#but you sure do tell a lot of fibs

[stillsurfacequietpond]

Four times when Aziraphale is not very honest with Crowley...

And one time when he is

[athenamikaelson]

Klaus Mikaelson x Soulmate!Reader x Elijah Mikaelson Pt. 11

Word Count- 3.8k

Warnings- Mentions of Suicide(Damon trying to die because of his wolf bite), swearing, death, blood, gun/gun-shot wounds, smaller chapter but big things happening cliffhanger ending

“Yes, Elena. Once again, I’m fine. I have to go run an errand and then I’ll see you guys at the square. OK? Toodles!”

I quickly hung up my phone, just in case Elena decided to ask what errand I was running. How the hell am I supposed to tell her I’m going to try to talk a dying Damon Salvatore off the ledge?

It’s been two days since Demon dropped the bomb that he was dying and then disappeared. He hasn’t answered my calls and whenever I ask Stefan about him he says “I’m working on it.” Not well enough, clearly, because the Bunny Eater called me 30 minutes ago telling me Damon just tried lighting himself on fire and he needs my help talking him down. I’m not sure why I’m the one he called for this since I’ve heard Damon on more than one occasion say he’d rather die than listen to me speak. 

Damon and Stefan have made me keep quiet about this, so no one else but us three knows. Which is why I fibbed a bit on my phone call with Elena. I’m not entirely on board with keeping this a secret. What do the Salvatores think is going to happen when the werewolf bite kills Damon? Just tell everyone Damon went upstate to a farm, just like what parents tell their children when their turtles or dogs die.

Although Damon and I have had our differences, I can admit the thought of him dying doesn’t sit well with me. Especially since he got bit trying to stop the ritual. Even though it didn’t stop it, it did save Tyler and Caroline. Who I guess was replaced by that bitch Jules and some random vampire Klaus had in his back pocket. 

I take a deep breath as I exit my car and walk up to the front door of the Salvatore house. I don’t bother knocking since everyone kind of just lets themselves in when it comes to this place. I’m about to call out for Stefan but within a moment he’s flashed in front of me. 

“Oh good lord,” I clutch my chest in surprise. At this Stefan’s eyes widen and he reaches out to me.

“I’m sorry, Y/n! Is it your heart again? Do you need anything? Here take some of my blood,” Stefan frantically says.

I put both of my hands up and shake them, “Stefan calm down dude, okay? I’m good, you just scared me. I’ve got to start getting you vamps little bells to wear around your necks.”

Stefan slightly laughs but I can still see the weariness in his eyes.

“Really Stefana, I’m good.”

Stefan sighs and nods, “Sorry, I just…with everything going on I’m just…,” Stefan rubs his hand over his face and now I can clearly see the exhaustion and sadness on it. 

I take a step closer and wrap my arms around him in a hug, “It’ll be ok, we’ll figure it out, alright?”

Stefan doesn’t say anything but I feel him nod as he wraps his arms around me tighter as if me hugging him is the only thing keeping him grounded. And after seeing his older brother trying to light himself on fire, it might just be. 

After another moment Stefan releases me and smiles at me but it doesn't reach up all the way. 

“He’s down here,” He says and I follow him down to where Elijah was when he was daggered. 

At the thought of the Original my heart sinks. It’s been three days since I’ve seen or heard from him. Each time I hear my phone ring a small part of me expects it to be him with his stupid posh accent telling me he’s sorry for ghosting me, but every time I answer it’s never him. I’ve tried to distract myself with hanging out with the girls, or Theo, and even the occasional phone call with Jenna who talks to me a lot now about the supernatural since we both learned about it recently. Bonnie and I have also been going through her deceased Gram’s grimoires and things to see if we can find anything on why my chest bled and then magically healed itself, but nothing comes up.  It’s disheartening but Bonnie says she won’t stop searching until she’s found the reason. Our time together has made me realize just how good of a friend Bonnie is. She’s loyal and kind and she’d fight for her friends until her dying breath. Which is sadly something she has already done once. I really like hanging out with her and her teaching me more about her world. I may not understand much about witches but it’s nice to see how excited she gets when she talks about it. 

“Are you going to be good down here by yourself,” Stefan leans down to whisper to me.

“What,” I question now realizing he’s been talking this entire time. 

“I have to go to the square to go speak to Elena but after I’ll be back. Just whatever he says, don’t let him out. Ric should be here soon too. He can take your place when he gets here.”

I do a soldier’s salute and he rolls his eyes as he walks back upstairs. Leaving me and Grumpy down here by ourselves. The door that separates us is big and wooden with a small window that has three metal bars. I look through and frown when I see Damon scrunched up, sitting on the far side of the room. 

“Are you going to eat me if I come in?”

“Drinking your blood would be a fate worse than death,” Damon’s scratchy voice speaks up after a moment. 

I roll my eyes as I unlock the door and push it open, I quickly make my way inside and close it. I lean against the door and cross my arms as I look at the dying vampire in front of me. 

“Stefan really thought you of all people would be the one to talk me off the ledge,” Damon grunts out as he puts his head up to look at me. 

“That’s exactly what I said. I told him you’d be more likely to do it again after hearing me speak,” I laugh out.

Damon’s upper lip twitches for a moment and he lets out a strangled laugh, “You’re not wrong. 

We’re both quiet for a moment before Damon speaks up again, “I’m going to die.”

I take a deep breath and sit down against the door mirroring Damon, “At the moment, yes you are.”

Damon raises an eyebrow at me, “So you’re not going to fill me with fairy tales about some special cure and that by tomorrow I’ll be fresh as a daisy?”

I shrug my shoulders, “Is that what you want me to do?”

Damon stares at me for a moment and then shakes his head, “No, I don’t.”

“Alright then. Works for me. You know, Stefan called me to try to talk you down because he thinks what you did was crazy. But… I understand why you did it.”

This captures Damon’s attention as he stares questioningly at me, “You do?”

I nod as I play with a loose thread on my shirt, “Ya. You’re scared. And in pain. You think this is the only way out, but it isn’t. And I’m not saying that because of some magical cure. I’m saying that because you still have time left to say your goodbyes and to be with those who actually care about you. Even though you’re an actual hellspawn. I know that this is scary, you’ve been alive for over a century and now you’re facing mortality for the first time in years. I would be scared too.”

Damon’s jaw clenches and for a moment I think he’s mad but when I see him turn his head to stare at the wall next to him I realize he’s trying to hide his emotions. 

“Damon you can stare at that wall all you’d like but I meant what I said.”

At the sound of footsteps, I stand up. 

“Ric’s here. Try not to be such an ass to him. You’re kind of like his only friend,” When he doesn’t make any noise about my joke I frown and start to unlatch the door, “I’m glad I met you, Damon. I don’t tell a lot of people that, but it’s true. Thanks for bringing out a fire in me I didn’t know I had.”

Damon says nothing and I quickly wipe a stray tear from my face as I open the door.

“I’m glad I met you too, Y/N. Even though you’re a pain in the ass,” I turn and make eye contact with Damon, and even though the room is dark, I swear I can see small tears building in his blue eyes, “I don’t believe in next lives or whatever…but if they somehow exist, I wouldn’t mind meeting you again in that one, Pukey.”

I let out a small sob as I run over to the seated man and throw my arms over him. He lets out a grunt of surprise and after a moment he wraps his arms around me and I can feel the dampness from his tears on my shirt.

“If you tell anyone about this I’ll kill you,” He tries to threaten but his voice comes out strained so it doesn’t hold much punch.

“Ya whatever, Demon.”

—

It’s night by the time I get to the square for whatever movie night the town’s having. Elena asked me to come earlier since she says everyone needs a break from all the chaos that has happened. I’m not excited to see how she’s going to react to the news about Damon. But for now, I’m grabbing my fluffy blanket and walking towards my friends and watching this stupid movie.

Jenna, Jeremy, Bonnie, and Caroline all sit together talking as I walk up behind them. 

“Hey guys,” I say and they all spin around to look at me. Bonnie and Jenna both send me warm smiles and waves, Caroline hops up and guides me over to the group talking my ear off already, and Jeremy tries to send me a smile but that dude looks like he would rather be anywhere else. 

“What errand took you so long,” Caroline questions.

“Oh, Theo just needed some help bringing back his football gear and stuff. I guess the coach has been bothering him to get it back for weeks since the season ended,” I say which isn’t a total lie since I did do that after leaving the Salvatores.

“How is Theo,” Jeremy asks. 

Ever since the funeral Jeremy and Theo have been gaming together. When I asked Theo about it,  he said he was doing it out of pity and that someone as cool as him wouldn’t hang out with an emo like Jeremy. But after passing by Theo’s room and hearing him and Jeremy laugh and make fun of each other over call, I don’t think Theo is really doing this out of pity anymore. After moving here and with everything that has happened with our parents it’s been hard for Theo to make friends. Even though he says otherwise. I know he has people to hang out with at school, but it’s all brainless jocks who probably don’t even care to know my brother’s favorite color. He needs a good friend like Jeremy in his life. 

“Theo’s good. Even though he was pissy this morning because he says you cheated last night,” I admit to him as I sit down next to Jenna and Caroline. 

Jeremy shoots me a look of disbelief, “I did not cheat! That jerk! He’s the one who cheated,” Jeremy lifts up his phone and starts angrily texting someone. A someone, who I’m guessing is my brother.

I look around noticing the absence of my best friend, “Where’s Elena?”

They all look at each other wearily before Bonnie grabs my hand, “You might want to prepare yourself for this.”

I look at her confused for a moment and whisper, “Is this about the Damon thing?”

“You knew?!’’

“What?”

“Excuse me?”

“Bro!”

They all yell out and I raise my hands in surrender, “Hey! Stefana and Demon made me keep quiet. They didn’t want to stress anyone else out more.”

“How long have you known,” Caroline asks me and I grimace, “Like… since John’s funeral.”

“Y/N!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It just wasn’t my place to say.”

They think about this for a moment before nodding.

“Elena went to go talk to Damon and Stefan is off trying to find a cure,” Bonnie says.

“Let’s hope he finds one in time.”

We all quiet down after a moment and go back to watching the movie, but 5 minutes later I feel a tap on my right shoulder.

I shoot Jenna a questioning look as she leans down to whisper to me, “Anything from Elijah?”

I just send her a small shake of my head and she returns it with a comforting smile and a squeeze to my shoulder, “His loss then.”

Over the past few days of Jenna and I talking about the supernatural, we’ve also been chatting about other things like school and relationships. It took me a while to open up but after I did I brought up Elijah. Talking to Jenna about Elijah, and everything that’s happened with him has actually made me feel somewhat better. Jenna’s been more of a mother figure to me these past three days than my own mother has in almost 18 years. 

Out of the corner of my eye, Jeremy quickly stands up, capturing all of our attention. 

He hangs up the phone and turns back to us with a nervous look, “Damon escaped and Elena wasn’t there yet so Ric thinks he’s coming here to see her. Ric says the bite is making him hallucinate so he’s not himself right now.”

“Fantastic,” I mutter to myself and Jenna slightly elbows me and shoots me a disapproving look. 

“If Damon is off the rails, there is nothing you can do to stop him. Let us take care of it,” Bonnie gestures towards herself, and Caroline and I want to groan at this. It’s really starting to piss me off how the supernaturals keep pushing us humans away every time we want to help. Just because we don’t have super strength or heal within a split second doesn’t mean we’re useless.  

“You keep doing this! You left me behind before, and guess what, Elena was still killed,” Jeremy exclaims to his girlfriend, “I’m going to find my sister. You go ahead and try to stop me. Y/N, Jenna, you with me?” 

Jenna instantly nods and I shoot a look at Bonnie and Caroline before walking towards Jeremy, “Let’s go.”

—

“There he is!” 

I follow behind Jeremy as we see a wounded Damon staring off into space. Jenna left a while ago to go find Ric, leaving Little Gilbert and I to try to find Elena. “Damon,” Jeremy tries catching the attention of the delusional vamp and I watch with caution. 

“Where’s Elena? I need to see Elena now,” He frantically says and I send him a smile as Jeremy walks closer to him.

“Hey, let’s get you out of here first, alright,” Jeremy grabs Damon, who instantly falls into his arms. I go to the vampire’s other side and grab his arms trying to help Jeremy with the deadweight. 

After a bunch of odd stares and murmurs from passersby, we finally get Damon through the crowd and into the empty Grill.

Jeremy drops Damon off at a table and goes to tell Ric where we are. I’m still holding onto Damon's arm as I watch Jere, but turn around when I feel Damon do the same. And I freeze.

“Y/n, move I don’t want to hurt you,” Sheriff Forbes stands in front of us holding her gun and pointing at Damon. 

I go to try to reason to her but Damon flashes away, spooking Liz and all I hear is the sound of a gun and a piercing in my left arm. 

“Oh god,” Liz looks at me for a moment in shock but when she looks behind me her features go straight to fear. 

A strangled sob escapes my mouth as I watch Jeremy fall to the floor, his once-grey shirt turning red, as blood spills from his chest. 

“What the hell did you do,” I scream at Liz as I run over to Jeremy with tears in my eyes.

 I strip off my sweatshirt and place it over his bleeding chest.

“Come on Jeremy, you’re going to be alright,” I sob, “You’re going to be alright Jere,”

Another sob comes from my mouth as Jeremy’s shaking hand grabs mine for comfort. 

“I know this hurts but I have to keep pressure on it, okay. You’re going to be just fine.”

I can hear Liz call for paramedics as she tries to move my hands so she can hold down the sweatshirt.

“Don’t you dare,” I snarl at her and she sits back.

“Jeremy…Hey! Jere,” I shake my head as he closes his eyes. 

Bonnie and Caroline rush up to us and Caroline gently sets me back so she can try to help Jeremy. I sit there with silent sobs as I watch Bonnie tell Caroline that Jeremy’s ring won't bring him back since the sheriff is human. 

Caroline bites into her wrist and places it onto Jeremy’s mouth, “Go on, Jeremy. Drink.”

“What are you doing,” The sheriff questions her daughter even though she is not the one who should be speaking at all right now. 

“I’m helping him.”

I sit there with tears in my eyes as Jeremy doesn’t wake up and I know it’s because he’s dead. The others must realize this too because they all sit back with sobs of their own. The sound of a door opening captures my attention and I look up to see Ric and Jenna staring over at us.

“Bonnie what’s wrong,” Ric asks as he and Jenna run over to us. As soon as they see Jeremy though they halt. Jenna instantly falls to her knees crying and I crawl over to her ignoring the shooting pain in my arm. I grab her into my arms and she instantly latches to me and sobs into my shoulder. 

“I know what I need to do,” Bonnie says aloud as she stands, “I need you to grab him. T-Take him with us.”

“No, no, no, no. You can’t move him. This is a crime scene,” Liz tries denying which has me wanting to smack her. Jeremy’s dead all because of a prejudice she has.

“Mom, just let them go,” Caroline tells her mother and Liz stands up so Ric can grab Jeremy’s body.

“Okay. Alright, come here, buddy. I got you,” Ric says and I hug Jenna tighter.

—-

Bonnie sits in front of us chanting over Jeremy’s body. Candles around us burn hotter as Bonnie shakes her head, “No.”

“What? What is it,” Ric asks.

“They’re angry at me for coming back here. They don’t wanna help.”

I shake my head in denial.

  “Well, they have to.”

Bonnie looks at Jeremy with tears in her eyes, “They said there’ll be consequences.”

“Well, he’s just a kid. Tell’em to shut up.”

Bonnie continues chanting and the witch house starts to shake.

“Emily! I know you’re there. Please help me. I love him.”

Jenna, Ric, and I watch in silent horror as everything stops and Jeremy is still lifeless. Bonnie cries holding him and Jenna crawls over to her dead nephew. 

I look down at Jeremy and let out a sob of relief as I see him flutter his eyes open. 

I sigh deeply as I watch Jenna and Bonnie hug Jeremy. 

“Y/N?”

I turn to Ric who is staring at my arm, I watch as he slowly lifts his fingers and touches my shirt. I fight the urge to groan in annoyance as I look at the fresh blood on his fingers. 

“Anyone want to take me to the hospital?”

—

“OK, so it appears you’ve lost quite a bit of blood,” The doctor tells me as he tapes gauze over the gunshot wound on my shoulder. I have a gunshot wound. I was shot. What the hell?! Somehow the bullet that killed Jeremy went right through the upper part of my shoulder. 

Ric and Jenna had dropped me off about an hour ago. They insisted on staying, but I told them my mother would be here soon and they should get back to Jeremy. 

“We’re going to have to give you some blood. Do you happen to know what you’re blood type is? It appears that on your medical records, your mother and father’s blood types are listed but yours isn’t.”

I shake my head, “I’ve never had to get blood drawn before so I don’t know.” 

The doctor nods, “That’s fine. We would give you the universal donor blood but for some reason, we’ve had a shortage in blood lately,” I nod along as if I don’t know exactly why that is, “But we’ll take some of your blood and do a test then find out what your type is.”

I nod and thank him.

“We called your mother but it seems she can’t get out of work and your father didn’t answer. Is there anyone else you’d like to call to be with you?”

My heart hurts as I think about how both my parents couldn’t bother to come to see their own daughter in the hospital, “Um...no thank you. I’m alright.”

The doctor sends me a smile, but he looks almost as hurt about my parents not being here as I am. Tell me about it man. I watch silently as he takes a vial of my blood, tells me he’ll have my results soon, and then leaves. 

Great who the hell is going to drive me home?

—

I’m awoken by a small shake to my uninjured shoulder. I squint my eyes to see the doctor from before looking down at me wearily. 

At this, I try to sit up but waves of pain stop me.

“Don’t move sweetheart it’ll just rip open your stitches,” The doctor gently pushes me back down. But the look on his face makes me nervous.

“Is everything ok,” I question. 

The doctor is silent before he shows me a blood bag, “I was able to find a match for you, but… your blood type is Type B,” His tone and words confuse me. Wouldn’t he be relieved he was able to find me blood?

“I don’t understand,” I shake my head in confusion.

“I don’t know if I should be telling you this without a parent present. I could be fired,” He says to himself as if he’s fighting some internal battle. 

“Please… what are you talking about?”

The doctor places a hand on my shoulder and frowns at me, “Your mother’s blood type is Type A, and your father’s is Type O,” At the confusion still clearly on my face he sighs, “Genetically those two blood types combinations can only produce Type A and O children. So…”

My entire world seems to come down crashing on top of me as he finishes his sentence.

“You can’t be related, biologically, to your father.”

[fushiguruuzzzz]

PLAYIN’ IT COOL — A.ARLERT

There is only one thing Armin Alert will ever lie to you about.

He tells you his honest opinion of how you look that day (which is always breathtaking, but that’s a story for another time), and never has your lover ever deceived you. Every plan, idea, every thought that flickers in his mind is yours just as much. Not only is he an honest person, but he simply didn’t see a point in lying. What is love if not transparency?

