#but i was SO SAD THEY TURNED HIM INTO A TELEPHONE POLE

[voidrulerora]

literally all of my mutuals are so based bro. just a few weeks back i was having a convo with my friend about this and I was like "LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO MY BOY!!! LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE!!!". Never forgetting the art where I was like "oh what a cool OC" then found out it was Morris KHDDKS You all get me and I absolutely adore that.

“I hate you” is boring. “I hope your favorite non human character gets drawn as white twink." is unique. it’s terrifying. it’s possible. it's true. it's happening.

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Eddie Laughs At Steve

Saw THIS gifset and had another idea!!! Thanks for the insp @robinsteve ! Your gifset is so lovely!!!

Eddie always laughs at Steve. Steve isn't even trying to be funny. But Eddie will laugh. And sometimes it is jokes. But a lot of the times its the questions he asks, or the way he says things, or the way he makes sports analogies to kids who play dnd. Eddie laughs. Not always a big laugh, but sometimes. When Steve intentionally tells jokes, Eddie ALWAYS laughs. The loudest.

But it's the other laughs that start nagging at Steve. Especially the ones after he asks questions that make the kids roll their eyes at him. Eddie will chuckle, or snort, but after the laughs, whatever variation comes out of him, he will always ALWAYS answer Steve's question. In a nice way. In ways that Steve can understand.

They were behind the group once, all of them walking ahead and ignoring Steve's question and Eddie had used a goddamn baseball analogy to explain something and Steve had gaped at him. Eddie just smiled, winked, and jogged ahead to join the others. Steve was floored, but his question was also answered.

But they're alone one day when Steve asks him a question, maybe about music. About metal. And Eddie snorts, but immediately turns to Steve to answer him but Steve’s mouth is faster and he says,

"why do you do that?" And he sounds... hurt? Maybe a little. Eddie frowns, squints his eyes, had he done something?

"Why do i do what?" He shrugs, really not sure what Steve is talking about. His little laughs are just a reflex at this point, just a side effect of Steve. But Steve goes red, his fingers worrying at the knee of his jeans and he says,

"you laugh at me." His voice quiet. Eddie's frown deepens, he takes a few steps and sits down next to Steve, looking out the window.

"I laugh at you?" He asks, his eyes watching a bird peck at the telephone pole in the lot outside.

"Yeah." Is all he gets from Steve. He turns to look at him.

"When... when do i laugh at you? Aside from when you tell those excellent dad jokes?" Eddie is seriously asking, but he smiles and bumps Steve's shoulder with the tease, trying to get that sad look off his face. And it works, Steve smiles, shakes his head, but then he looks up at Eddie, all serious again.

"All the time. You laugh all the time. You laughed just now when i asked that question. Is it-" steve takes a sharp breath, looks away again, his hands in his lap.

"Is it cuz they're stupid questions?" The look on his face when he looks back at Eddie sobers him entirely. The look says Steve knows Eddie's answer already. That he KNOWS he asks stupid questions. And it breaks Eddie's heart a little, because it couldn't be anymore NOT that reason. But Eddie can't make a joke right now. Doesnt want Steve to think he's teasing. So he shakes his head slowly,  looking right at Steve.

"No. It's not cuz they're stupid questions. They're not. I like your questions. Like that you think to ask them at all. Means you got things going on up here." He taps his finger twice against Steve's temple, gently.

"But they're not funny questions." Steve frowns, sighs deeply. Eddie melts a little, he's got that confused face happening that Eddie can't get enough of.

"Do you want me to be truthful. Like... overly truthful? Like... you may not wanna hang out with me anymore... truthful?" Eddie rubs at the back his neck, watches the gears in Steve's head start moving slowly.

"Well... i can't really think of anything that would make me not wanna hang out with you. Unless you're about to be an asshole and tell me you lied about them being stupid questions." He grimaces a little.

"They're not stupid questions." Eddie reaffirms, frowning at Steve for saying it again. Steve nods.

"Okay... then yeah. Be overly truthful." He shrugs but his eyes are locked on Eddie's face, his fingers all tangled together in his lap, he looks nervous. Eddie nods, bites his lip, takes a deep breath.

"It's because i like you. I like being around you. I like your voice, it's nice. But yeah it's just- just that. It's just you. I enjoy you being near me so when you talk, and when you make jokes, or you ask questions. Questions no one else is asking, mind you!" He points seriously at Steve, gets a warm feeling when Steve blushes and glances into his lap.

"So yeah its just, i like the way your brain works. You see different angles.  And i dont know. Ive always kinda been a different angle kinda guy." Eddie shrugs. Steve bites his lip and then frowns.

"Why would that make me not wanna hang out with you?" Because of course Eddie had said that, and then not gone OVER on the sharing... apparently. Was all that something guys normally said to each other? He shook his head, hiding in a curtain of his hair. He shrugged again.

"Dunno. Didn't think you'd want me liking you that much... or um... that WAY?" and there it is, he's hit the overshare now, Steve's eyes widen.

"Oh." He says, his back straightening, like he's been shocked.

"Yeah. Sorry. I shouldn't have said-"

"No! I-" Eddie's eyes landing on Steve's face steal his words. Eddie widens his eyes, nods for Steve to continue. He huffs a laugh and rubs at the back of his neck.

"I just- So i was talking to Robin about it. You laughing at me. And she said it might be... because you like me. But i mean i never- i never thought you'd actually like me back. Im definitely not your type." Steve laughs again, shakes his head. Eddie is on his feet instantly, his hands flailing as he turns to look at Steve, his big doe eyes even wider in suprise at Eddie's sudden movements.

"Im sorry lemme just rewind that for a second. Did you say... like you back?" Steve just nods, his suprise giving way to a sickening fondness that Eddie has somehow just fucking NOT NOTICED this whole time. Eddie drops his hands to his sides with a huff.

"Well fuck." He breathes, his fingers twitch at his sides as Steve smiles up at him, gets to his feets slowly and moves to stand in front of Eddie.

"I mean, we could definitely work up to that, yeah." Steve presses his lips together when Eddie groans and covers his face with hands, his arms moving further after he rubs at his face to cover his head. His shoulders are shaking, he's hiding giggles in his arms but what Steve can see of his neck is bright red.

Steve laughs too, pulls at Eddie's arms and hands until he can move in. He wraps his arms around Eddie and holds him close, nuzzles into his shoulder, deeper into the hug as Eddie grabs at him, pulling at his sweater to get him closer, he's still giggling, right into Steve's neck now and it's the best fucking thing. Steve rubs his back, hands moving slowly and says,

"sorry. I couldn't resist" the snort that leaves Eddie before he tumbles into another fit of giggles as Steve holds him close is the best sound Steve's ever heard.

[grapementos]

when they notice you stopped walking

based on this tiktok trend

aged up bakugo, kirishima, denki, midoriya, shinso x gn reader

a/n: this is so fun jsjs i love headcanons,,

bakugo insisted on holding your hand when the two of you took walks, which made the little 'prank' that much harder to do. additionally, he was one of the most observant people you knew. he was always aware of his surroundings, ready to spring into action be there any danger. he had years of hero work to thank for that.

when you finally diverted his attention by asking about one of the tall, skyscraper-style buildings further downtown, you put your plan into motion. when he turned his head to point at a different building nearby, begrudgingly explaining their similarities, you let go of his hand and stood still. he got a mere two steps ahead of you before he stopped talking and turned around, frowning, "what're you doing?"

you chuckled knowingly, shaking your head. well, that was expected.

"oh, nothing. just admiring my man."

he scoffed, stalking over to you to take your hand back into his, "you couldn't do that from beside me?"

"definitely not."

"weirdo."

despite his words, you didn't miss the light flush of his cheeks or quiet love you.

kirishima is observant when he wants to be. however, when he's passionately ranting about anything he's particularly interested in, it's almost impossible to subtly catch his attention. sometimes that's not the most beneficial quality of his, but for this prank, you found it to be perfect.

"-crimson riot chips, too! i mean, i get it's good for the hero's publicity, but c'mon, i don't understand the concept of just slapping our faces on the nearest good, y'know?" he shook his head, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"ei, darling, i'm pretty sure i've seen some red riot toothpaste." you snorted, bumping your shoulder into his.

he sputtered in protest, which triggered an entirely, somehow still related conversation about how gross he thinks cinnamon toothpaste is.

perfect, you thought when he dramatically threw his arms up in the air.

you stopped walking then, watching as he continued to talk to no one in particular, accompanied by his animated hand motions.

he was nearly to the end of the sidewalk, fully prepared to turn the corner when he realized you weren't beside him. he whipped around, eyes darting every which way before they finally landed on your doubled over figure.

"y/n?" he jogged back, pouting when he realized you were laughing, "why'd you stop?"

when you finally composed yourself, you stood upright, wiping an imaginary tear from your eye, "wanted to see how long it'd take you to notice."

he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze shifting down to the ground, "sorry, i guess i get a little carried away sometimes."

you wrapped your arm around his and pressed a kiss to his cheek, "maybe, but i love that about you."

denki insisted on looking at you while you walked. it wasn't a creepy stare or anything, but he was constantly turning to look and admire your face or watch as your expressions changed when you talked. really, he'd nearly collided with telephone poles and other pedestrians. that made the prank a challenge, but you knew you'd be able to distract him.

"hey, kami, isn't that shinso's agency?" you asked, releasing his hand to point at a nearby building.

"no, babe, we've been to his agency how many times?" he chuckled, pointing in another direction, "his agency is in that direction, just down the block."

you nodded in understanding, coming to an abrupt stop as he recalled a rather funny memory regarding shinso's surprise birthday party (you were there.)

he kept walking, instinctively reaching for your hand. when he was met with air, he frowned and stopped talking, turning back around, "babe? you coming?"

you couldn't help but laugh at the sad puppy look in his eyes when he thought you weren't listening, speed walking to take his hand back in yours, "my favorite part was when you jumped out of the supply closet with that damn face paint."

he perked up immediately, filling in the gaps of the story excitedly.

yeah, you were in love.

midoriya sometimes got a little too lost in his own head, especially when the two of you were walking among the hundreds of thousands of people downtown. his mumbling tendency had lessened throughout the years, but he'd think and think until he could formulate an answer that satisfied him.

that's what made the prank so easy. when the two of you finally made it to a sidewalk devoid of other pedestrians, you asked a question that'd have him talking for ages: "hey, izu, how does passing down one for all work again?"

he'd explained it many times, but that didn't stop the visible twinkle from appearing in his eye as he explained it from the very beginning.

you listened, of course, even though you could relay the story backwards and forwards.

however, once he started discussing all for one and other exceptions to all might's method, you decided to stop walking. he kept going, though, voice soon nothing but a faint mumble under the wind.

watched as he got farther and farther, until eventually he turned the corner, leaving you shocked.

you waited, and boy was it worth it. watching his head poke out from behind the shrubbery that concealed the expanse of the sidewalk on the right side.

"y/n?"

you coughed out a laugh, clutching your chest as you engraved the sight into your brain.

"sorry, izu," you jogged to catch up with him, "i just wanted to see how you'd react."

he laughed, shaking his head, "i should've known. you always ask that question when you want to distract me."

"i do not!"

shinso isn't dumb. when you purposefully diverge away from your usual path, he knows something is up. he had a pretty good idea of what it was, too.

not too many days ago, he'd received many, many tiktoks from denki. he didn't usually acknowledge them, but he'd accidentally clicked on a video describing a prank between partners and watched it entirely. its setup was very similar to yours, he'd realized.

thanks to denki's tiktok obsession and attached message with mostly unintelligible denki-speak, shinso was now prepared for the little prank he was 90% sure you were going to pull.

when you started distracting him with questions or pointing out things you'd both seen numerous times before, he simply hummed in acknowledgement or added something onto your claims. not to mention his just-slightly-tight grip on your hand.

however, when he saw your growing frustration at every failed attempt, he couldn't help but indulge you. just this once.

he turned his head, pointing out the cafe directly across the street, "that used to be meetup spot for the hero course during summer break in high school. i was going there long before i decided i wanted to be a hero, though."

when he turned to look at you, you were gone, just as he'd expected.

he turned back, brows furrowed when he saw your grinning face, "y/n?"

"god, you're so difficult to distract!" you chuckled, speed walking to catch up with him again, "but it's okay, cause my prank worked."

he looked down at you, feigning amusement, "another one of your tiktok things?"

"perhaps." you shrugged, intertwining your fingers yet again.

he couldn't help smiling as you started walking again, deciding right then and there that he didn't mind being pranked if he saw that expression each time.

cashapp: $tofuchip ! reblogs are appreciated!

[duns-writes]

Saw this, had to write something 🤷🏼

Steddie fluff, in which a difficult day becomes a soft evening, twice over.

