#do you all remember the first one. that one was kind of unsettling i kept having staring contests against the fumiya on my header

[polycharismas]

would you all get mad at me if i made another charisma house theme

[willyoubemycherryy]

Intimacy Cues (C. Kent)

Summary: Who better to teach you how to talk body when you never learned the language?

Contains: smut AND plot so it’s long,depressing past, the college au you all secretly needed, struggles with physical touch, struggles with any form of intimacy, one mild panic attack, Clark is understanding but hot, dumb ideas, hugging, bonding, kissing, making out, it starts off shaky then soft but quickly snowballs into horn-e central, size kink, slight dumbification, strength kink, first kisses, virginity kept but not for long just give me till the second part, Clark is a little infatuated, they’re so nasty about each other my word, grinding, kissing (no forreal), prayer bc we all need it

A/N- my stomach is fine, it wasn’t a tumor but a blockage because of something I ate that never digested, causing my tummy to bloat and swell but they fixed me up so I’m back😈

. .* ੈ✩‧₊•

“Nononono- no, stop!!”

This might be the worst decision of your entire life.

Clark pulls away again, looking down at you with his eyebrows drawn together in concern but also exasperation because-

“Hey! It’s okay- you’re okay. Remember…you were the one who asked for my help.” He didn’t say the obvious “but we’re not getting any farther” part out loud but it echoes through your head all the same and you breathe out a deep sigh; regretting it with the depths of your very being but, yes. You did ask him for his help.

Help with what? The answer would’ve ended your social life if anyone who wasn’t Clark had found out.

You needed his help with…closeness- intimacy.

Growing up you were always awkward. Not in a charming way or even unconventional, you just simply didn’t make the cut based by society’s standards. You were always too gangly, too weird, too timid; so imagine the surprise come middle of highschool to now college where you’ve finally grown into yourself.

You know how you like to dress and which clothes look hottest on you, you know what hairstyle suits best for your face shape, you’re still weird but you’re also sarcastic which somehow equals charm to people and you’ve also managed to come out of your shell a bit. Becoming more confident from people naturally gravitating towards you after your blooming stage and even more after letting your friends convince you to join your college’s cheerleading team. You’d become everything you wanted to always try.

Pretty, popular, and fun. The problem?

Thanks to how much of a late bloomer you were, you never got the chance to get comfortable with others intimately during your formative years. Nobody liked you in that way and you were terrified of embarrassing yourself so there was nothing. No first kiss, no first dance with a boy, hell- even now you still get uneasy when others stare at you too long. Hiding behind your image as a college sweetheart made everything you were still to unsettled to try easier. Don’t misunderstand; it wasn’t that you never wanted those things, it’s that you’re not used to others suddenly picking you for those kinds of things after being invisible and missing out on them for almost all your life to the point where you don’t know how to deal with it when those moments do happen.

Still, you acted like everything was fine.

Playing the role of pretty cheerleader- the flirty tease that was favored by many even though that favor was shallow as a tear on a hot day. You pretended. And it was working, nobody knew…or so you believed.

Cue to one of the football teams parties where you’d been flirting with a guy, coy smile painted on your face as you giggled softly whenever he spoke, batting your pretty eyes at him in your little mini skirt. It had been going well until he suddenly leaned closer, focusing solely on you and when you felt the heat of his skin from how close he was- it felt as if the color had drained from your face, leaving you frozen as you became so uncomfortable it was visible; nerves screaming at you to flee until you listened. Spinning on your heels and bolting, trying to calm your breathing enough to will the cotton out of your ears.

You didn’t realize it then but a certain pair of blue eyes had been watching the whole thing. He’s always seen you. Which is funny because you almost always actively avoid him. In fact, he’s seen you enough to know that this isn’t the first time you’ve had that reaction and one day after a particularly rough week of endless pondering over you; he decides to just ask you after practice is over. Clark waits until his and your friends leave, it being only you and him on the field when he starts to walk over to you. The sound of incoming footsteps make you look up and when you see him, he can hear the very second your heart stops; skipping a beat before it quickly begins to thrum out of rhythm.

Honestly, there genuinely are not enough words to describe how attractive Clark Kent was. He was so incomprehensibly beautiful that you avoided Clark altogether just to avoid getting a headache from staring at him for too long especially since the real suffering started when he’d smile. Seemingly perfect pearly white straight teeth but when his grin broadened, his sharp canines would show, leaving you breathless every time. The type of good looking that was flat out overwhelming. Besides being apart of adjacent stereotypes, you two didn’t go together but there was no animosity.

Clark stops and you have to look up at him because of his hulking size. At almost 6’4 he nearly dwarfed you and his proportions matched. Thick, beefy everything- everywhere and you swallow before forcing a smile on your face. While you preferred to avoid him for the sake of keeping yourself out of the psych ward from how crazy he could drive you; you were still curious as to why he came to talk to you. He takes a moment to just look at you, cerulean eyes almost glowing but he doesn’t realize how intense his stare is until you start to shuffle on your feet- dainty hands twitching nervously at your side and that’s when he speaks.

“Hey…I know we don’t usually talk or anything but are you okay?” Even his voice is dreamy but confusion draws on your face because you felt fine; nervous, like you were around any guy you thought was cute, but fine. Clark elaborates at your expression,

“Y’know because of what happened at the party last-”, that seems to jog your memory enough to snap you out of it, eyebrows shooting up as dread overtakes over your face. You whip your head around, making sure there’s no witnesses when you grab him by his sweaty shirt, dragging him all the way behind the bleachers as you slam him against the metal. Clark is caught so off guard that he just lets it happen; lets the pretty thing half his size drag him as you pleased. Your eyes shift as you glare up at him.

You’re positive he’s talking about your little freak out with close proximity guy, the one that made you leave the party completely; walking so fast you nearly burned a trail in the carpet. Heart pounding, you start to spiral.

He wasn’t supposed to see that. He- like everyone else- was supposed to be too drunk to notice anything.

Your nose scrunches, full lips curling in a snarl. “I swear if you say anything to anyone-!” You’re threatening him so fast, Clark falters, raising his hands in defense, debilitating blue eyes widening as he starts to plead his case.

“No no-! I didn’t! I-“, He stutters at your harsh gaze, the feel of your hands soaking through his shirt, warming his chest. He needs to hurry up and explain himself before you start disliking him. “I was just worried! Whenever I see you and a guy, even if you act interested-“, he rushes out, panting as he talks even faster, “the second they get too close you look like you’ll vomit!” Your hostility melts into shock and even more confusion and you let go of his shirt, stepping back as you study him, his words stuck in your mind.

“How..? Are you- you’ve been paying that close attention to me? When do you even see me?” You’re at such a loss for words that it’s hard to string them together to properly question him.

“…I”, he swallows harshly, “I always see you.” It’s pure adrenaline that motors his mouth- he thought he was over the time when lovely faced girls made him nervous but you were unexpectedly feisty. It lit something tingly in him. Your eyes search his face and he spills. “I see how you flirt but you’re sarcastic too. Everyone is so taken by your pretty that they don’t even notice, they just call it ‘wit”, he manages to catch his breath enough to sound less panicked now that you look like you won’t kill him, “I see how even though you’re a flyer, you hate heights-”

“H-how-?”

“Your right leg shakes when they lift you, no matter how stable your base is.” Your mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out, heart racing when his voice goes soft,

“But what I’m saying is- so what that you’re not really what you give off? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. ‘Jus curious why you think it is…”, he blinks those long lashes at you and you find yourself explaining the tale of your sordid social past.

By the end of it he’s stunned speechless.

You? Just how bad was your awkward phase for nobody to be interested in you? Wait so that also probably meant that-

“You’re a virgin?!”

You slap your hands over his mouth with a speed equal to his own, face flushed as you shush him, hissing in a low whisper.

“Jesus Chri- shut up! Are you trying to tell the entire campus?!!” You let out another heavy sigh.

“…yes, I am”. You let your hands fall to the side, refusing to look at him while he’s trying to process; silence filling the space between you. You’ve accepted that your ego will never recover from the most gorgeous being on the planet knowing about all your…truths. That you looked and acted the part of a vixen just to hide that you secretly weren’t.

“…so you’ve never done anyt-”,

“No.”

Well then.

You can’t take another long drag of awkward silence, turning to face the boy who knew you probably more than anyone else did.

“Look- I would’ve loved to remedy this but I-”

“Can’t stomach whenever a guy gets too close due to previous deep rooted societal wrought insecurities…” Bingo.

“Well for what it’s worth,” he gives you one of his disarming grins and a flush creeps up your neck; warming your ears, “I think you’re doing fine now.” You snap your head down to see that you two are standing fairly close or at least closer than you normally allow and you don’t have that itch to get him as far away from you as possible. That’s when you get the idea that- “Oh my god! You can help me get over my thing! This is perfect!”! You’re practically vibrating with glee, excited to finally have all your firsts without that looming of touch related dread haunting you. Clark however is swarmed with various images of him “helping” you and can’t keep his ears from reddening at all the different scenarios where he’d be required to be close to you and begins to stutter.

“W-well, I wa- not that I-! I don’t think that’s a good idea, I mean w-we-”, you cut him off before he can weasel out of it, eyebrows creasing in frustration. You unconsciously step closer, your sweet smell bathes his senses as he stares you down, trying not to gulp too hard. “Please, Clark?”, you start and he swallows harshly at how his name sounds in that whiny tone from your lips.

“It can’t be anyone else because you’re the only one who knows! We’re not close now but we could be-“, and the double meaning makes him tune out completely as he only watches your plump lips move; not even registering the sound coming from them. He was thankful you didn’t ask him why he watched you so closely because the answer was one he wasn’t ready to even admit to himself.

Your lips stop moving after a while and them paired with your begging doe eyes make him cave, Clark nodding in hopeless defeat. He was supposed to be over the influence of pretty girls.

“S’okay, I’ll help you out. Your secret’s safe with me.” The corner of his mouth tilts up in a lopsided smile that was somehow both attractive but made you feel safe and you smile shyly back. You were nervous but you know Clark is a good guy- reckless as hell with his charms- but a good guy. What could go wrong?

•

•

•

Standing in the middle of your dorm room with your arms wound tight around yourself is when you find out that alot can go wrong.

Clark came over and you two came up with a starting plan that seemed the easiest: talk and slowly close the distance between you two until he was touching and looking at you without you getting uncomfortable or pushing him away. It sounded simple enough at first only…. you severely underestimated how you’d react to Clark. The way his deep mellow voice sounded in your ears, how he always held such steady eye contact as he moved towards you, that heavenly jawline tilting when he’d think too long. Already, Clark was big from afar but up close he was even bigger. Strong arms and broad shoulders; chest so thick it was noticeable through his shirt. You were used to others falling at your feet but Clark stood fine and it affected you in ways you didn’t prepare to deal with, so you tried to do what you always did- ignore it.

Matching Clark’s light conversation as you two eventually get more comfortable, gradually gravitating towards each other with slow short steps. The air shifts when you exhale and the breath tickles his chest. This is when you normally get squeamish but you merely hesitate for a few minutes before taking a deep breath and pushing yourself by letting him keep his distance.

His hand twitch and he shuffles a bit closer, biceps flexing as he reaches out, resting his hands on your shoulders; your conversation quiets as he stares at you with perfectly blue lidded eyes and then you feel the stirrings of restlessness under your skin. That impeding urge to get away. Despite the way you feel, the slow atmosphere helps you tremendously to not pull away but your pulse spikes all the same. His hands felt nice. You take another deep breath as you try to come to terms with what you were feeling.

Clark was a guy.

A guy who was standing in your bubble, touching you- looking at you.

A million emotions fly across your face at record speed and Clark doesn’t move any more for the next couple minutes. No, he waits for you; large rough palms warm on your bare shoulders while his pinky idly messes with the thin strap of your top. Your skin was soft. The heavy rise and fall of your chest has him focusing on you more intensely, trying to get a read on how you felt until you break the silence with a shaky exhale.

“We can keep going- you can keep touching me.” He knows you don’t mean it that way but his ears burn anyways as he nods. Taking a second to think before taking his hands off you to take yours, ignoring your big eyes look as he places your hands around his waist- inevitably moving closer and his voice softens like he’ll frighten you away if he were to speak any louder.

“You can touch me too. Promise I don’t mind…this is for you after all.” You suppress a whine because being so close was already hard with you fighting every instinct yelling at you to get gone and go somewhere where nobody could comprehend you but now with Clark staring at you like that, it was even harder. Your eyes flick about the room as you flatten your palms more against his back, mentally rolling your eyes back at how his muscles feel. You don’t even realize you’re biting your lip but Clark does, instantly alert the second he felt your small hands nervously press against him, his eyes zeroed in on the swollen skin dipping under the pressure of your teeth. He feels bad because while he was supposed to be helping you, he couldn’t stop thinking about how sexy you were being so shy but hardheaded enough to build up the grit to go for what scared you because you wanted it.

Without taking his eyes off your face, he rubs his hands up to your neck, making you squeak before smoothing them back down your shoulders; repeating the motions with a gentle hum.

The room feels hot- you felt hot and jittery but it’s too much. Unable to keep the waves at bay, goosebumps trickle over your skin and your eyes scrunch in panic as your breathing picks up. He was close. Close and touching you. You can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes because you know when you do, you’ll be naked for all to see and you scream.

“Stop!”

Nobody can see you-nobody’s supposed to be seeing you, the girl who was never even chose last as you were overlooked entirely no matter how badly you wanted to reach out. Maybe that’s what started your fear. Maybe you were scared of losing experiences because of rejection.

Clark doesn’t move away but he isn’t touching you anymore and you aren’t touching him as your hands fly to the sides of your head, trying to calm yourself down and guilt pours over him. He wants to hug you; comfort you but he knows that pulling you against him in a hug will only worsen things right now so he waits. Closing his eyes to help you feel at ease, listening closely to the beat of your heart until your breaths quiet and he hears it fluctuate back to normal. He keeps his eyes closed until he feels your small trembling hands slide back around him and instead of putting his hands on your shoulders, he moves his arms around them; resting them against your back but not pulling you in yet. It’s quiet besides the hushed sounds of him cooing at you and your breathing. The air now has an underlying current and you shift in his heavy arms, inhaling deeply as you finally look up at his face. Shyly, you cut the silence; voice soft as how you feel.

“…you can open your eyes now..” Clark feels his own heart speed up before he responds, low tone matching yours and electricity hits you when it clicks. This is intimate.

“Are you okay? We can stop and try again some other time; I don’t wanna upset-,”

“I want you to look at me.”

His eyes pop open at your command, peering down at you in such a way that your breath catches; anxiousness rising up you again but you stay right where you are. Willing yourself to embrace the exposed way he makes you feel.

Under the heat of his stare it’s like he’s seeing everything you’ve ever hid or been but his hold is steady enough to let you know he’s there with you and he’s not going anywhere. You still feel naked but more than that, you feel safe. Comfortable enough to not shy away from his warmth, you take another breath; looking up at him through your lashes- it makes his head fuzzy.

His eyes shift from their usual blue to the shade of the sea after a storm and you’re swept away, logic going with you as you slowly glide your hands up his sides to his where his arms hold you. Feeling every dip and curve of his strong build until you reach his hands, repositioning them around your lower back. You move closer but because you two were already standing so close- your chests touch and Clark stops breathing. The soft swell of your breasts move against his body with your every inhale and he finds his senses filled with you.

Your gaze is torn away when you turn your head, looking down as you drop against his chest. Arms looping around him making his own instinctively curl around you, holding you tight to the firm but soft muscle of his chest. You both pause for a few minutes- waiting for the urgent panic but it never comes. Instead, you melt into him with a relieved sigh, warm breath bleeding into his shirt. You two were officially hugging.

And you were in heaven.

You never knew close contact with the opposite gender could be so delightful. Clark was just so big and warm and smelled so good, you bury your face into the meat of his pec almost deliriously, sighing happily. Fuck, you really had been missing out. His arms are firm and heavy against your back, effectively locking you against him. The endorphin rush hitting you has you practically purring; the sounds of your bliss vibrating Clark’s chest and he smiles, letting you get your fix as he enjoys the way you fit into his arms.

Unsurprisingly, you two stay like that for a while. Fitted against each other in the silence of your cozy bedroom. He sees the top of your head move and he’s suddenly looking into your eyes, pupils blown so wide that your eyes are black. Clark has to bite his lip to keep from smiling at how cute you look. Your eyes flit down to his mouth to see the peek of his fangs that always show, letting out a small breathy ‘oh’ when you do. You’re still reeling in all the best ways as you rest your chin against his chest, unabashedly looking at his handsome face.

Clark raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the phantom hearts in your eyes and the way your small feet are standing on top of his larger ones while you make no attempt to separate your bodies, completely content with his proximity. He likes you so he likes your closeness and he’s even more elated that you seem to like him being so close too. Speaking lowly so he doesn’t disturb you, he checks if you’re still on the planet with him.

“This okay, sweetheart? Y’enjoying yourself?” The petname slips out but you don’t move or rush to correct him as your blood simmers, a numbingly pleasant heat washing over you so strong it’s hard to think. Running your hands in a slow caress up his back, you feel the muscles flex as his arm twitches and a smile grows on your face as you blink dumbly- brain currently taking a break, you mumble sweetly,

“Mmhm, yeah. Never better.”

And it’s true. You’ve never felt this safe, this free with anyone that wasn’t immediate family or your best girl friends. He was touching you and seeing you but you didn’t care because you knew whatever he was seeing and touching, was safe as it would ever be with him.

Clark huffs out a laugh at your belated response, moving one of his hands in a warm caress up your back, feeling you shiver and he bites his lip again. You were so alluring without even having to try and he breathes to reign himself in since he was currently the first and only to have you melting like this from a hug alone. If a hug got you like this he could only imagine how beautifully you’d respond to-

“Um, C-Clark?” Your soft voice brings him back as he hums, flicking his eyes down lazily at you.

“Yeah, baby?” Your sweet little gasp makes him realize that he just called you another nickname but you don’t seem to mind, flustering prettily in his arms. He leans down closer to your face, only to hear you better, eyes patient as he stares at you.

“I know this is supposed to be about me but how do you feel? You’ve been so good with me..I just wanna make sure you’re okay too.” Clark smiles, moved that you’re worrying about him even with all his experience.

“Yeah I feel good but how about you? Want me to let go or we can try something different?” He would’ve asked if you wanted to stop but he was going off your body language and it was telling him distance was the last thing you wanted and he was right as you shook your head before resting your chin back into his chest, looking up at him with those pupil eclipsed doe eyes.

“I feel great but…”, your voice gets smaller as it takes on an almost needy tone before stopping altogether. You snap your face back into his chest and he’s even more curious to get it out of you but you just can’t say it.

“You really don’t need to be embarrassed. Clothed or naked, we all start somewhere”, he whispers against the top of your head, stroking your back soothingly as you try to talk yourself into asking him before you chicken out, “with me you can start wherever you want and you know I’ll never tell. Or make fun of you..”,

His voice is tender with warmness and it turns your reservations to raindrops as you look back into his eyes. Steeling your nerve, you ground yourself with the way you feel in another persons arms for the first time in your life- his arms and decide to go for it.

“You said- we can try something different?” Your heart begins to race again as Clark’s starts to pound. He can’t keep the heat out of eyes as he returns your stare, nodding.

“Yeah. We can do whatever you want.” His breath wafts across your face, forehead resting against yours and the rate at which you find yourself needing him- scares you. You’ve been depraved of this kind of contact to the point of fear since forever but now…

“Then…can we-“, you blink rapidly, not wanting to verbalize it but not wanting to go without even more.

“Can we kiss please?”

Clark has to shut his eyes. You looked so sweet, felt so soft and even though you couldn’t keep the neediness from seeping into your words, you still asked so politely. Blood rushes through his ears as he feels a familiar stirring in his groin, taking a deep breath because it wouldn’t do for him to lose control now, his voice is heady with pure want when he answers,

“F’course. I’d love to kiss, baby.”

Large hands settle around your waist as you get pulled completely flush to him, legs almost intertwining while your pelvises touch; bodies glued together. The languid heat of arousal thrums through you, making your head spin.

Your lips part when Clark presses his forehead more firmly against yours, lighting you from the inside out when he dips his neck to slot his open mouth over yours.

Immediately your chest burns, heart feeling like each pump is gasoline, fueling the fire hes started in you. Clark’s full lips slide against yours, alternating between suckling at your top lip then bottom lip slowly, coaxing you to follow his lead, groaning his approval and the sound turns you up as you press yourself harder against his body. You feel so good you’re thrumming- heat steadily pulsing through you.

