicked him out. That’s got to kill him every day... Reggie can’t even imagine.

One thing’s for sure: he trusts Alex more than anyone else in the world (except the rest of the band).

He’d trust him with his life.

And, as Reggie takes the water bottle with shaking hands, he feels like he’s doing exactly that.

One sip goes down, then another — and he’s so thirsty that Alex has to gently guide the bottle away from his lips after the fourth gulp, reminding him not to overdo it. Reggie answers with a sick burp, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. For a moment they wait, anticipation heavy as a curtain over them both… but nothing happens. The water stays down, and by some miracle, Reggie’s stomach doesn’t cramp up again.

He’s too caught up in his own relief. Reggie doesn’t even notice Alex making his way back across the room — until a sudden noise, a wet gurgle, jars his attention up. 

Alex is braced against the ladder leading up to the loft; he’s stopped there, because he can’t take another step. Head bent, his entire body shudders with a suppressed gag; as he chokes on it, the muscles in his arm strain with the force of holding him up. Something gurgles in his throat again, and he lurches forward, nearly hitting his knees on the concrete floor.

“Oh, man,” Reggie mutters, right before Alex loses it.

All over the floor.

Bobby’s gonna kill them, if the food poisoning doesn’t first.

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

They’re all sick, and they’re tired, and then they’re sick again… the cycle becomes predictable after a while. Reggie can’t say how many hours pass, or exactly how many times he has to sprint for the bathroom — only that he’s exhausted by the time dawn begins to break through the garage windows. 

Maybe Reggie dozes for a while... it’s hard to tell. Getting any rest is its own fever dream, when his stomach’s in knots, sending bolts of pain shooting through him every few minutes. Distantly, he hears himself groaning, feels his arms wrap around his own stomach tighter, but he’s too exhausted to care.

He does feel it when another body settles in beside him — feels it clear as day, when a pressure against his spine forces him to ease back, and a set of hands pawing at his middle breaks his vice grip.

“Easy, Reg,” a very familiar voice murmurs, just over his shoulder. “Try to relax a bit.”

“Hurts...” Reggie manages, before another brutal cramp ricochets through his core, sending him curling in on himself all over again. His companion won’t have it, though. They force him to settle, easing him back against their shoulder... and the next thing Reggie knows, there’s a hand on his stomach, pressing into the worst of the pain.

At first, he groans; then, he sighs. It feels good, better than he dared hope for — finally, pressure against the worst cramps, easing them out before they can ripple through him completely. His stomach gives a wet, angry growl, and he can’t help whimpering as it turns over on itself... but the person at his back hushes him. A hand runs through his sweat-damp hair, trimmed fingernails grazing his scalp, and Reggie’s brain almost whites out at how good the tiny bit of comfort feels.

“You need your strength, okay? So you’ve gotta rest.” A pause, and then, from a distance, “He’s really getting hit hard, guys. I think he might have a fever, too.”

“He ate more than us,” someone else says.

“Man, he looks rough...” That sympathetic tone is definitely Luke.

When he forces his eyes open, after what seems like ages, Reggie finds himself surrounded by familiar faces. Their assessment isn’t really fair — none of the boys are looking great tonight. Luke, curled up on the floor, has slumped against the beanbag chair rather than sitting in it. Wisely, he’s lost his ruined shirt; now he sits hunched forward, both arms around his churning stomach. Every now and then, he’ll wince, and breathe out slowly; when his shoulders jolt with a spare hiccup, he presses his lips together until they turn white. Alex, having commandeered the other chair, looks completely washed out. There’s no color in his face, gone gray like sour milk; he’s got a bucket in his lap, wrapped tightly around it, and though he hiccups every so often, doesn’t seem like he’s had to use it. It takes Reggie a moment to realize that whoever’s got his head cradled in their lap smells like cheap mall cologne, and that the hands are calloused in the exact same places Bobby’s are. A low gurgle emanates from close to his ear, drawing his gaze up. Bobby wears a grimace of discomfort, his face nearly as pale as Alex’s... but when he notices Reggie coherent, he looks down, and smiles.

“Hey, man. How you feeling?”

“N- never better.” Reggie tries to return the gesture, but a curdle of his stomach eagerly contradicts him. 

“You’re gonna be fine, okay?” Bobby’s hand runs through his hair again; Reggie’s eyes flutter without his consent. “We've just got to get through the worst of it.”

“Everybody’s sick…” As his brows slowly draw together, Reggie’s attention flickers around the rest of the group. “How’re you guys doing? Alex…”

Alex shakes his head, muffling a hiccup into his fist. “I’m fine, Reg. Don’t even worry.”

“Yeah, we’re breezing through this.” Luke tried to offer him an “ok” gesture — but another cramp sends him leaning back against the chair, one hand pressing hard against his stomach. His face contorts in pain, and Reggie has to turn away, burying his face against Bobby’s leg.

It takes him a moment to find any kind of humor in this situation at all… but, being Reggie, that’s just his way. His shoulders shake with a weak chuckle. “Guess this is��� the last time we go for street tacos, huh?”

Alex groans. “Not likely. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna keep eating street food until we make it big, or they literally kill us.”

Reggie scoffs. “Food poisoning’s not gonna take us out.”

“Really? Cause I feel like I’m dying.”

“If we were dying, trust me —“ Luke’s stomach gurgles, tensing his entire body up. “We’d know.”

Even something as simple as talking drains him. Reggie lets his eyes drift shut again, relishing the warmth of Bobby’s lap, and the solidness of his presence. It’s great to have Bobby back. Out of all of them, he’s clearly been hit the lightest… thank god someone’s still standing, otherwise they all might really be down for the count.

When his stomach gurgles again, Reggie tenses up. He jolts with a hiccup, then a tiny moan. As his hands curl into fists, ragged fingernails dig into his palms; he relishes the small amount of pain as a distraction from the overwhelming lion’s share.

“My stomach hurts so bad,” he murmurs. Bobby continues to stroke his head, even as Reggie goes progressively more tense. With his next exhale, a splash of something acidic rushes up his throat. He lurches, and tries to swallow it — but it’s in his nose, he can’t breathe, and the next shudder only brings more of it up. A hand clamps over his mouth as he scrambles into a sitting position, but he only makes it halfway. Utterly drained, he collapses sideways once again, falling in Bobby’s lap as his mouth floods with sick.

There’s only time for Bobby to direct him forward. Reggie lurches over his knees, vomit already spilling past his lips. Rather than hit the floor — or worse, Bobby’s shoes — the bucket is there waiting for him. 

As soon as Reggie gets a hold on the bucket, he doubles forward, practically wrapping himself around it. It rips through every muscle, every nerve. Mouthfuls of acid and bile are forced up with every heave, from the deepest part of his stomach. Reggie shudders. He belches up a splash of something nasty, enduring a spare gag as it ripples through him. When he’s finally able to catch his breath, he knows, just knows, every eye is on him.

“I hate this,” he pants, slowly lifting his head. “This is literally — huUurp — the worst.”

“That sure was,” Luke mutters; based on his offended yelp a second later, someone probably threw a water bottle at him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Bobby says again, massaging gentle circles into his back. Alex’s calloused band sweeps across his forehead, brushing back Reggie’s unruly hair. Sweat plasters raven strands to his forehead, but with the gentle pressure of his friend’s hand, a bit of the pain goes with it.

“Yeah,” Alex says after a moment. “He’s definitely got a fever. Should we… be concerned?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby’s voice is hoarse, though that could be from worry or a night spent hurling his guts up — hard to say. “He was keeping water down for a little while, but… if he gets any worse, we might have to take him to the —“

“No hospital!”

It’s the most energy Reggie has had all night, and just about scares the hell out of his friends. His hand suddenly lashes up to grip Bobby’s shoulder in a vice grip; when he lifts his head, his eyes are very wide, very earnest. “Hospital isn’t gonna help. It… costs too much money.”

His parents are already fighting over the bills 24/7 — fighting over everything, fighting over him. The last thing Reggie needs it to give them a reason. He won’t do that, he won’t —

“No hospital,” he says again, and Alex hastily nods.

“Okay, Reg. You got it. No hospitals.”

He’s not sure whether to believe them, when he catches the wary glance Bobby and Alex exchange over his head… but Reggie is eager to chase away the horrible, anxious feeling, in exchange for the warm comfort of moments before. If he could just wrap himself up in that, instead of the thought of his parents screaming at each other over his hospital bed…

Yeah.

He’d like that a lot.

Just… safety, warmth, and quiet.

And maybe some water to wash this taste out of his mouth.

Alex scrambles to oblige him as soon as he asks. Reggie takes a swig, swishes it around in his mouth, and tentatively swallows it. The water settles — for now — which is the best he can ask for.

“I don’t want to be sick again,” he admits quietly, after a long moment of simply… laying there, staring back and forth.

Luke chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. “Join the club.”

“I haven’t puked for a few hours now,” says Bobby. “I think… I might be done?”

Alex’s stomach lets out a loud gurgle, and he groans. “Ooh, I’m not.”

It wasn’t the worst night of his life, and that’s really saying something… but as the morning grows brighter, flooding the garage with sunlight, Reggie sighs and curls into his friend’s lap. Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse.

At least they’re walking through hell holding hands. Whatever Sunset Curve does, they do together… and that includes food poisoning, apparently.

Reggie can live with that, if it means his friends are with him through it all.

(His fever doesn’t break until that afternoon, and Reggie can still taste rancid taco meat a week later. The band takes days to recover completely. If they could say the experience turned them off street food for life, they’d be better off for it.

A few months later, Reggie finishes the last of his hot dog, and has just enough time to think, that definitely tasted funny, before his stomach twists.

Some people really never learn.)

[that-one-newsie]

newsies jatp au part 1!

Part one is here! Let me know anything you’d like to see in future/anything I can improve on/if you want to be added to the tag list As always, reblogs are greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy it! (if anyone has any title ideas please send me an ask I’m rubbish at titles lol)

The Orpheum, Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles – 1995

They’re playing at the Orpheum. They’re playing at the Orpheum. Everything they have done, everything that they have sacrificed all comes down to this moment.

Albert counts them in, and then they’re off.

It’s a great song, Now or Never, and standing on stage with his bandmates and best friends, giving it all that he’s got, Jack’s never been more at home.  Music, he decides, is the reason he lives. (Well, that and teasing Al about the hot tech guy he claims he doesn’t have a crush on).

They finish the song with the bang of the smoke machines and the crackle of mic feedback, drenched from head to toe in sweat. Breathing heavily, Jack looks up, hearing for the first time the cheers of the staff and crew.  In all of the adrenaline he’d forgotten it was the tech rehearsal, but it’s nice to hear their appreciation anyway.

Oh well. At least they know that they can rock everyone’s faces off when they come to see them play.

“Thank you,” Crutchie leans into the mic, “we’re Sunset Curve.” He winks at the girl behind the table, and Jack chuckles, before spinning around to grab a towel.

Their rhythm guitarists, the Delancey brothers, are grinning stupidly from ear to ear.

“Too bad we wasted that on the sound check, that was the tightest we’ve ever played!” Oscar exclaims. Morris nods his head in agreement, still very out of breath from the performance.

“Wait until tonight, man, when this place gets packed with record execs!” Jack is still very much on an adrenaline rush, bouncing around the stage like and excited child, the ribbon on his arm flying around all over the place.

Crutchie moves over and playfully punches Albert on the arm. “Al, you were smoking.”

“Oh, no, I was just warming up. You guys were the ones on fire.” Albert uses his drumsticks to gesture to the other four boys on the stage.

That’s a load of bull and all of them know it. Al’s the best drummer their age in all of LA.

Seeing the look from Crutchie, he relents.

“All right, I was killin’ it.”

Laughing, Cructchie pulls him into a quick hug, which he reluctantly accepts.

Jack’s stomach growls, a painful reminder of the fact that he hasn’t eaten since the morning. He could murder a street dog right now.

Ah, what the hell. They’re about to play their biggest gig yet, might as well treat themselves.

“I’m thinking we fuel up before the show… I’m thinking street dogs.”

This suggestion is met with full agreement from Crutchie and Albert, but Jack notices Morris slipping off towards the girl who was cheering for them earlier, with Oscar in tow.

“Hey, Delanceys, where you going?” He calls after them.

Oscar just looks at him and shrugs, but Morris replies “I’m good.” The next part of his sentence is directed at the girl across the counter: “Vegetarian, I could never hurt an animal.”

Jack scoffs, and licks his finger and shoves it in Morris’ ear. He recoils and Jack feels a sense of triumph. His mind wonders for a minute, and he vaguely hears Crutchie chatting up the girl, who introduces herself as Rose.

“Here’s our demo. And a t-shirt, size beautiful.”

Crutchie heard someone use that line of their girlfriend when they were shopping once, and he’s never really stopped using it. Apparently it works though, because Rose looks impressed.

“Thanks! I’ll make sure not to wipe the tables down with this one.” She says with a small laugh.

Albert butts in, “Good call. Whenever they get wet, they just kinda fall apart in your hands.”

Yeah. That’s a problem that they need to fix if they want to keep selling merch.

Oscar flicks Albert’s cap and slaps Jack on the shoulder. “Don’t you guys have to go and get hot dogs or something?”

“Sure.” Jack swings himself up on the table towards Rose, gesturing at Morris as he does so. “He had a hamburger for lunch.”

Leaving through the side entrance, Jack is immediately hit with the smell and general hubbub of LA. The bright lights blind him for a second after the dimly lit club, and he blinks a few times before walking towards the street with a bounce in his step.

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

Albert makes a face. “The smell of Sunset Boulevard?”

“No,” Jack laughs, shoving him away and kicking up water in a nearby puddle, “what that girl said in there tonight. About our music. It’s like an energy, connecting us with people. They can feel us when we play.”

Crutchie and Albert snigger slightly, and he puts his arms around them and pulls them in by the shoulders.

“I want that connection with everybody.”

Crutchie shifts his weight onto his good leg. “We’re gonna need more t-shirts.”

They laugh and set off down the street, past a queue of fans waiting to get into their show. Jack pulls his hood up over his head, shielding his face, and Albert does likewise with his hat. Crutchie, ever the sweetheart, takes the two t-shirts he was holding and passes them to the girls at the back of the line with a quick smile. The squeals follow them down the street until they’re out of view of the club and into the back alley nearby, where the street dogs are sold.

Jack has to admit that the vendor is probably breaking a ton of health and safety laws, especially as he serves the condiments out of the boot of his car with all of the grease and dirt, but the food is good and he doesn’t mind that much.

A quick sizzling sound and curse breaks into his thought as Albert drops pickle juice on the battery cables.

“Man,” Al muses, “I can’t wait to until we eat somewhere where the condiments aren’t served out of the back of an Oldsmobile.”

Jack hears him briefly mention something to the vendor, who brushes it off, but his brain is too focused on eating right now to care.

“This is awesome you guys.” He turns to his best friends, his family, and grins. “We’re playing The Orpheum. I can’t even count how many bands have played here, and then ended up being huge!”

He holds out his street dog and the other two follow suit.

“Eat up boys, because after tonight, everything changes.”

All three of tap their street dogs together, and then simultaneously take huge bites.

It doesn’t taste quite right. But then, Jack thinks, this is LA, so it might just be slightly different meat to before?

Al voices his thoughts. “That’s a new flavour…”

“Chill man,” Crutchie, every optimistic, reassures him, “street dogs haven’t killed us yet.”