But when you’d stare at him sheepishly and ask, “did I keep you up?” he simply couldn’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Because in all honesty, you absolutely did. You snored too loud and moved too much, the definition of an erratic sleeper. He spent the night with one of your legs thrown over him, and he’s pretty sure you elbowed him in the nose once or twice. He could feel his eye twitch, whether it was exhaustion or his body’s reaction to the unfamiliarity of lying to you, he’s not entirely sure himself.

He almost told you, almost uttered a simple “yeah, sort of…” but the words died on his tongue. He remembered that you were in bed with him, and that was more than he could ask for. Yes, maybe his eyes were stinging with fatigue and maybe he winced when your fingers brushed over his tender skin, but the possibility of you leaving him in cold sheets was what willed him to throw away the key to his locked lips. Maybe he wasn’t fond of sleepless nights, but he despised loneliness far more.

So he looked at you, lips wobbling as he let out a squeaky “no!” before he avoided your gaze entirely. All you could do was sigh and chuckle, because this must have meant a whole lot if it was enough to make him (attempt to) fib about it.

Armin never lied to you, but when he did, he sucked at it.

a/n — dawned on me that I’ve written absolutely nothing for the loml so I flopped down and wrote this in 10 minutes instead of doing my math project

Gen. tags: @sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @kashee-h

[hgfictionwriter]

Long Distance Call

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie and you are doing the long distance thing. What's she to do when you surprise her with a fun photo?

Warning: Smut. Phone sex. Explicit language!

A/N: Based on this request.

“Alright, everyone. Settle in. We have a big game this Friday and we’ve got lots to go through to prepare. Let’s look at some footage.”

Jessie was honed in on the analysis until she felt her phone buzz in her back pocket. Coach was addressing the defenders, so Jessie took the opportunity to check.

Jessie had to stifle a gasp, nearly choking in the process as she shot straight up in her chair so aggressively that it caused the chair to scrape loudly against the floor. The noise immediately drew curious looks from the team.

“Sorry,” she offered quietly as a deep blush began to radiate off her cheeks.

It wasn’t the “Morning, baby 🥰” message that’d caught her so off guard. It was the accompanying picture of your mostly naked body that had her shook.

She’d alluded to wanting photos like this, you know, for some added inspiration while you were apart, but you’d never followed through - until now.

Jessie subconsciously cleared her throat as she settled back into her seat. It took valiant effort to not fidget and squirm as heat was now pooling in a totally different area than her face.

She chewed the inside of her cheek as she tried desperately to refocus on game day tactics, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t thinking of how she was going to get you back for messing with her. Mostly though, she thought of how she wanted to fuck you ragged until you could barely think and the only words coming from your mouth would be her name.

But she couldn’t. Not a while anyway. She swallowed her irritation and frustration. Long distance sucked.

“What was that all about?”

Janine’s overly intrigued query caught Jessie’s attention as the blonde fell into step with her as they were all leaving the meeting. Of course Janine had to inquire.

“Nothing really. A reminder came through on my phone and I thought I’d missed something, but it’s all good,” Jessie fibbed.

“Uh huh,” Janine responded, clearly not buying it, but benevolently let it go. “So, what are you up to tonight?”

“Dreaming of fucking my girlfriend silly,” Jessie thought.

“Not much. Maybe a bit more prep for the game, but I’m pretty tired, so it’ll be a low key evening,” she said instead. “You?”

“It’s date night,” Janine said with a bright smile. A moment later she offered an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard with Y/N so far away. How many weeks until you see her again?”

“5,” Jessie responded without missing a beat. She could even tell Janine the exact number of days if she’d asked, and there was a countdown on Jessie’s lock screen to prove it.

“It’ll go by quickly,” Janine said with dogged positivity. Jessie nodded and gave her a half smile.

“I know.”

Laughter suddenly erupted from a group of their teammates, drawing Janine’s attention away and leaving Jessie to fall back enough to find some privacy. When she was sure she was alone, she opened your text once more.

She inhaled deeply as she took in the image and a smirk tugged at her lips. She replied.

“Best text ever. Well, surprising - I opened it during analysis, btw! You look so fucking sexy. I miss you so much. I can’t express it. I wish I was coming home to you.”

She locked her screen and was about to leave when her phone buzzed again.

“That would be too much fun 😘. I wish I was waiting at home for you.”

Jessie expelled a slow, shaky breath. It was going to be a long afternoon.

By the time Jessie got home, the heat between her legs had only gotten worse. The image of you was burned in her mind and she kept replaying past times you made love and kept envisioning what she’d do to you if you were around.

She dropped her bag by the front door and immediately opened up the picture you sent.

“Fuck,” she breathed as she took you in.

She walked over to the couch and sat down heavily on it and immediately tucked a hand underneath the waistband of her shorts and into her underwear.

“Jesus,” she muttered when she felt how wet she was just from picturing you. She ran her fingers through her folds and dipped them briefly inside. The wet sounds each motion made would’ve made her blush on some occasions, but not today. She drew her fingers back and began circling her clit as she looked at your naked body.

She was releasing a heavy breath when her phone suddenly vibrated and a notification came up startling her. She drew her hand out of her shorts immediately and her heart raced until her mind caught up, realizing it was you calling.

She took a few deep breaths before she answered.

“Hey babe,” she said, still feeling hot and flustered in a couple of ways.

“Hi baby,” you greeted cheerfully. “How was training?”

“Uh, good,” Jessie said, a bit stilted in her reply as she tried to refocus. “Yeah, it was a long day, but good. How was yours?”

“The day was fine,” you answered easily. “I missed you. In case you couldn’t tell.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jessie breathed as she was brought right back to what she was doing a moment ago. “That was,” she struggled to find the words, “so hot. I was not expecting that at all. But holy shit - you are so sexy.”

“Yeah? Well, I have to make sure you miss me, too,” you joked.

“No challenge there.” Jessie breathed heavy into the phone.

“Well, if I can’t be there in person, the least I can do is give you some inspiration.” You told her in a flirtatious tone. Jessie gave a breathy chuckle.

“Mission accomplished.”

“Mmm, is that so?” You asked, a lilt in your voice. “Tell me more.”

“Um,” Jessie felt her cheeks start to warm. “You’re just super sexy.” She paused momentarily before relenting, lowering her voice unnecessarily to a near-whisper. “And I was definitely wet.”

You didn’t skip a beat. “Mm, baby. Tell me more. Did you think you were wet or did you confirm?”

Jessie blushed further. “Confirmed,” she nearly mumbled.

“God. I wish I was between your legs right now. I’d love to taste you and see for myself just how wet you are.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jessie’s voice was raspy and she fidgeted in place as the need between her legs was reignited and began to pulse once more. She cleared her throat quietly and added, “Pretty fucking wet.”

“Right now?” You asked. Jessie hummed a bit before replying.

“Maybe.”

“Ugh, baby, don’t tease me,” you told her and she responded with a short laugh.

“Excuse me? Who’s teasing who here?”

“You know, for someone who wanted nudes and finally got one, you seem to be complaining,” you joked, knowing she’d offer an immediate rebuttal.

“I’m not! I fucking loved it. And yes, I’m wet right now,” Jessie countered. She fidgeted again and went on in a hushed voice. “In fact, I was…you know, doing stuff, when you called.”

“Jesus,” you said with a sharp inhale. “Now that is the sexiest thing. Oh my god, Jess.” She could hear the satisfied grin in your voice. “Don’t let me stop you,” you went on in a soft voice. “Maybe I can even help you.”

“Yeah?” Jessie asked, shifting her jaw subconsciously and very intrigued now. “How so, baby?”

“Imagine it’s my hand between your legs. Lower the phone and let me hear how wet I make you,” you instructed.

Jessie grit her teeth, eyes rolling into the back of her head already at the events that were unfolding. She gave you want you wanted; lowering the phone and dipping her fingers back through her slick folds. Her arousal was obvious right away.

She held the phone back up, but began to circle her clit.

“Holy fuck, Jessie. That was so incredibly sexy. I’m aching for you - I need you so bad.”

“Fuck, baby,” Jessie breathed, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She rubbed her clit with a firmer touch and rocking her hips up in slow gyrations. “I was so wet at training too just thinking about what I’d do to you if you were here.”

“Baby, please, tell me,” you pleaded. You heard her chuckle softly, but you detected how her breathing grew heavier in your ear.

“Only if you’re a good girl,” Jessie smirked. “Touch yourself for me. Two fingers - tracing around your clit and between your lips. Dip them down until you can tell me how wet you are for me.”

“Oh my God.” You nearly panted. Jessie often took control in the bedroom, but you hadn’t explored this facet of it before. Hearing her speak like this was unexpected, but so sexy. You did as you were told and moaned softly into the phone. “Baby, I’m dripping wet,” you told her as you drew your fingers back up and the tips were covered in your juices.

Jessie groaned into the phone and bit her lip.

“Just what I like to hear,” she affirmed as she continued to rub circles around her swollen clit. “God, I miss fucking you.”

You groaned in need and agreement as you continued to run your fingers through your lips and grazing your clit. “Me too, baby. My fingers and toys just aren’t the same.”

Jessie breathed heavy as a satisfied grin crossed her face. “Damn right they’re not.” She moaned faintly as her hips bucked against her hand. “If you were here, I’d have you on your back, legs on my shoulders as I pin you down, and I’d be knuckle deep in you.” She dipped her fingers inside of herself and her eyes fluttered shut. “God, I can feel your cum all over my fingers. And you know I love the way you start to pool around my knuckles and in my palm.”

“Jess,” you panted. “Oh my god. Keep going. I love the way you fill me up. The way you fit perfectly inside of me, stretching me just right.”

“Fuck, baby,” Jessie breathed as she went back to rocking her hips against her fingers on her clit. “You’re perfect for me. I’d be stroking you hard and deep. I’d be pumping my whole body against yours I’d be fucking you so hard. The bed would bang against the wall every time I bottom out inside of you, pushing you deeper into the mattress.”

“Oh god, Jessie, you fuck me so good,” you praised. You could vividly picture the prideful and smug look on her face and it turned you on even more.

People loved talking about how humble Jessie was. But when it came to fucking and pleasing you, there was nothing humble about her. And frankly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I love when you say my name,” Jessie said, her voice growing strained as her breathing continued to pick up. She grinned once more. “But I love it even more when you scream it.”

You moaned loudly into the phone, letting your head fall back as you rubbed your clit harder and faster.

“So make me,” you challenged her.

Jessie groaned, biting her lip again, her back arching off the couch. “I love you so much,” she breathed with a laugh of appreciation. “Baby, you know I’d be hitting your sweet spot with every stroke. I’d be making sure that every time I fill you to the hilt I’m sending a wave of pleasure through your whole body. My thumb’s on your clit, circling and rubbing it. And after I kiss you deeply, my lips hard on yours, I’ll kiss your neck.

“I won’t mean to suck on your skin too hard, but feeling you buck and writhe beneath me, moaning in my ear as I pump in and out of you makes me fucking feral for you. Like I can’t get close enough or love you hard enough. I mark you, but I don’t feel so bad about it because that’s how much I want you, to the point where I can’t control myself.

“When you moan as I latch down on your neck, I push a third finger inside of you. You wrap around me tightly, but you’re so fucking wet I just slip in. Feeling your walls grip me and pulse around me as I move nearly sends me into a frenzy.”

“Jesus Christ, Jess. I’m so close,” you warn her, your voice high and faint.

“I can feel your body start to tense up. Your legs start to shake and your breath quickens as I continue. I curl my fingers inside of you, relishing each punctuated moan you release each time I make contact. Your arousal is pooling on the sheets now as I’m driving my hips into you. I’m absolutely soaked because of how sexy and beautiful you are beneath me.”

“Holy shit. Jessie.” Your eyes screwed shut and her name was loud and strained as your climax hit. “I’m cumming.”

“Umph,” Jessie moaned as she bit her lip. “Baby girl. So fucking hot,” she said as she bucked her hips against her fingers which desperately rubbed her sensitive clit. The tightening sensation deep in her core built rapidly as she heard you cumming in her ear and she envisioned your body against hers.

A tight groan worked its way up Jessie’s throat as her core began to pulsate. Her hips jerked against her fingers as she brought herself over the edge.

You both whimpered and breathed heavy into the phone as you rode out your joint orgasms. Jessie’s chest heaved up and down and she slumped into the couch, her underwear thoroughly soaked through and too lazy to remove her hand from them. She could barely hold up the phone and had yet to open her eyes. Eventually, you spoke.

“Babe. That was insane. And totally incredible,” you relayed in pure appreciation and admiration. “You’re amazing.”

Jessie chuckled languidly, slowly opening her eyes.

“Amazing what one can do with a great muse.”

You laughed. “Well, I have to say, long distance may not be quite so unbearable if we have repeats like this.”

“I’ll take care of you, baby,” Jessie assured you. “You send me fun photos, and I promise I’ll take good care of you. Deal?”

“Deal.” You agreed with a breathy laugh.

“For real though,” Jessie started, “I really miss you. I love you, you know that, right?”

Again, you chuckled. Of course you knew. And you knew how lucky you were too.

“I know, baby. I love you, too. And I miss you more than you know.”

[nomoreusername]

Smile

Newt x gender neutral reader

Summary:When Newt notices you hiding your smile he quickly makes everything better again.

I looked into the little piece of broken glass as I thought about what they said. It was only meant to be a joke. I wasn't supposed to actually believe them.

But I did. I've been looking at my reflection and seeing what it looks like when I smile. Despite not caring about their words at first it seemed to be nothing short of true now.

My smile was ugly. It was far too toothy, too wide, too much. I've been trying to find a way to fix it, trying to change it, but nothing was working. It was still so hateable.

That left me with one desperate option. Avoid smiling as much as possible. If I do I try to hide it behind my hand. It looks ridiculous, but apparently so do I when I grin.

"Hey,"Newt said, walking in. I shoved the piece of glass under my bed.

"Don't you know how to knock?"I snapped, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

"Not with you,"He pointed out. That was true, but right now I can't stand anyone seeing me. Practicing how to smile is a hard thing to explain. Especially, to him.

"Out,"I instructed, pointing at the door. He was visibly confused as he left. I guess I would be too.

"I wish I could fix this,"I sighed, pulling out the broken glass one last time. If only.

♡ - - - ♡

I nodded my head as Minho kept telling his story. It was admittedly kind of funny. I felt myself start to smile but managed to stop it just in time. I covered my mouth with my hand just in case it happened again.

"Are you alright, love?"Newt whispered in my ear.

"Yeah,"I shrugged, leaning back. He didn't look convinced. If anything he looked more concerned. He can't be though, right? I technically haven't done anything bad or wrong.

"Hey. Follow me real quick,"He whispered again, standing up. We slipped away from everyone without a word. Nobody seemed to notice.

"Where exactly are we going?"I asked as we walked away from the others.

"Just trust me. It'll only take a minute,"He promised. I wasn't sure if I believed him but didn't stop walking.

Eventually, he turned by the cliff and sat. He looked back at me expectantly. I joined him.

"It's pretty, isn't it?"He asked, looking at the sunset.

"Extremely,"I agreed.

"It's enough to make anyone smile,"He added. I didn't say anything this time.

"It always made you smile. How come you aren't?"He questioned. I fixated on the ocean below me to avoid looking at him.

"Y/N, how come you don't smile anymore?

"I do,"I mumbled.

"Barely, and anytime you do it's not yours. I want to see you smile from ear to ear."

"Why?"I asked before I could stop myself. I cringed at my words and wished I could take the back.

"Why? What do you mean why?"

"Why do you want to see me smile?"I whispered.

"Because I like seeing you happy, and I know you're happy when you wear that bright, perfect grin."

The only sound for a while was the crashing of waves against rocks. What was there to say?

"You don't think your smile is perfect, do you?"He asked quietly. I didn't say anything which was an answer in itself.

"Y/N, do you remember how we met?"He asked out of the blue.

"Of course I do. You were the third person up in the Glade. I helped you out of the box and showed you around,"I reminessed.

"And do you remember how scared I was at first?"

"Yeah. Alby and I were worried you were never going to leave the box."

"And I might not have. There was one thing though, that told me everything was going to be okay,"He stated, pausing so I was left with a burning curiosity.

"What was it?"I wondered.

"You. You held out your hand and flashed me that brilliant smile. Suddenly, everything was okay because you were there. I didn't even know my name, but that if someone could have such a genuine smile I would be okay,"He admitted.

I looked at him and searched his face for any sign of a fib. Then, I realized who I was sitting with. Newt's a lot of things, practically all of them incredible, but a liar is not on the list.

"See? There's that contagious smile,"He remarked, making me recognize that I was practically beaming. It's so hard not to when I'm around him.

"Now don't you ever hide that amazing smile again. Good that?"He checked.

"As long as I have you then yeah. Good that,"I agreed.

"Good. Do you want to go back to everyone else?"He offered.

I didn't say anything as I placed my head on his shoulder which was another silent answer.

Right there I was perfectly content in that one simple moment. It was just the sunset, me, and the one person who never fails to make me smile.

[marleyybluu]

Doubts

Pedro Pascal x fem!reader

WC: 1.4k

Another quick one

Warnings: just cute fluffiness, Pedro being a soon-to-be dad, pregnancy

lol this is such a fucking cute pic omg

"Hi YN, how are you?" One of the cast members greeted, you pushed out a smile despite the tiredness you felt all over. A bulging belly was all you were, you had two months left and you were ready for them to come and go, you loved most of your pregnancy— it was a beautiful experience for the most part. The little moments where you'd feel her feet kicking you, when she'd rotate to make herself comfortable, it was a slap in the head to realize you were growing an actual person inside of you.

"I'm great, how are you?" You conversed. "Doing good, how is baby Pascal?" You beamed every time someone referred to her as such, it was a gentle reminder that you chose the best partner to make another human with. "She is doing good, we brought some food for dad. Is he on his lunch yet?"

She nodded. "He should be in the makeup room with Bella."

"Thanks."

Today you decided to surprise Pedro on the set of the new series 'The Last of Us.' You had told a bit of a fib this morning telling him you wouldn't be able to visit due to a doctor's appointment you had around his lunch break. Well, it wasn't a total lie you did have an appointment but it was in the morning way before his lunch, so you bought some food and drove out to the set. You were hoping he'd be excited as you were. You made your way down the hall to the makeup room, saying hi to a few people who you were fond of, you were finally approaching the room when she heard Bella, his co-star, mention your name.

"So are you excited to have a baby? Will you guys let me know when she gets here?" 

You quietly chuckled, Bella was a sweetheart and honestly the way their personality was set up you would think Pedro and yourself had created them. When you told them the news about the baby they couldn't stop smiling, texting you the next day that they could barely feel their cheeks and their reaction to being asked to be your child's Godsibling really set it in stone for you. The three of you spent a lot of time together, you loved how they and Pedro got along so you figuratively adopted them as your own.

"Yeah I'm excited, maybe a bit worried, but excited nonetheless."

You frowned. Worried about what?

"Worried about what?" Bella asked, taking the words right out of your mouth. Pedro shrugged. "You're great with kids though."

He nodded. "But it's different when it's your own, you have to be a great example of what she should be, a role model and what if I'm not the best example?"