Your heads move from how hard you’re kissing, slick sounds coming from your mouths intensifying as you get rougher, delicious shivers all up your spine. Clark presses his lips fully against yours, moving them open wider with his own, hot breaths mingling as he licks hotly against the opening of your mouth. A bolt of pleasure hits you so hard that you gasp, wrenching your mouth off his as you moan- the needy little thing so whiny it makes his cock fatten in his pants as you pant against each others lips. Fuck. He can smell how wet you are. The sweet, heady smell makes his mouth water with him tossing shame clean out the window.

“Can I put my tongue in your mouth? Please, pretty girl?” You move your arms around his neck to get as close as possible, nodding desperately.

“God, yes-” His mouth is back to consuming yours before you can finish. Opening your lips with the force of his swollen ones, he sucks your bottom lip before lapping his tongue into your mouth. You twitch in his hold, even more turned on when he doesn’t have to move to keep your squirming in place, casual show of strength making you lightheaded as he swallows your moans. Wet smacks fill the air, your grip on him tightening when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. You get wetter and he can tell, growling in pleasure as he suddenly lifts you; your legs locking around his waist as he uses his hold on yours to grind you against him. The result is instantaneous. You melt like cotton candy, chest shaking against his from your pleasured moans as your shared spit wets your lips. Still aware of the fact that you need to breathe, Clark pulls away with a suck of your lips- staring at you hungrily with dark eyes.

He can’t even remember when he picked you up but the tiny undulations of your hips let him know it was a welcome decision. You looked so good. Lips puffy n slick, doe eyes teary and blown out, wet as fuck with your hard nipples poking through your top…you could ask him for every one of Saturns rings and he’d get them for you.

Clark takes a deep lungful of your tantalizing scent before he checks on you again.

“How was that, sweetheart? Y’first kiss right?” You nod, cupping his face. You can’t help the way you smooch more pecks onto his pink lips, aching as you answer.

“It was so good”, you drag your nose down his jaw; kissing his ear as you whisper into it, “you feel so good, Clark..”. You have him completely hard at this point, thick and fat as his tip oozes pre when you start to whine. He almost feels bad that you’ve waited so long, being so pent up wasn’t healthy and you deserved to feel good everyday.

“What’s wrong baby?” The low timbre of his voice makes your pulse skyrocket, causing you to absolutely dissolve against him, hips twitching as he helped you rub yourself on him.

“I-I need..-“, you let out a soft cry and he quickly soothes you. Kissing you deeply before pulling away, licking his lips of your taste as he verbalizes exactly what you need.

“Need to cum?”

The heat in your chest blooms up to your face as you nod, suddenly growing shy but still comfortable. You purr as Clark presses a sweet kiss to your cheek, looking at you with pretty lidded eyes.

“Would it be okay if I made you cum princess?”

The utterly wrecked moan that comes out of your mouth has goosebumps scattering up his arms, holding you tighter as you nod vigorously.

“I need words baby”, he whispers. Giving you another kiss to tempt you and it works. He was too irresistible and he knew it.

“Yeah, you can make me cum Clark.” And with that he carries you over to your bed, laying you on the plushness as he takes over your mouth again with a hungry groan, your hands touching everywhere until he pulls away- fangs on display as he smiles making fire sweep through your veins.

Massaging your legs, he rises on his knees- taking off his shirt as your mind checks out from how hot he is, shifting restlessly as the ache in your pussy throbs with the best pain. Whining his name, Clark cooes at you; big hands moving to pull your clothes off. Your nerves are going haywire but you need this- need him to make you feel things, lifting your hips to help him slide your shorts and underwear off, spreading your legs as you let him get a good look at your messy wet hole twitching in need.

Clark swears, hooking his hands under your knees and bending them towards your chest. Exposing you more as he licks his lips, keeping his eyes glued to your cunt.

“Atta girl, jus’ lay there nice n pretty and I’ll give you what you need..”

Part ✌🏽…

[haerenven]

Hey! I love the way you write! Could you do one where the reader is accidentally creepy? They like bones and things normally associated with death and don't realize how creepy that can be. With anyone you like!

        ∎∎       ╱       𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃.     جميل 🗝️  ㅤㅤ ˙ㅤ♱𝆬 ㅤ      

Pairings. Roronoa Zoro x fem!reader

summary. Gothic

— (a/n): I kinda love this !

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀斕⠀⠀⠀(⒛)⠀⠀⠀𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑⠀⠀⠀横᜴⠀⠀⠀𝐈𝐈

Midnight Conversations Among the Bones– When the ship docks at an island, you always seem to find the nearest graveyard, admiring the artistry of time-worn tombstones and tracing the names of forgotten souls with reverence. At first, Zoro thought it was just another one of your quirks, but over time, he finds himself sitting beside you, arms crossed, listening to your musings about the beauty of decay while the moon bathes you both in an eerie silver glow. He doesn’t say much, but the way he stays? That says everything.

The Swordsman and the Morbid Romantic – You see beauty in death, not as something tragic but as an inevitable masterpiece of time. Zoro, a man who has danced with death more times than he can count, finds himself mesmerized by your perspective. “You don’t fear it,” he mutters one evening, watching you cradle a delicate bird skull in your hands like a precious gemstone. “Nah,” you reply with a knowing smile. “It’s proof something once lived fiercely.” He never forgets those words.

Gifts That Raise Eyebrows (But He Loves Them) – While others bring flowers or sweets, you present Zoro with things like polished bones, antique daggers, or tiny vials of ash from places long forgotten. The first time you gifted him an ornately carved femur you found in the ruins of an abandoned temple, he held it up with a raised brow. “Huh. Guess that’s one way to remember the dead.” But later, you find it tucked carefully in his things—kept, not discarded.

Accidentally Creepy but Incredibly Endearing – You casually say things that make people shiver, but Zoro barely blinks. “I think skeletons are beautiful. Imagine all the things these bones have witnessed.” Or, “If I ever die, I’d like to be buried beneath a tree, so my body can feed its roots.” The crew gets goosebumps, but Zoro just nods, arms crossed, like you’ve said something completely reasonable.

Conversations with Brook Are… Interesting – The first time you meet Brook, you light up like you’ve seen the most stunning artwork in the world. “A talking skeleton? This is incredible! Brook, do you ever get lonely without your flesh?” The crew falls into stunned silence, expecting Brook to be unsettled, but instead, he’s thrilled! “Oh, what a fascinating question, Yohoho! Well, I do sometimes miss blinking… but I must say, I make an excellent coat rack now!” You and Brook become inseparable, exchanging poetic thoughts on the beauty of bones, much to the crew’s mild horror and Zoro’s mild amusement.

Love in the Graveyard – There’s something about old ruins and overgrown cemeteries that make you feel at peace. You’ll pull Zoro toward a moss-covered gravestone, asking him to sit with you as the wind whispers through the trees. “The dead don’t mind company,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder. He sighs but doesn’t move away, merely letting the weight of your presence sink into his bones like an unspoken promise.

A Different Kind of Swordfight – You are graceful in battle, moving like a wraith, with a presence that is both haunting and mesmerizing. Zoro watches the way you fight, your movements akin to the wind through forgotten ruins, and he wonders how someone so in tune with death can make even the act of violence look poetic. “You fight like a ghost,” he mutters after a particularly beautiful strike. You grin. “And you fight like a legend.”

You Collect Skulls, and Zoro Just Accepts It – Your room on the Sunny has little trinkets from your travels—delicate bones, preserved insects, ancient coins, and tiny vials of sand from places where battles were fought. When Nami sees a polished skull sitting on your shelf, she nearly drops her maps. “Why… why is that here?” You shrug. “It’s beautiful.” Meanwhile, Zoro, leaning against the wall, just grunts. “At least they don’t talk.”

The Poetry of the Macabre – Late at night, when the ship is quiet, you murmur words like incantations, reciting poetry about the fleeting nature of existence, about how even warriors turn to dust. Zoro listens, half-lidded eyes watching the way candlelight dances over your features. He’s never been one for poetry, but your words settle in his mind like a blade sliding into its sheath—fitting, sharp, undeniable.

“I’ll Carve Your Name Into Legend” – Zoro may not be poetic, but his actions are. He listens when you speak of tombstones and memories, of how people live on in the whispers of history. One day, after a particularly brutal battle, he places his sword down beside you and murmurs, “If I die before you, carve my name into something that lasts.” The words are gruff, but the meaning is clear. He wants you to be the one who remembers him. You press a palm against his cheek, smiling softly. “You’ll live long enough to carve your own legend, Zoro.

The Beauty of Bruises and Bite Marks - Zoro does not treat you like something fragile. He has seen the way you dance through battle, the way you smile at the sight of broken bones, the way your eyes shine with something dark and beautiful when blood is spilled. He knows better than to be gentle—not in the way others expect.

When he touches you, he does so with purpose, with a strength that leaves bruises along your hips, with a grip that lingers like the ghost of a battle won. And you? You relish it. You trace the marks he leaves on your skin like they are proof of something sacred, like they are relics of devotion carved into flesh.

“You like this too much,” he mutters one day, eyeing the faint bite mark on your collarbone, the way your fingers skim over it with something close to satisfaction.

You smirk, tilting your head so the candlelight catches the shadow of it against your skin. “What can I say? I like knowing I’ll still have a piece of you on me when morning comes.”

Zoro doesn’t respond—not with words. Instead, he pushes you down, lips ghosting over the same spot, teeth grazing, and you shudder because you know he’s going to leave another.

Even the Grave Will Not Take This Away - There is something poetic about your love—something eternal, something that will not be erased even when your bodies turn to dust. If death ever comes for you first, you know Zoro will not mourn in the way most do. He will not weep, will not break. He will carve your name into something permanent, something unshaken by time, as if daring the universe to forget you.

And if death ever comes for him first, you will not cry either. You will stand at his grave, dressed in black, fingers tracing the edge of his name with a strange, almost reverent smile. “I hope it was as good as this,” you’ll whisper to the wind, because you know—no matter how glorious his end may be, no matter how sharp the final moment—nothing will have ever felt as real, as consuming, as the love you shared.

Even death will be jealous of what you had.

[shizuturnspages]

Hi!!! ;D I saw your post on yandere childe and scaramouche with a kind and gentle reader can I request for the same thing but with Dottore (Fatui) or either Zandik (Student at the sumeru Akademiya) If you would or wouldn't be able to do it I still want to give you my thanks bbg 😋😋😋 I love your writing very much it's beautiful just like you 😛

Awwh you're so sweet. Tysm for your kind words. Here's your request for Dottore and Zandik for my pretty bbg <3

Silken Chains

Synopsis: In a world where cruelty reigns, your kindness is an anomaly. To men like Dottore and Zandik, it is both a fascination and an obsession. To them, your kindness is not a virtue. It is a weakness. And they will be the ones to ensure you never fall prey to anyone—except them. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Fatui! Dottore, Akademiya! Zandik x Reader

Fatui! Dottore

Dottore was not a man who admired softness. It was a flaw, a defect—a fatal weakness.

And yet, he found himself utterly fixated on you.

So tender, so gentle. A delicate thing wrapped in silken kindness, always speaking in soft tones, always offering warmth even when it was undeserved. Especially when it was undeserved.

He had seen it firsthand—how you treated even the lowest Fatui agents with patience, how you never recoiled at his presence despite the warnings whispered by those who feared him. You didn’t flinch when his cold hands grazed your skin, didn’t cower when his hollow, inhuman laughter echoed through the laboratory.

It was… intoxicating.

Such fragile innocence had no place in his world, and yet, he could not bring himself to destroy it. No—he wanted to preserve it, to keep you just as you were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

And so, he kept you close.

The excuses were endless. "You are an invaluable assistant," he would say, assigning you pointless tasks that kept you near. "You are safer here, away from the dangers outside." Lies, all of them.

In truth, he simply could not stomach the thought of you wandering beyond his grasp.

Because what if the world corrupted you?

What if someone took your kindness for granted? What if they shattered you, sullied the purity that made his obsession with you so maddening?

No, that would not do.

So he made sure you only ever saw the parts of him he allowed.

The Dottore who indulged you with mocking affection, who let you tend to his wounds despite not needing it. The Dottore who listened to your sweet words, your ideals of mercy and compassion, and simply laughed.

Oh, how amusing you were. How naïve.

And yet, he could not bring himself to disillusion you.

Because the moment your kindness wavered, the moment you turned away in fear—

Would he not simply have to break you to keep you soft?

Akademiya! Zandik

“Kindness is weakness.”

That was the first thing Zandik had ever said to you.

You still remembered the way he had sneered, how his piercing eyes had burned with disdain as you gently handed him the books he had dropped.

“Being good to others will get you nothing but suffering,” he had added, barely sparing you a glance.

And yet, you had only smiled, brushing off his cruel words as though they meant nothing.

That was your mistake.

Because from that day on, Zandik found himself unsettled by you.

You were everything he despised— too soft, too forgiving, always treating people with a patience they did not deserve. And yet… you fascinated him.

Why? Why did you look at him with such warmth? Why did you continue to greet him, to speak to him, to tolerate him even when others scorned his presence?

It was infuriating. Maddening. Obsessive.

At first, he tried to prove you wrong. He was cruel on purpose. He spoke of twisted experiments, of theories that disregarded ethics entirely. He mocked your ideals, told you that your kindness would be trampled underfoot, left to rot like all weak things.

And yet, you never left.

You only sighed, shaking your head as if he were merely a stubborn child.

“…You don’t have to pretend to be cruel, Zandik.”

That sentence shook him.

You thought he was pretending? That his cruelty was some mask instead of the very essence of who he was?

The idea infuriated him.

But more than that—it terrified him.

Because what if you were right?

What if he was only cruel because no one had ever offered him the choice to be anything else?

He didn’t know the answer. And that unknown variable made him restless.

So he kept you close.

Not out of affection—no, he told himself it was curiosity. A desire to study you, dissect you, understand how someone so soft could survive in a world so cruel.

And if he pushed others away from you? If he scoffed at the idea of anyone else getting too close? If he let himself revel in the attention you gave him and no one else?

Well. That was none of your concern.

Because you belonged to his world now.

And whether you realized it or not—he had no intention of letting you go.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Pilot | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 4833

A/N: This is gonna be the slowest of burns. Every Saturday, these will publish at 3:00 PM CDT! I hope you all enjoy. Taglist/Requests are open!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

A trail of men disappearing spanning decades had brought you to Jericho, California. It seemed it would be a pretty standard hunt. From the moment you arrived, though, you knew this would be different.

You’d run into other hunters on jobs before, but none as strange and belligerent as John. John was all you knew him by. He was rough around the edges, and in all honesty, a complete dick. You had unintentionally gotten into an unspoken race with him to see who could finish the hunt first. Both of you refused to back off and go find another job; you just out of spite and him… you had no idea why a guy old enough to be your father was being so petty and territorial about this hunt. And perhaps that’s what fueled your fire to finish this hunt before John could. You thought maybe he knew something you didn’t about the hunt, and you were desperate to find out. But then… he disappeared. 

About a week into the “competition” you were having with John, he disappeared. You didn’t see him around Joseph Welch’s house, the Breckenridge Road home, or the Centennial Highway Bridge. It was completely puzzling. He didn’t seem like the type to up and leave in the middle of a job, but you brushed the unsettled feeling you had aside to keep pushing through your hunt. 

You had torched the body of Constance Welch the same night you guessed John left. You were just about to leave town, and then, Troy Squire ended up dead by what you assumed were Constance’s hands. 

You pulled up to the Centennial Highway Bridge in yet another stolen car. 

‘One of these days I won’t keep putting a neon sign on my back by stealing cars and actually find a way to buy one,’ you thought.

Almost as if on cue, another car pulled up next to yours. Except this car— a black 1967 Chevy Impala— was way nicer than the shitty sedan you’d copped for the time being. 

Two young men in the most layers you’ve ever seen anyone wear in the California sun stepped out on either side of the car. You pushed aside the thought of how attractive the shorter of the pair was and kept walking toward the taped-off part of the bridge where a few officers were milling around a crashed car. 

“Is that Troy’s? Oh, my God,” you shook your head, making sure the officers could hear you. 

“Ma’am, you are not supposed to be here,” an officer told you, trying to keep you from walking any closer to the car.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just—” you sniffed, “—I’m his cousin. We were really close growing up, and I, uh, just had to see this for myself, um, do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”

“We were wondering the same thing,” a deep voice called from behind you, making you wheel around.

‘Fuck. The Impala dudes.’

“And who are you?” the officer you’d been speaking to asked.

“Federal marshals,” one said, flashing a badge.

‘Goddammit, more hunters.’ You held back an eye roll, doing your best to stay in character.

“You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?”

The one you’d found attractive initially flashed a smile. “Thanks, that's awfully kind of you. You just had another one just like this, correct?”

The officer you’d been speaking to didn’t seem too convinced by their story, but replied anyway. “Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.”

“Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all men?”

“No. Not so far as we can tell.”

“So, what's the theory?” the taller guy asked. 

“Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?” The officer seemed to remember you were standing there as he spoke. “Ma’am, I really do need you to go.”

“I was just about to—” you started, before the shorter guy cut you off. 

“What kinda crack police work are you doing; talking about sensitive information in front of townies?” He was cut off with a grunt; apparently the other guy had stepped on his foot. 

“Thank you for your time,” you told the officer, suddenly feeling very awkward. You turned on your heel, hurrying away. 

***

After the bizarre incident with the other two hunters on the bridge, you went down to a local diner to get something to eat. You were puzzled as to why Constance was still around after you torched her bones. You flipped through a few pages of your journal when you saw the two hunters from the bridge walking in with two goth chicks. 

‘What the fuck. First John, and now this.’

The shorter one of the pair caught the glare you threw their way over your shoulder. He had a smug look on his face you couldn’t quite read as he sat down in a booth with the girls and his partner. You did your best to listen in on their conversation as you sipped your drink. 

“I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did,” you heard one of the girls lament. 

You recognized the voice of the taller one. “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?”

“No. Nothing I can remember.”

“I like your necklace.”

“Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents—” the girl laughed, “—with all that devil stuff.”

“Actually, it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

“Okay. Thank you, Unsolved Mysteries,” the other guy’s voice broke in. 

You held back a small laugh. You hated to admit it, but he was pretty funny. 

“Here's the deal, ladies,” the pretty one said, “The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything… What is it?”

Your eyebrows drew together, your back still turned to the group.

“Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk,” a new voice chimed in. 

“What do they talk about?” the two boys said in unison.

It got a little harder to hear as one of the girls quieted her voice. “It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago. Well, supposedly she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

‘Yeah, yeah, I already know that. They are way far behind me in the process.’

“Well, thank you for your time, ladies,” the voice of the taller one spoke amidst some rustling. You figured they were getting up to leave. 

You dropped a twenty on the table, let the door shut behind the group, and stood to follow the boys out. You hung back a little while you watched them head to their car. 

“I know you’re back there, sweetheart,” the pretty one called without turning around.

“I know you do. I was just testing you,” you said, walking closer. “Look, I’ve already got this one covered. You guys should find something else.”

“Not a chance,” the pretty boy replied. 

“Look, man—” you started. 

“We’re just looking for our dad,” the taller one cut you off. “We think he’s working this same job.”

“Wait, is your dad’s name John?” you asked, surprised. 

Both of them started toward you, their shock and confusion evident. “How do you—”

“Whoa, easy,” you giggled. “He was here a few days ago and then he just, pfft,” you imitated a puff of smoke, “disappeared.”

The pretty boy ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated, while the taller guy continued talking to you. “Was he working with you?”

“Hardly,” you scoffed, “we were kind of in an unspoken competition to see who could smoke this bitch first when he disappeared. And then, Troy ended up dead a day later. I thought maybe he was connected to Troy’s death some kind of way.”

“I don’t think so,” the taller one answered. “I’m Sam, by the way. This is my brother, Dean.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m (Y/N),” you shook Sam’s hand. When you reached for Dean’s, though, he rolled his eyes at you without taking it. 

“Oh-kay,” you muttered. 

“Sorry about him,” Sam told you. “He’s—”

“A bit touchy?” you smirked.

“Yeah,” Sam laughed. 

“I can hear you two, y’know,” Dean snarked. 

“I know,” you quipped. “So, what’s your theory on your dad?”

“We have no idea,” Sam said. “We were hoping you might know.”

“I have nothing for you,” you shook your head. 

“Well, do you know anything about the case?” 