CW: work stress, death mention, discussion of car accident (as part of work), crying, ADHD overstimulation, lashing out from stress.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

~~~~~

Steve looks up as the front door closes, and Eddie's keys clatter onto the side.

The vibe of the house seems to shrink into something heavy, like a fog descending. Eddie doesn't come into the family room, and there's the faint sound of cupboard doors opening, tea kettle boiling, the scrape of the chair on the linoleum floor. Must be overstimulated. I'll give him a minute.

It's been twenty minutes by the time Steve decides he needs to check up.

Eddie's slumped over a cup of mint tea, staring straight ahead as the steam swirls across his stony face. When Steve calls him name, his head moves slowly, as though he's trailing an invisible stone around his neck. He can hear the tightness in his shoulders, see the little wrinkle that means headache coming.

This isn't just tiredness, Steve thinks. Something's wrong.

He makes sure to speak quietly.

"Bad day, sweetie?"

Eddie just nods, makes one of his "mmh" sounds. Not ready to talk yet, gotcha.

"I'm gonna go and get you some Tylenol for your head. Then maybe Rocky Horror and a pizza?"

A shrug with a head wobble. I can't make decisions right now. I'm sorry.

"Alright. Tylenol, deep pan with extra cheese, extra sausage, red onions and garlic sauce for you, thin crust with extra cheese, veggies and pepperoni for me. Then Scooby-Doo."

As he picks up the phone, there's a tiny spark back in his partner's eye.

They're curled up on the couch, leftover pizza safely packed up, when Eddie speaks.

"Had two young guys in. Car wrapped around a telephone pole, veered off the road 'cause of the wet. They were reachin' for each other when they brought 'em into Trauma, both of 'em askin' about the other one...The kid who was driving died."

Steve winces.

"The other kid just about ripped the tubes out when they told 'im. It wasn't...it wasn't just a 'he's such an old friend of mine he's a brother' kinda situation, you know? It felt like an us, situation. And his parents were rippin' into 'im for bein' upset like, 'he could've killed you, it's what he deserved if he was driving that recklessly', and they only shut up about it when the troopers told 'em it was just unfortunate. Nothin' the kid could've done to avoid it without more experience."

"And-and then the other kid was so cut up about it that he told his parents to go. I sat with him for a while, told him there were...others like him. And he just gave me this real sad smile and turned his face away. And I just...sometimes I dunno why the fuck I do this job, Stevie. Goddamit!"

Eddie's been getting more and more agitated as he speaks, and jerks away as Steve grabs the blanket off the back of the sofa to wrap him in a tight hold. He takes a few calming breaths, then wraps his arms around his tummy with a little huff. (It means he knows Steve's right.)

There's a tiny little "mmh" noise as he lets himself snuggle down into the blanket burrito, and a long-fingered hand sneaks out from under the wrapping to tangle itself in Steve's hair.

For his part, Steve turns at the last minute, and presses a gentle kiss to the thin skin at the inside of his wrist.

----

He hears him before he sees him.

Eddie wakes up, comfortable and groggy and fully intending to go back to bed to sleep off his rotation on nights. Glancing at the clock, he's not surprised to see 07.18 glowing back at him. He's about to turn over when he realises Steve's not in the shower, or trudging through the bedroom door like he usually does when he gets off a late.

He wraps himself in the comforter, and goes to investigate.

(Even though Steve says it doesn't work, he leaves the quilt on the bed to 'keep the warmth in'.)

But Steve isn't watching TV to unwind, or making himself a cup of tea.

He's not even asleep on the sofa.

He's hunched over the kitchen table, peering at a thick book through his reading glasses and rubbing his temples. Well that's not healthy, Eddie thinks. Better make sure he doesn't give himself a migraine.

"Hey, honey. Whatcha reading?"

"The regulations for analgesic prescribing in Indiana. Carey's got his hearing tomorrow and I need to know my shit in case they haul me up too.'

"Wait, the hearing about giving the poor guy with the awful burns enough medication to nuke the pain? The guy who Sarah said to give him whatever he needed because they knew he wasn't gonna make it? Jesus H Christ."

Steve throws the chair back and stands up. It's rare he loses his composure like this, but Eddie knows his partner well enough to take a step forward, not back.

"Yeah but that's just it, Eddie! What Sarah says should mean that we're protected from being...fucking...punished after the fact because some religious lawyer decided that constitutes 'deciding to end a life based on hearsay in the field' and fixes to complain! But it doesn't! And then Alex had to go and make a joke about joint enterprise, and I look it up, and whaddya know! If they decide I'm liable too, because I was driving the fucking rig and I didn't pull over and stop him, I could lose my job! Or-or-or get fucking-sued, for hundreds of thousands of dollars! Or lose my EMT license! Or-"

"Or, the panel hears Sarah repeat what she said to the both of you, and knows that the only one up on disciplinary is Carey, and they decide the complaint has no merit. And also, joint enterprise only applies to criminal cases of intentional violence against a person in the state of Indiana, and they have to prove you ran with the accused."

Steve's goggling at him.

"What?"

"How d'you know that?"

"Oh ye of little faith! I do know some legalese for my job, you know!"

Steve just raises the Mom Eyebrow. Little shit.

He huffs. "Yeah, alright. Hopper told me to reassure me after that fight at the Hideout that one year. The one where the guy got beat across the ass with a pool cue? I went to 'im shit-scared like, I was there, and they're gonna haul me in, and I'll lose my place at Indy, and he sat me down and talked me through it. And Alex has a worse mouth-brain filter than Dustin."

Steve snorts at him. Victory is mine!

"So, you comin' to bed, sugar?"

(He tacks the 'sugar' on because it makes his other half melt. Hey, he's a simple man.)

"Yeah. Just let me put the book away first."

Fifteen minutes later, the clock reads 08.23. Steve is murmuring sleepily about 'c'mere, 'm cold', and curling into him like some sort of man-size prawn. As he begins to snore, Eddie deems it safe to veeeery gently, veeeery slowly, pick up Steve's left hand. Turns it over by one broad palm, and plants a soft kiss on his radial pulsepoint. Nailed it. Operation Get Stevie To Set Down A Worry successfully completed!

"Sap."

Goddammit.

Never mind.

When it works, it works.

peak intimacy: kissing someone’s inner wrist 

[poppyxjk]

RATING: E  | SHIP: JUNGKOOK/EVERYONE | 18+ | RANDOM UPDATES

OTHER INFO: M/M, NON-IDOL AU, ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMICS, OT7, SUB JEON JUNGKOOK, SUB PARK JIMIN, TOP PARK JIMIN, TOP KIM TAEHYUNG, TOP KIM NAMJOON, TOP JUNG HOSEOK, TOP MIN YOONGI, TOP KIM SEOKJIN, HARASSMENT (NOT BETWEEN OT7), INSECURITY, HEAT/MATING CYCLES, NESTING, JEON JUNGKOOK HAS A VAGINA, BOYPUSSY, BOYPUSSY JEON JUNGKOOK, RABBIT HYBRID JUNGKOOK, CAT HYBRID PARK JIMIN, WOLF HYBRID KIM TAEHUNG, WOLF HYBRID KIM NAMJOON, WOLF HYBRID JUNG HOSEOK, WOLF HYBRID MIN YOONGI, WOLF HYBRID KIM SEOKJIN

PART 1 -

Jimin shuddered, zipping up his jacket and rubbing his bare hands together. The weather had turned rather chilly after the sun went down. He was leaving the studio late so he hadn’t anticipated needing a thicker coat this early in the year. Just before turning the corner he heard someone shout, voice pitched high, presumably in protest. He peaked past the telephone pole at the end of the block, analyzing the situation. 

Someone was trying to ward off unwanted attention, an omega if his nose was correct. There was a note of bitterness to his scent, something so clearly not part of his natural aroma. This clearly wasn’t friendly. The two alphas were only crowding closer and Jimin didn’t hesitate to intervene. Maybe he would have in the past, a few years prior. But he wasn’t the omega he once was. He wouldn’t stand by while one of his own was put in danger. He refused to live his life as a bystander, as a coward. 

When he got closer, he caught sight of the omega’s expression. The look of pure terror had his feet moved on their own accord.

“He’s not interested.” Jimin said with certainty, weaving in from under the alpha’s thick arm to stand between the omega and these instigators. 

“What, you want in on the action, baby?” The taller of the two snickered before his eyes fell on Jimin’s mating mark. He was sure the man could also smell Yoongi’s scent all over him from when he renewed that mark earlier. He reminded himself to show his alpha gratitude later. It turned out to be quite helpful. It might be the determining factor of whether he walked away from this unscathed.

“Hey man, let’s go.” The alpha muttered, hitting his friend in the arm. With a snarl the other man relented, the pair retreating down the street, their musky scents bitter with disappointment. 

Carrying the scent of five alphas did him wonders it seemed. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, finally turning his attention to the other omega.

And fuck, he was cute. A round nose and even rounder eyes, long lashes and prominent front teeth. His bunny ears lay flat against his head, a few notches visible even from where they were plastered against his head. Overall he seemed a little worse for wear, but adorable nonetheless. 

He sniffed, nose twitching as a clear sign of nerves. He wiped his grubby sleeve over his face, averting his gaze. “I didn’t need your help.” He said, clearly feeling a little embarrassed about having another omega come to his rescue.

“All right, tough guy, you’re welcome.” Jimin chuckled, willing to cut the kid some slack due to the circumstance of their meeting.

“Thank you…” He mumbled, finally meeting Jimin’s eye. Jimin felt a little like someone had suckerpunched him in the heart. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes about a mile long, lids hanging heavy to reveal an unfathomable level of fatigue.

“You should be more careful, it’s dangerous to walk around by yourself.” Those pretty eyes narrowed at him in the darkness.

“Maybe for someone like me. Not all of us are lucky enough to have a whole pack of alphas to nest with.” He grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and shouldering past Jimin. 

He turned to look at him one last time, a real sadness in his eyes. “And you are… really lucky.” And with that he ran down the road before Jimin had a chance to respond.

He thought about it that evening. When he arrived back home and was greeted by his alphas nuzzling and scenting him all over he realized what the boy said was true. He was exceptionally lucky to have not one alpha but five living at home. 

They were a rather large pack, and being the only omega meant he was doted on constantly. He’d never felt guilty about it before. He was grateful, of course. But even though he stayed up to date with the news and had lived through quite a few hardships of his own before being mated, he’d never seen that level of neglect up close before. 

Of course, no omega NEEDED an alpha. Or even a partner for that matter. However progress was slow, and inequality based on second gender was ever present. Yes, an omega didn’t need  a protector, a provider, or a caretaker. But he’d been so blessed recently that it was hard to remember life before his alphas. 

He might have taken that blessing for granted. 

Thinking back to their clipped conversation that night between two broad chests, he remembered how the other omega had brought up nesting in particular. And it occurred to him that the prime reason for the exhaustion on his face had to be because he had nowhere to nest properly. 

Another luxury he didn’t put much thought into.

He made a choice that night. He was going to pay the kindness he’d been shown forward. 

He’d probably never run into that particular tortured soul again but one thing was for sure. Stepping in when an omega was in need wasn’t enough anymore. There was more he could do for struggling omegas. People who lived through situations worse than he’d ever experienced.

Two google searches later and he had a pretty good idea of something more he could do. And he would. 

But he couldn’t do it without the help of his alphas.

Clearly, there was a conversation to be had.

[drgnrder82]

Fictober22: Nobody Warned You About Me?

Original Fiction based on my novel Christmas Confessions.

Warnings: None

Prompt Nobody Warned You About Me?

A/N: This short story takes place before the events of Christmas Confessions. After Bella and Lucas' first year in college.

~*~*~*~

The assistant Lucas followed kept glancing back, chewing her lip as if worried. Astor Pharm's headquarters was far posher than Lucas had anticipated. But they were located in Manhatten; what did he seriously expect? 

Lucas pulled at the sleeve of his suit jacket. The same suit he wore to Senior Prom, that fit but… not properly. If Lucas was lucky, he only had to wear a suit on the first day to make a good first impression. Because he only owned this one suit.

Unlike him, the assistant Lucas followed wore a satin blouse in deep blue and plain black slacks. Still, it all seemed more expensive than everything Lucas owned put together. 

"Right here," she said, opening the door to a glass-walled conference room where several other young men, probably all Lucas' age or a few years older, sat. "Someone from Human Resources will be down shortly for all the interns." She flashed a wan smile at him and turned to head off. 

“Thank you,” Lucas called and stumbled. What was her name? “Uh… I’m sorry… what…?” 

"Nadine," she supplied helpfully. She tried to smile, but it broke into a grimace. "Good luck in there." 

Lucas wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. He opened the door and headed into the conference room. Coffee and paper cups, along with some pastries, sat untouched on the table despite the number of guys sitting around chatting quietly. Unlike other conference rooms, this had been outfitted with plush chairs and a couple of couches, more like a waiting room. There was also a long table on one end, accompanied by a projector and teleconference phone. 

Heading to the coffee, which Lucas desperately needed since he had only arrived back in New York late the night before and had yet to buy groceries (yes, he woke up late), the room seemed to go quiet. 

“Heh. You in the wrong place?” a guy behind Lucas asked. 

"No," Lucas said, adding cream and one sugar packet to the coffee. 

“What — uh — school do you go to…?” 

Lucas turned, and if there'd ever been a near carbon copy of Bella's friend Preston Warren, but somehow even more snobbish, it was this guy. Dark brown hair, chiseled jaw, and a look of utter disdain on his face wrapped in a perfectly tailored, "more expensive than his apartment's summer rent" suit.

"Columbia. Just finished my first year." Lucas knew holding his hand out would gain him nothing, but he tried. Sure enough, the guy before him rolled his eyes instead of shaking Lucas' hand. 

“And I thought Astor Pharm had standards when it hired interns,” the guy chuckled. “Not even Ivy is just sad…” 

“Man, don’t forget, Eli Astor’s alma mater is Columbia,” another guy drawled, not bothering to look up from his phone. 

Something outside the conference room crashed, and a blur of blond hair and purple flew past the room's windows, then doubled back. 

Bella threw the door open so hard Lucas thought it would shatter, but it stopped short of hitting the wall. “There you are!” 

Lazily, Christian sauntered through the door, dressed in a full light gray suit. His dark blond curls fell delicately into his eyes. “Good Lord, Holt. What happened to your face?” 

Bella dropped her gym bag and hopped onto Lucas, forcing him to catch her. "Don't be rude, you ass!" she said over her shoulder at Chris. "But seriously, what happened? Why glasses? And why didn't you call? And what is with this suit? Let me…" 

The murmurs around them, the attention Bella attracted from the other interns was… well, normal for the stunning socialite that unfathomably befriended Lucas. Bella Astor, the heiress, known for crashing top-end cars into telephone poles and getting into fist fights at clubs. Every guy vied for her attention; somehow, she paid almost no attention to them.

“Scratched my eye getting contacts out a couple days ago. I’m in glasses till it heals. No, you can’t buy me a suit.” His turn. “What are you doing here?” 

As far as Lucas knew, Bella Astor was not, nor ever had, worked at her father's company despite being pre-med. And being that she was in purple spandex shorts and a loose off-the-shoulder top, with a sports bra peeking through, he doubted she was helping here for the day. 

“She’s worried about you,” Christian answered for his sister. 

“I’m going to Jordan’s studio. This tie has to go!” Bella jumped down and immediately set to untying his plain black tie. 

“Bella Astor?” the Preston-clone was making his first mistake. He leaned in close to Bella, flashing a toothy grin and giving her a sultry once over. “What an amazing…” 

Bella had Lucas’ tie around her neck and had pulled two new ones from her gym bag. A red and black striped tie and a black one with thin white stitched stripes. Gracefully but also almost like it could have been an accident, Bella sent an elbow into the jaw. “Oops,” she said with a deadpan expression. 

“The red one,” Chris said, pointing and ignoring his sister’s worsening mood. 

“Excuse me?” the guy tried making his way into Bella’s line of sight, practically pushing Lucas out of the way. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Bella started and gave the guy her full attention, which he soaked in and utterly missed her knee until it connected with his groin. "Huh. Nobody warned you about me? Thought they used to warn people on the way into the building." 

"Yes, well, there is no warning anyone can properly give for you. We used to have 'feral heiress running loose' signs posted. I will make sure to have new ones printed. I bet an Albert knot would look fantastic with that tie." 

Bella’s mood brightened again as she went to work tying the knot, which required her to yank Lucas down to her height. “Let me buy you at least one suit. These assholes will eat you alive in this. Please.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Lucas insisted, trying not to grin stupidly at the closeness of Bella and him or how her fingers brushing his collar would graze his neck. 

“Dad,” Chris turned to face the door, hands casually in his pockets.

“Daddy!” Bella exclaimed, hopping back from Lucas. 

“Hello, Dr. Astor, sir.” 

With his wide and kind smile, Bella's father beamed at his children. Or so Lucas thought. 

“Chris! Bella-boo!” Eli wrapped his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and pressed a kiss into her hair. But when he let Bella go, Eli stuck his hand out in front of Lucas. “Lucas, son. How was your trip home?” 

“Excellent, sir. Excited to be back…” 

“Oh, posh. Your time with your family got cut short because of me. And what is my lovely Bella-boo doing in a stuffy office so early? Where are you off to, dear?” 

“Jordan’s studio. Just… came to wish Lucas a great first day.” 

"Mr. Astor," Preston-clone stood as straight as possible, though how he wasn't in the fetal position from Bella's hit was a miracle. "So good…" 

Bella huffed, and he backed off again.

"Uh-huh." Eli beamed brighter at his daughter. "And she didn't try dressing you in one of her brother's ties because she was worried about the vultures, did she?" Eli flipped the bottom of Lucas' new tie. "Come now. Chris and Lucas, you two are with me." 

"Uh… HR was coming, and I think I had paperwork…" Lucas gulped, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him. 

“Oh, they’ll find you eventually. I have a special project for you young men. Come now, sons. Bella, have a great day.” 

“You too, daddy.” 

"Nice pick on the tie, baby girl." And Eli gave Bella a thumbs up and clapped Lucas on the shoulder. "You and Chris are working together this summer." 

Lucas heard another intern ask, "Did he just call that kid... son?"

[blushnote]

rich girl | m.

⟡ word count: 6,708. ⟡ genre: smut, a bit of angst if you squint. ⟡ contains: a blowjob, facefucking, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, shower sex, copious use of petnames, just a whole lot of sin.

summary: wonwoo likes to call you a rich girl, and you hate it because it’s true. in fact, you hate a lot of things: your friends, your parent’s attitude, the way your life is supposed to be perfect even though you’re miserable. not much makes you happy, except for a punk boy who you can’t even be with.

a/n: this is a reupload because for some reason tumblr wasn’t showing me my own posts? anyways, sorry for the wait!! enjoy hehe. 

your parents don’t like wonwoo.

even better – they don’t like the fact that you like him.

wonwoo isn’t supposed to be someone you like. he’s kind of foul-mouthed, awfully conceited, and he probably makes deals with the devil in his spare time. he likes to hang around those dimly lit corners at night, just outside the local shops, puffing from a cigarette beneath the dusty street light and chuckling amongst his friends. they all hang out together. they’re very tightknit in the way that they only meet on the corner to smoke and laugh and then head their separate ways when it gets late enough.

honestly, you didn’t think you were going to like wonwoo either. most friday nights you go out for drinks with the daughters of your mom’s friends. she’s a business lady, very professional, makes good money, and has the politeness and etiquette of a true monarch. her friends mirror her every quality, and so do their daughters. you like them, even when they snap at you to sit straighter or give you unnecessarily stern glances while you swallow your alcohol in inhumane gulps. they’re great, but they give you a headache.

also, they’re the only friends you have, even if they’re not very good ones. they once left you to get home by yourself when you got too “drunk” for their liking. not wanting to soil their sophisticated reputations, they literally abandoned you after your wobbly trip to the bathroom to fix your makeup. you came back to an empty table. when you left the bar, this unknown man tried to take you by the arm, promising that there was a telephone just around the corner for you to make a call. your cellphone was dead anyways.

“what the fuck are you doing?”

there was a deep, displeased voice that echoed from the street corner as the mystery man tugged you away. you couldn’t help but stumble in your saint laurent heels. they didn’t add much height, yet you felt as though you were walking on stilts. quickly, you made eye contact with wonwoo. he stepped away from the pole and removed the cigarette from between his bubblegum lips, just before he adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. the air was cold, so he wore a beanie that pulled his hair back.

the man stuttered in response. he attempted to configure a convincing statement, but wonwoo cut him off.

“do you know him?” wonwoo asked you directly. his friends were silent as they crowded the corner, but they looked ready to pounce.

“n-not re-really, no.” you fought to respond sluggishly.

wonwoo then narrowed his eyes at the man who was digging his nails into your skin.

“do you know her?” the man countered. he sounded almost petulant.

“no,” wonwoo admitted impassively, “but i’m not an idiot, and i’ve hung around here long enough to see my fair share of fucking weirdos. go slink back to the other side of the street before i shove my cigarette past your eye socket and into your cranium.”

honestly, wonwoo’s words almost turned you completely sober. the man looked like he wanted to argue, but his pathetic type doesn’t usually put up a fight when their plans are directly thwarted. he released you, and melted away into the night like a sad, shrinking shadow.

“do you need to use my phone?” wonwoo was already revealing it from his pocket.

you nodded. you knew your mother would explode into fumes if you called her at this hour, so you dialled the local taxi service and decided to wait right outside the bar. you wanted to thank wonwoo for intervening when he did. he didn’t necessarily look like a bad person, but his tainted mouth and snarky expressions didn’t exactly shift him into the light.

“thanks,” you told him as you handed over his phone, “i-i appreciate what you dd-did.”

wonwoo made the effort to blow the smoke from his cigarette away from your face.

“it’s fine,” he shrugged, “happens all the time. figured i’d just stand here and be useful i guess.”

so there is a reason you’re always at this corner.

that’s what you wanted to say, but you were too shy, too foggy, to articulate any other acknowledgement apart from a tight-lipped smile. since then, you knew wonwoo would be someone you liked.

wonwoo liked to call you a rich girl. it bothered you, mostly because it’s true. you wore diamonds in your ears, pricey jewels on your fingers, dressed in luxury outfits and designer products. you lived a lavish life because your parents were well off, but it’s not like you tried to rub it in everyone’s face. in fact, you were quite modest, and you only wore the jewelry because your mother never stopped draping you in it. after your first encounter with wonwoo outside the bar, you greeted him again on the street upon exiting the floral shop.

he was alone, not even smoking a cigarette, instead sucking on a vibrant, cherry red lollipop. you could smell its sugary coating the second you stood in front of him.

“hey, rich girl.” he nodded. “how’s life treating you?”

the only reason you approached him was out of gratitude. you had already thanked him for his intervention that one night, but you wanted to thank him again now that you weren’t intoxicated and cloudy in the head. notably, your expression soured at his words.

“rich girl? that’s not my name.”

wonwoo looked you up and down skeptically. his eyes were a strong, earthly shade of brown behind his glasses, but in that afternoon sunlight, they flared up slightly, and the colour was more molasses-like. thick and sweet.

“are you joking?” he seemed like he wanted to laugh, and swirled the lollipop to the opposite corner of his mouth. “babygirl, those heels you’re wearing are more than my rent.”

you didn’t know why, but you were transiently overwhelmed with the urge to drop to your knees and let him fuck your mouth right there on the corner. was that too soon? oh well. you already thought it. remembering you were supposed to feel disrespected at his comment, you crossed your arms, though it only accented the jaded bracelet your friend bought you as a birthday gift.

“i’m going to pretend i didn’t hear anything you just said. i wanted to thank you for getting me out of that situation last week. i thought i should tell you again, now that i’m… well… sober, i guess i could say.”