With every fibre of his being screaming at him to stop, Jack takes another bite.

He doesn’t remember much after that. There’s an ambulance, and a lot of bright lights, and Crutchie is crying. He feels helpless. He can’t even move to comfort his friends and that hurts him the most. He sees flashes of hospitals, people, nurses, Albert, Crutchie, nurses again.

And then pitch black.

As his eyes adjust to the dark, he can just make out the shapes of the others curled up together in the corner sobbing. Jack crawls his way over, holding onto them as if they’re the only thing keeping him afloat. He holds them until Crutchie is so quite he’s not sure if he’s awake anymore, and until Albert’s sobs turn into sniffles and then silence. All with one thought running through his head.

Shit.

Tag list!: @maggs-is-a-muppet @oof-musicals @my-musical-trashlife @fancy-worm-with-the-poyle-inside @owlscbooks @fandomscraziness22

[swiss-cheeze]

Tick-Tock, Hook’s Afraid of an Ordinary Clock! || Spencer Reid

Requested: YES/NO: gender neutral please! So my request. Y/n has been working at the BAU for a while, and never ever had feelings for Spencer but more for Derek. One night is spent at a hotel and Spencer gets wasted as all hell which the team found unusual. That’s really all! Do with that what you will! Smut is fine too! You can add your own personal touches if you wish. Also would love some fighting between Spencer and y/n

Gender: none, they/them.

Warnings: insults, alcohol, normal CM case talk, verbal fight dialogue taken from Hook (1991), crap music talk.

----

“Eat your heart out, you crinkled, wrinkled fat bag,” you mumbled under your breath as Spencer finished his rambling of some unknown subject. Spencer stiffened at your insult, as did the rest of the team. You had just gotten back from a pretty bad case involving a team of family annihilators and where sitting in the nearest bar; throughout the whole case Spencer had almost made it his mission to speak over you, correct you, flick things at you, ‘forget’ you’re there, bump into you and more. God it was so annoying, and now? Now you've had enough.

“That was very ill-mannered-” Spencer started.

“And you're a slug-eating worm,” you said with a little more force matter-of-factly, cutting off whatever it was Spencer was going to say.

“You can do better than that pretty boy!” Derek said quickly with a grin as he nudged Spencer; you almost pounced on that man for taking Spencer's side rather than yours; Derek had always taken your side.

“You're encouraging this?” Spencer questioned quickly.

“Show me your fastball, dust brain!” you started again, “you paunchy, sag-bottomed puke pot!” Spencer's eyes widened three times the size they normally would be as the rest of your table sat quiet and watched.

“Damn!” Emily said under her breath with a grin as her eyes darted between the two of you; it was like watching tennis.

“You're a very poor role model for your team, you know that right?” Spencer shook his as he took a mouthful of his drink before a sly grin overtook his face, “I bet you don't even have a fourth-grade reading level,” a few of your teammates let out a little blow of air.

“Hemorrhoidal sucknavel” you said quickly.

“Maybe a fifth-grade reading level.” Spencer said even quicker.

“Oil-dripping, beef-fart-sniffing bubble butt” you started to really get into it, leaning over the table a little with a smirk.

“Aye there we go (Y/n)!” Derek said quickly, now he was on your side? You looked to Hotch who was smiling thinking that maybe you had another on your side.

“Someone has a severe caca mouth, you know that?” Spencer cut off your gaze with his words, as if he was bored.

“You’re a fart factory. A slug-slime sack of rat guts and cat vomit, a cheesy scab picked pimple-squeezing finger bandage!” snickering came over the table; but you weren't done yet oh no, “a week-old maggot burger with everything on it and flies on the side!” you grinned; many many words in that one insult. Spencer went to open his mouth but you cut him off, “you’re really just a substitute chemistry teacher” you winked.

“Come on Spence, hit (Y/n) back!” J.J. quickly intervened.

“Mung tongue” Spencer fired.

“Math tutor,”

“Pinhead,”

“Mother lover,” that one was a low blow on your end but you couldn't help yourself.

“Nearsighted gynecologist,” ouch Spence, Hotch snorted at that one.

“In your face, camelcake!” you shot back.

“In your rear, cow derrière!” of course Spencer came back even faster.

“Lying, crying, spying, prying ultra-pig!” Emily snickered at yours.

“Lewd, crude bag of pre-chewed food!” Derek snickered at Spencers.

“Guys maybe settle down…” Hotch said softly, this was starting to get a little out of hand.

“You man! Stupid, stupid man!” That was all you could give back as your mind turned blank, forgetting every word in the dictionary.

“If I'm a maggot burger, why don't you just eat me?” Spencer shot back, “you zebra-headed, slime-coated, pimple-farming, paramecium brain, munching on your own mucus, suffering from Spencer Reid envy!” laughter ensued as your face contorted to confusion.

“What the hell is a ‘paramecium’?” your voice held the question as Spencer pointed to you.

“I'll tell you what a paramecium is! You’re a paramecium!” everyone on your table stared at Spencer as he elaborated; “It's a one-celled critter with no brain that can't think!” and with that, your table cheered for Spencer as you sat sulking.

“Oh come on (Y/n), you should have known you would lose,” Derek said with a grin before following Spencer to the bar.

“He's drinking a lot tonight isn't he?” Emily questioned.

“Who, Derek?” J.J. guessed with a furrowed brow.

“No! Spencer!” Emily quickly concluded.

“He was a little harsh on (Y/n)” Hotch cut in quickly, “I’m just glad Dave and Garcia weren’t here to witness that,” you slammed your drink on the table and sent a glare to the three left at the table.

“I'm going home, i'll see everyone on monday,” you grumbled out before stalking off, your shoes made loud thunking sounds as they hit the wood flooring, your anger getting the best of you as you passed Spencer and Derek.

“Yo (Y/n) you getting a drink too?” Derek was about to order your normal drink until you slapped both Spencer and Derek on the back of the head.

“OW! What the hell-!” Spencer's back was to you but as he turned and saw you his anger melted into elation, “come back for round 2 (Y/n)?” Spencer questioned, the poor boy tried to act cool and lean against the bar but missed entirely and almost fell onto a rather burly looking gentleman. You huffed slightly as you turned to Derek.

“Make sure the substitute chem teacher gets home safe,” and with that you threw open the bar doors and walked your way home, it was only a block and you had gotten a ride with Emily anyway.

-

When you finally slumped home, chucked off your shoes and threw yourself onto your mattress you couldn't help but make yourself angrier with the new insults suddenly bubbling in your head.

“Who does that piss brain even think he is,” you mumbled into the air, “paramecium my ass…” you continued your grumbling into the atmosphere as you twisted and turned on the mattress before sleep finally engulfed you.

------

The work week started up again and before you knew it yourself and the team where needed in New Orleans because of a new range of sudden murders.

“Lets review please,” Hotch mumbled.

“The bodies cross gender and racial lines” Rossi started.

“The throat is slit with something very sharp but also clean, I get a funny feeling it isnt a kitchen knife though,” you mumbled as you looked at the photos closer trying to get a good angle on a printed piece of paper.

“Butcher?” Derek questioned, you shrugged.

“Could these be blitz attacks?” you heard Spencer scoff at your suggestion.

“If this was a blitz attack there would be remorse and blunt force trauma somewhere on the head,” Spencer said looking directly at you.

“Oh, i'm so sorry Doctor i didn't know my input was unwanted, let me just keep my thoughts to myself,”

“Guys,” J.J. sighed, “Garcia is going through the victims lives that we have already, I can talk to the family and see if there are any enemies?” Hotch nodded.

“Derek, I want you to join J.J. with the families. Rossi, Emily go to the M.E. together and have a look over the bodies and tox screens. (L/n), Reid and I will go to the police station and start on a geographical and victim board,” everyone nodded in agreement to what Hotch said. Except for Spencer. He just stared at you with dangerous eyes. You rolled yours in return before putting your headphones into your phone and playing music to drown out Spencer's overbearingly loud thoughts.

-

“Okay my lovelies, these first three victims all had the same job at the same court; they’re all a part of a Jury audience” Garcia explained as her fingers tapped on her keyboard through the phone.

“Maybe someone just got out of prison that was wrongly convicted and wanting revenge?” you questioned.

“Maybe, it would have to be something pretty big for them to come back,” Derek said, you nodded in agreement, “baby girl can you see if there are any people that may have been convicted by a jury with our victims in it?”

“Sure can sugar, PG out” the phone clicked off.

“Did you find anything from the M.E.?” Hotch turned to Rossi and Emily as he spoke.

“The pathologist said it was a clean cut without hesitation marks or remorse,” Rossi said.

“No drugs, no blunt force trauma,” Emily shrugged as she talked, “it wasn't a blitz.”

“Maybe planned?” you butted in.

“That’s what it seems like,” Hotch said, “Reid? Have you got anything? J.J.?” Hotch questioned as he looked to the respective people.

“The victims were killed in different areas but its places they frequented; house, bar, bar” Spencer started, “they’re all over the place is all, completely different areas,”

“Yeah, and the families weren’t much help either. One of the victims' families, uh, Emil Gosten? His family said they didn't want anything to do with the investigation because he's had previous death threats and calls and stuff,” J.J. shrugged as the room went quiet.

“Reid, (L/n) I know you two dont like each other but I need two of my sharpest minds to go back to the crime scenes,” Hotch sighed, you groaned but complied as you stalked off with Reid following shortly behind.

-

“Everything looks the exact same as it was left,” you sighed out as you placed a blanket back down on the couch. Spencer scanned the books on the shelf before pulling one out and starting to read it; completely ignoring you.

“Reid,” nothing.

“Reid.” again, nothing.

“Spencer,” nope.

“SPENCE”

“What!” he finally turned to you and answered.

“You couldn't give me some complacency and at least answer me when i talk to you?” you asked annoyed.

“Why would i?” Spencer asked with a bored tone as he placed the book back on the shelf, except he finally talked to you, “The victim is atheist, believes in the justice system…” he sighed and shrugged, “did Hotch just put us together to fuck with us?”

“Maybe,” you flopped onto the couch with a sigh as you rest your head on the backrest. That was until something caught your eye, “Oi genius!” you called out, Spencer came to your side as you pointed to the roof; there, above your heads was a piece of paper taped to the ceiling, “you’re taller than me,” you said quickly as you got up and started moving the couch.

“Woah what- what’re you doing?” Spencer jumped back slightly as you pushed the couch backwards.

“Well we’re going to push this back and then put a chair down for you to stand on so you can reach that note because it can possibly help us get to the unsub,”

“What why me?” Spencer questioned as he helped you push the couch back.

“You’re taller than me and have longer arms,” you walked over to the dining table and came back with a chair, Spencer was reluctant at first but eventually stood on the chair and plucked down the taped note; letting out a breath as he finally stood on the ground again. You plucked the note from Spencer's hand and opened it.

“A music note?” Spencer mumbled.

“Something like that,” you mumbled back, “see it's in the second to bottom gap,” you pointed to the gap to show where it was, as if Spencer couldn't see it already, “um, it would sound something like...um, dmm” you vibrate your voice a little to help Spencer understand, he nodded, “the only problem is there isn’t any clef; normally with music you have a treble clef, alto clef or bass clef. They basically determine what instrument can be played and how the notes are determined” Spencer looked genuinely interested while you explained your thinking, “this...its a singular note, maybe there’s more around?” you looked around the room and tried to desifre if there were any opened drawers or cupboards.

“Maybe there’s another one at the other location?” Spencer questioned, you grinned.

“It might be the unsubs calling card; ‘hey, this is my kill’ type thing!” and with that, you made a break in the case.

-

Spencer called the rest of the team about the break as Hotch allowed the two of you to go to the other victims houses and search for more music notes; low and behold you now had 3 music notes placed under the corresponding victim heads.

“You keep staring at that board as if it's going to give you answers,” Derek said with a grin as he walked into the room; the rest of the team had been called out to another dead body.

“Hmm? Oh I just…” you shrugged, “i just get this feeling about the notes; they have to sound something but we just don't know what yet” before Derek could answer you the shrill of the phone went off.

“(Y/n)?” it was Spencer on loudspeaker; he never called you by your first name.

“Yeah what's up Reid?” you called back.

“We found another note; the round part is under the last line with the stem going up to the second line at the top,” you nodded in response (not that Spencer could see you) as you drew the note on a piece of paper with a sharpener and placed it on the victim board.

“Anything else? A clef at all anywhere?” you asked.

“Um i'm not- i don't think so?” it sounded like Spencer was shuffling around a few things to get a better look, “we have another piece of paper!” Spencer called out, moments later you got a photo on your phone. Sure enough there was a treble clef.

“Spence get everyone back here; i know what the notes mean”

-

“Our unsub is using something called the Dies Irae,” you played the first few notes on your phone over youtube, “you've all heard this song over time just not exactly in an orchestra setting; Star Wars, The Nightmare Before Christmas, The Corpse Bride, Sweeney Todd, The Shining, The Exorcist and many many more,” you played a few other videos of the notes from a few of the movies as everyone nodded.

“I can hear it,” J.J. mumbled.

“Same,” that was Emily.

“Right, so...it was originally used with catholic’s; they used the music in their Requiem services-”

“Requiem services are basically putting the dead to rest,” Spencer cut in quickly so the team could understand.

“Yeah, it's basically a song for the dead to stay dead in a way? I think our unsub is using the Sweeney Todd method; killing his victims with a razor. One slice across the neck while in a private area except this dude isn't a cannibal” you grinned at the remembrance of the film.

“Cannibal?” Derek and Emily questioned.

“In the movie Sweeney Todd is a barber, he comes back for revenge on the man who stole his wife and child and kills people in his barber shop which is also above a pie shop owned by a woman named Mrs Lovett; when Sweeney starts killing they come together in order to bring customers back to Mrs Lovett's pie shop. Because it's set in 1785 meat was expensive so instead they used the dead people as meat to sell to customers” you realised how long winded that explanation was and apologized, “sorry that was..i think our unsub is a barber” was your final statement. Hotch nodded and moved to press a button on the phone in the middle of the table, but the phone started ringing instead.

“Garcia?”

“I think i found our unsub; Chris Gevette, he filed for divorce after he gave evidence of spousal abuse but it seems like his wife had every piece of evidence that would be able to put him in jail rather than her so everything was blamed on him for the abuse and the jury ruled him unable to keep any stable relationship”

“Garcia do you have a work and home address?”

“Sent to your phones now; barber shop and home” the phone clicked off.

“(Y/n) i want you to go to the barber shop with Reid and Derek. Emily, J.J. and I will go to the house; Rossi stays here in case anything else happens.” and with that you all ran to the SUV’s.

-----

“CHRIS GEVETTE FBI!” Derek shouted through the door, your guns were drawn and ready for action as Derek kicked the door in. You moved swiftly through the shop, finding nothing but dust.

“Guys!” you were now out the back as your partners came running, “it's exactly like Sweeney Todd,” you motioned to the stairs in front of you before looking behind you, “there's stars that lead down as well; there may be bodies in there like the movie too, you go down there and i'll go up.”

“(Y/n) let me come with you,” that was Spencer, he looked genuinely concerned.

“I've got this Spence. Go” you started your ascent up the wooden stairs while trying to stay as quiet as you possibly could, “CHRIS GEVETTE,” you called out to the door once you got to it, you could hear the bustle of footsteps and made the split decision. The door was kicked in by you as you pointed your gun to Chris who was now holding a razor to a woman's neck.

“Get away!” Chris screamed, he was frantic; trembling and crying.