“A lot, actually. Chick’s name is Constance Welch. She’s a woman in white. She lives at the end of Breckenridge Road. I talked to her husband, and he definitely cheated on her. He buried her in a plot behind her house. I went there and torched her. I was just about to leave town when your dad disappeared, Troy wound up dead, and you two showed up.”

“Then, there’s gotta be something else keeping her here,” Sam told you.

“Okay, then what?”

***

“So this is where Constance took the swan dive,” Dean said. The three of you looked over the railing of the Centennial Highway Bridge. Sam had been nice enough to force his brother to let you tag along. 

“Okay, so now what?” Sam asked.

“Now we keep digging until we find Dad. Might take a while,” Dean responded.

“Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—”

“What’s Monday?” you asked. 

“I’ve got an interview with law school.”

“Oh, shit, no way!” you smiled. 

Sam smiled back at you before Dean cut in. “Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?”

“Maybe. Why not?” Sam cut back.

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?”

“No, and she's not ever going to know.”

“Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.” Dean kept walking down the bridge. 

“And who's that?”

“You're one of us,” Dean said. 

Sam hurried around him. “No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.”

You felt really awkward doing what felt like intruding on a private moment. Your eyes began to scan the railing of the bridge opposite you.

“You have a responsibility to—”

Sam cut his brother off. “To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.”

You were doing your best not to listen in on their conversation when Dean grabbed his brother by the collar and shoved him against the bridge railing.

“Uh, guys—” you started, your eye caught by what looked like Constance standing on the railing of the bridge.

“Don't talk about her like that,” Dean grumbled at his brother; ignoring you.

“Guys!” 

“What?!” Dean turned to face you, stopping when he caught sight of Constance. Constance then stepped off the railing. 

The three of you broke off in a sprint toward the spot she’d leapt off. You searched the water below. “Where'd she go?”

“No idea,” Dean answered. 

Your visual search was interrupted by a bright light coming on in the corner of your eye. Dean’s Impala’s headlights. 

“What the fuck—” Dean trailed off.

“Who's driving your car?” you asked him. 

He responded by pulling the keys out of his pocket and jingling them. 

“Oh.”

The car jerked to life, heading straight for you and the boys. You broke into a sprint yet again, doing your best to outrun the car; a task that proved impossible. 

“Jump!” you screamed, and the three of you threw yourselves over the side of the bridge. You thankfully caught a bit of the bridge that jutted out over the water and pulled yourself back up, groaning.

‘My arm’s gonna be sore as a bitch in the morning.’

“Dean?” Sam yelled down to the water below. “Dean!”

“What?” came his aggravated response. 

You looked down to see a mud-covered Dean crawling out of the water. You couldn’t hold back a laugh upon seeing him.

“Not funny, sweetheart,” he called up to you.

“My name’s (Y/N),” you answered. “Don’t call me sweetheart. It weirds me out.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“Guys, you can argue later. You okay?” Sam called down to Dean.

“I’m super,” his brother responded.

You and Sam climbed back over the railing of the bridge while Dean made his way up to you. The car had stopped only a few inches from where the three of you dove over. Dean busied himself inspecting the engine while you sat with your back leaned against the passenger’s side door. 

“Your car okay?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now.” Dean shut the hood. “That Constance chick, what a bitch!”

You chuckled to yourself at his antics. “Alright, well, I don’t think the bridge is what’s tying her here. What now?”

Dean raised his hands in frustration, flicking mud off his hands in the process. 

Sam caught a whiff of his brother. “You smell like a toilet.”

***

Your next stop was a motel. When you went to check in, the clerk informed Dean that another man under the last name on Dean’s card had bought out a room for the whole month. And so, you and the boys went poking around John’s room. 

Every surface was covered in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, photos, hastily scribbled notes, and bits of red tape tying some of them together. 

“I knew John was weird, but this is a whole new level,” you commented, slightly in awe of the frantic scribblings covering the wall. 

‘'Don’t talk about him like that,” Dean grumbled. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.” He started toward the shower. 

“Hey, Dean?” Sam stopped him.

His brother turned around. 

“What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry—”

Dean held up a hand, cutting him off. “No chick-flick moments.”

Sam laughed. “Alright, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“You guys are strange.”

Dean rolled his eyes at you before disappearing into the bathroom. 

You started looking around John’s room. A closer look at the walls of information revealed pages on demons, witches, possession, and other bits of newspaper referring to mysterious deaths unlike anything you’d heard before. One was an obituary clipping from 1983; taking you aback. The picture was of a gorgeous blonde woman named Mary Winchester who died in a house fire. Her picture was surrounded by other house fire deaths and linked by red thread to multiple of the demon and witch articles. You walked over to his dresser where there was a picture of a much younger John holding two boys who you assumed were Sam and Dean. 

“You guys were cute kids,” you told Sam, showing him the picture.

He smiled sadly at it. 

After a brief melancholy pause, you spoke up. “So, what’s your deal? College? Law school? Part-time hunter? That doesn’t add up.”

“My, uh, my dad raised us as hunters after my mom passed,” he explained. 

“I’m sorry,” you told him, sitting on the bed next to him. “Was her death the reason your dad became a hunter?”

“Yeah. I’m not exactly sure what happened; I wasn’t even a year old yet. Dean remembers way more than I do, but he said our dad was never the same. Anyway, two years ago, dad and I got into a fight. I wanted to go to school, and he wanted me to stay and hunt. So I left.”

“Dean said you got a girl now? Was that the voicemail you were listening to a few minutes ago?”

“Yeah, actually. Jess. She’s— she’s amazing. I’m excited to get back to her.” You could see how much he loved her just in how his face lit up talking about her.

“I’m sure you are,” you smiled. 

“So, what about you? What’s your story?” he nudged your shoulder with his. 

“Meh, not much to tell.”

“Aw, come on—” Sam rebutted. 

“I’m serious!” you laughed. “I’ve just always hunted. Never knew anything different.”

“I know that’s difficult.” His tone became serious again. 

“Nah, it’s not so bad. I enjoy it. Brings me a little peace, y’know?” you shrugged.

“You sound like Dean.”

“Speaking of which, he’s taking forever and a day in the shower,” you joked. You bounced over to the bathroom door, leaning your ear on it about to knock. “Hey, princess—” 

You were cut off by the door opening and stumbled into Dean’s chest. 

He caught you by the shoulders. “You were saying?” 

You shoved off him, annoyed by his smug smile and quirked eyebrow. “Sorry.”

“Anyway,” Dean began, “I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You want anything?”

“No,” Sam said.

“A burger would be great,” you told him. 

“Wasn’t asking you,” Dean said. 

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Aframian’s buying, anyway, so what difference is it to you?”

“Nothing, it’s just fun to rile you up.” He winked and smiled at you, amused at your aggravated expression before closing the door behind him. 

You shook your head. “Dick.”

Sam laughed. “You get used to him.” He went back to his phone, relistening to his girlfriend’s voicemail. He furrowed his brows before pressing it to his ear. “What?” He stands up, catching your attention. “What about you?” He huffed when he hung up the phone, rushing over to the closed curtains to peek out. 

“What, what is it?” You crossed your arms.

“Police got Dean. We need to leave.”

“Shit.”

Sam quickly pulled away from the window which you understood meant you had company. You hid under the bed, anxiously waiting to see the officer’s boots make their way into the bathroom. You began scooching yourself out from under the bed frame, and when he’d slammed the door to the bathroom open, you and Sam snuck out of the room. Thankfully, Sam had Dean’s keys, and the two of you sped away from the motel in Dean’s Impala.

“Well, shit,” you breathed, your heart still beating quickly.

Sam huffed out a laugh, still recovering from the adrenaline.

***

You and Sam were headed to Breckenridge Road to hopefully figure out how to stop Constance. Since you had torched the body, then maybe something in her house was keeping her alive. 

After Dean’s arrest, the two of you were intent on getting Dean and getting the hell out of Jericho before anyone else had a run-in with the cops. 

Sam’s phone rang, and he answered quickly. “Hello?” He tossed a look your way. “Actually, it was (Y/N)’s idea.” You had no doubt he was referring to the fake shooting you’d called in to the police department so Dean had an opportunity to escape. You motioned for him to give you the phone.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you told him once you had the phone to your ear. 

“Yeah, whatever, sweetheart,” Dean’s gruff voice responded.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“And I’ve made it pretty clear I’m not going to listen. Hey, give the phone back to Sam. I gotta talk to him.”

“And why can’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me? I’m offended, babe,” you quipped. 

“Don’t objectify me.”

“Hey, you started it with the whole ‘sweetheart’ thing.”

“C’mon, (Y/N), give him the—”

“Shit!” you screamed, dropping the phone as the car came to a screeching halt. “What the hell, Sam?”

“Constance,” he replied coolly. He kept a level head despite the tense situation. 

You looked up at the rearview mirror to see her in the backseat. “Fuck.” 

Constance’s hauntingly beautiful voice melodically flowed from the backseat. “Take me home.”

“No,” Sam answered. 

You saw her glare as the doors started to lock themselves. You whipped around to start trying to reopen them. The car began jerking forward. 

“What the hell, Sam? Stop!” you told him. 

“It’s not me.”

You looked over to see him holding his hands up. The steering wheel was moving itself. You turned back to the door, struggling to get the lock open. Eventually, you wound up at Constance’s abandoned Breckenridge Road house. The car’s rumble quieted and the headlights turned off. 

“Don't do this,” Sam pleaded, still holding his hands up. 

The ghost flickered, sounding sad. “I can never go home.”

‘That’s it.’

“You're scared to go home,” you realized. When you turned around to look at her, she had disappeared. Before you could even turn back around, you felt the bench seat reclining forcefully. 

“Sam!” 

Constance sat atop him, begging him to hold her. 

“You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been!”

“You will be,” she hummed. “Just hold me.”

You fumbled for your gun hidden under your top. Before you could fully aim at her, you felt your back make brief contact with the Impala’s door before flying through the air. You barely registered Sam yelling your name as you groaned in pain on the dead grass beneath you. 

You rolled around, trying to regain your wits and recover when you heard the sound of multiple gunshots. 

“Sam!”

“It’s me, (Y/N), stay down!” Dean yelled. 

Suddenly, Dean’s car burst through the front of the abandoned house. You pushed yourself up off the ground; your joints and back aching in protest. 

“Sam! Sam! You okay?” Dean called after the car. 

‘I’m fine, Dean, thanks for asking,’ you thought. 

The two of you climbed over the rubble to the passenger’s side window. 

“I think,” Sam responded weakly. 

“Can you move?” you asked.

“Yeah. Help me?” He reached out to his brother. 

Dean pulled Sam through the window of the car. “There you go.”

You turned to see Constance looking sadly at a picture she was holding before slamming it to the floor. She glared at the three of you harshly, forcing a bureau across the floor to pin you to Dean’s car. 

You groaned in pain once again as Dean struggled to push the furniture off. You stopped your struggle at the lights flickering and the sound of water rushing down the stairs. 

“You've come home to us, Mommy,” the echoey voices of Constance’s children sang. They appeared behind her, hugging her as she screamed. In a surge of energy, Constance and her children began melting to the floor. Constance’s resounding scream seemed to get louder and louder with each passing moment, the flickering of the lights becoming more and more intense. You squeezed your eyes shut until the screaming subsided, suddenly feeling the pressure on your stomach relieved. All that was left of Constance and her children was a puddle of murky water on the floor. 

“So this is where she drowned her kids,” Dean said while you rubbed your stomach, recovering from the pressure of the bureau. 

Sam nodded. “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

“You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.” Dean slapped his brother on the chest where he’d been injured by Constance.

Sam laughed despite the pain. “Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?”

“Hey. Saved your ass,” Dean commented, starting to look over his beloved Impala. “I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car? I'll kill you.” 

You giggled at Sam and Dean’s banter. Sam and Dean started to get back into the car, and you idled awkwardly. 

“Whatcha doin’? Let’s go.” Sam looked at you expectantly. 

“Go where?” you asked, feeling stupid. 

“I think we make a pretty solid team. You should tag along.”

“What?” Dean asked while you started shaking your head. 

“No, no, I shouldn’t—” 

“You should. I’m going back to school, and I know Dean’s gonna be lost without me trying to find my dad.”

A slow smile crossed your face. “Thank you. That’d be nice, actually.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything to the contrary. And with that, the three of you set off to drop Sam back off at college. 

***

The thing Dean so desperately wanted to tell Sam that he couldn’t tell you earlier was that his dad had left coordinates to a place called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado in the journal he’d left behind in Jericho. John was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. 

“AC/DC. I like it,” you said from the backseat. 

“Thanks.” Dean cracked what seemed like a genuine, lopsided smile at you for the first time in the rearview mirror. “Sam thinks it’s mullet rock.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better than Kiss and Poison.”

“True that.” Despite the fact that he was agreeing with you about something as mundane as music, his tone was still guarded.

“How far is Blackwater Ridge?” you asked Sam, who was looking over a map. 

“About 600 miles,” he answered.

“Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning,” Dean cut in. 

Sam suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Dean, I, um…”

The older brother deflated. “You're not going.”

“The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there,” Sam tried to reason.

Dean nodded, disappointed, and returned his attention to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I'll take you home.”

The mood in the car had turned tense, awkward, and sour, and remained that way for the rest of the drive back to Sam’s college.

“Dude, you go to Stanford?” you asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” he nodded, sheepishly.

“Alright, smartass, look at you.” You nudged his shoulder with your balled fist. 

Dean rolled to a stop in front of Sam’s apartment complex. 

You and Sam got out of the car. You gave him a quick hug goodbye before climbing down into the front seat. 

Sam leaned into your rolled-down window. “Call me if you find him?”

Dean nodded. 

“And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?”

Despite Sam’s chipper tone, Dean’s disappointment was clear. “Yeah, all right.”

Sam patted the car door twice before turning away. 

“Sam?” Dean called before his brother could get too far. “You know, we made a hell of a team back there.” 

You felt a pang in your heart at Dean’s indirect attempt to try to convince Sam to stay. 

Sam nodded with a half-hearted smile. “Yeah.” 

Dean then began to drive off. 

The two of you didn’t get any more than five minutes down the road before you felt something was off. You could no longer hear the steady ticking of Dean’s watch breaking through the almost awkward silence. Sure enough, when you looked over at the wrist he had perched atop the steering wheel, the watch was stopped. 

“Dean,” you said. You tapped his watch’s face with your fingernail. 

He matched your worried glance, immediately turning the car around.

The car had barely stopped before you and Dean were leaping into action. You let Dean take the lead in rushing up to Sam’s apartment. 

Dean kicked the door to the apartment open, calling out to his brother in the process. You gasped when you caught sight of flames licking at the ceiling coming out from what you assumed was Sam’s bedroom. 

You heard Sam’s voice weakly calling his girlfriend’s name as you rushed to get him out of the smoldering room. You just barely caught sight of a body bleeding from the stomach burning on the ceiling before you and Dean dragged a screaming Sam out of his bedroom and away from the fire. You fought him every step of the way out of his apartment complex. 

It didn’t take long for the fire department to show up and the police to start asking questions. A small crowd had gathered to gawk at Sam’s smoldering apartment. Your face was steely as you watched the firefighters carry Jess out in a body bag. You and Dean took the brunt of the questions the police had, allowing Sam as much space as he needed. 

You and Dean soon headed over to the Impala where Sam was packing up the weapons cavity of the trunk. Both of you seemed too scared to ask Sam what was running through his head, and neither of you had any idea what to say. 

Sam threw a shotgun into the weapons box before muttering, “We got work to do,” and slamming the trunk shut.

You threw a look at Dean, who shook his head in response. Biting the inside of your cheek, you followed the boys into the car. As the three of you left Sam’s apartment in the rearview mirror, you realized the course of your formerly relatively boring life was changing very quickly. 

‘Damn you, John. Wherever you are.’

[fuck1ng-queen]

Less Complicated

Noah Sebastian x Reader

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: none actually, enemies to lovers

Author comments: hey bestiessss! this is the first oneshot i'm posting to celebrate valentine's day with bad omens and i'm so excited to this week because i'll post one per day! i hope you all like it and see you tomorrow! ����

The wind was blowing so hard you could hear it. You pressed your arms against your body, trying your best to close your coat around you. The leafless trees danced under the light of the streetlamps. A few small piles of snow piled up on the damp sidewalks, reflecting the brightness of the shop windows decorated with red hearts and shiny letters. The distant sound of laughter and conversations between couples walking by created a cozy backdrop, contrasting with your loneliness as you walked. Valentine's Day had never been a special day for you, it was just another one when the world around you was immersed in hearts and flowers. As you walked to the café on the corner, the one you always went to when you felt lonely, your thoughts were occupied with the upcoming exhibition you were organizing for the local gallery. It was the only thing that still kept you distracted from it all.

The sound of music in the distance caught your attention. You frowned in disapproval as you recognized the melody of the famous song by the band you avoided listening to so much. More specifically, the lead singer you'd rather forget: Noah.

Noah had always been a constant presence in your life, but not always for the best reasons. Ever since high school, your lives seemed intertwined by an inexplicable rivalry. He was the kind of person who always made a point of annoying you, as if he knew exactly where every single one of your vulnerabilities was. How could someone who hated you so much get to know you so well? And to make things worse, he did it with pleasure, always with a smile on his face that at the time you could die for, but you would never tell anyone that you found it attractive.

The music in the distance brought back memories. The fierce competitions to be the best student in the class, the discussions about who was the most creative in the projects, the challenging looks you exchanged every chance you got. Noah always found a way to unsettle you, with his unfunny jokes and constant teasing. He knew exactly how to make you angry.

“Do you really think you can beat me?” Noah scoffed after one of the many competitions you’ve entered.

“At least I make an effort, unlike you who only rely on your own cheap charm,” you retorted, with sparks in your eyes.

“Charm? I didn’t know you noticed,” he replied with that mischievous smile that only pissed you off even more.

Inside the café, the warmth and the scents welcomed you. You took off your coat and sat down by the window, opening your computer to revise a few things. You were so immersed in your work that you almost didn't notice when a man entered the café, shaking the snow out of his hair and heading for the counter. He looked different from what you remembered, maybe more mature, but still with that carefree air that irritated you so much. You blinked a few times until you believed it was none other than Noah.

“I can’t believe it.” His voice brought you back to reality.

You looked up, forcing a polite smile. “Noah.”

“You here? I swear I didn’t expect to see you.” He smiled, and you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’m working. What about you?”

“Show. We're in town. It looks like the band is still following you,” he joked, and you let out a sigh.

“Unfortunately, it seems so.” You turned your attention back to the screen, trying to put an end to the conversation.

But Noah wasn't the type of person to be ignored so easily. He ordered a coffee and sat down at your table, facing you. “Why are you always so serious? Isn't it Valentine's Day? You should be having fun.”

“And what about you? Where's your romantic day?” you replied, raising an eyebrow.

“I don't have one. My passion is music, remember?” He shrugged, taking a sip of coffee.

“Of course. How could I forget?” you replied, with a touch of sarcasm. “You play everywhere.”

“You always notice, then” he laughed, making you roll your eyes. “But what about you, still organizing those art exhibitions?” Noah asked, trying to strike up a conversation.

“Yes, that's my job,” you replied as dryly as you could, turning your eyes back to your laptop.

“You know, you really take all this seriously. Haven't you ever thought about relaxing a bit?” he teased.

You sighed and closed your laptop with an audible click. “Noah, why do you always feel the need to tease me?”

“Because it's fun to see you get angry,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “But maybe I also like to see you a little out of your comfort zone.”

“You don't change, do you? Always the same Noah, eager to be the center of attention,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

“And you, always so focused, so determined,” he said softly. “Maybe that's what I admire about you.”

You couldn't help but be surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Admire? You?”

“Yes. As much as we fight, I've always admired your passion for what you do. We're artists, we can't deny that we're passionate, and I admire that in you. Even if I don't say it often,” Noah admitted, looking directly into your eyes.

You felt disconcerted. You weren't used to this vulnerable version of Noah, let alone a compliment from him, or the way you felt, unable to arm yourself for a response. You looked away, trying to process what he had said.

“Well, thanks, I guess,” you mumbled, not knowing what to say.

Noah smiled, realizing that he had managed to disarm you. “Who knows, maybe we should try being friends for once?”

You arched an eyebrow, still skeptical. “Friends? I don't know if we're ready for that.”

“Maybe not now, but who knows in the future?” Noah replied, getting up to leave. “Anyway, it was good to see you. Good luck with the new exhibition.”

