#even if it still looks evidently bleached

[pandasaurio-espacial]

I bleached my hair specifically to look like kenma and now I get judgy looks from my friends when i make fun of atsumu's piss yellow head

[starsinthesky5]

blondes do it better || joe burrow x reader

description: a little morning moment before the first day of training camp 

a/n: look at me writing a bleach buzz joe fic LMAO. this is a little something i wrote for you all (very unplanned) inspired by today’s content and with some help from my anons and @joeys-babe! enjoy!

word count: 3.9k

warnings: language, smut (a little BJ moment, nothing crazy)

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

July 24th, 2024

Sunlight slowly peeked through the curtains of your bedroom as you looked over at the alarm clock, the time reading 5:30 AM. Normally, you wouldn’t be up this early in the morning but considering today was the first day of Bengals Training Camp, you wanted to squeeze in some 1 on 1 time with Joe before he had to get up and leave. His alarm would go off in about half an hour, so you were determined to get in all your cuddles and kisses that you’d miss the entire day. It was amazing having Joe around more this first half of the year, even though the reason for it wasn’t particularly good. 

You both made the most of the extended time you had together with various trips and vacations (joe finally getting a proper tan this year because of how much sun you both had been absorbing) and joining Joe on his new ventures such as Paris Fashion Week & speaking at events in Cannes, but now you both were ready for things to go back to normal. It was a nice few months of taking it easy and enjoying life a little more but normal for you both was football. It had been your normal since high school and you missed it. 

You looked over at Joe, watching his steady breathing and listening to his soft snores for a few moments before he started to move around; his natural body clock probably began waking him up before his alarm as usual. 

You moved your covers down and gently moved on top of Joe, placing one leg on either side of his hips as you moved your hair out of your face. You leaned down and started pressing lazy kisses along his jawline before you felt two hands grab your waist and pull you back up. 

“My favorite way of being woken up,” he said, giving you a sleepy smile.

“Morning, Quarterback,” you said as you rubbed the skin under his eyes.

“Morning, Y/N,” he mumbled, his sleepiness evident by his tone. “Any particular reason why you woke me up half an hour before my alarm?” he said, his eyebrow shooting up out of suspicion.

“Well, today’s the first day of camp and I won’t really get to see you a lot these next few days since you’re going to be locked in,” you said, your smile dropping. “I just wanted some ‘us’ time before you left,”.’

“Aw, is someone going to miss me,” Joe teased as he ran his hands up and down your sides.

Joe was expecting you to reply with some witty response, but all he got from you was silence and the image of your eyes getting glossy. 

“Hey, Hey. I’m just joking,” he said as his tone switched to concern.

“No, I know,” you said as you dropped your shoulders. “I don’t know why I’m being a baby about this since I practically shoved you out the door on the first day of OTA’s,” you laughed, your smile coming back at the memory. 

“OTA’s were the tip of the iceberg to be fair. Training Camp, then Pre-Season, and before you know it you’re out on the field week 1,” he sighed. “Really gotta focus now,”.

“It all happens so fast,” you nodded. “But that’s good since we thrive when there’s football consistently in our lives,”.

“Are you excited though?” you asked as you rubbed his chest with your palms.

“Absolutely. I feel really good and I can’t wait to see how it translates to the field. And I’m really looking forward to working with the younger guys,” he said.

“I just know they’re going to be so excited to get out there with you. You’ve always made everyone feel welcomed and seen, even in high school you did the same,” you smiled. 

Joe bit his lip and said, “I still can’t believe you’re not sick of this life. I mean you’ve been a football player’s girlfriend since high school and have dealt with so much shit over the years,”.

“I have no idea how or why you do it,” he said as he shook his head. Joe knew how much his life affected yours and he oftentimes felt bad with how much stuff you’ve had to deal with since you were teenagers. Even though he physically couldn’t live without you, he sometimes thought that you’d be better off without him for your own sake as your life would be drama-free with him out of the picture. 

Since you and Joe had been together since High School, you had quite literally been a part of his football journey since Day 1. As his popularity increased once he came into the NFL, the amount of things you dealt with increased too. Before the only football-related concerns you had were if Joe had eaten something after practice, did his homework, or studied for his tests so that he wouldn’t fall behind in school, and that your Friday nights were cleared so you could sit in the bleachers and watch him play. 

Now your football-related concerns were making sure Joe wasn’t pushing himself too hard at the risk of injury, making sure that he wasn’t hurt (even a bruise or bump) after a game, dealing with a plethora of comments and negativity about Joe (sometimes even yourself), and making sure that everything was good at home since that was the only place he could relax. It was a lot for you to deal with, mentally and physically, and sometimes you even wondered if it was all worth it. Football life was like a rollercoaster, really high moments that made everything so much more exciting and really low moments that made you feel like you hit a brick wall.

But when you looked at Joe, you remembered why you did it and what all this was truly worth. It was worth it because you had the best possible person by your side and you two had built a life together which was a little chaotic, but incredibly fulfilling and filled with a kind of love you couldn’t put into words. You wouldn’t trade anything for this, no matter how rough it got. You’d never give this up. 

“You,” you smiled. “You’re the reason I do it. Because you are the single most important person in my life and I love you,” you add as you lean down to kiss him, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek as he melts against your soft lips. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he grinned as he pulled away from your lips. 

“And you won’t have to know since I’m not going anywhere,” you smiled as you moved your left hand to his view, showing off the very beautiful and very new engagement ring he put on your ring finger. 

“I love you,” he said as he pecked your lips a few times. 

You smiled against his lips before coming back up, one of his hands settling on your hips again while the other moved to the top of his head, a laugh escaping your lips as you watched him attempt to run his fingers through his hair.

“What are you laughing at?” he asked with a little laugh.

“Your hair,” you laughed, this time even harder as you had a funny thought pop up in your head. “I still cannot believe you did that,”.

Flashback to a few days ago 

You were lounging on the couch, scrolling through your favorite shopping app as you were doing some retail therapy to brighten your mood after having an awful migraine earlier, and were waiting for Joe to get home after his routine hair trim. 

You heard the garage door open, not bothering to turn around since you knew it was Joe. You listened to him move around the kitchen, probably trying to see what was for dinner before you heard his footsteps getting closer to the couch.

You put your iPad to the side, closed your eyes, and tilted your head up, anticipating a kiss from Joe.

“Hey,” he said, bending over against the back of the couch to kiss you.

“Hi,” you smiled, your eyes still closed as you were anticipating one more kiss, which you anticipated correctly. You then opened your eyes, expecting to be met with a freshly trimmed Joe, but instead, your eyes widened and your mouth fell open.

“AHH!” you screamed as you jumped off the couch, your blanket flying off your body at your jumbled movement. 

“What?” Joe asked, his eyes widening and feeling incredibly confused.

“Your HAIR,” you screamed as you ran back over to the couch, kneeling on it and grabbing his head. “What the fuck happened to your hair,” you said as you brushed your hands over the spikey buzzcut that was bleached platinum blonde. 

“Surprise,” he laughed as he grabbed your wrists and lowered them. “You like it? I got bored and felt like changing it up,”.

“Changing it up is getting a different kind of fade on the sides or something. Your hair is gone,” you laughed in amusement, your brain not registering the fact that his hair was practically gone and whatever was left was the color of a snowball. “And you didn’t even tell me,” you scoffed. 

“Gotta keep everyone on their toes. Even my beautiful fiancee,” he winked. “Besides, it feels kind of symbolic in a way? Like letting go of everything that happened last season and turning a new page,”. 

“See that’s the reasoning I can get behind, not the ‘I was Bored’ excuse,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“But do you like it?” he asked again.

You looked at him carefully for a few seconds, assessing the new look he had. Well, it wasn’t all new. “I’m getting major deja vu right now from the blonde even though this is a bit more platinum than high school,” recalling his original blonde look during your high school days. 

“Yeah?” he laughed.

“Blondes definitely do it better from what I can recall from our adolescence,” you winked, remembering all those times you’d sneak away with Joe for a quick moment before he had practice or after a game. Even back then you couldn’t contain yourself around each other, just one flash of those signature bedroom eyes and you were both sneaking back to his car. 

“God, do you remember all those times we’d sneak away during practice? I’m surprised we never got caught,” he laughed.

“That blonde hair woke something up inside of me,” you sighed. “I remember coming home after one of the games with a limp and my parents thought I fell or something,” you said as you covered your face with your hands to hide the embarrassment. 

“Damn, we really haven’t changed since high school have we?” he said, biting his lip. 

“Not one bit,” you shook your head. “I do like that you’re channeling some of that Athens luck for this season since you dyed it when we won the district championship. This is def a manifestation tactic,” you said as you cupped his face and turned his head to the side to get a good look at the hair again. 

“Keep talking,” he said as he leaned in more, a sheepish grin on his face. 

“The buzzcut may take a bit of getting used to,” you say as he nods in agreement. 

“The blonde does help make it not look super ‘fresh out of jail-y’ though,” you chuckle as you watch him eagerly waiting for your opinion, an adorable smile on his face as he looks at you with all the love in the world. 

“But, I will say,” you say as you give him a slow once-over, the increased muscle on his body, his tan skin, and now this bleached buzzcut which you were honestly loving, was making him even hotter than he was ever before which you thought was impossible. “You still look as hot as ever and I would still drop to my knees at any given moment,” you said, leaning in even closer so that you were just inches from his lips. 

“Really?” he smirked.

“Mhmmm. Welcome back Slim Shady, I’ve missed you,” you said as you felt Joe reach out and grab you, easily throwing you over his shoulders.

“Joe,” you laughed, not even a single bit surprised since he manhandled you like this quite often. “Put me downnnn,”.

“Nope,” he said as he walked over to the stairs leading upstairs. “We gotta make sure that blondes still do it better. The last time I was blonde was over 5 years ago,” he said as he patted your ass.

“And what if they don’t?” you grin. “You gonna wash it out?”.

“Hmm, I think I’ll try Orange hair if that’s the case,” he joked while he walked up the stairs with you hanging off his shoulder. “It fits the team aesthetic too and gingers are known to be wild and crazy. One can only imagine how that translates to the bedroom”. 

Your mouth fell open, “Um, absolutely not!” you yelled as he walked into the bedroom, his laughter filling the room as you went on about how you forbid him from doing anything else to his hair as it was sad enough that you couldn’t pull on the strands or twirl your fingers through them during the activity that was about to happen once he laid you down on the bed. 

End of Flashback 

“You look like an egg,” you added as you continued to laugh at him, his smile turning into a grimace. 

“An egg? Wow,” he scoffed as he pretended to be offended by the comment.

“A very hot, sexy, delicious egg,” you said as you leaned down again and started pressing kisses to his neck, his frown slowly turning back into a smile as you showered him with kisses, unknowingly grinding against his crotch while you were at it and you didn’t notice until you felt him grip your waist tighter and a hardness prodding underneath you.

You immediately pulled away, trying to prevent that from happening because you knew that today was a big day for him and this was not the way to start it off. 

“Y/N, come on,” he sighed. “A quickie won’t hurt,”.

“Absolutely not. It’s the first day of camp, I can’t send you out there already tired and slightly worked out,” you said as you crossed your arms. 

“Please,” he pleaded with that adorable pout that always made you cave. “You can be on top,”.

“Nope,” you shook your head. “You always say that I can do all the work but you end up doing most of it anyway,”.

“I won’t this time, I swear,” he blinked. 

You bit your lip as you thought about it for a few moments. You felt bad about leaving him hanging but you also didn’t want to make him use his energy on this when he could be using it on the field. 

You took a deep breath and said, “Okay, we can compromise,”. 

“I’m listening,” he said as he moved his hands to your thighs.

“I’ll give you some super sloppy world-class head and then we can finish this after practice if you’re not too tired,” you offered. 

He stared into your beautiful eyes for a few seconds before smiling, “Deal,”.

You immediately leaned down and captured his lips in a messy kiss before moving down his body, kissing his chest through his t-shirt as you got a glimpse of the clock, noticing that you didn’t have a lot of time before his alarm went off.

“Shit, gotta make this quick,” you mumbled as you moved further down his body.

You quickly pulled his shorts down and then his boxers, allowing his erect cock to spring out, precum pooling at the tip. You grabbed his erection, giving him a few pumps before sliding your tongue down the side, Joe’s hips jerking at the contact. 

“Settle down,” you softly reminded him as you looked up.

Your lips parted around his cock as you slowly twirled your tongue around the tip, moving down the length of his shaft inch by inch. You heard Joe groan before feeling his hand on the back of your head, his fingers playing with the strands of your hair as he struggled to hold in his moans.

“F-Fuck,” he moaned as you slid all the way down, his tip hitting the back of your throat which made you shudder. 

You then released him from your mouth, pumping his cock a few more times before leaning down again, sucking and licking your way down his shaft. You began to bob your head up and down his length, sounds of pleasure leaving his lips as you started to send him to heaven. 

“Jesus, Baby, You feel so good,” he groaned as he gently pushed your head further down. You wrapped one of your hands around him, jerking him off with your hand as you continued to suck him off, your eyes watering at the pressure you were feeling but also the pleasure. 

You looked up at him, making direct eye contact as you continued to suck him off which you knew drove him crazy. You watched as he threw his head back against the pillow as a result of your fingers gently playing with his balls, his grip on your hair getting tighter as the sounds coming from his lips got louder. You could tell that he was inching closer to his release by the way his cock was twitching in your mouth. 