“Chris! Chris it's okay, i'm a good guy, okay?” you slowly let go of your gun, “im holstering my gun, okay?” you said as you're-holstered your gun, “Chris i know about the divorce-”

“No you dont!” Chris called, the woman under the razor trembled as the razor cut into her neck slightly.

“I do! Chris, I know you were abused! I know it wasn't you that did the abusing! If you let her go we can help you get custody and instead send that bitch to jail,” Chris looked almost relieved to hear that, he contemplated that for a moment before slowly letting the woman go. She ran over to you as Derek and Spencer finally came up the stairs and started handcuffing Chris.

“We’ve got two other bodies in the basement,” Spencer said to you while you held the trembling woman, “there's medic on the way now,” you nodded in affirmation before starting to help the women calm down and walk down the stairs.

------

The jet finally landed back at the bureau as the rest of your team started packing their things from their desks.

“Um (Y/n)” a voice called, you smiled as you looked up to see the person you least expected.

“Spence?” you questioned; your eyes darted around and couldn't see any other team member in sight, “everyone left already. Sorry. I've been in my own little world,” you gave a tight smile as you continued packing some extra files into your bag.

“It-it’s just me, but um, I just wanted to congratulate you on your break in the case,” the comment from Spencer's timid and small voice caught you off guard so much that you froze for a moment as you stared at him. It all seemed to go quiet, and slow; the clock on the wall seemed to tick at an atrociously slow pace.

Tick…

“(Y/n)?”

Tock…

“Hmm?”

“I uh, i was-”

“Oh, yeah um-”

Pause.

Quiet.

“Thank you,” smile.

Tick…

“I was...was wondering, (Y/n)...”

Tock…

“Yeah Spence?”

“Would you...would you like to go...on a date...with...me?”

Pause.

Quiet.

“With you?”

“Well, I did...I did say ‘me’ I hope- just, just forget it” and the world went back to normal as Spence started walking away.

“No Spence, wait!” you grabbed your things and quickly darted off after him; plunging your arm between the elevator doors and stepping in quickly before they shut behind you.

“Just forget it (Y/n); forget i ever asked and we can just go back to-”

“I would love to go on a date with you”

Tick…

“Really?”

“So long as you don't call me a paramecium again”

Tock…

“I won't; as long as you don't call me a substitute chemistry teacher”

Pause.

Quiet.

“I won't”

“Then it's settled.

Tick…

“Message me?”

“Of course”

Tock…

Smile.

[xseaxwitchxkpop]

But Not Today

A/N: Hello y’all. This is a heavier fic and is a way for me to channel me feelings as most of my fics are and will be, especially because it comforts me that people out there feel the same as I do and hopefully through these fics find they are also not alone. I struggle with depression and suicidal ideation/thoughts like many of you do and there’s too many fics that glorify and glamorize the hardships and always end with cure fluffy “I’m always there for you.” No, some people don’t have others to talk to and sometimes the mental illness wins. In all sincerity, if you are feeling like you have no one to talk to, no to listen to you, you can always PM me or send me an anon because I know that feeling well and it’s not a good one. If you want a part two, lemme know, otherwise how it ends is how it ends.

Disclaimers/CW: suicidal thoughts, suicidal actions, pills/overdose, drinking, depression (lemme know if I missed something)

Requested: NO

Group: ATEEZ -- Wooyoung

Word Count: 1,847

This month has been absolute hell and is why you find yourself down the rabbithole. Sure, you have friends who have reassured you that they are there to help emotionally but you’ve been fucked over too many times in the past to truly believe any of that.

Which is why you find yourself where you are now. 

The TV plays on the background but you process none of the audio. The sounds of the city play like a symphony throughout your apartment, but you don’t smile and sway. No, you, on the couch, hunched over with elbows on your knees, staring at a pill bottle and a bottle of whiskey, is how the music finds you, empty.

You don’t have the energy to cry, you don’t have the energy to move, you don’t have the energy to...exist. Breathing is now too hard, and the stillness of your body is reflected in the stillness of the apartment, save for the television.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you rub your hands on your face and then once again take up the staring contest with the pill bottle. After a beat of silence, your right hand moves to take the bottle of whiskey and swig it hard, the familiar burning sensation in your throat doing absolutely nothing for you as it hasn’t been for the past couple of weeks.

Today was a battle that you were on the verge of losing but you don’t know how to accept the loss. Stabbing or cutting yourself is too messy and would you even hit the right vein to die fast enough? You could jump from the apartment complex’s rooftop and would certainly die on impact, but that’s too public, you want to go quietly. Putting a bullet through your brain seemed like a good option, but it’s too much noise and you have no idea the first place to start looking into gun ownership in Korea. You’ve known people you have attempted suicide by pill overdose, and it wasn’t the most effective method of killing oneself, but it was certainly one of the easiest and one of the quietest ways to go, especially if you could die in your sleep. 

In this past month, you’ve been distancing yourself further and further from your friends who began to worry about you dearly, but, to you, not enough. None of them bothered to try to see you, come by your place, just shot you texts and a couple of calls saying they’re always there or some other bullshit. But Wooyoung was extremely persistent in this. He knows you liked your space and the last time he tried to help you emotionally you blew up at him and dug into his heart like a knife, attacking him in such a way that left him in tears rather than you.

Tonight, though, Wooyoung decided to blow up your phone at every chance he could between practice with the boys and eating and doing other errands he needed that day. You might have hurt him in the past, but he still cares deeply for you regardless.

However, you couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone and answer him, so your cell was on Do Not Disturb. 

You’re not sure what came over you, but you lift yourself off the couch and shuffle to your door, slowly slipping your feet out of your slippers and slowly slipping your feet into your sneakers, leaning down to loosely tie the laces.

Your grip on the wooden door is gentle, twisting the knob and pulling it open a more caring act than it should have been. As the door shut behind you, you, void of keys, wallet, phone, communication, identification, didn’t look back or bother to double-check if it closed all the way. Guided by something, you’re not sure what, you move forward, your feet shuffling towards the elevator and taking a ride down.

At the first floor you step out, a solemn step that holds no purpose, to you at least. Perhaps fate is guiding you somewhere, perhaps you’re guiding yourself, perhaps nothing guides you and it’s all meaningless.

The streets and sidewalks glisten with water, reflecting the neon lights of clubs, the primary colors of 24/7 convenience stores, storing the sounds of honking taxis, shared laughs of lovers, and the bustling of a street corner and the calmness of another. As life goes, as life is, as life will be.

You can’t say that you’ll miss this -- fake order in a world of chaos. You can’t say that you’ll miss that -- imagined purpose for a meaningless existence.

As you wander, you find yourself taking in nothing at all and everything at once, your alcohol-idled mind creating figures that aren’t there and sounds that don’t exist. Yet when your vision clears again, you find yourself standing at the barrier of a bridge on the highway, looking down into the vast expanse of the ocean; you’ve apparently walked for quite a while. 

The depths of the water below look inviting, dark and crashing together, a blanket of sorrow which is oddly comforting to your empty mind, perhaps because it makes you feel something. With your arms folded, you lean your full weight onto the barrier, contemplating whether or not you should jump -- sure, it would be a bit of effort to hoist yourself over said barrier, but it’s a guaranteed death unlike an overdose.

“YAH, Y/N, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” A male voice paired with boots slapping on wet concrete worms its way into your ears, but you have no reaction; the beckoning of the ocean nearly drowns out his voice anyway.

Suddenly, you feel a strong hand grip your upper arm and whip you around, forcing you to stare into the fearful eyes of the owner of the voice. His other hand came up and gripped your other arm just as tightly, searching your face, your eyes, for something...something...a sign of something.

You took a moment to observe this man, taking in the way his eyes were red and puffy, the fear and relief a sharp contrast shaking hands in his eyes, and a shiny upper lip, probably from snot from his crying earlier. 

You feel Wooyoung pull you into him tightly, barely allowing you to breathe. He squeezes you with nearly everything in him, the state of your apartment and the possibilities of what happened running through his head nonstop.

It was nearing 11PM and Wooyoung was genuinely concerned that you weren’t picking up. You were not doing well for a while, he could tell by your abrupt and simple messages, declining every chance to hang out and/or catch dinner, refusing to even take a walk together. But this time was different -- you were flat out ignoring him and not answering any of his calls or texts and this had him greatly on edge. It reminded him of a friend he used to have in high school who was so hard on himself that he nearly killed himself right in front of Wooyoung; Wooyoung couldn’t go through that again.

He decided to tell the boys that he’s going to your apartment to check up on you and the other boys, worried about you as well, told him that they’re here to help in any way they could.

He travelled to your apartment, using the spare key you gave him to get through the lobby door and using your access code for the lock on the door. The scene that met his eyes made his heart drop into his stomach and a sense of dread fell over him.

Your kitchen floor was scattered with shards of porcelain from one or two of your dinner plates, he couldn’t tell. The vase of flowers that he sent a few days ago were knocked over on the counter, creating a puddle on the table and a wet spot on your carpet, the lip of the glass vase chipped. The TV was running, some stupid drama that was out of character for you to watch. But the coffee table and its contents is what made him feel genuine fear for the first time in a long time.

The bottle of whiskey was half-full, sitting next to a bottle of pills. He made his way over, carefully, brushing porcelain shards out of the way with his foot, as he sat exactly where you once sat not too long ago. He took in your cell you left on the floor near the balcony windows and the keys sitting by the TV and your wallet laid in front of your bedroom door that was open.

His attention turned back to the pill bottle and he reached out a shaky hand, reading the label and having trouble keeping his eyes dry. He opened it, hoping against all hope that you didn’t open it, that maybe, maybe you changed your mind at the last second. 

Uncontrollable tears left his eyes and snot started running down his nose and his breathing quickened and his chest constricted as he found the bottle unsealed, meaning you did something he hoped you didn’t do. 

You mumble something and Wooyoung didn’t quite catch what you said, but he could ask later; all he wants to focus on is you, in his arms, very much real, very much alive, very much on planet Earth, very much here. He breathes in your scent deeply as a reassurance to himself and he doesn’t plan on letting you out of his sight any time soon.

Yet you had no reaction. You just stand there, letting him do what he needs to do to convince himself that you’ll still be around after this, that the mix of the pills you took and the alcohol the bottle said explicitly to not take with the pills fogging your mind.

He eventually pulls away, looking back in your eyes for something, something, something. He notices they’re glazed over and out of focus, dread creeping back to him.

He cups your face in one of his hands and asks, “Were you going to jump?” His voice is shaky at best, doing poorly in concealing his fear, his rage, his dread, his every emotion currently.

“Maybe,” is what you answer. You look briefly back at the ocean, craning your neck a little to look directly at the welcoming ocean again then turn your attention back to Wooyoung. “But not today,” you continue. “Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week, perhaps next month, perhaps next year. But not today.”

You feel yourself about to collapse from the dangerous concoction in your veins but Wooyoung barely notices, his mouth running about something but you process nothing.

“My dear friend,” you mumble, and the sound of your voice shuts up the man in front of you, grabbing his attention.

“I’m...sleep...slee...wha’s it?...sleepy, yeah...sleepy,” you manage to get out before collapsing onto the boy, your consciousness slipping from you and a huff of air escaping from the other human presence from your impact.

[octoberobserver]

“Just To Dream In The Moonlight” - (Eddie Can Sing)

Richie Tozier was on a date.

Eddie Kaspbrak was not.

Instead, he was at home, the home he had been sharing with Richie for five months now, hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table and steadily building up a knot in the base of his spine because he was too fucking old for this shit.

Fuck his life.

He had died, come back, divorced his wife, moved half-way across the country, only to find himself working from home on a Saturday night while his roommate, best friend and, oh yeah, love of his pathetic fucking life, went out to dinner with some handsome, single, ‘Instagram model.’ 

I mean, what the fuck even is that anyway?

Eddie knew this day would come, of course. Had seen it almost instantly after Richie came out, live on stage.

Richie was a catch. He was funny, smart, and…yeah, he’d admit, handsome. Bev was right. He did ‘grow into his looks.’ 

So, it didn’t take a genius to realise that him coming out would soon draw the attention of all the eligible men within a hundred mile radius and for them to show their interest. They’d be fools not to.

And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Kaspbrak?

With a groan, Eddie dragged a palm down his face, snapping his laptop shut and pushing it away from him.

He had to cut out this wallowing bullshit. It wasn’t a good look, at all. 

Richie was on a date and that was…good.

Right?

Eddie, as a good friend, should think that’s a good thing.

Then again - has Eddie always been a good friend? 

With a roll of his eyes, he shut down that line of thinking, knowing it was the blame of the two glasses of wine he had just inhaled while pouring over Teddy’s illegible ‘reports’ while trying to ignore what Richie could possibly be doing right about now.

Or who, his mind added scathingly. 

Shaking his head, Eddie mentally-scolded himself for his stupid, jealous streak. 

Richie had left just over an hour ago, throwing him a half-hearted wave, muttering a low, “Won’t be long, Eds. Trust me,” and snapping the door shut behind him.

It hardly screamed a guy who intended on having a little Wham, Bam, Thank you, Sam. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with a one-night-stand. Richie is a consenting adult, Eddie’s treacherous brain reminded him. 

Despite this, Richie had insisted, all this week that it was “practically a business dinner.” Something that his publicist had apparently set up that was more than a little mandatory for some bullshit-Hollywood-reason. 

Richie had not seemed too psyched about it either. Lamenting to Eddie more than once that he didn’t have time for “aging-ex-Disney-stars-looking-for-the-ultimate-selfie-or-whatever.”

But that had been before he had seen the picture.

Up-and-coming actor and singer, Dylan Lemass was…hot. Even Eddie could concede that.

And, he was a little more age-appropriate (at 33) than most guys DMing Richie at four in the morning.

Richie hadn’t been quite quick enough at hiding his impressed eyebrow quirk at the picture sent to him by Bev after some googling. 

“He looks…nice,” Eddie had ground out through clenched jaw, heart panging as Richie began to nod.

“Uh, yeah. I guess. If…if that’s your type.” 

“Richie, that guy is everybody’s type.” 

He had looked at Eddie then, something indecipherable on his face. 

“I’m not usually into…blonds.” 

Usually.

That had been the only word to ring in Eddie’s head. 

“Well,” he forced himself to shrug, punching Richie harder than he intended on the shoulder, “just see how it goes. You never know…he might…he might be your Mr Right.” 

Fuck, actually, Eddie was a damn good friend, okay? He had encouraged Richie, “Mr Right” and all that shit, and helped him pick between two (admittedly ugly) shirts and everything. 

He was friend of the fucking year.

Friend.

Just a friend.

With a sigh, he crossed to the fridge, fully intending to help himself to the leftover cheesecake that Richie had bought them in celebration of four months of Eddie allowing himself dairy again.

“I know you belong to somebody new,” he sang under his breath, the old song he had heard on the radio this morning continuing to be an ear-worm, “but tonight, you belong to me.” 

He crossed the kitchen to get a spoon from the drawer, because it was an eating-straight-from-the-container-despite-that-being-gross kinda night, and sticking it directly into the strawberry mousse. 

“Although we’re apart, you’re a part of my heart,” he continued, cheesecake in one hand and picking up his half-empty glass with the other, making his way out to the couch.

“But tonight, you belong to—”

“A bit of Eddie Vedder, huh? Eddie squared, I like it.” 

He jumped so high that his red wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the glass.