You placed your hand on your stomach out of habit, why did he never say this to you before? You had told him your doubts about becoming a mother and he reassured you every time, surely you'd do the same for him. You straightened yourself up and knocked on the door frame peeking your head from behind the wall. "Hellooo."

"YN!" Bella exclaimed, they sprinted out of their seat leaving Pedro in the dust, and they carefully engulfed you in a loving embrace. "How's it going, honey?"

"Good, just shooting and talking to the old man here."

You looked up at Pedro who had a sheepish smile on his face, you bent your lips in attempting to hide your own grin but you couldn't help it, every time you saw him it poured a bit more joy into your soul. Bella's eye ran between you and Pedro and they grimaced. "I will leave you two to be gross, bye baby." They planted a kiss on your tummy and another on your cheek before leaving you and Pedro alone. You reached out hoping to receive a hug which he gladly delivered. He nuzzled his nose into your neck and planted a small kiss on the side. "Hi, mama."

"Hi baby, you okay?"

"Better now that you guys are here." He never left out his unborn child, often referring to you as two people now. You two pulled apart, you lifted up the brown bag containing your meals and gently shook it. "Was hoping we could have lunch together."

Pedro's eyes sparkled with love at the way you said that. "Always. No drinks though?" You closed your eyes in immediate defeat, you knew your hand felt empty but you didn't know what was missing. "They're in the car, sorry, mommy brain." He playfully pouted laying his palm out and asking for the keys. "No, it's cool I'll get them." You reassured.

"YN." That tone was stern, he barely wanted you holding that lunch bag let alone waddling back to the car for drinks, you kissed your teeth and handed over the car keys. "Meet me in my trailer?"

You agreed and watched him vanish. You took your sweet time navigating back out of the hallway and maneuvered around the set until you arrived at Pedro's trailer outside, thank goodness Alberta's weather was tolerable today, it wasn't too cold but half the time you couldn't tell anyway. The constant hot flashes had you boiling in your own sauna for one minute and freezing your ass off when it died down. You made your way inside, you huffed completely exhausted from your little trip, after catching your breath you sat down on the couch and placed the bag on the table.

As you took the contents out the door swung open revealing Pedro holding the tray with your drinks and a little bag in his hand. "Thank you." You took the tray out of his hands and placed it on the table, you nodded toward the bag. "What's that?"

"They had red velvet cupcakes at the snack table and I know that's been one of your cravings lately, so I... snatched an unopened container..."

You shook your head. There really wasn't anything he wouldn't do for you. You thanked him and placed the treat next to your food. The cushion next to you sank as he sat down, you could feel his gaze on you but tried your best to avoid it. He raised his hand and proper his finger under your chin to turn your head towards him. "I knew you were coming."

"Shut up no you didn't."

He gave you a quick kiss on the lips, you whined wanting a longer one. "Yes, I did." He replied. "How was the appointment? Everything's good?"

You nodded. "She still has ten fingers, ten toes and a big head."

He frowned. "Don't talk about my baby like that." You laughed kissing his head as an apology. The two of you finally dug into your meals, talking about what was new even though you didn't have many updates. Pedro talked about how the show was going and how much he was enjoying filming. You were proud of him, his career had really skyrocketed recently and though it kept him busy you were happy to hold down the fort for him.

After you finished eating you made yourself extra comfortable on the sofa, leaning against the armrest with your legs laid out on the cushions. Pedro chuckled at how exhausted you were, it was cute, it couldn't be easy carrying around a boulder all day. He assisted in removing your crocs and letting you rest but not before crawling between your legs and gently relaxing his head beside your belly. You absentmindedly ran your hands through his hair and rested it on the back of his head.

Slumber was near and you tried so hard to fight it but judging by how quiet you'd become, it wasn't hard for Pedro to tell you were dozing off. He planted a light kiss on your stomach with a gentle poke at your belly button which earned a kick from the baby. "Yeah, I know you're in there." You smiled at their communication. "I'm ready for her to be out here." You mumbled sleepily. "Me too."

"I chose the best person in the world to create life with, you are going to be an amazing father Pedrito. You spoil her and she's not even here yet, you've shown her so much love that at this point I am just carrying her for you and you only." 

He looked up at you figuring you overheard his conversation with Bella. "I don't think baby Pascal would've chosen us for no reason."

The reassurance gave him a bit of a boost, slowly melting away whatever doubts he had earlier today. "I love you." He cooed. "I love you too, baby."

He rubbed your belly and nuzzled his nose on the side. "And I love you, mi corazoncito." 

If you're new here (hi how are ya) I have this thing where I like to write my boys as fathers so expect a lot more of this. Especially with Pedro because... I mean, it's him. also I heard Bella Ramsey is non-binary, correct me if I'm wrong though i don't mind if you liked this fic, feel free to like this fic. Comments and reblogs are appreciated. I will be going back to the regularly scheduled program of the main 3, but we'll circle back to Papi Pedro soon dw😏 peace and love

tags: @skyesthebomb

[j-eryewrites]

Stressed Out

MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: 1.k <

Warnings: Not really any, kind of ooc Sherlock (but who cares)

Author's Note: Finally feeling like I have time to write and that the writing gods have been in my favor. This was a fun little one-shot to write. While I'm still trying to get back into my writing groove, this one shot definitely helped get some of the dust off my creative writing brain. So, thank you @my-dear-sweet-melody for requesting this one. I hope you enjoy it!

You weren’t sure how you’d been doing it: managing the day-to-day lives of two people who also happened to be good friends of yours, assisting Sherlock with cases, seeing things you’d never thought you’d see in your lifetime (both good and bad), juggling relationships, your own well-being and health, and time to relax. Although it seemed like you had less and less time to do the things concerning yourself. You knew it wasn’t healthy, but when you were thrust into the world of Sherlock Holmes, more important things came into play.

Sherlock was the first to notice how the stress was weighing on you. It was a total shock when he casually announced your current state to John. The moment the words of concern were uttered from Sherlock’s lips, the puzzle in John’s mind had been completed. With the help of Mrs. Hudson, the two men began to conspire to make life easier for their dear friend.

At first, Sherlock’s conscious decision to wash his dishes and put them away in the correct cabinets struck you as odd. Sherlock’s mind was usually too busy for such arbitrary tasks, and such magnificent brain power couldn’t be wasted on such a thing. Then came the tidiness of his experiments. You could swear you hadn’t seen a stray finger or eyeball dissolving in vinegar for quite some time.

When you had asked Sherlock about his new behavior, he shrugged it off with some wildly strange research idea he had come up with. You tried to follow along, but your brain began to hurt after a moment, so you opted to believe him instead.

Meanwhile, John took extra care to charge his and Sherlock’s devices. He knew no matter how brilliant Sherlock was, the man seemingly ceased to forget that computers, phones, and the lot needed to be charged via a charging cord and port. On the other hand, Mrs. Hudson made the note to prepare extra tea and biscuits to save yourself the trouble of doing that for Sherlock and John.

Now, you felt no need to question John and Mrs.Hudson’s new behavior. It was in character for them to do small things like that. However, you continued to question Sherlock; he grew tired of it. Why couldn’t you see that he cared for you, too? That maybe he cared a bit more for you than he should. He was growing weary of the excuses he made to your insistent questions when all he wanted to do was throw them up and tell you the truth. Truthfully, the truth was something he insisted upon. Sherlock always found it one way or another. Yet, he could only fib when you had a new query about his altered behavior. Was it hard for you to understand that Sherlock could care? That he, too, could be human?

“Sherlock,” you called as you sat on the couch, pouring over the current case. It was usually your job to organize each thing into its Sherlockian category to save Sherlock his brain power. However, when you opened the file, it had already been done. “Did I happen to organize this in my sleep?” You raised the file and peered at him. Sherlock felt his mind conjure up the latest lie. Just before it left his mouth, he paused. He got up and marched to the window, where he began to gaze out onto the street below. He couldn’t lie anymore. He had to tell you the truth.

“I organized it,” Sherlock said.

You froze. Something was seriously wrong with the man if he was now organizing his own cases. “Sherlock, you never orga–”

“Why can’t I?” Sherlock’s voice grew tense. His eyes clenched shut, all while his back was still towards you. He wouldn’t dare look at you. He knew if he saw your eyes, he’d crumble and tell you everything, but everything was what you needed to hear. Everything was what he needed to say.

“I never said you couldn’t. It’s just,” you faltered, “…strange.”

Within a moment, Sherlock whirled around. His icy blue eyes began to thaw under your gaze. “I observed you have stressed: Your trousers falling to your hips instead of hanging snuggly on your waist, the dark circles under your eyes that only grew prominent by the day, the growing urge to sleep instead of join Mrs. Hudson for the weekly watch party of the latest soap opera,” Sherlock shut his mouth. He had said too much already; he shouldn’t say more, but his lips moved again. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed, John and Mrs. Hudson, too. We devised a plan to lessen the blow of our–my constant mess.”

As Sherlock spoke, you realized his words were only the truth. You had noticed you suddenly had more time to eat a meal, spend time with your favorite landlady, who was more like a mother, go on walks in the park with John, listen to Sherlock compose his latest piece, sleep, and live life as it should be lived. Amidst Sherlock’s rambling, you whispered, “Why?”

“Because we–because I care you for,” Sherlock choked.

Slowly, you remove yourself from the comfort of the couch cushions and find a place in front of Sherlock. You watch as Sherlock shudders from the touch of your hand on his cheek. “Thank you,” you said as a smile grew. “Thank you for caring when I forgot to take care of myself. Although…”

Sherlock frowned.

“…while I appreciate the sentiment of you organizing your own cases, John charging the computers, and Mrs. Hudson always preparing tea, I’d still like to be able to do my job. After all, the great Sherlock Holmes still needs to use his brain power to solve cases and save the day.”

Sherlock could only smile at that response for he'd give you anything you'd ask. "Of course. Of course, Y/N."

____

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_____

[stormblessed95]

Okay so I’m on my fourth watch of the travel show

It gets better the more you watch, they are just so much fun

They have me smiling from ear to ear the whole way through

I know there is a lot of conversation about the car conversation but seriously, apart from Jungkooks beautiful ‘finally’ (and I’m glad that is in English so we hear it without mistranslation), what struck me upon this watch, is that he could actually mean them being in content together. 

Hear me out, but the kid spent the better part of the first half, and even to a degree still asking in the later half, of 2023 begging to go live with Jimin, inviting him over on lives. Including the bed begging live days after this filming, and now I’m framing it that he was probably thinking they have filmed this show, why can’t they have a live? I know that the show wasn’t going to be aired straight away but I can totally see him going with that thought. 

But it just struck me, he’d been asking and probably denied so many times, whereas Jimin had gone live with Yoongi and Hobi etc during work promotions, but denied JK. This was his olive branch, his two birds one stone, a trip for them to spend time together when free, but also for them to be alone in content (albeit airing a year later atp). If we remember too that they could not leave SK without work and a permit, the chicken and egg, hence the show. Jimin had the time at that point to plan it with the company, it makes sense he pushed it, though I’m sure Jungkook was involved too. 

People are moaning about Jungkooks attitude and they are so wrong and miserable, not to mention they misunderstand him. They guy is glowing with his Jimin, he’s being cheeky and kids around and it’s so beautiful to see it. To see their dynamic, as they are. 

Seeing them say they hasn’t planned another trip in NY, and the Forbes article said this too, they must have thought it a success enough to plan jeju and so on. I think a post from another blogger here also helped frame this for me, bc at the end of the day they talked about and proposed the show, just the two of them, to the company and needed a deliverable product. This involved planning to a degree, scouting locations and a vague idea of activities. They definitely had more freedom than Bv, and they had to rely on their natural chemistry, which is there in spades, but they still had to deliver/ this is where Jimins panic comes in when he is sick, bc he has to power through to make the show work, hence the are you sure? It’s so logical when I think about it all in that framed way. 

And mainly I think this also because they do not present as people who had had a falling out, or massive distance, or had issues, or something more ridiculous people are proposing. I mean logically do we really think Jimin (sensible Jimin) would even think it a good idea to do this if there was bad blood or feelings. Exactly, he would not.  There was no tension there, not that I saw anyway. They just vibe with each other. They present as pretty domestic, in tune and loveable goofballs. 

Also when you think about MS application being a month after this, they had to have seen and spoken to each other, it’s a complete reach to think they didn’t. Also, it’s their habit, Jimin literally said the same sentence in the very brief restaurant scene, that JK says to him in the doc and we know that was a complete fib. Also I feel the way JK looks at the camera in that scene and in the hand holding scene is very telling about how he felt around the cameras at first, especially when Jimin touches his throat, like he hesitated. 

I also hold in mind that at the end of the day we got about 5/10% of their time on screen, the rest is on the cutting room floor, and also probably not even filmed (esp given Jimins condition). Leaving them plenty of time for them. 

Just my thoughts. 

.

[mjrtaurus]

Have you considered the comedy potential? Of Dragon and Robin teaming up to pull on of the biggest pranks in history?

And by that I mean they pretend to be father daughter

Cause like the theory is awesome but it’s so much funnier if the whole thing is just them lying

Dragon (known homosexual) - ah yes this is my daughter who I got from a woman I was in a sexual relationship with

Robin (known shitdisturber) - yes it is I his daughter who was produced through sexual intercourse with my female mother.

The whole thing gets way too out of hand during the two year arc and results in one very angry ex warlord kicking down Dragons door.

You’re right, this is so much funnier.

And people believe it because not only do they look similar enough to pull it off, but Robin’s weirdgirl energy and Dragon’s commit to any and all bits energy just. Click. Right into place. No gaps. Seamless.

I’m on Zou Arc right now and Robin is fucking with everyone like “my god, they’re cannibals”. Meanwhile, if he were there, Dragon- 100% running with her shit-stirring because it’s the funniest thing ever- would have gone “can they really be called cannibals since they’re Mink? Or does the term apply to all sapient humanoid species?” Cut to Usopp screaming because if the leader of the Revs (who’s there for whatever reason) is saying that, then it MUST be true!

Except everyone knows he’s bullshitting because everyone knows- including him- that Robin is bullshitting.

And it just kind of happens one day at the end of a discussion, back in her two year stay on Baltigo. Dragon’s been talking with her a lot, getting to know her, making sure she knows that she’s as welcome and accepted among the RA as she is with the Strawhats. The standard practice of “feed the stray cat so they know you’re a nice human and can be trusted”. You know the one.

Just.

A sip from the drink in her hand, like she’s already concocting more schemes.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, but some have been asking me- indirectly at least- if I’m your daughter. And I’ve been telling a few fibs here and there because of it.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting a grin.

“Interesting… What sort of fibs, for the sake of keeping the story straight?”

Full shit-stirrer to shit-stirrer communication. Except it goes a little too well when Robin has reunited with the Strawhats for a while, and Dragon gets a very livid call from his dear and beloved nicotine addicted reptile. Accusing him of… sleeping with a woman? How rude! How unoriginal!

And that’s how Dragon learns that Robin’s been using her talents for fucking with people in a “good and friendly” manner to routinely put Crocodile through the wringer. Untraceable calls in the middle of the night that have the man feeling like he needs to be locked in a padded cell. Seastone muzzle and straitjacket optional.

The sudden shock of that revelation makes Dragon break, and then he’s cackling and wheezing like a madman until even the snail is concerned for his health.

“Wani, are you really that surprised that she would gaslight you for fun?”

“… Fair point…”

Oh, if Robin wasn’t going to get adopted into his dysfunctional garbage fire of a family before, she definitely is now.

[jakes3resin]

Modern Reincarnation AU Part 5 ✨️

Part 4

"Hello."

Bucky turned his head into the crook of his arms. The material of his new suit jacket itches at his cheeks, but he still rubbed his nose against it pretending it was enough to cover his sniffles. He wasn't interested in talking to whoever this was. He'd had enough with talking. Enough of people staring at him with pity as they offered condolences that didn't do anything. No one said anything worth listening to here anyway.

"You're John, right?" The person from before asked. Bucky could hear the rustle of clothing as whoever it was knelt down.

"It's Bucky." Bucky murmured. He refused to lift his head from his arms, so his voice came out muffled and wrong.

"Buffy? Like the vampire slayer?" The voice laughed. "Bit silly, but okay."

Bucky lifted his head to glare at the voice. He didn't care that the man was in a fancy uniform like his parents' old ones or that the kind smile on his face grew in triumph when he did so. No one was allowed to make fun of his name.

"My name is Bucky." Each word enuciated crisp and succinct.

"Well, my name's Chick, Chick Harding. Nice to meet you kid."

✨️

"Knew I'd find you out here."

Bucky doesn't turn to acknowledge Buck as the other leans out the kitchen window. Thankfully, he doesn't step out onto the stairs. Bucky's not sure he wants Buck in his space. It's easier at night when Bucky can pretend, can ignore the hurt just to bask in the comfort. In the daylight, it's the echo of Buck's voice that haunts him dogging his every step.

Don't count on it.

Damn it Curt, how many times do I have to tell you? He doesn't know!

The same voice over and over.

Bucky stares down at the traffic below, watching strangers running around going about their lives. Sometimes, he sits out here and imagines their lives. Imagines what brought them here, where they're going next, and how that changes them.

"Curt asked if we wanted to go out tonight. After dinner with your father, that is."

Curt... Bucky hides his wince by shifting against the railing. He hasn't spoken to Curt yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to. He'd had enough with talking.

"Not sure," Bucky shrugs, turning back to his book. He still doesn't look up at Buck. "Probably not."

"That's not like you." Shock colors Buck's voice. Bucky curls his knee closer leaving only one leg splayed out on the stairs above. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Bucky scoffs. He breathes out softens his voice. "I just don't think I'll feel up to it after dinner."

Buck makes a noise as if he understands, but the fib tastes like ash on Bucky's tongue. His fingers curls around his book, more homework he was supposed to finish at the library.

"You should go. Paint the town red." Bucky finally lifts his head to meet Buck's gaze. The other's face pales. Bucky tries not to feel vindictive. Or guilty.

"Maybe next time." Buck chokes out, voice gruff as he pulls his head back into the apartment.

✨️

"You gonna be calm about this?"

"What? I'm always calm."

"Bucky breaking his arm at baseball practice would disagree with that statement, Chick."

"Extenuating circumstances. He was crying!"

"And he was crying last night when I had to talk you out of calling in favors to take out a university student."

"Political office has to come with some perks. Why shouldn't I use them?"

"Because Congress can impeach you for misappropriating State Department resources, and I won't help you out of it."

"Didn't our marriage vows include for better or for worse?"

"Probably, but who knows? But back to my original point, keep your cool. We don't know what's going on between them."

"Right. I don't think I'm going to like this boy. He's too old for Bucky."

"He's twenty-six to Bucky's twenty-three. Our age gap is worse."

"Well, he still has a lot to explain."

"Sure. Would you get the good plates out of the china cabinet for me? Bucky will be here any minute."

"Yes, dear."

✨️

"We're here!" Bucky motioned Buck in first. Buck's big blue eyes took in the entryway. The high ceilings and beautifully decorated rooms certainly looked different from his college apartment.

"In here!" Jack's voice rang out. A crash echoed from the kitchen alongside his father's voice cursing. God Bucky hopes Jack didn't let him do any of the cooking. Bucky's already dealing with heartbreak he doesn't want to deal with food poisoning as well.