“Fuck,” he moaned as he jerked his hips again, which made you stop. 

“Baby, please,” he panted as he watched you come back up.

“Stop moving your hips so much,” you laughed you went back to pumping his cock with your hand, once again leaning down and twirling your tongue around the head before taking him in your mouth, this time setting a hungry pace as you knew he was close. Your manicured nails dug into his thighs as you tried to keep yourself together, the feeling of him hitting the back of your throat sending you to the point of tears. 

A few moments later, you felt him twitch inside your mouth again, this time feeling hot spurts of his cum fill your mouth as you slowed down your movements, whimpers and moans leaving Joe’s lips as you looked up and watched his heaving chest, and closed eyes. 

“Y/N..” he whispered.��

You released him from your mouth, swallowing every last bit of his cum and lapping at his dick to make sure you did, before moving off of him and pulling his boxers and shorts back up. You wiped your chin and mouth with the back of your hand before lying back down next to him, pressing a few gentle kisses to his cheek as he came down from his high. 

“Better now?” you asked him when he turned his head to meet your eyes.

“You’re the best,” he said, giving you a lazy smile. “I feel bad for leaving you hanging though,”.

“It’s okay,” you sighed. “I can have some solo fun with the shower head when you’re gone,” you teased, his mouth dropping at the words you just said.

“Kiddinggg,” you laughed as you stuffed your head into the crook of his neck. “I’ll wait for you to come back; if you’re not too tired obviously,”.

He moved his hand to the back of your head, playing with your hair before gently sliding it down to your neck as he pressed a few kisses to your forehead. “I’ll make sure to save some energy for you,”.

“Thanks, Slim Shiesty,” you teased.

“W- What did you just call me?” Joe asked as he pulled your head from his neck.

“Slim Shiesty,” you smiled. “It’s only fitting after you did this,” you chuckled as you rubbed the top of his blonde head.

“I forgot how many Eminem references I’ll be getting from now on,” he whined.

“I cannot wait to see the internet write think pieces about your new hair,” you giggled.

“God, and I forgot that I owe the entire world an explanation for every move I make,” he groaned. 

“Just tell them what you told me,” you smiled. “You needed a fresh start and you got bored,”.

“They’re still going to be writing think pieces even if I say that,” he said, pursing his lips. 

“You’re right,” you agreed. “Then tell them you did it because your fiancee said blondes do it better and that you wanted to please me,” you joked. 

“You know, I just might,” he laughed. 

“This time I won’t even mind getting hate comments from some of your fans. Blonde Buzz Burrow is def something else and I’m going to enjoy every single moment I have with him even if some girls on the internet say they hate it,” you said before you leaned in for another kiss. 

“The only opinion I care about is yours,” he said before pecking your soft lips again. 

“And I love it, even if you sometimes look like an egg or a snowball,” you teased. “You’re still the same panty-dropping, sex-on-legs, gorgeous man that I fell in love with when I was 16,”. 

“I love you,” he grinned again before closing in on your lips for another kiss, his hand cupping your jaw as you threw your leg over his and moved closer to him, only for the sound of his alarm to interrupt you both.

He pulled away and turned it off, a sigh leaving his lips as he knew he had to get up. “As much as I’d love to keep this going..”.

“I know, I know. Football time,” you grinned as you sat up, Joe doing the same while he rubbed his eyes. “Before you get up to shower, I wanted to tell you something,” you said to him, grabbing his hand and entwining your fingers.

“What?” he asked you. 

“I wanted to tell you that I am so beyond proud of how far you’ve come since last November. We knew this wasn’t going to be easy and definitely wasn’t going to be enjoyable, but you really pushed through even though everything was stacked against you. Not many people are capable of doing all of this while the entire world is practically screaming ‘you suck and are overrated’ in their faces and the fact that you recovered from the wrist injury so well and are on track to coming out the other side better than how you went in is insane. And the fact that while recovering you did all this new stuff like fashion week which you'd never thought you'd ever do before is crazy and you killed that too even though it's not your thing. You truly are one of a kind,” you said to him. "Oh my god, and this," you said as you picked up your left hand and motioned at the ring. "You knew that I didn't care when this happened but the fact that you did this whole thing at the same time while dealing with all this shit should be enough to hand you the MVP award,".

“You always kill anything and everything you put your mind to. Whether it be football, your career outside of football, or our relationship, you always do so good at everything. I can’t wait to see you tear it up out there and start the next chapter of your story,” you added. 

Joe’s heart fluttered at your feelings; a big part of why he was able to push through was you. You were like a storm shelter for him in the hurricane that was his life. You kept him comfortable, and safe from his own negative thoughts and made sure that he didn’t drown. 

He pulls you in for a hug, stuffing his face in your neck as you can feel his rapid heartbeat against your chest. “I love you, Y/N. More than anything on this earth,” he said in your ear. “Thank you for sticking by my side,”.

“I love you too, forever and always,” you said as held onto him for a few heartbeats, not wanting to let go, but eventually doing so since he couldn’t be late. 

“Now, go knock ‘em dead and give them something to talk about Slim Shiesty,” you smiled as you pulled away.

“You got it,” he kissed your cheek and got up from the bed, a bounce in his step as he walked into the bathroom. 

“Blondes may do it better, but he does everything better regardless,” you smile to yourself. 

–The End–

[rafeandonlyrafe]

finding freedom

words: 4.2k

warnings: emotion abuse (not from rafe), potential physical abuse (again not from rafe), friends to lovers, brief violence, brief mention of fatphobia/readers body size, soft!rafe (but he still punches someone bc rafe is gonna rafe)

“can we please just not do this today?” you sigh, smoothing your hand down your freshly straightened hair, needing every strand to be set in place for midsummers tonight.

“i’m not doing anything, can you not be a bitch?” scott groans, fixing his tie in the mirror.

you sigh just quietly enough for scott not to hear. the start of your relationship was perfect. he never called you names or hurt you’re feelings, but that changed quickly, and now you’re numb to his insults. you love has faded into nothing, feeling like you’re more of a glorified maid than an actual girlfriend.

“i just don’t want any problems at midsummers tonight.” you say. “the whole town will be there.” at least everyone in the town whose approval you care about.

“i won’t start any problems if you don’t.” scott says, walking out of your shared bedroom. you never should have agreed to move in with him so quickly, but you were getting tired of your parents overbearing nature, only for them to leave for florida permanently a month after you moved out, giving you no other option on where to live.

you check your teeth for lipstick in the mirror once more before following him out.

you ride to the country club in silence, scott staring at the road ahead while you gaze out the window, eyes turning glassy as you slip out of focus like you have more and more lately.

you arrive at the celebration, knowing scott won’t open the door for you. he hasn’t in weeks. you step out, adjusting your dress that had ridden up from being sat down in scotts sports car.

you walk side by side with scott, instead of hand in hand. you wonder if people even know that you’re a couple. if they would ever suspect it when you certainly don’t act like it.

“what do you want to drink?” scott asks, already eyeing the bar.

“i don’t want anything.” you say, hoping that will stop scott from drinking too early as well, but instead he walks away, leaving you alone.

“hey.” a familiar voice purrs out as you turn around quickly.

“rafe!” a smile spreads across your face as you see one of your oldest friends. he quickly wraps you in a tight but still appropriate hug.

“no scott?” rafe asks, looking around hopefully.

“he’s um… already at the bar.” you laugh gently, feeling the awkward tension rise already. scott loves to have you all to himself, which caused you to lose touch with a lot of your friends, even rafe who you used to see at least every other day.

“already.” rafe hums out, words stinging.

“yeah, i should probably catch up with him…” you trail off, walking away leaving rafe looking at you with evident disappointment. 

you find scott amongst the crowd, but don’t bother making your way towards him as you spy kelce and his sister sat at a table in the corner.

“hey!” you smile and take the open seat.

“girl, its been so long! where have you been?” kelces little sister asks. 

“uh-” you’re about to make something up, when thankfully kelce saves you.

“oh shit, i love this song!” he hops up from his seat, chair clattering against the sun bleached hardwood. “dance with me, y/n?”

“yeah, sure.” you take kelces hand, happy that you seem to have slipped back into your natural rhythm as you dance, his hand high up on your waist to avoid any cries of indecency by the other attendees.

you dance with kelce through a couple songs before being passed off to one of his friends you don’t know very well, but you’re happy all the say, laughing as the crowd of younger folk grows as the songs shift more modern.

“y/n, can i have your next dance?” rafe asks, scooping you away from your current partner with ease.

“of course.” you feel your cheeks blushing unwillingly from the way he holds you close to his chest.

“babe, lets go home.” scott suddenly appears next to you.

you take an obvious step away from rafe, putting distance between your bodies for both of your sakes. “i’m not ready yet.” you say, attempting to keep your voice soft.

“well i am. so come on.” scott grabs your forearm, pulling you away.

you manage to look back at rafe as you get dragged towards the door. “sorry.” you mouth, hoping he doesn’t rush after you and cause a scene, even though you can see the anger on his features.

scott finally lets go when you’re out the door as you follow him across the parking lot towards his obnoxious bright yellow sportscar.

“give me the keys.” you say.

“i can drive.” scott says, waving you off.

“you are drunk!” “i said i can drive, woman!” scott shouts at you, ripping open the drivers side door and depositing himself in front of the wheel.

“then im not going with you!” you yell.

“fine, stay here for all i care!” scott slams the door shut and doesn’t even glance back at you as he backs out of the spot, wheels squealing as he leaves the parking lot.

“fuck.” you curse, heading back towards the country club. you make it to the front step before you even realize that you’re crying, tears escaping down your face. you quickly brush them away, hoping kelce or maybe topper or sarah can give you a ride home.

you take a minute to calm yourself before stepping back in, the atmosphere so different to how you feel inside.

you see rafe stood in front of the window to your right, clearly watching everything that went down in the parking lot.

“rafe-”

“are you okay?” he questions, head tipping forward, staring at you with intense eyes.

“i-” you clear your throat, holding back the tears as you force a smile on your face. “of course im okay.”

“i see the way he treats you. its wrong.” 

“we’re fine.” you shake your head, voice as loud as you can make it without cracking, yet still a whisper.

“do you want to spend the night at tanneyhill? the guest bedroom is open for you always.”

“i-i guess that would be fine.” you shrug. “just cause hes drunk. he… he isn’t drunk often.” its a bold faced lie, yet you still tell it, covering for your boyfriend and dampening the anger still sketched across rafes brow.

“mhm.” rafe leads you back outside. he doesn’t talk to you for the ride back to tanneyhill, but it doesn’t feel the same as the oppressive silence that fills the car whenever you’re with scott.

“thank you. i’ll leave in the morning.” 

rafe just nods.

--

you sit on the edge of your bed, staring at scott. “well?” “well what?” he questions, throwing his hands in the air.

“you really don’t know what today is?” 

“no, and you won’t tell me!”

“forget it.” you push yourself off the bed. “i’m taking the jeep.” you call out, not bothering to tell him where you’re going.

you’re not even sure at first as you drive around before you ultimately decide to drive towards the tennis courts. you have none of your equipment, but you can at least sit in the stands and watch others play as a way to pass the time.

“what are you doing here on your birthday?” 

you let out a squeal in shock, almost closing the door on yourself. “rafe! you scared the shit out of me!” “sorry.” he holds his hands up, wide smile on his face. “but seriously, you’re playing tennis on your birthday?”

“scott forgot.” you blurt out. “so… i was just kinda driving around aimlessly.” you shrug.

“well, let me take you out then birthday girl. lunch?” you realize after rafes suggestion how hungry you are and nod quickly.

rafe takes you out to your favorite restaurant, immediately telling the waitress it’s your birthday and you’ll be having dessert first, making you giggle and roll your eyes as an ice cream sundae is brought out for you to share.

“hey.” rafe says, bringing you back to the tennis courts to pick up your car now that the sun has set, having spent the entire day together. “i got you a present.”

“really?” you gasp. “rafe, you didn’t have to!” 

“you’re my friend, its no problem.” he shrugs, reaching into the backseat and handing you a thin wrapped box.

“oh my god, thank you.” you reach across the center console, pulling him into a hug before ripping into the colorful paper, eyes widening when you realize what you were just gifted.

“absolutely not, its too much!” you lift up the beautiful gold bracelet, stone embellishments inlaid into the pattern.

“come on, you deserve something beautiful today. let me help you put it on.” rafe doesn’t give you any time to argue, taking the bracelet and slipping it around your wrist, fingers gently touching your skin as he clips it.

“i-i seriously can’t thank you enough.”

“all i want in return is for you to be happy.” rafe says, looping your fingers together. 

you squeeze them back, holding back your tears as you mutter a goodbye, promising to call rafe soon before heading back home to scott. any time you feel upset on the ride back, you just look at your gift and think of rafe.

“you still don’t know?” you call as you enter the house.

“it’s your birthday.” scott appears from the living room, handing you a gift bag.

“are you serious?” you follow him deeper into the house as he flops back onto the couch, eyes on the television.

“i got you a gift, what more do you want?” scott groans.

you can’t help but laugh, a mean, bitter laugh as you look into the bag. “you’ve got to be kidding me.” it’s an eyeshadow palette with a $2.99 sticker on it. you don’t care about the cost of gifts, but this is clearly something he just picked up from the dollar store with zero thought.