“Thank you, Noah. Good luck with your presentation,” you replied, watching as Noah left the café.

(...)

In the following days, you tried to concentrate on your work, but the conversation with Noah kept going through your head. He seemed different, more sincere, more vulnerable. It made you uneasy.

On the opening night of the exhibition, you were nervous. The lights in the gallery shone brightly, reflecting the meticulously selected paintings and sculptures. You ran your eyes over everything, as if there were still some detail or other that might have gone unnoticed, in an attempt to suppress your nervousness.

“It's perfect,” Noah's voice sounded next to you, soft and encouraging.

You turned to him, surprised to see him there. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to support you. We're artists, I know how lonely today can be for you. I thought you might need a friend tonight,” he said with a warm smile.

You felt a genuine wave of gratitude at that moment, making you smile back. “Thank you, Noah. It means a lot to me.”

“Can I ask you something?” Noah hesitated, as if choosing every word he was going to say.

“Of course,” you replied, curious.

“Why have you always hated me so much?” The question was direct, but there was a vulnerability in his voice that made you feel your stomach lurch.

You took a deep breath, staring at him. “It was never hate, Noah. I think it was... fear. Fear of how you made me feel. You were always so free, so confident, and I didn't know how to deal with it.”

“Fear?” Noah asked, surprised. “I never wanted to scare you. I always thought you hated me because well... I've always been a jerk to you.”

You laughed softly, despite your serious look. “And you were. But I was also a bit stubborn and proud. The two of us were always competing, always trying to prove I don't know what to I don't know who. Maybe we were actually trying to hide what we really felt.”

“And what did we really feel?” Noah asked in a soft tone, but full of curiosity.

You sighed, your gaze fixed on his eyes. “I think we were afraid of getting hurt. It was easier to fight than to admit that maybe there was something more. Something we didn't know how to deal with.”

“I won't deny it, I always felt there was something more,” Noah admitted. “But I didn't know how to tell you. Every time I tried, we ended up fighting. And then I thought, maybe it's better this way. Less complicated.”

“Less complicated, more painful,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly. “As time went by, I kept thinking about all the things I wish I'd told you, but never did. There was always a barrier between us, something we never knew how to cross.”

Noah took a step closer, gently holding your hand. You didn't remember, but that was probably the first time you touched each other, and it gave you goosebumps. “I always felt that there was something big between us. Maybe it's too late, but I think I'd still like to explore it with you.” 

You felt your heart soar at his words. “Noah, I feel it too. I think I want to stop running away.” 

He smiled, gently pulling you closer. “So, what do you say about starting now? My name is Noah and I sing in a band.” He smiled, holding out his hand to shake yours.

You giggled, feeling your face heat up. You smiled back, your eyes shining with the chance of a new hope, feeling that the truce between you could last forever.

.

Masterlist | Valentine's Day One Shots

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@lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @kenjipepsi1 @chey-h @concretejunglefm @blade-dressed-in-red

Send me an ask to join my taglist

[nothomegal]

Mmm, this isnt a fic request (or maybe yes) but i NEED for reader to break and finally give in for their cuddle session with Danny, oh! And finally start to fall in love with him

Aww you're right anon! I guess it's only the matter of time for the reader to eventually give in and accept the weird ghost guy that keeps sneaking into their life (and house).

And I know it took me way too long to do your request, I apologize for the wait, had some trouble writing this since I never liked how it turned out -.-' Luckily though, I think I finally got something decent!

"Favorite person"

(Ghostface x GN Reader)

Summary: everyone has a limit, and unfortunately today is the day you reached yours as life wasn't all too kind to you for the last 24 hours... But hey, at least your dear intruder has your back, so not everything is that bad! Right, doll?

Warnings: mild example of unhealthy and obsessive behavior, the rest it's all fluff.

Word count: 2.2k

The grip around (Y/N) remained tight. The intruder kept holding their tied form closely in complete silence, something very out of his character.

But such oddness didn’t come from nowhere, and (Y/N) was the one who indirectly caused it. Today was probably the worst day of their life, everything that could’ve gone wrong, went wrong. It's honestly incredible they still had the emotional strength to return home without bursting into tears on their way.

They’re not quite sure how or when they fell asleep, their mind been a mush of blur since they entered their home. All they can remember is waking up already laying in bed with their arms tied behind their back and their body pressed against the chest of the masked man, the same one that would often come to mess with them.

Sometimes he would reveal himself willingly and others just stay in the shadows and observe them from afar or straight from the corner while they’re in a deep sleep.

This night however, apart from tying their hands, he haven't done anything from his previous visits. No cheeky remarks about anything specific they did that day, no rants about some random topic and no attempts to scare or tease them... Heck, he didn't even run his hand through their hair or body. Absolutely no additional touches beside holding them close.

This really threw (Y/N) off. Ghostface, who's been a huge pain for them, the authorities and basically everyone in the town, was... Acting so thoughtful, nothing like the selfish villain he's been portraying himself as for the past numerous nights.

It's not the first time he hugs and holds them in his arms, he's actually super touchy with them and never fails to express his amusement of how helpless they always look. But now?... Now it doesn't feel like any of his shenanigans, but a genuine attempt to comfort them while not pushing too much, though the effectiveness of said attempt remains questionable.

Their thoughts and wonders were interrupted when they feel movement and then something grab their chin to then gently move their head up until they're face to face with that unsettling mask that resembled a ghost.

—“Feeling better?"—

They don't make a sound, quite the opposite, they press their lips in a thin line as they stare into the dark eyes of his mask.

—"If I take off the tape, will you talk to me?"—

Their body tensed at such question. Is he... Is he actually going to?...

—"Of course as long as you don't try anything funny... But you know better."— he leans closer to your face. —"Right, (Y/N)?"—

They gulp nervously, but Ghostface is right, they do know better than to gamble with their luck. Besides, they have no energy to fight or struggle anyways, so of course they'll play along... For now, at least.

With a more defeated look, they slowly nod.

The man releases a pleased hum and without a warning yanks the tape off of their moth, making them yelp from the pain and surprise.

—“There you go, hope it didn’t hurt too much.”— he snorts at your cringed expression.

—“It… It did… A bit.”— you mutter quietly. —“But not as much as a stab would…”—

The killer paused at the sound of their voice, but the calm was short as out the sudden he grabbed them by the chin again and squeezed their face a bit.

—"Aww, look, your first words.”— he remarks playfully before tilting his head. —“Well? Isn’t it just sweet to finally be able to talk, hmm?”—

(Y/N) remains quiet for a couple of seconds, unsure if they should speak again or not. But when It became clear that the interaction wouldn't progress without their contribution, they force themselves to talk.

—"I… Y-Yeah… It is nice."— you answer while studying his masked face. —"But… Please, don’t get too mad at me for replying slow... I'm not used to talk to... Killers, after all. {Or people in general...}”—

—"...Mad? At you? Oh silly..."—

His head then straightened and he squeezed their face a bit tighter.

—"You're so comically shy that I wish I could just cut you up and pull out some confidence out of your body."— he says in a playful tone, though it sounded way more sinister than intended. —"But it's not that you aren't good at speaking, it's the people you call 'friends' that made you believe that..."—

His tone then became significantly colder at the last part, which made (Y/N) tense and go quiet. But despite the dread, they couldn't help but agree with the killer, their friends indeed aren't as good as they thought.

It's another of the many bad things that happened to them today. They weren't supposed to discover it, they just got in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up overhearing the few people they thought they were close with talk about them. Nasty comment after comment, disgust and disrespect lingering in their tones as they said their name between insults and cruel jokes…

They didn't even bother to listen to the end of the conversation, they just fled the scene and did their best to not cry until they arrived home. And in the entire day, in this whole period of time they looked so pathetic and miserable, none of their other ‘friends’ bothered to see if they're alright or help with any other issue. Absolutely no one took a moment to even say 'hello', and that made (Y/N) feel the loneliest, like they're just a ghost in other people's life, being acknowledged only when they announce their presence.

They get pulled back to reality when the hand lets go of their face and their body is pressed closer to the masked man, making the embrace feel more intimate.

—"...Sorry I can't take the angst as easily as I take people out."— he mutters, his hand slowly traveling up and down your head. —"But I can prevent said angst in the future. These assholes will not disturb you again, I made sure they won't..."— his grip tightens, turning almost possessive.

A shiver traveled down their spine at his words.

They should be afraid, panic that this stranger so deliberately admitted of harming, and most likely murdering, their friends like it’s the most mundane thing to do. They definitely should at least freak out or give any other kind of distressed reaction, they should… But they don’t.

To be completely honest, they weren't even upset at what Ghostface did. After today's interaction their view on his character changed quite drastically. Though he still had that playful and cocky behavior, they now know that whenever he says or shows them care... It's genuine, or so they think. Could this be a trick to make them let their guard down? Definitely. Does it make sense? Uh... Not really, but this man likes to do odd things to throw off any bystander with his shenanigans.

But even if their strange relationship is just a game to him, then damn he's good at it. They almost feel like them matter, like they can be loved and it's just bad luck people around them can't see or appreciate them... Unfortunately though... They know it's not true, it can't be true, they're too pathetic for that, so much that even a psycho killer had pity over them to pretend-

A surprised gasp escaped (Y/N) when their body was suddenly flipped and tackled against the mattress, with Ghostface now looming over them.

They didn't even need to see his face to know what type of expression he had, the atmosphere was all it took to know he was upset.

—"I am not pleased with how you keep viewing yourself, (Y/N)."— he finally says after a pause. —"And I am certainly pissed that you're doing it around me."—

All (Y/N) could do is stare at the ghastly mask in dead silence. Despite having their mouth untapped, they couldn't bring themselves to make a sound, as if paralyzed from fear and anticipation of what he would do if they happen to upset him more.

When the killer began to lean down lowly, they held their breath by instinct.

—"I'll say this one time, and you better not force me to repeat it."— he said in a low and slow tone. —"You are my favorite person in this whole cursed world. And I swear if you dare to think badly about yourself again, I'll fucking stab you."—

He pauses, either letting his words sink in or re-evaluating what he just said or is about to say.

After not coming to a clear conclusion, he sighs with mild frustration.

—"I... Look. I'm aware of my reputation and the image you have of me. And though I do like to amuse myself with these visits of mine, not ones I did it to mess with you, not in the way you think..."—

He pauses again, the eyes of his mask staring directly into theirs, either studying their expression or thinking.

—"I wanted to end you ones..."—

As he speaks again in a lower voice as he extends his hand, aiming for their neck.

—"...But I don’t want it anymore."—

The hand was drastically redirected towards their face, covering their eyes in a quick movement. Whatever sound of surprise or confusion (Y/N) was about to make is shushed when something soft and warm was pressed against their lips, the sensation sending shivers through their body.

—"{Or ever again.}"—

That's all they heard before their eyes were uncovered and Ghostface plopped on the mattress right next to them, his head placed on his hand as he waits for their reaction.

(Y/N) can only cluelessly blink while staring at the ceiling, wondering if the warm sensation they just felt on their lips was actually Ghostface-...

Their face starts to get progressively redder as the realization kicks in. My god. Ghostface, from all people, actually!-

Their head snaps at his direction when that famous deep raspy chuckle left him, clearly entertained by the fifty shades of red their face is going through.

—"What? Never had a kiss stolen before?"— he teases.

—"I- Uh... No. Not really..."— you answer as you look away, face even redder.

—"Good, all for me then."—

Now it's (Y/N) who lets out a snort, finding his behavior silly yet quite charming. Huh, strange how quickly they moved on, the previous dread and fear they felt when he pinned them was now like a long forgotten dream...

Is the famous Stockholm syndrome affecting them already? Why are they suddenly so okay with his presence? Even when knowing about his mood swings they can't shake off this strange sensation of comfort...

Is it because his actions and intentions are now confirmed to be genuine? Because he really seems to like and cherish their company? Cherish them?...

...

...You know?

Fuck everything.

They're too tired for this 'BS' about morality and shit. It will be a tomorrow problem to overthink, now they should just give in and take this night to relax and... Well, maybe even put into use this little freedom of speech they got and actually chat to the man, maybe even get to know more about him.

They look at killer again, the dark eyes of his mask still fixated on their form as he observes them in silence, almost like he's looking at a piece of art rather than another person.

—"So... Are you going to stay here all night?"— you finally ask.

He's silent for a little while.

—"You want me to?"—

—"Kinda. You... You're not too bad of a company, I guess."— you shoot him a timid smile. —"And even if I didn't I doubt you would've leave."—

He lets out a snort at their last comment and then lies down, a bit closer to them.

—"You're right, you're now haunted by me either you want it or not."—

There is a small pause between them, both just laying and looking at each other, a strange atmosphere of calm now lingered in the room, making this moment feel oddly right.

Out of the sudden, they feel a pair of arms snake around their form and bring them ones again into that warm and intimate hug. And this time, they welcome the gesture by snuggling closer to the man and letting out a content sigh.

—"So."— he then says as he tilts his head to look at you, now in his arms. —"What's your favorite scary movie? I never got an answer to this question."—

—"Huh? Aren't you supposed to know that?"— you arch your brow. —"Y'know cuz of the whole stalker thing and all..."—

—"Yes, but want to hear you tell me that. I just really like the sound of your voice."—

They can feel their cheeks warm up, and they can't avoid to get even shyer when the man chuckles at their expression.

—"W-Well... I have a couple."—

At first they sounded awkward while speaking, as if expecting him to interrupt them or laugh at their preferences. Nevertheless, he never made a sound and seemed to pay close attention to what they're saying, sometimes even asking more things about the movies when given the opportunity. Overall, Ghostface is a very nice guy to talk about any kind of nerdy horror stuff!

At some point, they even forgot that the man holding them was a serial murder. It actually felt like talking to an old dear friend rather than a criminal.

And as they talk through the night, (Y/N) finally understands why Ghostface always became so touchy and clingy whenever he had a bad day.

Cuddles and rants indeed help, especially if done with your favorite person.

And though they're certain he's not one yet... Just by seeing how the night progresses.

They wouldn't be too surprised if he somehow sneaks his way into such spot.

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Re-skimmed through a bunch of Dune Messiah last night because why not and now I am having thoughts:

The thing that sticks with me most is the tone. It's melancholy, it's eerie, it's unsettled and weird. Cannot think of a more pitch-perfect director for it than Denis Villeneuve. He's gonna nail it.

There is...not that much...actual story? Denis has referred to it in interviews as "a small book" and I'm like my guy it is 350 pages. But there are actually not that many plot beats. It's just that every. single. scene. is WILDLY overwritten. The real challenge of adapting Dune is not the giant worms or the dense complicated worldbuilding or the fact that actors have to say the name "Duncan Idaho" repeatedly with a straight face. It's that there are pages and pages and PAGES of internal monologue that have to be externalized somehow for film.

After a re-skim my gut instinct for "how much story goes in a feature film" is that if you just wrote out the dialogue and action that happens in every scene in the book in screenplay format you'd end up with...maybe about an hour of material? Which is great, actually, because it means there is room to add stuff. Like a whole new independent plotline for Chani if they decide to do that.

It may seem insane to add things to an adaptation of what's notoriously one of the wordiest series in classic sci-fi but it's worth remembering that they added quite a bit to Dune Part Two. Most of the first hour of the movie--almost everything before the worm ride except for Jessica drinking the Water of Life--is stuff that isn't in the book. And it's the best part of the movie essential to making the movie work as well as it does. Yes, they also cut elements from both parts (the dinner scene, the whole plotline where Gurney thinks Jessica is a Harkonnen spy, Thufir Hawat's fate, Leto II the Elder, murder toddler Alia) but I understand why each of those elements was cut or changed in the service of cinematic storytelling.

There's an interview (can't remember which one) with Jon Spaihts, the other co-writer of the scripts along with Denis, where he talks about how Dune is like a stage play, with so many of what would be the big action set pieces happening off-page. I kept thinking about that comparison while reviewing Dune Messiah because in addition to the scenes that do exist being wordy and internal as fuck, an absolutely insane list of major events/reveals/emotionally significant moments happen off-page. The list of things that we don't actually see in the main action of the story, that we're only told about after they happen, includes:

Chani finding out Irulan has been secretly dosing her with birth control for YEARS

People trying to capture a sandworm and take it off planet

Chani and Paul finding out Chani is pregnant after 12 years of trying to conceive

Paul flying an ornithopter carrying his extremely-about-to-go-into-labor partner while blind

CHANI DYING (first time reading I did NOT know this was coming and damn near threw my Kindle across the room at the way the information was delivered)

Alia executing a bunch of people including a Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother

Paul walking into the desert at the end

You could add all these moments into a scene-for-scene film adaptation of the book and probably still have room to add more material.

The other thing that jumps out is that Paul doesn't really...govern...much. Like there's this whole subgenre of post-Dune/Dune Messiah-era fic that's just some combination of Paul, Chani, Irulan and sometimes Feyd traipsing around the palace having feelings while vague politics happens in the background, but I forgot that Dune Messiah is actually kinda like that??

There is a whole thread of Paul feeling kind of abstractly bad about being Space Hitler but he does not, in fact, actually do anything about it. And like yes both bureaucracies and religious movements can grow to have a life of their own that seems beyond the control of any one person. But also my dude you are the Emperor of the Known Universe. Someone is signing those space checks for the Endless War budget. You are not powerless here.

The one thing that really, clearly drives Paul to actively do things in the plot is not feeling guilty about having unleashed catastrophic religious war on the universe. It is protecting his family. Chani, Alia, his unborn children, and you could probably throw in Duncan by the end. That is what motivates him to act at key moments, and to want to hold on to power. And hey, y'know, if I'd experienced almost everyone I'd ever known getting murdered in a single night, I would probably get a bit intense about that too! It makes sense from a character point of view!

I'm very curious to see how these threads interweave with each other in the film, because the Villeneuve films put a lot of emphasis on Paul's agency and the fact that he may be constrained by shitty circumstances thousands of years in the making, but he still makes choices within that context. I can't see the narrative allowing film!Paul to get away with the same Poor Little Dictator routine as in the book. There are a few ways they could play this but I think the most interesting one is kinda the way they started going at the end of Part Two. Which is that as soon as you start reaching for that kind of power, then power becomes its own end and you will end up doing increasingly horrific things to maintain it. I think it would be quite interesting if the film shows us Paul not just being like "woe is me" but actively choosing to make the world worse because his trauma-driven fear of losing the people he loves makes him cling ever more desperately to power for its own sake.

If they went this route I think it would make Paul's decision at the end hit even harder. FWIW I actually really like Paul walking off into the desert at the end of the book. I think it brings things full circle with his relationship to the Fremen and creates this beautiful arc going back to the duel with Jamis. He first won a place among the Fremen through respecting their customs even though he really did not want to fight and kill someone he had no beef with. And by respecting the Fremen custom of the blind walking off into the desert, he proves himself to be fully Fremen and protects his children not by making them heirs to the throne but by making them Fremen.

And yeah, to a modern audience here on Earth it can look like "Paul conveniently fucks off and doesn't have to raise his newly-motherless children." And we can have a whole discussion about the unexamined ableism of the idea of someone who's gone blind voluntarily choosing death so as to "not be a burden" on their community. But neither of those readings is really the point here. Within the logic of Fremen cultural values, where the survival of the group as a whole is more important than the life of any one individual ("your water belongs to the tribe" etc.) Paul's choice is a willing and intentional self-sacrifice (see also: fedaykin) that wins him huge respect. There's a line in the book about Paul that's like "He would be one of them forever now" and damn if that didn't give me shivers. Like!! The political-symbolic implications!!! Which maybe I'm particularly attuned to because I just wrote a whole fic about what does it mean for an outsider to become Fremen but hmm something something Paul's final* act not being an exercise of Imperial power but an expression of kinship with an oppressed group and that being the thing that's needed to keep his family safe even if he is not physically present with them...IT IS RICH SYMBOLIC TERRITORY.

(*Yes yes I know about events in the next book. Shush.)

This kind of stuff is why I tend to think Chani may start out in a very different place in the story but the end will still be pretty close to what's in the book. It's too thematically powerful and tragic to go any other way.

But also...if they change things around enough that she is still alive at the end of the movie...I won't be sad about it.

[isfjmel-phleg]

Spiral Staircase

[Disclaimer: This might be my creepiest weird short story. It features some urban legend-type scary stories in-universe, and there's an implication of the protagonist's being suicidal. You have been warned.]

Some people say that it’s simply the last vestige of a long-since rotted-away building. Others say that it’s something more sinister, a portal to no one knows where. Everyone says to stay far away from it. Don’t linger long enough to snap a picture. Don’t even look too long. Just keep walking.