"Follow me," Bucky tried for a smile, but judging by the pinching around Buck's eyes, it was more likely a grimace. "If you're worried about an ambush, they'll at least wait until you've eaten something."

"Right." Buck reaches a hand out for Bucky's. His thumb rubs over Bucky's knuckles. "Let's face the music then."

Bucky leads the other through the living room towards the kitchen. Buck's eyes jumping over the many childhood photos of Bucky decorating the walls, the same wild curls and equally wild smile greeting him in each one.

"Bucky!"

Bucky's dragged out of Buck's hold by his father's hug. Shocks tingle at the tips of his fingers. He might have been imagining it, but it felt like Buck's hand tried to reel in him back.

"And you must be Gale Cleven." Bucky's dad reached a hand out to shake his hand. Bucky watched his father squeeze Buck's hand. Buck's smile never dipped.

"Mr. Secretary, you have a lovely home."

✨️

"So how did you two meet?" Chick asked as filled Jack's glass of wine alongside his own. Both Buck and Bucky had both chosen not to drink that night. Alcohol, as much as Bucky craved the release it gave him, probably wasn't the best idea for him tonight.

"Oh," Bucky cleared his throat. His food suddenly felt like sludge as it went down his throat.

This was fine. He'd prepared for this. He could play the lovesick kid tonight. Tomorrow, he'd confront Buck. He just had to make it through this dinner.

"At a coffee shop just off campus. Buck said I looked like a friend of his from Wisconsin. Said we shared the same name."

"That a fact?" Chick leveled Buck with an deep look. "And that's how the kids do it these days? Chance meetings in coffee shops?"

"Dad," Bucky groaned burying his face into his hands. "Please don't."

"What?" Chick nudged Jack who simply rolled his eyes at his husband's teasing. "Am I too embarrassing now? I thought I was a cool dad."

"Anyone who has to say they're a cool dad, ultimately is the lamest dad." Bucky laughed.

"I'll remember that next time you want a favor or special tickets to something." Chick threatened, but no one at the table truly believed him. His smile was too wide and happy when he looked at Bucky. Plus, Jack would testify that Chick had never denied Bucky anything since Bucky had come into his life.

"You're from Casper Wyoming, aren't you, Gale?" Chick turned his attention back to Buck. Bucky noticed that every time his dad called the other 'Gale,' his hands tightened around his utensils. "How'd you end up in DC?"

"School, sir. I'm a graduate student at Georgetown. Interplanetary physics." Gale took a sip of his water.

"Ever think about joining the Air Force?" Chick laid his knife down. "Degree like that could take you far. I knew a Major who studied the same thing once."

"No, sir." Buck's jaw clenched. "I respect those who serve, but I think I'm happy where I am."

"Chick," Jack laid a hand on Chick's forearm. "He's a retired Colonel, so you'll have to excuse him. Years at the State Department and somehow his allegiance is still to them."

"Not a problem." Buck's jaw finally unclenched. Bucky resisted the urge to reach for him. "Did you fly any of the big birds sir?"

✨️

"Sorry about them," Bucky glanced back towards Buck. The other had fallen behind, eyes distant as if lost in thought. "Buck?"

"Sorry?" Buck's eyes met his own once more.

"Now who's distracted?" Bucky let the other catch up. He twisted his hand out of the way when Buck went to hold it. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his phone to check on the status of their ride. Buck's hand felt back to his side.

"Sorry about the interrogation back there. He's protective."

"It's alright, Bucky." Buck smiles. "He's not so scary. Not to me, and not when it comes to you. Besides, I'd go through a lot worse to stay with you."

The words, heartfelt and genuine, felt sickening to hear.

What about Curt? Would you do the same for him?

The question was once more on the tip of his tongue, the rage and heartbreak burning in his chest, but the sound of the car arriving kept him quiet. Buck let him in first with an overly exaggerated sweep of his arm. Bucky settled into his seat with a laugh as Buck climbed in after him.

"Oh," Buck glanced down at his phone. His fingers tapped over the screen, but Bucky couldn't see who was texting him. "It's Curt."

"Really?" Bucky glanced down at his own phone checking his messages. Nothing from Curt.

"Yeah, he wants to know if you wanna go out tonight?" Buck frowns. "I'll tell him no."

"You know what?" Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket. What better way to see the pair interact? "Let's do it. Paint the town red, right Buck?"

✨️

[askthehcc]

Hey hey hey hcc staff

Do you guys know about Purrfectly Brewed (aka the best cafe in aqua town)

Oh and also you all should come

Scar: YES. I love Purrfectly Brewed!

Scar: there's this one purrista there called Rayne and they're so much fun to talk to.

Scar: I actually want to take Grian there on a date one day. He loves cats. He's a grumpy little fella, but give that guy a furball and he becomes a total marshmallow.

Grian: ...

Grian: I am not a marshmallow!

Scar: Oh no, of course not, PB. No marshmallows here. Nope. No fluffy little cutie pie here.

Scar: [Winks]

Grian: ...

Grian: stopit.

---

Etho: Oh yeah, I like it there. They have lots of cats. I'm quite a fan, I'd say.

Bdubs: ONE OF THEM BIT ME.

Etho: Well, who's fault was that, Bdubs?

Bdubs: NOT MINE.

Etho: I think somebody's telling fibs again...

Bdubs: HE WAS PURRING.

Etho: You're not trained in the way of the kitty, Dubs.

Bdubs: [grumbling] ...stupid cats stupid purring wanted me to pet it...

---

Cleo: Didn't he try to bite them back?

Etho: Oh yeah! I forgot about that.

Etho: What a little rascal.

Cleo: Sure, Etho. That's one word for him.

Etho: Hehe.

[lemoncrushh]

Kiss Me Kiss Me

Summary: Samantha and Harry's story of young romance and a first kiss.

Warnings: None (see note below)

Word Count: 2795

A/N: This is a cute, sweet one shot from my 2017 collection. It's written from two points of view. Please note, this is purely innocent, nothing sexual, just kissing. But if reading about teenage Harry gives you the ick, please pass on this one. Title is taken from the 5SOS song.

here's to teenage memories...

Samantha's POV

Harry was my first. No, not that first. And not my first love either. Not even my first boyfriend really, because whatever it was we were doing, I wouldn't constitute as dating. I don't really know what we were. Just...friends? Hanging out? Whatever you'd wanna call it.

Okay, okay so I had a terrible crush on him. But my point is, he was the first boy I'd ever kissed.

And what a kiss it was... To this day I can still remember it, still remember what it felt like. I even remember what I was wearing, as silly as that sounds.

I was chatting on the phone with my friend Carolyn one night and somehow the subject of kissing came up. Truthfully, that was no surprise since most of our conversations ended up circling back to boys. I just always got nervous when this particular topic arose, since I had yet to kiss a boy. Carolyn claimed she'd kissed four, but I always felt like she was lying about at least two. I just never called her on it. That's just not what friends do, and because I knew she was telling the truth about Ron since I'd seen them kiss with my own eyes, I let the little fib slide.

This particular night, I allowed Carolyn to describe what it felt like. She said it really depended on the guy and how he kissed, how soft his lips were, how much he used his tongue...things like that. I only half listened, though I was curious. I just felt left out.

"You should get Harry to kiss you," she finally proclaimed.

"Um..." I nervously chuckled. "Why?"

"So you'll know what it's like," she replied.

Carolyn was the only person who knew I fancied Harry, at least to my knowledge. But like the good friend she was, she never mocked me or embarrassed me when he was around.

"But why Harry?" I asked, picking at the blanket that covered my bed. "He doesn't like me...in that way."

"But you like him. And besides, who says he doesn't like you?"

"Who says he does?"

I heard Carolyn sigh through the phone, an indication that she was annoyed. The truth was, I was dying for Harry to kiss me. But I had a feeling he'd kissed a lot of girls. And I would just pale in comparison.

"Sam," she said, "have you even given him any clue?"

"No," I muttered softly.

"Then how's he gonna know?"

She had a point.

Harry's POV

Samantha and I had become friends. We hung out a lot, so much in fact that if I was to knock on her door at any given time, I could hear her mum calling her up the stairs telling her Harry's here before she even greeted me.

One Friday evening I stopped by unannounced as usual, Mrs. Cooper inviting me into the kitchen to test some scones she'd just finished baking. I was halfway biting through the pastry when I heard Sam descending the stairs.

"Hey," she grinned when she saw me. Then she turned to her mum. "You know, just because he works in a bakery doesn't mean he knows everything about baking."

I shook my head as I swallowed. "'s fine. I still have the ability to taste."

She gave me a look as she reached for a scone. "Well, so do I."

Mrs. Cooper paid Samantha no mind as she set a cup of tea in front of me. I smiled and told her thank you as Sam took a seat across from me. We ate in silence until I took the last sip of tea and wiped my hands on a napkin.

"Wanna go for a walk?" I asked her.

"Sure," she nodded, rising from her chair.

I heard her mum tell her not to be too late, it was getting dark as we walked to the front door and Sam grabbed her jacket. I told Mrs. Cooper thank you once more before shutting the door behind us.

We walked side by side, our hands in our pockets until we came to the end of the street and turned right, heading toward my house. I saw Sam take her phone out of her pocket once and type something on it in haste before shoving it back.

I wanted to say something. Anything. It seemed lately that our conversations had become little more than "what's up" and "do you have to work tomorrow?" I wasn't exactly sure why. It used to be that I could bring up any topic and we could have an hour long discussion about it. Perhaps we had run out of things to talk about. Or maybe...the vibe had shifted.

We came upon the park that acted as the halfway point between her house and mine. We strolled through, stopping at the swings, each of us taking one.

"You okay?" I finally asked her, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

She looked at me, her big eyes wide. "Yeah, why?"

I shrugged, kicking the dirt underneath my feet. "You just seem...different."

"How so?"

"Quiet."

She bit her lip. "Sorry. Don't mean to be."

"Did something happen?" I inquired.

She shook her head. "No." Then she smiled at me. "I'm fine. Really."

I nodded as she began to kick her legs up to swing. I watched her for a minute or two, her hair flying behind her as she swung forward, then blowing in her face as she came back. I suddenly felt butterflies in my stomach, though I wasn't sure why.

I'd always thought Samantha was pretty. And if it hadn't been for the fact that we'd become close and I considered her one of my best mates, I probably would have asked her out by now. Hell, I probably would've even kissed her. But I got the feeling the opportunity had passed. We were in the friend zone.

Sam slowed down, her Converse sliding across the ground to stop herself. She ran her fingers through her hair to fix what the wind had messed up, though if I was being honest, it looked perfect.

"So do you have to work tomorrow?" she asked me.

I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it.

"What's so funny?" she glared at me.

"Nothing," I shook my head though I was still laughing.

"Liar." Samantha hopped up out of her swing and started to walk away. I caught up to her at the pavement.

"Sam, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not laughing at you."

"Then what are you laughing at?" Her expression was serious, her mouth in a straight line.

"Why are you being weird?"

"Why are you?"

"'m not!" I exclaimed.

"Sure, Harry," she shoved her hands in her pockets again. "I'm going home."

I groaned as I began to follow her, unsure whether she actually wanted me to or not. We walked in silence for a while until she stopped and I almost ran into her.

"Why are you following me?" she asked.

"Because I get the feeling you don't want me walking beside you."

She rolled her eyes. "I mean, why are you still here? Your house is that way."

I felt like she'd just punched me in the gut. There were a million things I wanted to say then, and part of me felt like just turning around and walking to my house. Instead I took a step towards her.

"Because it's getting dark," I muttered. "So I'm walking you home."

Her face softened as she took a hand out of her pocket to run through her hair again.

"Okay," she said with a sigh. "Thanks."

I lifted my own hand to brush back the strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek. She flinched slightly, but didn't back away.

"You know, if there's something on your mind," I said softly, "you can tell me. We're friends, yeah?"

She blinked, her eyelashes fluttering against her pink cheeks.

"Yeah," she breathed.

Somehow, I knew...in that moment...that I could have kissed her. I wanted to kiss her. But I didn't.

Samantha's POV

I'd almost thought he was gonna kiss me then. Maybe if I'd stood there a few more seconds, he would have. But I was chicken and turned around and kept walking.

This time, however, Harry didn't walk behind me. In fact, he took my hand which I took as a good sign. We'd never held hands before, and it felt nice.

I was relieved when we fell into an actual conversation. He asked what my weekend plans were, and I confessed that other than a trip to my Gram's for Sunday dinner, I had nothing going on. He said he did have to work the next day, early in fact, which I kind of already knew.

When we reached my house, he walked me up the steps but shook his head when I asked if he was coming in.

"Gotta get up early," he reminded me.

I smiled as he squeezed my hand, then backed away, almost tripping over himself. I giggled as he turned and ran down the steps, giving me one last wave.

"Tell your mum the scones were delicious, but I liked the biscuits the best."

I grinned as I shut the door, but stayed by the window to watch him walk down the street. When he'd disappeared, I ran upstairs and quickly called Carolyn back to tell her what happened. She declared that she wasn't sure which of us what the bigger idiot.

I'd had a dream that night. It felt so real, which didn't make sense given that I'd never kissed a boy before. But in my dream Harry was kissing me. And not only could I feel his soft lips against mine, but I could also feel his breath against my skin, his hands on my waist.

I woke up earlier than I ever had in my life, except for maybe when I was little, and Mum and I were going on holiday and had to catch the train. I took a hot shower and brushed my teeth, carefully choosing a dark red jumper and black jeans. After tying my Converse, I brushed my hair until it shined, the locks flowing across my shoulders. I felt pretty.

Mum wasn't awake yet, so I left her a note, telling her I'd return with breakfast. Then I grabbed my keys and locked the door behind me.

I was only a little more than halfway to the bakery when I could already smell the aroma. I smiled to myself as I came around the corner, the cheerful sign greeting me. As I walked in, the scent of freshly baked bread hit me in the face, and I took in a deep breath.

The woman behind the counter beamed at me, quickly asking if she could help me. I felt my cheeks flush as I wrung my hands.

"Um...is...um...Harry here?" I stammered. Yep, I was an idiot.

"Harry!" she called out in singsong, not bothering to peel her gaze from me.

Just then, the door next to her swung open and out stepped Harry, an apron tied around himself. He immediately smiled when he saw me, his dimples dipping in his cheeks.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

I shrugged. "Getting breakfast."

Harry shifted his eyes back and forth, a smirk on his face. "Alright then. That's a first."

"It's not unusual," I remarked.

"It is for you. It's Saturday. And barely six a.m."

"I woke up hungry."

Harry continued to stare at me incredulously until my mouth broke into a smile. It seemed I had rendered him speechless, and for once I felt proud, and a little brave. He cleared his throat and looked at the older woman whom with a shooing motion told him to take a break.

Wiping his hands on his apron, Harry followed me outside and around the side of the building. When I stopped, I turned around and leant against the wall. It was barely sunrise, the sky still overcast, making it seem even darker. But I could see perfectly clearly.

"Hi," I grinned.

"Hi," he smiled back, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

"How are you?"

"I'm...okay. Sam...what..."

"Sorry," I shook my head nervously. "I'm probably weirding you out."

"No...I just..."

"Do you like me?" I blurted. There. I said it.

Harry's eyes opened wide like saucers. If I wasn't so focused on what I was trying to do, I would have burst out laughing. As it was, I let out a slight giggle when he stumbled over his next words.

"Do...do I...of course...I-"

"I mean..." I stepped closer to him, taking his hand. "I mean like me."

Harry licked his lips and smiled at the ground. "Well...Samantha, you're my friend."

My heart plummeted down by chest. I leant back against the wall again, dropping his hand and picking at my nail polish.

"I see," I muttered. That was it then. He'd answered my question. Not with the answer I was hoping for, but an answer nonetheless.

"But yeah," I heard him say.

"What?" I lifted my head just in time to see his face coming toward mine, his hands at my waist.

It was just like in my dream. His lips brushed mine softly just before I closed my eyes. I was grateful that he knew what he was doing, because I probably would have just been a mess, knocking noses and teeth and whatnot. But he lifted his hand to touch my cheek, his thumb grazing my jaw as his mouth pressed harder, taking first my top lip, then my bottom between his.

I didn't know what to do with my hands so I merely placed them on his chest. With his body against mine, my back against the wall, I knew he had to hear how fast my heart was beating. The air was permeated with the scent of wheat and sugar, and I felt like I was intoxicated. Harry separated the kiss momentarily, his green eyes gazing into mine.

"I do like you," he declared. For a moment my head was spinning until I understood he was finishing his response to my question.

"Oh," I barely breathed.

The corners of his mouth curved up into a tiny grin before he tilted his head and kissed me again.

Harry's POV

She tasted like mint and smelled like strawberries. It was a wonder I noticed through the heavy aroma coming from the bakery, but I reckon I was immune to it by that point. She was all I could concentrate on, and I couldn't get enough.

Though I wasn't a hundred percent certain, I got the feeling Samantha hadn't been kissed before. Not that she was a bad kisser by any means. Or awkward even. Just the way she was stood against the wall, her body tense, her jaw tight. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands either, but when she put them on my chest I was fine with that. It wasn't until I let her take a breath and assured her that I liked her that I felt her relax. I slipped my tongue inside then, and I felt her jolt a bit, but she soon seemed to enjoy the sensation, even letting her tongue poke into my mouth.

I released my hand from her waist then, taking her face in both of my hands. She seemed to like that, even make a cute little sound and allowed her own arms to wrap around my back.

We continued to kiss for several minutes. Alright, maybe not that long, but it seemed like it. When I lifted my head that time, I studied her face, her kiss-swollen lips slightly parted. God, she was pretty.

I actually saw her chest fall then as she let out a deep breath. I took that as a good sign. Trying my best not to be cocky, I smiled at her.

"I gotta get back to work," I said, my voice coming out raspy.

Samantha nodded a few times before whispering, "Okay." Then she blinked, stood up straight and released her arms from me. "Um...I told my mum I'd bring breakfast. So...I better buy something."

She gave a cute little nervous giggle that probably embarrassed her more than she'd have liked it to. I grinned as she cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her hair, then tugged at the hem of her jumper.

"C'mon," I held out my hand for her. "Our scones aren't as good as hers, but we have some Danishes that are out of this world."

If you enjoyed, please like, comment, reblog or send me a msg!

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[boatem-probler]

Cthulhu Returns as a Soccer Dad, in... Tokyo Soul!

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / You Are Here!

Last Time on Tokyo Soul...

"So yeah, these are definitely gonna come out slower from now on." -- Me, a Fool

Yeah I have no excuse. But! With this big batch of episodes down, the finale is so close I can smell it. It smells like something witty I'll think of later.

This report contains mentions of: Blood, Violence, Death, Guns Medical Malpractice, Allusions to Sexual Harassment/Assault

So Let's Get Back To It...

Episode 36 – A NEW FRIEND!!

Sam and Grian are on Taurtis’s computer, looking at his search history. He’s been searching for hair growth formulas.

Doughboy has been cooking parts of himself and distributing them to people.