“its makeup. you like girly shit.” scott shrugs.

“yeah, thanks.” you say sarcastically, throwing the bag onto the coffee table as you stomp away. you hear scott following you, and you almost make it into your room before his hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you back towards him.

“what the fuck is your problem?” he shouts.

you want to yell back, want to scream in his face and let go of all your rage, but as his hold tightens on your wrist, you don’t dare to speak up.

“i tried to get you something you liked.” he reasons.

“i know.” by some sick standards, he did.

“i can give you something else you like.” scott guides your hand to his crotch, placing it there before you snatch your hand back.

“i’ve got a headache.”

“of course you do.” scott rolls his eyes, walking back down the stairs without another word.

--

“you could have at least asked me before you agreed to dinner.” scott says, changing out of his sweatpants into an old pair of jeans.

“you don’t have to come.” you shrug, adding the bracelet rafe gifted you last, your favorite accessory to every outfit, no matter how casual. “its just gonna be rafe, topper and kelce.”

“of course im coming. you think im going to let you go out to eat with three men without your boyfriend?” “do you not trust me?” you raise an eyebrow.

scott just shrugs, and leaves his answer at that, grabbing his car keys as you follow behind.

you’re the last one to arrive, a small apologetic smile on your face as the boys see scott following right behind.

the waitress comes to get everyones drink orders now that the party is complete. you order a lemonade, with scott getting himself a beer, as usual. you notice rafe gets just a cold glass of water, his eyes meeting yours from his spot across the table.

“alright, what can i get yall to eat?” the waitress pulls out a notepad and pen.

everyone orders for themselves until it gets to scott. “ill have the stake, medium well. she will have a side salad.”

you furrow your brow, you never talked about wanting a salad beforehand. “um, actually i’ll have the chicken parm.”

the waitress glances between the two of you before nodding and scurrying away.

“god, you’re getting so fat.” scott says under his breath, yet you still clearly hear.

you wait a few minutes, attempting to listen to whatever sport kelce and topper are going on and on about, when the urge to cry becomes too overwhelming and you have to excuse yourself, walking towards the bathroom before slipping outside.

you are leaned up against the exterior of the building, chest rising and falling as you attempt to control all the feelings you have building inside of you.

“why don’t you say anything to him?” 

“god, rafe.” you place your hand on your chest. “you’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

“i heard what he says. i see the way he treats you, and i can’t just sit back and watch that happen.”

“what am i supposed to do?” you look up at rafe in desperation.

“break up with him.” he says simply.

“we live together. i-i have no place to go. this is a small island, and we have mutual friends. i can’t just walk away and never see him again.

“so how long are you going to put up with it? because i am seconds away from smashing his face in.” rafes fist clenches in anger, like hes visualizing punching scott this very moment.

“i… i’ll do it today. at home so i can get my stuff then i’ll go to a hotel-”

“tanneyhill. you’ll come to tanneyhill. i told you, the guest bedroom is always open for you.”

“thank you, rafe.” you wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, allowing the minutes to stretch by as he holds you.

“lets get you inside, yeah?” 

you nod, allowing rafe to lead you back into the restaurant. scott has a suspicious look in his eye but stays silent.

--

“we need to talk when we get home.” you say, scotts foot pushed down on the accelerator as he speeds home.

“what is there to talk about?” he questions.

“just some things i want to get off my chest.” you leave it at that, returning to the silence you’ve come to know well.

you can barely wait until you’re through the door before the words spurt out. “i want to break up.”

scott stands there with a blank expression, causing you to doubt whether you actually verbally said anything. 

“i want to break up.” you repeat.

“no.” scott says, face flushing with anger.

“what do you mean no?” you question.

“is this because i called you fat? well, im sorry for that. i just think you could lose a little weight.” scott throws his hands up in the air like he’s the victim.

“i just can’t take this anymore. i’m not happy. you’re not happy. why are we torturing ourselves?” “you’re not leaving.” scott takes a step closer to you. “i won’t allow you to fucking leave.”

“scott, please.” you shake your head.

“you’re mine!” he yells, bursting forward to grab your shoulders, pushing you against the wall as you let out a shriek.

your eyes closed, accepting that this is the time. this is when you will be hit. you just hope it doesn’t break anything as you wait for your fate, but it never comes.

your eyes open to see rafe burst through the door, immediately accessing the situation and shoving scott away from you.

“what the fuck!” he shouts, charging towards rafe, but it's no use as rafes fist rises and meets his nose, knocking him onto the ground and out cold.

“are you okay?” rafe wraps you in his arms as your body crumbles, holding you up like your weight is nothing as you sob.

“i-thank you.”

“i’ve got you. come on, lets go get your stuff. im taking you to tanneyhill.”

you nod, in a haze as you gather up your belongings, leaving behind anything that can be left as you get just the essentials, rafe helping you carry them out, even as you step around scotts still body, lying on the floor. you check to make sure his chest is rising and falling, and then don’t look at him again.

--

“ive never seen you so happy.” sarah laughs as you flit around the kitchen, making the biggest breakfast you can for the entire cameron family. eggs prepared in every way, toast, waffles, pancakes, anything and everything. it’s really all for rafe, your savior.

“what is there to be upset about?” you shrug. “i’m single!”

“and youre spending lots of time with rafe again.” she eyes you up and down as your hand shakes slightly pouring a glass of orange juice for wheezie.

“shut up.” you whisper, but the smile doesn’t drop from your face, especially as rafe enters the room. you transformed in the night, the shackles of scotts emotional abuse finally falling away, allowing your true self to reappear.

“im taking you out to dinner tonight, y/n.” rafe says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“you haven’t even had breakfast yet and you’re already thinking about dinner?” you laugh, shoving a plate full of his favorites into his hands.

“to celebrate.” he shrugs. “maybe i’ll convince top to throw a party.”

“ugh, i really don’t want to be around drunk people.” you admit. you want to celebrate, but preferably without alcohol at least for a month. rafe just nods, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before taking a seat at the island next to sarah.

“after you’re done eating, you can help me look for an apartment or a condo.” you tell rafe. “maybe i could ask ward about-”

“you know you don’t need to be in a rush to leave, right?” rafe interrupts you.

“yeah, but i don’t want to take advantage.” you shrug.

“you’re not.” rafe says, that serious, intense look back in his eye.

“okay.” you nod, soft smile on your face as he takes a bite of his waffle. you turn back to the stove as the timer goes off.

“oh, and maybe we could look for some place to move in together.” you glance back at rafe as he speaks, not caring that your bacon is getting crispier and crispier. “probably time for me to leave the nest anyways… and there’s no one i’d rather live with than you.”

--

“gosh, y/n, you can talk about something else.” rafe laughs as you launch into another discussion about what kind of house or condo you could move into together, what features you’re looking for and renovations you want to avoid.

“i’m excited!” you whine, taking another bite of your food.

“its cute.” rafe says, making you almost choke as you take a quick sip of your water.

“i just really can’t wait to live together. it’ll be so refreshing after…” you don’t need to say his name, not so soon after. 

“of course.” he nods. “do you want dessert?” rafe asks, seeing the waitress walking over.

“maybe we could split a hot fudge cake?” 

“here’s another water, sir.” she winks at rafe, handing him another glass even though his is not even half empty. “and can i get you anything for dessert?” she leans down, feigning to be reaching into her apron for her notepad, but is clearly just showing off her chest.

“one hot fudge cake, two spoons.” rafe barely pays attention to her as she scribbles it down and walks away disappointed.

“well, she’s bold.” you huff, glaring at her back until she rounds a corner.

“jealous?” rafe smirks, making your eyes widen.

“i never said that!”

“mhm.” rafe takes a sip of his new water. “don’t worry, you’re cute when you’re jealous too.”

--

“really, thanks for this topper.” you smile, accepting his hand as you step onto his family yacht, taking you and a couple friends, of course including rafe, out for a day on the water.

“just happy to have my friend back.” he says. you feel so lucky to have such amazing people surrounding you, supporting you after your breakup and not holding the way you treated them while in your relationship against you.

you take a seat next to rafe as topper begins to pull the boat away from the dock, allowing your eyes to close and head to rest against rafes shoulder as you feel the sun warm your skin.

you lay like that until topper navigates the yacht into deeper waters for everyone to jump off and swim. you hang back for a moment, watching everyone throw in floating pads or inner tubes as you smile, feeling more relaxed than you have in months.

“ready?” rafe asks.

“oh, yeah.” you pull off your coverup and jump into the water, laughing when you come up as rafe cannonballs right next to you.

you spend the next couple of hours in the water, only getting out to dive right back in. you swim around with rafe, but manage to break away from his attention to talk to your other friends for a bit as well.

your stomach rumbles as topper calls for lunch, having packed sandwiches into the fridge in the yachts kitchen before you left. you sit on your towel on the deck, rafe bringing you back a sandwich and bag of chips as everyone begins to talk.

you watch happily, content to sit back and just be in the moment. you tense up slightly when topper brings out a cooler of drinks, relaxing only slightly when you realize it’s only enough for everyone to have one or two beers or white claws and no one will be getting plastered.

“wanna head back in the water?” rafe asks when you're finished.

“actually…” you look at one of your friends screaming as kelce scoops her up and jumps into the water with her in his arms. “wanna go lay on the sundeck?” “yeah.” rafe follows you away from the crowd until you reach the large white cushions and spread yourself over them, arching your back and stretching.

rafe sprawls out next to you, but turns himself to the side so he can look at you.

“i like you, y/n.” he says.

“i-” its so sudden, so forward, yet so rafe.

“you don’t have to say anything back. but you should know, especially if we are buying a place together.” you nod slowly, taking in his words. “i like you. and i want to kiss you.”

you just nod, a smile spreading across your cheeks as rafe moves closer, placing his hand on your cheek as he leans down, lips pressing against yours.

you’re elated for a moment, until your nose catches the smell of alcohol and you freeze, realizing there’s still the sticky sweet taste on his lips as you’re suddenly transported back to feeling what it’s like kissing scott.

you pull away suddenly.

“i’m… shit. i’m sorry.” rafe stands quickly before you can even process.

“wait!” you call out, legs feeling like jelly yet you force them to work, standing as you rush after rafe, but by the time you reach the main deck, hes taken off on one of toppers jetskis, heading towards home.

“what happened?” topper asks, seeing the tears in your eyes.

“we-we kissed and-” you let out a sob. “i got a flashback of scott because of the beer smell and i pulled away and-” another sob racks through your body. “he thought i was rejecting him but… i love him topper! i need to go and find him and tell him and-” “calm down, okay? you can’t do anything in this state.” topper places his hands on your shoulders, moving you to sit in a chair.

“everyone back on the boat!” he yells, his tone unusually authoritative as everyone scrambles to get the floaties back into the boat.

the yacht moves faster than you thought possible as topper races back, knowing how important this is to you, and to rafe. he’s not going to let his friends miss out on true love just because of a misunderstood trauma response.

thanks to the slow jetski, you reach the dock only a minute after rafe. you’re off the boat and running after him before the lines are even secured.

“wait!” your feet slap against the wood until you reach rafe, grasping his wrist and pulling him to face you.

“just-” rafe sighs. “let me go, y/n. you can stay at tanneyhill of course just… i don’t need you to reject me again.” “let me explain!” you shout, taking a deep breath before continuing. “i wanted to kiss you, i swear. i just smelled the beer on you, and i got a flashback to scott. i got freaked out, it had nothing to do with you. im just… still recovering.”

“shit.” rafe groans, head tipping back at he stares at the sky for a moment, collecting his anger. “i’m so fucking stupid. of course you need more time, you just left him a couple days ago.” “no im… i like you too rafe. i know i need to heal, but i want to do that with you. i love you.”

rafes face turns briefly to one of confusion before a smile takes over. “im going inside to go use toppers mouthwash real quick then im coming back to kiss you. don’t move.”

sfw taglist: @bejeweledreverie @winterrrnight @ladyinbl00d

[imfoive]

One and Only - A Snippet

Felix x Reader (fem.) Genre: Forbidden Love au! Angst, Romance, childhood friends-to-lovers, slow-burn WC: 357 Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated! Happy reading! ── MASTERLIST

Synopsis: The young master had finally returned home from abroad, only to find himself inexplicably drawn to the daughter of the family’s servant, his once-childhood friend. As children they were oblivious to the weight of wealth, ranks, social status. As adults they were painfully aware of such divide. Still, they couldn’t help but let their gazes wander, their touches linger. A charged connection that neither could deny the existence of, one that may just dare to rewrite the rules.

A SNIPPET ────────────────────

Y/N had recognized him instantly.

Even after all these years. Although it would have been ridiculous to ever forget that face in the first place. His unique looks were still as striking as ever, if not even more breathtakingly beautiful.

But it was clear that he had grown. The passage of time is evident in him, in the way he carried himself, in his expressions. His face was sharper, slimmer. With a maturity in the slight crinkles under his eyes whenever he broke into a wide grin or a toothy smile. His slightly long, dark hair was styled neatly, pushed back to reveal his bright complexion, his freckles still as prominent, perhaps had even grown in the number of specks. 

The way he laughed was still the same, yet the sound bellowed with an low echo. Maybe even deeper than she had last remembered. When she had heard it, she had to do a double-take to make sure it was in fact a sound that was coming out from him.