“Fuck, Richie! Don’t scare me like that, dipshit!” 

The man in question snorted out a laugh from his position at the front door, keys still in hand, jacket half off one shoulder.

“I did say ‘honey I’m home,’ Eds. Not my fault you were too busy crooning to notice.” 

Eddie’s face flushed as he collected himself, carefully depositing his glass and cheesecake on the coffee table before straightening up and tilting his head at his friend. 

“You’re home early.” 

He didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did. 

He winced.

“I mean, uh…how’d the date go?” 

Richie’s face was pretty expressionless as he shrugged.

“We wined, dined and sixty-nined. Just how I like it.” 

Eddie’s mouth dropped open.

“Wha—”

“I’m kidding, Eddie, Jesus,” Richie held up his hands as he kicked off his shoes, leaving them by Eddie’s on the rack by the door and padding over in his socks to the couch, sinking down into it with a loud sigh.

“It went exactly like I thought it would,” he mumbled to the ceiling, slipping his glasses up his forehead to rest in his hair, his eyes falling closed.

Eddie watched him for a moment, unsure what to do, before taking a seat beside him, turning to properly look at him.

He seemed…tired. Weary. 

Sad?

Shit.

Time for Eddie to be a good friend. 

“Well, fuck that guy, Rich,” he reached out and clasped Richie’s arm. “He’s clearly a dumbass if he can’t see what a fucking catch you are.” 

Slowly, those dark eyes that Eddie loved so much blinked open, meeting his with something indistinguishable glimmering in them.

“Thanks, Eddie.” 

It was the most sincere Eddie had heard his friend be in a long time.

It made his heart skip a beat.

Quietly, he reached out and picked up the glass and cheesecake, holding it out.

“Wanna watch that new Chris Hansen exposé?” 

A small smile crossed Richie’s face, breaking through the weariness like a soothing balm.

“Sounds like a plan, Eds Spagheds.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, throwing the remote at him before standing up.

“I’m opening another bottle. Don’t start without me.” 

He crossed the room, into the kitchen and towards the fridge. 

“He couldn’t sing for shit either, Eds,” Richie called after him, sounding pained. “He made me suffer through like four YouTube videos of him squawking his way through covers. I wanted to use the steak knife to stab out my own eardrums. It was fucking torture, man. You’re a hell of a lot nicer to listen to.” 

Eddie froze, bottle in hand, the soft, unthinking compliment making him blush from head to toe. 

“Eddie Vedder is technically a cover too,” he reminded him as he fought (and failed) to keep the grin from his face.

“Yeah, I know but…least it’s not the Patience and Prudence version. Talk about creepy. That’s some Children-of-the-Corn-type shit.”

Eddie snorted out a laugh as he made his way back into the living room, sinking down into the couch, his stomach lurching as his thigh pressed against Richie’s.

Richie held out his cheesecake-topped spoon, dangling it in Eddie’s face and making obnoxious airplane noises.

“Want some before I infect it with my Trashmouth germs, Eds? It’s a one time deal. I know how you feel about double-dipping.” 

Eddie leaned forward, closing his mouth around the spoon, eyes gluing to Richie’s as he swallowed the bite and pulled back slowly.

Richie’s eyes were the size of saucers, clearly shocked that Eddie had called his bluff.

“Uh, I…” he cleared his throat, “it’s good?” 

Eddie smirked, “Yeah, it’s good.” 

“Cool.” 

They lapsed into a short silence, Richie shifting to face the TV just as Chris Hansen popped up and launched into his latest case.

“Thanks, Eds. For the uh…cheesecake.” 

He nodded, deciding not to comment as Richie kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, his shoulder pressing into his as he slowly, carefully, raised the spoon to his own lips.

Eddie blushed like a teenager as he kept his gaze firmly on the TV, trying not to think about the fact that Richie so easily put his mouth somewhere Eddie just had his.

At about the twenty-five minute mark, Eddie felt a soft, familiar pressure close to his neck.

Tilting his head ever so slightly, he saw that Richie had fallen asleep, his cheek pressed into Eddie’s shoulder, his glasses askew.

A small smile spread across his face as Eddie let his own head tip back a little, resting against the couch, the lyrics of that godforsaken song flittering into his brain.

“Wait down by the stream, how sweet it will seem, once more just to dream in the moonlight…” 

(Read the entire series here)

[tothestanders]

Trading Places

Summary:

"Why’d you harass me about wanting to play video games instead of talking to my friend? You don’t care about that sort of thing.”

Remus’s grin widened.

“Now Thomas, maybe Remus is turning over a new leaf. In that case, we should celebrate! How about we throw a bunch of Babybel cheese at people’s cars so the wax stains them red in pretty polka dots!

”Thomas stared at Patton. “…That’s vandalism. You want me to vandalize people’s cars?"

Or, Patton and Remus swap roles. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

Warnings: canon-typical Remus language

Read on AO3 here

Thomas’s back ached from being hunched over so long, fingers half numb from hours of button pressing. Thomas hardly noticed. He was only one level away from meeting the final Boss. Weeks of gameplay had been leading up to this moment. All the lost sleep and forgotten meals were about to pay off in the greatest, grandest, most magnificent battle of all time –

Something ringing cut through Thomas’s laser focus, jolting him back to the real world. He frantically groped for the ‘pause’ button before tearing his eyes away to read the caller ID on his phone. A friend from community theater. Thomas was disappointed for a moment that it wasn’t just ignorable spam, then immediately felt guilty. He quickly accepted the call.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he spoke into the phone. “Oh! Free to talk right now?” Thomas glanced longingly at the paused video game. “Um, well…”

“Are you really gonna hang up on your friend for a video game? Wow, Thomas, I didn’t realize you were even more evil than I am.”

Thomas nearly threw his phone in surprise. Next to him on the sofa suddenly sat the Duke, his face shifting between maudlin disappointment and a suppressed grin.

“What the heck, man! Why you gotta pop up in my blind spot like that?” Thomas yelled, putting the phone on mute while noises of confusion came through the speaker.

“Why you gotta be a shitty friend?” Remus replied without missing a beat. “What if they’re in crisis? What if their family just disowned them? What if they lost their job and can’t afford rent or food and have nowhere to go and you were their last option for help and now they’re going to spend the night on the streets and get mugged and then murdered and so eviscerated that they won’t be able to identify the body and he’ll be tossed into a mass grave where he’ll get devoured by worms at age thirty…”

“Oh my God, stop!” Thomas tried to command, to no avail.

“…and then he’ll turn into a zombie with his mind trapped in his rotting brain and forced to watch as his body kills people…”

“I hope your friend is doing all right!” Thomas whirled around to see Patton sitting on his other side, expression sympathetic. He didn’t seem to notice that Remus was there or still talking. Or maybe he was just ignoring him.

“Oh, thank God, Patton. Do you think it’s okay for me to play my video game instead of talking? I’m just so close to the boss battle and I really wanna finish it.”

“Well, I think your pal sounded fine, but better safe than sorry. How about you can finish your game, but first we say something to cheer him up just in case?”

“…and once all his loved ones have been eaten alive his zombie brain will come back to life and have to live with the horror of what he’s done…”

Desperate to get the Duke’s morbid monologue to stop, Thomas rushed to agree. “Yeah, sure. Any ideas?”

“Oh, you know I’ve always got something up my sleeve. A dad joke is never a bad joke!” He paused a second to think. “What has two butts and kills people? An assassin!”

Without a second thought, Thomas lifted the phone back to his face, unmuted it, and repeated the joke. He snorted at his own punchline, mentally congratulating himself on the pun. Then realization set in. Patton seemed to have the same realization, judging by the look of self-directed horror on his face.

The sound of laughter came through the phone. “Sorry, that was kind of a silly one. But glad you liked it,” Thomas said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, I was kinda in the middle of something when you called, but I’d love to catch up later tonight if that works for you?” His friend assured him it was no problem, and after setting up a time to chat later, they hung up.

“What the heck was that?” Thomas said.

“Great teamwork!” Remus chimed, raising a hand to high-five Patton across Thomas’s body. Patton eyed it nervously, then lightly tapped the palm. Then not so subtly wiped his hand on his pants.

“Sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to use potty language,” Patton said, shaking his head. “A dad’s gotta set a good example for his kids! Not my best work, huh?”

“Yeah, that was weird,” Thomas said. “But mostly I meant Remus. Why’d you harass me about wanting to play video games instead of talking to my friend? You don’t care about that sort of thing.”

Remus’s grin widened.

“Now Thomas, maybe Remus is turning over a new leaf. In that case, we should celebrate! How about we throw a bunch of Babybel cheese at people’s cars so the wax stains them red in pretty polka dots!”

Thomas stared at Patton. “…That’s vandalism. You want me to vandalize people’s cars? And wouldn’t that probably make dents and break the windows?”

Patton’s face fell into a look of consternation. “Oh, yes, sorry. That would be very inconsiderate. Definitely don’t do that, Thomas. Okay, instead, we can celebrate with food! I think we’ve got eggs, pickles, maple syrup, and coffee in the kitchen. Sounds like the ingredients for a yummy soup.”

“Soup?” Thomas repeated in disbelief.

Patton tilted his head. “Yeah, soup. You know, a liquid you can eat! We could add cinnamon too if you want.”

“I love it, Patton! Look who’s finally not being such a fuddy-daddy,” Remus said, drumming his fingers against his cheek.

Thomas looked rapidly between the two of them. “Okay, is someone going to explain what’s going on here or am I just gonna stay confused?”

“You could’ve skipped all the confusion in the first place if you’d just listened to me earlier. I knew you liked boys by age 6!” Remus answered, and Thomas groaned. But then the Duke let out a long, dramatic sigh and stood, spreading his arms wide. “All right, killjoy. I swapped us, of course!”

“What? You can’t do that!” Patton reprimanded. “You switch back with Thomas right now, mister! This is Thomas Sanders Sides, not Remus Sanders Sides.”

Remus blinked. “Uh, right. No. I swapped our roles, Patton.”

Patton’s eyes widened with realization. “Ohhh. Well that’s much better.” He nodded to himself. Then, “Hey! You switch us back right now, mister!”

“Oopsie doodles, no can doozies. This is way too much fun! Now, Thomas, about your content.” Remus turned to face Thomas, a manic gleam in his eyes. “You really love to coddle your viewers, huh? Do you think they can tell? Do you think they click on your channel and get whacked in the face with the patronizing ooey gooey BS you sprinkle over their dainty little heads? They’re probably devastated you don’t trust them to be able to handle anything more meaningful and substantial than the trite twaddle you call videos.”

Remus pushed up his cheeks with his fists, lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Aw, poor babies. Their favorite Youtube star thinks nothing of them. That’s gotta cut like a machete to the heart.”

“Okay! Got it,” Thomas said. “So what I’m hearing is you’re my morality now?” Horror rose in his throat. “And Patton is my bad creativity?” Remus nodded excitedly. Patton looked nauseous. “Why would you do that?” Thomas asked, desperate.

“Oh, it’s simple. Dear Virgie didn’t like the bloody death threat I left on his wall earlier. Talk about not being able to take a joke, amirite?” Patton grimaced at that idea of a ‘joke.’ “Anyway, then he went off about how I’ll” – Remus adopted a mocking, bored tone to accompany his air quotes – “‘never be an important Side’ because I ‘don’t know the difference between right and wrong.’ Blah, blah, blah. But that was just too good of a challenge to pass up!”

“Too good of a challenge…so you’re trying to prove Virgil wrong? By being my morality? ” Thomas clarified in dismay.

“Yep! And proving that I could gain a whole lotta influence real quick if I wanted. Good little Thomas would never repress his moral drive.” Remus smiled sweetly at him.

“Sure, okay. This is not happening.” Thomas turned to Patton. “You’re my real morality. Can’t you, like, take your job back? Please?”

“Afraid not,” the Duke answered for him in a voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Where do you think your Sides comes from, Thomas? We’re figments of your imagination, after all.”

Thomas rested his face in his hand, exhausted by the whole situation. “I’m not following.”

“It’s easy. Imagination is part of creativity.” He did a mirror of Roman’s typical arm flourish at the mention of his function. “Therefore, your creativity created your Sides and is the only thing that can change them as it pleases. As I please.”

“Hold on, does that mean you and Roman are, like, literally everyone else’s dads?” Thomas asked.

“Hey now, kiddo. Don’t go stealing my kids out from under me,” Patton said, pointing a stern finger.

“Don’t worry, I’m a deadbeat dad!” Remus replied. Then his expression turned thoughtful. It was the most terrifying thing Thomas had ever seen. “Huh, isn’t it interesting that we’re figments of your imagination but also kinda not? I mean, we’ve got thoughts and feelings of our own. Yet our whole existence revolves around you.” Thomas braced, not sure where this was going but sure it wasn’t anywhere good. “You call all the shots about what we do, and if one of us wants to do something? Well, better pimp yourself out to get on the Big Daddy’s good side –”

“What?!”

“– and hope he graciously agrees. No autonomy for us. Just wasting away in your brain while you fuck around with the body. Male privilege? Please, let’s talk corporeal privilege, Thomas.”

Remus’s tone stayed casual, gaze idly wandering as he thought aloud. But the wave of guilt that came with his words was enough to nearly knock Thomas over, and made his eyes sting with tears. The Duke actually had a point. Was Thomas a terrible person? Oh, God. Was he abusing his Sides?

“Okay, kiddo.” Patton said, holding out his hands in a pacifying gesture. “That’s some pretty heavy stuff. Let’s not get carried away, all right? Don’t worry Thomas, we love being part of your amazing head!”

“Did someone say amazing head? I was wondering when you’d ask –”

Thomas closed his eyes. He could not deal with this. His Morality was suggesting crime, his Bad Creativity was giving him intrusive guilt, except all that was actually the other way around, now. Too much chaos, too many moral crises jam packed into ten minutes, too much Remus. Frankly, at this point he was just surprised Virgil hadn’t popped up to yell at him yet. Thomas was considering just getting up and walking away, irrationally hoping that no one would follow, when he remembered something.

“Wait a second. You said only Creativity could switch you guys back, right?”

“Yeppers! And don’t bother calling Roman, he’s still black and blue from reading Youtube comments earlier,” Remus replied cheerfully. Thomas made a mental note to check on Roman once all this was done.

“But you switched roles with Patton,” he continued, frown sliding into a sly smile. “Which means that Patton is now my Creativity – well, part of it, anyway. Which means he can switch you back!” Thomas turned eagerly to his father figure figment.

“Ah, I’m not so sure about that, kiddo.” Patton’s eyes were wide as saucers. “What if tapping into a” – his voice fell to a whisper – “dark power turns me evil. Like Ursula from A Little Mermaid.”

“Is that Ursula’s backstory?” Thomas asked curiously.

“No, actually! The real one is much better,” Remus said. “She almost got burned alive when her village figured out she was part octopus. Good thing her dear brother rescued her. Oh, except he thought she was a monster too, so he banished her to the cesspit of the sea.” Remus’s enthusiastic tone only made his darkened expression the more unnerving.

Thomas shifted uneasily. Once again, he was reminded just how much he didn’t know about what went on in his own head. But then again, Remus had told him, hadn’t he?

The unloved brother from the Genesis.

He began to spiral back down Remus’s guilt trip about responsibility to his Sides. Thankfully his thoughts were interrupted by Patton. “Aw, poor thing! People can be meaner than a bully burning a baby bunny in a Satanic ritual.” What? “Uh, I mean! A stuffed bunny. Anyway, I hope Ursula is okay now.”