Grian and Sam convince Taurtis to do several very stupid things on the premise that they can cure hair loss.

Geode is having a yard sale of all the trash he’s collected. And also Taurtis’s school locker.

They go to the train station to pick up another one of Sam’s friends, this time from Canada. He and Suspicious Person (remember Suspicious Person? From way back in episode 1?) walk out of the walkway on fire. The train platform is also on fire. Apparently Sam’s friend, Nick, set the fire.

Sam sent Nick Taurtis’s school uniform in the mail.

Sam apparently met Nick in a My Little Pony chatroom, where Nick said he was 14. The boys express doubt about this, given that Nick has a very full beard.

Grian: “We’ve had worse friends.”

Sam: “We were just talking about sports, right guys?” Grian: “Uh huh, sports! Footballfootballfootballtennishockey. Golf.”

I’m obsessed with the way he says this.

The cashier at the convenience store is Hank Kingofthe Hill except his name is Frank Chill. Just. By the way.

Episode 37 – DRAGON BALL Z!!

They all go over to Geode’s yard sale. He is frolicking around in the trash with a knife. He has a “mask” that is just a severed Dom Clone head. Grian wants to buy Taurtis’s locker. Geode just hands him a whole bunch of raw chicken. Geode doesn’t exactly grasp the concept of “sale”.

Another one of those weird aliens from the special has landed in the soccer field, and he’s brought Minions. Yes, those ones.

The alien guy gives a whole Dramatic Alien Speech to the effect of: he heard about Taurtis defeating that other alien guy in the special, and he would now also like to fight Taurtis.

Grian: “On a completely unrelated note, has anyone got any bullets?”

Basically Grian REALLY hates Minions and would really like the opportunity to actually shoot some in real life.

Anime Alien charges up for a good long while, and then Taurtis One Punches him. Then all the Minions charge, so the boys end up killing most of them too.

Sam: “How did you get this powerful, Taurtis?” Taurtis: “I did a push-up yesterday!”

As is tradition, they take Nick to Get His Class Schedule. Sam tells him there’s a fatality rate to the procedure, which I’m not sure I remember anyone saying before so he may just be fibbing. No one died that Sam saw, anyway.

Oh dear. So, Señor Loro is not wearing a shirt, because Geode is wearing his Christmas sweater. It turns out that Geode did, in fact, steal it from him without his knowledge, and attempts to deny ever having it. Despite this, Geode and Señor Loro both profess to being best friends. Grian is skeptical of the idea that someone would steal their best friend’s clothes and go to school wearing them. Sam argues that Grian has done that before. You may be able to see where this is going.

Anyway, Nick and Señor Loro fight. Unfortunately, someone has stolen all of the schedules.

Also this episode has the “Sam is my dog” blooper at the end.

EPISODE 38 – THE DARK LORD CTHULHU!

Chupa won the lottery for 5 cents, so he’s summoning Cthulhu again with a ritual meant to “gaze into time”. The ritual text is more old memes. Everyone makes Grian read it.

The whole class is transported to a room with blank white walls and a whole lot of bookshelves just kind of floating in various places. Igbar Cthulhu is there.

There’s also someone else who looks like a shadow with rainbow hair. Grian “wants whatever she’s smoking”.

Cthulhu has decided not to destroy humanity, and instead let Sam do it for him. Sam is “the cause of it all”. And also “the root of it all”.

Grian wants to know if he’ll ever get out of here. Cthulhu says it’s possible but not likely but also not really no.

Sam wants to know why they can still hear the school bell inside the weird room they’re in. Cthulhu says it’s a pocket space and they’re technically still in the classroom. Grian thinks this is bullshit and Cthulhu is just Saying Words.

Grian wants to know: “How do I kill Sam?” Cthulhu says: “You can’t.”

Also, the rainbow-hair shadow person is Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos. Sam and Grian start bullying her.

They transport themselves back to the classroom, and Cthulhu and Nyarlathotep come with them, because they want a front row seat to the world’s destruction. Also, Grian is jealous that Sam gets to be a horseman of the apocalypse and he doesn’t.

Sam is now threatening to destroy the universe when his friends are mean to him. Grian tries to call his bluff. There is a very ominous sound of thunder, but nothing else really happens.

Dr. Nurse has apparently gotten tired of Grian bugging him about “learning” all the time, so he’s taking the class on a field trip inside an ambulance. They’re going to see a car crash!

EPISODE 39 – CAR CRASH!

They arrive at the car crash. There is a man covered in blood standing in front of a burning car. He’s actually mostly fine, but the guy he crashed into, on the other hand, appears to have been… decapitated. Death is beautiful, remarks Cthulhu.

Oh, apparently the other guy is not fine, his organs feel squishy. Dr. Nurse gives him CPR. He dies.

Dr. Nurse gets a report of screaming… at Kurokuma’s house. Kurokuma claims he was just listening to Screamo. They can hear the screams. Once again, no one pays any attention to Grian’s protests. He doesn’t protest very much.

Then they all rush off to help Doughboy open a jar of pickles. Grian is pretty ticked off.

They go back to school for lunch. Grian reveals he took something from Cthulhu’s pocket dimension called a “Sleeping Chaos Potion”. He’s contemplating drinking it. Sam, of all people, points out that it’s probably a bad idea to drink something called a Sleeping Chaos Potion, but he still ends up chanting “chug” alongside everyone else.

Grian drinks the potion, and starts taking damage. Cthulhu says he’ll be fine, there will just be some “lingering side effects”. “If you have dreams about the world exploding, let me know.” This surely won’t have consequences! (But really, as far as I’ve been able to glean there aren’t actually any consequences for this within the canon of Tokyo Soul. I, however, can think of plenty of consequences!)

Also I feel like it’s worth noting, it turns out that Geode milking Dom way back however many episodes ago must have been accomplished with some sort of mod, and not by just hitting him and quickly swapping a pre-prepared bucket of milk into Geode’s hotbar as I has assumed, because every time someone hits someone else while holding an empty bucket, said bucket becomes a bucket of milk named “[username of the person who was hit]’s Milk”. I just thought you should all know that, because I am completely baffled by the fact that they chose to do this and then leave the mod on the server instead of doing a much easier classic filmmaking trick, for what was supposed to be a one-off gag. Anyway. I just had to get that off my chest.

Anyway they’re in gym class and Cthulhu wants Sam to kill Invader. He kind of sounds like a dad at his kid’s soccer game, except instead of soccer it’s the destruction of Earth.

Another Anime Alien has landed on the track behind the school. Sam shoots him and he dies.

Okay so I’m now coming back to this after God knows how long and also after a Very Long Day so I am very tired. We will see how this affects the Energy.

Where were we. Ah, right, this was supposed to be Jerry’s gym class. He’s at a bit of a loss. Jerry is one of the most reasonable and responsible people in this show honestly. Like, he’s trying. No One Else in this school is trying.

Students: So, what do we do for gym class now? Jerry: "Uh. Play?"

Also one of the students falls in a hole and everyone else starts badgering them with the milk buckets and the fishing rods that sound like guns. What is with these people and just leaving weird shit on this server that isn’t supposed to be there? It does add to the Atmosphere, I’ll give it that.

Episode 40 – KILL THE MINION!

Professor Geode has claimed all the unused classrooms as His House. Well, specifically his Holiday Home. He also has a Shop. Grian points out that it’s all very clean for Geode. He finds this suspicious.

Geode has an indoor yard. With sheep. And a Minion. The sheep are also robots?

Geode’s plan for today’s class is to dissect the Minion. Also, Google Docs is still trying to autocorrect “Geode” to “God”.

Geode bloodily slices from the Minion: A Watermelon Slice. A Single Rose. The Minion Energy Core (he’ll save this for later). A Bucket Of Milk. Numerous Garbage Bags. A Potion Bottle Of Blood. More Cores. And A Skull. Sam speculates whether the skull means that the Minion ate a human alive, and then simply assumes it does mean that. Geode then kills the Minion.

Grian wonders if Geode has been learning what friendship is. Taurtis looks directly at the sun.

Taurtis: "Do you ever wonder if we’re alone in the universe?" Grian: "NO."

Oh, Jerry has stolen Geode’s TV. Now I know I just said Jerry is one of the more reasonable characters but I fucking love Jerry and Dom’s TV Saga so he can steal as many TVs as he wants.

Sam remembers that Taurtis technically won a spaceship that morning, so they go over to the soccer field and break into it. The ship pranks them with a fake self destruct sequence, and then the boys accidentally take off for Planet Canada.

And then it’s…… the end of the day, but not the end of the episode? But it seems like it’s still the end of the recording session because they’re now making an excuse for why Grian isn’t there and going off to do some whole other plot? And I’ve decided this is too confusing for this late at night so I’m calling it here for now.

Okay I’m back. Let’s see… Taurtis’s hair is growing back in weird patches because he’s been using a suspicious hair growth serum, Grian got left in Canada and Sam blames Taurtis because the spaceship is technically his.

Taurtis: "He’ll be fine, he’s with Nick- oh, God, you’re right." Sam: "He’s screwed, dude!"

Regardless, Sam has decided that he wants to be a superhero too.

They go downstairs, where the house is covered in “totally not stolen” appliances. Like, not just TVs, there’s also ovens, landline phones, refrigerators, an entire streetlight, and Taurtis’s locker. Apparently this was Jerry and Doughboy’s doing.

Dom seems to be dressed up as some superhero I haven’t heard of. Oh, he’s Rorschach from Watchman apparently.

Some sort of robot appears and says it has come for the “bald one”. It’s here to kill Taurtis before he becomes too strong. It was also sent by someone called “The Steampunker”.

Episode 41 – MEETING SUPER HEROES!

Sam and Taurtis tell the robot to shut up while they argue about which one of them should be the sidekick. The robot starts speaking in binary and then attacks Taurtis, who kills it. Sam and Taurtis continue their argument.

Sam says he’s “contacted” some superheroes and takes Taurtis to meet them. Also, Alex Minecraft is just, like, There and walking around. Wait, there’s some Steves too, a weirdly high amount of people just don’t have custom skins on in this recording session apparently.

They meet up with Sam’s superheroes at a coffee shop. There are also two Inconspicuous Bald Men at the coffee shop. Oh also one of the “superheroes” is Old Kurokuma, currently under the name “Kuma the Lion”.

The other superhero is called Captain Radiator or Luke, I assume he’s meant to be a reference to something but I have no idea what. But he’s wearing a yellow hazmat suit.

Sam wants his superhero name to be “The Strongest in All the Universe and the Leader of All”.

Kurokuma is still a creep.

Sam: "Okay, well my superpower, is… that… Taurtis! He- he neeed me. In the time of need."

Sam is also still insisting that he can destroy the universe because Cthulhu said so. Taurtis continues to doubt this.

Sam is given a superhero outfit. It is a rabbit costume.

Taurtis: "How do you defeat people like that? Do you like, jump on their head like Mario?" Sam: "I kill them with cuteness! And this 50-caliber sniper rifle."

Ah, the Inconspicuous Bald Men are holding up the superstore.

Episode 42 – SUPER VILLAINS!

They attempt to enter the superstore from the roof, but Taurtis misses the jump and gets trapped in an alleyway, so they all just agree to meet him at the front of the store.

Captain Radiator takes off his mask and gives everyone in the store radiation poisoning. It is unclear what this actually accomplishes.

Also, The Steampunker has appeared outside the superstore. He’s captured Invader and wants the heroes to meet him in a warehouse at midnight. The heroes just go there immediately.

Then they spend a Good Five Minutes trying to think of a superhero team name.

Captain Radiator tries to give the robots radiation poisoning, but fails, because they’re robots.

Oh also Invader is just kind of dangling above a vat of goo that supposedly will turn her into a robot. She doesn’t seem particularly distressed or anything though.

Taurtis volunteers to take Invader’s place because he thinks being a robot would be cool. Sam thinks this will put Taurtis under the Steampunker’s control, so they should kill him first. The Steampunker says the robot goo won’t work if he’s dead. Sam decides this means he can take the Steampunker’s place after they kill him and then he’ll be the one to control Robot Taurtis. Taurtis says he’d rather be controlled by the Steampunker.

Anyway, I think they eventually decide they want to kill the Steampunker after all, because Taurtis decides he wants to fight on the edge of the goo vat (because it’d be cool)... and the Steampunker punches him into the goo.

Episode 43 – KILL ME!

Taurtis breaks out of the vat and kills the Steampunker (he tried to let Sam kill him, but Sam failed). Then they try to get Invader down, but accidentally drop her into the vat. And it seems like her face is melting off, so Sam et al. run out of the warehouse like cowards.

Cthulhu shows up to tell Sam how proud he is of him for killing more people and melting a girl’s face off. Nyarlathotep gives everyone Mountain Dew. Cthulhu insults Taurtis’s hair, so Taurtis tries to punch him, it doesn’t work, and Cthulhu electrocutes him with a bolt of lightning.

Sam and Taurtis break into someone’s house and sneak out the back door, so Kurokuma doesn’t find out where they live. It doesn’t work, because they forgot they live with three other people who have no idea what the fuck they’re trying to do.

Dom, Jerry, and Doughboy are just living their best TV stealing lives and I support them.

Once AGAIN they are starting a new day in the middle of an episode and it’s really throwing me off my rhythm!!

Anyway. Taurtis has changed out of his One Punch Man outfit, and he’s in the kitchen angrily trying to make breakfast because, according to him, someone sent him a letter saying that if he didn’t make food, he’d be “fired”. I think it’s implied that Sam sent this letter, and that Taurtis knows this, and that Sam knows Taurtis knows this? But who honestly fucking knows with Sam.

Grian walks in! Apparently he’s “just been in orbit for a while”. He’s very confused about why there are so many appliances in the house. He also acquired his own spaceship somehow, and parked it on the roof.

Is it more interesting if the spaceship simply fell out of orbit directly above “Tokyo”/navigated there on its own automatically, implying that there is some supernatural force keeping Grian trapped there, or if Grian decided to go back there himself? Discuss. I could go either way, honestly, although I would like to find a way to have both, ideally.

Oh, apparently the context behind “Taurtis angrily making food or else he’ll be fired” is that it was something CC!Sam decided he wanted to do like right before filming the scene. “And then you can poison my food or something.” The more you know!

Thank God this episode doesn’t end in the middle of anything honestly.

Grian Trauma Count!

Deaths Witnessed:

Anime alien

Lots of minions

He didn’t actually witness the death, but he did see the decapitated body, so, Car Crash Victim Number the First

Car Crash Victim Number the Second

Grian seems pretty sure whoever was in Kurokuma’s basement died

Anime Alien The Second

Minion

Listen he had to get that second spaceship somehow

Injuries Sustained:

Basically anytime the guns come out I assume he gets shot a few times

Traumatic Events:

Subjected to another one of Sam’s shady friends

A somewhat all-powerful evil being tells him that Sam is going to destroy the world, there’s no way out of this town for him, and he can’t even kill Sam about it

Kurokuma

Sleeping Chaos Potion (even if there are no consequences in the canon series, it did still definitely hurt)

Look, he didn’t seem all that shaken up by the Minion Dissection, but I think it should still count

Got left in Canada. Again.

Next Time... Grian Pushes Someone Into A Big Hole

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 10

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters →

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

Chapter 10: Blood will have Blood (you're already here!)

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obsessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 9.7k

- Warnings (for chp): Force feeding, suicidal ideation, wound picking.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/157763398

In the fractured, frigid stairwell, your breathing echoes as loud as the howling iced east winds. The same ones that batter the stubborn walls from outside are numbing as they swirl around your lungs; bitter and dry against your tongue as you even out your breaths. 

Your feet stay planted as they are, cold seeping in through your soles and resting, deadeningly, in your extremities. Even with your hands tucked away in your hoodie’s sleeve, the cold still finds you–the fabric does barely anything to keep the cramping, slackening frost out. 

While you know you’re safe here–cold and battered and bruised but still living–you can’t bring yourself to move a muscle. Can’t bring a thought to the forefront of your mind as you stare, hazily, at the hallway in front of you. Can’t bring yourself to care as the moon quietly hides herself away again, leaving you in what feels like an endless midnight hour.

You don’t want to turn around. Don’t want to see that thick concrete that you know has already miraculously appeared that tells you that you’re still trapped. 

That Helen is still trapped. 

Stiffly, you flex your fingers under your sleeve, standing as a silent sentinel and probably growing just as dusty as those rusted appliances. 

What the fuck is happening?

You almost laugh to yourself, a disturbed, stressed giggle getting caught in your throat at the utter ludicrousy of your situation. You don’t dare linger on it too long, both the happenings of this entire evening, as well as who, or rather, what, you just talked to. Let alone the information you were told. 

One of your larger cuts–a combination of splits across the dry skin of your knuckles–rubs against your hoodie. The wounds still sting–the same sort of twinge of cracked skin in between your fingers–but you’re beginning to bear it.

All of it could be useless, anyway; a well-formed fib said only to gain information and confuse you further.

The Walls said it themselves; you don’t know if they’re lying or not. Why should you listen to anything they had to say?

…then again, what else have you got?

Ominous graffiti, a half thought out pattern, and a whole lot of paranoia is what. 

You let a tired sigh escape your lungs as you begin to attempt to formulate thoughts in your mind. 

Yet, it stays blank. You blame the multiple blows to your head for that.

Helen, and Noah, too, will probably want to take you to the hospital. You’re sure they’ll take one look at you–one look at your hands–and drive you straight there.

Involuntarily, you shiver at the thought. Cold linoleum, chattering nurses and cleaning alcohol. A baby screaming in one of the other wards. 

Focus. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

For starters, you now know–for what you’re almost tempted to call fact–that you are being hunted; that you are prey. All things considered, you could practically already be in its drooling jaws. The longer you stand, motionless, the more you swear you can feel the harsh press of its sharpened teeth on your skin; digging in before releasing, if only to watch your reaction. 

Whatever ‘it’ actually is, you’re pretty sure it finds you and the fear you display to be the peak of entertainment. 

In short, the terrifying, very possibly deadly, joke is on you. And you’re being treated as nothing more than a vessel for amusement. 

Your eyes quickly adjust to the newfound darkness again. 

Secondly, whatever is on these floors, it is necessary–mandatory–that you trigger and, in one way or another, interact with it. Then, that void disappears, and you’re able to move up to the next floor. It feels almost video-game-esque: ‘defeat’ the big bad boss, and move up to the next level. The next level where the difficulty increases. 

First, it was that stupid radio, then it was those plants–those flies–then, the rats in the walls, that creature, the stitched together bull and, lastly, The Walls. 

All have increased in their violence, their difficulty to comprehend. Who knows–other than this omnipresent ‘it’–what this floor’s monster will be like. 

Something scampers across your leg under your cargos. Maybe one of the spiders. 

Thirdly, if this trend carries on, then there is most likely something on every single one of these floors.

And last, but not least, a damning fact; there are thirty floors. 

In conclusion: you’re fucked. Sideways. With a chainsaw. 

Restless, your feet shift: impatient, heavy with moral substitute, and imbedded with the urge to run. Though, it doesn’t take long for your mind to drift from rational thought again. 