He hadn’t changed. Yet, nothing about him seemed to be the same.

The last time she had seen him he was a head of bleached blonde hair, shorter by a few more inches, and much quieter than he appeared now. 

She wondered if this time around, he remembered her.

He hadn’t back then. 

Although, there were a lot of things he didn’t remember back then. From the layout of his childhood home to some of the servants in the mansion that he had once frolicked around as a child, he couldn’t remember the last time he was here.  

Maybe he would this time. He seemed to have when he had entered the house, his eyes glancing over everything that had changed since he had last seen it, pointing to a certain part that he recalled doing this or that in, unchanged in his eyes.

Sometimes as one gets older, they remember the smallest of things from their childhoods, things that resurface randomly when they do something that triggers a memory.

Nostalgia hitting them with its crashing waves.

It’s how she felt ever since he had arrived this time around. Ever since she had heard his name, mind automatically taking her back to that summer.

Though he didn’t even spare her an extra glance with that nostalgic gaze, eyes trailing past her as he reintroduced himself to everyone that surrounded him.

It made sense that he didn’t.

She wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember.

Why should he anyways?

Who was she for him to keep note of her name?

Of who she was?

Besides being the estate keeper’s daughter, she had no other importance, no other value.

But still, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a pang of hurt, a bitterness creeping down her throat. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ coming soon.

── ask to be tagged! - @minh0scat, @qwonyoung23, @thecutiepieme, @tirena1, @fixation-dump, @jehhskz, @chrisbangsass

[occamstfs]

Should've Worn Green

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Figured I couldn't miss the best Irish Tf day of the year eh? Best! -Occam

Charles didn’t account for the drunks storming the streets today when he was getting ready this morning. Why should he have to step out of his way to avoid getting beer spilled on him. Nevertheless perhaps the accountant should have checked the calendar before wandering into the streets without wearing a hint of green.

Such a blunder would not long go unpunished however. Compact as he is, he nimbly ducks out of the way of glasses clinking in brutish hands raised high. He scoffs at their total disregard for sanitation as they spill beer all over each other in the cheers. Barely avoiding getting drenched himself Charles bumps into a figure who drunkenly laughs before reaching out towards him.

“Aye! Shoulda worn green lad! ‘S St. Paddys!” He shouts as he pinches the already frustrated clerk who yelps and slaps at the hand. Not even pausing to dignify the man with a verbal response, he pushes forward to not be late for work.

He stumbles onward, reaching the edge of the crowd and finally takes a break. In the scarcely fresher air, his stomach lurches and he leans onto a building to avoid falling over. His shoulder itches as he almost feels what can only be described as vertigo? He looks over the crowd angrily, sure that they are to blame for whatever this episode is, contemplating going back toward whoever assaulted him but every face in the crowd is impossibly similar. Jesus, he’s never seen so many redheads in one place?

Wondering if he’s somehow woken up in Ireland proper he feels a breeze on his midriff. Not only has his shirt been untucked but the skin exposed suggests it never could have been tucked in the first place. It’s as if he’s grown half a foot. Charles starts hyperventilating, trying to convince himself his shirt must have shrunk in the wash, though surely he would have seen his exposed belly button when he put it on no? 

He again looks towards the crowd seeking anything to blame for his state. This makes it evident that he has grown indeed, now  able to directly make eye contact with men in the crowd. There is a draft on his ankles as his increasing height only becomes more difficult to deny. Charles clenches his jaw as his eyes find the man who simply must be the culprit.

In the middle of the mass of Paddy’s day parishioners, he sees a man staring directly at him, a smirk edging out from under his thick beard. He raises a large glass of Guinness in cheers and Charles can’t help but stare at the man in turn, his anger quickly being replaced by confusion. He winks, the glass still raised, as Charles stumbles backwards trying to avert his eyes. They forcibly return to this man each time taking in a new facet of his impossibly masculine body. The jungle of hair in his pits draws him in as if there’s a fire in his still-raised arm. His powerful chest is covered in a similar forest of beyond dense red hair.

Charles, unbeknownst to himself, continues to hungrily stare at the statuesque man as the pitch-black coif on his own head begins to bleach as a red tint starts to force its way up from his roots. He scratches at his face wondering how he forgot to shave before work. Oh, work? He needs to get to work right? His eyes retreat from the specimen to check his watch. He raises his arm to check his watch creating a tear in his suit as his bicep involuntarily flexes. His face reddens just as his hair continues to do, his anger towards the crowd returns as they have clearly forced him to not only be late to work, but to arrive wearing less than his prestigious work demands of him.

Before enacting whatever meager retribution his increasingly muddy mind decides he looks up to see the mysterious man approaching him through the crowd. His body involuntary clenches in fear, each instinctual flex creating new tears in his workday attire. His chest bursts into existence shooting his shirt’s buttons far into the dancing crowd. Tears appear down the length of his dress pants revealing tight briefs barely hanging together underneath. He rips off the rest of his suit jacket lest it impede him as he prepares to bolt from the rapidly approaching giant, though with each surge of growth coursing through Charles the man seems less menacing and massive, and more familiar.

He again scratches at his shoulder as he begins to notice that someone in the crowd desperately needs a shower. At least he thinks it's the crowd, he looks towards his own pits questioning his cleanliness and sees pits with thin dark hairs. But that can’t be right? Surely they should be red like all his other hair. He flexes his pecs and watches the ginger hair on his torso dance in the morning sun. Laughing before he returns his attention to his pits that are rapidly agreeing with his assessment and growing thick and red, they also make it clear that the sudden stink in the air could be no one but him.

It’s chill though Charles thinks, he’s been partying all morning with the guys, he’s sure they’ll get it. Smirking to himself not even noticing how swiftly he has assimilated to being one of the parishioners that have taken over the block. As he stands there, his red pubes increasingly showing above his crotch as his briefs are weighed down with each growing pulse in his crotch. 

Finally the smirking Irishman who started it all makes his way over shouting,  “Ay Charlie! Yer gunna have to cover up ya! Shame we’re not Scots or I’d toss ye a kilt, Ha! And ‘Ere lad don’t be standing around without a drink in hand.” He tosses a large cup at Charlie who catches it, though losing the head as it splashes all over him, matting his ginger curls to his chest and revealing the most intricate details of his still-growing bulge.

Charlie cheers at the man who must be a friend, or at least a countryman, before quickly starting to down the tankard. As he swallows the swill he swiftly loses whatever smidge of himself that remained in this northern paragon of a body. His chest fills out with a bit of weight as beer trickles down the beard expanding further down his face. As he swallows his voice develops into an impossible to mistake accent. It’s just, didn’t he have something to do today? His brown eyes sparkle as they brighten to a green bright enough to be in the tricolor as he laughs. What could he have to do today more important than celebrating his home country! America is fine and all that but fwoh, could certainly stand to be more like his homeland. Charlie, tired of thinking so much on a day like this, gives into a primal urge of celebration and joins the bacchanal. Charles Morris would not arrive to push whatever buttons and keys he was supposed to at work that day. But Charlie Mulligan was having the greatest time of his life, as he would continue to do evermore.

[nolovelingers]

TELL ME YOU DONT FEEL IT ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ wes hicks !!

⋆ ★ wes has had a crush on you since what feels like the beginning of time and he’s finally determined on getting you to tell him whether the feelings are reciprocated or not. — short blurb !!

cw ᝰ.ᐟ sfw ,, talk of weed ,, readers high ,, fluff

dancing under the florescent night sky of the moon, a deep blue tarp with an array of stars scattered in groups like white paint on a canvas as laughter beamed from the depth of your body resided you and wes hicks.

a bittersweet feeling harmonized along with the two of you as you swayed to your own rhythm, not a single worry or doubt making itself present in your mind as you gave your thoughts away to the buzzing sensation vibrating all through you.

the 5’8 male had not been there initially to witness the intaking of a blunt rotation you shared between few friends, but he was quick to head over the second you asked.

there was worry that struck through his body at first as he picked up your call after only two rings, a small panic at seeing your name on his phone at such late hours of the night and it wasn’t until he heard you speak the protectiveness that ran through his veins settled only after a short explanation.

you had asked him to come and walk you back home, worried to do so alone and not in the sober mindset.

he rushed over as soon as he could, leading up to the present moment as you laughed away the cruelty of the world, stumbling just slightly as you skipped and danced without song.

“spin me!” you requested, and the hicks boy felt blood rush up to his face at the sudden odd request, your fingers reaching for his in a cupping motion.

complying with an awkward smile he lifted his arm, twirling you around and watching the way your clothes blew along with the direction of the wind, outlining the figure of your body that was just beautiful in his eyes. “how much did you have?” he mindlessly questioned, laughter threatening to poor from between his bubblegum pink tinted lips as he watched you with an intent gaze. his attention was solely on you and he was met with a shrug of your shoulders.

“why, did you wanna hit?” you didn’t even have to ask before you felt the pending answer, flipping your body around and walking backwards as you continued holding onto his slim fingers with your own.

“uhh, no, i don’t smoke.” he glanced at your hand that was still wrapped around his with a lingering look in his eyes that you were fast to mistake for him being uncomfortable, letting go of his hand and not noticing the slightly disappointed emotion rupturing over his features as he nervously looked at the pavement below the two of you.

you smiled, his response turning out exactly as you expected while continuing to walk the wrong way forward. wes eyes you carefully, prepared to shoot his arms out and catch you at the chance you fell. “i know. you’re a little mamas boy. it’s cute though, i really admire that.” there was nothing but genuineness in your voice as you spoke and the bleach-haired boy felt the need to turn his head away in a daze of embarrassment, the feeling of a rosy tint creeping over his fair skin.

there’s silence for a moment and he clears his throat, sticking his hands in the pockets of his grey-washed jeans and opting to try and switch the topic away from him. “how you feeling?” softly and with genuine concern in his ocean-blue eyes he met your vision with his, a light-hearted smile twitching the corners of just one side of his mouth up slightly.

“amazing,” you’re quick to answer him, finally flipping your body the right way round. “i feel like im one with the environment!” you giggle, so much intense passion evident in your voice while you announced your mindset to the boy; who’s blonde hair was breezing into patches with the wind, his dark brown roots becoming even more apparent.

wes watches you with a certain intensity of emotion in his eyes. like a mother watching her kid say their first words, or a doctor witnessing their patient start to walk again after being paralyzed for years.

he grins, keeping his head turned as he breaks his gaze away from you. you’re able to see the point of his canines clearly as he stays faced away, and suddenly you’re switching roles, finding yourself unable to look away from him.

you had never really seen him in this light before. not literally, the dark nightfall dimming his face; making his skin look smoother than it ever has, his jaw seemed to pop more, or maybe he was just clenching it, the yellow hue of lamplights coming and going as you walk down the concrete along with him and back to the neighborhood you both have been living in since you could open your eyes.

you had seen wes almost every day of your life. walking to school together, all the days you hung out, sharing classes and even carpooling with each others parent every once in a while.

but you had never really seen him like this. clearly.

and through the dim lighting, through the shadows of the night and the dark pallet of colors swarming the two of you you swore that you had really seen him. and there wasn’t a word to describe the feeling either. it was just like something was turning in your head, gears clicking after so many years.

he was enticing.

enticing you, and drawing you in without meaning.

he notices the quiet that fell between the two of you, and finally meets eye contact with you again. as soon as he does, he notices you had already been staring and an enormous blush immediately takes over him as he tries to figure out how long you had been watching him.

he brings his eyes back down, watching the floor and you notice as he carefully steps over every crack littered on the gray surface. finally you reach the street of your neighborhood, not too far from your friends house, and the boy instinctively grabs onto the cloth of your shirt as you cross the road to get to the right street.

you smile to yourself as you walk side to side next to him and he doesn’t once let go, watching both sides of the road for cars like one could come whipping through and cutting the corner any second to turn the both of you into road kill.

when you reach the next set of sidewalk, now down the path to your house, and he still hasn’t let go, you decide to direct the conversation. “are you gonna tell your mom why you had to come get me?”

he goes quiet for moment, turning to you with his brows furrowed like you had just asked him a really obvious question. “of course not.” a sound that sounds like a mix of a scoff and a giggle leaves his mouth. “even if i did it’s not like she’d arrest you.”

you roll your eyes, bumping your shoulder into him as you walk in sync together. “she’s the sheriff.” you slightly lean into him as you walk and he lets out a little sigh.

“yeah but.. it’s you.”

“what do you mean ‘it’s me’?”

clearly he wasn’t expecting you to want clarification on what he meant, his silence answers that for you. he looks at you, the crickets of the night being the only thing audible. “just.. you’re like my best friend. she wouldn’t arrest you over something like weed. to be honest, I think she smoked a few times when she was a teenager too.”

you hum, the drowsiness stage beginning to set in as you lean more into him, staggering just slightly. wes notices your irregular steps and drapes an arm around your shoulder, leaning you into him as an attempt to balance you.

you smile into his sleeve and don’t even notice the way he’s puffed his cheeks out or stopped breathing completely as he held you closer to him.

finally, you reach your house, the familiar structure waiting in front of you; dark and quiet.

“you’ll make it in okay?” he removes his arm, guiding you lightly in front of him so he can meet your eyes and you have to fight back rolling them at such a silly question but end up smiling at his worry over nothing.