“Nope, she died,” Remus informed him. Patton’s lip started to wobble.

“So that’s good news!” Thomas butted in before things could get any more derailed. He’d have time later to worry about sibling rivalry and possible injustice among figments of his imagination. “I mean, Ursula didn’t turn evil from using dark magic. So Patton has nothing to worry about. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please, I need my good old morality back. No one else can beat the top pop.” Thomas smiled at the giggle that got.

“Oh, all right. I’ll give it the old college try.”

Thomas sighed in relief and watched as Patton squeezed his eyes and fists tight, brow furrowing in intense concentration. A moment later he cracked an eye open. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know, tell a joke!” Thomas urged.

“Um…oh! Why can’t a nose be twelve inches long? Because then it’d be a foot!”

Thomas groaned, but he was smiling. Finally, his Sides were back to normal.

“Or my dick!” Remus chirped.

Yeah, normal. The thought was far fonder than it had any right to be.

“See, Patton? There was nothing to worry about. No spooky magical corruption – hey what’s up with your logo?” Thomas pointed at the heart on Patton’s shirt. It had turned upside down, its shape now looking a lot like…well.

Remus gasped in delight. “Awesome! Taking style inspiration from your favorite Creativity, I see.”

“You’re not my favorite Creativity,” Patton said, and Thomas couldn’t help his flinch. But then, “I can’t play favorites with my kids! You’re all perfect just the way you are.”

The side-eye Remus gave Patton was truly impressive. “Perfect, huh? Even when I do this?” Suddenly he was holding what looked kinda like a bouquet of pale, bloody flowers. Then Thomas spotted the fingernails. He watched as the entire handful of severed fingers slid down Remus’s throat and disappeared with a loud slurp.

“Of course!” Patton replied, seemingly unfazed. “No matter what you do, you’re still famILY.”

Okay, that was weird. Patton, not bothered by that sickening gesture? But wait a second – was it sickening? Strangely enough, Thomas found he wasn’t all that bothered by it either. Like some of his aversion to Remus had faded.

The suspicious look didn’t leave Remus’s face, but something about him seemed…calmer, than it had a minute ago. Softer.

Patton looked back at his shirt with a puzzled expression. “That’s funny, I could’ve sworn the heart was right-side up. Maybe I need new glasses!”

“I wouldn’t call that a heart anymore. It’s totally a pair of dingle-dangles.”

“A what?” Thomas said, unable to believe the Duke had actually used a euphemism. And a downright cutesy one, at that. His gaze fell to Remus’s belt.

“My eyes are up here, you saucy minx. And here,” Remus added, pointing to the eyeball on his shoulder.

“No, look,” Thomas said, pointing to the logo on the belt buckle. The crescent moon at the top seemed to have morphed into a smiley face.

Thomas head swiveled between the smiley face and the – uh, inverted heart – several times. He thought back to what Patton had been worried about. Lasting effects of the role reversal. Oh no.

Patton and Remus, both still engrossed by their changed logos, seemed to have the same thought. In voices heavy with resignation, all three of them spoke at the same time.

“Aw, butts.”

[raendown]

It’s still February where we are and no fan gets left behind! @copyninken​ and I both made gifts for the wonderful @kaiyaru​ for the @madatobigiftexchange​! We hope you enjoy! 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 3499 Rated: T+ Summary: Sometimes it's the harebrained schemes that end up working best, though not always in a way you might expect.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Have You Tried Tying Them Together

For his unceasing quest to bring peace Hashirama had been called a good man by many, lauded as a kind individual with the patience of a saint and the innocent heart of a child. Many had tried to repay his kindnesses in countless different ways and he had refused them all with a smile. At the moment, he was regretting that. Hashirama wished dearly that he had taken some of the offers for a free night at this or that onsen, accepted one of the invitations to dinner at so-and-so’s table, something, anything to get him out of the predicament he currently found himself in. Even a man with endless patience grew tired of standing in between his two most precious people.

Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to invite his brother and his best friend out for dango at the same time. He was of course well aware of how poorly they got along but despite all hurdles he‘d encountered Hashirama clung stubbornly to the hope that someday they would see what he was trying to get at and finally realize he had a point to throwing them together like this. They had so much in common. If they would only calm down long enough to talk for two seconds he just knew they would absolutely adore each other as much as he adored them both. Unfortunately they hadn’t calmed down since they entered the dango shop and the owner was starting to look like he couldn’t decide whether to ask them to leave or to cower behind his own apron.

“It’s only right for me to have the honor,” Madara spat. “I’m the eldest.”

“You may be my elder but no one’s ever accused you of being my better,” Tobirama snapped back. “It’s not like you paid for them!”

Not that Hashirama could blame the owner, really. The poor soul was a civilian, woefully unequipped to deal with the killing intent leaking out of both of the men sitting with their Hokage. Sighing deeply, Hashirama solved the argument of who would get the last stick of dango by snatching it up himself and popping it in to his mouth. Truthfully he was already full and it was likely that this last stick of sweets would give him a bellyache but he figured that was better than continuing to sit here and listening to them squabble.

Chewing slowly, mentally giving his stomach a quick pep talk to warn it of the incoming extra food, Hashirama enjoyed the few moments of silence as both Madara and Tobirama watched him eat with matching expressions of chagrin. He knew exactly why they were looking at him like that. Equally competitive, they were both upset that he had just taken away the thing they’d been fighting over, thereby removing any chance for one of them to win the argument. They both detested the very idea of a tie when it came to their quibbles but Hashirama had already had quite enough for one day. In fact, he’d had quite enough to last him several lifetimes and he would be perfectly happy if they would never fight again. However unlikely that was. Since he had a few moments of peace anyway, he distracted himself from the inevitable bellyache by wracking his brain for a way to finally make these two boneheaded men just stop and talk like normal human beings for once.

The owner of the dango stall looked so relieved when they paid and left that Hashirama feared the man might faint. As compensation for the trouble they’d caused, he hurried his two companions away towards the training fields. A brilliant idea just occurred to him and he saw no point in waiting to put it in to action.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure how, the three of them managed to make it all the way to the farthest – and therefore most secluded – training ground without any new arguments cropping up. Oh they glared at each other of course and a few snide comments were tossed around but there was no yelling and Hashirama figured he could count that one as a win.

Upon arriving he spun around to face his brother and his friend and opened his mouth to announce the amazing idea he’d come up with. Before he could even get a single word out he was cut off as Tobirama huffed in snide amusement.

“You better hope he didn’t bring us out here to spar Uchiha. I must say, I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to grind that pudgy nose of yours in to the dirt.” Madara, of course, immediately bristled in response.

“As if you could! Bring it on Senju, I could take you any day!”

“Think so? I think you’re just a lot of big talk.”

“Well I think my nose isn’t pudgy!”

Running his hands down his face with a groan, Hashirama gave in before he could even try. It was easy to see that neither of them were in the mood to listen and he knew all too well how little effect his nagging would have once they actually started growing violent. Informing them of his idea could wait for tomorrow. Or never. Right now it seemed he would have to take action without letting them know what was going on first but that was alright. They were both very smart men, surely they would figure it out on their own.  

Almost as a sign of divine providence Madara had only just stepped closer to Tobirama, getting right up in his face, at just the same moment that Hashirama brought his hands together to mold his chakra. Neither of the men before him had enough time to react before suddenly the ground beneath their feet exploded with thick vines that wrapped about their bodies and trapped them in place – together. As they shouted in surprise the vines thickened and settled in to sturdy beams of wood holding them chest to chest no matter how much they struggled and swore.

With his hand on his hips, beatific smile in place, Hashirama looked at his work with satisfaction. They weren’t very happy about their situation obviously but he didn’t care one single whit about that. He had suffered through enough of their arguments so far. Let them suffer through the end of his patience now. They were going to see the light if he had to smother them both to get them there.

“Anija!” Tobirama hollered, spluttering out a mouthful of Madara’s hair. “Have you gone mad!?”

“What is the meaning of this, Hashirama!” Madara’s face was red with anger, his entire body practically vibrating as he tried to squirm. The wood held him fast but he looked ready to squirm all day if it freed him. It wouldn’t.

“Get me out of here, Anija!”

“No thank you,” Hashirama chirped. “Have fun you two!”

Feeling a lot more cheerful now than he had only half an hour ago, he tucked both hands inside his sleeves and strolled away, humming tunelessly to himself. Tonight was Mito’s turn to make dinner and he wondered if maybe she might be amenable to some ‘light exercise’ before she began cooking. He was so full from the dango that he could certainly do with working off some of the calories and that seemed to him a pleasant way to do so. Perhaps when his belly wasn’t feeling quite so heavy anymore he might check on his two favorite stubborn men but if they still weren’t getting along by then he was quite prepared to leave them out in the cold all night.

Strong shinobi were quite used to that type of thing and his precious people were all very strong shinobi.

Left behind, Madara and Tobirama shouted threats and insults at the man’s retreating back until long after he had passed out of sight. There followed perhaps a single beat of silence after the shouting finally died down before their glares turned to each other, so close their brows were nearly touching and the daggers they were trying to shoot at each other with their eyes were in true danger of piercing skin.

“You’re related to him,” Madara felt compelled to point out.

“Believe me, the second I get out of this mess and kill you he’s my next target.”

“Still experiencing delusions of grandeur? You couldn’t take me even if I had one hand tied behind my back, you frost-bitten stiff-necked worm!”

“Worm? Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“It’s hard to think with your disgusting face so close to mine.”

“Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together they would work better under pressure.”

“Fuck you!”

“Go fuck yourself!”

Scrunching his face in to a bastardized cross between scowl and smirk, Madara lifted one eyebrow just to complete the look. “How would that even work?” he asked.

After a few seconds of blatant staring Tobirama determined that the other man was actually trying to figure out the mechanics of being told to fuck himself. It was like all the fighting energy in his body were put on pause for a moment while he thought hard about something that really didn’t deserve any thought at all. He couldn’t let that stand, of course. If the two of them were going to be tied face to face and he was required to stare at this idiot for kami only knew how long then the attention was bloody well going to stay on him.

“If you like I can draw you a very anatomically correct diagram once we get the hell out of this.” He tried for his usual confident leer and the expression was only mildly ruined by the heat of another body pressed so closely to his own. When was Hashirama coming back?

“Hmph.” Madara turned his nose up, gravity pulling the hair away from his face. “I don’t need any help from you in that department.”

“Which department was that? Learning how to better make a fool of yourself? I’m well aware of your skills there.”

There was no pleasure on earth quite like watching Madara attempt to flail as he usually did without being able to move any of his limbs. Several of the thick vines around them creaked as if in rebuke but none of them loosened so much as an inch. With the strength his brother usually put in to his jutsu, even without meaning to, Tobirama guessed that they could probably squirm and struggle until darkness closed in on them without ever making any progress. If they were going to get out of this they probably needed to work together. Life truly was cruel.

“Stop fidgeting,” he demanded. “We need to put our heads together.”

“I am not fidgeting! Obviously I’m- I’m- just shut up and do something!”

Grateful that at least his shins weren’t being kicked, Tobirama sighed. “That is precisely what I was trying to suggest. Doing something.”

“Then do it!”

“Maybe I would if you would help me!”

“Hmph!”

Dropping his chin back down brought a great deal of Madara's hair cascading between their faces in a most distracting manner but there wasn’t much he could do about it other than blow crossly from the corners of his mouth. Tobirama watched the bow shape his lips made until he realized what he was doing.

“If I know my brother then these are undoubtedly living vines. He has a terrible habit of leaving his chakra behind in everything. And watching. It’s quite invasive, actually.”

“What, so you’re saying he can probably see us right now?” Madara's eyes dipped to the wood, looking scandalized.

“Something like that,” Tobirama agreed. “Not see us exactly but more that they carry his will. It’s difficult to explain. That’s not my point; if we make an effort at least to get along I’m sure that will get us out of this and we can both pretend it never happened.”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.

“Am I so disgusting to you that you can’t stand to even think about me!?” Madara glared as best he could with one eye now completely covered with hair. It was a rather decent look, actually.

“Have we not made our opinions of each other quite clear by now?” Tobirama asked. If he added enough scorn to his voice it might even have sounded close to his usual vitriol. Something must have wavered in his tone however as Madara looked away as though uncomfortable and mumbled something under his breath. Tobirama would have given half his chakra stores to know what thoughts were running through that impossible mind.

Though he waited no immediate answer came, which was probably for the best. Nothing good could possibly come from discussing the truth of how they interacted with each other on a daily basis. There were few things Tobirama thought he would enjoy less than having his motivations for certain behaviors questioned by one of the few people who were smart enough to figure out when he was lying. Madara was far from a stupid man. It was one of the reasons he made a surprisingly effective administrator.

It was also one of the reasons Tobirama found it so amusing when, like now, his cheeks dusted pink as his emotions rapidly overtook his rational sense. Riling him up was only too easy – he always did half the work himself in his own head.

“What do you suggest then?” It took ages for words to come but when they did Madara was all business.

“Do you have any control over your chakra?”

“Listen here Senju–!”

“Because I do not. Anija’s mokuton is capable of chakra blocking properties.” Tobirama leveled the other man with a judging stare. “If you will remember, that is how he was able to assist Mito in capturing the kyuubi.”

“Ah. Right.” Madara subsided, looking almost ashamed of his outburst.

Wishing dearly that he could fiddle with his hands as he so often did when thinking, Tobirama graciously decided he could let that go. No matter how easy it was starting a fight right now would not help either of them.

“So why don’t you think us out of here, genius boy?”

Exceptions could be made to good judgement, however. Tobirama narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t know, idiot, why don’t you do that yourself?”

“Oi!”

And just like that the tentative quiet was broken. Just like every other time they got anywhere close to their own version of reluctant peace it lasted no more than half a minute before the two of them began shouting in each other’s faces again. It was the same old song and dance. Everything led back to violence with them.

Well, it led back to aggression which all too often paved the way for violence. Considering their restricted positions Tobirama hadn’t expected any sort of violence at the moment and watching Madara struggle to free his limbs could have almost convinced him to show a little gratitude to his brother for trapping them so well. Almost. Whatever good will he might have had immediately crumbled to dust when the vines around their bodies shifted ever so slightly to bring them even closer together. It was a clear message from Hashirama that they needed to get along, a message that he would have been much more likely to heed if not for one thing.

Now they were kissing.

Head bowed forward as he tried to butt the Senju annoying him, Madara's face was in just the wrong spot when Tobirama was shoved forward, pressing their lips together with mockingly gentle pressure. Immediately, understandably, both of them froze. To Tobirama’s horror he found himself unable to look away as his mind automatically began cataloguing new and interesting details about a face he tried so hard not to notice on most days.

It was only when Madara's face achieved a very special shade of red unique to him alone that both of them were jolted back in to motion, twisting their faces apart to gasp for air.

“WHAT THE HELL!?” were the man’s predictable first words.

“That clearly wasn’t me!” Tobirama insisted.

“You- you kissed me!”

“I did not!”

Somehow Madara looked even more scandalized. “And you didn’t even mean it!?”

“…what?”

“Cruel! Indecent!” Unaware of the strange looks Tobirama was giving him Madara ranted on in high dudgeon. “It’s terrible enough of you to take advantage of me at such a moment but to mock me for the things I can’t control, I never knew you were so terrible! Just because I have these damnable feelings does not mean I’m going to let you play with me for your own amusement!”