you then swallowed tightly. “do you really stand there to stop creeps from taking advantage of people?”

wonwoo shrugged. he then tousled his hair, which had been flopping in multiple directions. it was on the longer side, and seemed to be the same colour as dark, silvery ashes, though the roots were pretty much black. his hair looked so soft and springy. you almost wanted to comb it down for him.

“i’m just at the right place at the right time.” he said.

what did that even mean? you simply accepted his response and pressed on.

“well, i wouldn’t mind repaying the favour one day. do you want a coffee or something?”

“no.” wonwoo replied sharply. “you could do me one better and slip me a couple hundred from your pretty bank account. i’m trying to get the local black tar heroin dealer off my back.”

you nearly choked.

“wha-what? are you… serious?”

wonwoo maintained his staid, emotionless expression, and you were really starting to believe that there was a black tar heroin dealer running rampant in the streets that might pop wonwoo if he didn’t pay him off. but then a gradual smile pulled up his lips, and you wanted to retract your entire offer.

“yes, it’s a joke. you’re too easy. the only drugs you’d find in this part of town is the ibuprofen for your grandma’s arthritis. you don’t get out much, do you, rich girl?”

you gaped widely at him.

“careful, baby,” he smirked, and he suddenly brought his hand out, raising your chin with his cold fingertips to close your mouth. “don’t breathe too much of this cheap air. it’s not filtered.”

in a bubbling, festering haze of anger, you snapped his hand away.

“for your information i—,”

abruptly, you heard your name echo from down the street. turning around, you watched your mother exit the floral shop, carrying a pale green wrapping of scarlet poinsettias. they were so huge that the petals almost covered her entire face. it wasn’t her fault, but she couldn’t have picked a worse time to come looking for you, especially when she was cloaked in the thick warmth of her sable fur coat. you sighed deeply and faced wonwoo again. he’d lost his lollipop, attempting to spark up a cigarette instead.

“aren’t these just gorgeous?” your mother swooned, running her fingers over the butter-soft petals. “they certainly cost a pretty penny to get such an exquisite arrangement, but i couldn’t help myself!”

you wanted to sink straight into the earth. wonwoo was looking between you in pure amusement as he crammed his lighter inside a pocket on his jeans. your mother didn’t even seem to notice him until he took his first puff, the distinct potency of the smoke making her nose scrunch.

“a-and who’s this, dear?” she couldn’t even mask her discomfort as she inquired you about wonwoo. at that point, you hadn’t even known his name yet.

“wonwoo,” he introduced himself, “a new friend of your daughter.”

“oh, how lovely,” she nodded at him while forcing a crooked grin. “honey,” she then placed her hand on your shoulder and spoke closely into your ear, “your father is parked down the street. we need to leave soon and get these out of the cold, so please finish your conversation quickly.”

as soon as she slipped past you and began striding swiftly toward the car, you could already taste the muddled defeat on your tongue. if you weren’t protruding the mirage of a spoilt rich girl then, you certainly were now. at least he didn’t blow any smoke into her face, though that didn’t diminish the fact you were going to receive a lengthy lecture in the car.

“why would you say we’re friends?” you scolded wonwoo.

“because you don’t have any.” he responded matter-of-factly while tapping some ash off his cigarette.

“that’s not true! what do you even know about me anyways, apart from that i’m rich.” you made sure to incorporate in-air quotations.

wonwoo pushed back the silver tresses dancing in front of his glasses, embracing the cool, afternoon current against his face.

“not a lot,” he admitted, “you come for drinks every few fridays. sit at the table looking like you hate your life and all the people in it. then you leave with your phony little rich clique.”

“not to be rude, wonwoo—” you almost wanted to laugh; you came here to thank him. now that ship had completely sailed— “but you’re kind of a dick.”

he then had the nerve to roll his eyes. “you’d drop to your knees and suck mine in a second, babygirl. now didn’t your mother say you should hurry up and get in the car? the princess can’t be out of the palace i’m guessing, especially not to talk to assholes on street corners.”

what else could you do apart from swallow your own frustration, bite your lip, and brush past him? there was nothing. it was too bitter to stand outside anyways. a strengthening winter wind was beginning to pick up from the north, the sting making your eyes water. at the same time, your cheeks were hot metal. if no one were on that street, you certainly would have taken him right into your mouth and sucked him dry. he was ridiculous and cruel, but you loved the unhinged nature he unearthed in you. it was liberating in a sense.

you wondered what would become of your relationship.

“where did you say you were going again?”

you looked up from the porcelain dinner plate, in which you’d been picking at the last few crumbs of your wine reduction pineapple cake. it wasn’t your favourite dessert, though you always finished every meal out of respect for the family’s personal chef. you saw your father reach for his water glass. he took a long sip and eyed you over the candlelight and scarlet poinsettias. it was in a way that was completely and unabashedly suspicious.

“ester and i are going to the jewellers to get a custom necklace as aria’s christmas gift. i told you like five times already.”

of course, that was a gigantic lie. you and ester had already gotten the precious necklace last week, you just needed a reasonable excuse.

“and you’re coming straight home, correct?” his voice was stern and unnegotiable.

“i always do.”

“not always.” your mother chipped in as she cut a piece of the glazed cake with her fork. “you’re not going to see that one character, are you?” she always called people with less fortune characters, like they weren’t even considered to be real.

“who?” you acted clueless, and poured yourself more of the sugary, pink lemonade.

“you know who,” there was already a note of displeasure in her voice, “that boy from the corner. the one who smokes. i wasn’t very impressed by his actions.”

you started to squeeze the white cloth across your lap. “he’s trying to quit. i’ve persuaded him.”

“he won’t do it,” your father shook his head, “and he’s not right for you. i don’t want you near him.”

“and that’s why you’re coming straight home after the jewellers.” your mother continued, not allowing you the breadth to speak.

this family couldn’t get any more ridiculous, you were tempted to scream. instead, you pushed out your chair and collected the utensils sitting on your placemat. a maid passing by had scrambled to assist you, though you told her thoughtfully that you could take care of yourself. in actuality, it was the perfect time to get going, just as you could feel the anger warm your own blood to a boiling crimson. you threw on a long peacoat, a spritz belonging to a vanilla perfume, and your saint laurent opyum heels.

“i’ll be home soon!” you shouted down the marbled corridor, but it was only your own voice that echoed back to you.

your knees were beginning to lose feeling from being pressed against the sponge-like carpet of wonwoo’s bedroom, and they would probably ache like hell whenever you came to your feet again, but for the time being, you really didn’t care. your hands were braced against wonwoo’s knees as his hand tangled possessively through your hair, each of his tugs causing your scalp to burn and tingle. you were crying. you loved to be used by him, and he loved using you. especially the warm inside of your slick mouth.

“ff-fuck, that’s it, babygirl, j-just let me fuck your pr-pretty fuckin’ face.” quickly heeding his words, wonwoo bucked his hips up in a sudden snap, the head of his cock nuzzled deep against your throat.

consequently, you gagged, and there were glossy trails of your own saliva uncomfortably pooling down your chin. he bucked up again, his fingers clasping your hair even tighter. you were struggling to breath around him, white, cottony spots blurring your vision while he forced you to take him even further. you were clutching onto his knees with enough strength to bruise his pale skin. but hearing his voice, lined with lust, heavy and laboured, how it hitched when everything felt too good; you were addicted to it.

“you’re so good at this—,” wonwoo grunted through his teeth upon jamming your head down again, “m’gonna cum down your f-fuckin’ throat, baby. be a good girl n’ m-make sure you swallow a-all of me, huh?”

you learned that wonwoo was really filthy. he didn’t have a preference for where he came, though you had to regulate his carelessness. if any of your clothes even got one rip, one pulled up thread, or god forbid a stupid ejaculation stain, your mother would put your head on a mahogany plaque. wonwoo always made fun of you for belonging to a rich family, having to act like the town’s local sweetheart because one wise crack might cost your parents a lost business partner. but you knew he loved it.

the elegant daughter of a rich heir running around with the outlandish punk? he adored it.

eventually, you had to come up for breath or else you would’ve fainted between his thighs. the air gushed into your lungs and coldly filled your chest. a string of your spit was connected from wonwoo’s flushed, hard cock to your wet lips. you could hardly discern anything that surrounded you. the oxygen had yet to thoroughly circulate and the tears were creating a thick blur. wonwoo started to stroke himself while you prepared to take him once more. the empty void in your mouth was a horrible feeling.

“you look like a fucking mess.” wonwoo grinned as he noted that your body was shaking. “am i being too rough with you, babygirl? should i just jack myself off and cum all over your face instead?”

“n-no,” you suckled in a half-hearted breath, “i-i can do it.”

wonwoo smirked. “you still want it down your throat?”

you could see him clearly now. his cheeks were tinted pink, and his eyes were impossibly dark, glittering in anticipation. without thinking, you nodded eagerly, knowing this was what you wanted. he then tapped his cock against your swollen lips, to which you opened up again and calmly took him as deep as you could. he watched your eyes glister with more tears before he started thrusting up into your mouth. his fingers were gentle. they brushed the stray spindles from your face, now destroyed by tears and drool.

“i’m surprised your tears aren’t pure gold,” he laughed, “i guess you aren’t so special.” your spine tingled as his hand crept back through your hair. “m’gonna make you cry even harder, baby.”

his grip had turned to solid iron against your scalp. you got less than a sliver to brace yourself for his unrelenting treatment, in which he pushed you straight down on his cock and kept your face right where he wanted it. with his hand against the back of your head, wonwoo snapped his hips upward, feeling you immediately gag in response. then, he unleashed on you, using your mouth as a mere fucktoy, getting all his pleasure’s worth from you in each of his hard thrusts. everything was so overwhelming and rapid.

wonwoo couldn’t help the mantra of guttural, taunt curses. he started to moan even, his deep voice cracking the second he felt his sticky cum start to abundantly spurt. without a warning, you struggled slightly to accept and swallow it, though wonwoo was intent on keeping you flush to his pelvis until every drop was polished off. he was still thrusting shallowly into your mouth, and you could feel his length gradually begin to soften. his release was warm, and it was similar to cream sliding down your throat.

after he removed himself from your mouth, he titled up your head by the chin.

“did you swallow it all yet?”

you shook your head. quickly, the side of your hot cheek was met with wonwoo’s hand. he’d given you a timid slap, one that wasn’t meant to hurt, but stung gingerly.

“i wanna see you swallow, babygirl.” he purred. “be good, won’t you?”

your tears were dribbling uncontrollably as you fully swallowed his seed. god, your throat felt like it was on fire. each muscle in your jaw was burning up ardently. your knees were so numb you didn’t even think you could stand. there wasn’t enough time for wonwoo to return the favour. you were sure he could smell the thick scent of your arousal, especially as it ruined your underwear and shone on your inner thighs.

but you didn’t care. having him use you for the night was enough.

“are you alright?” wonwoo asked, getting himself back in his pants.

you didn’t respond, just gripped onto his knee tightly and attempted to stand. your opyum heels were still on, and you nearly broke an ankle as the blood rushed into your legs. wonwoo stood also. he stabilized you by holding your shoulders, at least for a good minute. pulling back your sleeve, you rid the tears that stained your face with a quick wipe from your hand. you were going to have to be very speedy getting back to the house, unless you wanted your father to send the swat team after you.

“god,” you sighed with a raspy, dying voice, “i hate my life.”

wonwoo scoffed at you lightly.

“what lie did you tell them this time?”

you muttered, “i was going to the jewellers.”

“that’s a long time to be at the jewellers.”

“i know that,” you snapped quickly in response.

more tears pushed at your ducts. you couldn’t believe how unhappy you were, even despite having every material thing you could ever want. sometimes that particular thought would just pummel you out of nowhere and you’d fight back the urge to cry.

wonwoo’s hand cupped the side of your face. his thumb stroked gently beneath your eye and he leaned in to kiss your mouth softly. his tongue tasted like a cherry lollipop. he really was trying to quit smoking.

“what are you gonna do, babygirl?” wonwoo hummed, pressing his forehead against yours as he continued to brush your cheek.

you held his waist. “i dunno,” you croaked, “my parents don’t like you. my dad doesn’t want me near you.”

“then don’t tell him i fucked your face, princess. it’s easy.”

there was a puff of meek laughter in your chest. for a few more minutes, you let wonwoo hold you. it was the most comfortable and happy you’d felt all day. you were running short on time. the first thing you’d do when you get home would be to run a hot shower and most likely finger yourself while you thought about wonwoo’s cock lodged deep down your throat. maybe one day you’d really snap and stuff all your belongings in a suitcase and come live with him in the shitty scope of town.

but for now, that seemed unattainable.

you’d have to come up with another lie as to why you just spent two hours at the jewellers.

“the earrings were the most magnificent things i’d ever seen! i’m going to wear them for my modelling gig next month, in paris of course. i’ll even text you guys some photos of them when i get home. they have these little opal centres that absolutely sparkle.”

just one more word. if you had to listen to aria babble one more word about her modelling gig or her stupid opal earrings or her all-expense paid trip to paris then you might have to throw your glass of chardonnay in her face. those were the only three things she talked about. then the month would change and she’d have another three things to drive into the mud, yet everyone at the table ate up her words like they were a slice of chocolate cake. you were starting to develop a headache.

“that’s wonderful, aria!” ester was gleaming as she readjusted the strap on her pearl-white dress. you could just tell she was dying to incorporate tales of her own wealth into the conversation. “i can’t wait to see your modelling pictures. that reminds me, i still have some old videos from when i went parasailing in bali. do you guys wanna see them?”

everyone started crowding around ester’s side of the table, attempting to view the footage she was pulling up on her phone screen. however, you didn’t budge, and continued to stare with a dull look in your eyes out the bar’s front window. through the glass, you could see wonwoo standing at the street lamp with his friends, swirling around another lollipop from cheek to cheek. you wondered if it was cherry. his last flavour had been green apple. you tasted it on his tongue when he’d fucked you in the backseat of his car.

but that was a week ago.

“don’t you want to see?” ester was smiling at you.

winding your fingers around your thin wine glass, you shrugged. “i’ll pass.”

“suit yourself.” ester replied, and started to play her first video.

you hated everything about this situation.

wonwoo was right. you really didn’t have any friends, and that became especially clear as you observed everyone at the opposite end of the table, adoring ester’s cute, ditsy little parasailing videos that her boyfriend took. you wished you liked the same things these girls did. your life would be one-hundred times more enjoyable if you just embraced your sumptuous blessings and shed a couple brain cells to be on the same level as them.

then again, you didn’t want to be exactly like them.

they left you to get home by yourself just because you drank too much. at a bar.

pressing the wine glass against your lips, you tilted your head back and easily gulped down the remaining chardonnay. it was a pleasant coolness that streamed down your throat, and you slammed the glass onto the table once it was emptied; even slouched back in your seat and didn’t bother patting your lipstick dry with a tissue. aria raised an eyebrow at you. she looked like she was itching to say something. you were in the mood for a challenge. if she was going to make a passive aggressive comment, it better be soon.

“i hope you have a designated driver.” she finally decided to chuckle.

you rolled your eyes. “shut up, aria.”

ester and her friends immediately looked up from the phone.

“excuse me?” aria replied while tucking a strand of her behind her ear. she seemed a bit baffled by your sudden disdain. “i don’t believe i’ve ever heard you speak like that.”

you were beyond a point of caring. “what are you gonna do then? tattletale on me? you’re such a fake.”

“that’s way out of line.” ester intervened, staring you down intensely. “why are you acting like this?”

“whatever.” you stood up from the chair and reached for your coin purse, revealing a wadded clump of cash that you slapped on the lacquered table. admittedly, the alcohol concocted with your frustration (not to mention being around wonwoo’s snide personality) had quite the effect on your behaviour. if you never had to see these girls again, it would be too soon. you couldn’t believe that you’d even went through the effort of buying aria a christmas present. the only thing she gifted you was a card with her signature on it.

like that was fucking useful.

“i think you need to leave.” ester announced like you weren’t already gathering your things.

“exactly.” you falsely commended her.

she probably had a pea-sized diamond in her skull instead of an actual brain. “i’m leaving now before you guys get the chance to ditch me. don’t worry about it though. i can actually walk myself out this time.”

if only you had a camera ready to capture their gobsmacked expressions. it would have been embarrassingly laughable. you flicked past them toward the door and pushed into the nighttime air, which was crisp and wonderfully cold to your warmed flesh. you felt powerful for summoning the courage to break ties with them, and yet, at the same time, you found that you were on the verge of tears. they deserved to have their toxic behaviour thrown back in their face. it was just that you felt a bit broken.

now you truthfully were alone. well – apart from wonwoo.

you approached him as he stood at the corner, still suckling on his lollipop. him and his friends were in the midst of a humorous conversation when you tapped on wonwoo’s hard shoulder. you always wondered what they spoke about. it always seemed more interesting than the lifeless talk you once endured inside the bar. he didn’t seem all that surprised to see you, though he did look with concern at the watery film across your eyes. you could smell the sweetness of his lollipop; it had to be strawberry.

“are you okay?” wonwoo asked, his breath forming wispy cotton against the dark sky.

you ignored his question. “i want to go back to your place.” you told him.

“now?” he raised his eyebrow.

“yes. now would be good. i’ve just been thinking, and i really want you to eat me out.”

you didn’t care if his friends overheard. apparently, wonwoo didn’t care either. he smirked at you and licked his lips, though there remained a bit of uncertainty in his eyes. you had yet to answer his initial question. from inside the bar, you knew those girls were staring at you, watching you talk to wonwoo.

they were definitely going to tattle to your parents.

your fingers clawed mercilessly over the bed, practically uprooting the linens tucked beneath the mattress as wonwoo kept your thighs tightly locked apart. everything felt so dense, so hot, like the universe was pushing down on your chest and igniting flame inside of your body. you lifted your head off his pillow, only capturing a mere glimpse of his pink tongue gliding past your slit, the muscle coated purely in your arousal. he started to fuck you with his tongue, digging it as deep as he could within your heat.

unabashedly, you moaned, extremely loud and most likely disturbing everyone in his apartment complex. everything about the technicality and purpose of his movements was pushing you toward a climax that would be unlike any other. he was so impatient to get a taste of you that he hadn’t even taken your skirt off, instead bunching the pleated material up against your stomach while your underwear were thrown to the floor. suddenly, you were gasping, and your head collapsed back to the pillow.

wonwoo had managed to wriggle his hand between your thighs. as he ran his tongue in hot, fervent licks against your needy clit, he pushed two fingers inside of you, scissoring you open.

“ffuh-fuck, wonwoo!” you wailed, your hand grasping at his soft hair to keep his tongue against you. “it fe-feels s-so … s-so fucking go-good!”

he’d been taking his sweet time in building up your climax. you allowed him to have his way with you, since he knew how to work your body as though he were magic. his fingers started to curl. it didn’t take him long before they were hitching up into that one golden spot, the one that caused the entire room to whirl. you could tell that he was smiling. he began to messily circle his tongue around your clit. the sensation of the warm, wet muscle pleasuring your most sensitive region was leaving you breathless.

“c’mon, babygirl,” wonwoo mumbled against your core, his fingers thrusting up heavily and abusing that spot inside of you, “you gonna let go and let me taste your cum? you’re fucking dripping all over the bed.”

there was a glimmer of drool leaking from the edge of your mouth. you were so blissed out and crammed with euphoria that you could hardly articulate a response. wonwoo wasn’t giving you much of a chance either. he started a brisk pace rubbing his tongue against your clit, and then he closed his plump lips around you to better flick it with the pink muscle. his bicep was probably burning as he slammed his fingers deep into your heat, making you squelch. your slick had thoroughly soaked the sheets beneath you.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” you panted, arching your chest into the air, “i-it’s s-so much, w-wonwoo—m’gonna—nngh—m’gonna cc-cum!”

wonwoo kept your hips pressed firmly to the mattress with one arm as your pleasure exploded. the tears easily streamed down your flustered, glossy face as this extreme contraction passed through you. it was incredibly wet, too wet, and you knew exactly what had happened as wonwoo pulled out his glistening fingers and completely buried his face between your thighs. god, it was fucking embarrassing. you would have curled away from him if wonwoo wasn’t so persistent. he kept licking at you, hard and fast.

at that point, your tears were no longer tiny beads. the sensitivity had left your nerves completely raw, and you sobbed helplessly as wonwoo continued to eat you out. his tongue felt like it was lapping everywhere, impatient and hungry. you tried to pull him away by dishevelled hair, but he swatted your hand back and bit down softly on your swollen clit. before you even knew what was happening, wonwoo had somehow forced your body into another orgasm. his tongue was inside of you as the second wave hit.

“pl-please,” you whimpered in utter fragility, the mixture of pleasure and pain becoming too overwhelming as wonwoo attempted to lick you clean, “pl-please, wonwoo… i-it huh-hurts..”

he chuckled against your sore flesh warmly. “are you sure you’re done, baby? bet i could make you squirt again if i was real gentle.”

“i-i don’t want to talk about it…” you said shakily. honestly, you didn’t even know your body was capable of feeling that much stimulation and pleasure. it was cosmic.

“awe, don’t be embarrassed,” wonwoo hummed, “you have no idea how fucking hot that was.”

“i don’t want to know.” you sighed.

wonwoo scoffed innocuously. he pecked the inside of your thigh, then each hip bone, before he crawled overtop of you and let you taste your own sweetness off his tongue. you spent a few minutes idly making out, smearing saliva over each other’s flushed lips, running your hands up and down his broad, hard chest, leaving scarlet rivulets along his biceps. wonwoo began teasing his fingers against your slit again, and you gasped into the kiss as his finger sunk into you, slowly, deeply.

“what’s wrong?” wonwoo asked while pumping the digit at a gentle pace.

“what do you mean?” you squeaked, staring into his brown eyes tinged with his earlier concern.

“you know what i mean,” wonwoo hummed, “why were you about to cry outside the bar? what happened?”

“are you sure we should discuss this while you’re fingering me?”

“baby, just tell me.” wonwoo urged with a comforting tone in his voice. he started to massage his thumb over your clit, and your entire body jolted.

you sniffled. “i-i just, i— i kind of cut ties with my friends. a-and i’m glad i did it but now i’m just gonna be even more a-alone.”

“of course not,” wonwoo shook his head, “you have me.”

“are you sure?”

slight amusement and shock coloured wonwoo’s face. he pulled his hand away from your core and looked like he wanted to laugh. you couldn’t blame him, but you also couldn’t help your insecurity.

“i’m sure, baby.” he told you firmly. “i’ll always be here for you. i promise.”

you smiled up at him, feeling your heart start to soften.

“can we take a shower?” you then proposed. “i want to get these tears off my face before they dry.”