“i don’t know, 15 more feet and im not sure ill have mine anymore.” you smirk at him and he rolls his eyes at you, a look of fondness adoring his features.“ughhh, i guess i should go. call it a night. thank you wes, seriously.” you smile at him, messing with his hair a little. he opens his mouth and then closes it again, like he’s debating saying something more; so you stay a moment longer.

he doesn’t say anything, and after debating with yourself internally for about 5 seconds you lean [down/up] and press a kiss to his cheek; which feels hot under your lips.

you could literally hear his breathing pick up, and when you finally break away from his skin he’s not looking anywhere near you but has rather zoned off somewhere behind you.

“goodnight wes.” you offer him a embarrassed smile before turning away, walking back to your door.

you make it a whopping 4 steps away before he’s calling out after you.

“stop.” there’s actual irritation in his voice, which isn’t normal, and you turn back to face him. he’s standing in the exact same spot with the same dazed look on his face only now he looks a little angry and confused as his forehead is creased and brows are pushed together while looking at you. “what is this? what are you doing?”

you’re confused, clasping your hands together to help gather warmth as a cold breeze runs through the air. “what do you mean?”

wes shakes his head, looking away and then back at you several times and it’s obvious he’s fighting with himself internally. “you know what i mean. this. us. what are you doing? why?”

you don’t look away from him once, confidently staying in your place as you cross your arms; embarrassed to address the situation but not nearly as much as he was. “can you clarify?” it’s kind of obvious what he’s talking about, but there’s some idiotic part of you in your mind forcing you to act stupid which only drove wes more mad.

he opens his lips and an estranged laugh leaves, like someone having a nervous breakdown and randomly starts giggling. it’s an agitated laugh.

“please, whatever you’re doing, stop. stop acting like you don’t know what i mean. you know what you’re doing, and- and what you just did. you must know what kind of effect you have over me or something because at this point it’s getting frustrating when you do these things but can’t even address it. it is like, physically hurting my heart at this point because all i can do when i try to sleep is stare at the ceiling and think about you and what you do to me and whether or not you know what you’re doing or if it’s unintentional and it’s driving me nuts. tell me you don’t feel it. tell me you don’t feel this!” despite how frantic his words come out, and how panicked and vulnerable he looks, he speaks clearly and strings the right words together to express himself. that’s always been a great trait about him. wes was great with his words and knows exactly how to describe how he’s feeling. he just struggled on having the courage to get them out.

you almost don’t know what to say, but there’s no time to find your words before he’s speaking again.

“and don’t give me any more bullshit about how you don’t know exactly what im taking about or how im not being ‘clear enough’ for you. i mean, seriously, i shouldn’t have to spell it out for you at this point because all of our friends know that i like you and even your family, which i tried so hard especially to hide it from, figured it out so fast. it’s not rocket science. besides my mom and tara you are the only girl i consider myself close with and there’s no way it’s not obvious to you when you ask me about the girl i like because it is definitely not tara, and it is definitely not my mom. i like them but not in the way i like you, not in the way you won’t leave my mind so much so it’s frustrating. i can hardly focus in class because I can’t stop thinking about us or if there even is an us or what could happen or if you feel the same way and it’s unfair because there has to be some part of you internally that knows I like you when you kiss my cheek or text me every morning and night or run your fingers through my hair when we hang out and I hate it so much because I can’t read you the same way you can read me and I can’t tell if you’re doing these things just to mess with me or because you might actually feel the same way.”

wes, now out of breath, let’s out quiet gasps and inhales of air after he finishes speaking. he stammers in place for a second, trying to catch his footing as he looks around the environment and at anywhere but you. trying to avoid your eyes. your face. it was all on the line now and he was terrified of what you might say.

“you.. like me?” you repeat to yourself, keeping your eyes trained on his face. this finally gets the hicks boys eyes to land back on you with a frustrated sigh; like you just asked the dumbest thing in the world.

“are you really gonna ask me that after I just finished my dramatic epilogue?”

a smile takes over your face from the way he says this, his breathing still uneven. so many thoughts churn through your head as you try to process what this all means. what this all could mean for you and the future of your friendship with wes.

“you’re right, sorry.” you awkwardly smile, taking one step closer to him as you begin to try to gather your mind and express what you were thinking.

“you’re not worried about this changing us? our friendship? what if we breakup?” all reasonable questions to ask, they come flying out of your mouth one by one and wes feels his heartbeat quicken in hope as he realizes you haven’t yet rejected him.

“youch, thinking about breaking up already?” the blonde feins hurt and places a hand loosely over his heart which earns an eye roll from you before he shakes his head. “do you even know how much I like you? I mean, clearly not. the last thing I would ever want is for us to breakup. if that happened, that’s on you. and our friendship? what do you mean? did you just friendzone me? (y/n).” wes lets out one last final sigh before grabbing for one of your hands with both of his, locking eyes with you nervously.

“please, i just need to know how you feel. if you don’t feel the same way, it’s fi-“

the feeling of his lips on yours is as soft as you could have ever imagined. they were plump and tasted of strawberry chapstick. a far too prolonged kiss was shared, and you cupped one side of his face with your hand while bringing the other behind his neck.

wes felt his knees buckle underneath him, feeling like he was in a dream. he had dreamed of this moment for so long and was now having a hard time believing it was real. the kiss almost felt too perfect.

after a few delayed seconds he gently placed both hands on your waist, holding you down in place as he moves his lips against yours as if to stop you from ever leaving.

you pull away, face burning a bright red and heart pounding an unnatural rate before you finally open your mouth to speak.

“i feel it.”

` ੈ˚ ★ a / n : i deadass started ts 7 months ago but it’s been rotting in my drafts since school started back and nasa wanted to recruit me as a potential subject in their spacial exposure severer super undercover mission

started 08.06.23.

finished 03.29.24.

( scream masterlist )

©️ nolovelingers 2024

[sturnioz]

Wait I need to know how you see confident!reader and fratboy!chris first interaction‼️

you needed a new supplier—and you needed one bad.

your previous one, once reliable and always putting you at the top of their priority list, had left town; dropped out of university, packed up their shit and left town without a word, chasing some dream in a place far from here. it was a fucking joke.

you were pissed, as many of the others were too, and the urgent need for a high gnaws at you as a constant reminder as you move through the sea of bodies within the unfamiliar frat house, your nose wrinkling at the thick scent of sweat, cheap cologne and fruity perfumes.

you clutch a red solo cup in hand, the alcohol sloshing inside with each step, a temporary distraction as you search for your friend who had invited you in the first place, trying to find her bleached blonde head in the crowd.

when you finally spot her, she's leaning against the wall, her body angled toward a guy. she bites her bottom lip, fluttering her lashes at him as he speaks, completely captivated. he licks his lips, smirking, and he raises his eyebrow as he pulls a joint from his pocket and tucks it between her breasts in her dress, his fingertips grazing her skin, sending an surge of protectiveness through you.

your brows furrow at the sight and you move forwards, the sound of your platform block heels tapping against the floorboards as you make your way over, wrapping your talon-like nails around her arm to draw her attention away from him.

"everything okay?" you ask, your voice steady but laced with concern as your eyes dart to the guy for a moment, giving him a pointed once-over before returning to your friend. "are you okay?"

"yes!" she giggles drunkenly, her eyes sparkling as she wraps her arm arounds yours. "this is chris — he's the dealer everyone keeps talking about!"

dealer? that catches your attention, piquing your curiosity as you take a more scrutinizing look at him, but your eyebrow arches in scepticism as you notice how he sizes you up, head tilting tightly, a smarmy grin stretching across his lips.

"what are you looking at?" you challenge, your irritation bubbling, unable to hold back.

"you." chris replies, his smirk widening with amusement swimming in his gaze. "you need a new supplier or somethin', kid?"

your eyebrow arches again, "who are you calling 'kid'?"

chris leans back against the wall, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features as his tongue rolls across his teeth, almost as if he's weighing your words. he then sniffs, the action a clear indication that he's taken something previously. "s'what is it that y'want? got weed, coke, pills, m—"

"pretty bold of you to assume that i'll even buy from you in the first place," you cut him off, noting the way his nostrils flare at your challenge, and a smile dances on your lips. "what? not used to being rejected?"

"rejected," he echoes with a breathy laugh, scratching at his jaw in mock contemplation. "s'funny 'cos uh... you're still here," his gaze locks onto yours. "you got that look in your eye too, y'know. obviously want somethin'... 'n right now, it seems like m'your best shot, yeah? 'cos your friend told me all about your lil' dealer runnin' off."

you cast a sidelong glance at your friend, who beams at you, her intoxication evident as she sways slightly. you can't blame her — she's just as frustrated about the disappearing dealer too.

turning your attention back to chris, you find him grinning as if he holds some secret power over you.. you can't help but laugh.

"you do realise that you're not the only dealer on campus, right?"

"known to be the best one," he replies quick, his voice dripping with confidence as he leans in slightly.

"i've only ever heard of you today," you point out, a smirk slipping across your face as you catch the twitch of his jaw, his eyes darkening with irritation. "so, you can't be that good.. kid."

[mushies-stories]

Bleach- Making it fit

Ichigo AND Kisuke XFemale reader

Exactly what is says, there will be more but I haven’t posted in so long.

Warnings: SMUT, piv, pet names

Ichigo

You held tightly to Ichigo's shoulders as he entered your tight hole. You couldn't suppress the whimpers and gasps or hide the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes. “Ichi- big.” you whimpered. 

Ichigo’s dark glossy eyes looked down at you with a gentle smile as he stilled his movements. “It's okay baby, I got you. Just try and relax for me.” he said softly, bringing a hand between your bodies to rub circles on your clit. He continued to slowly sink in, letting you breathe through it as he stretched you open. 

Once he reached half way and kept going you started to struggle even more, already feeling so full another inch seemed unbearable. Your legs tightened against his hips and your eyes squeezed shut. “Big.. to b-ig Ichigo.” you whimper and whine.

Ichigo stilled again and brought his hand up to move the hair out of your face and leaned down to press a firm sweet kiss to your pouting lips. “You're doing so good baby, just a little more. Always so tight for me.” he said soft and slow while he rocked his hips into you, just a little more at a time. 

You slowly open your eyes to look back up at him and nod, trying to relax a little more as he stretches you even more. You just wanted it to be over, wanted him to be fully inside you and feeling good already. “Please Ichigo! Please. W-ant all of you.” you shout and whine, your eyes pleading with his own as the tears get bigger, one slowly falling down the side of your face. 

He chuckles softly and leans back down for another kiss, this one deeper and his tongue was pushing past your parted lips.

Bringing his hand back down he rubbed fast even circles into your clit as he sank in deeper, all the while swallowing your loud moans and whimpers as he slowly started to thrust the rest of his length into your tight little pussy. He only pulls back from your mouth for air but seeing how your mouth hangs open in pleasure, the pain fastly fading.

Kisuke

Your eyes fluttered and your mouth hung slack as you sank down on Kisuke's cock. You whimpered when you got half way and came to a stop. You clung to his shoulders and your legs were already starting to feel like jelly. You looked down to see how far you had gotten and let out a soft huff, not very far at all.

Kisuke watched you with a knowing smirk, it was getting to be too much for you and your tight cunt clenching his cock was further evidence. “What's wrong baby?” he cooed, stroking your cheek with his thumb and pulling you down a little more with a firm hold on your hip. 

You choked back a moan as he filled you even more. “Kisuke, you're too big.” you pout.

His teasing smirk grew a fraction. “Oh darling, you can make it fit, I know you can.” He encouraged you, rolling his hips up a little to push a bit more in and bringing you down a little, helping you and teasing you all at the same time. 

You held still a moment, mouth hung open a little and legs shaking a little before they slowly gave out and allowed you to sink the rest of the way onto his cock with a loud strangled moan. “Kisuke! Too mu-ch Kisuke..” you whine with your head laying on his shoulder, your pussy fully stuffed with his cock.

Holding back his own sounds of pleasure Kisuke smiled and kissed the side of your head softly while his fingers rubbed soothing circles onto your thigh with his thumb, the other hand cradled the back of your head. “See, you did so good for me.” he praised before slowly rocking his hips up and listening to your sweet little whimpers. He rocks his cock deep inside your tight hole. Letting you adjust a little more before he fucks your properly.

[teatreeoilll]

𝐎𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

˚• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • .

w/c - 1.2k content - MDNI! 18 + , fem!reader, porn with lil backstory, oral (m!receiving), nobody's really objecting to this lol

• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . °

The second-floor bathroom of the Tokyo District Court always smelled like bleach. No one could entirely solve the mystery of why the cleaning lady always spilled more than a gallon of it on the white-tiled floor of that specific bathroom - but it was precisely why Higuruma Hiromi preferred to fuck in it. And after a long day at court, you didn't mind it much either.

Hiromi nuzzles his face into your neck, pressing soft kisses against the exposed skin like he knew made you shudder. "Fuck," You tighten the grip your fingers hold on his hair, "That was terrible."

"Huh?" You feel his confused, warm breaths at your neck, debating what he'd done that was so wrong.

"I said it was terrible, Higuruma," you mutter, mind still occupied with the trial, "This old prick Saito has the hots for your client, so he won't even look at our evidence."

"You shouldn't call the purveyor of justice an old prick. Besides, could you not mention him when were - " He presses another gentle kiss on your neck, "having a moment here?"

"Why not?" You chuckle, "The toupee doesn't do it for you?"