‘running gets you nowhere.’

…well, it’s gotten you this far, hasn’t it?

But, in the dark, even if all you’ve been doing is running, you don’t think there’s anywhere to go.

Stiltedly, you bring your hands up to your face, attempting to discern their shape. Attempting to make sure they’re still there. 

That you are still here. 

So close to your nose, it takes one inhale for your face to contort at the strong smell of sweat, musk and blood. You have no doubt that the rest of you smells the same; whole being covered in a thin film of inky oil, imperceptibly seeping through your pores and into your veins.

You can feel it there, floating in them along with your blood, clogging up arteries and making every ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump feel like the last.

Limbs and mind heavy, you wonder how long it’ll take for you to suffocate. 

Your eyes flicker to your right. To where that last apartment hides in the moonless hallway. You know what you have to do–a task confirmed by talking walls and trial and error–but you still stop. You still hesitate. 

That feeling of despair lays heavy on your shoulders. Sits next to you inside your well-built box and nestles into the crook of your shoulder, tightening its grip with each second you spend here. 

No matter how much progress you think you make, everything feels pointless. Playing along with that ‘insightful’ game of quid, pro, quo feels pointless. All you were told were things that were, as they said, already right in front of you. Details that you missed because you were too busy crying to decipher them. Sure, you learnt that Helen is apparently ‘in good hands’–though you’re still not sure what counts as ‘good hands’ here–but, as far as you’re aware, you still haven’t figured out a way to help her. 

All you did was get confirmations to existing conclusions. That, and get told that, ‘for now’, you’ll have to go without Helen. When that ‘for now’ ends, you’re unsure. 

Cold and sharp, a gruesome thought sparks in your mind. What if Helen isn’t even alive when that ‘for now’ ends?

Finally, your feet are put into motion.

The first thing you notice, stepping up into the seventh floor–at least, you hope it’s the seventh floor–is the soft squelch that echoes out from under your feet: definitely not the noise you were expecting from wooden floorboards.

As you raise your foot in disgust, trying–and failing–to get a good look at what on Earth you just stepped in, the second thing you notice is the smell. A stench of copper, iron and something sweetly rancid, like a pastry that’s finally gone off: the promise of eating it forgotten. A stench you recognize. One of empty, dark blue eyes and crooked fingers and crumpled steel. 

You force in a shaky inhale as you lower your foot, rushing your dirtied sleeve to your nose; a poor attempt to exempt your sinuses from smelling the worst of it. Through the fabric, your hot, hastened breath eases the chill in your fingers. 

Maybe you should’ve stayed with the talking walls. Asked more–perhaps useless–questions and wasted your time away with peeling paint and memory-soaked wallpaper. You don’t like its grin, nor its patronizing tone, but you’d rather stare into shining, golden eyes than walk around on floors–on a carpet–drenched in what you think is.

Rather be at home, in your too warm bed, than be here. 

Even in the dark, you know there’s only a metre or two between you and the door. A few short steps, and you’d be at your unwitting destination. 

A few steps. That’s all you have to do.

Steeling yourself, you feel your way towards the final door. Cold wallpaper brushes against your fingers and you try not to recoil, to freeze, when warm liquid squeezes its way to the surface of the carpet, practically pooling around your feet with each sticky step. 

Please, let it be not what you’re thinking of. 

You feel like your stomach is chewing on itself.

Let it be not what all your senses recognize. 

Maybe the fear has begun to eat you alive. 

With your feet almost slipping from under you, your hand hits the door. You’re glad it wasn’t your head this time. 

Motionless, you stand in front of it for a few moments: ears keen to pick up any rumble, any noise that sounds a bit too living, that could give you any hint about what you’re about to face. 

You steel yourself for forgotten conversations, the buzzing of flies, an angry call of a stitched together animal, but you’re met with dead silence. 

Without the light of the moon, the hallway feels unbearably empty and uncomfortably full. As far as you know–as far as you hope–there’s nothing that surrounds you other than decades of old air, concrete and flaking wallpaper, but every unseeing sense tells you you’re being compressed. Choked. 

Shadows cage you from all sides and the air is warm–thick and second-hand–as it tumbles into your lungs. 

Moving through molasses, your hand twitches for the doorknob, floating shakily above where you’re only half sure the brass rests. 

You’re hesitating. 

Helen wouldn’t. 

Stalling, even. 

She’d be afraid, but she’d still do it.

A few more seconds of this semblance of peace and quiet. That’s all you want.

Just a few more seconds.

Didn’t you just say you’d do anything for her?

Your palm wraps around the doorknob. It feels habitually used. Heated by a hand that isn’t yours. 

You twist it before you can make up another excuse. An unwarranted spark of what you could only call gratefulness fills your stiff body when you hear that muffled metallic sound that tells you the door is locked. 

You really, really want to take it as some unwarranted sign–that this place doesn’t want you to enter, so you shouldn’t. 

Unfortunately, your mind doesn’t let you forget that some of the final doors have been locked before. And, if fate will have it, you wouldn’t be surprised if you just so happened to have the key for it, too. 

Blindly, you feel your way to your trouser’s pocket, brushing past a broken mainframe and the odd wad of fabric until you find your way to the keys. 

As you do, you feel something in your hoodie’s pocket slip, your hand flitting up to catch it before it falls to the ground.

You’d almost forgotten you had it. 

The knife’s battered plastic case is cold in your palm. It’s only a small blade, but something sharp–something dangerous–nonetheless. As you slide it back into your pocket, you can’t help but feel the slightest bit safer. 

But, back to the keys. You have five or six of them, three of which you already know will be useless to you: hunks of corroded metal for floors lower and much higher than you will do you no good here. 

The indented edges catch on the fabric of your cargos as you drag them out.

Within a few seconds of attempting to pick one out, you find yourself mourning the loss of the moonlight once again. You can’t see a damn thing–not even your own hand mere centimetres from your face. How on Earth are you even meant to find the right key?

The metal clinks–a somewhat high-pitched, tinny sound–as they scrape against each other. The last floor was ninety-six, so, if you really are on floor seven, you’re looking for one hundred and twelve. 

Focused, you feel over where you remember the numbers to be engraved. Your thumb makes out a four, and maybe an eight: your eyes habitually glancing upwards as if you’d actually be able to see the door number. 

The useless key is dropped back into your pocket. Your hands already smell of iron–a mix of blood and rust–so you wouldn’t be surprised if the scent sticks to your cargos, too. 

The thought of simply jamming each one into the lock until you find the right one comes to mind. But, as you stand in the empty hallway, even your own breathing–your own heartbeat–feels too loud. Each time you shift your feet, each time the wood whines underneath you, you feel as though you’re setting an alarm off. A rotting, creaking alarm that tells the things draped in void exactly where you are. 

So, shoving a bunch of keys, jostling a weary and worn lock, into the door where you’re sure a monster hides feels less like sounding off an alarm, and more like placing a glow in the dark target on your back. 

Mind set, you try the second, finding what you think is a seven, along with a long scratch etched into its back.

Again, with a soft discouraged exhale, the key is put away. 

You begin grazing over the third, something peeling away–maybe a decade or two of oil and rust–at the gentle touch of your fingers.

The longer you spend here, fiddling with keys in the dark, the more you increase Helen’s chances of being hurt. 

Stubbornly, you press your thumb into the remaining indent, feeling as your stinging skin shapes to whatever number there is. You’re half sure it’s a one, though you’ve no clue what the full number is. It could be door eleven or door three hundred and one for all you know.

You want to shove it back into your pocket, maybe throw up your hands–capitulate and let yourself turn to dust, but there’s no point in it. 

Why should Helen’s safety, or even life, be threatened just because you’re too scared to try? 

To free one of your hands, you bend and place the remaining keys back into your cargo’s pocket, feeling your knife shift in your hoodie. 

The dull metal is heavy in your palm, heated by your skin. The scent of rust, sharp and familiar at this point, is strong. 

Crouching slightly, you slot the key between your thumb and forefinger and shift your sleeve over your spare hand, letting your fabric swathed fingers glide against the splintered wood. The cold metal of the doorknob–held in your shaking hands moments ago–stings your raw skin through the thinning sleeve. 

You don’t think you want to look at this hoodie ever again. Maybe you’ll hide it away at the back of your closet. Frown and disregard it whenever it manages to shift to the front.

You move further down, eventually finding the small keyhole. 

Perhaps you could hide it under your bed. Let it gather dust, and pretend it isn’t there.

Part of you begs for the key to slot in perfectly, for the door to open with an agonisingly loud creak and reveal the abandoned apartment draped in shadows in cinematic horror. The other shouts–muffled and hidden behind their mother’s dress–for you to leave. To sit in that stairwell, to climb out that window, to lie in that car seat, until the cold finally gets to you. 

With trembling hands, you decide to listen to the former–guiding its teeth into its brass and broken home. You don’t get very far before it slips from your fingers, clattering deftly to the floor with a muffled metallic twang that almost sounds like Church bells. 

If it were rotting wood instead of sodden carpet, you’re sure your heart would’ve stopped in your chest. 

So much for not setting off that alarm. 

Your ears perk, shoulders and legs tensing as you stare blindly at where the keyhole should be. Every creak of a far-off floorboard registers as some malicious footstep and each screech of the wind against battered and broken windows sounds like a hundred different voices laughing at you. 

You don’t know them, but they know you. 

Everything is too loud. 

You want to go home. 

Gently, you tap the pads of your fingers on the damp carpet below you, trying to find what is lost to you. Your knees ache and beg for you to stand upright again. 

You want to lock the door behind you and never open it again. 

The image of a hand, pale and dismembered, pushing its gaunt self under the gap of the door to lurch for your wrist, burns itself into the forefront of your mind. Makes your hand curl away from its search for a few moments as you await another ghoul clambering from the dark. 

You want to go to sleep. Though you doubt your body–or your mind–will let you. 

It doesn’t come. 

When you place your hand back down again, you wonder if your key has simply just…disappeared. Disappeared into the frigid, shadow ridden halls hidden just underneath the veil of that void. Maybe the carpet opened up and swallowed it whole. Maybe it’ll do the same to you. 

A warm light pierces through the hallway, and your soul practically jumps out of your skin. 

In one golden beam, it shatters the darkness, cradling your cold face. After so long in the dark, retinas determined to adapt, it practically burns, leaving you to squint and-

And it’s coming from the door in front of you.

Guileless, it squeezes its way through the small gap, illuminating a rectangle of space behind you, wallpaper and doors eclipsed by your hunched shadow pressed against the walls. 

That, and your fallen key, sitting innocently below you. 

All else remains pitch black. 

As you always do, you wait. Wait, with legs poised for another mad dash–another surge of adrenaline–that you’re not entirely sure that your muscles can take, for any notion of movement. Any looming shadow that isn’t your own that creeps up the wall and engulfs the little light you’ve been given, like the great cloak of night that swallows all when the bells chime twelve. 

Nothing happens. 

For a building so old, so decrepit and dismal, you’re always surprised at just how quiet it can get.

Back home, no matter how much you yearn for it, silence is a hard thing to grasp at, and her draperies twist and drift out of your fingers before you can even get a good grip. There is always someone doing something. Always a harsh square of light from a window: someone cramming for a test, getting a late-night snack, or trying to get the baby to stop crying. 

Haltingly, your hand stretches outwards. Eyes kept on the door–not daring to look down–you pray no wan and frail hand darts out to grip at yours. 

By now, you’d hope that you would’ve gotten used to the sourdine silence that permeates the soil six feet under. 

The metal glints in the light.

You haven’t. 

In one swift movement, you snatch the key back up from the floor, holding it close to your chest as you crouch in the dim glow. 

Still, nothing happens. Your actions yield no consequence, though your thumping heart–ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–tells you otherwise. 

Eventually, you peel your eyes away from the door and bring the key up to your face.

Underneath grime and oil, you can finally make out the engraved number. 

One hundred and twelve.

Because of course it is. 

Cautiously, you bring yourself back up, eyes finding their way back to the door. The numbers are long gone, the only sign they were ever there being a loose, faded screw that looks one door slam away from clattering to the floor. 

The Walls, while eerie, didn’t cause you any harm, so you can only hope whatever appears–or whatever is behind this door–is just as passive with you. 

Although, you have the feeling–one mixed in with the rest of the tar that sticks to the bottom of your stomach–that you just got lucky. 

And that the faces in the wallpaper weren’t.

The key slides easily into the lock. A long inhale of warm air fills your lungs as you attempt to calm the fluttering bird trapped inside your ribcage. 

You twist, and, without any loud complaint or fitful wail, the door opens. 

At this point, you should have learnt to expect the unexpected, but nothing prepares you for the sight in front of you.

You face a softly lit apartment, brightened by oddly welcoming crooked lace lamps. It’s enough for you to see the space, to feel a smidgen safer than you did outside, but not enough to cast light on the dark corners. The dark corners of deep red walls–colours of wine and clotted blood–that hide long creatures that stretch to the blindingly white, water-stained ceiling. 

Your feet stay diligently glued to the carpet outside of the apartment. Maybe the thick liquid that bathes it will keep you here, forever a breath away from danger and progression.

Fear keeps your eyes pinned to the scene before you–not daring to even glance downwards to the abhorrent floor below you.

Better to stay in ignorance, then confirm your own horrid thoughts.

Splinters dig into your cuts as your white knuckled hand grips the entryway. 

At some point, you’ll have to step in. But you’re hesitating. 

‘...what a righteous response.’

Stalling, even. 

‘righteous response.’

You know you’ll have to do it. Have to step in and trace through the sight before you with more than your eyes–find a wretched trigger object and talk to a vile nightmare. But, for now, you simply lean in, craning your head around the door and using its splintering torso as a frail shield. 

‘righteous.’

You’re careful not to step over the boundary. You don’t even know if that does anything. 

Some friend you are. 

To your left, the kitchen lies draped in dull darkness, but you don’t need your eyes to know how it looks. The sickly sweet scent of rotting fruit assaults your nose, mingled with sapless water, unclean dishes and rotting leftovers. If you squint, let your mind fill in the ill-lit spaces of rooms and rooms of repetition, you can just barely see the outline of the bathroom and storage room doors. 

Thick curtains, grey and moth eaten, hide the windows–the outside–from your view. 

Your eyes begin to scan the living room. 

Facing the door–facing you–and arranged in a misshapen square, sit three dark brown, possibly leather couches, their fabric blemished by large, splotchy stains. Stains you really, really don’t want to know the origin of. Even from here, you can see they're littered with crumbs and discarded wrappers; magazines half read, threatening to slip to the dulled Persian rug below. 

There’s what you think to be a dark oak coffee table, too–or maybe it’s a misshapen stool–that’s speckled with extinguished cigarettes, spilling out of their ashtrays. 

You lean in. The old lamps offer just enough light to illuminate the two other doors: shut. Shut, locked tight–if your past experiences had anything to say about this place–and silently hiding anything and its ugly head in them.

Looking closer, you’re only half sure something could even get out of the rooms. The doors are half blocked by trash–more miscellaneous wrappers and cardboard food containers. 

And, as far as you can see, nothing is here. Nothing other than you, smouldering cigarette butts and the scent of wet dog.

A ‘hello’ almost slips past your lips, a sound to fill the silence and bait out whatever is hiding here, but a soft, melancholy guitar and piano interrupts you. 

“Maybe…you’ll think of me…”

You don’t like this. 

“...When you are all alone…”

You don’t like this one bit. 

“Maybe…the one who…is waiting for you…”

For once, not because of the darkness. Not because of the cold hands that press against your back and the whispering wind in your ears egging you forth. 

“...will prove untrue…” Your eyes reel over the place for a second time: kitchen, doors, lamp, table, couches.

But because this place feels, looks, smells, lived in. 

Kitchen, doors, lamp, table, couches. 

“...then,” kitchen, doors, lamp, table, couches. “What will you do?” 

It makes you, of all people, feel like an intruder. 

“Maybe,” kitchen, doors, lamp, table, couches, man. “you’ll sit and sigh…”

Your heart lodges itself in your throat. 

‘Man’ is not a part of your mantra. 

With an iron grip on the door, you swing your rotting shield around you. 

Hidden behind a thick layer of wood, you’ve never felt more seen. 

Somewhat muffled, the tune still plays. “Wishing that I were near…then,”

Your eyes drop to your feet. Half your foot inches over the boundary line, the door knocking against it. “Maybe…” Dragging them back up, you attempt to disregard how your feet slide and squelch underneath you. “You’ll ask me…to come back again…” Try to forget the dark stains that mar them. 

Try to pretend that this isn’t the first time they’ve been soaked in that. 

It saw you. 

“And maybe…”

It had to have seen you. 

“...I’ll say ‘maybe’.”

All your mind gauged was something vaguely human–something with a face like yours and a body like another passerby’s in the streets–before you acted on instinct. 

“Maybe…” Your eyes flit to the shadowed staircase. “...you’ll think of me…” Was that enough? Would it have finally opened up? “...when you are all…” You’d triggered the monster. “...alone.” You’d seen it with your own two eyes, it’d gotten a damn good fright out of you: would that be enough?

Everything tells you that it isn’t. 

“Maybe the one who…is waiting for you…”

This is a playground, after all. A place of make-believe monsters, sandpits and scraped knees. 

You swallow. 

“...will prove untrue–then, what will I do?”

The game isn’t over until recess finishes, and your playmate has their hands on the timer. 

Through the thinning walls, the vocalist’s voice rises. “Maybe…you’ll sit and sigh…”

A deep breath of thick, unpleasant air fills your lungs–a sad attempt to try to soothe your twitching nerves. 

“...wishing that I…” 

At this point, you’re sure they’re almost entirely fried.

“...were near.” 

Everything sets you off. The creak of mouldering wood-

“Then, maybe…you’ll ask me…”

-and the unassuming inhales of the elevator. 

“…to come back again?”

You still hold a white knuckled grip on the door–remains of your nails digging into peeled and scratched skin as you hold on to the aged brass like a lifeline. You’re sure it can still see you: face illuminated by a stripe of light as you cower in the dark hallway and pretend that you’re not here. 

“And maybe…”

That this isn’t happening.

“...I’ll say, ‘maybe’.”

With a flick, the low static finally stops, taking the echoing piano and hauntingly comforting tune with it. The sharp-edged quiet–digging into your sinew and pricking against your eardrums–reminds you that you have something you must do. 

You force your hand to inch the door back open. 

E/C eyes imminently find themselves pinned to the…thing on the couch. 

Considering all you’ve heard and seen, you’re more than hesitant to call it–him, human. 

One knee over the other, he sits pin straight on the rightmost couch, pale, slim hands clasped in his lap. He’s almost corpse-ish: slender arms on display–sprouting from beneath the sleeves of a mottled grey t-shirt–with skin that’s closer to being ashen, blotchy with bruises, than peachy. The light bathes him in what’s meant to be a comforting glow–one of quiet nights to yourself and nocturnal studying–but it does nothing but unnerve you. 

Only accentuates the odd smile, stiff and toothy, that he has on his face. 

Even if all you’re doing is standing, one hand still gripping the doorknob, you can’t help but feel awkward. Like you’re the one disrupting it.