while wonwoo was busy getting the water running inside the bathroom, you noticed your phone start to glow and vibrate on his nightstand. it was your mother’s number on the screen. taking a long, slow breath, you flipped your phone upside down and ignored the call. it was a risky move, but it felt almost healing in a sense to turn away from the stress in your life. instead, you focused on what mattered in the moment.

wonwoo joined you in the shower, the water gliding in silk-like pathways around his lean muscle and smooth skin. he pushed back his wet hair, sparkling droplets sticking heavy to his eyelashes. he pressed you against the tiles, and their icy touch sent a shiver up your spine. in the midst of the steam and heat, he was kissing you again, suckling softly on your tongue and squeezing your breasts in his hands. his aching length, hard and heavy, brushed between your thighs, to which your palm started to glide up his shaft.

he smiled against your mouth, “you want my cock inside you, babygirl?”

the fire slowly rebuilt itself from the embers in your stomach.

“yes please.” you lilted innocently.

wonwoo decided to press your front against the glass wall instead of the tile. his lips were leaving drifting pecks up your shoulder blade, and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. a rough, deep groan filled your ear as wonwoo rubbed his cock between your folds, allowing your arousal to coat him generously. however, you were yearning to feel how he filled you entirely, until you could feel him nestled right to the brink. wriggling your hips against him, it was your non-verbal cue for him to start sliding in.

he cupped your breasts in his hands, whispering into your ear, “how should i fuck you, baby? do you want it hard?”

as impatient as you were, there was something about the atmosphere that told you to prolong your intimacy.  “n-no,” you mumbled as the fog swathed around you, “s-slow, i want to feel you.”

your moan was almost louder than the water spraying against the tiles when wonwoo started to push inside of you. once he was buried as far as could fit, he started to grind into you, extending his pace so that you could truly feel his every inch and vein. his fingers were massaging your chest, the round flesh almost like velvet to his touch. everything about your body was endearingly soft and warm. he loved it.

“does it feel good, babygirl?” wonwoo purred. he was situated at such a pleasurable depth inside you that you felt like complete gelatine. he thrust into you a little harder, but it was enough to make you cry.

“s-so good,” you stuttered, licking the water off your lips. “do i feel good t-too?”

wonwoo smirked. he moved his hips at a shallow pace. “mmhm. you’re so tight and warm around me, baby. feels so perfect. how pretty do you think your pussy would look with my cum dripping out of it? should we try it?”

you pushed yourself back against his pelvis, “fill me up, wonwoo, please.”

“of course,” he grinned, and slowly dipped a hand down your stomach until you felt him begin to rub soft circles into your clit.

“let’s see how much you can take, babygirl.”

you were exhausted. you were sore. but you felt safe. you made an audacious decision and decided to spend the night at wonwoo’s rather than going home, where you knew you’d be greeted by an equally displeased mother and father that aria had snitched to. it was the first time you’d gone to bed without wearing pyjamas that weren’t expensive, pink satin. you were clad in nothing but one of wonwoo’s old t-shirts. he tried to give you one that didn’t still carry the scent of stale cigarette smoke.

his arm was around your waist, your spine resting comfortably against his chest while you lay together beneath the bedsheets. the sheet that was stained in your arousal had been tossed in the laundry hamper. you knew wonwoo would never stop teasing you about it. anyways, life felt different at his apartment; in fact, it felt better, especially when wonwoo kissed your temple before shutting off the light. your wealth had never been a defining factor in your personality, but it did make you consistently miserable.

that night, it was just you and a boy, a boy who you were quite positively in love with. maybe he loved you too. you weren’t completely certain yet, and you didn’t want to rush anything; however, you felt fairly confident his heart was likewise when he buried his face into your neck and wished you goodnight in his low, sleepy voice.

whatever your parents had to say, you’d find out tomorrow morning.

right now, you weren’t the rich girl, but a happy girl, and that mattered more to you than anything else.

[bones-sprouts]

SELF INDULGENT APOLLO JUSTICE ACE ATTORNEY AU BECAUSE IT BRINGS ME JOY ( SPOILER WARNING ⚠️‼️)

@burnoutandbookworms-ohmy you wanted to be tagged :>

okay so the cast would be as follows

apollo - tommy

phoenix - wilbur

trucy - tubbo

klavier - ranboo (this one's ambitious but hear me out-)

kristoph - dream

ema - techno

lamiroir - kristin

zak - phil (F in chat for mr minecraft 😔)

and then all of the filler characters would be various other smp members (suggestions?)

so then the plot would go as follows (we're bullet pointing this bitch you better run)

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

• so tommy arrives in the courtroom with dream, and he's nervous as hell, because not only is it his first trial

• his client is wilbur fucking soot

• world renouned defense attorney, now disbarred for forging evidence

• but tommy is 110% sure wilbur is innocent

• because wilbur is his HERO

• and then dream introduces them and damn he looks like shit

• i'm talking full pogtopia era get-up, plus a ratty beanie that has wilby painted on it and a crown pin

• so wil spouts the standard cryptic bullshit you'd expect from phoenix

• and tommy does an early smpe earth 'i am so cool and not at all starstruck' type act

• and they head in

• you meet the judge, who i didn't replace bc it's the judge

• tommy does his chords of steel, but with significantly more swearing then apollo would use

• and dream seems to be just a bit off

• and he goes on this big tirade about blue cards

• the case goes smoothly, until

• tommy feels something akin to a burning from the compass he's kept as a necklace for as long as he can remember

• and he just knows that the witness is lying

• it's like he can see the tiniest of tells that tip him off

• dream doesn't quite understand it, but wilbur looks like he knows exactly what's going on

• before he calls this out, though, a recess is called

• wilbur and dream have a chat, so tommy's left to his own devices

• and this boy about his age in a green magician's outfit runs up to him

• and he looks like an older version of the picture of wilbur's kid that he showed off in court beforehand

• and he hands tommy a (bloody??) playing card and poofs away

• then the trial resumes as normal, with tommy grilling the witness and eventually accusing her

• but it just doesn't seem right

• he knows she's not lying about being innocent, her tells would have tipped him off if she was

• but dream pushes and pushes him to formally accuse her

• until wilbur fucking soot interjects with an OBJECTION!

• while tommy geeks the hell out, wilbur asserts that there must have been someone else in the room

• and accuses dream.

• tommy's confused, and the both of them argue back and forth for a bit, until wilbur starts explaining his theory with evidence from tommy along the way

• but it's seeming like they don't have any non circumstancial evidence

• until wilbur has tommy pull out the playing card

• (i haven't been explaining the case but it makes sense i promise)

• they win the case, with dream never faltering or showing emotion, even after being taken away

• tommy's shaken up, but happy, all things considered

• but before he can ponder on what's just happened, wilbur takes him aside to talk

• and admits the card was forged

• tommy's shocked, and he's sad, and he's angry, because how could wilbur fucking soot forge evidence??

• and he punches him in the face

• wil smiles and gives him an offer to work at his office, since tommy's boss is kind of in jail

• tommy leaves

• but he comes back a few months later, only out of desperation

• he's greeted by the boy from the trial (wil's kid?)

• who demands to know his name and his 'talent'

• tommy says he's a lawyer and introduces himself

• the kid says his name is tubbo and that the building hasn't been a law office in a long time

• tommy asks to see wilbur

• so they go to see him

• in the fucking hospital

• he managed to get hit by a car, which sent him flying 40ft back into a telephone pole

• and he sprained his ankle

• he's very lucky apparently

• so from there, cases 2 and 3 play out (i'm gonna skim though these bc if i write them out ill end up rewriting plot points and i don't have the energy)

• along the way, they meet a few interesting people

• ranboo, a prosecutor who's dream's younger brother and the guitarist for a popular band, that tubbo immediately gets along with and tommy despises

• dispite seeming cocky, he's impressively awkward outside of court

• technoblade, a detective who's fairly standoffish towards tommy and tubbo alike, but has a soft spot for wilbur (do they have a history)

• kristin, a singer with a past she can't remember (unbeknownst to tommy, his compass tends to point towards her and tubbo. odd)

also before we move on to the final case, a quick summary of the dynamics and other small shit bc seritonin

• though wil adopted tubbo, they have much more of a sibling dynamic, and cause general mayhem

• wilbur does actually warm up to tommy fairly quickly (beanix and apollo dynamic, my abbhorrent) and while tommy still doesn't 100% trust wil, they do end up getting pretty close as time goes on

• tubbo and ranboo IMMEDIATELY hit it off, much to the dismay of tommy, and the two of them act like the dummy named micheal that tubbo uses for magic tricks is their son

• tommy acts like he hates ranboo's guts, but that won't stop him from trying to sweet talk his way into getting evidence from him (it always works, ranboo has no spine.) he also, like in canon, vents to ranboo whenever he needs to, and ranboo ends up knowing more ab him then even wil and tubbo

• jack is eldoon. they all go to his noodle shop constantly and tommy always complains about them being too salty. jack hates him with a passion but adores tubbo and wil

• instead of snakooos, techno deadass just has entire bags full of raw potatoes that he eats like chips, this is terrifying to everyone except wilbur, who acts like it's completely normal

• instead of pretending to be taken hostage in case 2, tubbo deadass pretends to have a nuke and threatens to set it off unless a recess is called. after things calm down they go back in and he just,, doesn't get arrested. the law is fucked

• after case 1, dream wears a smiley mask in order to not show his face, paranoid that tommy or someone else like him will know his secrets though his tells

okay now final case here we go

• wilbur tells tommy and tubbo that he's been working on a special trial with the jury system, and that he needs them to defend

• they agree, and go to meet the client

• things generally go like any other investigation, but there's just something about it that feels game changing

• and as they power though the first part of the trial, they start to uncover that there might be someone pulling the strings from behind the scenes

• tommy clocks her tell (chewing her nails) and they start to make progress

• but before they can uncover answers from her, she passes out

• a recess is called, and so are paramedics

• it turns out she's ingested the same kind of poison as the victim, coming from her nail polish

• tommy and tubbo are shaken up, and they go to wil for help

• he decides they need to know the full truth, but he knows that some of the evidence is lost at this point

(and holy shit stay with me here i promise that as out of left field this is the original game made significantly less sense)

• he phones a friend that he knows is the only one that can help them

• karl

• he explains the situation, and karl agrees to help them

• and they fucking time travel

(again, the game makes even less sense i promise)

• they chat with the victim and defendant from seven years beforehand, right after wil was disbarred

• they watch the trial wil got disbarred over, where he defended tubbo's bio father, phil

• and they see a much smaller tubbo hand wil the forged evidence, saying that a kind man told him to give it to the man with the bright blue hamilton suit

• and they watch wil present it, only to be shot down by a much younger ranboo, who proves it's fake

• and they find out tubbo and tommy are bio siblings, which they're shocked about but decide to talk about later (fuck canon tommy and tubbo get to know)

• and they go visit dream in prison

• at this point wil is CONVINCED dream is behind everything, they just need the right evidence

• so they head to the cell, only for it to be empty

• naturally, they start snooping

• wil finds a letter, and opens it to reveal exactly what they need to win the case

• but before they can leave, dream, equipped with a smiley mask, stops them

• they exchange a few words before they leave, letterless

• luckily, wil has a trick up his sleeve, and reveals that his crown pin has a built in camera

• they examine the contents of the letter, and wil hastily makes a replica, and they head off to the trial

• since they're experimenting with the jurist system for the first time, they can't afford to wait for the defendant to heal, so they proceed

• they call dream to the stand

• they grill him for quite a while, with the help of ranboo who refuses to protect his brother, getting him to show his true colors, and then pull out the letter

• and he says that it's a fake, which the judge unfortunately agrees with

• so they don't have their evidence

• and even though they've shown pretty much everything and dream had practically admitted to bring a murderous bastard and the one who gave tubbo the fake to give to wil

• they don't have enough to convince a judge

• tommy and tubbo are crushed

• but wil is happy

• because they don't have to convince a judge

• they have to convince a jury

• and they win

• dream shatters along with his mask, going completely off the deep end

• their client is safe, and so is wil

• kristin also reveals to wil that she's tommy and tubbo's bio mom, saying that she'll tell them when she's really

• so things come to a close

• for now, anyway

so yeah, thats AJ but dsmp, to anyone who didn't play the game, i'm so sorry this makes no sense, and to anyone who did, you're cool as hell can we be moots 👉👈

[destinys-lies]

Evermore by destiny’s lies

Disclaimer: Boku no hero academia and its characters do not belong to me, but Kōhei Horikoshi. Any images used are credited to their original owner(s). ———————————————– Prompt: Bonus Day 2: Shattered—Evanescent ———————————————– Author’s Note: Just an Izuocha drabble to help improve my writing skills. I chose to do evanescent for the prompt. This story is a continuation of this story. I did something slightly different for the synopsis, so that’s something. Also I may or may not have made references to other Izuocha fanfics I’ve read like ��Distraction” by the amazingly wonderful WingSongHalo and “Green Gentlemen” by the fantastically talented SevenRenny! ^w^ Anyways, I hope you enjoy this story! It was fun participating in this event! Now I shall pass out. Have a wonderful day/night everyone!

Update: I forgot that the @ is how to tag people and I realized both writers have Tumblr sooo I’m going to do that now! @sevenrenny and @wingsonghalo

———————————————– Synopsis: “I’ll love you evermore.” ———————————————–

Izuku approached the wooden door. He silently gazed at the sign hanging beside it. The sign read, “127.” Three little digits indicated that he was at the right door. He grabbed the doorknob but didn’t turn it.

Part of him wanted to run away but the other part reminded him why he was here. It was no time to chicken out. Taking a small breath, he mustered up the courage to turn the doorknob and walk inside.

The room was painted a pale green as the dull, fluorescent lights lit up the dreary room. On the side of a wall, Izuku spotted curtains that covered the large windows. He walked over to them and pushed them aside, letting the natural sunlight in. A slight smile appeared on his face but it didn’t linger.

He turned to look at the hospital bed.

An unconscious, brown-haired woman laid on it, her body still and hooked up to tubes filled with warm blood. He pulled a chair from the corner of the room and pulled it alongside the bed before sitting down. He sighed as he placed the bouquet of pink flowers in the vase beside her.

He peered down at her angelic face, giving a soft smile. She was always beautiful, whether she was awake or asleep. His smile fell once again. He desperately wanted her to wake up. So he could tightly embrace her in his arms and twirl her around.

He groaned, burying his face into his hands.

“We need to make a risky decision here,” her words echoed around in his mind.

“Dammit, Ochako. I just got you back.” He lifted his head out of his hands and gently wrapped a hand around her fingers, raising them to lips before giving them a small peck. “And now I have to worry about losing you all over again.”

His eyes wandered to the pile of flowers sitting next to her.

They were rosemaries.

He hoped that when she woke up, they would be the first things she saw. Maybe it’d help her and make things alright. He yearned for her yet she was right next to him. All those months they spent apart and here they were together again but still divided.

Oh God, how could that trip have gone so wrong?

If he had never traveled to the North Pole, she wouldn’t have had to look for him. She wouldn't be here. They could’ve been at home, making more memories. She was here because of him.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t have left her. A whole year of potential memories escaped them and it was all because of his stupid dream to travel to the North Pole. A gentle squeeze broke him out of his thoughts. He felt a hand comfortingly squeeze his hand. His eyes peered down at his wife.

Her chocolatey, warm eyes sluggishly watched him. “You’re doing it again.”

“Huh?”

“You’re blaming yourself.”

“I mean, if I hadn’t—”

“It’s not your fault, Izuku,” she interrupted, her eyebrows furrowing. “It was my decision to come after you alone in the cold, not yours.”

“You wouldn’t have had to try to find me if I hadn’t gotten lost.”

“Maybe, but think about it, the day I found you is a new memory we have.”

“A sad one,” he remorsefully replied.

“But a memory we have together, right?”

“Yeah, it’s just I wish I never got lost.”

“I know, but remember it’s not your fault, okay? The North Pole is not an easy place to navigate. Heck! That’s one of the reasons why it took me so long to find you...” she trailed off, glancing at the pink flowers. A small smile graced her face. “Thank you.”

“Of course, I wanted to try and bring some color to this room. How are you feeling?”

“Tired…but I’m happy you’re here.” Her eyes scanned across the room before falling on a telephone hanging on the wall across from her. “Hey, remember that time you showed me the first voicemail I left on your phone?”

“Yeah” Izuku shyly blushed, suddenly feeling like he was a teenager again. “You can’t blame me for it though, it’s not my fault that you have an attractive voice. Ochako choked on air, bursting into a small coughing fit. “I guess we’re even again.” He smiled.

“For what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“The time you made me choke on the hot chocolate and spray it everywhere.”

“Oh really?” Amusement sparkled in those cheeky eyes of hers. “I don’t seem to remember that.” She stuck out tongue at him, making him laugh.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, unconvinced by her answer.

“I couldn’t help it!” she chuckled. “I just saw the opportunity and took it.”

He rolled his eyes and put his elbow on the side of her bed, resting his head in his hand. “Remember the time when we went to summer camp together?”

“Oh yeah! That was such a long time ago.”

“Yeah…” he affirmed. He peeked back at her, small bits of anguish flickering in his eyes. “Do you remember the time we went canoeing?”

“Izuku…” She sighed in an effort to steel herself. “You know I wouldn’t ever forget about you.”

“The doctor said-”

“Fuck the doctor!” Ochako brazenly exclaimed, her colorful language catching him off guard. “You’re too hard to forget, Izuku. And even if I did forget...I wouldn’t have stopped till I remembered.”

Tears rapidly poured from his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. The Ochako I know is too stubborn to quit.”

“Exactly!” She broadly smiled at him. “I’m so happy that we’re back together.”

“And soon we’ll both be back at home, making new memories.”

“I’ll love you evermore.”

“Until death do us part.”

Everything would be alright again.

[lastsonlost]

How much is your hatred worth?

This is a question I find myself asking a lot these past years? When your hatred is so strong you don't care who else you have to hurt just so you can strike at the person you hate.

'I told him I would kill him'

The 21-year-old mother, Titayanna Phillips, was charged with felony murder for causing the death of her 3-month baby after she intentionally rammed into the baby daddy's vehicle

ATLANTA, GEORGIA: An Atlanta mother, 21, has been charged with felony murder for reportedly causing the death of her three-month-old baby girl with her car. 

THE MOTHER INTENTIONALLY CRASHED HER VEHICLE INTO THE CAR OF HER DAUGHTER'S FATHER WHILE THE BABY WAS INSIDE.

The shocking incident took place at around 7 pm on Monday, July 27, at Chappell Road near Eason Street in Atlanta. 

According to the police, a preliminary examination revealed that the father, Undra Henderson, had placed his baby girl, Khy'undra Henderson, inside his Honda Sedan and was driving away when the mother, Titayanna Phillips, chased them. Titayanna, who was driving a black SUV, rammed it into Undra's sedan several times which finally caused to lose control of the vehicle, crashing it into a telephone pole, according to a WSB-TV report. 

Police officers who arrived at the scene of the crime found the baby and her father lying injured inside the car which was badly damaged. The baby was rushed to the hospital where she died. Undra is still in the hospital and is said to be in a stable condition. According to 11Alive, Titayanna has been charged with felony murder and aggravated assault. Authorities have not yet revealed her motive behind the incident. 

Undra took to his Facebook handle to talk about the crash on Tuesday morning, July 28. He had written, "Um blessed to be alive but without khy'undra this sht don't even matter."

 A neighbor who had witnessed the crash rushed over to the vehicle to help the trapped father and daughter. Taranjela Jones said, "We were in the house when we heard a boom." 

"We saw her, the car was turned sideways up against the tree, and she was ramming her car into the side of the car," Jones added. Authorities revealed that Undra had just picked up the baby from her mother's house.  Jones said, recalling Titayanna's anger, "She was screaming, 'I told him that I would kill him'. And she said, ‘Can you all get my baby out of the car?’ She was screaming, ‘That’s my baby in the back seat'." 

"Everyone tried to get the people out of the car because the car started smoking," Jones continued. A few minutes later, firefighters arrived and got the baby out of the car.  Jones added, "It’s sad. It’s heartbreaking. It wasn’t worth it at all." 

Witnesses also said that Titayanna just stood by and even made a phone call as firefighters did their best to rescue the infant and her father from the mangled and broken vehicle, according to a report by AJC. Atlanta police records revealed how Titayanna has had at least two run-ins with officers in the last few weeks. In late June, she had been arrested on a disorderly conduct charge in light of a domestic violence dispute that occurred in her home. 

During the case, Undra told officers that he had been forced to jump down the staircase after Titayanna attacked him from the stairwell. Recently, on Friday, July 24, morning, authorities had been called into a health clinic after employees said Titayanna, who did not have custody of her daughter, took the child from an examination room and left. 

[melloian]

Character Bio 13

Andre Bourgeois aka Mayor

Age: 50

Gender: M

Race: French Species:  Human Alignment: Neutral  Status: Alive, (later on: injured) Relatives: unnamed mother, unnamed father, Chloe (daughter) Occupation: Director (formerly), Mayor, owner of Le grand paris hotel Love interest:  Audrey (married)

Friends: Gabriel (formerly), Emilie, Adrien (currently) the man trying to find new friends 

Enemies: Villains

Personality: Manipulative, Cowardly, stubborn, Sensitive, Skeptical, can be nice in some terms.

Post-Gabriel incident personality: Emotional wreck (worse then redeemed chloe),  still coward, sensitive, skeptical, nice, Empathetic

Post-unknown Villain attack (in unknown season): confident, less emotional, protective, venturesome, nice, alert Bio: Andre is the mayor of France. He keeps charge of the country, though he does a bad job of doing that... He’s usually abuse his power just for his family. He sometimes manipulate his citizens for his own gain. He also very stubborn on others opinions however, is scared of own family so he just listens to their opinion. He sometimes check on his family in a meantime.

Post-Gabriel incident bio: He cries much more lately. He can be easily get upset and angered. He pretty much stressed out Even though he’s the mayor, he wants to stay away from his country so he can deal with his problems. But he cant do that. 

Post-unknown Villain attack bio: Before the attack, he finally calm down and apologize to everyone (he been wanted to do that after post Gabriel incident but he wasn’t in the correct mood.  he gotten this feeling after seeing Gabriel), especially his daughter. He promised her he is going be better person.

After the attack: He’s is no longer scared, he’s much more confident.  He willing to protect his own family and country, even if it risks his own life. He takes his job much seriously now, awhile still checking on his family. Because of this, he family sometimes just think he took his courageous little too far.  Backstory:

When he was kid, he used to dance to music in class. From there, he hated dancing because he embarrassed from doing it. Believe it or not, Andre used to be middle class. He didn’t have much but he enjoyed awhile he could. He knew how to cook, clean and etc. In the meantime, he go skateboarding. When he was a preteen, He was skateboarding one day and found a little boy (by hitting him by accident.)  The boy name was revealed to be Gabriel. He realized Gabriel never been out much before because of his parents. So he wanted to show him around and they became friends after that. Andre will usually get ladder and climb up to Gabriel so that they can go out together.