Hiromi lets out a snort before his face falls on your shoulder, laughing. You almost forgot he could laugh. Your heart flutters as his body trembles against yours, shaking you along with it.

It shouldn't make your heart flutter. You promised - it's strictly professional in court and strictly physical after it. Neither of you had the time for the things that come with a fluttering heart and an earnest laugh.

He breaks away from you, his hands still resting on your thighs where he let them run under your pencil skirt when he first pushed you against the bathroom stall door. His cheeks flush red, and a small smile still unusually graces his lips. Another flutter, fuck.

You can't help it, running a hand up to his cheek, caressing it with your thumb. "Haven't seen you laugh in a while," you admit, feeling the warmth of his skin under the soothing movements of your thumb, "You're the only one in our class who didn't stray away from the righteous path."

Righteous. Higuruma hated that word coming out like that, it made morality sound miserable. Right would be a better word, but it would mean you were on the wrong path - and he couldn't bring himself to tell you that.

He fights the urge to let his head fall into your palm, and the light quickly leaves his eyes, "Objection, your honor," he says, "the prosecution is leading the witness."

"Accepted," you sigh, removing your hand from his cheek to move it along the fabric of his shirt down to unbuckle his belt, eliciting a quiet gulp from Hiromi. "Sorry," you mutter as you get down on your knees, your hands working on the zipper of his trousers.

"Don't - " his words are cut off by the rush his body gets from your hand rubbing against his rapidly hardening erection through his boxers, "Apologize," he breathes. You look up at him, and he thinks he might come just from your big doe eyes staring at him while you pull down his boxers, freeing his cock to wrap your fingers around it.

It's his favorite sight. It's been that way for years. Since the first exam season in law school, when you turned to him and said he looked like a good study partner. He knocked on your dorm room door with his hands overflowing with textbooks, only to drop them when you opened it with nothing but a towel wrapped around your body. "It's good to get the blood flowing to your brain first," you said.

"Fuck - " He hisses when your lips wrap around his tip, his hand jolting to press against the stall door to hold himself steady while the other hand finds its way to your hair, digging his fingers into it.

You don't take your eyes off the way his face twitches with pleasure, hollowing out your cheeks as you bob your head on his length. "Shit - you're so - " he groans, lost in the feeling of the wet heat engulfing him as you quicken your pace, letting the saliva run from the corners of your mouth, "beautiful, fuck - " his hand runs to where you hollow your cheeks, lingering there so he could feel himself inside your mouth.

You place a hand on his thigh to steady yourself, feeling the shake in his legs every time the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. You pull back from his cock with a lewd 'pop', taking in a sharp breath before flicking your tongue against the flushed tip of his cock to lick the beads of precum forming there. His knuckles go white when his fingers try to dig into the stall wall.

"God," he moans when you wrap your lips around his cock again. He holds his hips steady, trying not to gag you as he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, "I love you."

You stop. His cock is still halfway in your mouth when you look up at him, but he knows what you want to say, We don't say that, Hiromi. His eyes widen, large apologetic brown orbs that stare down at you as you resume your pace, pulling up a hand to stroke the part of his length that doesn't fit in your mouth.

His face grows hot, fuck. His cock twitches inside your mouth, and you smile against it for a moment before your swollen lips tighten their grip around it to suck him hungrily. Fuck it, he thinks as his heart races, and he bucks his hips to reach deeper into your throat, "I love you," he moans, chasing his release, "fuck - I love you."

Your stomach turns at his words, the heat rushing to warm your cheeks, and you're desperate to hear these words leave his mouth again and again as your fingers dig deeper into his thigh as you let out soft moans that vibrate around his cock.

He doesn't manage to give out any warning when his muscles tense, his mouth half open with a quiet "I love you," leaving his lips followed by breathy moans of your name as you gagged on his release flooding your mouth.

"S-Shit, I'm sorry - " Hiromi pulls out from your mouth, his hand gently cupping your face. Your teary eyes still pointed at him as you wiped the remainder of his seed from the corners of your lips.

You get up from your knees as he fixes himself back in his trousers, "Hiro," you mutter, and his breath hitches. You never call him that, so that's it, fuck.

"Listen - I - " He stutters.

"Isn't the guy supposed to be on his knees when he says that?"

"Huh?" His heart about to burst from his chest.

"Isn't the - ah, never mind," you chuckle, "how about you buy me a coffee?"

He'd buy you a house if you asked him, "Sure," he says, pausing for a moment, "I do - love you, you know?"

A blush creeps to your cheeks, "I know, just - " you sigh, "I - uh," a speechless prosecutor, that's a first, "I love you too." Coffee won't cut it, I need a drink.

[morownic]

you found your house, but where’s your home?

Japan was home to your childhood and the innocence you had lost a long time ago, and there was no way you would taint it with your deep, irremediable sorrow. You were never going back there. You were never going back home. (Have you ever had one?)

warnings/tags: NSFW MDNI (graphic descriptions of drug use, overdose, and blood; non-graphic smut), non-ultraman AU, afab + fem pronouns, non-graphic descriptions of a car accident, suicidal ideation

prev. // next — series masterlist · my other works · ao3

a/n: still written in the big spirit of oh no (tbh i was kinda convinced this song is practically gonna be the theme song for this series lmfao) + big influence of the breach + maps. this took a month to finish because i was in the trenches and my laptop broke lol thats why i didnt proofread and the ending is kinda ehh as well. i hope there are still people reading this though </3

Blues and purples washed over the crowd of college students as the party reached full swing. Music thumped in your chest as if it wanted to replace the beating of your heart, and drunken chatter rang in your ears as if they wanted to replace the voices in your head. Your eyes swept over the room, looking for a familiar face to ground yourself in the midst of your high. Some people greeted you as you made your way through the sea of bodies. Even though you failed to recognize most of them, you practically bounced as you greeted back and asked for their names and majors, complimenting them on their appearance and making small talk before moving on to the other person that had approached you. Mirth ran through your veins, so much so that it caused nausea to bubble in the depths of your stomach, as you kept moving from one conversation to another without so much as taking a breath and moving around with a twitch every now and then and a restlessness that slowly built up your exhaustion. When you finally saw Harley, your roommate, you gave the last person who spoke to you a jovial goodbye and a giddy side-hug before making your way toward her.

If you weren’t coked out of your mind, you would have immediately noticed the look on her face as she realized that you were not sober. Disappointment, concern, horror. You merely offered her the widest smile you could wear as you downed whatever the content of your cup was. The bitterness and burn of alcohol didn’t even make you flinch, and at that moment, you wondered if you should have heeded the sign that you gotta stop yourself now. Harley, on the other hand, looked at you as if you had just grown another head in front of her.

“Are you serious?”

Still, in your state, you couldn’t register her anger just yet. You were just confused as to what she was referring to as your smile slowly morphed into a frown. “What?”

“God, I thought you’ve been clean for–” Harley was momentarily interrupted by someone tapping on her shoulder, to which she responded with a rather aggressive ‘Give me a fucking minute!’ before she turned back to you. “You’re fucked. You’re really fucked.”

You were still puzzled, but your own indignation was starting to surface. “What the fuck’re you saying?”

The person behind Harley was saying something to her again, a sense of urgency evident in their speech and gesture, and you saw her gaze flickering between you and them. You caught her cursing under her breath before she said something you couldn’t hear to them and craned her head in your direction with a scowl on her face.

“I’ll be right back. Do not fucking do anything stupid, you hear me?!”

A glimpse of your roommate’s bleached hair was all you saw before she disappeared into the crowd. You couldn’t even process your interaction, let alone get another word in. The realization that you were alone, again, somehow sobered you up. Your eyes felt heavy as they swept over the room once more, hoping to find someone who could distract you from your approaching crash. Gone was the euphoria that ran through your veins and kept you moving. The bluish lighting lost its color and no longer cast a glow that made you feel at ease; its coolness only made you feel more despondent in the middle of the party. The steady pulse of the music somewhat replaced your slowing heartbeat, yet it was muffled in your ears, blending with the chatter around you that grated on your overstimulated nerves. Each breath and step you took as you aimlessly walked through the crowd were slower than the last. You had never experienced your high crashing down as quickly as this. You thought that maybe, just maybe, talking to someone else about some mundane things or the latest gossip would at least be better than going back to one of those bathrooms for a fix. But there was no one to drag you into their conversation, let alone drag you into some corner just to temporarily reprieve you from the weight of it all; everyone was lost in their own world, while you just wanted to run away from yours, to forget and forget and forget.

So you did what you had been doing for the past year to patch up that hole in your heart ever since your parents died.

The bathroom you slipped into was bathed in deep purple, with flickering fairy lights framing the mirror where you saw your own reflection. You almost broke down when you did, because you hated what you saw. To others, you looked fine, pretty even, what with how the silk dress fitted over your form, how the red of your lips and nails seemed to glow in the dark, how your hair still seemed effortlessly kept even though it was a bit disheveled. To you? You looked fucking horrible. If it weren’t for the dim lighting, everyone would have noticed the dark circles under your eyes that you had tried to hide with layers and layers of concealer and the hollow of your cheeks that you didn’t bother contouring. You were a couple pounds lighter than you had been a month ago. Your veins stood out like dark, winding rivers beneath your skin, and your metacarpals had bulged like tree roots protruding from the ground. You put your purse on the counter, sluggishly rummaging through its contents to find your stash. Pressure wrapped around your head like a rubber band as you fumbled with the items inside your purse, trying to control your breathing so that pressure wouldn’t snap. You pulled out a tiny, crumpled resealable bag filled with that godforsaken white powder.

(Couldn’t you have found another way to numb yourself?)

You carefully opened the bag and poured the amount that you thought could lift the crushing weight from your chest onto the counter. With an old credit card your father once gave you before he returned to Japan to run away from you and your mother again, you arranged a few neat lines that you couldn’t even count on one hand because of how distressed you were. Even if you had at least retained a bit of your rationale, you would only have given yourself a pat on the back for lining them nearly as straight as a ruler. You hastily ripped a piece of paper from the tiny notebook you carried with you, rolled it up, and placed it against your nostril.

One sharp inhale and your world burst back into color, it seemed.

No more of that suffocating burden in your chest. No more of that dull ache devouring your entire body. Only that abrupt, exhilarating thrill returning to your bloodstream. Your body tensed for a split second, with your gasp for air making you sound like you had been strangled by death himself just moments ago. (But even death would have been kinder to you than you did to yourself.) At least, this way, your world felt warmer. Not the cold, barren land that you never bothered to nurture, even more so after your parents had passed. Their faces coming to the forefront of your mind made you snort another line, and you were taken back to your childhood home in the Tokyo suburbs; home where your dad played baseball and watched recordings of the Giants’ games with you, where your mom pulled you in for a side-hug as she plated the tonkatsu she cooked for dinner, where you ran around in your backyard either playing with bubbles bought from the local festival or a kite your dad had made for you. Those memories hurt you enough to make you take another bump.

Peace was not something you could afford—not when the line you took, crossed, only made you remember his face. You held back a sob as you took yet another bump. He was just that doe-eyed boy in high school; the boy who laughed in earnest after you parroted some stupid middle school joke you heard from one of your old classmates, the boy who scored a home run that you cheered for so loudly you could barely speak the next day, the boy who made you feel vulnerable for the first time when you kneeled for someone else as if he was God and he later kissed you as if you were an angel, as if all those Sundays you spent at church with your mother were all in vain because he was the original sin that you could not rid yourself of. One line taken, crossed, for every thought of him. One line taken, crossed, for every image of him in your head. The euphoria and heartache enveloping your chest did little to tear you from your frenzy, and only when they turned into a weight heavier than the one you were trying to cast aside did it finally hit you.

“Oh, fuck.”

The devil was staring back at you in the mirror. Your hands felt clammy as they gripped the counter so hard that your knuckles turned white. Your heart beat violently against your ribcage that you were sure it was about to break. You found that it was getting harder to breathe with each sharp inhale that burned your nostrils. Instead of running away, it was as if you were being chased. As if God had enough of your bullshit and told you ‘Don’t you fucking run away’ as the room closed in around you. Everything blurred, darkened, as you grew numb and heavy. Your grip on the counter loosened before your hands finally fell on your sides. Gone was the euphoria that made your world feel at least a little worthwhile, replaced by the realization that something very wrong was going on with you. You swayed and lost your balance in one movement—damn your high-heeled feet, damn the black hole in your heart, damn all the gods and angels that ever existed that never heard your prayers—then you fell onto your knees, knocking your head on the edge of the counter. The only warmth you felt then was the blood trickling down your forehead as you collapsed sideways onto the floor.

Several minutes passed as you teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. During those minutes, you recalled not being able to breathe properly, if at all, as you instinctively yet weakly willed yourself to at least lie down on your side. The noise that escaped the back of your throat was barely audible, and it was something akin to someone being choked to death. You thought that that was what was actually happening, that it was for real this time. Everything was muffled, but you could make out a loud bang against the wall and a figure rushing to your side and shaking your body a little too violently for your liking in your half-conscious state. Warmer light bathed the room once the overhead light was turned on, and you heard what you could only recognize as the voices of people panicking and yelling at each other.

God granted you one last moment of clarity, in which you saw Ken’s face, stricken with horror, before you let yourself fall deeper into oblivion.

Ken Sato got benched for the first time.