“Feelings?” Shock kept him frozen barely half an inch from the other’s face but Tobirama couldn’t think clearly enough to try for more distance.

His confusion went unnoticed.

“Obviously! Don’t pretend that wasn’t deliberate! If you knew how I felt about you then you could have at least just ignored me instead of seeking me out all the time to be mean! Always so mean and sarcastic!”

“You’re mean and sarcastic too!” he couldn’t help pointing out.

“Well it’s just to throw you off the scent!” Madara swallowed, adding at half the volume, “I don’t deal with emotions very well.”

“Tell me about it,” Tobirama murmured faintly.

For a long time they merely hung suspended and stared at each other again. None of the red had faded at all from Madara's cheeks but in light of these new discoveries Tobirama could finally admit to himself that maybe – maybe­ – he sort of thought it was a cute look. Madara had a lot of cute looks, most of them achieved when he was flailing about reacting poorly to his own emotions just as he’d said.

And wasn’t it just their luck that the exact same thing Tobirama had been doing to guard his own heart, Madara had been doing as well? Sometimes it felt like the two of them were damned to miscommunicate about everything important.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he offered finally. “You don’t mentioned anything about being stupid and I won’t mention anything about being stupid. Got it?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Madara scrunched his face together in confusion.

Rather than waste time explaining Tobirama did as he’d been denying he wanted to do for months, leaning forward that precious half inch and kissing the older man as best he could from such an awkward position. For the short few seconds that it lasted it was nice. Pleasant. Warm and gentle, nothing they had ever dared to be for each other before and everything they had both been quietly dreaming of. Those moments stretched out in to blissful eternity before they were so rudely interrupted as the vines holding them together trembled and released without warning.

They went down together with sharp cries of dismay, the ground rising up to meet them even as the mokuton almost seemed to shrink in to itself and wither. If the wood had a mouth it would not have been surprising to hear it whimper. As it was all that could be heard in the empty training ground was the grumbling of two men not at all happy to have their intimate moment ruined.

“Let’s kill him,” Madara grunted from where he lay sprawled out on his back glaring up at the sky.

“Maybe later,” Tobirama said. “I think we have more important things to talk about first.” He let his head roll to the side, watching Madara do the same and attempting a smile when their eyes met. “My place or yours?”

“Here’s fine.”

With no more warning than that Madara rolled, one leg swinging up and over until he sat astride Tobirama’s hips, leering down at him with all the confidence that put such a delicious swagger in his walk everywhere he went. He didn’t seem particularly worried about the possibility that someone might chance upon them out here in the open but then Tobirama was hardly going to be the one to put a stop to things now. Burying his fingers in all that wild dark hair and pulling their lips back together was a much more interesting use of his time and it also came with the unexpected bonus of hearing a low rolling moan as it rumbled up through Madara's chest.

And as it turned out the man was right. Right here was just fine, a fine place to start channeling their passions in to something they could both enjoy.

On the other side of the village Hashirama sat up in his bed with both arms hugging his own chest, shivering while his wife pet his hair soothingly and crooned in his ear. For the fourth time in a row she asked him what was wrong and finally he managed to swallow past the lump in his throat to answer.

“I felt them kissing!” he cried. “It was horrible!”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

A Brainful Process || Morgan &Rio

@3starsquinn

Cemetery field trip!

(Contains: zombie and animal gore)

Cemeteries were safer to visit in Morgan’s idle house than the woods. In cemeteries, most of the company was resting six feet under, and those that weren’t had a tendency to wave at Morgan as she walked by, content to leave her alone, one still soul to another. Some even warned her when it was better to turn back home. There’s a girl with the stake that comes by around now, a ghost might say. Or, we don’t like you that much. Cemeteries were safer, yes, and yet somehow tonight Morgan still found herself tackled to the ground, wrestling with a one legged zombie who, for all her wild hunger, really knew how to use her strength to her advantage. “Uh--a little help, maybe?” She called, appealing to one of the spirits nearby. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” the old man said, and drifted off to watch her struggle somewhere else. “Okay, okay, ok--ow!” The zombie woman bit into her shoulder, moaning with hunger. Morgan kicked, trying to knock her off balance enough to shift the weight between them like Mina had taught her, but it was a lot harder when the opponent didn’t have much of a mind for sensing pain. Morgan set her jaw and lashed out to struggle with the zombie woman again. “We got this,” she grunted. “You’re gonna be fine, you just gotta stop trying to eat me!”

Cemeteries had scared Orion far before he knew ghosts and spirits existed. He supposed he always knew they were real. Growing up learning about werewolves and Fae made pretty much anything believable. If his parents had bothered telling him about Santa, Rio might still think he was real. But he had always thought of ghosts in the more creepypasta YouTube sense. That they haunted others. They were crazy stories that made things colder and flipped on lights. Not the kind that possessed other humans and drained their life force. But ever since Rio had learned about the Dybbuks and other evil spirits, Rio hadn’t been able to get them off his mind. Rio began pulling books about ghosts and spirits. The more he read, the more intrigued he became with some of the accounts of sightings. Winston and Ricky must have really gotten to Rio. Without even realizing it, on his way home that night he was taking a detour and heading towards the cemetery. For no other reason than pure stupidity, if Rio had to guess. Once he was within range however, he started hearing voices. The hairs on his arms stood straight up and he immediately began shaking. At least, until he realized that the voices weren’t ghosts or spirits but a person. A person that sounded like they were in danger. Rio picked up his pace, beginning to job before breaking into a sprint towards the cemetery, stopping only when he finally spotted the source of the voice, a woman being attacked by another. “Hey!” Rio yelled, trying to sound more dangerous than he actually was, “Let her go!” Rio began moving towards the two slowly, freezing when he finally realized who the victim of the evening was, “Professor?”

The sound of another voice made Morgan’s dead body go stiff. Fuck. The last thing she needed was human company, or some hunter about to stumble upon a two-for-one deal. “W-we’re fine!” She grunted, finally grappling the zombie woman to the ground and pinning her down. “She’s--she’s just---uh--” Morgan struggled for a good lie. The woman was in literal pieces, her skin sagging off her bones and pockets of bare muscle spreading bursts of dark, grotesque color. And the person was coming closer. “Having an attack! Nothing to see here--Rio?”

Morgan saw him through the edge of her vision and didn’t know whether to be relieved or agitated. She hadn’t told Rio the ‘sudden loss in her family’ that explained away two weeks worth of missed classes had been her own. She hadn’t told any of her students. Funny enough, that still wasn’t a conversation she felt like having. But there wasn’t going to be any fooling him. He was too much of a supernatural scholar to not see the obvious, at least when it came to the woman thrashing and groaning under her. “Hey!” She said brightly, panic tight in her smile. “How weird and amazing to run into you here! I’m fine, she’s fine, we’re both fine right now, completely. But you should really stay back and um, maybe grab some rope? And some fresh brains?” She was convinced, maybe falsely, that she had enough confidence to sell everything she was saying without the need for questions. Then the zombie woman rocked against her weight and threw her off, driven by the pull of fresh meat.

For a long moment, Orion just stood from a distance and stared at Morgan and the woman clawing at her. This didn’t make any sense. Why was Morgan being so casual right now? Was this some sort of fever dream brought on by the lack of sleep? “Uh” Rio hummed, drawing it out for far longer than any of them needed. “Both fine. Right.” He realized, maybe many beats too late, that he had still not moved from his spot. Until now, he had stared at the sight as if it was a horror scene in a movie. “Brains?” Rio asked, touching at his head instinctively before realizing that Morgan probably had a rope and brains here. Because this was a zombie. A zombie. A ZOMBIE? It took this long for the fear to finally rush into Rio’s body and he immediately started fidgeting, the usual skin crawling feeling worming its way through his body. “Oh my god. A zombie! I’ve never met a zombie! I’m going to do something now.” Rio spoke aloud, as if that was going to finally motivate his body to follow the commands. Apparently it worked, his feet finally inching across the grass and towards the two. “What do you want me to do with these things once I have them?”

Morgan’s thin smile fractured with dismay. As much as she was relieved Rio wasn’t some guns a blazing hunter trying to get more goo for their collection. But she didn’t know if this was really the time for scholarly curiosity either. Maybe more like run and take action time. Move faster NOW time. Morgan dove for the zombie again, tackling her to the ground and pressing down with all her weight. She looked up at Rio, pleading for his help. She could keep the zombie pinned down for now, but she wouldn’t be able to help the dead woman with just her hands alone. And, shit--of course Rio wouldn’t have anything on him. He wasn’t Kaden, for crying out loud. Morgan looked around them, mind racing to keep up, to stay ahead of any panic. Maybe this was the time for scholarly curiosity. “The plan!” She said, forcing as much confidence into her bright voice as possible. “The plan is you...find something that will do instead of rope. Um...your belt! And uuh…” She looked around her with dismay. “My belt!” It was a lot daintier, meant for her small waist as decoration rather than supporting any weight. “And we are going to bind the zombie as tightly as we can. Because, fun fact: zombies have a much higher pain threshold than humans! Whatever would hurt for you won’t hurt for them, so that’s not something to worry about when they’re...like this.” She swallowed thickly and forced another smile as the zombie rocked and struggled under her. “When her limbes are secure, we’ll get her some of the food from my bag--” what was supposed to have been her lunch, “--and give her some of that. And then...more, probaby. From...somewhere else. I’m not...actually sure from where yet, but--fun zombie fact 2: decomposition and ‘rabid’ behavior is a symptom of starvation and not, necessarily, the zombie’s natural state! With sustainable access to food, your average zombie isn’t much different than a human, by outward appearances anyway.” Now if they could work on this together without Rio wondering too hard about how she knew all this, it might actually be easy. Or at least, not hard.

Okay, obviously it was clear that Morgan was preoccupied right now. Trying to hold back the woman- er uh the zombie from munching on either of them. Ignoring the swelling excitement as well as the far more palpable fear that was building inside of him, Orion tried to put aside any jitters and listen to Morgan’s instructions. He was lucky he had worn jeans today instead of the usual joggers or track pants, and that he was embarrassingly skinny for his age and height, so any pair of jeans that he wore usually required a belt. He pulled the belt free, hooking his pinky around a belt loop to avoid his jeans dropping. God, that would be embarrassing. “Okay uh- my belt is good. And your belt is uh- still attached to you.” Rio called, still standing a few feet back. He was not incredibly comfortable with the idea of undoing his teacher’s belt, but he supposed there were… strange circumstances.

“This is great!” Rio tried remaining positive, his voice cracking at the end of his sentence. Although Rio greatly appreciated the information on Zombies, a species he had not done much study on. He was familiar with a couple of culture’s depiction of zombies in their own lore, but from what Morgan was describing, they differed quite a bit. “I am very happy to help and I am totally going to keep my cool during this time.” Rio said aloud, probably trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Morgan. He slowly inched towards them, holding his arms out with his belt gripped tightly in both hands. “Do uh- you want me to do this? Or you? Is the whole thing about a zombie bite still true?”

Jeepers, this was going to be tricky. The zombie woman was beginning to thrash, dragging her and Morgan across the ground inch by inch. The closer Rio got, the more she wriggled her head, gnashing her rotting teeth. Morgan shifted position, pressing her knee down into the woman’s back. This was really not very seemly, but she couldn’t think of another way that would keep the zombie from hurting anyone long enough to feed properly. “We got this, we got this,” she murmured, still racing for ideas. “We got this!” She declared. “You are doing a great job, Rio! Just grab her legs and I’ll get the arms, and we’ll bind them up together. No worries!” She grabbed one of the zombie’s arms, then the other, wrestling against the woman’s frustration. “But, uh, yeah, about the bite. Fun fact, that’s--fuck!” The zombie woman’s teeth bit into her hand, grazing the cuff she used to hide her real scar. Morgan finished wrangling the arms with a grimace and whipped off her belt to fasten her arms together so the wrists would come more easily. “The bite thing is real,” she said, looking down at the wound in her hand. “But don’t freak out, Rio, okay? It doesn’t matter if she bites me, it’s you I’m worried about. Uh, get her wrists and ankles together?”

Orion could do this. He could totally do this. He did not love the idea of grabbing onto this woman, zombie or no. But Morgan seemed convinced that she would not feel the pain and that they were not going to harm her. That was what Rio wanted right? What was some tying and gagging if it meant helping her and others not get hurt? That was totally something that Rio could get behind. Grabbing onto her legs was surprisingly easy. Hunter strength and all made wrangling the woman’s legs surprisingly easy. At least, until the zombie bit Morgan. Rio dropped the legs immediately and began screaming his head off. At that moment, he wasn’t sure what was happening. Would Morgan turn into a zombie? How fast was the process? Was there something he could do to stop it? Rio had seen some zombie shows. How they amputated the body part that had been bitten to stop the spread. Even the idea made Rio light headed. He definitely couldn’t do that. Finally, Rio contained himself again, grappling the legs again and holding them. What the heck did Morgan mean that she wasn’t worried about herself? Was she immune to the bite somehow? “I- I don’t- uhhhhh” Rio’s brain broke for a moment, but he forced himself out of the slump. Grabbing onto the woman’s wrists and easily pulling them back to meet the ankles and wrapping his belt around them. “Oh god- Oh god. I hate this. I’m really bad at this. I think I’m going to puke. Are you okay???”

“Rio! You cannot puke on this woman!” Morgan shrieked. Oh dear. This wasn’t calm. This was the opposite of calm. Could she breathe? Was that ever going to work again? She missed the time when all she had to do was tell herself to breathe and her body would start to right itself back into something right and normal. But the quiet was too great and there was too much happening at once. “I’m fine! I’m not even bleeding!” Mostly because she didn’t have any circulation. “Just--just hold her steady and don’t turn into a zombie!” She scrambled over to her bag and prised open a tupperware full of brains, a blend, as it happened, but even a smidgen of person in there probably wasn’t going to get this woman back to normal. They’d have to take her somewhere better, or get better to her. Morgan stuck the tupperware under the woman’s nose and watched, grimacing, as she moaned and wrangled herself closer to fit as much of it in her mouth as possible. Morgan sat back and deflated. That would keep her busy for, what, five minutes? “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am fine though. I’m…” Morgan shook her head and sid off the cuff, showing Rio her old scar, a perfect oval in the shape of Remmy’s mouth. “I’m already bitten and dead, Rio. Say, you didn’t happen to bring a car here, did you?”

“I’m not going to puke on her!” Orion yelled back, unsure why he was even still yelling. Stress. He totally blamed stress. He needed to calm down. Take a chill pill or something. That was all thrown out the window when Morgan tried to reassure him by letting him know that she wasn’t bleeding. “How are you not bleeding?” Rio was right back to freaking out now. But Morgan seemed more together than Rio was. She was in the right state of mind to fish out something from her bag and give it to the tied up woman. “Is that… brains?” Rio asked, the most calm he had been since showing up here. He examined the mush curiously. Everything seemingly clicked into place when Morgan showed off what looked like an old, already healed scar. She was dead? “You’re… a zombie?” Rio muttered aloud, needing to hear the words to actually begin processing it. A moment of fear passed through him as he considered that Rio had just willingly walked into being part of their midnight snack. But he pushed the thought away quickly. That couldn’t be. This was his professor. They had talked about books and the supernatural together. “Woah. You’re nothing like the old Haitian story of zombies.” His head tilted curiously as he examined his teacher to try to pick out any defining details. By all accounts, she looked human to him. “Hmm… interesting.” Rio nodded, and then grimaced at the next question, “About that… I don’t really have a car right now. It belongs to my parents and I’m not really talking to them right now and- y’know what? It’s a whole thing. Clearly we have other things going on right now. Maybe I can call my friend Blanche. Or one of my roommates! Maybe they can help us? Or uh… Where are we taking her anyways?”