When they both became a teenager, they usually go to parties (Andre don't dance in them don't worry.) But one day, they went to a party. The party was a house party,. Andre and Gabriel went outside and chat there. Hours later, someone ended up shooting up the party. Everyone started to scream and started running. the shooter then goes to the backyard and noticed two boys. The shooter decided to point the gun at Gabriel. Gabriel was terrified.  As soon as the shooter pull the trigger, Andre jumped in front of Gabriel and got shot on the side. Andre started screaming and crying in pain which caused the shooter run. Andre yell at Gabriel to go nearby telephone pole and call the hospital. But Gabriel was so scared that he ran off instead. Andre thought Gabriel wasn’t really his friend because he did that.  He ended up passing out afterwards. He wake up in the hospital, found his mother angry. He attempted to tell her what happened but the mother yelled at him and took it as something else. He couldn’t reason with her. He developed becoming a coward because he feared to go to parties after that and talking back to his mother. After getting healed, he attempts to please his mother so she doesn’t get angry. This also how he ends up gaining the pleasing and manipulative tactic. 

In his young adult years, He met Gabriel again but he wasn't so happy to met him. Gabriel saw him and wanted to apologize about the past. Andre accepts his apology but was little skeptical about it.

At some point in his young adult years, he became a director as he always wanted. He made 2 films, only one being successful (the one with Emilie.) Even though he liked filming, he lost motivation overtime.  In his adult years, He decided he wanted to be mayor, his wife (Audrey) questioned if he’s sure about what’s he doing. He claims he does and moves on to be mayor. He claims he wants to protect the country.

As Malediktator

Altered personality: its the opposite of his personality. and all the bad traits are increased.

cause of akumanzation: He got upset because chloe and his wife wanted to leave him to go to new york.

Akumantized object: sash

Goal: he wants to control his own family awhile doing the same with the country.

Abilities: He can shoot circle like projectile at people and they’ll be under his control.

As Heart hunter 

I have already made a post for this so I really don't have to type but I still can show these:

cause of akumanzation: Him and his wife ended up in argument leading to them to think they need a divorce. Akumantized object: brooches

As Wraith

Altered personality: overprotective, strict, aggressive, ignorant Force chloe to be with him...

cause of Haunzation: Chloe didn’t want to be bother by him or see him ever again, causing him to become upset.

Hauntzation object: Sash

Goal: He wants the entire Paris to be gone just for him and chloe to only exist. 

He usually would target who chloe loves or friends with first. 

Abilities:  

He can extend his chain arm He can make extra chain arms He can create a portal

He can create a chained jail

When he floats, everything behind him turns black and pink.

Night vision

Not ability but awhile he hauntzatied, the entire France turns into nighttime.

Relationships (main ones)

Andre & Gabriel

Andre and Gabriel was childhood friends. They used to play together and hangout as kids. But because of that one incident, they wasn’t as close anymore. 

They met again as young adults, and decided to hangout but not as much as before. They introduced each other wives and etc. 

Andre pretty much considers Gabriel is only friend. He sometimes encourages his job though Gabriel never does the same. He’s usually happy to see him.

Spoilers

Post-Gabriel incident: After Hawkmoth/Gabriel was defeated, mayor found out he was hawkmoth. When he did, this completely broke him. He couldn’t look at Gabriel the same anymore. Not only he was upset, he is also mad at the fact he terrorize his country. But he was extremely mad at him for targeting him and his family. 

After that, mayor believes that everyone he ever talk to, he corrupts which is why he wanted to start distancing himself from people. But he knew he can’t, so he ends up putting up a fake smile. Andre & Chloe

Andre loves his daughter dearly, too the point he spoils her.  Every time his daughter is upset, he goes to fix it to make her happy again. However, he wish his daughter loved him back the same way. 

Depise all this, he dislikes his daughter's way and fears her. 

spoilers

Before and After post-villain attack:

Before the attack: After getting over his sadness, he decided to go apologize to Chloe about everything he’s done. He claims he going be better, which chloe liked. 

After the attack: Andre loves his daughter so much to the point he would protect her. He doesn’t want anyone hurting her. 

Andre & Audrey 

Andre loves Audrey but he kinda of annoyed by her. He dislikes her attitude and rudeness. Even though he dislikes that side of her, he’s more scared of her then his daughter. He definitely doesn’t want to see her angry. 

He dislikes how she treats their daughter.

Spoilers

After post-villain attack: Since he gained courage, he doesn’t tolerate her acting the way she does anymore. He yells at her when he sees her doing something he doesn’t like. He also told her to treat their daughter better.

Even though he could’ve divorce her, he still loves her somehow...

Full body:

Injured version:

Younger andre

Teen-Young adult andre

Other information:

In the days when Andre wasn’t a mayor, He used to dress fancy clothing because of his wife.

Andre hair used to grow very long. It stopped and started to fall out when he got older.

He will heal later on anyways here’s a chart ig

yes, I sat here and gave a literal mayor a backstory. am just that utterly ridiculous. 

and you might be thinking, why didn’t I just make him divorce his wife? because I don't want to gave them man more suffering then he already have.

[impossible-rat-babies]

don’t stop (color on the walls)

fallen hero | 2.3k words | post second escape | cw: graphic depictions of violence + mild gore

read on ao3

--

It’s a clear night out tonight, the sky an endless dome stretching miles and miles overhead out into deep inky blackness bespectacled by freckled stars. 

Pollux blows a stream of smoke out of his mouth and it drifts up and up until it dissipates and he wonders if any particles of the smoke will reach that impossibly high ceiling. If they’ll touch moon perched on the roof, staring down at him with her grey blue light. 

He glances down at his hands, still bandaged and aching, lit instead by the fluorescence and the red and green neon glow from the gas station behind him. His shadow stretching long and narrow, falling across the desert dirt towards the dusty two lane highway disappearing out west. He breathes out again, the chill of the dry desert air stings in his nose when he takes a deep breath. It still hurts his lungs and his lips are broken and chapped, the wind sharp against his skin and he scratches the side of his face, sand and dirt rubbing off on his hand. He’s already got a fine layer of sand and dust under his clothes and it itches, but it’s better than what he came from.

The stolen sweatshirt itches and smells like cheap booze and sweat, the oversized sweat pants tied off as tightly as he can manage, but they still need coaxing to stay up. He looks back out east, across the desert and a shiver runs down his back staring into the darkness of those looming hills. It’s been days now, he can feel it in his joints, his aching muscles and in the caffeine shakes making his leg bounce, paranoia sharp as a knife when he hasn’t slept in three days.

If they were going to come after him, they would have by now.

Or maybe they were still busy cleaning up the mess he left behind. He picks at the dark lines wedged under his fingernails, flicking away the dried blood and dirt.

He’d cleaned the worst of the viscera off at the first abandoned house in some podunk hundred and fifty person town--a quick bucket and hose bath to scrub away the worst of it. Patched the worst of the hurts with a stolen first aid kit and cheap vodka to calm the shakes and practiced hands make quick work. He’d scrubbed raw and shuffled away the memories of what he had done too, letting them scab over and scar. Days later and miles away and there’s no regret in his actions—nothing he hasn’t done before.

Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice, shame on you. A lesson they all learned too late and Pollux quickly rubs goosebump sticky arms.

Thoughts best left for later and he takes another long drag of his cigarette before he drops it to the ground and kicks some dirt over it. He needs to find actual shoes, his feet numb with scraps and burns from desert. He turns back to the gas station, the sad looking thing still clinging to life from a threadbare wire linking it to the rest of the chain which traces the narrow highway. A pulse, a guiding light to the south. Las Vegas and then west further still, down through what highways remain to the ocean—to the city that lies at those ruined shores.

There’s a few truckers packing up their things, shuffling around their big rigs and filling up at the meager pumps for the inevitable long days ahead of them. Pollux had picked one out earlier—an older woman heading just the direction he needed. 

She’d seen him inside earlier, moving through the aisles of candy and assorted snacks, poking at the chips and sneakily sticking packages of fruit snacks in the pockets of his sweatshirt when the attendant wasn’t looking too hard. She had saddled up next to him, taking the package of chips he had been reaching for and tucked them under her arm, hand held out expectantly. Her eyes drifting down to the drooping pocket of his sweatshirt with a pointed frown. 

He’d almost panicked, dropped everything and disappeared back into the desert--he could find his own way South. He’d done it before. But...there was no intent to rat him out, only give him a chance to not get caught. Give him a chance to mess this up; care about him a little.

Maybe that’s what made it easy, taking what was in his pockets out and passing them off to her one by one like some kid coughing up the candy they’d stolen from the jar and shoved in their cheeks.

He’d stood beside her like some poor lost child, eyeing everything around them while she checked out. Tucking an energy drink or two under her arm before she’d passed him his own meager bag with yet another look, thick southern drawl of a thank you for the attendant.

He fusses with the plastic handle of the snacks digging into his hand, peeling the wrapper from off the one of two packages of cigarettes she had added on his meager hoard of snacks. A little way to sweeten the pot for his honesty, he had easily picked up from her casual mind. 

She was kindly enough to offer a helping hand, but knowing enough to not get curious--her assumptions secure. Ironic how little work he has to do sometimes when people will fill in the gaps of what they want to see: just a poor runaway with nothing to his name, looking to head south to the coast. Disappear into the big city and be nothing--be a nobody.

He clambers up into the passenger seat, dumping his bagged snacks on the middle seat and it smells like cigarette smoke and cheaply made new care smell trees—half a dozen of them dangle from the rear view mirror. A lanyard hangs alongside them with small polaroids clipped to the key ring. Children, he’s guessing: grown daughter out east, living in up in New York—at some big architect firm and there’s a touch of pride in all those memories. A high school aged son back home, deep in the bowels of Los Diablos. He doesn’t care to poke more, settling deeper into the passenger seat once she too hops in.

He tucks his aching, stinging feet under him and cranes his neck to look out the window, watching a she slowly gets the big rigged turned around and headed off down the highway. The truck lurches and protests with the shifting of the gears, but it gets up to speed and the telephone poles and electric wires fly by, disappearing into the dark once the headlights hit them and pass on by. He counts their movement by the dip and rise of the wires from one pole to the next, the light from the moon too weak to keep pace.

Pollux cranes his neck up to look up at the moon and the scattering of stars this late at night, the buzz of the radio nothing but warm static against his ears. The heat of the vents blasting him in the face and still he looks out the window, wondering what it would be like to fall from the surface of that domed ceiling where the moon makes her home. If there would be anything left to salvage after that catastrophe, hitting the earth at terminal velocity. He would be nothing but a splatter, a crater in the wet sticky mud, utterly obliterated and there’s no coming back from that.

He thought it would be like that after the gun--after the window, nothing left to rebuild. But there was--they did. Dragged him kicking and screaming back with a tube shoved down his throat and white hot lights above an operating table. A new hip, knee and shoulder and spine--a persistent ache and he runs his thumb across the puckered scar near his shoulder. He winces, closing his eyes.

“Hey sugar, you okay?”

A deep breath and he yanks his head up, the driver giving him a long look out of the corner of her eye, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“You look like shit, darling. Go ahead and have a smoke.” She plucks the pack from the cup holder and urges him to take it.

“Thanks...” Pollux mumbles, pulling a cigarette from the package and he quickly sparks it up, sucking in a long breath. The nicotine settles the shakes and he rests back against the seat, head rolling to look out the drivers side window.

“You heading to Los Diablos?” She asks, testing the waters it feels like--getting a read on him.

“Yeah...”

“Got a place to stay when you get there? Someone to look out for you?” She looks over at Pollux again and he nods. Generous, wanting to look out for him--knows a thing or two about runaways. He’s not the first to sit in her passenger seat on this long drive; maybe the worst looking out of all of them. He pulls the hood up on his sweatshirt just a bit, running his fingers over his smooth scalp.

“Yeah, I got a plan when I get there. I’ve been there before--ran away there before.” He purses his lips, a little honesty creeping through. Just to sell it a bit more, give her the right impression.

“Didn’t stick around then, eh?” 

Pollux snorts and shakes his head, cracking the window to let a bit of the smoke out.

“Wanted to stay. But...wasn’t as good at hiding as I thought.”

Hiding in plain sight sure. Should’ve actually hidden, laid low, been a nobody. Carved out a life watching the Rangers on television screens in ancient electronic store windows and listen to them on half broken radios in homeless camps huddled in a sleeping bag. But he just had to stick his nose out--seen some poor chump harassing people in an alleyway, steps one, two, and three to take him down and it was all downhill from the moment his fist made contact. Sure he saved those people from a stolen wallet and some stitches, but then he did it again. And once more after that, and again.

It was just about the rush at first--like the first cigarette in the morning--the consuming way violence felt when deprived of it for so long. Unable to lash out, fists curling in excuses to crack his fingers.

It burned at first, the need to destroy--to wreck and scream and screech and tear out his growing hair all because he could. Or maybe it was like being drunk, high off the power and ability to let go. Let himself destroy a little, grin a little too wide and laugh a bit too loud. He isn’t proud of those first few months, taking down back alley slum lords and drug kings, high off the thrill of being able to do something to people that hurt him. Left a lot of bloodied messes--killed a few people in the rush. 

Not like it changed anything.

Not like he still doesn’t feel that need. Escaping the Farm was just the means to an end and whomever got in the way, got in the way. He’s still nursing a steady ache deep at the base of his neck and his temples, the strain of Numbers and the dampeners almost too much. Clumsy, inefficient--only breaking their brains like a toddler on a rage induced temper tantrum breaks their toys.

Some of them might recover, brains only half turned off, or only a mild seizure to stall their progress. Others won’t. Brains squeezed until they ruptured, seizures enough to hemorrhage, hands breaking windpipes, necks twisted until they cracked. Indulging in the need to destroy, letting his fingernails dig into faces, dig into eyes and oh how easy it was to scoop and pluck them out. Tongues and throats too--the body so soft and pliant like the mind.

Laughing and laughing himself silly while they screamed and begged and there’s no mercy left between his fingers.

“Well...” She speaks up, cutting through his thoughts and she’s back to looking at the dark road in front of them. Swallowing hard, she continues: “whatever was causing you pain where you came from, it’s good you’re not there anymore. No one deserves that...” So resolute and he’s too tired to laugh. Throat still sore.

“If you need a place to stay, or anything like that...I got a spare bedroom at home you can stay at. Long as you need. Maybe a spare pair of shoes, too.”

She wants to help, wants to help so badly and there’s more too it. Little girl, running away from home herself so many years ago--there’s mirrors upon mirrors decorating her thoughts, reflections of the past and the present and he draws his shields up tighter, bundling them around himself to block her out.

“Thank you...” He replies softly, still undecided but her caring...it’s a bit clumsy, a bit messy and tangled, but it’s genuine and its better than most.

She nods, returning her attention to the road.

The radio is turned up, some song he doesn’t recognize fading out into some late night news commentary. Tensions growing tighter overseas, the economy still hiccuping and sputtering with trade deals still on hold in Los Diablos. Some new villain upstart handedly taken in by the Rangers, cutting to some official press debriefing with Steel’s voice laced with carefully scripted professionalism.

Years ago and it was a different voice, a very different man behind the speaker and he was just some poor kid standing stock straight among the rest of the Rangers, hands tucked into fists behind his back.

No more press conferences with blinding camera lights and too many thoughts roaring in his ears. No more sleeping under bridges, no more tiny radios clutched to his chest. No more rules, no more what those old days represent, the voices coming through the radio--the familiar names talking about anniversaries of six and four years past.

“It’ll be a long ways to Los Diablos, so get some sleep. You look like you need it, sugar.” She adds on and Pollux nods rather than argues, letting the cigarette hang between his feet, ash dripping off the end and onto the floor mat between long drags.

The cigarette burns down to the butt, the heat uncomfortable against his skin but it too dies as the embers burn out. There’s nothing but a stub left and he discards it amongst the others crowding the cup holder, one lost amongst the many. He scrunches the hood up tight, tucking his hands into his sleeves. Letting the rocking and lurching of the truck steadily take over his senses.

Five hours--just a little longer on these first few steps and then he’ll be home.

[deans-haunted-baby]

Best Part of Me

*This is my fix-it of Jack’s reaction to Cas’s death in 15x19 and some of the events in 15x18 rewritten. Featuring a flashback post episode 14x10. I was so disappointed they never really let Jack feel this loss when he dreaded that deal for a whole year. The title is from a song by St Leonards. Enjoy!*

Summery: In Hastings Minnesota, after learning from Dean of Castiel’s sacrifice to the Empty. Jack runs off to be alone somewhere in the deserted town. Breaking down and reliving the last good memory of a hunt he and Cas went on together 

Sam and Jack sauntered down the quiet roads, surveying the desolated scenery, coming to a 4-way stop. Nothing but emptiness all around them. Vacant buildings and vehicles, one smashed into a telephone pole. Stores still blinking their neon open signs in the windows. Car alarms blaring off in the distance. But no voices. Not a trace of any souls anywhere. Just nobody. Everyone was gone and the two hunters began feeling like they were starring in that Chuck Heston flick The Omega Man.

Jack could see his tall, anguished mentor was distracted, often checking his phone for calls in case Dean or Eileen or maybe Cas… Desperately searching inside the unoccupied cafes and stores in case they missed someone. He’d been beating himself up all night for not being able to save the AU world survivors. And it was driving him crazy not hearing from his brother for the past 12 hours. 

“We should’ve heard from them by now.” Sam blurted; quickening his pace towards a truck. Peeking inside. “Come on Dean, where are you?”

“You think they’re alright?” Jack asked uncertain.

“I don’t know. But you were the last person to talk to Cas.” Sam approached the boy getting restless. “What; did he say anything to you before you guys got cut off?”

Immediately Jack stopped; swallowing hard as he lowered his eyes to the pavement. “No…not really.”

The truth was Jack couldn’t get over this weird twinge he felt in his chest; an ache that refused go away. Like a piece of him had been severed and now he was nursing the phantom pain. The Nephilim boy had it ever since the last time he spoke to his father on his phone…before they were abruptly interrupted by static. Last night the group had split. Dean and Castiel went to confront Billie at the bunker while Jack stayed behind with Sam at the hideaway to protect the remaining people that hadn’t been erased. Next thing he knows survivors are disappearing in front of him, people he knew. Friends and fellow hunters. And then his phone set to vibrate; buzzes irritably in his jacket pocket to which he’d fished it out.

________________________________________

Several hours earlier

 “Jack!” the angel’s gruff voice was urgent. But relieved when his son had answered. “Oh, thank heavens.”

“Cas?” the young boy chirps; raking his fingers through his hair. Still not over the shock of seeing all their people vanish and exchanging disturbed looks with Sam. “Cas are you and Dean okay? Did Billie?”

“No, we’re fine,” he replies back; tone switching from critical to sudden despair. “What about you and Sam, the survivors?”

Jack’s face fell on the verge of tears; pacing away from the tall hunter and leaning against the wall.

“They’re gone.” He chokes out. “All of them… Cas…Sam and I tried…we tried… It happened so fast… We just couldn’t save anyone.”

The Nephilim boy heard a heavy sign on the other end then Castiel says, “It wasn’t your fault Jack. None of this is your fault, alright.”

“No, I could’ve done something! If-if I still had my powers, I could’ve protected all of us!”

“Jack, no. Don’t do that to yourself. There was nothing you could’ve done and you did all you could do, okay.” The angel encourages firmly though soft. Giving Jack a chance to calm down before he adds. “Listen…there’s something I…need to tell you…in case anything happens.”

Jack’s heart rose in his throat. “What do mean in case something happens to you?” he demands; voice rising. “Cas what’s wrong?”

“Nothing…yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“You remember what we talked about?” There’s something in Castiel’s question that begins to worry the young Nephilim. “The night we were hunting in Albuquerque?”

Jack let out a sharp intake of breath. “Yes but…what does that have to do with right now?”

The angel hesitates briefly and resumes a response; spontaneously changing the subject.

“I’m so proud of you Jack. I’m proud of the person you are and who you’re becoming,” Castiel’s deep baritone was gentle as it always was whenever he spoke to his son. Never above a decimal than he had to; reserving his emotions. Yet the sadness was unmistakable. “The day that I met you and your mother…changed my life forever. When you chose me…I knew…I knew the moment when I first connected with you through Kelly…felt your love…that I wanted to be your father. And I never felt more happiness in all my eons than I did raising you.”

“Cas why’re saying this?” Jack stuttered; his eyes glistening. He was so confused over the angel’s choice of phrases. “Don’t…”

“Jack I…I need you to do something for me…alright?”

Castiel’s request was blunt yet sudden, jerking the young Nephilim out of his afflicted stupor. “What is it?”

“I want you to look after Sam and Dean for me,” He says melancholically. “Can you do that?”

“Why? What about you?” Jack gasps; his whole-body trembling; going cold. Sinking into a corner holding his knees. Yet he tries to maintain his anxiety during the situation. “Cas, you’re scaring me.”

“I know this is going to be difficult for you to understand but…I want you to be strong, Jack. Stronger than you’ve ever been… To never give up on yourself no matter what. Because I know you will do amazing things one day. I believe in that. I’ve only ever seen good in you.”

“Cas…”

The angel pauses, and with another sigh he reveals, “I love you, son. I love you more than anything in the whole world… You’re the best part of me, Jack… I’m happy because of you; for the time we got together. And I just wanted you to know that…”

Jack could hardly speak his throat clogged. Tears now rolling down his cheeks. He wanted to return those words so badly, his chest swelling like something crushed him from the inside. Finally untangling the muscles in his neck, he pleads.

“Cas…Dad, wait I-” just as the Nephilim boy is about confess the line goes dead mid-sentence followed with an indescribable pain hitting him in the heart; causing Jack to drop his cell in defeat. Muttering the words to himself. “…I love you too.”

________________________________________

Present time

Not long after the two hunters had given up their search for signs of life, did they hear a familiar engine of a car. And a black 67’ impala wheeled around the corner of the street; parking beside two large plants in front of a blue and white store. Dean, he was alive. Sam and Jack wanted to feel elated at that moment…until they saw him exit the vehicle. Alone. And the Nephilim boy’s chest pains increased. Why wasn’t Castiel with him? Jack was too afraid to even ask in case he got an answer he didn’t want. So instead, the three guys traded bleak looks in the middle of the road; minding the fragments of what was once a functioning civilization.  

“Everyone’s gone,” Sam says to Dean; barely leveling his shock. Looking around with that false hope someone else might pop up. Then he glances back at his older brother who’s avoiding his gaze. “You see anybody on the way here?”

“No.” the elder Winchester replies huskily. His expression tormented. Again, Jack is afraid of reading him too closely.