Not only did the Giants lose their second match against the Swallows, Ken was also very nearly suspended for the bench-clearing brawl that he had supposedly started. In his first game against the Swallows, the umpire had intervened in the quarrel between Ken and the opposing catcher, and he managed to hit a home run that boosted the team’s morale. But then he just had to meet her during that stupid celebration; their encounter had left him distraught for literal fucking days. Before he knew it, the sun had already risen on his game day. He had to drink two cups of coffee just to kickstart his body into motion. While he could keep that goddamn catcher’s brickbats in the first match, Ken could barely keep himself together when the catcher provoked him in the second match—he tried, really, to hold the lingering effects of the few cans of beer he had the other night, to perform well despite his lack of sleep and barely healed shoulder, to empty his mind from the thoughts of her while he was on the field. He remembered slapping the catcher’s mask off his face and the impact of a clenched fist against his left cheekbone. Everything that happened afterward was a blur to him, other than the fact that Coach Shimura benched and reprimanded him and that he went past the speed limit when he rode his bike back home after the game. That night, the ice bath he had sunk himself into did little to calm his nerves.

The bruises on Ken’s face ceased to swell just two days before his next game. When he found that he could fit his helmet comfortably again without having to deal with how sore the left side of his face was, he cruised across the Rainbow Bridge and relished the rush he felt as he swerved past the traffic in Minato, the hum of his bike engine reverberating through his body. For a moment, the sight of the Tokyo Tower in the distance distracted him from his reality. He thought of Shibuya as the destination of his night ride, but then he recalled his encounter with her at that one nightclub and frustration bubbled up in his chest once again like heartburn. So he simply cruised through the streets of Roppongi, aimlessly taking turns until he arrived at an intersection and narrowly missed a car running a red light from his right.

“Hey–!”

“Ken, are you alright?”

The sound of metal clashing and glass shattering just a few feet ahead of him made Ken instinctively swerve away from the crash. He could barely register what was happening as he brought his bike to a stop near the sidewalk. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his heartbeat pulsed in his ears and pounded in his chest. With labored breaths and trembling hands, Ken took off his helmet and turned to look at the scene. His eyes widened in shock as he processed the sight of two cars crumpled against each other at the intersection, smoke billowing up from one of the cars’ hoods and the ring of their alarms echoing through the street.

A loud wail that shrilled through his ears pulled him out of his trance. If the scene hadn’t already distressed him, then the sight of a child that some of the pedestrians pulled out from the passenger seat of the impacted car was downright heartbreaking. She was no more than five years old, her pristine white dress stained with blood—Ken wasn’t sure if it was the child’s or someone else’s. He could only imagine what she had seen in the driver’s seat for her to keep trying to get back into the car and shrieking at the top of her lungs. But when they pulled out the driver from the car, he understood.

Ken felt as if his heart had been ripped out from his chest when he saw a face so familiar being laid down on the sidewalk across from him. He was sure he strained his vocal chords when he called out her name so loud it might have rivaled the child’s earsplitting cries.

He had seen this before. He had felt this before—sometime in college, at some godforsaken frat party that made him absolutely abhor parties. (Even if they were some of the only things that helped him cope with the loneliness he felt after she left.) He remembered seeing her lying on the bathroom floor, motionless; there were trails of white on her nostrils, drool and lipstick smudged on the corners of her mouth, blood trickling down from her forehead to the stained white linoleum. But now, instead of slowly kneeling beside her, he ran as fast as he could to the other side of the road and practically shoved away the people that were between him and her. There was no way she was dying right in front of him again. He refused to believe it, at least until he reached out to hold her and realized that she was as pale as she had been that night. His breath labored and his hands—no, his whole body trembled as he frantically glanced over at her closed eyes, the trickling crimson on her face, the slowly drying red on the white of her shirt. Time didn’t slow down this time; it felt as if everything in the world, his world, had completely stilled when he brushed her hair out of her face. Her. It was her. It was just like that night.

This was real. This wasn’t a fever dream.

This was fucking real.

Ken had met you again in the middle of freshman year in college. The two of you reconnected, albeit with a sense of detachment that often made his skin crawl. The jock he had seen you with was actually your boyfriend of a month—one you had supposedly dumped just two days after Ken had met you again. A few days after your breakup, Ken saw you hunched over on a bench in front of the convenience store near his dorm. Your face was hidden under the hood of your jacket while you ate cup noodles and drank a can of beer; he noticed how the bags under your eyes had become more prominent and how your lips were a little more chapped compared to when you were in high school. He bought a can of beer of his own before awkwardly sitting next to you, asking about your life, and you lit up a cigarette, apologizing for cutting him off after graduation. He didn’t know which he hated more: the fact that he could forgive you in the blink of an eye or how easy it was to fall back into the dynamic you used to have—playful banter, laughter that shook your bodies, and longing stares that neither of you spoke about. His heart fluttered when you held out your little finger, and he hooked it with his own.

“Friends forever, bro.”

You were glad you didn’t fall back into some of your old habits—the ones that involved either him under you or you under him. (He was your old habit.) You reconnected with his mother, too, but you never visited again, because you feared the comfort of his home would remind you too much of the past and how your home could never be as warm as his. For a while, it truly felt like you were just friends without all the skeletons in your closets. You would spend some of your weekday nights studying with Ken at the library before riding your bikes across town to that old diner you used to frequent with your mother before she stopped coming home early and he took her place. Other nights, you would roll up some joints with Harley in your dorm room while talking about whatever was on your mind; yet whenever she asked you about Ken, he almost always arrived in front of your door as if on cue, and you never got to tell her that you could never love anyone the way you loved him. (You had a feeling she knew.) The evenings you cherished the most, however, were the ones you spent hanging out at the park with the two of them, smoking pot while doing your assignments and watching the sunset together.

Freshman year ended with a core memory of you pushing Ken into the lake before he pulled you in with him. Harley laughed until she couldn’t breathe, one hand holding a half-smoked joint and the other recording the two of you with her phone.

Three months into sophomore year, your father came for a month-long visit as he usually did every year, and you didn’t return home on the weekends as you usually did whenever he came. When you were still in high school, you would have to either stay and listen to their screaming matches, both the hostile and obscene, or lie to your parents that you had some group work or extracurricular project so you could go to one of those awful house parties; fuck one of the guys you met at said party—that was, if Ken wasn’t there, because you would definitely pull him to the nearest empty room for a quickie if he was there; and sleep over at one of your friends’ houses, talking about anything and everything except you would stay quiet when they told stories of their fathers showing up at their rehearsals and their mothers baking homemade cakes for their birthdays. You never told anyone what was happening. Not even Ken, let alone his mother. You were just happy to be out of that house. Now that you were in college, your reasons were at least closer to the truth. Assignments. Group projects. Final exams. Student Council stuff. Preparations for career exhibitions and campus festivals. Debate practice for another state championship—you won three titles throughout college, yet your father would only acknowledge with an almost disinterested hum whenever you told him. (You didn’t play softball competitively anymore. Your parents made you drop the sport.)

You hated how you fell back into your old habits whenever your father visited—you hadn’t indulged in them last year since he didn’t visit, and you quietly thanked God because there was no way you were going to spend your most vulnerable moments with that insufferable jock. This time, though, you found yourself smoking at least a pack of cigarettes a day and looking for someone to kneel for.

Of course, you didn’t even let yourself think of pulling Ken down with you. As much as you would rather have him, you cared for him enough to not put him through what you had put him through in high school. But Ken knew you. Perhaps it was his fear of losing you again. Perhaps it was out of his own selfishness to keep you all to himself even if you weren’t his. He was the one who fell back into old habits for you. Whenever you called him to ask where he was on the weekends, he would drop whatever he was doing at that moment and come to you. Sometimes, the two of you would go on a night ride—on his bike because he didn’t trust you to drive, given your state of mind—and he would fuck you in the dark alleyway next to that old diner after eating two large burger meals together. At times like this, you didn’t even need to smoke or drink afterward because you would find yourself drunk merely from the pleasure and adrenaline rush. Other times, when his roommate got the hint and made himself scarce, Ken would take you on his bed, and you wouldn’t have any other choice but to be as quiet as possible. Then, even if you were the one who fell asleep in his room, he would always be the one leaving before you woke up in the morning, and you would never wait until he returned. 

One day, while you were watching the sunset with Ken and your roommate, you received a call informing you that your parents had been in a car accident and were killed on impact. This wasn’t the first time you broke down. But it was the first time Ken had ever seen you collapse in on yourself like a planet turning into a black hole.

“They’ll be buried in Japan,” you uttered flatly. “I called my uncle. He said he will be picking them up next week, but he won’t be staying long.”

Ken frowned. “Are you going–”

“No.”

If you had to suffer, you wanted to suffer here, where all the worst memories of your family resided. (Even if it meant staining the happiest days of your life with him.) Japan was home to your childhood and the innocence you had lost a long time ago, and there was no way you would taint it with your deep, irremediable sorrow. You were never going back there. You were never going back home.

(Have you ever had one?)

Ken tried to be there when you mourned. But you had shut him and even Harley out after your uncle picked up your parents’ ashes. You spent three days glued to your bed, only getting up to eat something and brush your teeth when your roommate practically dragged you to. Ken would bring the food his mother made, even bringing her to the dorms at some point, but you would only eat five spoonfuls at most and leave the rest for your roommate. You couldn’t look his mother in the eye, even after she pulled you into her embrace, and you let her leave without so much as saying goodbye. The one time you broke down again, Harley called Ken for help because you told her you just couldn’t even will yourself to get up. When he saw you curled up on your unmade bed, reeking as if you hadn’t showered for more than a couple days, he thought that you were the only person that could break his heart in a million different ways. He remembered carrying you to his mother’s car and making you stay at his place until you feel better. He remembered slowly feeding you the gruel his mother made for you as you limply leaned against his side on his bed. He remembered washing you in the tub when his mother wasn’t home, scrubbing your back as your tears fell into the bathwater and your cries echoed in the bathroom.

His mother only reluctantly let you go back to your dorm a week later. By then, you already felt a little more like yourself, yet Ken still insisted on helping you. He would bring his mother’s food for you and walk you to your classes whenever he could, even if his classes were on the other side of the campus. He would buy some things you offhandedly said you needed to stock in your dorm and wait for you to finish showering, standing idly outside the communal showers area, no matter how much time you took. He would soothe you in ways he only knew how—with hushed praises, hands entangled with yours, kissing away the tears that fell either out of pleasure or grief—and left a glass of water, something to eat, and morning-after pills for when you woke up. To him, this was how he could love you without loving you. To you, this was a reminder that you would never be deserving of his warmth.

Two months passed. Everything seemed to return to normal—as normal as it could be, Ken thought, because there was something off about you after you spent your winter break in Japan. Upon your return, you started coming to those frat parties again, but you would come back more skittish each time. Perhaps you were just drinking, Harley said, but that was enough reason for Ken to start coming to the same parties you were invited to. He noticed how color had slowly faded from your cheeks as they hollowed bit by bit; how the dark circles around your eyes became more noticeable, even with all the makeup you wore; how you grew thinner every month, eating only once a day, becoming frail underneath your rapture. He should have known that the way you casually wiped off your nosebleed while smoking at the park was a dead giveaway; yet, somehow, realization only dawned on him when you rejected his warmth for the first time in the years that you had burned him in yours. Brokenhearted was an understatement. He lost you again—not to the bittersweetness of unspoken love, but to the malignity of worldly subservience.

One of his biggest, if not the biggest, regrets in life was not stopping you right then and there.

Summer break—everyone and their mothers held a party. Ken remembered that night awfully well that it became the stuff of his nightmares. He spent half the night looking for you; he didn’t even need to talk to you, he just needed to know you were there. Some of his friends noticed how distracted he was, and when they brought it up, he waved them off, saying he had just seen a familiar face before joining their conversation. He hoped they didn’t notice how bitter his laugh sounded when they teasingly asked if he was looking for you. Usually, it wouldn’t be this hard to find you. Whenever there was a party, you would be at the center of it. Your enthusiasm whenever you came to one of these frat parties contrasted with your more mellowed out self in those dimly lit house parties in high school. Yet, as the clock neared two in the morning and he still couldn’t find you, he reminded himself of how there had been something off about your high spirits.

“Ken?”

Upon hearing a familiar voice, Ken blinked rapidly and realized that he had been in a stupor. Instead of one of his friends, it was Harley who had called out his name, and he was surprised to see her there. He noticed that she hadn’t been coming to the same parties anymore and remembered you mentioning it was probably because she finally had a girlfriend. He brushed off the thought when he saw concern etched on her face, but before he could even open his mouth to ask, she beat him to it.

“Have you seen her?”

“No…?” Ken frowned. “No, why?”

Harley clicked her tongue. “I swear, she’s–” She took a sharp inhale of breath before continuing. “Can you help me find her?”

“Well, yeah, but–” Ken’s frown deepened when he took notice of how Harley kept looking around the room restlessly. “Is something going on with her?”

“Yes!” She snapped, and judging by the look on her face afterward, she probably didn’t mean to. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips before she continued. “Yes, and you gotta help me find her before she does anything stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” Ken said, raising both hands, gesturing to Harley to calm down. It did little to pacify her, as she continued to look around the room restlessly. He subconsciously followed gaze as he asked, “Where was she the last time you saw her?”