I’m walking this afternoon, plunging deep into the woods. And I won’t stop until I find the spiral staircase. I don’t care. I must climb it. I have no choice.

There’s no one here to notice me and issue an unwelcome warning. Even the animals keep their distance. Hints of birdsong are so faint they might as well come from another world. Only the rustle of foliage beneath my stumbling feet follows me like a persistent ghost. If there ever were a path, it has long since decomposed into mulch, but I charge through anyway, ignoring the branches that slap me for invading their privacy. My clothes are dirt-smudged and a little tattered by now. Cuts sting my arms and face. 

I don’t mind. It’s a relief to feel something, anything. If the woods are fighting me, at least it means that they have bothered to note my presence.

As I trudge, my eyes shift back and forth, scanning the gaps in the willows for any glimpse of my destination. I’m aware that it will be metal, the work of human—well, of someone’s—hands, in the middle of these acres of living, uncrafted nature. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of a spiral staircase standing alone in a clearing as nonchalantly as if it had grown there.

It’s an ordinary staircase like I’ve seen many times before. The tall grass doesn’t overgrow it. The rampant willow fronds haven’t dared to wind a tendril among the rusty brown curlicues of the balusters. No animal has left its mark there. The banisters have not a speck of dust, and although fallen leaves carpet the ground all around, none of them lie on the stairs. A single beam of light pours down on the staircase like an invitation.

Nothing that has belonged to the woods for as long as anyone can remember can possibly remain so pristine. It looks as if it’s been transported from some well-kept residence not five minutes ago. There’s nothing threatening about an innocent staircase, but I find I can’t move any closer at first. I stare and stare and gradually realize that somewhere the birds have stopped singing.

If the spiral staircase can unsettle me so thoroughly, that’s a good sign. It means that the stairs are as otherworldly as the stories claim. It would be disappointing to come all this way to find only the crumbling relic of some mundane old house. But here I can do exactly what I came for.

I square my shoulders and step into the circle of light around the base of the staircase. I hardly feel the sun on my face; I hardly feel anything. This is normal. I can do this.

The crunching of the leaves under my feet crashes into my ears like thunder. Surely the entire forest can hear me about to approach the forbidden staircase. Part of me expects some hiker, ranger, or bear to jump out from behind a tree and try to stop me. No one does. I am alone in the woods. I could climb these stairs, and no one will ever know. 

I didn’t leave a note when I went out this morning. There’s no way anyone could contact me, even if they wanted to. Solitude brings a kind of freedom, and I’m about to become freer than I have ever been. And no one will ever know. This doesn’t make me feel sad. In fact, something comes over me, and I giggle at my own audacity.

I shut off my brain and set foot on the first step—and then another. It’s exactly like stepping onto any other staircase. Nothing happens, except that I now view the world from a few inches higher than I had a moment ago. So I keep stepping. The spiral staircase does not tip over beneath my weight. I don’t know what holds it up, and I don’t dare think too hard about it. Instinctively, I reach for the banister as I continue up, then remember that the metal will be piping hot under the sun. But when my hand makes contact, the banister is as cool as if I’ve found it in mid-January. I shiver through my jacket.

At the first bend, I wonder how many other people have made it this far. They say that my childhood best friend’s brother’s cousin’s neighbor came here on a dare on Halloween. He brought a lantern and a cold can stolen from his parents’ refrigerator and planned to have a drink at the top of the spiral staircase. My friend’s brother said his cousin watched from behind three layers of willows away as the boy made the first turn—and then his lantern blew out like a candle.

It was a battery-powered lantern.

Unable to see any further, my friend’s brother’s cousin ran home. The next morning, there was an empty can a few yards from the spiral staircase, but no one ever saw that boy or his lantern again.

As I continue, I watch my step, in case I stumble over the lantern. Or worse. 

But that seems unlikely. I’ve never seen cleaner stairs. Wherever they lead, nothing gets left behind. For someone like me, that sounds welcoming. I have nothing worth going back to. Whatever awaits at the top of the spiral staircase cannot possibly be worse than what I left below.

Each step lifts me a little further from the world, until I no longer feel like I belong to it. I exist in a place that’s neither earth nor sky, a narrow, winding path that spools me closer and closer to release. I now understand the story of Noemie.

No one is sure who Noemie was, but the stories all agree that over a hundred years ago, she came into the woods with her sweetheart, a boy her wealthy parents disapproved of. It had begun to rain when they were crossing the creek on stepping stones, and by the time the couple were halfway across, the trickle became a torrent. The boy lost his footing on the now slippery rocks and plunged into the overflowing waters. He tried to swim, and Noemie tried to rescue him from the bank, but lightning split the sky, and she lost him.

Distraught, she tried to find her way out of the woods but couldn’t. What she did find was the spiral staircase, and she heard her sweetheart’s voice at the top, calling to her. Without a second thought, she ran up the stairs with open arms.

They found her sweetheart’s drowned and lightning-struck body in the creek, but they never found Noemie. 

A torn and sodden dress lay discarded beneath the spiral staircase. Noemie didn’t need it anymore. She had found something better. At least, that’s what I always like to think. She never had to go home and grieve.

I strain my ears, in case someone might be calling me from the top too. But as I stand still, I can’t hear anything. The entire world has gone eerily quiet, as if holding its breath, waiting for me to arrive at whatever awaits me. I breathe a little louder and stomp my feet against the metal to hear the reassuring clang of my unechoed steps.

By now, I don’t know how many turns I’ve taken. I’ve spun round and round on this staircase like a carousel until I’ve lost all sense of direction. From the ground, the spiral staircase didn’t seem so high, but now it seems to go on for maybe a few stories. My legs are starting to ache. Not much farther, and I’ll find out what’s really at the top.

My insides constrict, just like they did many years ago when I first heard whispers of the spiral staircase. Everyone hears this story first. And everyone remembers it when they venture too far into the woods.

The spiral staircase was first spotted hundreds of years ago. A family went into the woods—the stories don’t agree why, maybe to pick nuts and berries. The three children scampered ahead, and by the time the parents caught up to them, they had reached the clearing of the spiral staircase and ran up the steps, hoping to get closer to the branches. The parents called to them but got no answer. They approached the stairs, but a sudden, intense revulsion prevented them from climbing. Instead, they circled the perimeter, hoping to catch sight of the children, but saw nothing. The children had not climbed over into the willows. They had completely vanished.

The parents never saw them again.

But the next day, there were three new headstones in the local graveyard that had not been there before. They bore the names of the missing children, the birth and death dates, and the words “Beloved Child.” When the horrified and curious townspeople dug in front of the headstones, they found three coffins. And when they opened the coffins, they found nothing but the bones of a hand in each, with a rusty brown mark across each palm, just the width of a banister.

I guess I never really bought that story. It’s improbable even for a spiral staircase legend. But I’ve seen the headstones and can’t get them out of my head as I take the last steps to the top of the stairs. Of course, nothing will appear in town in memory of me now that I’ve taken the climb. Is it wrong to wish that something might anyway? Even if it is just my hand. I won’t need it anyway.

I can’t bring myself to look as I wind around the last bend. It’s taking everything I have not to get sick. Yet my legs keep moving automatically, as if something beyond the synapses of my brain compelled them. I’ve come too far, and the spiral staircase is claiming me as its own.

This is what I came here for. I didn’t realize then how much it hurts, how much I miss standing on the same solid ground as a whole earth’s worth of other people. But I’ve come all this way, and I accept my only choice.

I open my eyes.

I’m standing on a little bit of landing at the top of the spiral staircase. There is nothing up here. No other person. No message left behind by previous climbers. No portal to another world. No sign of life at all. Nothing but the tops of trees in the distance and, in front of my toes, a sheer drop-off of hundreds of feet to the forest floor below.

One step further, and my destination is obvious.

This is what I came here for?

After all the bone-chilling stories, after all the courage it took to find this place, after every unexplained facet of this staircase’s existence—it is nothing more than a spiral staircase to nowhere out in the woods. I might as well have climbed a tree. I might as well—

One foot moves forward…

And back again. I thunder down the steps of the spiral staircase as if chased by those spectral lost climbers themselves.

Nothing I left outside the woods could be as empty as what I left at the top of the stairs.

Back on solid ground, I glance around to get my bearings. There’s the gap in the elms that I came through, although I don’t remember its being so open. The clouds didn’t seem so thick at the top of the stairs. They must have rolled in quickly.

I square my shoulders and set my sights on the pathway home.

It begins to rain.

[familiarscars]

Lost In Control | Bad Omens | CHAPTER 30

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Bad Omens X ex-girlfriend and singer!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Noah had a difficult ending but you still need to support each other for the band.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, ex-boyfriends, difficult relationships, alcohol abuse, swearing, drug addiction, violence.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

NOAH

In a quick reflex, I reached across the bed with my eyes still closed: empty.

That was enough to force my eyes open, no matter how heavy with sleep they were. No sign of her anywhere in the room. A twinge of discomfort pulsed in my chest as I sat up, scanning the wide space with half-lidded eyes. Confusion and unease swirled within me as I scratched my head, making sure I was exactly where I thought I was.

The room looked just as I remembered: messy, with clothes strewn across the floor, open suitcases, feminine accessories, and scattered makeup and hair products. All hers.

I remembered last night well enough to know it hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. The moment we shared here was real.

But if it was real, where was she now?

I got up and hurriedly pulled on a pair of pants. Still shirtless, I began pacing the room, as if that would somehow help me find a clue.

A persistent ache throbbed on the side of my head—a subtle pain, nowhere near the intensity of my usual headaches, but still there. My search for the medication was futile: I checked the pockets of the hoodie on the floor, rifled through my pants from last night, and found nothing.

I should’ve been more concerned with how strange that seemed, but my mind was too cluttered to dwell on it. I rubbed my chin, pacing back and forth, trying to push past the pain and force my thoughts into some kind of order.

Soon, Scarlet would wake up.

I didn’t know what kind of aftereffects she might have from the accident—if any. Even so, the thought that her memory might be perfectly intact, clear enough to recall every detail of our argument, unsettled me deeply.

Biting my lip, I stopped in front of the hotel phone and began dialing a number I’d memorized out of nervousness. If I didn’t have enough creativity to figure out my next move, I was willing to see where my mind would take me. First, I needed to know one thing: how much time I had.

“Hi, good morning! This is Noah. I’m a friend of a patient admitted to your hospital…”

My voice sounded steady as I pressed the receiver to my ear, watching my reflection in the mirror. The ridiculous cut near my eyebrow—small though it was—had already managed to ruin my mood.

“I’d really like to know how Scarlet Carter is doing. She’s part of my team, and we’re all very worried about her condition.”

On the other end, the woman seemed to be typing something into her computer before replying:

“There are no updates on that patient.”

Thank God.

“That’s unfortunate…” I murmured, a hint of false concern coloring my words as I kept my expression neutral. “Our team will likely contact you today to handle the paperwork for transferring her to our city.”

“Speaking of which…” she interrupted before I could hang up. “We tried contacting her family to inform them of the situation, but we were unable to reach anyone.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I answered quickly, adjusting my tone to sound helpful. “I’ll take care of notifying them.”

“Thank you so much, sir!”

“No problem, darling!” I said, rolling my eyes as I slammed the phone down on the hook.

I still had enough time.

My attention snapped to the door as it opened. The moment she stepped in, she seemed surprised to see me awake, her lips curving into a tight, hesitant smile. Internally, I read it as a sign that something was wrong. Was she suspicious of me? Had I talked in my sleep and given myself away? What if she’d left to call the police, and in ten minutes, I’d be in cuffs?

There was no way to predict.

“Good morning,” I said first, breaking the awkward silence as she crossed the threshold.

“Good morning,” she replied cautiously.

“Where were you?” The question escaped before I could hold it back. She looked at me with furrowed brows, and I immediately realized I was acting just like Noah had when we were dating. It was painfully obvious this question reminded her of that.

Maybe I already knew the answer just from the time we’d spent together and how much our turbulent relationship had taught me. But something about her behavior sparked my curiosity. She seemed… clean. There were no obvious signs of irritability or drug use—just a familiar restlessness and weariness.

I thought it would be better if she were using drugs than turning me in to the police.

“Shut up, Noah,” I muttered, too loud, squeezing my eyelids shut as if that could banish the stupid thought.

“What did you say?” she asked, even more confused, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Nothing, nothing,” I shook my head slowly, as if I could erase the moment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound intrusive.”

“I…” She hesitated, clenching her hands on her thighs, seeming to search for courage. “I really need to talk to you about something serious that’s been bothering me.”

Oh, hell no.

“Ah, no! No, no, no!” I exclaimed, reluctant, as I walked over and lifted her chin so she would look at me. Her bright eyes were troubled, her lips slightly parted, ready to say something I didn’t want to hear. Before she could continue, I silenced her with a quick kiss. When I pulled back, I tilted my head, softening my gaze. “I don’t want to have a serious talk right now. You know how our serious talks end.”

“But this time…”

“Shhh,” I interrupted again, this time with a peck on the lips. “It’s our last day here. Why don’t we do something different? We’ve got the whole day free before we have to check out of the hotel. We can go out, eat, stroll, feed the ducks, go to the park—anything you want.”

She averted her gaze to an empty spot, thoughtful.

“When we land in Los Angeles, I promise we’ll go back to serious discussions. We’ll worry about the band, Scarlet’s situation, the album, and all that boring stuff…” I continued, holding her chin again to draw her back to me. “But you promised me a truce that night in the abandoned house. Would you mind spending today enjoying it with me? I’m afraid everything will go back to square one when we get home.”

After a long moment of contemplation and with a dramatic effort worthy of an exaggerated soap opera, I managed to convince her.

The truth was, I just wanted to spend the day with her. To pretend, for a few more hours, that the world wasn’t about to collapse on my shoulders. That we could still treat each other like normal people, even if only for a little while.

Hours after lunch, the sun shone with a gentle warmth, embracing the afternoon with a light, comforting breeze. We walked side by side through the park, me carrying the bicycles while she laughed, her voice echoing like a melody that seemed to cradle everything around us. It was a bit crowded, and the jumble of voices grated on my nerves, but I tried not to let it become too obvious.

“I bet you can’t handle a fair race, Noah,” she teased, a challenging smile curling her lips as she took a sip from her energy drink bottle.

I raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation.

“Fair? I’m unstoppable! You’ll regret suggesting this.”

She stepped forward, gracefully mounting her bike.

“Then let’s find out.” And she sped off before I could even get into position.

“Hey! That’s cheating! We didn’t set a countdown!” I shouted, rushing to climb onto my bike and muttering in frustration as I tried to catch up.

We raced through the park, with her holding an unfair lead—laughing loudly and glancing back at me through strands of dark hair that had slipped from the tie she used to secure them, mocking my lagging pace. I pedaled with all my strength, but the way she moved, so free, made it seem like victory was already hers.

When we reached the improvised finish line—a large, solitary tree near the lake—she jumped off her bike, throwing her arms up and spinning around, yelling in exaggerated celebration.

“I won!”

I dismounted with a look of mock indignation.

“It doesn’t count. You started before me!”

“You said you were unstoppable, remember? Mister I-Win-Because-My-Legs-Are-Longer-Than-Yours?” she laughed, tilting her head. “No whining, baby!”

“I want a rematch!” I declared, stepping closer with a mischievous grin.

“No chance. One victory is enough for me.” She shrugged.

"Ah, but I’m a dirty player, remember?" Before she could react, I grabbed her by the waist and spun her around in the air.

She let out a shriek that quickly turned into laughter as I stopped and began assaulting her neck with an endless stream of tiny kisses.

"Noah! That doesn’t count!"

"Exactly!" I proclaimed, setting her back on the ground as we both laughed—one of those deep, warm laughs that made your chest ache from too much joy.

We sat on the grass, our ice creams melting far too quickly under the sun. I joked that hers looked like a baby bird because of the mishmash of colors, and she claimed mine looked like a pile of poop in a cone. I instantly lost my appetite, realizing she’d done it on purpose so she could have both.

"Is your foot hurting?" I asked, noticing how she subtly massaged her ankle.

"A little. But it’s nothing I can’t handle."

"I’m not taking any chances." I stood up and crouched in front of her. "Hop on."

I glanced over my shoulder with a grin I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.

"Come on, trust me."

She rolled her eyes but gave in, climbing on slowly while giggling.

"If you drop me, I swear the truce ends before we even get to Los Angeles."

"If you keep talking, I’ll toss you into the lake on purpose."

With her on my back, we strolled through the park. Her arms rested loosely around my shoulders, her cheek pressed against mine as we chatted about everything and nothing. We gossiped about couples passing by and debated how long they had been together. For the older couples, we speculated how long one of them had been having an affair.

"He definitely has a mistress named Becky and has been seeing her for six years," she declared, nodding toward a couple sitting on a bench. The man was glued to his phone while the woman talked to herself, with him occasionally nodding in silence.

"Becky is definitely his secretary," I added.

"Their first kiss happened after she found a dry cleaner that didn’t use that fabric softener that makes his butt itch," she continued. "And his clueless wife still uses it."

"Saint Becky," I muttered with a roll of my eyes.

We laughed together, shaking our heads at the absurdity of it all.

In that moment, it was just the two of us, wrapped in a bubble that felt unbreakable. No problems, no bands, no complicated pasts—only the feeling that the world could wait while we got lost in each other.

A long flight to Los Angeles had cleared my mind exactly the way I needed. Over sixteen exhausting hours, my body’s weariness battled my determination to keep my eyes open, using every moment to untangle the mess of thoughts in my head. What once felt like a knotted web of confusion slowly dissolved into a subtle but effective plan—something that, if executed perfectly, could free me from all my problems at once.

Now, it was all or nothing.

Was fate on my side? Well, that was what I was about to find out.

Her house felt just the same as always, trapped in time as if resisting human touch. Dry leaves littered the porch, and stacks of unopened mail crowded behind the door, stirring up a familiar unease. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the discomfort her preference for this isolated place brought me. It stood apart from the connected, ordinary world I wished she’d embrace.

Leaving her things in the living room felt like stepping into a déjà vu—an unsettling, heavy feeling that clung to me every time I set foot there. Memories of one particular day pushed into my mind without permission, a merciless replay I could never pause or mute.

"You didn’t have to come all the way here, but thank you," she said, curling into one of the armchairs, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees like she was shielding herself from something invisible.

"I could make you something to eat, or we could go out," I offered, trying to fill the oppressive silence with some semblance of normalcy.

"You said you wanted to talk when we got back," she began, her tone direct and unwavering. "Well, I need to talk to you too, and I can’t put it off, Noah!"

I took a deep breath, the weight of unsaid words settling heavily between us.

"I’m pretty sure what I have to say is more important," I countered, trying to soften the mood as I sank onto the couch across from her. "I’ve thought a lot during the entire flight back, and I realized it’s not fair to keep this hidden. You didn’t owe me anything when I asked for your help—all those times over the past months. I don’t deserve it, but you deserve the truth."

My voice dropped, deeper and rawer than I intended, stripped of any pretense. There was no turning back now.

Her defensive posture unraveled little by little. The guarded tension gave way to something more fragile as she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together, her delicate face strained with the kind of dread that hinted she already feared the worst before I even began.

"I kept the real reason behind my fight with Scarlet a secret from you," I admitted, carefully choosing each word. "Things were already tense between us. When she stormed out of the room, I was about to leave too. That’s when I noticed something—something she left behind."

I pulled the crumpled, blood-stained envelope from my hoodie pocket, feeling the weight of it as I handed it over. Her eyes flicked to it, confusion clouding her expression as her fingers hesitated.

"When I saw who sent it, I realized it was a letter from your mother. A letter written for you."

Her breath hitched. "What?"

With trembling hands, she opened the violated envelope and began to read, her eyes widening as the words sank in, tears pooling in their corners.

"I have no idea how Scarlet got her hands on that letter, but she did," I continued. "Your mother explains in it that she’s in prison. Scarlet was going to use that information against you. I disagreed. That’s how the fight started—with her behind the wheel."

My voice wavered. So did my gaze as I glanced away, unable to face the pain it caused. Her hands shook, her tears falling freely as she clutched the letter.

"I’m sorry," I whispered, placing my hand gently over hers, trying to offer some small measure of comfort.

"I want to see my mother," she declared, her voice solid, rooted deep within her. Her fingers gripped the letter like it was the last connection to something she couldn’t let go of.

Holly shit, Noah Sebastian.