Sam fidgeted on the spot; squints his eyes and imparts, “I couldn’t save anybody.” A hint of bitterness enflames his voice at the thought of that reaper. “Billie.”

“It wasn’t Billie. It was Chuck.” Dean discloses.

“What?”

Right then Jack couldn’t keep quiet anymore. He needed to know the truth; impulsively jumping into the conversation.

“Where’s Cas?” His voice was harsh.

The taller Winchester peered over his shoulder at the Nephilim boy but Dean couldn’t even give him direct eye-contact. Visibly shaken. Jack had detected redness within the whites of his puffy eyes. He was so anguished about something that it made the other two hunters nervous. Finally, its Sam’s turn to inquire about the angel’s whereabouts.

“Dean, where is he?”

The elder Winchester was apprehensive; staring off vacantly. Hanging his head and licking his lips trying to conjure up the best explanation he could which might lessen the blow. But Jack was impatient; arms at his sides. Heart pounding with fear. He doesn’t want excuses he just wants a straight answer from his other mentor about his dad. And he was going to get it whether he liked it or not.

“He saved me. Billie was coming after us and…Cas fought her off until we found someplace safe,” asserts Dean and he looks over at Jack who’s getting paler listening to the story. “While you and Cas were…speaking on the phone, he summoned the Empty. It took her. And it took him…” Jack’s heart instantly sank to his stomach. No, this couldn’t be true. No. The Nephilim boy backpedaled, shaking his head in disbelief. Noticing the tears in the hardened hunter’s eyes. “I’m so sorry Jack… Cas is gone.”

Sam’s grief had swallowed him up whole; touching his face with both hands. Struggling to keep it together. But Jack was the opposite. Standing there wearing a hollow smile; releasing a counterfeit laugh.

“No, that’s not true,” argues the Nephilim. “I just talked to him last night. He was okay.”

Sam attempted to console the boy; quickly wiping at his wet face. “Jack.”

“Cas’s fine you’ll see. He’s coming back. He has to come back. I didn’t get to tell him I loved him too.”

But Dean hardly in the mood for sentiments wouldn’t play along. “Jack, he-he’s not… Cas isn’t coming back. I’m sorry.” As Sam tries to reach his hand out to touch the young Nephilim’s shoulder, he receives a heated defensive glare.

Nobody touches him there except for Castiel. NO ONE.

“NO!” Jack barks jerking his body away from the taller hunter’s grasp; face beet red. Even though he already knew. Felt the truth in his heart all along the second that line went dead; the boy had been reluctant to accept it. He was too overwhelmed with denial. “I said Cas’s is coming back! HE’S COMING BACK!”

“Jack, wait!”

Quickly the Nephilim storms off in a random direction of the street; ignoring the Winchesters’ shouts behind him. It didn’t matter where he was going, he just needed to get away from them. Away from the sunlight. From the noise. Away from everything else still standing. Into nothingness. Somewhere that didn’t feel so loud or enclosed. Putting a palm to his head, Jack starts to feel dizzy and an urge to vomit. His vision blurred and his legs began to wobble each step he took. Nothing felt real anymore. It was terrifying.

He could hardly breathe as if something were suffocating him.

Over and over, Jack’s mind is racing in between panicked breaths. “Cas? Cas, where are you?” Reaching his hand out in front of him like a blind person; aimlessly searching for that invisible tether that bound him to the trench-coated angel. Receiving nothing but a light breeze against his skin. “Dad, please, tell me where you are?”

At last, the Nephilim boy stumbles on an old dessert parlor. Sammy’s Highway Café. Despondently gawking at the stupid giant pink milkshake on top of the sign. Walking inside not caring whether he was trespassing or not. The lights were off but Jack could see traces that this place was thriving not too long ago. It smelt of stale food and drink; evident of half eaten platefuls of burgers with fries and empty glasses sitting on top of some of the booth tables. Along the counter was a partially bitten donut beside a cold mug of coffee. A receipt with some money next to the till. And draped on one of the stools, it seemed as though someone had left their beige jacket which resembled so much like the angel’s trench.

Fragments and memories…of live people. Before Chuck took them…just like Castiel. His father.

Stepping towards a jukebox tilting his head, Jack’s blue eyes meet a half-full glass of milkshake sitting on the table close by. Pink, like the one on the sign outside. It disgusted him. A serge of hatred suddenly overflowed his body; knocking it onto the floor and smashing into pieces on impact. Unable to avoid the dibble of pink goo getting on his jeans only enraged the Nephilim more. Resulting in a fit of fury; swiping everything off the counter. Kicking at stray contents clinging to his shoes. His throat clogged up as the anger gave way to uncontrollable sobs. He wanted the pain to stop, but no matter how many things he destroyed, the hurt wouldn’t leave him.

“Cas you liar! YOU LIAR!” he howled; covering his tearful face with one hand collapsing into a corner. Crying. “You said you’d still be with me!”

For over an hour Jack sat like this; breaking down into his palms over his knees. Shedding more tears than he ever thought possible. Practically wearing his eyes out. It was his fault. He should’ve said it back, why didn’t he say it back? Why could he never tell the angel how much he’d meant to him when it counted? Jack wanted the tears to stop the but every time he tapped into an arbitrary memory of Castiel’s face smiling back at him or giving him that infamous sage advice. Heard that soft raspy voice saying his name. The pain worsened causing Jack to cry harder and longer.

All of a sudden, a sharp jab interrupted his grief. Jack was just about to grab the thing whatever it was and toss it until he realized what it was. Digging inside the sleeve of his white jacket, the Nephilim pulls out a single silver angel blade. Jack had completely forgot he’d been carrying it around with him since yesterday. No much longer than that, he carried it all the time in his clothes for a year now as it was very special to him. Wiping at his eyes, Jack clutches the blade and is instantly transported back into a memory of when he’d first received the weapon.

________________________________________

One Year Earlier

Castiel and Jack were in the outskirts of Albuquerque hunting a couple rugarus in the process of kidnapping a family in a warehouse. Around this time the young Nephilim was on probation for using his powers in the fight against AU Michael’s monsters. Ending with the unholy archangel prince trapped inside Dean’s mind. The reason for the restrictions was because of the resurrection spell keeping Jack alive. Every time he used power, he’d burn off part of his soul; something Castiel and the Winchesters did everything possible to prevent. And the best distraction for boy was usually going on some Team Free Will 2.0 hunts.

“Jack, NOW!” the angel shouts, wrestling with the second monster after his son successfully torches the first.

“I got it!” the Nephilim calls back, aiming the flamethrower nozzle ready to blast the creature. He’d remembered Sam and Dean’s specific instructions that the only way to kill a rugaru was to burn them. And he would’ve if he hadn’t frozen on the spot; Castiel would’ve been fried otherwise. There was no way, he couldn’t risk it. “I-I can’t! I can’t get him!”

“Jack, what are you doing?!”

“I don’t want to burn you!”

Immediately the angel groans grumpily. “It’s not holy fire!”

Jack wasn’t a gambler. “Yah but-

“Jack!”

Running out of time, the frantic young hunter goes over another strategy in his mind. He wasn’t willing to singe his dad to stop a monster. And that’s when it hit him. Reckless though it just might work.

“Wait, Cas let him go!” he clamors.

“What?!” Castiel was mystified at how crazy that plan was.

“Just let him go, trust me!”

Taking on too much faith the angel puts his trust in his son anyway and releases the rugaru; dodging out of range. As expected, it instantly launches at the nonchalant Jack who’s armed and ready with the flamethrower; projecting a lethal jet fuel of fire. The Nephilim then covers his ears as the creature releases high pitched throat screeches; its entire body engulfed until the thing’s charcoal hide falls lifeless to the ground. Breathing a sign of relief, Jack stares at the dead monster; spacing out. Brought back to reality when he hears the angel grumbling and rushes to his aid.

“Are you okay?” he asks his dad breathily; helping him to his feet.

“Yah, I’m fine.” Castiel belches; still sore from the fight. As an angel he was much stronger than a human, though it still hurt getting punched in the ribs. And the monsters he tangled with were far from weaklings. “So that was your plan? Just let him go, huh?”

Jack shrugged smirking. “It worked didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.” The reluctant blue-eyed angel agrees dryly; giving his son an affectionate shoulder pat. “Come on, we’re not finished yet.”

“What do we have to do now?”

“Tend to the civilians.”

After releasing the captive family, Castiel and Jack resumed the dreary task of getting rid of the rotten smelling corpses and packing their things into the aquamarine pickup truck. The night air was hot accompanied with the usual sounds of owls and crickets chirping. Jack’s busily loads the flamethrower into the back compartment, unaware his father is taking a moment to gaze at him. Expressionless though underneath that reserved exterior is admiration. Despite using none of his powers, the boy had handled himself just as he’d done the other several times they’d hunted together.

Castiel couldn’t help feeling impressed with Jack; overwhelmed with a sense of pride. He’d come a long way in his training in such a short time; picking up skills faster than the angel had seen any human. But Jack wasn’t just getting better at the combat or the weaponry. His mind functioned more acutely than any other hunter in the field. And he wasn’t even three years old yet. Still there was something about tonight’s hunt that bothered Castiel. His son had nearly given into his own fear. Fear of losing…him; which could’ve costed them the lives of the family they were saving.

“Well, we’re all packed.” Jack announces gleefully; turning to the angel.

Stonily, Castiel approached the young Nephilim.

“Good.” He says; scratching his hair. “Ah Jack…can we talk about what happened back there?”

The question made the boy frown, unwinding his jaw. “Oh…right… Yah, I-I’m really sorry, Cas. I didn’t mean to-” He stopped himself.

But the angel finished his sentence. “To freeze?”

“Yah.” Jack hung his head in shame.

“Do you know why?”

Did he know why? Of course, he did! Jack was afraid. Afraid of hurting Castiel. No…he was scared of losing him and had been ever since that deal he’d made with the Empty. For the past month it’d been daunting on Jack the severity of his dad’s sacrifice; what it meant. Tried as he might to pretend it didn’t trouble him. Smiling, acting normal. the Nephilim secretly agonized over the angel’s fate. To the point where it either made him overprotective of Castiel or reckless during hunts. Just like tonight.

“I…just didn’t want to set you on fire too, that’s all.” Jack answers vaguely earning his dad’s titled scrutinized glare.

Being as close as they were, Castiel was pretty astute at reading his son’s body language. Knowing when he wasn’t entirely honest. “Are you sure that’s what it was…or was there something else holding you back?”

Jack swallowed, averting his gaze. And it dawns on the angel, sighing, looking heavenward. He didn’t need a verbal explanation; putting his hand on his son’s shoulder in an attempt to console him.

“Oh Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how tough this has been for you.”

“I can’t help it,” concedes the young Nephilim; his gaze shiny. “I know you said not to worry about you but…I am. All the time. And when I keep thinking about that deal you made… I get this…awful feeling in my stomach. Like I’m being torn apart…from the inside.”

Castiel’s reserved face promptly falls, listening intently as Jack confides his deepest fears. Knowing that this deal had been causing his son so much grief pained him. The angel felt like someone had just run him through with his own sword.

“Cas I…I love you. And I don’t want to lose you. Not to the Empty or to anything.”

Parting his lips and softening his eyes; slowly absorbing everything he was hearing. Castiel was touched; taking a deep breath before reassuring. “But Jack, that rugaru was barely a threat to me. And you know my deal with the Empty… I’m far from happy for it to take me away any time soon.”

“What if I don’t want it to ever take you?” Jack remonstrates; defiantly scowling.

“I’m afraid its not that simple.” Sadly, contests the angel.

“But…I don’t want to lose you. I hate even thinking about it.”

“I know…so do I.”

Together the angel and the Nephilim boy endure a tender moment, leaning against the tail end of their truck side-by-side; taking small solace in each other’s company. And quietly gazing at the stars. Then out the blue a bright twinkle catches Castiel’s eye; reminding him of something he’d forgotten. His present to Jack. They’d been so wrapped up in dealing with Michael’s shenanigans, he hadn’t even found the time to give it to him yet. Delving into one of his trench-coat sleeves, Castiel presents the dumbfounded Nephilim with a polished angel blade.

“Cas what…why are you giving me this?”

Castiel pursed his gentle smile and winked. “Call it a late Christmas present. I’ve ah, I’ve been meaning to give it to you…when I felt there was a more appropriate time.”

Jack furrowed his brows; observing the weapon. “Your angel blade?”

He humbly accedes.

“Not just any angel blade but…its the very first one I ever fought with.” Divulges the docile angel. With two fingers he carefully touches the tip, devotedly looking over Jack’s awestruck expression. “I won many battles with this blade…for millions upon millions of years. Just when I thought I’d fall…this weapon seemed to…save my life. And I started to look at it as more of a…good luck charm I guess.”

“Cas I…I don’t know if I should take this. It means too much to you.”

“Jack, I want you to have it. Sort of a celestial warrior’s birthright and with your archangel half technically being of royal lineage…and you’re my son.” The young Nephilim grinned at him somberly; working the blade in his hand. And Castiel pauses giving himself a minute to think about what he was going to say to his son next as it would be difficult. Exhaling heavily, he conveys. “But I also want you have it…as a reminder that…wherever I am…I’ll always be with you.”

At this Jack’s eyes find his dad’s; expression dismal absorbing Castiel’s every word. “Because someday Jack its true, I won’t be here and you’ll have to carry on with your life. I can’t say when it will happen…it could be months or years… Whether it’s the Empty or something else…we will be separated… And it will hurt…” The Nephilim boy’s lip quivered as he holds back oncoming tears; looking away. Pain twisting all his insides; he didn’t like this conversation. Though Jack’s ears and heart remained open to the angel; touching his chest using his index finger. “But just because I won’t physically be here anymore…doesn’t mean I’m gone, Jack. I’m right there…within you. Whenever you need me. You understand?”

“I think so.”

Without warning Castiel embraces Jack in a bone-crushing hug; chins touching shoulders. Closing their eyes. And they held each other tight; savoring every single second of that closeness.

“I love you Jack.”

And Jack whispers out of earshot. “I love you too…Dad.”

________________________________________

Present time

Just like that the memory passed. Jack was back in the café he roughed up earlier. Alone. Curled up in fetal position, clutching the precious gift his father had given him; tears still streaming down his face. Hair matted and moist; clothes soiled. And his heart as broken as that milkshake glass he’d smashed on the floor. Castiel was gone. His dad was gone… Forever… It didn’t feel real, more like a nightmare. A nightmare Jack desperately wanted to wake up from. He couldn’t even think about moving his body it hurt too much. Whenever he tried lifting his head the dizziness settled in and he sunk back into his depression.

“No, I can’t do this.” Jack thoughts bombarded; gawking the angel blade in his grip. “I can’t keep lying here feeling sorry for myself. He wouldn’t want that, not after giving his life for me. I’m supposed to be a hunter and a celestial warrior. I have to be stronger now.”

Using every muscle at his disposal, Jack forces himself up off the floor. Grabbing a stool and countertop for support. His whole body ached; weighted down like it was full of dumbbells yet he didn’t quit moving. Jack could hear Castiel’s voice in his mind, encouraging him like he’d always done on hunts and during one of their sparring sessions in the gym.

“Come on Jack, get up! Get up now!”

“Yes, I will,” the Nephilim promises himself; gnashing his teeth. Lumbering forward on his wobbly legs ignoring the agony. “I won’t let you down Cas! I swear I won’t.”

“That’s it Jack, come on! You’re almost there!”

“Okay!”

One foot in front of the other. Jack slowly repeats this method of awkward walking until all the muscles in his legs have loosened and are functioning properly. As he’s feeling more mobile the pain is subsiding. It’s not quite gone but it’s not intolerable either. In fact, the Nephilim uses it to power through the wreckage and towards the exit. Drying his eyes with the back of his palm. Before Jack realizes it, he’s already reached the door pushing it open. And on his way to search for the Winchesters. Because he’s not alone… He’ll never be alone. He has his family. And Castiel is always with him; guiding him.

[dokifluffs]

Your Ex Wanting You Back | Ushijima, Bokuto, Kuroo

Pairing: Ushijima X Reader (gender neutral), Bokuto X Reader (gender neutral), Kuroo X Reader (gender neutral) 

Genre: angsty, love

Request: “can i request a hc to your ex wanting you back while you’re with them..? for bokuto, kuroo, ushijima? tysm i love your writing” -anon

Author’s Note: omg I loved writing this sm and I added an angsty, bad relationship past with Y/N and the ex teheh. Thanks for requesting, anon! Hope you all enjoy!! 

Warnings: implementations of manipulation of money (Ushijima), Black mailing (Bokuto), and verbal abuse (Kuroo) ((Also, their names is not THEM doing that to y/n, it’s what their y/n experienced with their ex)) 

Ushijima: 

Arriving at the gym a bit early, you stood near the doors where the teams would be entering so you could wish Ushijima the best of luck

Though he didn’t really need it with his skill and raw strength but it was the thought that counts

The audience slowly began to take their seats, chatter filling up the spacious gym as the teams entered

You suddenly felt hands crawl up your sides, making a smile spread across your features

“Ush- you,” the smile faded when you turned around to find your ex instead of the loving boyfriend you were with

“Since you’re here, why don’t we catch up, hm?” He asked with his hands still on you, his fingers squeezing your side

This made you feel very uncomfortable since it brought up bitter memories you had with this guy

His lies came out as easy as breathing to him and it made you sick

The countless number of hours you wasted being with him, thinking he actually cared about you when all he cared about was using you for his own benefits

The cigarettes he was able to buy with the money he “borrowed”

All your emotions you thought you left behind you suddenly churned inside of you, making you feel sick seeing his face so close to your face once again

His Smokey breath right in your face

“Get off of me,” you demanded as you tried to pry his hands off of you but he was strong

It made you remember the grasp he had on you and how sour things ended between you two but it was for the best of course

“Don’t be like that, bab-“

“They said to stop.”

A strong latch was held onto his wrist forcing him to release you

“Hey, who do you-“ the words stopped from his lips as he turned around to look up, seeing the Ushijima

He looked down to him with his stoic eyes as well as his team looking from behind their captain with their piercing and intimidating eyes

Y/n protection squad has arrived

He knew exactly who this man before you was

Those nights he held you close in his arms to soothe you of your sadness and the pain he inflicted on you

Ushijima usually felt neutral to everyone but he was disgusted by him

“Don’t come near them again,” his voice low as his rumbled in his throat

With that said, the guy scrambled off and his team continued into the gym to follow their warm ups while Ushijima stayed behind

“Are you okay?” He asked placing a hand to your shoulder

“Yeah, thanks,” you gave him a relieved smile as you took his hand from your shoulder into yours

“Good luck today. Win another one,” you said as you pressed a kiss to the back of his hand

His lips pulled into a thin smile as he nodded before joining the rest of the team with their stretches

Bokuto (ft. Akaashi): 

The sun was hot as it beamed down on you and a few of the other managers from other teams as you all took your turns to fill up the water bottles for the teams

The gym felt hotter on the inside since there was poor air circulation and it didn’t mix well with five high school volleyball teams playing for almost the entire day

But it was all for the better to help their skills as players and bonds as a team

You chatted with the other managers about the teams until it was finally your turn to fill up the water bottles for your team, Fukurodani

“You guys don’t have to wait for me,” you said as you waved off to them as they carried their water caddies, bringing them back to the sweltering gym

As you turned, back toward the faucet, you were met with a sudden chest that made you fall back, knocking some of your bottles to the ground

“Y/N, what a coincidence to see you here,” the silky voice of your ex made chills run up your spine as he squatted down to your level

“You looks so cute with that expression on your face,” his hand holding your jaw with his sinful eyes looking into your eyes, taking in the shaken look over your features

You shook out of his grasp, picking up the water bottles all around you so you could fill up your bottles and be on your way

You could hear your heart racing in your chest and the cold feel of fear spreading in your chest making goosebumps rise over your skin in the heat

“Do you want to model again for me?” He asked dangerously close to your ear

“Please go away,” you moved away, trying your best to fill up the bottles

“Oh come on, those pictures I took of you were beautiful,” his voice sensual in your ears, it brought up all the shameful memories

How were you so naive you didn’t realize how wrong things were before it got so bad

“What do you think you’re doing here,” the sound of Bokuto’s voice pulled you out of the dark as he grabbed the guy’s shoulder from behind, forcefully pushing him away from you

The guy was rendered useless seeing Bokuto with Akaashi behind him knowing he wouldn’t win if he got into a fight

“I strongly suggest you leave,” Akaashi spoke straightforwardly

“Tch, whatever” he spit as he carried on his way, away from the three of you

You let out a visibly relieving sigh as you looked up to the sky to blink away the tears you felt stinging at your eyes

“I’m here,” Bokuto’s voice was much softer with you along with his touch as he took you into his arms despite how sweaty he was

But you didn’t care

He was the one in your life, not that revolting excuse of a human

Akaashi and Bokuto helped you finish filling the bottles and carried them back to the team, cheering you up by telling you the weird dance the Karasuno team as they chanted about meat for some reason

Kuroo (ft. Kenma): 

The sky was a beautiful mix of golds and rich oranges as the sun was on its journey to set beyond the horizon, making way for the early night

You walked with Kenma and Kuroo as the three of you walked to the convenience store for some drinks after their practice

You listened intently in the good atmosphere around with your best friends and your love, Kuroo as he told you about how funny Lev was when he failed syncing with Kenma’s sets

This got Kenma to sigh, going on a little tangent as he continued to walk and play on his device

Your bright laughter lifted their energy a bit more and Kuroo loved your laugh

It made it felt like nothing could go wrong in the world

You waited outside the store as the two went in to get drinks and you watched the horizon, taking a picture of the golden sunset, your eyes wide at the beauty of nature

“I see you’re still taking those stupid pictures,” the sound of scoffing was right in your ear

You flinched automatically away from the voice as you turned to see him again

And it suddenly felt like a wound was opening in your chest. A wound you thought closed when Kuroo helped mend it

How was he able to rip it open it easily

“Aw, don’t give me that look, Y/N. I’ve missed you,” he said as he slowly took steps toward you as you instinctively stepped backs the words you wanted to say to him stuck in your throat

But what did you want to say when he was always able to turn the words back to you, the venom rolling off his tongue

“Haven’t you missed me too?” He asked, his face dangerously close to yours as he backed you against a telephone pole on the side of the street, one arm over your head while his other tucked in his pocket

“I know you have,” he purred, smirking devilishly as the hand that was resting above your head cane down to stroke your face

“Don’t touch them,” Kuroo spoke with a sweet sound in his voice, a smile on his face but you could feel his anger

You had told him and called him countless times when you woke up at night cause of he words your ex had seared into your mind about you

All were false but words had a way with sticking

The hold he had on the guy’s hand was almost bone crushing as he controlled his temper around the guy who had hurt you so badly

He never wanted to see him and he never wanted to see you so sad

He wanted to see the smile you were able to show him after a long time

“Oh? And what’re you gonna do?” He mistakingly asked

“I’ll show you something to be scared of, you piece of trash,” Kuroo cursed as he squeezed the guy’s hand until his knuckles were white, his entire demeanor different as he sent a death glare at the guy

“Alright, alright,” he finally piped up, trying to hide the clear pain Kuroo was putting on his hand

Kuroo let him go and watched him go off, sending him a glare when he looked back, standing in front of you so he couldn’t even see you

“Let’s go home,” his aura lighter around you as he handed you a drink nonchalantly, holding you close with his arm wrapped around your shoulders protectively