Will it speak to you, like The Walls? Jump from the couch and rush to you like a starving dog? 

Your feet begin shifting backwards. You’re not meant to be here. 

Maybe it’ll chase you around the floor until it’s gotten its entertainment. Chew on your insides with those crooked canines-

Its calm, hoarse voice–one of a smoker–halts your thoughts. “Good evening.”

Voice. Not plural. There’s no chattering chorus seeping out from cracks in the plaster, no hum of spare conversation in a place abandoned and empty. 

And you hate it. Hate it, because it–he sounds human. 

Hate it, because it is only you, him, and the parrot rattling in its cage, “Hello pretty bird!”, in the other room.

Even with the smile still printed onto his insipid face, you still feel–still know–that you’re an undesired guest, yet expected all the same. 

His hunched form shifts. “You’re welcome to come in, dear.” He talks, sickly sweet, like an insistent neighbour. The pet name leaves a sour taste on your tongue. 

Wordlessly, you watch him for a few moments, hand slipping into your pocket to grasp at your knife before hesitantly stepping further in. As you do, you keep a hand on the door, dragging it wide open before letting go. Surely, whatever he has to say to you–whatever game he wants to play–he can do it from there. 

Far, far away from you. 

At your tense stance, he laughs. It feels saccharine. “You’ve had a long night. Please, come sit.”

Crumb ridden couches aside, you really, really don’t want to. Running through a hallway is easy enough, careening between furniture with mere centimetres of space between you and your assailant is a much harder task. 

When you stay unmoved, your muscles jolt when he unclasps one of his hands and brings it up to his neck. The sound of jagged nails on thinning skin is almost grating. 

You wonder if he’s nervous. 

Your stinging fingers fiddle with your knife, thumb itching to unlatch it. 

“What do you want from me?” It’s a question that almost always gets you nowhere, but still one worth asking. 

Please, let it be another game. 

He seems almost surprised, his hand pausing for a mere second. “Sorry?”

Let this be easy.

You repeat yourself, hopefully loud enough that he mistakes your volume for confidence. “What do you want? All of you-” you say all, even if it was only the sentient, moving things that seemed to have an agenda other than maiming, “-all of you want something.”

His grin manages to widen. “Nothing much, dear, just some company.”

Your eyebrows twitch into a frown as you remind yourself to look a little closer at the things right in front of you. To dissect a sentence for whatever motive that lies, patiently, underneath. 

Unsurprisingly, you don’t come up with much. 

However, the word ‘company’ tells you to keep an eye on the door, a tight grip on its key and a good hold on your knife. 

“Will you not come in, dear?”

Slowly, you assess your situation, mentally trying to map out which escape routes will have you falling flat on your face and which will lead you back to the door. 

You have the feeling he’s assessing–examining–you, too. 

He cocks his head, awaiting a response. 

With a concluding exhale, step forth into the apartment. You won’t be getting far unless you play along, after all. 

Hesitantly, you begin to weave your way through the furniture, wary of the wrappers that crack and pop underfoot. He follows your form with a keen eyes, never once moving from your figure, not even when your pace slows as you shimmy through the space between the couch and the table. 

You pause in the middle of the centre couch, and he pats the space next to him–the space you’re most definitely going nowhere near–with an uncomfortable amount of eagerness. 

Covertly, you glance back at the front door. Tantalizing, it still sits wide open, and you ache to run to it. To get out of this thick-aired, claustrophobic apartment and away from this pale, smiling man who shouldn’t be anywhere near this building. 

The leather squeaks as you place yourself down on the edge of the seat. 

Up close, he looks even worse. 

He’s tall. Much taller than you, his neck almost painfully craned to be level with you. Sweat glistens on his face in a damp sheen that manages to make him look paler–moonlit and sallow–than he already is. His eyes are a sharp contrast to his pallid countenance; dark brown, almost black, irises that glint with embers of amber and stare intently into your own. They’d be pretty if they weren’t so wide. 

His hair is a similar colour, though perhaps darkened by the oil that douses it and gleams in the low-light. 

If not for what you’ve already seen, you’d dub him a fortunate squatter. Another blighted human being who’s clawed out a semi-comfortable space for himself. Away from the rain and cold, and kept warm by the hum of a distant heartbeat and the ebb and flow of the floorboards. 

Rigid, you shift, tightening and loosening your hold on your knife.

Placated with the sight of you sitting, he lowers his hand from his neck, the skin now itched red and raw; a stark contrast to the rest of his skin. As he does, you catch a glimpse of scars on his wrist–scars on his arms. Silver slashes, deep, contorted grooves and picked at scabs cover almost every inch of them, disappearing into the sleeves of his t-shirt. They look painful; reopened and scratched at as his skin desperately tries to close them. 

He looks like a lanky shadow that hides with the dust under your bed–one that only claws its way out at night–and another tired student that your drooping eyes would glance over in one of your classes. 

And that’s what unnerves you. 

“Should we put the music back on?” His back straightens, preparing to stand at your will. Though, you’re half sure he’ll do whatever he wants with or without your approval. “The boys always like swing and blues. Keeps them calm.” He finishes it with a slight giggle, eyes searching your face as if expecting a similar reaction.

Your brows twitch in confusion. Who on Earth were ‘the boys?’ More monsters for you to deal with? 

A gruff bark from your feet gives you the answer. 

There’s three of them, gangly–just like their owner–and a mix between tousled grey and black; something you’d see stalking you from just behind the treeline or sat, loyally, at a farmer’s feet. 

They’re big, too. 

Two of them lie at the socked feet of their owner, faces turned from you, and the other rests halfway beneath the coffee table, snout close to your feet. It opens one eye to stare at you before languidly closing it again. 

It doesn’t have a pupil. Or an iris. 

You swallow, deciding you’d rather not incur this thing’s wrath, nor learn what three sets of biting jaws can do to your soft insides. “Sure.”

Promptly, he stands, joints popping like he’s been sitting for far too long. With long fingers–spindly digits like cracks in plaster–he wipes off any crumbs from his dark grey joggers, before setting off to the kitchen.

With keen eyes, you make sure to follow him as he easily traverses the cluttered floor. He doesn’t bother to turn on another light as he fumbles through the inky kitchen. “I have not had company in a long while.” He giggles to himself. “Most, ah,” something clicks, and static fills the air. “Most find themselves quite taken by the voices and ears of the walls, but not you, dear.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you don’t like the implication. 

A song begins. As porcelain clatters against plastic and thumps against cardboard, you wait for lyrics. They don’t come. 

“Would you like something to eat?” Glass clinks. “Or drink?”

At the mention of food–at the mention of water–your stomach almost growls, and you’re yet again made aware of the insistent dry itch in your throat. Of the mawkish taste left behind by a dribble of vomit. It’s a tart reminder that you’re not in a pushy neighbour’s house, patiently waiting with a stiff smile for them to give you a chance to slip out the door. A reminder that all you’re doing is playing the role of houseguest. And a good houseguest never denies their host. “Some, um,” you think it over: there’s no way you’re eating whatever decades old food he has lying around. “Just some water, please.”

He lets out a pleased hum, busying himself with the dull thud of cabinets and the muffled tink of water flowing through decaying pipes.

As you wait, your feet and your mind grow restless. You’re happy to play along–for now–as long as it gets you somewhere. As far as you can tell, he’s happy simply playing ‘tea party’, and you have the inkling that you won’t progress–won’t find an end to this tangled string–unless you tug, hard, at it. 

Seems it's time for you to bite the bullet again. 

He continues to rummage around in the kitchen, and you have the numbing feeling that you may be getting more than a glass of water. With a surge of confidence, you open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it. “You know, The Walls told me a little secret.” Your ears perk at the mention of your previous interlocutor. “Would you like to know it?”

You crane your head, wordlessly nodding and hoping he sees it. 

Another jump of the pipes. You can feel them groan through the wood. “They told me you thought to jump. Why didn’t you?”

The question feels like a gut-punch. “...What?”

“It’s still dark out,” he appears again from the dimness. His arms look longer. “So I know it looks far, but it isn’t a long way down.” In his hand, he holds a plate, weighed down by what you’re guessing to be a sandwich. “You’d barely feel a thing.” It clatters loudly to the table when he sets down in front of you. 

It looks sodden; mottled with mould. 

“Eat, as well, won’t you?” Somewhat more gentle, he places a cracked glass of murky water next to your plate. “I do not want you going hungry.”

Your nose involuntarily crinkles at the sight. It wouldn’t be the first time that you’d eaten mouldy food, but you’d rather the last time actually be the last. 

He stares at you, expectant, and you can only smile–one that certainly doesn’t reach your eyes–as you take your hands from your knife and bring the plate to your lap. The least you can do is look like you’re preparing to eat it. 

Your shoulders tense when he sits down on the cushion next to you. Uncomfortably close, he bends his head down, fingers itching at a scab on his wrist. “So? Why didn’t you?” Avoidant, your eyes elude him, fingers picking at the bread. “You’ve come this far, so I know you’ve had a strenuous evening.” He pauses, yet again awaiting a response. One you’re desperately trying to avoid giving him. When you stay quiet, he seems to fumble for another convincing addition. “The air is fresh out there, and you wouldn’t have to see any more monsters.” Your lips still stay sealed. Sealed because he’s repeating some of your exact thoughts. He mumbles another reason. “Wouldn’t have to see it.”

Your head rises from staring intently at your bread. There it is again–’it’. Said with careful reverence and loaded with inferiority. 

Perhaps it's also time to try that question again. Who knows, maybe you’ll get an actual answer. 

“The Walls told me about that.”

He tilts his head. “About what?”

Carefully, you watch his contorted expressions as you begin to speak. “‘It’. The thing that-” you stumble around your words for a moment, unsure how to explain. “-the thing that’s playing around with me. The Walls said it is a ‘hungry thing that likes playing with its food’.” You watch as he raises his hand back to his neck, a glint of what you think is a mixture of annoyance and maybe even fear in his eyes. “So, what is ‘it’? Or, who, exactly, is ‘it’?”

His eyes flicker to the air in front of him, before moving back to you. “You like The Walls’ games, hm? They tell me you like them. We can play too.” He nods to himself. “I will answer, as long as you answer my question.”

The parrot squawks in the other room.

“Deal.”

He hums, choosing to stare into the empty space in front of him. “Nobody likes it, not at first,” a dog thumps its tail against the rug. “But they all do in the end. I think it likes the idea that it can make people think fear is fondness. I am not partial to it, still,” his scratching grows faster. “It always says I can’t keep my friends. Takes them for itself, even when they say they want to stay with me.”

Frustration yet again boils in your veins. Another semi-vague response that tip-toes around an actual answer. “That’s not an ans-”

His neck cracks as he turns back to you. “-just because it is not the answer you were looking for, doesn’t mean it is an answer you don’t need.”

You lean away from him, unnerved by his small outburst.

Give yourself enough time, and you’re sure things will start to click into place. Eventually. 

“Now,” he attempts to sit further upright, but still ends up bent. “Your turn. Why didn’t you? Freedom was right there, so why are you still striving for the sun?”

The wood creaks as you jiggle your leg, trying to stop your eyes from darting away from him. 

The answer is a simple one. An easy conclusion.

His head seems to lean in closer, anticipating your answer. 

“I didn’t,” You begin haltingly: all that time to think and you still haven't managed to organise your thoughts. “I thought that, maybe, I could-” Your mouth stops the words from tumbling out. “...The Walls told me it wouldn’t go well.” He huffs, something that almost sounds like annoyance. “My friend is stuck, too. I don’t want to leave her. I won’t leave her.”

Even if you still don’t know exactly how to help her, you’ll keep going. Keep walking up endless staircases, keep staring as many nightmarish creatures in the eye and ask as many questions as you need to, as long as it means she’s safe. 

You deserve this, anyway. Helen doesn’t. 

His foot taps, agitated, on the rug. 

The answer is a simple one. And you still weren’t able to speak it. 

A dog lets out a low growl, perhaps one of waking anger and directed at wisp-like intruders that float around in its dreamscape, and you’re reminded how close your feet are to their mouths. 

“The Walls are always so mean to me.” His eyes drift forwards, away from your form again, as his fingers move back to a scab on his forearm. The uneven nails make a clicking sound–like dried branches scraping against each other–as they dig into his skin. “They always make their friends stay, so I have no one to talk to.”

You can’t help but watch, unnerved and nauseous, as he peels away the blemish. Your fingers twitch with the need to stop him, to detach his fingers from the wound, but your body keeps you still. 

Red pools in the dip, festering in the space before steadily dripping down his gaunt arm. 

You don’t like that he bleeds the same colour as you. 

“I’m,” You peel your eyes away, but you can still hear it. The muffled click of nails against skin, nonchalantly digging in. “I’m sorry about that.”

It’s a lie. A thin one that’s more fearful placation than malice. 

A giggle leaves his throat, and his head swings–deliberately slow–over to look at you. “That’s okay.” His eyes are too wide. “You’re here now, after all.” He hasn’t blinked. “And we’ll have lots of fun.” 

He hasn’t blinked once. 

“I-”

“-You haven’t eaten.”

You freeze; a child caught with untouched vegetables still on their plate. A follower denying their cup of sanctity. 

The air feels thick in your lungs, only making it halfway down your dry throat before being pushed back up again. 

You have to do something. 

One of the dogs stretches, letting out a grumble before lying back down. 

Slowly, one of your hands begins to slide into your pocket. Here is your gap. Here is your chance. 

You set the plate aside. “I can’t stay.” You mean it as a statement, an order both to yourself and him, but it comes out as little more than a harsh whisper. 

As his body stills, you spy a muscle on his neck twitching underneath his thin skin from the corner of your eye. It looks painful. “Why?” He breathes, with the growl of a dog having its favourite toy torn from them. It’s one word, one question, but you don’t like how desperate–how quietly angry–it sounds. 

“I just,” And you know that you don’t have a good enough excuse. “I have to leave.”

You make the quick movement to stand–to leave–but his hand catches you before you can even make a step, his clammy hand slipping around your revealed wrist. “Why can’t you stay with me?” 

Adrenaline tightens your muscles. You’re one snap of one thin wire away from jamming your knife into somewhere soft. “Let go.”

Harshly, he tugs you. “Why?”

Your stomach blanches when your ears pick up something solid falling to the ground. 

His grip tightens. 

There’s no weight in your pocket anymore. 

And tightens. 

Frantic, your eyes dart downwards, searching the Persian rug for your only defense. 

And tightens. 

Your breathing comes out in short bursts as you begin to stumble around in the small space between the couch, the table and him. “I said let go of me!” How could you be so stupid?

All your movement seems to do is strengthen his iron grasp, tighter, and tighter and tighter he grips your forearm until his nails begin to press past your thin layer of skin.

“Why?”

A flush of panic spreads through your body. 

“Why, why, why, why?” He whines over and over like a desperate mantra as he attempts to keep you close to him.

You shouldn’t even have sat down. 

Thinning skin peels like an orange underneath your splintered nails. It gathers under the excess along with drops of building blood and pith. 

You shouldn’t have even entertained the idea of playing along. 

No matter how hard you dig your nails in, no matter how much force you put into trying to punch him, he doesn’t move. He just upholds that same, lidless smile with those same stained teeth that are too many and too sharp for his mouth. 

The dogs are barking. They’re right by your feet–you can feel their coarse fur on your legs as they corral your form and smell their dank breath.

Think- fucking think. Where the Hell is your knife?

Blood–your blood–pooling from misshapen crescent moons, dribbles down your forearm. You can feel where it soaks into the sleeve of your hoodie. You can feel his nails against your muscles and your skin and your veins. 

Your eyes peel themselves away from him and quickly search the floor. Maybe- maybe one of the dogs kicked it under the couch?

Where the fuck is it?

“You’ll be fine, dear.” He laughs- stop laughing. “Just fine.”

There’s something warm on your arm.

For a few moments, your body stills, your eyes slowly inching downwards. Your sleeve has been pulled up–bunched at the crease of your elbow–and you realise with horror scorching itself across your face that it isn’t the tepid trickle of your blood that you feel. 

It’s his tongue. 

He licks one long stripe, painfully slow and disgustingly wet. Hot breath blanches against your skin, followed by choked, maniacal giggles, as he gathers your gore and swallows.

Your arm shakes under his grip. Blood pools where you hold his arm. You wish you could break it. 

Erratic, his eyes–pits of black with sclera rubbed red–move upwards to find your own. As they trace your features, taking delight in your temporary stupor, you’re sure he finds unending pleasure in your pain. 

You choke a sob. You don’t want to cry–don’t have any more tears left in you–especially not in front of him, but you can’t help the way your chest burns with it. With the need to scream. With the need to claw everywhere he’s touched off of you. 

“Look at that.” His neck twists–cracks–like an owl’s, eyes bulging out of his head, as he looks somewhere to the left. Maybe to where your hand holds him. 

Tremblesome, he drags his arm, and yours, down to the dogs at his feet. You feel them lap at the spaces between your fingers, eager to taste death without coming close to it. 

Move. 

His eyes find their way to something on the table. 

Why can’t you move?

“You’ve had a long night, Y/N.”

You want to tear his face off. Make his pallid mask–a human suit stretched thin over something damned and infernal–look like your hands. 

“I think you need some food.”

Your stomach coils at the realisation. 

Before your body even registers it, his talons–you can see the dirt and the blood and the ash underneath his fingernails–clamps over your chin and jaw. Pushes you down by your head back onto the couch.

Metal rattles, “Whatcha’ doin’?”, and you think it’s your fetters. Clamped to your legs at last.

It’s when he starts to press down on your jaw that the tears finally start flowing.

Your hot breath–coming out of your nose in quick puffs–bounces off of his hand and right back onto your dirt layered face. It starts off as a dull pain–an annoying ache–that you can shrug off, but it quickly becomes excruciating. It spreads from where the pads of his fingers meet your skin, to your cheekbones, to your gums, to your teeth, until your mouth is forcefully parted. 

A sob wracks your body–your head shaking side to side, a desperate, ignored ‘no’–as he rips a large chunk off of the sandwich; crumbs falling noiselessly to the floor.

You try to shake your head away. Try to get your arms, free and limp at your sides, to do something, but they stay like that. Limp. 

Even your own body has given up on you. 

The bread is dry against your tongue and the inside of your cheek, your gag reflex automatically attempting to be rid of it before it enters your throat. The mould feels like spiderwebs, so distinctly different from the arid texture of the bread that you can pinpoint exactly where it is. 

“Come on.” He brings his other hand up to clamp your mouth shut. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” It smells of old sweat and indistinguishable carcasses that lie motionless on the side of the road.

With the painful grip on your jaw, you can’t even chew. 

For a few moments, you refuse to swallow. Refuse to let the slimy meat, the fossilised bread and the webs of mould anywhere further than a quarter way down your throat. Reflux acts as the saliva your mouth can’t create and keeps it as a damp lump that you yearn to throw back up. 

But you can’t breathe.

Your throat spasms around it, pushing it back to your mouth–the clump pressing against your teeth and begging to be let out. 

There’s a twitch in your legs. They–you–feel numb, but you think you’re kicking him. 