Not only had I ruined everything, but I’d managed to make it worse. Of course, she’d want to see Crystal after reading that damned letter. I should have burned it, kept my mouth shut, let her believe the accident was about jealousy or Scarlet’s temper.

Too late now.

I clenched my jaw. Anger swirled, not at her, but at the obsession with rejection that always dragged her back. How could she still care about that woman? I was here, offering everything she needed, yet it seemed like none of it mattered. All her focus was on seeing the person who had let her down.

"I could go with you, if you want..." I offered, forcing a tight smile to mask my frustration. She looked up, gratitude softening her tear-streaked face.

"Thank you, Noah. If it weren’t for you, I might never have known the truth. Scarlet… I don’t think she would have ever told me. How could she..." Her voice cracked, and more sobs broke free.

"I wasn’t going to let her hide something this important from you," I replied, steadying my voice as the knot in my stomach tightened.

I sighed, pulling her into a firm embrace. I held her close, as if shielding her from everything, until her breathing steadied and the tension eased.

"Shhh… It’s over now, okay? Forget about Scarlet for a while. We’ll deal with her later," I whispered, planting a kiss on her head. "We’ll visit your mom."

As she cried quietly against me, a part of me knew this choice would come at a price. But no matter how much my mind screamed to turn back, my heart kept choosing her.

Strike one.

The penitentiary had an oppressive presence, with high concrete walls and barbed wire, as if the very energy of the place was designed to push away any remnants of hope. We stepped out of the car in silence, and I noticed how her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, a small gesture that betrayed the anxiety gripping her.

“You’ll be okay,” I murmured, trying to catch her eyes. She didn’t respond, just nodded, her gaze never leaving the heavy doors ahead. I wasn’t sure who needed comfort more as my palms grew slick with sweat.

When we entered, we followed the guard’s instructions to the reception desk. She pulled the letter from her pocket and held it out, pointing to the highlighted number on the paper.

“I’m here to visit the inmate with this identification,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

The guard glanced at the paper, typed something into the system, and nodded briefly.

“Wait here,” he instructed before walking into the building’s interior.

I turned to her, noticing the tension in her shoulders. I gently touched her hand, making her look at me.

“Breathe,” I said softly. “I’m sure this will be better than we expect.”

She took a deep breath, but the anxious look didn’t leave her face. Seconds dragged on as we waited.

The feeling gnawed at my insides like a plague. I wanted to find a bathroom, maybe throw up. Strangely, being this nervous made me forget my headache, as if worse feelings had overtaken it. The absence of a plan B loomed over me.

Finally, the guard returned, but something in his expression set me on edge.

“The visit won’t be possible,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “The inmate... well, she passed away two months ago.”

His words hit like a punch.

There was no way I could be this lucky.

“Passed away?” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible.

“Passed away?” I repeated impulsively.

“Suicide,” the guard responded bluntly.

The ground seemed to vanish beneath us. My eyes widened as I struggled to process the information, while she stumbled back a step, her breathing spiraling out of control.

“No, no... it can’t be…” she stammered, her eyes filling with tears.

“Hey, calm down…” I murmured, gripping her shoulders to keep her steady.

But it was too late. The strength she had tried to hold onto dissolved, and she began to sob uncontrollably, her hands covering her face as broken cries escaped her.

“She was alive... she wrote to me... how could this happen?” she wept, her voice splintering with despair. “I waited for her all these years, and when she reached out, I didn’t come… I didn’t come, Noah.”

I held her tighter, pushing aside my own shock to anchor her to the moment.

“I know this is too much, I know… but I’m here with you, okay? I’m here,” I whispered, trying to soothe her even as my own mind raced.

Nothing could have prepared us for this. Nothing.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

Strike 2.

⭑ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lacy1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline​ ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @do-it-jakey-baby

[sabotsen]

PGR Soulmate AU

Pairings: Lee x Skk; Chrome x Skk; Roland x Skk; Noan x Skk

Summary: Although they lost their soulmate mark when flesh and blood was replaced with metal and wires, proof that it once existed is right there — branded upon your skin.

Notes: Skk set as reader. General pining and yearning that goes with soulmate au trope. Markings are intricate and unique geometrical patterns matched only with your soulmate. They can vary in size but are often small and their location upon the body varies. Mates will have the same pattern in the same location. 

Lee

When he still had flesh and bone, his mark was located on his inner wrist — the geometric pattern sprawled over his median nerve like a caution sign. Morian was always careful with it, opting to hide it beneath bandages and wrist wraps most of the time. He hid it not out of superstition that scratching it would transfer to his partner nor did he do it out of preference to keep prying eyes off of it. No, Morian buried his mark simply out of guilt — if it had been located anywhere else on his body he would have left it well enough alone. But his mark manifested too close to his hands. Though he wears gloves on the job as a necessity, he always goes the extra mile to wrap up his left wrist as well. Just the thought of blood staining his skin there leaves a bitter taste in his mouth — coppery and rotten. Morian doesn’t imagine he will ever meet his soulmate, but still he can’t help but protect this single innocent thing mistakenly branded upon his skin. For years, as he worked in the filth and the dark, he kept that patch of his skin free of bloodstains. Perhaps it was all for naught, or perhaps it never mattered to begin with, as the first and last time blood trailed down his wrist and traced the pattern of his marking was when they broke his body down piece by piece and gave his heart to his brother. That was the last he saw of that pattern for a long, long time. 

Lee sees it by happenstance one day, not long after he joins the Gray Ravens. Even back then, you had a habit of getting injured when no one was looking. It had been a scouting mission, something simple and routine. Easy. Slowly, cautious step by step, he was adjusting to his new team, even if he still felt unsettled by your effortless kindness and patience. He wasn’t sure what to make of it back then, as all he knew at the time was false niceties with strings attached (he knows better now, but sometimes he wishes you would be selfish for once). They had paused in the ruins of a dilapidated mall while Liv ran a few more scans of the area; Lucia stood guard at the entrance to the small store corner they claimed, and Lee was running his own calculations to add information for Liv’s search. You, however, were rummaging around in the debris, quiet as a thief until you sliced your palm on warped metal. Your hiss of pain immediately caught the attention of all three of them. Liv and Lee were closest to you and leapt to your side with their weapons raised, while Lucia was quick to fall back within reach. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you had said, “Just a scratch.” 

“This isn’t the time to be playing around,” Lee had hissed, “You have no idea what’s buried under the trash here.” 

“Please be careful, Commandant,” Liv had fretted as soon as she saw the blood seeping through your glove.  

“Sorry,” your sheepish smile, even back then, didn’t have an ounce of remorse. “That little girl said she lost her stuffed rabbit around here when they fled. I was hoping to find it.” 

Meaningless, Lee remembers thinking as he watched Liv pull the glove from your left hand and carefully clean the wound. Lee had watched idly — glaring, really, hoping his scowl would discourage you from future pointless endeavors — as Liv worked. It was only when she finished bandaging the wound and cleaning the blood from your hand entirely that he caught sight of it. You had raised your hand up slightly, fingers flexing as you tested the bandage. But that small movement caused the sleeve of your uniform to slide just an inch further down your arm and bare your wrist in full display. Branded on your skin was a geometric pattern Lee had not seen in years. 

Lee still remembers the way his own wrist itched and burned at the sight — as if that mark still lingered, etched somehow into the metal of him. If you had noticed how quiet he had fallen after that, how his lips pressed into a line so thin they paled, you never commented on it. Your mark was not spoken of, as if it wasn’t branded across your skin in plain sight, and the day continued on as if it were any other. 

Despite the long time that has since passed, Lee's eyes always linger on your mark when you're not looking. Most days he can catch a glimpse of it, flashing over the rim of your sleeve or from beneath the bottom of your glove. Even now, his breath catches at the sight every time, like a fisher’s hook snagged in his lungs he stumbles and shudders. Like a fool, he can’t help but search for it still and the nights that draw to a close without him catching even a glimpse of your mark are the longest and loneliest by far. There’s a fear — irrational though it is, he cannot shake himself of it — a worry that one day your mark will be erased. Just like his was. 

Now and then, to quiet his fears and that bitter taste that builds at the back of his throat, he finds ways to brush against your mark. His fingers graze it like a ghost’s kiss, barely noticeable, whenever he tries to pull you away from overworking, when he brings you something to drink while working, when he "adjusts" your uniform because the Commandant of the Gray Ravens cannot be disheveled like this. If you notice the way his fingertips always brush against your left inner wrist when he adjusts the cuff links of your uniform or plucks invisible threads from your sleeve, you do not comment on it. Nor do you say anything when his fears grow too large after he settles into his Hyperreal frame — bloodied and burdened with memories he cannot recall — and he places his fingers upon your wrist to press against the vein to take your vitals despite you both knowing the touch is unnecessary. 

He never once asks you what you thought about your soulmate marking. You have never asked about his. You are simply patient, as you always are — waiting for him to arrive at an answer he is ready to share. Sometimes he wonders what you think is on his mind when his caution falters and you catch him staring at your mark. He doesn’t regret giving his heart to Murray — not for one second. There is simply a part of him that mourns for the loss of that unique pattern once branded upon his skin. There is simply an ache left in the geometric shape of where it once was that metal has since erased. 

Lee can no longer prove to you what he once had, but he vows over and over again — a promise, an oath sworn upon a bloodied path paved with sacrifice built high like Babel’s Tower — he will remain by your side until the end of Time. 

Chrome

More often than not, Chrome finds himself thankful his frame coatings predominately have high collars. When he was younger — when he answered to Langston, his soulmate marking splayed across the curve where his neck and right shoulder met. Even back then, he wore high collars so hiding his mark was never an issue. As a Smith, it was something unneeded so it was never spoken of. Out of sight and banned from mention within that cold mansion, it became something private and delicate he would trace in the late nights when his burdens threatened to drown him in black waters. It was a comfort, a small thread of hope that someone somewhere out there would understand and accept him no matter what — even if he never managed to fully measure up to be a proper “Smith”. Even if he faltered and stumbled, even if he couldn’t understand or failed to bear the weight of all those expectations forced upon him — someone out there would understand. That mark was proof that to someone out there, he would still be enough. 

For a long time, Chrome was able to put the loss of his marking out of his mind. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. He was busy enough wrestling a foothold for himself as a construct with all the criticism and blockades built from the expectations of people who never stepped foot on the battlefield; there simply wasn’t time to worry about romantic fantasies he was forced to bury alongside his flesh. 

The first time Chrome catches sight of your marking is also the first time you bridge the distance to him. He has always made it a point to maintain a measured distance from you, despite your warm greetings and kindness. Old habits die hard and he knows all too well how tongue wag in the wake of careless actions. The last thing he ever wanted was to cause you trouble of any sort. Yet such worries never seem to cross your mind — not back and certainly not now. That day had been an ordinary one, much like any other spend on Babylonia. Chrome had managed to catch you on your way back from the training grounds and asked if you had a moment later to review a report he forwarded to your terminal. 

“Sure,” you had smiled and easily closed the distance in the hallway to stand before him as you adjusted the towel around your neck. “Lee’s fixing mine, though. I uh… broke it a little.” 

Chrome had chuckled despite himself, failing to stop the gentle tease that tumbled from his lips, “How did you manage that?”

“That piece of blackmail is for Lee to know.” You had then pointed to the terminal in his hands, “But we can use yours.” Effortlessly, as if he was an old friend, you erased the distance even further and stood by his side, just a breath from his elbow. 

Chrome still recalls the way his thoughts seemed to stumble to a halt and fumble to start again as you leaned over, gaze downcast to the terminal in his hands as you asked if he could pull it up. He moved on almost autopilot, though his expression remained carefully collected (he had been trained enough not to let his mask slip for long). It was only after he pulled up the report and he was sure your attention remained glued to the screen that he allowed his gaze to wander. It started at your hand, where it curled in thought against your lips as you read, then it lingered over your features — you still have a habit of furrowing your brow whenever you read reports and he can’t help but find it adorable even now. His gaze traveled, following the curve of your jaw and down your neck until —- 

Chrome felt his heart sink through the metal of his ribs and pool to a bloodied, agonized mess at his feet. There, framed by the curve of your casual shirt and in full view as the towel shifted across your shoulders was a mark he knew achingly well. He could have traced its geometric pattern with his eyes closed despite the years since it last branded his own skin. But you raised your attention back up to him and he swallowed back the blood on his lips. He had smiled and spoke of the data outlined as if he wasn’t trembling, shivering to pick up the pieces of something he had never given himself time to grieve the loss of. Chrome bid you farewell in the hallway as if it were any other day, a polite yet gentle smile on his lips as he hid the trembling in his fingertips. 

Chrome makes a firm point not to mention or speak of your mark whenever he sees it. Gratefully, or perhaps woefully, it is in a place where he does not see it often. Your uniform is high collared and you have a tendency to overwork yourself so he does not often see you in more casual clothing that allows him to glance at the bare curve of your neck. There are times, however, he does manage to catch a glimpse of that mark. In those rare moments his self control slips and he can't help but reach out and brush against it, he always finds a way to justify it.  “You had something on you, Commandant, " he would say, as if brushing off dust from your collar. His touch is always gentle, a faint brush ghosting against your skin. If you notice the tremble of his fingertips, you never mention it. 

When the nights get too long, he sits for hours upon hours in the dark of his room, metal fingers digging into metal of his shoulder as if etching the pattern upon his frame might change something, anything. But he never dares to leave behind any traces of what he once had. It’s gone. What has been lost can never be returned and he could never prove to you or to the many, many voices of people too high and powerful that it had once been upon his flesh before it was taken from him. 

Chrome tries to find comfort, despite the pain that lances through him. The fact that he can even see your marking is a sign of trust; it is only in these quiet, unguarded moments you share with him that he fully sees it splayed across your skin. It is a gift, something to be cherished, just as he had quietly cherished those stolen moments as Langston, tracing that pattern again and again. Chrome is careful — so, so careful not to allow his gaze to linger overlong on your mark as your head bows to read the text off his terminal as you sit beside him. But something wounded, neglected and lonely, still writhes and wails in his chest — mourning the loss of something that will never return — and yet you sit pressed against him, his mark branded on your skin. 

Roland

Roland never thought much of his soulmate mark when he had it. He was too preoccupied with the camera, the audience, his role, his lines — there was no time to think of it, really. The pattern lay beneath his collar bone, as if unraveling at the crown of his heart. For the most part, it was easy enough to hide beneath his costumes and outfits, and with the camera rolling almost continuously, rare and few were the moments his mark ever saw the light of day. 

Even when he lost his mark, he never paused to think much of it. No, no, no, his thoughts were focused on the blue of his blood that oozed from metal joints. When he followed in the footsteps of Luna, it was all but wiped from his memory. 

Fate is a cruel Mistress, one Roland has never quite been able to outrun even after Mandhasti Real Park. It’s by a happenstance — by fate — that he catches sight of something he thought burned and lost beneath the ash and rubble. His chain blade managed to arc a trail of crimson across your front, damaging your exoskeleton and inflicting a rather nasty wound across your sternum just beneath your collar bone. It’s then that he sees it, as the blood oozes from the wound and you glare at him over the muzzle of your gun — that damningly familiar mark. Oh, what a twist! What irony! What a disgusting farce! Roland’s lips twist into a smirk but there’s something bitter about it. Something fragile and hopeless. 

“What a lovely mark you have there, Commandant. Such a shame I’ve seen it before.” His words are cruel, barbed and sharp — a blade turned inward just as much as it is outward. 

A flash of despair crosses your features, visceral and wounded, before you’re able to hide it behind a mask and the muzzle of your gun.  “What did you do to them?”

What did he…? Oh. Oh, of course you would think that. Something bitter coils in his chest and it falls from his lips in cruel laughter. If this is the role you would cast upon him then so be it. He sneers at you, “Come now, you can’t expect me to remember all the humans I’ve killed?” His sneer twists, cruel and fragile, “Though I suppose they must have been entertaining at least for me to remember their mark.” 

The sound that tears from your throat is a wounded, angry, and hopeless thing. It reverberates in the hollow cavity of his chest and rattles every nut and bolt holding him together as you lunge at him. For a moment, he hears Hermano’s echoing wail. 

Since then, Roland finds himself tracing the mark upon the metal of his chest in his own vital fluid. But the blue hue of his artificial blood sickens him — dredges up old memories and echoes with the voice of Hermano.  He never leaves it on him for long, but even after he wipes the blood away, he still sees Hermano in his reflection, metallic hands cradling the mark on his chest as if to shield it. Roland begins to avoid mirrors when he is foolish enough to indulge in this hopeless fancy. He never allows himself to indulge often or long, incapable of tolerating the bitterness that lingers on his tongue whenever he does. The bloodied mark wipes away so easily off the metal of him. As if it never existed, as if that pattern had never been a part of his flesh back when his blood still ran crimson. Isn't it funny how easily he is removed from the stage, how effortlessly he loses the role of yours?

Noan

Life on the train was hard enough without having to worry about a soulmate lost, somewhere out there in the cruel world. Although Noan cherished his mark in a way few others on the train did, he did not dare to spend too much time or attention on it. His mark used to curve over his ribs on his left side, sprawled like a bandage over a dire wound aimed at his heart. If he stopped to think about it, perhaps that placement, too, was a warning of his fate. 

It was only a glimpse, but Noan has always been too attentive and sharp for his own good. He caught sight of your marking one day while dropping by to visit the Gray Raven lounge. He had knocked and announced himself through the door, a small parcel in his hands from himself and Simon — who was too busy buried in paperwork to join him. He heard your voice welcome him in, warm and gentle as always, but as he opened the door he heard the rushed voice of Liv, “Commandant, wait.” 

He was greeted to the sight of you sitting on a small stool, your shirt rolled up and pulled over your shoulders to expose your back and you hunched forward. Liv stood behind you, carefully placing a compress on a nasty bruise blooming hues of violet and yellow across the expanse of your back. Noan had stopped dead in his tacks, worry rising to the surface faster than the twinge of embarrassment he felt seeing so much of your bare skin. “Are you alright, Commandant?” 

You had laughed, a smile on your face as you nodded. “Just a small accident, nothing to worry over.” 

“There’s plenty to worry about,” Liv had said before Noan could, voice firm. She took a moment to check one last time before she allowed you to sit up and helped you roll your shirt back down.

The movement caught his attention, though he dared not linger on why, and for just a brief moment he caught a glimpse of a familiar pattern splayed across your ribs. The memory rushed through him, merciless and unforgiving — like iron nails pierced into his lungs, forming a railway for things he has no right to feel. Noan tastes iron on his tongue as he smiles softly at you and converses about anything and nothing at all while the memory burns a hole through the snow to sear the delicate flesh of his heart.  

Since that day, Noan fills his sketchbook with drawings of the mark — both where it lies on your skin and where it used to lie on his. There's an ache, a chill that lodges in the metal cavity of his chest. Just another thing lost in the snow. 

He doesn't realize it at first but he keeps rubbing where his soulmate mark used to be when he still had skin and bones. His thoughts get too loud, his memories too close and too cold — his fingers drift to his left side and rub, rub, rub along the metal of his ribs. Tracing and grasping for proof that was stripped from him as he was remade into cold metal and wires.

Your hand gently touches his as you reach across the cafe counter, stilling his unconscious movement. Your voice is gentle, so gentle and your touch is warm, warm, warm. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

A thousand words bubble up from his weeping heart and claw up his throat. But it dies on his tongue, and all he can muster in answer is a quiet, "No, I'm just missing something, is all."

The smile you give is too kind, too bright, too gentle. "What is it? I'll help you look.” 

The laugh that spills from his lips is a helpless sound, fractured and resigned. "No need. It... doesn't exist anymore.”

[void-ink-studios]

Wrath of the Wishmaster

You asked, you shall receive.

Thanks for helping me clear my writer's block. I might write more scenes that happened prior to this, but enjoy what's here for now! Might post to AO3 later, who knows?

Enjoy babes!

Word count: 2,500

There were many things Scarab did not understand about the Wishmaster, Prismo.  Many… Many things.

Why did an all powerful being decide to spend its eternity making pickles and writing fan fiction of the universes he observed?  Why, of all things to add to the featureless Time Cube, was there a hot tub?

And why, above all, did he tolerate all of Scarab's... strangeness?

Because no one liked bugs.

That was the lesson Scarab had learned in his eons of existence.

No one liked bugs.  At least, not the kind of bug he was.

Of course, people like butterflies.  They liked to watch the pretty and dainty little things as they flutter along.  But only from a distance.  People still recoiled if they got a good look at their face.  Or anything that reminded them that they’re bugs, and not just living little splashes of color.