~~~~~ Thanks for reading! Masterlist for more! Please do not repost anywhere else! 

Tags (send me an ask if you wanna be added): @yams046​ @mazey-chan​ @sunboikyo00​

[hopinglimelight]

The Night We Met pt. 2 (D.S)

Ah, the long-awaited part two. Or as I just affectionately nicknamed it “the chapter of (maybe) tears” Anything italicized is lyrics that come from the song, but some had to be changed to make sense. 

TW: A few swear words and an extremely sad theme. Death of a Major character/ after more mentions of the death. Insomnia and implied depression.

“it’s one in the morn-“

“Luna.” There was something in his voice that made me snap my eyes open, suddenly awake.

“Corbs, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I put my phone on speaker before leaving it on the bed. “What’s wrong?” I walked over to get myself a pair of socks, and by the time I sat back down on my bed, he still hadn't responded. “Corbyn?”

“It’s Daniel.” 

I sucked in a deep breath at his whimper. I knew deep down inside that I had to keep my calm. “Where is Dani, Corbyn?”

He let out a long deep sob, and then there was the rustling of the phone. 

“Hey, Luna.”

“Jonah Marais Roth Frantzich. You tell me where Daniel is right the instant.”

“He’s at the hospital and he’s been asking to see you. You know the one, right?”

“Yeah, Jonah… is there something that you guys aren’t telling me?”

He sighed. “Just hurry and get down here, please?” 

“Fine.” 

I grabbed my keys and hopped in my car. I turned on the radio and drove in silence. I was expecting something minor. A broken wrist or maybe his appendix was acting up. I didn’t expect the look I saw in the receptionist’s eyes. I didn’t expect to see all four of the boys crying in the waiting room. 

“Guys?” I asked, voice cracking. My heart completely jumped out of my chest and landed with a splat on the floor. That’s where it would remain. 

“He wants to see you. He got in a bad car accident.”

“Jack, I don’t know if I can.”

“Please, Luna.” The bloodshot eyes of Zach met mine, and that was the moment I knew. This wasn’t some minor injury. This was serious. So serious, that they don’t know if he’ll make it out of this hospital.

“Miss Grant?” I nodded. “I’m Dr. Casey. I’m here to update you on Mr. Seavey’s health. From everyone’s understanding, he was driving and got hit straight on by another car. Then, he ended up running into a telephone pole, or another vehicle, on the driver’s door before flipping his vehicle. He is suffering from extreme internal bleeding from the level of severity of the crash. Be careful around his abdomen, as that’s where the blood is going. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that we can do for him. We don’t expect him to make it through the night.” 

The doctor confirmed my thoughts. My best friend, the love of my life, is going to die. Dr. Casey offered me a sad look, and I swear I could see a tear in his eye.

“Don’t you, you guys want to. Anyone want to see him?” I stumbled over my words.

“No, we already said-” Zach couldn’t even say it. The dreaded word. Goodbye.

So I turned away from them and sucked in another deep breath. Without crying, I walked into Daniel’s hospital room.

“Hey, Lunar Eclipse.” he perked up as much as he could when I walked in. His ribs were wrapped up, I assume to keep him comfortable. I hate to say it, but I was kind of thankful so then I didn't have to see his abdomen. 

I internally winced. “Hi, Dani.”

So we sat in silence. I felt guilty. He was dying and I didn’t even have the balls to talk to him. I looked over and saw him staring at me.

“What do you need Dani?”

“Nothing, just admiring how beautiful you are.”

“But-”

“I broke up with Jessica.” He cut me off. “I realized how much of a wedge she put between us. I realized I couldn't lose you. I Love you Luna Noelle Grant and I hate myself for the fact that I took me dying to tell you.”

I scooted my chair closer to him. I leaned in and pressed my forehead on his. “I love you too Daniel James Seavey. I have loved you since that first night, and I will love you forever.” 

I disconnected our foreheads, grabbing his hand. The skin was starting to go frighteningly cold, horrible in contrast to the warm, lively skin he once had. Silence. New, comfortable silence. We watched the sun come up. He made it through the night. Even the doctors were surprised. They said my presents brought out something in him. I was the reason he made it this far. However, I knew we didn't have much longer, and he seemed to know that too.

“Please. Can you play that song? Do you know the one? From way back to the night we met.”

So I did. I took out my phone and gave my lover his last dying wish. As the words of Ed Sheeran filled our ears, I put my forehead back on his. I ignored the deadly cold. As the last lyric rang out, Daniel used his last bit of energy and kissed me. The short, weak, kiss meant the world to me. The first and the last given to me by Daniel. With one last “I love you, Luna,” my angel flatlined. 

That's when I finally started crying out my tears of grief and frustration. My lover came and went. I was alone, Daniel was gone and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do.

Months passed, and everyone started getting better. Except me. I never slept, I had to see a therapist. I refused to move on. 

My eyes flicked behind my therapist's head. His soft brown hair rested on his forehead, just like the first time I saw him, his eyes visible through the gaps he left. “I see him again,” I told her one day. 

“Luna, that's just your conscience. He’s not really there. Ignore him.”

I tried to listen, but I couldn’t. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the memories of Daniel out of my head. I was told that it was from the insomnia I developed. I think it's his actual ghost and that kills me.

“I don’t know what I'm supposed to do when I'm being haunted by the ghost of you,” I told him one night.

I often thought back to those few times the night he died To the subtle times when the night was full of terror and our eyes were filled with tears. To the time before our kiss, when he had not touched me yet. The first time I ever saw Daniel was probably the best night of my life. There was something different about him. He wasn’t like any guy from the past I'd dated. I had fallen and the night I knew I had done so? That was the night we met. I just wish we could go back, to relive the positive memories. Only a handful of times did I wish to go back so that I could tell myself not to ride along with him. That I just went straight into my home the first time. So then I wouldn't seem like the only traveler on the trail of life to not be searching for a trail to follow, again. I am the only one who has not repaid their debt to Daniel. I am the reason he died. He was coming for me that night. I was the one to blame. I spent so much more time begging. I’d look at the sky, my therapist, my family, anyone. I’d ask the same thing every time.

“Please, take me back to the night we met.”

[thesandersinitiative]

Virgil stop fangirling over Patton

“Am I....?” Virgil repeats looking fainter than before. He tugs on the strings of his hoodie staring at Patton. “NO! I am NOT alright! That is-- That’s--!! Captain Morality! Don’t you know who he is?!”

Without waiting for you to actually answer Virgil turns to you, with a spark in his eerily purple eyes and starts talking.....

....and behind him Patton’s eyes go distant.

[TW: depression, PTSD, violence, Nazis]

***

To be completely honest, Patton Hart is used to tragedy. He's been bred on sad sob stories, one after the other. A father who did not stick around long enough to see him first open his eyes, grandparents who did not live to see his third birthday, a mother who loved him too much, too often, too desperately. He'd been blessed with a forgettable face, with a submissive aura, with a backpack of items to call his own that was never unpacked because they always moved in the end, anyway. He was there and then he was gone like a bank of fog, like the sun on a cloudy day.

Patton grew up with sadness clinging to his bones, kissing nightmares in the dark, and singing eulogies in the graveyards for reflections of himself.

The Stock Market Crash paves the way for the Depression that chases him and his mother through the country, nipping at their heels, sinking its claws into their backs, and tearing their throats with its teeth. It’s bad.

But its nothing new for Patton.

The War, though.

The War is new.

The War steals the cute boy at the drug store who smiles at Patton across the counter. The War makes each penny stretch less and less. The War plasters propaganda posters condemning the Nazi menace across telephone poles and mailboxes. 

(The War wasn’t America’s problem until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The War wasn’t America’s problem when he lived in Brooklyn for six scant months at fourteen and helped a Jewish boy clean out his cuts after a group of sixteen year olds pushed him down and sneered you know, those Germans have the right idea.) 

The War kills his Mom. 

Not, directly, no, but. But it places her in a factory assembling turbines for the planes. They have money in their pockets for the first time in years but the War hands her ration cards and says they have to keep on starving. The War gets her sick in the factory, and the entire time she just smiles, ruffles Patton’s hair, and keeps handing him half of her rations because he’s still a growing boy. 

Patton’s Mom dies when he’s seventeen; she’s sick and starving and dies with her head in her son’s lap as he strokes her hair and sobs. 

Patton Hart is seventeen when he volunteers for the draft. He’s a year too young, but they don’t look hard enough, don’t care hard enough. Patton’s never known what he’s wanted to do with his life—bouncing from tragedy to tragedy and just barely managing to stay afloat but, well. He never thought he’d do this.

The War has taken all he has left; Patton thinks it might as well take him too.

Some might have started calling it a tragedy then, because if there hadn't been a war, if the Depression hadn't hit, if Patton hadn't been left all alone, he might have grown up to be a store clerk, a factory worker, a journalist, a self respecting average person. He might have learned to smile for real and not just to placate people. He might have settled down somewhere with a pretty boy and become that dad he had always wanted to be. He might have been happy.

They might have called it tragic that that sort of life had been stolen from him.

(Patton thinks it’s tragic that he could never imagine having that life at all.)

The War is...its something else really. They send him to a training camp run by both Americans and the British and they work them all to bone. Push ups, daily runs, crawling through barbed wire, carrying twice his body weight in supplies and keeping march. They press them until they can’t stand and fill their heads with delusions of grandeur that will come when they beat those pesky Germans.

The boys that he shows up with change very fast.

Patton feels like he doesn't change at all.

It's a problem, they say. Because Patton is still smiling at them while marching, still making jokes when the rest of the platoon is struggling to keep their eyes open, still acting soft and kind and friendly when they are trying to go to war.

It's a problem, they say. So they send him to the front lines.

Patton just smiles at them and nods his head. What's another order? What's another threat? What more can this life take from him anyway?

Patton thinks it's silly that the generals there are in the business of making tragedies, and yet they can't seem to see that Patton is a tragedy personified. It's a blindsiding attack: he's the comedy with a bad ending no one sees coming.

He gets captured six weeks after he’s sent to the front lines; it’s just another bump in the story, another trip into tragedy, and another thing to smile through and laugh over even as bitterness burns like acid in the back of his throat. 

It’s funny he thinks, because he was the only man in his regiment to get captured. The only man in his regiment none of them would be sorry to see go. The only one that lives to see the sunrise after that day.

(Its a blood orange sunrise, that boils the sky and makes hazy lines in Patton’s vision.)

The soldiers that dig him out of the trenches, that dig him from the dirt and the rubble and the bodies, that dig him out of the grave he had been so content to lie in, force him to his feet and tell him to march. They don’t like him, don’t like the way he stumbles, don’t like the way he collapses.

And they certainly don’t like the way he smiles. With blood in his teeth and his freckles dancing and his eyes as cold and dead as the rest of the allied forces in the area.

It doesn’t matter much though. This is War, after all.

They take him to a POW camp and they stuff him into a crowded cell with two French soldiers who know scattered English, and an Italian who likely was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Patton had cared, he might have thought about how different it was from what he had been told being captured would be like, about how secret the base seemed, how violent the gatekeepers were. He might have been scared.

But all he can think about is how cold it is. How dark it is. How unfriendly it is.

This is War.

And Patton wonders why no one here knows how to smile.

Its a stand still: the days are the same and they blur together like the lines of a newspaper in the rain. He sleeps a lot, probably too much, but there’s nothing else to do. He’s got his own little corner where he keeps his legs folded up so that the Italian can lie down and without touching anyone. He offers half his food to one of the French soldiers because he’s nearly eighteen but the poor kiddo looked barely older than sixteen. He smiles, smiles, smiles, until that too becomes an unconscious action. The guards that pace the block snarl at him and Patton smiles each and every time. 

He loses track of how many times they drag him out of the bars and beat him with their rifle butts. But that might just be him being bad at math. 

His cellmates probably think he’s insane. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s what the War got from him.

It isn’t until three weeks later that the Brit with the mustache is thrown in with them and things start..starting again. 

His name is something fancy, something posh, and Patton hears it, but doesn’t remember it at all. It seems silly that he could have forgotten how to speak English in three weeks, but it happens that he can’t figure out how to answer the Brit with anything more than a half shrug and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes even on a good day.

And good days are rare. It’s not that the others are bad, because how can something be bad when he’s got food, and quietness, and a roof over his head? It's strange to think that before he joined the Army, before the War had started, before his mother died, there had been times when he hadn’t even had that. Surely if he was tragic before, he had to be something slightly better now?

Patton tries to give his food to the French boy, who always, always hesitates. The Brit watches him. 

“Why do you do that?” He asks.

And Patton shrugs.

The French boy says something, or maybe he doesn’t. There’s a hollowness in Patton’s skull that rings when he looks too hard so its better just to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

The Brit speaks French and Russian and German. Patton doesn’t really notice it at first, because he’s been used to the sounds of his cellmates whispering softly in the cold dark, but at one point he realizes that there’s an extra voice, speaking foreign hushed words in the darkness. He doesn’t know how long they had been talking before he realizes, and he hadn’t been asleep but he hadn’t been there either. It had been like his body was there and his mind had stepped from the room for a moment, or ten, or an hour.

When he glances over the Brit is listening intently to what the older of the French boys is saying, nodding along, maybe partially in disbelief. Patton doesn’t get exactly what they’re talking about until there’s motion in his direction and the Brit’s jaw drops. There’s a rough laugh that follows, and it grows like a thunderstorm, rumbling closer and closer.

And oh, they’re talking about him.

Patton smiles for them. Because even if he's the joke they’re telling, at least they’re laughing.

The Brit’s eyes widen, and he says something back to the French boys, something with too many front-rounded syllables, and then he turns back to Patton and scoots close.

“They were telling me that you smile all the time,” He says. “They call you Mr. Blueskies!”

“Blueskies?” The word chokes in Patton’s throat, rattling in his ribcage like a bird trying to break free. His own inhale scratches the inside of his throat, like nails tearing up his esophagus. It feels bad, and strange and foreign. He coughs.

“Yeah,” The Brit says, “Like clear skies. Bright and Happy. I didn’t think people like you existed in this hellhole.”

Patton doesn’t know what to say to that. So he just shrugs and smiles a bit more.

The Brit still smells like lavender soap, which was probably from a care package from home before he was caught and brought here. It reminds Patton of the flower shop he had to walk by to bring his mother lunch when she worked at the factory, before she died.

“Mr. Blueskies,” The Brit says somewhat still in disbelief, “What’s your real name, Smiles?”

Patton leaned against the wall ignoring the painful cramp in his legs because the Italian was still sleeping. “Hart,” He says, “Patton Hart.” 

“Unbelievable,” He says, “They should have been putting you on posters, not sticking you on the front lines.”

(And thats another tragedy for the list, isn’t it? Something so sweet and soft like Patton shouldn’t have ever been to War at all.)

“Patton “Blueskies” Hart,” the Brit hums. “Tell me something, kid, whats there left to smile for?”

And isn’t that the trillion dollar question? What is there left to smile for when his family is dead and he is halfway to meeting them again, when his legs are cramped, his cheeks are hollowed, his head rings, and his throat is dry, when he’s so far from anything that is familiar and has no chance of getting back? 

But Patton knows the answer, has known for a while. He can still feel the soft hand of the Jewish boy when he helped pick him off the ground in Brooklyn, can still hear the laughter from his mother before she got sick, can still smell the cookies that his platoon-mate got that in a care package that made the man cry.

War is a Tragedy.

It takes and it takes and it takes. 

What is left to smile for?

“Spite,” Patton says with the sweetest tone he’s ever managed.

And across the halls, in the cell parallel to them, laughter rings out. Patton blinks almost in surprise. He hadn’t realized that anyone else had been listening, and if he is being truly honest he forgot that anyone else existed outside their tiny blocked area.