All you need is a loosening of grip. All you need is one slip up.

“Swallow.”

It moves back to your throat. No matter how much you gag, it stays stuck. 

Your chest spasms, that familiar burn growing. 

And he just keeps smiling. 

The pressure of the food, sliding down your throat, is almost as nauseating as the taste. 

Finally, his hands slide away from your jaw. You let it hang slack, spit–more stomach acid than saliva–dripping down your chin as you cough. 

Your head falls, hands covering your mouth as your vision comes in and out of focus. The Persian rug spins–one great endlessly turning wheel below you. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His words go in one ear and out the other. 

There’s a blemish in it. Silver and your face against the reds and faded creams.

Your eyes dart upwards, hand peeling itself away from your mouth and inching towards the floor as he reaches for the plate again. “Having a good meal before bedtime always makes for a peaceful sleep.”

Your fingers twitch as they grasp the warm plastic. One of the dogs empty eyes turns to look at you. 

“So, be a good friend,” He begins to turn back around. “And eat the food I-” 

The short blade pierces his neck. You hear the flesh split, feel as it sinks through muscles and ligaments in mere seconds–seconds that feel like hours–and watch as blood, deep red, spurts out in a disgusting display of life. 

You gaze into his eyes for nothing longer than a blink, but you find an odd joy fill you when you see pain–white hot anger–there instead of pleasure. 

Seems like even masochists have their limits. 

Using all of your body weight–all of your will–you slam yourself into his side and relish in the cracking cacophony of wood and bones. 

Seems even you have a chance. 

Your feet trip over each other, all you can hear is screaming–the screeching of tires and the muffled crumple of steel–and the door is right there. 

The broken skin of your hands sting as you grip onto the doorframe, practically swinging yourself forward with as much strength as your arms allow. You ignore how your feet slip from under you. Ignore the spasm in your leg. Ignore the deafening shouts that sound more like alarm bells than the cries of what you hope is a dying man.

Your foot finds the first step–creaking wood and endless darkness, a welcome change from the iron ridden carpet and crooked lace lamps.

Body running on nothing but fear, lungs breathing in more dust than air, your muscles flood with exhausted warmth. You can feel them cramp, but you’re almost out of this half of the woods. Almost to another floor where you’ll sulk for what feels like hours before actually doing what you have to do. Almost a step closer to finding Helen.

Your feet make the turn to the concrete mid landing. 

Almost. 

Your aching jaw slams into the concrete as you fall, and your brain rattles in its skull. Your tongue feels like putty, and your eyes are melting out of your skull.

There’s…there are hands on you. Prying fingers that tug and pull. Your head is one great weight–a useless anchor–as they turn your body. You can feel them everywhere. On your face, threading through your hair, on your eyelids, under your skin, on your arms–the world shifts as you’re turned.

Your teeth ache in their gums. If you had the energy to move your arms, you’d pick them out, one by one. 

Your neck aches as your head thump…thump…thumps on each step. There’s wet, hot breath in your ear, and so much screaming. Throaty and pathetic, it rings in your ears.

Maybe that will ease your headache. 

Damp sticks to your hoodie as you’re dragged backwards. It’s distressingly warm, uncomfortably fresh, as it soaks through the fabric, through your shirt, and sticks to your skin. 

Perhaps you should try the same with your leg? Rip the skin open and search through bone, muscle, tissue and fat until you find that cold itch. 

Drowsily, your free leg juts out and your hands–limp above your head–search for something to hold onto. All it leaves you with is more iron under your fingernails. 

You’ll pull it out with your bare hands if you have to. 

Your pupils constrict as light finds them again. Cold, numb and tired, your chest heaves, and the screaming finally stops. 

Your throat is hoarse. 

As your fuzzy pupils register the door, register the figure dragging you back to the light, your body makes a move. Moves and does the one thing it can do to get you free. 

Without a blade to aid you–you’re half sure it’s still wedged in his neck–you kick. 

Hard. 

Even through the ringing, through the sobbing, through the squawking, you still hear the crunch of bone.

Still feel the white hot pain of hungry maws wrapping themselves around your arms and legs. Still feel rotting canines split your skin and pull at you like a toy. 

Everything is a blur of tears, adrenaline, and indistinguishable moving figures. 

When did it get so quiet?

There’s drying mud caked on your legs, warm air burning your lungs, and the chalk white finish line is indistinguishable. All you can see is green. 

Your hands wrap around snouts and dislocated jaws, pushing and pulling and hitting until they stop. 

Come on, Y/N!

It’s almost like you’re watching yourself. 

Summer will be here soon. You can feel it. Feel the warmth–practically dripping–down your arms, seeping past the cold mud on your legs. 

For a few seconds–calm, fleeting seconds–you are one of the shades that flickers in the corners of the hallway. One of the shadows that flinches at the moonlight, and peers at you from behind a door.

Another set of running footsteps. You’re almost there, and you want to close your eyes.

One of the shadows that flickers after its twin body.

Your feet slip from under you with the damp grass. Heart thumping in your ears, you vow to never do this again.

One of the eyes that watches from between rotting steps. 

You feel nothing and everything. Your stomach has emptied itself, grit digs into wounds, and you are so very, very afraid.

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

I was originally planning to not update this month, but I saw one of my favourite bands and like, two weeks later, had a massive burst of creativity. Everyone thank Vessel of Sleep Token and a really morbid dream for this chapter. 

I wanted to say thank you so, so much to everyone who’s been keeping up with this! I didn’t think I’d get anywhere close to the number of people reading this, let alone receiving the comments I have. 

To those who celebrate, I hope you had (or are having) a lovely Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule or Kwanzaa! Celebrations or not, I hope you guys have a chilled out last half of December, too.

See you all next year <3

[differenteagletragedy]

Hello, are your requests open? If so, do you have any hcs/thoughts on Cove with a shy mc that works in the aquarium as a professional mermaid? Like, how he found out, how he feels about it- (how his dreams at night change after this revelation lmao)

If not, then please don't mind this request! Thank you for all the fics that you wrote, they bring a smile to my face every time you upload❤️

Belated Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to youuuu

This is extra sweet because it's a shy MC! Bless these little babies.

-- If you're shy, then it probably took a lot for you to go for this job, good for you! So since this would be a bit unexpected probably the best way to tell Cove would be to surprise him.

-- You line everything up, sneak off to training, and on your first day you just tell Cove that you should meet at the aquarium! Even if you live with him at this point lol, you can't go together, you've got some errands to run, your moms need help with something, whatever. It's ok to fib for the first part because it's for a surprise!

-- But he is a little sweetie who will do anything for you, so sure, he'll meet you there! You tell him to meet by one of the big tanks, the ones where those mermaids are sometimes. He is very down for that.

-- Mermaids are a thing for you and Cove, they always have been. You talked about them when you were little, when he got his cast off sometimes you'd play mermaids when you went to the beach. You still played mermaid sometimes if we are being honest. They're his favorite mythological creature, obviously. He's gotten you little gifts with mermaids on them.

-- So he gets to the spot and you're not there yet, that's fine, he'll just watch the mermaids! Oh look, there's a new mermaid! That's cool OH MY GOD IT'S YOU

-- Jaw dropped, eyes wide, he better not have been holding anything because it would be on the floor. Because there you are with a FANCY MERMAID TAIL in the AQUARIUM and there are FISH swimming with you and why is this everything he never knew he always needed.

-- Just total awe for this whole part. And like he'll think it's hot too, come on.

-- But he is so proud of you! What a neat job, and way to step outside your comfort zone! He'll have a billion questions about how you got the job, what made you want to do it, can you play with the fish, can he touch your tail, etc.

-- He wouldn't think to do it the first time, he'd be too amazed, but eventually he'll start taking so many pictures and he'll look at them a lot. Just very very often.

-- He will also tell anyone who will listen (actually listening is not a requirement) that you're his partner.

Cove: See that mermaid right there? The prettiest one? They're with me.

Toddler who didn't ask for this: I LIKE ARIEL

Cove: *smug smirk* Yeah she's pretty cool too.

-- Lol not his dreams

-- He may have looked up how mermaids hook up and then deleted his entire search history over and over, tossed all those cookies straight in the trash. If you ever found out somehow, he would deny it until he's on his deathbed, then he would deny it again with his last breath.

-- Ok so I'm not super sure on this one but I thought about it and want to throw it out there: what if Cove gets a tattoo of a mermaid for you? Not like with your face or anything, but maybe it's got your hair color or the tail is the same color as the one you wore.

[maryonmega]

Twin Stars - Chapter 14

Pleasant (bittersweet?)

Your hand stings. When you held it out, the area where you held your dagger was darkened. Of course it is. No scars means no callouses. 

It's fine. You're not actually hurt aside from that. You didn't give the poor child even more survivor guilt. Everything is fine. 

Now that you have Nille's hand in yours, you can tell that it's very calloused, too. Everyone around you works hard and it shows in their bodies. 

You don't need to show in your body. You can feel yours in your soul. 

"Thank you. For helping us. Truth is, I don't know a lot of combat craft..."

"Not everyone does. What matters is that That everyone is okay now."

You say everyone, but you're still looking at Bonbon. They're not smiling. The carefree smile they had telling you two about how the party met the lady is long gone. Makes sense. But no one's bleeding, so it should be fine soon enough. And no one will. You're sure of that. Even if that encounter was not a fib. 

Because... even if you are an orchid character, doesn't mean you can't act. 

"Still." She rubs your hand. It's comforting. As odd as that sounds. Accepting her touch doesn't feel like a betrayal. Just like neither does saying her name. It's like she's the one solid evidence of the vague idea you had back there, with Mirabelle. Ironic, how what's keeping you in this plane mostly comes from women "Thank you, Sisyphus."

The idea that crosses your mind is absurd, but, after that scare, you can brush it off as a "heat of the moment" thing. Because you're not overthinker Siffrin.

"I can show you some, if you want."

"It'd be nice, yeah."

"That was so cool!" Bonbon says. You... not surprised, after the tension broke and everyone is okay. That last part sure is important for them, you know.

Your eyes sting. You hold them in. Bonnie's alright, you have no reason to cry.

"Think nothing of that, kiddo. You have to know how to look after yourself, when out and about." You breath in, and out. Nille accepted your offer "What's your craft type, by the way?"

"I'm a paper type."

What?

"What?"

"Don't look like it?" She's smirking. Did she- she thinks your shock is funny? "You're not the first."

"Figures!" She could snap you like a stick! And made a protective stance! Don't judge a book by the cover indeed!

"Of course, if that makes things hard..."

"No, no, the idea is kind of similar, I guess. I'll help you!"

"You could help me too. I want to make people stronger." You can almost hear the like Za in Bon's voice. You're not surpised they choose this route. You... You're not surprised at all...

"Maybe, maybe..." You mumble. You feel yourself slump on the cart.

You can feel the silence after that.

~~

The lady drops you off at the town she was staying. Her caravan was there for a fair that would happen a few days later.

You'd be more surprised if the party didn't decide to stick around a little longer after that. You should have seen the return of the alliances, however. In a way. The seven of you decide beforehand, as well as a meeting spot. It was, good, to have something on the forefront of subjects so you won't have to worry too much about saying too much. You're sure it's gonna be mostly looking, anyway. 

You don't breakdown on Mirabelle again, you don't feel sick when, the day of, you eat a cheese croissant, you even find yourself smirking to the looks Stardust and Bon give you. You do feel pressure on your throat when it downs on you that you're calling them Bonnie and has to pass it off as "wrong pipe", but overall, the moment comes with no big incident.

You have not third wheeled early morning and don't want to ruin the day by doing so now. Looking at trinkets could be nice but you know you'll be too nervous around Madame to actually enjoy. Who does that leave you with? Today is "together with the coastal siblings" day, it seens. That... sure will help with your little situation, you're sure. 

Bonnie seens more than entusiastic about the booths. Not "disturb others" level, good thing, but has been all but dragging you both. An almost comical image, in part due to your sizes.  

You are taken by surprise when they keep having their eye caught by little crafted (in the artsy sense, not the spell sense) animals – a crouchet bunny, a porcelain hen with chicks, a wodden rather specific type of fish with a joint to move it's tail – although not in a way that tips to wanting to have one, and your surprise give you a wave of sadness. 

Did you forget about this? About this side of Bonbon, Bonnie, Boniface, when you gradually stripped them and others of their dimensions? Did you never know that, your time before the start too taken by a mix of fear and escapism to have less than surface level things emerge? 

Is it a difference, something more to indicate that this is another minor-case-k kid? Not your Bonbon despite everything? Someone who you'll have to know again, as much as you are to them now? 

... 

Much like with your birth name, you're hit with the reality that you'll never know. 

You watch Nille lift a hen decoration with eggs under it and admit that it's cute but easy to get distracted and break. 

Madame was right, she is young. Sure, twenty one is an adult, but Bonnie doesn't remember their parents. The start must have been rough. You'd know, but... Not really. You had to grow up too fast, too, but at least you only had to worry about yourself. 

And, now, after a crisis that affected the both of them personally, you're intruding in their moment. You should leave, though, seeing the song and dance happening, you feel like you should do something, yet anything you choose will be wrong. 

You feel a tug in your heart.

You pinch at the cloth of your sleeves. Not most, far from most, but some of the stuff is rather cheap. Maybe...

You grab a little bird. Or rather, a head, a torso, a tail and two wings separated with strings conecting them. It's clearly meant to be a decoration rather than a toy, but will have to do. 

"I'm having this little guy. You guys want a little guy too?"

"Oh no don't worry." "No. I'm no baby."

Yup, no surprise at all. You nod and walk out with your dismembered bird and leave the two to have their moment without a prying eye. 

...

You're going to regret it. 

You don't pick an expensive one. A little sheep that you can hold between your fingers. Too much at once can be overwhelming. You take your sweet time putting everything back in place before paying, then hide the toy in your pocket. Later. 

You consider wandering to let them have more time, but, you're not as much of a corvid as your Stardust. You choose to drag your feet and act distracted with the bird that maybe you'll crudely sew into your turttleneck just to justify having it. 

"Hey, sorry for taking so long."

Best thing you can do, really. Let them have their moments. Even if it's just audience seat, it's great that there's no forth wall. 

When you all are done and go find where to sleep, you put your hand on the pocket to grab the little toy sheep, and your finger brushes on something you haven't thought about in a while. 

You still have to return Stardust's coin. 

...

Well, you don't have to give the sheep now. 

It was a fun little time, but pretty much it. It's not like shopping was the main objective, after all. South still took priority, with your starting point. A silver coin and a tiny dolly weight nothing, but you're so aware of them in your pocket that they might as well be a twenty pounds heavy.

Vaugard is beautiful even in autumn. It's not full of mountains, at least not in the route you all chose (well, the party chose, but you wouldn't complain). Climbing doesn't sound like the right word for what happens next. Hike? Maybe. You should get a dictionary too. One of the few things you're sure of now is that Bonnie wants to bite your arm untill you drop the block of cheese.

All the walking left you tired to the bones and made the bedrolls of the camp lure you like a siren call and the chilling air around made putting out the fire feel like a crime. But! It's fine! You're not heartless, in any sense now. You offer to Mira to use your cloak as a shared blanket out of kindness! Not because you want that very normal to want and very much achievable good grade in party member! 

"You don't have to do that. It's your cloak."

"Yes, it's mine, and I can do what I want with it, including sharing."

Stars, you sound like a child. It's true, though.

Mirabelle lets out a small sound, then crawls closer, still clinging to her own blanket. You don't think about how you were already close by sharing a tent and now the folds of the blankets are the only barrier that isn't mental. You unclasp your cloak and let it fall over the two of you, the craft doing it's trick if the relief on her face was a good indicator. 

"Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

If she does, she might pity you more. You don't want your new-old friendship to start with pity. 

For some time, you're not sure how long, you just lie awake and watch her breath. 

...

You rub the leftover sleep off your eyes. 

You can't quite remember your dream, but you feel... somehow different. Light. Maybe it's just the rest, your body thanking you for taking care of it for once. 

Why do you also feel like you should beware mint? How specific. 

You get out from under the cloak and blanket and get out as carefully as you can to not wake her up. You're cold like a snake with bad circulation, but that's alright. The goosebumps in your skin are almost welcome, even now. Besides, you don't have to stay cold for very long. It's easier to find dry sticks in fall. Because! You're nice! And it's easier now that you actually woke up during decent sunlight. And Bonbon will like that, you hope. 

The place you all stopped at is quite pretty. The trail is not too steep and is surrounded by vegetation made more interesting by the fall color changes, plus the rocks. If it wouldn't become too heavy soon, you could get some cool rocks. 

You make a pile with the sticks and some dry grass in the small circle of rocks that was made yesterday and do your best to light it up. The warmt is welcome on your face and through the fabric of your shirt. Not the same as your cloak, but welcome and brings feeling back to your fingertips. 

The sun doesn't move much by the time you hear a tent open. The siblings. Of course.

"So that's why it's warmer."

"Good morning to you too, Bonnie."

"G'morning." "Morning, Sisyphus."

Now seens like a good moment, no?

"I was thinking about making breakfast. Grilled cheese sandwiches!"

"And it's for things like this that I keep the pots and pans!" Yup, holding back in front of big sis.

"Snack leader doesn't share?"

"Oh, you don't know half of it." Pétronille said. You see her face become teasing.

"I'll wait to know, then."

...

You said that out loud?

"Well, Bon, if my idea is such an insult, then let me make a truce offer."

You stand up from where you were by the fire, and make your way back to the tent. Mira is still asleep. You dig into a pocket to find the little sheep. 

You walk back with your arms behind your back and your head hung in a way that makes your hair fall your face. You hope that will hide your little smile. 

You make a show of getting down to one knee and presenting the sheep. 

"Forgive me, my liege."

You wait. 

They don't take the sheep. For some time. This is starting to get awkward. 

You hear them hum and take it. You look up, and they have a rather serious look on their face. 

"Offer accepted." Bonnie say. You... don't think they're quite playing around, but you're not going to poke in case they are. 

The morning goes by smoothly. Sort of. Mira gave back your cloak and the others are in autumn clothes. Of course. You should know they would have those. The trail is still quite a sight. After your life as a wanderer became a bitter memory, who would know something similar would be welcome?

It's another thing when you go back to walking - hiking! Hiking is the right word! - and Bonnie hangs back for a moment. Near you. 

They look serious. The little sheep has it's head poking out of their collar. 

"Sisy, you don't have a dead baby somewhere, do you?"

What?

"What?"

Was this Mirabelle's theory? She did see that you were(are) grieving, but...

"Belle thinks you had a baby but they died and that's why you're nice to me." Bonnie says, like it was just run-of-the-mill dumb gossip "But that's stupid. She and Za don't have a baby but they're nice to me, too. And not everyone who has babies is nice to them. And I'm no baby, I'm already in the two digit club..."

They continue to talk about how the theory is stupid, and you feel yourself be pulled out of reality by the sheer dread creeping in your veins. 

Buying that sheep was a mistake No, if they liked it enough to tuck like that, than it was a good thing. 

But, oh, boy, you're blinded. More than you thought.