And Scarab was no butterfly.

He was a beetle.  Was?  Is?  He wasn’t sure anymore.  So much of himself had changed since he first emerged from his burrow.

And yet, there was Prismo, calling his little chirps and trills "cute." Encouraging him to find places in the Time Room to burrow and hide and crawl.

There was Prismo, who didn't recoil at the site of his real face. Who saw his strange mouth and eyes and decided to kiss it all over, rather than hide it behind his mask again.

So no, he did not understand many of how Prismo operated. But Scarab was not about to complain. He felt more alive in his own shell than he has in eons. He kept his mask off more often than on these days. His hidden arms had seen more exercise than ever before. He was starting to remember the strange language of chirps and trills and buzzes from his old home.

Of course, there were still bad days. Days where he had to sit still and stare at something stationary just to remember what direction was up. Days where he crawled away into one of his hidden nooks to tremble out of sight.

He had been reluctant to let Prismo in on those days, at first. He held up walls and scooted away and flinched enough to get the Wishmaster to back off for quite a while.

But, as he came back into contact with himself, and as Prismo called him beautiful and quirky, rather than disgusting and unsettling, the walls came down.

He wasn't ready to tell him what happened to his antenna and wings. But, Prismo was at least there to turn the screen wall to something calming. Or to rub his aching back and shoulders on days where he could do little else but shake.

It was... nice. He hesitated to call it wonderful, but it really was. Much better than a bug deserved, but he was not about to remind Prismo of that.

No, he had Orbo to do that for him.

He knew he had grown far too comfortable with Prismo when he heard the orb roll into the Time Room, loudly calling for his buddy the Wishmaster. Who was not currently there, but instead tending to his pickles for the moment. He trusted Scarab to watch the main room for any wishers, which he had been doing diligently from his perch on the ceiling.

Scarab froze, stuck to the ceiling like he was pinned there.

Maybe if I don't move, he won't notice I'm here.

It was a nice thought. But when had the universe been nice to him before?

"Uhm... Scarab? Mate? Whatcha doing up there? I thought we cleared up a while back that that creeped people out."

Scarab stayed silent as he crawled back down the wall. He ignored the way Orbo visibly shivered at his method of locomotion, standing at attention once his feet touched the floor.

He unconsciously made a nervous, light buzzing sound, his mouth parts clicking together as the orb stared at him like a disection project.

"So, what's all this then? You think just because Prismo's not here, you can do whatever you want? I thought we talked about this forever ago, Scrabs. You might be just a bug, but you got raised to the pantheon. You gotta act like it."

Orbo rolled to look around the Time Room. Scarab reached gingerly for the remote, trying to alert Prismo to their visitor.

"Seriously, I still feel bad enough for Prismo to get stuck looking at you when you were at your best. If he's stuck with you, it's the least you could do to not creep the guy out. That's not how you show appreciation, Scrabs."

Scarab tried to tune it out. He wasn't creepy, not to Prismo, Prismo called him beautiful, insect traits and all. Orbo swung around to look at him, now noticing his face.

"Where's your mask, man? No one wants to see the horror show your kind calls a mouth. It's bad enough when we have to watch you eat, you can at least put the rest of it away."

Scarab felt small. Tiny. Just like he did when he first met Orbo, who took one look at him, and decided he wasn't meant for the glittery Judgement Hall. He barely even noticed when he shuffled the plates back over his face.

"Much better. So, where's Prismo then? Not like I came all this way to talk to you, right?"

Orbo laughed. Scarab didn't. He just kept his eyes trained to the floor, still quietly chirping to steady his nerves. His world started to feel tilted. What he wouldn't do for his cane right now.

"Cut it with the noise, mate. It's like you've forgotten you're a god or something. You want to go back to the dirt? Is that it? I can talk to Boss for you, if that's what you want."

"...No. That won't be necessary."

"That's what I thought. Now, where in Glob's name- Oh, Prismo! Buddy, there you are!"

Scarab didn't look up to acknowledge the Wishmaster's presence. He felt so tiny. Just like a gross little bug pinned to the wall.

"...What are you doing here, Orbo?"

That made Scarab look up. Prismo's tone. All the warmth had been sucked out of his voice. There was an edge to it. One that the beetle had never heard before, not even during the whole Fionna and Cake disaster.

"Aw, mate, can't I just come check on my good buddy? It's been ages since your last party, man. Us at the office are just itching to groove again. We'd love to see you!"

Prismo's expression was unreadable. Scarab wasn't used to not being able to read the Wishmaster, he was usually an open book. The blue eye shifted between Orbo and Scarab subtly.

"Just haven't been in the partying mood, Orbo. I've been having some friends over for board games, I guess, but I'm not planning on a party any time soon."

The star core seemed to catch Prismo's shifting glance, turning his attention back to Scarab. The beetle stood ramrod straight. Partially to not draw attention to himself and partially to prevent his body from shaking on uncertain legs.

"Oh. Prismo, buddy, why didn't you say anything sooner?" Orbo rolled back over to Scarab, smirking.

"Say what sooner?"

"That this dude was killing the vibe in here! I mean, I totally get it, I wouldn't want a party either if that was lurking in my place somewhere."

Prismo's expression hardened.

"Scarab's not 'killing the vibe' Orbo. He's been nice to have around, he plays board games with me, Cos, and Death."

Orbo rolled his eyes.

"Prismo, you're cool. You don't have to keep it quiet for his sake. Just say the word and I'll find something else to do with him. It's not the first time he failed to learn a lesson."

"I'm not keeping anything quiet. I like having him around. He's actually pretty cool when he's got the space outside of work, and you're being, like, really uncool, Orbo."

Scarab was stunned. He'd been the only one to ever really talk back to Orbo. He'd never expect someone to do it on his behalf.

"What? Me, uncool? Pris, c'mon, mate. You're allowed to say he's creepy, we all know it. He's a bug. You know, those little creepy crawlies? I thought I trained most of the creepy stuff out of him by now. I know you're everybody's buddy, but you really need to make sure the lesson stays in his head if you don't want him weirding you out. Like, I came in here and he was on the ceiling! Looked like a ghost or something. And without his mask! I thought I made it clear his face is a horror show. Thank Glob I got him to put it back on before you had to see it, bud. It's a real doozy, I'll tell ya."

The beetle wasn't looking at Orbo anymore. No, he was watching the growing horror on Prismo's face. Horror not directed at him for once.

"Dude, Scarab's not that bad. A bit uptight when he's stressed, but still a pretty cool dude. Why should he have to hide so much? This is the Time Room, you're supposed to relax in here."

"Oh, Prismo, you sweet dream child. Scarab's not cool. He's not like us, you know?"

"Like us?"

"Buddy, you're the dream of one of the greatest living wizards in the multiverse! I'm the core of a collapsed magic star! That's where gods like us are supposed to come from! Scarab though? He's just a bug. A creepy crawly cockroach that somehow made it up from the dirt he's meant for."

"Didn't he manage to take down a galactic level threat that you couldn't catch?"

"He got lucky." Orbo looked annoyed. That usually ended well for no one. "Knew I should've finished his punishment before he came here..."

"I thought this was his punishment."

"Oh, no, I'm talking about his punishment for trying to start a revolt. Went over my head to the Boss! All over that nonsense with that unauthorized universe of yours. I was gonna take his legs. Maybe should've pulled out his other arms as well. I still can, if you wanted me to, mate."

The silence in the Time Room was deafening. Scarab has seen a lot of expressions on the Wishmaster's face. Contentment, sadness, boredom, amusement, joy, frustration, all of it.

But he had never seen rage. Not until now, anyway.

"What?"

Orbo seemed to completely miss the change in atmosphere, as he carried on just as before. "Oh yeah, it seems to be the only way he actually learns. Thought the antenna would be enough, but nooo, Mr. Buggy Bigshot still thought himself better. I really thought the thing with the wings would've gotten through to him, but I guess not."

The lights in the Time Room went out. Not even the stars from the void outside shed much light into the cube. Scarab never thought he'd miss the sickeningly bright yellow of the Time Cube, but he's permanently paint his shell its color if it would turn the lights back on.

"You. Did. WHAT?"

There was a guttural hiss coming from where Prismo once was. Blue what replaced by a bright purplish pink, staring down at Orbo and Scarab. A friendly smile was replaced with jagged teeth. Fingers replaced with claws. And a growl rumbled through the cube.

Scarab didn't think. Just acted. He opened himself a passage into the lower levels of the Time Room, scurrying in as fast as his legs could carry him. He could faintly hear Orbo yelling after him, but he ignored it completely. The adrenaline let him ignore the pain, ignore the feeling of constantly tipping over. All his instincts told him was run and hide.

He crammed himself into one of his many makeshift burrows, backing as far into the hole as possible.

Prismo was angry, he knew that much. Anger meant pain. Anger meant he'd lose another piece of himself. What would it be this time, he wondered.

It didn't matter he knew Prismo would never hurt him. It didn't matter he knew he probably couldn't be hurt like that while in this form. All he knew was to curl up and hide.

And so he did.

He shook, in fear and pain, and waited. For what, he wasn't sure. But he didn't dare come out of his cubby.

So he waited.

He didn't know how long it was until he felt the familiar tingle of light against his back. He flinched, a frightened trill falling unwillingly from his throat.

"...Scarab? Sweetheart, are you there?"

...At least he sounded like Prismo again...

"...Yes... Yes, I'm here."

"Good, good. I... I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I don't like what I am when I'm like that but... What Orbo was saying... Your wings..."

Scarab felt his elytra twitch under Prismo's touch. The ragged scraps of wings shivered as well, as the beetle sighed out a soft little chirp.

"...It is the way of things, Prismo... Orbo is not the only one with thoughts like that. It's what I've been taught for eons. No one likes bugs, after all."

There was a long silence after that. Prismo was looking at him with a sad calmness. He reached his other arm into the hole, petting a hand over the parts of his face he could reach under the mask. The bug shivered pitifully into the touch, trying and failing to resist the urge to lean into it.

"...You deserve better, Scrabby."

That's what did it. That's what broke the dam.

Scarab wept into Prismo's hand, shaking hard enough to make his carapace rattle.

"Shh... It's okay, honey... Can you come out here?"

It was slow. Almost painfully so. But he managed to peek his head out of his hiding spot. The Wishmaster gave him a kind smile, if not a sad one.

"Can you let me see you, beautiful?"

Scarab hesitated. Orbo's words echoed in his head, loudly, cruelly.

"...I'm not pleasant to look at, Prismo... Much less beautiful..."

"Nope. Not true, Scrabby. C'mon. Let me see that pretty face of yours."

"Prismo..."

"Please, Scarab?"

The beetle sighed. His face plates shivered again, tucking behind his head. His eyes stared, wide and wet at the Wishmaster. A soft kiss was planted on his forehead.

"There we go. Much better."

Scarab refused to start bawling again. Instead, he climbed the rest of the way out of his burrow to curl against Prismo's chest.

"You don't have to worry about Orbo anymore, by the way. He won't be coming back. Not for a few eons, at least."

Scarab didn't choose to question it. Not right now at least. Instead, he closed his eyes as Prismo's hand pet gently over his aching back, the beetle unconsciously opening up the elytra. The dream's hands were always careful when working around his sorry wings. They made the ache go away.

Scarab began chirping. Softly, at first. But it slowly grew, morphing into a simple, but filling cricket song. He heard Prismo softly join in with a light humming.

He might've been just a bug.

But it turns out at least one person likes bugs after all.

[noonaishere]

Online/Offline [C.S] - eighty-six | give him the ol’ UwU

He turned around and stood. “Y/n, hi.”

You remembered his face from the picture, and now in three dimensions, he looked exactly as you thought he would: passably attractive like any rando you might walk past on the street. The kind of face someone could consider being really good looking if his personality was funny or kind or both... but instead he was a harasser, deciding to be the worst kind of man. It permeated his features, in your mind at least, giving him an unsettling undercurrent that gave you the fucking creeps. To think that someone could look so normal and be doing anything but.

You could feel the microphone shift against your body and you found yourself wishing you had taped it to your skin like a police informant in a mob movie. You hoped the fabric moving didn’t obscure any speech. 

You smiled. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not that long.”

You gestured to the bench he had been sitting on. “Shall we sit?”

He nodded awkwardly and sat. You sat next to him, but a few inches away.

“I’m glad we could meet up like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re actually talking to me.” You smiled.

He smiled a small smile and looked away.

“So… was getting here difficult for you?”

He turned back. “No, I drove.”

“Oh. I took the bus.”

He nodded.

“Um… are you nervous to meet me?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“I… never thought I could talk to you.”

“You talked to me in the café a few times.”

He nodded.

“So why is this different?”

He shrugged.

“You were able to talk to me then.”

He was quiet for a few minutes. You didn’t want to force him and possibly scare him off, so you sat and waited.

“Your boyfriend told me to leave.”

“Well… we had just started dating and you were making me nervous by coming in and just looking at me--”

“I was making you nervous?” There was a slight edge to the question.

“You-- you kept coming in to look at me and didn’t say anything at first.”

He looked at you.

“Don’t you think it’d make you nervous if someone did that to you?”

“Maybe.”

His body language indicated that you might have been turning him off.

“But… we’re talking now. So thank you for fixing it.”

He looked at you again. 

You smiled

“You’re really thanking me?”

You had to try and crack him. You knew you had a few cards you could pull. Card Number One: you did your best try at acting like a demure anime girl. You looked surprised at first before nodding with a shy smile.

“Why?”

“Well…If you want to be friends, this is how to be friends, right?”

He watched you quietly.

“You have to… actually talk to someone to be friends with them… right?”

He looked away and considered this.

You weren’t sure when to push for the confession, but you felt you had to take this slow.

“Then why don’t you talk to me when I talk in chat?”

“But I have before.”

“Before,” he emphasized. “But not lately.”

“Well, that’s because--”

“Because you had a boyfriend.”

“Well, yeah, I couldn’t talk to you if I was with him. What would he think?”

He frowned and looked away again. “You still could have talked to me.”

“Would you rather I be disloyal?”

He turned back to you.

“Should I be the kind of woman who dates one man and talks to others?”

He was silent.

Card Number Two: manipulation. You hated doing it, but the Terror Triplets were your teachers all through school and you would use what you learned from them now.

“If I were your girlfriend, would you want me to talk to other men?”

He shook his head quickly. “No.”

You’d have to send them a fruit basket when this was all over.

You smiled. “See?”

He nodded slowly. “But… it would have been okay if you only talked to me.”

Hypocrite. Fine, Card Number Two again, if that’s what he wants, he can have it.

You smiled. “Well, I guess I could have… because it’s you.”

“Because it’s me?”

“Because you’ve been following me for so long.”

“I have…”

“I… I should have realized and made you a mod.”

His eyes lit up.

“I’m sorry for not realizing that.”

“You should have.” 

Card Number Three: agree with everything he says. You averted your eyes to your lap and faked sadness.

“I know, I should have.”

He nodded, confidence from the café seemingly returning. “I wouldn’t have had to find out who you were if you just talked to me.”

This is it. “How did you find out?--”

His eyebrows raised. Too far, you’re going too far. You combined all three cards into an attack you hoped would devastate him. 

“--I… I thought I hid myself so well from everyone.” You giggled. “I was just so… impressed.”

He looked at you.

You blinked demurely before pretending to be shy and turning away. Send his ass to the Shadow Realm.

You could hear him shift on the bench as he moved closer.

“I… I found an old account you had and it had a picture.”

BINGO. 

“You were beautiful.”

You did not care what he was saying at this point. 

“I fell in love with you.”

Never mind, maybe you did because: EW. If it was an old account that meant you were like, seventeen in the pictures; that’s fucking disgusting. You hid your displeasure and turned around.

“Really?” You asked with your best anime innocence.

“Mhm,” he nodded.

“How did you find me here in Seoul?”

“I used the geodata on the picture of Morn’s cat.”

“Wow, you’re so smart.” You smiled.

In your brain you were screaming internally. You hated that you hadn’t thought to scrub the data in the file itself. You wanted to lunge at him and strangle him with your bare hands, but you couldn’t. Not just because you needed the full confession - of which you realistically figured you had about 75% of - but because he was a lot bigger than you. Realistically, you didn’t know if you could.

You looked away again before looking back. He seemed to enjoy the drama. “But…”

“Can I ask you something?”

If he asked you out…

“Will you please go out with me?”

You blinked. You screamed internally. You blinked again. You had to back up. Plan B. Which you didn’t have.

“O-Oh.” You stammered.

His expression changed. Confusion.

“I don’t know if I can…”

“Why not?”

His voice sounded slightly dangerous, like he wanted you to think about your choice carefully before answering.

You looked at him blankly for a moment before smiling. 

“Because…” You let your voice drop back to its normal register, “How could I Iove a man who would do such things to me?”

“What?” 

He looked across your features before his expression took on one of anger. His hand found your forearm and gripped you there.

“What do you mean?”

“Ow…”

“What do you mean?”

   previous | main cast | masterlist | next

a/n: Ahh! What’s going to happen? Is anyone going to help?

Send an ask or leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list! 🧋 Any comments, reblogs, or asks are appreciated! I love talking with you guys and seeing what you’re saying about the chapters, it keeps me going 🥰

@rachs-words • @stayatinykatsy • @dinossaurz​​ • @conwunder​ • @tinyelfperson​​ • @anythingrelatingtojinyoung​ •

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

"Do you Trust me?"

Rollo voice) no

I feel like Rollo’s going to become a puddle of angry goo (think like a freshly salted slug) by the end of this series of headcanons…

A Big Scarabia Welcome to Rollo!

Savanaclaw’s weather was already bad enough, but Scarabia is 100 times worse. When Rollo hikes his way to the entrance of the grand dormitory (just a short stroll from the mirror), he looks like he’s about to give way to heat stroke if he doesn’t drown in his own sweat first.

He’s graciously received and personally welcomed by Kalim’s open arms (Jamil at his side) and just about the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. Rollo doesn’t sense any immediate ill will behind it (unlike the majority of the despicable mages that infest NRC), but he’s unsettled all the same by Kalim’s intense friendliness. When the Scarabian dorm leader goes in for a hug, Rollo politely steps back and declines (citing his excessive dampness as an excuse).

“Oh, you’re right! You’re not used to this kind of weather back home, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you!! Come on in! You’re today’s guest of honor!” Kalim beams, cheerfully ushering Rollo inside. Jamil follows quietly, but is staring intently at Rollo all the while—this man still remembers everything Rollo did, and he’s harboring a deep-seated grudge.

Kalim starts off the visit with a big tour of Scarabia! He forgets a lot of the finer details, so Jamil has to fill him in on the architecture and history of the dorm as he supplies them with water. (Kalim pauses to call out to and greet mob students as they pass.)

At first, Rollo’s impressed by the spread of knowledge provided—but the more he sees of Scarabia, the more disgusted he grows of its gross opulence. All the gold and jewels in the storage room could feed the entire City of Flowers for a lifetime and then some!!

The flippant way Kalim talks about his lifestyle also grates on Rollo. Who in the world places orders 100 coconuts for themselves, then buys diamonds for his entire dorm as souveinirs? Why does Scarabia have such frequent banquets and parties? How can one man live in such excess and not feel once ounce of remorse for it?! It boggles the mind.

“Hey, you must be hungry from your trip! Let’s put some food in you!!” Kalim summons a feast with the wave of his hand (Jamil had been up all night and all that morning preparing it). “Thank you, but just a nibble is enough for…” Rollo is interrupted by Kalim shoving some grapes into his mouth. “Ooh, you have to try this! Oh, and this too! And this cheese…!”

At one point, Kalim offers an apple slice with an ant on it, which causes Jamil to lock up. He screeches in disgust when Rollo casually kills the ant by squishing it under his thumb, then proceeds to take out a few others lying in wait. (“You touched bugs with your bare hands!!” Jamil cries, looking like he’s going to be sick any moment now. To this, Rollo retorts, “I should like to see you come up with a better solution!”)

After (force) feeding Rollo, Kalim tells him he has “a surprise” in store, which makes Rollo’s stomach sink. The dorm leader runs off, telling Rollo not to move from the spot. Left alone with Jamil, he warily eyes the man (who has been strangely standoffish the whole time). Jamil meets his gaze coolly. “… I didn’t tell him,” he says simply.

“To shield his poor little heart from breaking?” (Jamil shakes his head. “No, this isn’t about his feelings. I could care less about them. Kalim would only be sobbing and pestering me about my safety. I already have enough to deal with on my plate, I don’t need the extra stress. He’s kept ignorant out of convenience.”)