“I like you,” The words are harsh and thickly accented, but the soldier’s voice is warm with laughter and it softens the hardness of his enunciation, “Revenge served best with smile.” 

“It’s not revenge,” Patton says automatically, because the word feels wrong. Because revenge is something you wait for, an expectation that sits deep in your bones, a vicious prize you endure for. Patton isn’t waiting for anything, not a reward nor not a reparation. He doesn’t smile because he thinks he might get revenge because he knows he won’t. Patton smiles, Patton smiles, Patton smiles, because—”It’s rebellion.”

The Soviet laughs again and again, “Even better,” He says and it sends a shiver down Patton’s spine.

The Soviet-Russian isn’t alone in his cell. He’s joined by a ruddy cheeked and auburn haired Irish boy, a quiet pale-skinned Soviet-Ukranian, and a blue-eyed North Brit. Patton doesn’t know if they introduce themselves because it doesn’t matter: he won’t remember their names anyway. 

They’ll all die, anyway. 

But Patton will smile all the way through it. 

Things start, Patton notices. 

Because the next time the guards pass through, he forgets to turn away and somehow his smile is still bright enough for them to pick it out of the blue grey shadows. Patton thinks that maybe the Allied forces had been gaining ground, had beat off the Nazi’s one time too many, had tipped the War back into their favor, because the Germans are especially angry.

Its not anything new. It can’t be when Patton smiles at the grasping hands of Death, and the enemy soldiers have always been so ready to deliver him to the brink. Its not anything new when he can’t force his smile to fall, and the but of the rifle slams between the bars of the cell and clocks him right between the eyes.

And his head flings back, cracking against the shoulder of the Brit and so hard he doesn’t even hear the snapping of his wireframe glasses. The halves fall into his lap, blurry and distant and almost as broken as he is.

And Patton laughs.

Maybe it is a little new. War is like that, he thinks. 

Its a repetition that repeats until it doesn’t and there’s no telling when that change will come: when it suddenly turns from him trying to inch through the haze of bullets towards the trenches across no mans land, to him trying to dig himself out from under the weight of another soldier from his platoon without screaming in frustration, because death was right there and it missed him again.

“Mr. Blueskies--” The Brit says as Patton gasps for air.

“Oi! Was that that smiley fellow?” Someone else yells from another cell, some other cell.

“Is he alright?” Another voice adds in.

“Bloody Germans!” 

Its a clamor. Patton hears it; its impossible not to hear with how close the cells are to each other, with how many of them are pressed together, with how each whisper reverberates off the stone around them and makes it ten times louder.

Something warm trickles down his face and Patton blinks hard as he tastes blood between his grinning lips. He thinks there’s some orders being tossed around but the full honesty is he can’t hear at all. All there is are yells about leaving him alone, about those where those Germans can stuff their guns, about how they can pick on prisoners their own size--

There’s nothing new, and yet the entire camp, the hall of their cells, Patton suddenly feels more alive than ever before. 

Their captors don’t know what to do suddenly. There’s several thwamps as something gets thrown at them, but Patton can’t see it at all.

The gunshots rattle all of them to their bones, a noise so loud in their small cells made of stone that turns the vibrations back on them. Patton’s hands cover his ears, his ringing ears, and he feels the Brit next to him stiffen. The echoes of the noise, steal all the fire from them, until they’re just cowering from the bars again, and selling lethal glares.

Patton blinks blurrily at the indistinct forms where their captors were, dully recognizing that orders are being spit out in rapid German. The cells ring with the foreign words, and then fizzle out as the soldiers move on.

And the silence returns, same as its always been.

Although something is different, Patton thinks, clutching the halves of his glasses that his mother had spent four months saving up to afford him, back before she had gotten sick. Something is different, he thinks, as the Brit softly presses a swatch of cloth he got who knows where to Patton’s forehead. 

Something is different, Patton knows.

Because the next time they get their portions of food and Patton tries to foist some of his off the French boy gives him a hard “No” complete with him reaching out and pushing Patton’s hand away. Patton eats a whole piece of bread, and he thinks it even had a taste. Its strange and weird and Patton doesn’t want to think about it so he sleeps instead.

He wakes up when the Italian reaches over and nudges him, and waddles around so that his long legs fold up and there’s space in the cell for the first time. The Italian motions for him to lie down, and Patton’s first instinct is to offer it French boys, to the Brit, to the Italian who was looking far too uncomfortable.

The Brit offers him a shoulder to his head on when he’s tired, talks when he’s not. The Brit asks him questions about home, about before the War, about what America is like because he’d always wanted to visit just to see if it really was as bad as he’s thought it was. Patton can’t see anything anymore, but its nice to hear the barking laughter that shows up sometimes.

(Patton makes up things sometimes, just to hear it, because its pretty and it makes Patton’s chest warm in a way that it hasn’t, doesn’t, won’t any other time.)

The Brit is warm and gruff. He smells like lavender and sounds like the rumbling of streetcars back home. He’s strong and steady and bold and brave.

“Hey, Blueskies--”

The War is a bad thing, Patton thinks, as he starts to notice things moving again. The War is a bad thing, Patton reminds himself, as his smile feels less forced than it has in years. The War is a bad thing, Patton whispers at night, as he stares at the sleeping face of a man who’s laugh made Patton’s heart jump straight into his throat.

The War is a bad thing.

But if it weren’t for the War they never would have met. 

And if it weren’t for the War the Brit never would have died. Not like this. 

People disappear from the cells. Taken by the guards, dragged out of their block in the middle of the night, and they never return. The Soviet, who’s been here the longest, almost a year, spins tales of his old, original cell mates, and the people who’d originally filled the cell that Patton was occupying. They’d all been dragged off in the night, one by one, he’d claimed, and the only reason the Soviet himself hadn’t gone taken with them was because he always squeezed himself tight into a corner during the guards rounds. 

“What about food?” The Brit had asked, half curious and half concerned, “How did you eat?”

“I didn’t,” The Soviet barked with laughter, “Going hungry is small price to pay for life. And now…” The Soviet reached into his tattered jacket, and pulled out a stale chunk of bread, “I am prepared.”

The Irish boy glances up from where he was playing some sort of hand game with the Ukranian, wide eyed and red cheeked, “You think they’ll come back to our block?”

“I no think,” The Soviet said with complete surety, tucking the bread back into his coat, “I know.” 

And he’s right, because two weeks later Patton’s woken from a half restless sleep by his head knocking hard against the wall as the shoulder he’d fallen asleep against was ripped out from underneath him. Patton’s vision is blurry, muddled by darkness and the sudden hit he took to his temple but he can see, suddenly, the open gate to their cell blocked off by one of their bulky captors as two others wrapped their hands tight on the arms of the struggling Brit. 

Desperate cuts through the drowsy fog in Patton’s mind, and he’s scrambling forward, knocking into the Italian who wakes with a sharp gasp, and accidentally kicking the leg of the French boy who squirms from sleep and proceeds to shake his older counterpart awake within in the second but Patton doesn’t notice. He’s attempting to stand, reach for the Brit, pull him back, but one of the guards shoves him away and Patton lands bruisingly hard on his backside just as the grated door is slammed shut and locked in front of him.

Patton lunges again, sticks his arm through the wire, ignores the burn, grabs onto the Brit’s shoulder, and gasps out his name, “...” 

The Brit swings his head up and over his shoulder, eyes alight in the dark. A guard brings his gun down on Patton’s elbow and he screams, loud enough to wake the rest of the block, certainly. He sees the Ukranian boy with one arm around the Irish boy’s stomach and the other covering his mouth as he presses them both against the back wall, sees the other Brit, the Northern one, pressed into the less shadowed corner, shaking and doesn’t even see a hint of the Russian, but knows he’s curled into himself and watching Patton too, waiting for him to give up, let go.

He doesn’t. His fingers dig deeper into the Brit’s shoulder, grasping onto the fabric desperately, even as the guard lands a second blow on his wrist, and his vision swims with bright purple spots.

Patton lets out a ragged breath, faintly hears the Italian quietly begging him to let go through the ringing in his ears, and tightens his grip because he’s selfish. The Brit is his friend. Makes him happy in a way Patton hasn’t known in years, with his kind words and gruff voice, and Patton can’t let him go, he can’t. Not, at least, without a fight. 

(The Brit deserves that much.)

“...Mr. Blueskies,” The Brit says, voice quiet, voice terrified, but still steady, “Let go.”

“No—” The guard swings his gun through the slots in the door and slams Patton’s nose with a loud crack. His vision dissolves into bright, spotted stars, and his face burns and he’s coughing on blood dripping down his throat and his ears ring, and his fingers are starting to loosen against his will and—

“LET GO BLUESKIES!”

“Let go! Let go!”

“Blueskies!”

—The clamor is back. Echoing in his ears and as violent as a thunderstorm as the rest of their block, wide awake now, scream and shout, and some of them, a few of them, are shouting swears and curses at the Germans for hurting Patton, for taking away the Brit, for everything, but the rest are yelling at him. To let go. 

His fingers are loosening against the fabric of the Brit’s jacket—but he can’t, he won’t. 

“Let go, Patton,” The Brit begs him, and Patton can feel his eyes burn, “And take care of them.”

The guard moves to hit a fourth time, on Patton’s fingers, on the Brit’s shoulder. But Patton unclenches his hand first. His fingers slip off. His arm hits the grated door and the guard kicks it for good measure, but Patton can’t even feel it. He just watches, through blurry, spotted vision, as they drag the Brit away. 

The Brit doesn’t come back. Never comes back. And something like anger starts to burn in Patton’s mind.

Patton is not a stranger to tragedy. He’s not a stranger to the sadness that wells up in him and then floods his senses, he’s not a stranger to that grief in his chest that tears apart his heart and lungs with bargains to a god that’s not interested in anything he has to offer. He’s not even a stranger to death that calmly reaps yet another soul without an inch of mercy. 

(They don’t get to see the body; Patton doesn’t know if that’s mercy, doesn’t know if after what they did to the Brit disposing him without Patton’s knowing was a favor, doesn’t know if where the grief ends and the fury begins.)

Patton is not a stranger to the tragedy that sings in his bones when he’s left in that too cold cell, but the anger that comes rushing through him is violent and bursting and that--

That is new.

And Patton embraces it. 

“Oh,” The Soviet says, when Patton looks up with that rage in his eyes. “Oh.” 

They come again a week later, and this time Patton is waiting.

He’s sitting closest to the door, eyes closed but alert, but the guards reach past him for the sleeping older French boy, who’d determinedly sandwiched his younger counterpart between himself and the Italian in a sham of protection hours ago. They reach for him, even though Patton is right there, and the guard has barely twisted his fingers into the thin fabric of the boy’s shirt before Patton lunges. 

He tackles the guard against the wall of the small cell, and surprise on his side gives him a momentary advantage before the other three are jolted from a restless sleep by the guard’s violent swears. 

Patton doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, beyond a reckless sort of anger and a desperate kind of despair, but it’s better than sitting here and doing nothing while the older French boy is taken. He knows the rest of the cell block is going to wake up and notice soon, urging him to give up again, but this time Patton is ready: ready to fight, ready to defend, ready to die. 

The second guard smacks the back of his head hard with a gun and he thinks it’s the third that pulls him off of the first, the first, who’s staring at Patton with a death glare and a broken nose, and Patton grins viciously back at him. A challenge.

(Patton’s vision swims with black. His head pounds, and there’s a dripping warmth down the back of his neck he thinks may be blood.)

“Take him,” The first guard says, in clear, accented English, intended to make Patton quiver with terror and beg for mercy but Patton’s grin only widens, tugs harder at his cheeks, because in one move the guard has accepted his challenge and lost. And Patton has won.

The two guards drag him out of the cell, and Patton flashes his battle-grin at his three remaining cellmates; a reassurance, a reminder. 

“Take care of them.”

And Patton does. In the only way he can manage. 

The War takes and takes and takes.

It takes the great things, the good things, the not so bad things-- it takes Patton and drags him down the cell block, with his well worn leather shoes scraping the floor with a cacophony of screams behind him. 

Its strange, because Patton thinks he can pick out the individual voices in the noise around him: the Soviet who threw himself from the shadows into the metal bars once he saw what Patton had forced the soldiers to do (take him, take him, take him), the French boy who started sobbing once he realized that he had been the intended target, the unknown voices from down the cell that he had come to recognize over the months. He’s pulled down the hall and he puts those voices to outraged faces for the first time.

His grin makes his cheeks ache, a feral looking sort of thing that awakens some sort of primordial beast in each prisoner he passes.

It’s his name they scream. The name that he forged in spite, the name that he earned, the name that was his and his alone.

The name the War didn’t, doesn’t, can’t take.

The soldiers drag him down the hall, out of the cell block and the metal door slams behind them, cutting off the riot of noise so effectively that Patton almost thinks he fell into some sort of alternate reality.

The noise was nothing compared to the silence.

The lab was far from pristine. It had the same old, grey rock walls and hard dirt floors. But it was filled with shelves, counters, and tables--all metal, all steel, and all shining under the artificial lights so brightly that Patton had to half-squint his eyes to keep from being blinded. 

It was meticulously organized. Neat and clean in a way Patton hadn’t seen in years and had never had the luxury of experiencing. Almost painfully so. The alcohol in the air stung at his nose and made his eyes water, but Patton blinked it away hard and fast less the guards think he was crying, less they think his anger and rage and determination had faded to fear and desperation. 

Because it hadn’t. 

Because Patton won, would win, would continue to win even as they stripped him of his jacket and strapped him to the table, because when he dies here--goosebumps prickling at his bare arms from the chill, heart pounding hard and fast, anger dancing in his blood--it’s a victory. 

Because it’s him. And not them. 

The guards leave him there for what feels like minutes, yet could be seconds, but is really hours. He gazes through the lone, bar window in the lab until day breaks over the horizon and his eyes burn with the first glimpse of the sun in months. 

It heats his face and warms something in his chest, but he doesn’t cry, doesn’t smile, and stops his stare. He relieves the ache in his neck and stares flatly at the ceiling, ignores the pain in his gut, in his head, and waits. 

For what? He doesn’t know.

(A another lie: he waits for, wants for, craves for the end. They call him Mr. Blueskies, they call him brave, but really he’s just as much a coward as they all are: he just dresses it up in dull smiles and habitual kindness as he hopes for relief.) 

(Any kind really, but at this point he thinks, knows, fears that the end is the only kind he’ll get.)

Patton waits until the sun stretches out of the window. Hunger starts to burn against the nausea in his gut. It must be past noon when the scientist comes in, decked in sterile white marred with red and checking things off on a clipboard, like he’s a doctor and Patton is a patient in for a fever, like he isn’t strapped to a table, waiting.

(Waiting to die.)

Patton’s stiff with tension as the scientist presses a stethoscope to his chest, mouthing numbers as he measure’s Patton’s rapid pulse against the watch on his wrist. His fists curl into white knuckles as his blood pressure is measured, and the scientist has the gall to chide him for it as he clicks his tongue at the results and takes them again and again until Patton’s sweaty palm is flat against the cool metal of the table. A thermometer is stuck under his tongue and Patton bites it so hard he’s almost disappointed when it doesn’t snap in half. 

His headache pounds. The scientist peels back his eyelids to check with a light, and pokes at the blood-crusted bump on the back of his head until Patton hisses. 

The scientist smirks at him as Patton scowls, says something that Patton forgets as soon as it’s slipped from the man’s lips. Something about “glory of HYDRA” and “dehydration.” He hangs an IV and sticks the needle in Patton's arm and leaves him. 

Four vials rehung by guards and the rest of daylight pass by before the scientist returns, pushing through the door as he snaps bloodied gloves off his hands and slings them on one of the clear counters. 

“Another failure,” He sighs to himself. He picks up a vial and examines it, twists it back and forth as the blue liquid catches the artificial light. He glances over at Patton through his glasses, head tilted to the side, “But...perhaps not a set back.”

The scientist swings around the table, settling just next to where Patton’s head is, holding the vial up so both of them can see it. Patton can feel the man’s breath on his skin, and he yanks on the restraints without getting anywhere.

“Do you know what this is?” The man asks so calmly, so logically, so friendly-- like Patton and him are old acquaintances about to catch up. His voice is so loud, his tone so-- so-- Patton hates it. Patton hates it so much.

There’s something about it that reaches down his spine, and picks apart Patton’s anger, his misery, his emotions that have been twisted and warped and neglected ever since that day his mother’s hand had gone limp. The scientist’s voice disarms the everything that Patton had been clinging to for the past hours, the months, the years, and with just a couple words Patton is just a kid again.

“This is the glory of HYDRA,” The scientist says, so proudly. “The glory of humanity.”

“What good is your glory?” Patton’s voice shakes, “All it does is kill people. It’s useless. It’s...stupid!”

“Oh…” The scientist trails, looking at him with something akin to pity, “You don’t understand.” He sighs, and then moves his free hand outside of what Patton can see--

Patton’s entire body seizes as the scientist over him suddenly starts pressing his fingers through Patton’s unruly curls. The man pets him, running those fingers through Patton’s oily hair, gently massaging his scalp, touching him.

Patton thinks he’ll throw up. Because-- Because this is different from them taking his blood, from them sticking needles in him, from them hitting him. This is-- its--

Patton yanks against the restraints, yanks his head away from the touch, but the Scientist just tuts at him and moves his hand further down the sides of Patton’s head, before cupping Patton’s jaw. The skin on skin contact-- it burns. Patton struggles against it, but the hand follows him wherever he goes.

“Your people never understand,” the man says, “Why don’t they understand? This is going to save the human race.” His thumb rubs the soft flesh under Patton’s chin, and Patton squeezes his eyes closed, squeezing back the tears and biting his touch when every muscle in his chest begs him to whimper.

This is okay, Patton thinks. Because it’s him and not the French boy, not the russian from the cell across from them, not anyone else. It’s okay, its okay, its okay.

This is War.

 The thumb rolls a circle over Patton’s pulse, and the scientist peers down at him with a bright smile, something so blinding that Patton can see nearly all of his teeth. “I’ve heard about you-- the smiler. You make my friends very uneasy.”

The pad of the thumb presses slightly, and the grin widens when he sees Patton’s heart rate fluttering. “The one before you-- he said that I should be the one on the table.” Patton’s breath freezes in his lungs. “He didn’t know what he was talking about.”

The scientist sets down the vial and uses the second hand to go back to curling through Patton’s hair. One hand on his pulse, on hand in his hair, and Patton feels every inch where he’s touching him, every bit where his skin feels like white hot embers, every point where Patton is burning alive on that table.

“I didn’t like him, personally.” The man says, smiles in spite of how Patton’s turning to ashes under his handling. “He fought too much, screamed too much. I don’t like it when they scream.” The face comes closer. “You aren’t going to be like him, are you?”

Patton’s body seizes, and before he can even think, even register what the hell he’s doing, the bonds are digging against his chest and upper arms as he leans as far forward as he dares and spits right in the scientist’s smug face. 

The scientist scrambles back cursing in a foreign tongue and Patton’s flighty enough to revel in the feeling of accomplishment, of winning-- even if he knows there’s really nothing left to win at all. 

Because this is War. 

And he’s just another face, another shadow, another soldier sent to die. He’s forgettable. And it's a tragedy, just like every other moment of Patton’s life.

“Whats left to smile for?” the Brit had asked him once.

And Patton’s still spiteful enough to grin as the hands come off his body, as the scientist who knows nothing and care nothing about humanity stumbles away from him, as the ceiling lights flicker, as that vial of blue liquid death is jammed into the IV line that's connected right into Patton’s body.

“This should teach you some respect,” The scientist sneers, and Patton watches as the blue drip, drip, drips down the tube, “Mr. Blueskies.” 

And Patton’s fury burns hot because that’s, that’s his name. The one he earned by passing the French boy bread and getting beat by the butts of the guard’s guns. It’s his name—it’s his name that got shouted down that hall by every other prisoner, a rallying cry, a war cry, a child’s plea.

Its his name and it doesn’t belong in the mouth of a Nazi.

Patton burns and burns and burns. And when blue liquid enters his veins, he burns even more.

He does not stop burning.---

***

“I think they get the idea, Kiddo!” Patton interjects quickly, brightly, and borderline coldly. Despite his smile, there’s a sudden air about him, a sudden dangerous aura as he shakes himself from the stillness he had adopted while Virgil was talking.

Virgil blinks, realizing that he had barely gotten more than a sentence out to the new recruits, “But its...you’re really him aren’t you? Captain Morality. Patton Hart? I grew up reading about you-- and now I’m older than you! Oh god, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

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