“Wow, kid, that’s really one heck of a compliment,” Morgan deadpanned. “But...yes. I got hurt really bad and I died. Two months ago now. That’s why I missed so much school towards the end of the semester. I died, Rio.” She looked down at the woman gnashing her teeth at the brain bits in the tupperware. “But I have people who help take care of me. I can stay fed easily. I have a home. I have a girlfriend that loves me. I even have magic pills for my new zombie physiology that help manage all the depression I’ve got over dying. I don’t know which of those this woman is missing, but whatever it is, she’s still a person. She’s as much of a person as I am. Does that make sense?” She looked at him earnestly. Rio was a good kid. Rio didn’t believe in hurting people. He had to get it. Maybe it was hard to see the woman in her own right. Even Morgan couldn’t do that. She didn’t know her name or if she was happy before she died or how long she had been dragging herself out of bed. She could only see her pain. She had to be in so much pain to have sunk this far. The days of starving had to have been excruciating. With this kind of decay, maybe it was even weeks. “I was thinking of getting her to the butcher’s, but I don’t know if their stock will be enough for her. It’s worth a shot, if we can keep her from getting noticed. “Unless you wanna do a run? You got venmo, Rio?” She asked. The brains were almost gone, and of the two of them, Rio was the one most in danger. And this wasn’t his problem, now that she was mostly subdued. “You don’t have to, you know. I can take this from here.”

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say at this moment. Clearly, Orion had no idea what he was doing. He had grown up knowing about the supernatural. He loved learning about them and yet despite this he still had just barely scratched the surface. He knew nothing about Zombies, or real zombies at least. “Wow. I’m uh- sorry? That doesn’t sound like a good thing. But you don’t look dead.” Rio tried, he didn’t think that helped redeem him. “Okay that was probably a bad thing to say too. But despite all that… I’m really glad that you have a good support system, y’know? That must have been a really difficult thing to go through and… well I’m really glad things seem okay now. At least, hopefully everything’s okay.” And Morgan seemed dead set on helping this woman right now. And though the woman tied up seemed a little… murdery right now, Rio believed that with some help she could end up like Morgan seemed now. Completely put together. “I believe you. And I’m in. Let’s help her. Uh- I can run somewhere and get stuff… I don’t know what to get. But tell me and I’ll figure something out.”

“Well, you can tell that to my necrosis whenever I wait too long to eat my wheaties.” Morgan mumbled. You can test my pulse too, if you want.” She held out her hand, the bite standing out as a heavy shadow on her pale skin. “And no, you don’t need to be sorry--” But Rio was. He was just a kid doing his best with problems way bigger than himself. “But thank you. I know you mean it well.” She stared at the woman writhing in front of them again. She could see, too clearly now, what hunters did. A raving thing, a disaster they needed to triage before it got out of hand, a monster… “I can venmo you. A hundred dollars so should be able to buy out the brains at the butcher shop, whatever other weird organs they’ve got. That’s a start.” And while he was out she could maybe scrounge up a deer. They wandered through near dusk in little clusters, and it was the time of year when fauns were left to hide in the tall grass while mothers hunted. If she was quick and lucky, she’d be able to nab one for this woman to have. And maybe then, maybe if they were lucky, she could be okay. Morgan wrenched a hand through her hair and took out her phone to send the money over.

Orion laughed, happy that despite the horrible events that had clearly befallen his teacher without him even knowing about it, she could maintain some level of humor. “Don’t worry. I believe you. It’s uh- definitely not my first rodeo with the supernatural.” Even if he didn’t quite understand, he did believe. “Um right. I got it. Give me…” Rio paused, checking his phone for the time, “Twenty minutes. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

One of the good things about being a hunter? Superhuman endurance. Rio was definitely not in shape, but he could run for a while without having to stop. From here, he was pretty sure that it would be more efficient to get a car. If he could run home and borrow Ricky’s truck then he could get to the butcher shop and back without too much trouble. So he ran towards their house as fast as he possibly could, not letting anything distract him.

It worried Morgan how much animals still trusted her. The faun was too scared of the moaning woman six yards ahead to move. Morgan was able to settle down near it, still as death, and when it came over to sniff her out of curiosity, she took its neck and snapped it. The head dangled limp from the body like a toy that had lost all its stuffing. She carried it back to the woman and did not have to wait for her to wriggle and strain against her bonds trying to eat it. Morgan took out a knife and sliced the creature open neatly so she didn’t have to fight. Then she walked away enough yards so the smell of it wouldn’t compel her to steal a starving woman’s meal and licked blood and skin from her hands.

When Rio finally returned, Morgan was perched atop a large cross marker, stained with blood for all that she’d tried to keep herself clean. “Just unwrap everything for her and drop it where she can reach,” she called. “And then, you know, come over here so you don’t get bitten.”

Buying brains from a butcher was perhaps the most uncomfortable Orion had ever been. Despite this incredibly odd request, the butcher didn’t seem to think much of it at all. Which could only mean that this was not an uncommon request that he received. Which probably implied that Morgan and this woman were not the only zombies in town. It hadn’t occurred until now that Morgan could have been the one that turned this woman. But no. His Professor wouldn’t do that. Not unless she had to for some reason. Right?

Rio drove back to Morgan mostly in silence. He hated driving the truck. He didn’t trust himself with a big car. Plus he could barely see while driving the thing and hated ruining Ricky’s seat and mirror placement. But desperate times. Rio parked and hopped out, extending his arm so he could hold the brains at a distance from himself. “I’m here!” Rio yelled out, stopping when he noticed that Morgan had blood all over her shirt. Oh no. “What happened? Are you okay?” Rio asked. Despite this, maybe because he was too trusting just as Athena had always insulted him with, he followed Morgan’s instructions. Unwrapping the brains and tossing it to the tied up woman before hopping away and standing close to his professor. He could smell the blood that stained her. It was fresh.

“It’s okay, Rio,” Morgan said. “What do you think I’m gonna do, die again?” She smirked. A beat later, maybe too late, she wondered if that was maybe a bad joke. Rio knew about the supernatural, but maybe not about death. He hadn’t studied zombies before in his big secret library. He barely seemed comfortable with hauling brains and organs over from the butcher. Morgan sighed with a grimace and tried again. “I killed a faun for her. I didn’t think that was something you needed to be around to see. Brains sustain zombies best, but freshly dead meat is…” Her stomach grumbled, twisting. “Like candy on Halloween. You can’t not have any.” She looked down at him, still clinging to her perch. Her fingers had worn notches into the rock, worrying at the grain to keep from breaking off Bambi’s leg and going to town herself. “It’s just how we’re made,” she said quietly. “When the mother comes back to see if her faun is still around, I’ll try to get her too, if our friend isn’t back to herself yet.” She hesitated a moment, wondering if they had crossed into over sharing territory, if this was already too much for one troubled kid to bear in one night. “You don’t have to watch, or be around for any of that,” she said. “This is just another Tuesday for me, but it was a lot to get used to. It still is. You’ve been a big help, though. If all this turns out okay, it’s gonna be because of you. Because you cared.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “You uh...you can ask me questions, if you have any. I know all this is...strange. And lived experience can tell you certain things a book can’t.” She offered him a smile, her fear weighing on her softness. Please don’t think less of me for this.

Orion laughed nervously. Was that Morgan being offended? Or Morgan making a joke. A few seconds later and Morgan smirked at Rio, hopefully confirming that it had been a joke instead. “A faun.” Rio repeated, mostly to himself. He was still processing. Rio appreciated the information. He was taking mental notes, making sure to remember all of the information that he was learning about zombies. Maybe he would head back to the building tomorrow, start digging through his books for some information on the undead. The whole thing seemed like Alain’s side, but Rio knew better than to trust a hunter’s point of view when it came to the supernatural. Rio knew from personal experience that those teachings were biased. “I don’t- I usually don’t do that well around blood. But uh- I don’t want to make you do this stuff by yourself.” Morgan opened the board for questions. And boy, did Rio have questions. Way more questions than he possibly knew how to order and ask. “I- I have questions. But right now seems like the wrong time, y’know? With her… in the state she is in.” He sighed. Just another person in this town that has been through some awful experience that Rio wasn’t able to help prevent.

Morgan nodded and watched the woman eat. It might’ve been faster to let her have her hands back, but Morgan remembered the complete haze around her mind when she woke into her feeding frenzy. She hadn’t even known her own name, much less ‘eating people bad.’ If the wrong person had been in the room, she probably would’ve done everything she could to tear them to bits. “Anyone tell you lately what a good kid you are?” She asked. It was a rhetorical question, but she hoped nonetheless that someone was encouraging his generosity. Even if he could probably stand to get less squeamish. In time, the groans of the woman changed. Morgan gestured for Rio to stay back and made her way slowly over.

There was hardly anything left of the faun, but just enough that Morgan couldn’t stop herself from reaching into its ruined skull and scooping out its small black eyes and the thin tissue of its cheek muscle to munch on. She knelt down near the woman, still working the flesh in her mouth. “Hey,” she said, gently as she could with her mouth half full. “Can you talk? Are you good now?” The woman groaned and dashed herself into the red stained grass, angling her mouth for the rest of the faun. “Okay! Not feeling the impulse control. That’s okay! But I’m gonna need like...one intelligible word before you get this carcass.”

“Mmmhh. Aaarr...oh..k-kay.”

Blessed universe she was okay.

Morgan went around and loosened her bonds enough for her to wriggle free and stepped back as she held the faun and the scraps of flesh she hadn’t devoured yet as if they were all the treasure in the world. “You...shouldn’t...have done this,” she panted.

“I don’t see why not, Morgan replied. “What’s your name?”

The woman sucked the last remnants of life from the faun’s ribs and reached for a scattering of brain bits to shove into her mouth. “Ashley,” she said at last. “I didn’t--” She paused to swallow. As she wiped the mess from her chin she caught sight of the blood and mess on her hands, matching Morgan’s and then some.  “I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said through gritted teeth. “Not any of this, you idiots.” And then she was sprinting downhill, stumbling and falling over her own feet but never stopping, the dead animal still tucked in her arms. Morgan reached for her, but caught only the edge of her torn hiking vest. It fell right off, like it had been waiting to all along.

“It hurts sometimes, being like this, Rio,” she said, hanging her head as Ashley disappeared from sight. “Even when you have everything you need, it can still hurt.” There wasn’t any point in tracking her down again, not when Rio could get hurt, and he had done so much already. She willed herself to look up and gave him the saddest apologetic smile. “Sorry you got sucked into this. What were you up to before anyway?”

Orion felt the heat burning his cheeks as the blush came on. Good kid. They weren’t unfamiliar words, not anymore. But they still warmed him each time he heard them. He supposed being starved for acceptance and praise did that to a kid. “Uh- I get told that more so recently than ever before. But uh- Thank you.” Whether or not she was expecting an answer, Rio thought it would be rude to just not thank her for the compliment.

Over time, Rio witnessed first hand how the almost primal hunger seemed to die down from the woman. Slowly, her eating became less frantic and more of that of a human that had not eaten in days. Morgan was fearless, strolling right up to her. Though he supposed death probably helped to quell many of the fears that Rio felt right now.

The zombie- Ashley- seemed confused. Scared, even. And despite what the two had done to help her, Ashley took off the moment she was comprehensive and scurried off down the hill, leaving Rio and Morgan by themselves. And all of that fear and anguish that Rio could see in Ashley’s face, must have been similar to what Morgan had been through. Her words were raw, her smile doing nothing to mask the sadness or pain present in her voice.  This was her life now. Something she was forced to deal with in order to stay alive. Or re-alive, which wasn’t actually a word but would have to apply for this situation. “You helped her. Even though she couldn’t see it right now… you just protected people from potentially getting hurt. And you protected her from making a terrible mistake. That’s… incredible.” Rio breathed, realizing only now that he had been holding his breath the entire time. “I was just at the old Scribe building, heading home for the night when I heard the noises outside the cemetery.”

“Stars, I hope so,” Morgan sighed. She didn’t feel like she had done much. She had hoped to at least talk to someone else like her for a little longer, to ask what she really needed to get by for longer than a day or two. Who did she have? How had she starved so badly? All she had to go on was one torn up hiking vest and a name. She pushed the thought of Ashley to the back of her mind. Maybe she could put out a call online or ask the ghosts in the cemetery to keep an eye out, just in case she turned up here again or...something. But for now she was as good as lost.

Morgan exhaled. Without the need for air, her body retained most of its tension from the past hour until she worked consciously at it, slumping and rolling her neck and shoulders and arms. “You helped too, Rio. I wouldn’t have been able to manage her by myself. Come on,” she urged gently. She held out an arm, beckoning him close, imagining a one armed hug to calm his nerves. Then she saw the blood on her hands and thought better on it. She let it fall limp at her side and wiped it down on her skirt. “I appreciate that you tried. That counts for something.  Let’s get you home, okay?”

[sachigram]

Hearts Like Ours Chapter 13

((click here to read on ao3!)

Shizuo grumbles as he wakes to squirming against his side. The room is still dark and cold, and he and Izaya are nestled in the soft bedding, tangled in each other. Shizuo blinks more into consciousness and tugs Izaya firmly against him, noticing Izaya is trembling and whimpering in his sleep.

“Oi. Flea.” Shizuo shakes him a bit, not wanting to startle him. Izaya has been much better about these nightmares lately, but this one is clearly something frightening. Izaya's face is scrunched in pain and fear, and Shizuo hates it. As gently as he can, he shakes Izaya once more.

When Izaya's eyes open, they're wide with panic. He shoots up in bed, away from Shizuo, his breath coming in ragged pants as he curls into himself and hides his face from Shizuo. Izaya's first instinct in his most vulnerable moments is to hide, to save face. Shizuo hates it as much as he hates any other bad habit of Izaya's, but instead of pushing forward, he sits and waits for Izaya to move or to say something.

“I'm sorry,” Izaya says at last, his voice small and muffled.

“Don't apologize to me for nightmares,” Shizuo says, reaching out very gently and touching Izaya's shoulder. Izaya flinches, but then he relaxes, his face slowly lifting from his arms.

“Are you implying I should apologize for something else?” Izaya asks, his usual lilt still missing from his playful words. Shizuo snorts.

“As if you're actually sorry for anything you do.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Izaya slowly uncurls his body, his breaths coming easier. He moves closer, worming his way into Shizuo's arms, and Shizuo gladly pulls him closer, one of his hands going into Izaya's hair, his other arm wrapped snugly around Izaya to keep him where he belongs. Izaya hides his face into Shizuo's neck, his arms and legs wrapping around Shizuo entirely.

“Want to talk about it?” Shizuo asks.

“Mmm. It wasn't particularly interesting.” Izaya hums, the vibrations tickling Shizuo's throat. “You smell good.”

Shizuo grins. “Oh, yeah?”

“I'm glad you've finally started to use my body wash. Whatever you were using before didn't compliment you at all.”

“I can't afford all your bullshit. I just use yours when mine runs out.”

“Taking advantage of my high-class lifestyle, Shizu-chan? How very basic of you,” Izaya all but purrs, his lips brushing at Shizuo's skin when he talks. Shizuo growls and noses into his dark hair, inhaling Izaya's unique scent that's always driven him crazy.