As expected, a self-serving reason. Rollo’s disgust does not abate. Still, a part of him wonders if Kalim would still be kind if he knew the truth of what happened in the City of Flowers, if some darker side of him would emerge as a result. No mage, no matter how upbeat, is entirely free of sin.

Kalim's taking longer than expected to get back, so Jamil and Rollo end up awkwardly playing some board games while they wait. Though Rollo tries his best, he's no match for Jamil, who takes delight in letting loose (he usually can't when he plays against Kalim) and smoking him in every match.

The ground shakes, rattling the stones in their mancala board. With each passing moment, the vibrations grow in increasing intensity—and suddenly, the doors kick open, revealing a parade of animals!! A tiger, 75 camels, 53 purple peacocks, 95 white monkeys, llamas, bears, lions, and even a flurry of birds!? Kalim arrives riding on an elephant and laughing to the slack-jawed Rollo. (Jamil groans. “You’d better get used to this, or you won’t make it through the day,” he warns flatly.)

The animals swarm Rollo, all of them kicking up a cacophony and demanding attention from him. He’s backed into a corner, trying to keep them at bag by poking them with his staff. Alas, to no avail!! The animals smother him in a pile of fur and feathers, and Rollo lets out strangled cry from between them.

“I think they’re getting along!!” Kalim notes from atop his elephant steed. (“Yes, I’m so happy for him.” Off to the side, Jamil snickers with some kind of sick, twisted joy.Finally, it’s someone else suffering for once instead of him.)

One thorough cuddling session later, Kalim flies to Rollo upon his magic carpet (it had been stashed away with him on the elephant) and offers a hand. He yanks his guest up with a grin and plops Rollo down beside him. “Next up: a magic carpet ride!” (“W-Wait, I don’t think my constitution can handle this much excitement…!!)

“Come now, where is your sense of adventure?” Jamil says as he kneels beside them on the carpet. His words are kept in an even enough of a tone, but there’s no mistaking the smirk on his mouth. (Rollo quietly fumes about it.)

Off they go into the Scarabian desert! Rollo wishes he could call it a peaceful ride, but it isn’t. Kalim keeps telling the magic carpet to show Rollo the tricks it knows, which means they’re not only soaring, but also tumbling and freewheeling through the sky. Below, the sands shine and shimmer splendidly.

Rollo’s eyes are clenched shut as he bends over the side of the carpet, trying hard to keep the contents of his lunch down. “Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Jamil whispers. “And hold your breath, it gets better.” (By ‘better’, he means ‘worse’, Rollo suspects.)

They speed up, bursting through the clouds, before dropping back down with collective shrieks. Rollo has to clutch onto his hat to keep it from flying off, forcing a scream back down as he hangs on for dear life, praying to be anywhere else. His eyes are wide with alarm, the fear inside of him clawing to escape.

The wild ride comes to a stop at a single spot of green and blue in the expanse of sand: an oasis encircled by broad-leafed trees. Rollo can’t scramble off that infernal carpet fast enough. (“Wow, he must have been really looking forward to this!!” Kalim chirps.)

With such crystalline waters available to them, Kalim thinks its only natural to take a dip! (Jamil has his sunscreen, towel, and swimming trunks on standby.) Rollo hurriedly backs away, trying to opt out—but he loses his foot in the shifting sands, and…

SPLOOSH!!! He’s drenched, the water weighing down his big hat and robes. Rollo looks less human and more like an angry wet cat (so much so that neutral-faced Jamil has to stop a smirk from overtaking him). Kalim, for his part, is super apologetic and offers Rollo his towel.

And so, Rollo sits in the shade of a tree while swathed in Kalim's towel, glaring at the Scarabia duo as they paddle around in the oasis. He hates that he can't just walk out on them, for he'd surely perish in the desert.

Rollo feels something at his feet--and when he looks down, he finds the magic carpet curled up there, emitting a sound akin to a dog panting. It seems... oddly excited to spend some time with him? Rollo frowns and makes a shooing motion, trying to banish the accursed thing--but, much to his dismay, it refuses to leave him alone and instead lingers at his side until the evening sets in ("Hmph, intrepid creature, aren't you?").

Thankfully, the trip back is uneventful (the magic carpet seems to have expended most of its energy on the showboating trip to the oasis). Rollo never thought he'd be so glad to see the garish interior of Scarabia again, but here he is. Jamil suggests that he prepare for bed (an idea which sounds surprisingly... normal, and thus earns a suspicious look from Rollo). "Oh? Do you doubt me? I would never try to deceive a beloved guest of Kalim's."

"Don't worry! Jamil's super trustworthy!!" Kalim adds. "Plus, we have to go get ready for the... Mmmmpfgh!" (Jamil quickly covers his mouth and gives a curt smile. "... As I was saying, you should wash up before bed.")

In spite of his doubts, Rollo relents with the suggestion to unwind for the night (he's had much too adrenaline for his liking today). He's escorted to a larger-than-life bathhouse and supplied with expensive-looking shampoos, conditioners, soaps, loofahs, a fluffy towel. and silk pajamas. "A bit much, don't you think?" he asks of Jamil. ("We don't do anything half-heartedly here," Jamil replies mysteriously.)

Being alone has never felt so good. Rollo has always preferred to be by himself, but after a day as hectic as this one he feels so relieved to not have Kalim and Jamil (or pesky pets!) with him as he sinks into pleasantly sweet-smelling waters.

He slips into the silk pajamas and steps out of the bathing area in slippers. Jamil bows to him and waves a hand. (Rollo's suspicions heighten.) "Right this way to your room for the night."

The inside of Scarabia is so big that it takes Rollo a while to realize that Jamil is actually leading him away from where the student rooms are—and how odd for such a noisy dorm to suddenly be dead quiet!! Just as Rollo begins to voice his apprehension, Jamil leads him right into Scarabia’s open-air lounge.

POP, POP, POP!! Party crackers go off, showering confetti onto Rollo’s freshly washed hair. He blinks several times to confirm that he is not, in fact, dreaming. No, it feels like more of a nightmare than a dream.

The lounge is infested with mob students, the air filled with loud music and the delicious smells of a sumptuous feast. Kalim emerges from the crowd and spreads his arms. “SURPRISE!! We’re throwing a banquet in your name! To our new friend!!”

Rollo feels so faint, his legs give out and Jamil had to catch him. “M-My handkerchief,” he sputters out weakly—alas, his coping mechanism won’t be able to help him now (he had foolishly tucked it away with his NBC uniform to dry overnight). “You have a party to tend to,” Jamil tells him.

The subtly evil sparkle in his dark eyes implies that Jamil knew this was coming all along… and had let it happen. He had been the one to lead Rollo here, the one to silence Kalim when he started to over speak. Anger rises in Rollo, and he struggles to contain it. “You scheming little weasel…!”

He’s not allowed to finish his statement, as Kalim has hooked one arm in his. Jamil waves good-bye to Rollo as Kalim yanks him around the room, introducing mob student after mob student to their honored guest. None of the names or faces stick in Rollo’s head, but the nausea from the earlier magic carpet ride is returning.

Speaking of the magic carpet, it trails after him and Kalim for most of the night! It weaves itself between Rollo’s legs and seems to stare at him eagerly, as if wanting head pats or compliments. (Rollo makes a face, but that doesn’t deter it.)

For the most part, Rollo keeps his mouth shut to avoid instigation (the last thing he wants is to lose it in such a public space) and downs as much grape juice as he can to quell his annoyance.

When all are full on food and drink, they’ve got to shake off all that energy!! Many take to the floor to dance, Kalim and Jamil included! They’re like birds in motion, free and flowing. Kalim just does what feels best to him, wheres Jamil mixes street dancing with his own expressive style. Rollo stands firmly at the sidelines, arms folded disapprovingly.

“Look at that disgusting display,” he grouses. The mob students around him cheer and hoot for their dorm leader and vice, their support rising about his disdain.

Now Kalim’s spinning wildly, his laugh reverberating like a bell’s echo. His arms extend as he twirls, reaching out to grasp Rollo by the arms. “Come on, dance with us!!” Kalim invites with sparkling eyes.

“No, I couldn’t…” Rollo protests, looking down stubbornly. Kalim misinterprets the motion as genuine bashfulness. (“It’s okay to be shy! That’s charming too.”)

There’s another tug—this time, Jamil. (“That’s right.” A smirk. “What’s so wrong with being a little bad once in a while?”

Rollo is dragged onto the dance floor against his will, set into the same twisted rhythm as the music. Those around him must get a sick thrill from the beats, each and every one of them a thrall to their own hedonistic desires. He wonders how they can live like this, free of care and worry—but as he dances among them, he, just for those moments, is left as feathery and as lightheaded.

How long do they dance for? He loses track of the time. There’s no clock to chime midnight to banish the magical spell placed upon him, only the burning in his feet as he dances the night away, intent on outdoing Kalim and Jamil.

Rollo basically blacks out in his bed that evening 💀 Man’s so tired and so done with this, he just wants OUT already!

… His body’s aching in the morning. (Nobody make an “he’s an old man!” joke, Rollo will smite you right where you stand.) He literally groans out loud as he hauls himself out of bed and prepares for the day. At the very least, his uniform has completely dried off from the unceremonious dunk in the oasis!

Kalim tries offload some extravagant parting gifts onto Rollo before his departure (from piles of gold and jewels to exotic new pets) to which Rollo stubbornly refuses. This leads into a back-and-forth about what would be a suitable souvenir to bring back with him from Scarabia. (Rollo won’t have any of it!!)

Jamil mediates, eventually convincing Kalim that his “invaluable friendship” and “the fun memories they made together” is treasure enough for Rollo. (Both he and Rollo gag internally at the idea, but Kalim seems super satisfied with it.)

"Yes, this won't be an experience I forget anytime soon," Rollo says dubiously. Kalim doesn't catch the malice in his flat tone, but Jamil definitely does.

[miss0atae]

15 Day BL Challenge 2024 (PART 3):

Last part of this challenge. Again a special thanks to the creator of this challenge.

11 - Breakup that should have stayed broken up :

I can’t remember any breakup that should have stayed broken up from any series of 2024, but I remember how Zeke and Fifth were in Our Story, the sequel of Your Story. I will never forgive this series for what they have done to this couple. They are the perfect example of a couple who should never have gotten back together.

12 – Wedding you wish you had an invite to :

I think of two weddings I wish I was invited to. The first one is the wedding of Oye and Cher in Wandee Goodday. I was really rooting for them and this wedding was clearly something that matters a lot to them. The only bad part was that it wasn’t the wedding I envisioned for them. I could have helped them have a better venue and design for them. I know just the right people for this !

The second wedding, I would have loved to be invited to was the one of Fueang and Krom in City of Stars. I found them so sweet and cute. I’m sure their wedding would have the same feeling. I also believe a celebrity wedding must have a different vibe than any other weddings.

A special mention to Anop and Sin in My Love Mix-Up thai version. Don’t tell me there were no wedding for this two and if there weren’t, I’m sure they are thinking about it and I need to be invited to witness this moment.

13 – Give 5 good boys a gold star :

In no real order, these are my 5 good boys who clearly deserve a gold star.

Fueang (City of Stars) : He was a prime example of someone who fell hard and keep on falling harder each time. He was doing his best all the time and was really good at communicating with his lover. I was truly impressed by him, when he finally found the courage to tell the press about his sexual orientation and his story with his ex before everything escalates. He knew it would damage his career, but he did it anyway.

Taishin (Takara No Vidro) : I know he was sometimes a bit too naive, but I fell like he is the epitome of a sweet cinnamon roll. There is no malice in Taishin. I like how cheerful he always was and he tried very hard to understand things. I even thought he was kinda good at communicating, but in a very weird way.

Moo (Only Boo!): I love everything about this character. He was serious when it matters, but he also was happy, kind, honest and he had a playful side. In addition, he is a very caring boyfriend, son and friend to those around him that matters.

Yu (I Saw You in My Dream): I will just let you read what we (@putterphubase and I) said about him right here. I think you can find all the reasons why I believe he deserves this gold star.

God (Monster Next Door): He is a nice person that is really considerate about others. When his future lover set boundaries, he knew how to respect them. He tries very hard to make sure Diew is comfortable. He cares about others and never try to change them.

A special mention to Jane (The Trainee), Sahashi Toma (Comestic Playlover), Luna (23.5), Teerak (Your Sky)

Day 14 : Top 5 Most Sad Boy :

Namping (Every You, Every Me) : If you’ve seen the series, you know why. I’m still not over what happened to him. The few rays of sunshine he got at the end was not enough if you ask me.

Lee Do Hoe (Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo): This poor guy suffered from transgenerational trauma and it cursed his life for a long time. He may have gotten his happy ending, but he suffered so much.

Keito – Haoran (Happy At the End): His past is heartbreaking and unsettling and his present life wasn’t easier. He was an abandoned soul who found another broken one and they created a bond that was like no others.

Jiang Tian (the On1y One): He was a very lonely person before Wang became his “brother”. He isolated himself because of his family. He always kept his luggage ready to leave because he never found a home before where he wished he could stay.

Non (Dead Friend Forever): His life was a nightmare and he didn’t deserve what happened to him. His family, his friends, his lover… almost everyone abandoned him at one point. Even the revenge his brother did on those who wronged him, won’t change a thing. He had a very sad life.

15  - 5 bestest besties :

Fueang and Kor (City of Stars) : Kor is the best friend everyone wished to have. He always adds a bit of comedy, but when it's needed he can be serious and defend his loved ones. He was the best wingman to Fueang. Their close bond was witnessed by everyone.

Plawan and JJ (This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans) : It's not easy to be Plawan's friend, but JJ always knew what to say and how to help his friend. The dynamic of their friendship was one of the best points of the series.

Pan and Khem (Deep Night) : I will never forget about how Khem showed Pan that there is always a solution for every problem. You don't want your lover to feel sad and you have wet dreams about the other guy he loves ? Why not trying to be a trouple ? Only a true friend would be bold enough to tell you this!

All the friendships in We Are: There were several groups of friends, but I really keep in mind the OG group of friends made of Peem, Chain, Pun, Tan and Q. They were my favorites.

The group of friends in Caged Again: They are endearing and I like every moment they spend together.

[hunting4fluff]

Spider Bite

A fanfic requested by @dropyoursocksandgrabyourcrocss, the first out of 2 promises! Sorry for the inactivity, I recently started college and it's completely wiped the floor with me. Anyways, enjoy!

Fluff fic, 1,328 words Lee!Reader Ler!Miguel O'Hara CWs: none Finally, a day of reprieve. 

You had been working hard all week to ensure the increasing anomalies in base were kept at bay and to say it was tiring would be a gross understatement. It had been alarm after rift after alarm, the blaring practically burned into your eardrums by now. You’d be lucky if you didn’t get tinnitus. 

What does anyone do after a long, thankless week of being on call? Why, treat themself of course!

You had just entered the bustling cafeteria with countless spider-people swishing on webs and standing in lines to get their fill when you noticed a slight shift out the corner of your eye. Your spider senses weren’t tingling, but people were definitely moving out of the way which only made the shift in the air more unsettling. Whipping your head to stare at the commotion head on, you can’t help but smile at the situation. It was just Miguel.

People knew when he was in one of his bad moods- usually he would be trying to make small talk with certain groups, grab someone’s attention when he had a small comment about their work, but never really driving people away or chatting much. Today he looked absolutely foul, glaring off into the void as he grabbed a to-go box with a burger and slinking off to his office once again. It was always a good idea to leave him be when he was in one of these funks, but the look on his face stuck around long enough in your mind to make you want to check in on him.

You grabbed a to-go box for yourself and opened a portal, bouncing down onto the platform of Miguel’s ‘office’. 

“What.” He grumbled out, hearing the soft thud and careful padding of your feet as you approached him. He saved his sharper tone for people he was less fond of, for now he just sounded tired.

“You’re in a fun mood today.” You point out, the playful smile evident in your voice as you hoist yourself up to sit on an empty spot on his desk. He spared you a glance and huffed, popping a fry into his mouth. “Aren’t you off work? Why are you still here?” He was avoiding the not-quite-question, so you of course answer then ask again.

“I wanted a meal and hopefully a conversation. What’s wrong?”

Miguel looked over at you before shaking his head with a defeated smile and rolling his eyes.

“Dios mío, you’re persistent.” He snorted, eating another fry. “Nothing, I just have one of those- what are the kids calling it? ‘RBF’s?”

You rolled your eyes at that, smiling as Miguel chuckled to himself.

“Yeah something like that.” You comment. Maybe he wasn’t in as bad of a mood as you thought.

“But since you’re here,” Miguel looked back at you, placing his food down in front of him and spinning his chair to face you. “I don’t think we officially completed your onboarding.” You blinked in surprise, quirking a brow. “Miguel, I’ve been here for three months.” You reminded him slowly, staring at him as if he had just lost his mind.

“Yes, I know that, but we skipped over a few details in your ‘canon events’ folder that I didn’t notice until a few hours ago. Lyla finally got to that part of the scan. Nada.”

Right. Of course, that made sense. You nodded your head and looked at him, waiting to continue. “Won’t take long. So, do you remember what kind of spider bit you?” He started, swiping up a screen and pulling up footage of your first canon event. The video was clearly inconclusive of the spider, the origin of it being unknown and making it harder to trace back to a definitive source.  You remembered the spider crawled under your shirt and bit your side, leaving a nasty mark the first night before you had actually gotten your powers- but you had no clue what it looked like.

“I… dunno. It’s been a while and I crushed that poor guy when I was bitten.” You shook your head. 

“Where?” It was an odd sounding question coming from Miguel, but his brain had worked faster than his words when it came spilling out. “Usually spider-people are bitten on the back of their hand, smacking it off for those who crush it. I would have been visible falling off your hand, but I can’t see it anywhere.“ He explained.

“Oh! Uh, somewhere on my side, like right here…” You gestured vaguely to where you remembered the spider biting- well, you remembered which side at least. Your left one.

“Alright… not super helpful…” He mumbled in thought, only for you to yelp in protest as he grabbed your side and held some sort of tool near it.

“Hey!” 

“Hold still, I just need a quick scan.” He ordered. Still you squirmed. It tickled. Miguel shook his head and grabbed your side again, this time earning a short giggle. He stopped in his tracks and looked up at you, processing what had just happened as you stared back at him tensely. You only had about two seconds to even stare before he had sat down his tool and scooped you up into his arms with a playful grin.

“Ticklish, are we?” He teased, one hand scribbling lightly up and down your side with the edges of his nails. The movement earned only more squirming from you as well as fresh peals of giggles as you kicked and wriggled in his grasp. His fingers skittered up to your ribs, gently tweaking the bottommost one before crawling up to lightly poke just below your underarm and crawl down again and it left you howling with laughter.

“M-miguel!” You cried out, squirming harder in your ticklish frenzy and almost managing to writhe free before he shifted his arm to wrap around your waist and start tickling your side. You doubled over with laughter, kicking out in front of you and pushing at his arm all the while his other hand came up to gently scribble at the side of your neck.

“You know, normally I wouldn’t be so childish, but I’ve been needing a little pick me up this week.” Miguel teased. You bunched up your shoulders, peals of giggles pouring out of you just as his touch began to slow down. He let you rest as you slumped in his grip, residual giggles bubbling out as you caught your breath.

“I’m a little surprised you weren’t laughing this hard as that spider crawled to your side.” He pointed out, emphasizing his point by poking two fingers into your side a couple times and sending a jolt through you.

“Ehehe- quit it!” You whined at his teasing, your cheeks growing flush as you squirmed again. Miguel chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, what? Quit this?” He began gently pinching your side up and down, pulling fresh laughter from you as you nodded your head.

“Yes- yehes! Quit thahat!” You managed to squeak out. His fingers remained pinched on your side but had stilled for the moment, but for some reason that was worse. The anticipation left you shaking and giggling, waiting for when he would start up again.

“Quit that…?” He prompted, his voice dripping with amusement as you awaited whatever fate become you.

“Please!” You spat out and Miguel relented, patting your side and finally releasing you.

“Certainly.” He snickered. You turned around and rubbed your sides, only to be greeted by Miguel’s grinning face- you can’t remember the last time he looked this happy, or even the last time he smiled. He put his hands up in faux surrender, shaking his head.

“I’m done, I swear.” He assured, and you relaxed a bit. “Let’s just finish our lunch.” He offered, sitting back down and picking up his to-go box in a gesture of good faith. Your food was still warm and it tasted delightful.