“As if you don't take advantage of me being around. It's no secret everyone's scared of you now that I'm living here.” Izaya doesn't meet clients at the apartment anymore, and Namie mostly works from home, though she does stop by more often than Shizuo would like. Most people don't even want to be around Shizuo and his rage, which makes it all the more bizarre that Izaya does.

“I do take advantage of you,” Izaya agrees. “You've finally noticed.”

“You're insane,” Shizuo growls, a groan escaping him when Izaya positions himself so he can grind down into Shizuo's lap.

“You like me being insane,” Izaya murmurs, lifting his head and brushing his lips against Shizuo's, who immediately yanks Izaya closer, his hand lifting to Izaya's chin to pry his mouth open and force his tongue inside. The noise Izaya makes sets fire to Shizuo's blood, makes him blind with desire and want so strong he'd destroy anyone and everything to get it. Izaya loves Shizuo's strength, his temper. Shizuo doesn't get it at all, but like fuck he's complaining.

“Izayaaaaaaaaa...” Shizuo growls again, pulling Izaya down against his dick and watching Izaya's eyes slide closed, his mouth opening on a moan that Shizuo muffles with his tongue. He nips Izaya's lip, draws blood.

“Monster,” Izaya breathes, rolling his hips to meet Shizuo's every thrust, his fingernails sinking into Shizuo's shoulders.

“You like it,” Shizuo grumbles, tossing Izaya's words back at him as well as he can with a sex muddled, half-asleep brain. Izaya laughs breathlessly.

“I do. I'm hopelessly addicted to your angry sex, Shizu-chan, I hope that's not a problem.”

“Out of your mind,” Shizuo reiterates. Sometimes he actually worries about how crazy Izaya is, but it's worked out well for them both so far. No one else would attempt anything like this with Shizuo. No one else would taunt him and drive him wild on purpose. It's always been Izaya.

Shizuo barely bothers with prepping Izaya. He fucks Izaya so often, before they went to sleep, in fact, and Izaya really gets off harder if it hurts a little bit. Shizuo is always careful not to hurt Izaya in a way that actually lasts, but he has no doubt if he did, Izaya would be ecstatic about it. Izaya has those dreams, the ones where Shizuo is actually a monster trying to kill him, but Izaya says the monster doesn't wear Shizuo's face anymore. It's something else in his head, and he isn't and never has been afraid of Shizuo. That alone makes it impossible not to cave and give Izaya everything he asks for, which is always more.

Damn insatiable flea.

As soon as Shizuo slides inside Izaya, he's setting a rough pace, pounding Izaya into his expensive sheets and relishing every gasp, every moan Izaya gives him. Shizuo bites at Izaya's neck, marking him. Izaya doesn't complain about it anymore because he says it's just like a beast to mark his territory for everyone to see, and Shizuo can't deny that seeing Izaya's skin peppered with bruises and bite marks fills him with a possessive satisfaction.

Izaya comes first, his entire body clenching around Shizuo's as his eyes roll back, his mouth dropping open. It's really the only time Izaya doesn't seem to be thinking, but of course Shizuo wouldn't be shocked if the blissed out bastard was still plotting while getting his brains fucked out. Shizuo hisses when Izaya tightens around his dick, Izaya's body trembling almost uncontrollably in the aftermath of his orgasm, and Shizuo buries himself as deeply as he can go while he comes, hovering over Izaya so he can watch Izaya's expression as he's filled up.

Izaya gasps, arching under Shizuo and fitting against his body. “Shizu-chan...!”

Shizuo collapses onto Izaya, licking into his mouth and kissing him deeply, languidly, until he feels Izaya relaxing under him, clearly ready to sleep once more.

“Not yet...” Izaya murmurs when Shizuo starts to pull out. Shizuo complies, as he always does. It's not uncommon for Izaya to want him like this for a while longer. They've both fallen asleep before still connected, and likely will tonight as well. Izaya can be downright cuddly when he chooses to be. It's something Shizuo never would've expected, but he loves it. He settles over Izaya, who is using him as a blanket by this point, and Shizuo buries his nose into the softness of the pillow and inhales Izaya's scent as he falls asleep.

When he wakes again, he expects Izaya to already be up and about, as is usually the case. To his surprise, Izaya is next to him, propped on his elbow, grinning down at Shizuo and looking entirely smug.

“Wha...time 's it?” Shizuo mumbles, lifting a hand to wipe crusted drool off his chin.

“Oh, I don't know. I only just woke up as well. You were saying my name,” Izaya says.

“Must've been a bad dream,” Shizuo huffs.

“It sounded like you were moaning my name, Shizu-chan.” Izaya continues. “What kind of dream were you having?”

“Really?” Shizuo asks, narrowing his eyes at Izaya. “We have sex all the time, and you think me having a sex dream about you is something I'd be embarrassed about?”

“So it was a sex dream! How mortifying for you, Shizu-chan. I knew you wanted me all the time while you're conscious, but asleep too? You really are insatiable, you know.”

“I'm insatiable? You realize you're so greedy for my dick that you hardly even let me pull out anymore? You pitch a fit every time.”

“So then don't do that,” Izaya says with finality. He rolls over Shizuo, hovering over him. “I already told you I was addicted to your angry sex. Does it make you happy to know you've done that to me?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says easily, grinning up at him.

“No one else would ever compare now,” Izaya says wistfully. “I'll have to cancel my group orgy later this week.”

“As if anyone would come here. They know I'm here. They know I'm fucking you.”

“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you, Shizu-chan, my plans were to poison you, and then have an orgy. But I decided against it, so it's in your best interest not to eat the mochi ice cream in the freezer.”

“You got mochi ice cream?” Shizuo asks with excitement. Izaya doesn't like sweets, so it has to be for Shizuo. Izaya smirks down at him.

“Yes. It's to die for, aren't you listening?”

“As if you'd poison me. I wouldn't die anyway,” Shizuo says, battling with himself about whether he wants to fuck Izaya again and then go get the ice cream, or whether he wants to carry Izaya to the kitchen, taste the ice cream, and then fuck Izaya there.

“I know.” Izaya sighs, sounding wistful again. “I'll never be rid of you.” Shizuo tries to pull him down to kiss him, but Izaya swats him away. “No, your breath stinks. My breath stinks! We aren't doing this now.”

“Fine,” Shizuo says, his mind made up. He rolls out of bed and goes straight to the freezer, happy when he sees different boxes of flavors, and he pops an entire strawberry mochi into his mouth, chewing it like it's not freezing cold. He tears into the red bean box next.

Izaya enters the kitchen fully dressed and looking perfect as always, and he grins at Shizuo, who is leaned over the counter, five opened boxes of ice cream in front of him.

“You're such a savage. Are those all the boxes? Are you eating every one of them for breakfast?” Izaya asks, moving towards him. His eyebrows lift. “Are you making coffee?”

“Yeah, coffee's for you,” Shizuo says while munching on a chocolate mochi. “There are too many flavors to decide on one. So I'm trying them all.”

“You're doing more than 'trying'.” Izaya flits about to get a mug, his oat milk, NO sugar, Shizuo notes with a wrinkled nose. Izaya likes the bitterness of black coffee, but he says he likes the underlying flavor of oat milk. To Shizuo, oat milk tastes like water.

“Aren't you going to eat anything?” Shizuo asks as he puts the opened boxes back into the freezer. He watches Izaya hop onto the counter and blow on the coffee, steam swirling over his eyes.

“No time. I have an appointment.”

“You could take something with you,” Shizuo says, gesturing to the bag of bagels next to Izaya's thigh. “Those are portable.”

“I can't go meet Shiki-san with my breath smelling like onions, Shizu-chan.”

“Then maybe buy regular bagels?”

“Regular bagels are boring.”

Shizuo huffs and moves to stand in front of Izaya, who spreads his legs to make room for him. Shizuo grips at his thighs, glares into his eyes.

“You're always on the go, so you should have stuff to carry with you. I would've made breakfast if I knew you had an appointment,” Shizuo says.

“Who knew what a worrywart you are?” Izaya asks, his eyes rolling. But his smile is bright, and Shizuo can tell he's delighted by the attention. “You made me coffee. That's good enough.”

“You're too skinny. There's barely anything to grab.” Shizuo clenches at Izaya's thigh to demonstrate, and Izaya's breath catches.

“You've never complained before.” Izaya sips at his coffee, his eyes darkening as he looks at Shizuo.

“Why are you dressed?” Shizuo reaches for the button of Izaya's pants, growls when Izaya swats his hands away. “You think you can leave before I've had you?”

“I repeat, insatiable. You're insatiable.” Izaya hops off the counter, takes a deep gulp of the still hot coffee, and opens the cabinet to get his portable coffee mug. Shizuo wraps himself around Izaya from behind, noses into his hair. “Shizu-chan.”

“Tell Shiki-san you'll be late,” Shizuo murmurs, pressing his hips against Izaya's ass, his fingers trailing under the fabric of Izaya's shirt.

“As if I could do that! You're—!” Izaya gasps as he's lifted, Shizuo turning him around and pressing him against the counter as if Izaya was nothing more than stuffed animal. Izaya really doesn't weigh much of anything. Shizuo kisses him hungrily, tasting the bitterness of the coffee.

“Your mouth...is freezing...” Izaya grumbles between their lips meeting. “You taste like sugar. Like all five boxes of flavors.”

“Good, right?” Shizuo asks, nibbling at Izaya's lip.

“Variety is the spice of life.” Izaya sighs as Shizuo kisses him again. Shizuo loves the way Izaya yields to him, melds against Shizuo like he was made to. It drives Shizuo wild, especially when Izaya's legs curl around him and Izaya grabs onto Shizuo like he'll die without Shizuo's arms around him.

“Reschedule,” Shizuo murmurs as he finally undoes Izaya's pants. “You've got more pressing issues.”

For a fleeting moment, it seems like Shizuo is going to get his way. He pulls Izaya's pants halfway down and gets a hand inside Izaya's briefs, curls his fingers around Izaya's dick and relishes the sharp breath Izaya takes as Izaya curls into Shizuo, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust.

“Wanna be inside you,” Shizuo growls into Izaya's ear. “You want me too, you always do.”

Izaya nods, looking dazed. His hips twitch, pushing his dick further into Shizuo's grasp. “You...nnn... You belong inside me...”

“Goddamn right, I do,” Shizuo says, his free hand lifting to press over Izaya's soul mark. “You're mine.”

Izaya groans and licks into Shizuo's mouth, his breath choppy. Shizuo is just about to carry him to the couch when the door suddenly busts open, startling them both.

“Good morning!” Shinra says happily as he strolls inside. He pauses, looking at the compromising position Izaya and Shizuo are in, but Shinra barely even flinches. “Don't you have a bedroom, Izaya-kun?”

“This is our apartment!” Izaya hisses. In his hand is a knife, which he immediately sets on the counter upon seeing it's only Shinra.

“Well, the door was unlocked! Celty's out and about today, and I thought I'd come see the two of you. It really is so much easier to see my friends when they live together now!”

“I'm going to kill him,” Shizuo says to Izaya, who is tragically pulling his pants back up.

“Get dressed first,” Izaya says. “You're naked.”

Shizuo blinks and looks down at himself. He really did just roll out of bed and eat ice cream, naked. He thought he was wearing boxers this entire time.

“Not that I mind,” Izaya adds, snapping the lid in place on his to-go cup of coffee. “But Shinra shouldn't be treated to such a show. Also, Shizu-chan, if you don't start locking my door, I'm going to withhold sex from you.”

“As if you could,” Shizuo grumbles, stalking towards the stairs to go get dressed. “There's no need for a lock when I'm here.”

“Clearly there is if people like Shinra can just waltz inside.”

“People like me! I'm your friend!” Shinra says, not sounding the least bit offended.

“Yes, and look at the company I keep.”

Shizuo dresses and reenters the room to see Izaya pulling his coat on, his expression bored as Shinra prattles on about something insignificant. Izaya smirks at Shizuo and grabs his coffee off the table.

“Alright, I'm off. Try not to goad Shizu-chan into a fight, Shinra. He'll destroy my things, and I'm not in the mood to shop.”

“No one needs to goad him! He just gets mad no matter what!” Shinra says.

“He's gotten better about it.” Izaya takes a step towards the door. “Keeping him sexually satisfied has done a real number for his temper.”

“I'm not satisfied,” Shizuo snaps. “Someone interrupted us.”

“See, Shinra? You've goaded him already.” Izaya isn't the least bit surprised as Shizuo grabs onto his hood, pulls him backwards, and kisses him.

“Be safe,” Shizuo says, his voice soft. Izaya grins up at him.

“Aren't I always?”

“No. You're always being a pest. Keep the flea antics to a minimum and come home soon, okay?” Shizuo tilts his forehead to Izaya's.

“Right. Someone has to make sure you don't go off without me and terrorize the city.”

“Don't you like me terrorizing the city?”

“Yes. But not without my being there.”

Shizuo kisses him again and lets him go, watching as Izaya slips out the door and into the city for his meeting and God knows what else. Shizuo frowns, considers going after him, but thinks better of it. He'll know if Izaya gets himself into trouble. He always knows.

“I'm glad the two of you worked it out,” Shinra says. He's at the fridge, going through it as if he lives here too. “I knew when I introduced you that you would reach this point! Aren't you lucky to have a friend like me?”

Shizuo growls as Shinra opens the freezer and looks over the boxes of ice cream.

“No. And next time you barge in here, I'm throwing you out the window. Get away from my shit!” He stomps to Shinra and yanks him backwards. Shinra merely wanders off to get into something else, unfazed as ever.

“You're an older brother, Shizuo-kun, I thought you'd be more generous!”

“I am to my brother.” He glares after Shinra, who beelines for the couch. “Why are you here?! Go home and wait for Celty!”

“I really did want to see you and Izaya-kun! We haven't seen each other much lately with the two of you locked in here together. Celty will come by when she's done with her errands. We decided to meet here,” Shinra says.

“Without consulting either one of us.”

Shinra shrugs. “You'd have declined if we asked. You can't spend all your time having sex!”

“It's not all the time,” Shizuo defends, and then he snarls at Shinra. “Mind your business!”

“What else do you and Izaya-kun do? There's rumors going around that you're both coming up with a terrible plot to rule over the city. Ah, but Izaya-kun is probably behind those rumors. He frequents chatrooms under different names and says all kinds of things. Do you think Izaya-kun cross-dresses? He often pretends to be a woman online.”

Shizuo did know that already. Izaya is nothing if not an eccentric, though Izaya has said he hasn't worn a dress in 'a while'. However long ago that may have been.

“This isn't minding your business,” Shizuo snaps.

“Oh, come on! Izaya-kun never gives details about his life! I was hoping you would!”

“Well, I won't.”

Shinra pouts for all of five seconds before springing to his feet and wandering off somewhere else in the apartment. Shizuo decides following Shinra will only make Shizuo angry, so he makes himself comfortable on the couch and turns the channel from Izaya's cartoons to a cooking show.

There was a time Shizuo thought he'd be incredibly happy with a peaceful life. And he wasn't. He was bored as hell, waiting with baited breath for something, anything to happen. He never knew before how much he needed to stand out from the crowd until he blended in, and like most things in his life, good and bad, he has Izaya Orihara to thank for that.

He smiles at his phone as a text from Izaya comes through, and he settles in, waiting for Shinra to wander back in, for Celty to come join them, and for Izaya to come back home to him.