“She was right here, I swear–” Harley cut herself off when she recognized someone in the crowd before repeatedly tapping on their shoulder. “Hey, did you see a girl in a black dress here before?”

She uttered your name afterward, and the person’s face lit up in recognition. “Oh, her?” They turned slightly, extending a forefinger to point in a direction. “Yeah, I think I saw her going into the bathroom over there.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Ken was pretty sure he bolted toward the bathroom at record speed without so much as saying ‘thank you’ to the person who gave him and Harley the heads-up. They must have looked like madmen shoving people aside left and right, and had he not had a literal life-or-death situation at hand, he would have gotten himself into a fight with how hard he shoved some people and how indifferent he was in the face of their indignation. When they finally arrived in front of the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar, and the sight of a pool of black on the floor made his breath hitch.

“Oh, no.”

He swung the door open so hard that it hit the wall with a loud bang, stunning the crowd near the bathroom. Harley immediately dropped onto her knees next to you with a loud thud. “Oh, no, no, no, no–hey, hey, wake up!”

Everything that happened afterward was a blur to him. Your roommate yelled and gestured wildly at Ken to turn on the lamp, which he did after barely registering her words. He froze when he saw you lying on the floor, motionless, pale as a ghost that he thought you might as well have turned into one. Time slowed down as more people flooded the scene, yelling and screaming at each other in panic, and everything was just too much. He tuned them out as he slowly kneeled and reached out to brush your hair out of your face, the blood from your forehead staining the tips of his fingers. His disbelief turned into a sickening realization that made the contents of his stomach rise up his throat. It was you. It was really you.

Ken couldn’t think straight as he lifted you in his arms and carried you out of the bathroom before Harley could even get another word in. How could he? The blood on his fingers felt warm, yet you were as cold as a fucking corpse. He could barely feel the rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathed. All of his rage and heartache, including the resentment he had for you, fueled him as he yelled at people to get the fuck out of the way! and carelessly shoved anyone who didn’t. When he finally got outside, he realized you didn’t even feel warm against the chill of the midnight wind. Fortunately, the ambulance arrived just as he was about to run and carry you to the nearest hospital himself. The paramedics tried to stop him from getting in the ambulance, only relenting when he almost punched one of them. He didn’t remember getting to the hospital or how he ended up spending the night at your bedside—just the overwhelming fear that he could have lost you for good.

That night, it was his first time smoking a cigarette out of his own will.

“You can’t keep doing this shit.”

“You don’t fucking get it.”

“I don’t need to fucking get it when I can see that you’re fucking up yourself!”

You couldn’t even reply to that.

“Did you even know how scared I was? How scared Ken was? God, I don’t care if you’re a total bitch, just don’t do this shit to yourself!”

“I had it under control–”

“Under control? You fucking overdosed. That’s not under control, that’s out of fucking control!”

This time, you snapped. “Well, yelling at me isn’t going to fucking fix anything!”

Ken stood outside your hospital room, leaning against the wall next to the door. He sighed as soon as the screaming match started. This wasn’t the first time you and Harley fought with raised voices and unrestrained spite since she found out about your addiction, straining both your throats and friendship after each fight. Still, neither of you had ever escalated things, so he simply listened from where he stood, a heavy weight resting on his chest as the two of you exchanged words he knew you would regret down the line. Her last words to you, however, would probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

“You know what? If you don’t want me to stop you from killing yourself, fine. Go kill yourself if you want.”

Even Ken staggered upon hearing the words that left her lips.

“Harley–!” He heard you call for your roommate, whose heels clicked on the floor and echoed closer to the door. As she opened the door, he heard you yell, “Fuck you!”

He gave a sideways glance toward Harley as she got out of the room. She visibly jumped when she noticed his presence but quickly composed herself and closed the door behind her. A deep, exasperated sigh left her lips as she hung her head. “Sorry.”

He waved off her apology in reassurance. “You okay?”

A shake of her head, then silence. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either—it was the first time he wordlessly understood Harley when she looked up at him tiredly because ‘Why won’t you let anyone help you?’ and he could only slacken his frown because ‘I want to know why, too.’ She glanced at the floor beneath her heels, pondering for a few moments before finally speaking her mind.

“Can you look after her?”

To that, he offered her a small, sad smile.

“Yeah, I will.”

That was the last time Ken—and you—ever saw Harley. She moved off-campus, blocked your number and all your social media accounts, and never even spared you so much as a glance whenever you passed by. You also didn’t bother to approach her, guilt gnawing at you like maggots eating rotten flesh. By the time you started your senior year, you never saw her on campus. Ken was the only witness to your absolution.

(You wondered if he was God himself, with how forgiving he was.)

Four months into junior year, you finally came back to your house. One of your aunts was kind enough to help organize your mother’s belongings after the funeral and pay for cleaning services throughout the year your house was empty. You found yourself standing in the middle of the living room, hollow. You hadn’t been here for a year. Everything stayed the same. Everything—except your mother’s heels were no longer displayed on the shoe rack in the foyer, her favorite episode of Love Island wasn’t playing on the widescreen TV you could see from upstairs, and her liquor cabinet was void of her favorite bottles of Pinot noir. Everything, except your mother’s nonchalant ‘Welcome back, how was school?’ didn’t greet you when you came in, her dulcet voice no longer spoke of your achievements as she introduced you to your new neighbors, and her drunken laughter wasn’t echoing in the living room as she offered another drink to yet another younger man whose face you didn’t bother to remember. Everything stayed the same. Everything except you.

You would have grabbed a kitchen knife and killed yourself if the doorbell hadn’t rung.

Disoriented from your own thoughts, you willed yourself to stagger toward the door and open it. Ken stood there, one hand running through his unruly hair and the other holding his helmet. His eyes softened as he studied your features, while you offered him a confused look.

“Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “So you won’t be alone.”

There must be some divine punishment for how you had molded him into this—a young man who only wanted the slightest bit of love you could give, but you never did. You wanted to reach out, feel his warmth in your arms, and say ‘Thank you for never leaving me alone.’ You wanted to scream at the top of your lungs and strain your throat and your neck muscles, either saying ‘I can do this myself’ or ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ You wanted to look him in the eye and say ‘I love you,’ with every word echoing throughout the world to let him know that he was your world. But you settled with an apprehensive stare that you didn’t know he could look through.

“I’m fine–”

“No, you’re not,” he said with a firmness you hadn’t expected. He saw how you were taken aback and let his jaw unclench, his gaze soften, his voice lower. “We promised, right?”

Then he held out his little finger and you were sixteen again, breaking each other’s hearts for the first time.

“Friends forever.”

Ken looked at you with your father’s long-lost fondness and your mother’s forgotten tenderness. You wanted to hook your little finger around his and offer him the slightest hint of a smile you could muster, so you did. You wanted to take a deep breath, press your head against his chest, and hear—feel—his heartbeat, so you did. He held you closer, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo in your hair, his free hand soothingly rubbing your back. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his torso as you pressed yourself closer to him, relishing in his warmth while burning him in yours once again.

(You didn’t tell him the way he said it sounded more like a proposal than a promise.)

“You don’t have to stay.” But I want you to.

He let out a contemplative hum that reverberated through both his body and yours. You found the slight vibration comforting.

“But I want to.” You don’t even have to ask me.

That day, you started packing up with his help. You showed him the albums of your childhood, told him the stories behind each photograph, and spoke fondly of your father for the first time in years. The next day, he checked and washed your bike and your mother’s car—which you sold later on in the afternoon, helped you pack all the medals and trophies you had won since middle school, and dragged you outside to mess around with the sprinkler system one last time. On the last day, he carried all the boxes and stacked them downstairs so the movers could easily move them, you cooked your mother’s mac and cheese recipe and he held you as you cried while eating, and the two of you took out your old star projector and turned it on in the living room, where both of you talked yourselves to sleep. Those three days were the first time in years that your touches didn’t lead to anything more.

You moved out to a studio apartment near downtown, sent the rest of your mother’s belongings back to her family in Japan, and rented a storage space for the things you couldn’t fit in your apartment. Ken would come over almost every day and sleep over every weekend, spending your shared free time playing video games, catch ball, or poker. (Strip poker, sometimes.) Two months later, he practically moved in, what with how many of his clothes were in your wardrobe and how his toothbrush was always next to yours in the bathroom. Six months later, the two of you practically became parents to a stray tabby cat named Mochi, whose favorite thing to do was to nap nearly all day and only seemed to stay awake when you and Ken decided to shove your tongues in each other’s mouths and your hands in each other’s pants.

A year later, you gave him your sobriety coin.

The harsh overhead fluorescent lights glared at him as he stared down the empty forms laid down on the reception desk in front of him. Instead of filling them out, his mind wandered to his bloodstained jacket, now sealed in a bag somewhere in the hospital. One of the nurses had said something about preventing contamination, but he could barely register her words with how the faint smell of iron still lingered in his nose even after he washed off the blood from his hands. His eyes then flickered to them; the red of your blood now replaced by the redness of his own skin after he had vigorously scrubbed it off, leaving small scratches on his palms. Then his mind wandered to you. You and the crimson painting your face. You and the white staining your nose. You, smiling whenever you saw his face in the crowd. You, laughing at every one of his stupid jokes. You, lying down on the bathroom floor with dazed eyes looking straight at him and an unspoken apology he could hear over the music before you passed out. You, lying down on the sidewalk with the same look in your eyes and a fear he couldn’t quite place before you went limp and closed your eyes as he tried to stop the blood flowing from your torso.

(His bike wobbled when he caught a glimpse of his bloodstained hands while speeding off to the hospital.)

A dull ache returned to his bruised cheekbone, pulling him out of his train of thought, and he hissed at the slight pricking he felt when he brought up his hand to touch it. The papers in front of him captured his attention once again. He forced his brain to work as he deciphered the rows of kanji written on them. It was easy, at first. Your name. Birthday. Blood type. Medical history. He thought it wasn’t his place to disclose your old habits. (Even if he was one of them.) But then he realized he didn’t even know how to properly spell your smoking and addiction history in Japanese, and his frown deepened when he read the address, emergency contact, and insurance details columns.

“Wait, uh,” he said, flipping through the papers, his eyes darting between the columns before he handed one of the forms to the nurse behind the desk. “I don’t know if I could fill some of these.”

“Oh,” the nurse exclaimed softly, glancing over the paper in her hand. “Do you know anyone we could contact on her behalf? Her relatives, perhaps?”

Ken couldn’t come up with an answer. Your parents and his mother had already passed. He knew nothing about your extended family, and from the way you spoke or avoided speaking about them, he figured that you wouldn’t want him to call them even if you were on your deathbed. He did think of his father and the possibility that you had met him after you came to Japan, but the resentment that simmered in his chest made him tighten his grip around the pen in his hand as he shook off the thought. He wasn’t going to call his father. He would never.

“Uh, no,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re not on good terms,” he continued. “I don’t have their contacts, and I don’t know if they’d even come if you called.”

“I see,” the nurse said, nodding as she handed back the paper in her hand to him. “Then please just fill out these forms as best as you can, sir. If you need any help, please let me know.”

He nodded and muttered a ‘thank you’ before making quick work of filling out the forms, writing down what he knew about you. On the other hand, he left your daughter’s forms mostly, if not completely, empty. Your daughter. A flash of indignation burned for a moment in his chest before disappearing just as quickly as it came. No older than five years old, he recalled. He wondered if you had her after you left Los Angeles. He wondered if you had called him to meet at that old diner to tell him. He wondered if, had he not been drunk and you actually told him, there would at least be a reason for him to be a part of your world—your daughter. His daughter. Ken swore his heart tightened, threatening to shrivel, at the thought of you raising a child alone in a country where you didn’t have anyone else.

(What if you were alone all this time?)

“Would you like to see your daughter? She’s asleep right now, but she should be waking up anytime soon.”

Ken barely registered the nurse’s words, but when he did, they almost gave him whiplash as he snapped his head to look at her. “Huh?”

The nurse herself seemed to have asked him the question without properly looking at him, thus not seeing the bewildered look on his face, preoccupied with whatever was on her desk. “Would you like to see–” She cut herself off when she finally looked up at him, her own expression slowly turning into one of mortification. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I assumed–”

His hand waved off her rushed apology, reassuring her that he didn’t take offense to the question. “Yeah, yeah, no, i-it’s alright,” he stuttered. “She’s–she’s not my daughter, but…” His words trailed off to give way to a momentary silence before he asked, “Can I see her?”

With an understanding nod and another apology, the nurse led Ken to the pediatric ward and into one of the rooms. An older nurse was already there, sitting by the bedside with a clipboard in her hands. She gave him a small smile as she got up from her seat to move to the corner of the room, muttering a ‘Please don’t mind me’ as she sat down. Perhaps she was just taking precautions, considering that he wasn’t listed as an immediate family member. He thanked her, turning his attention to the child sleeping on the bed, breath hitching when he realized something.

She looked so much like you. A carbon copy of you—the you he had seen in a photograph your father took on your fourth birthday, dressed in a pretty pink dress and a blue paper hat as you posed with the candled cake, a Duchenne smile on your face. (You said it was the happiest day of your life because it was the only time you remembered your father’s warmth.) The you he had seen in another picture in your childhood album, where you sat on your mother’s lap, laughing and playing the piano together. (You told him your mother stopped playing when you got into high school.) The you he had seen in a Polaroid shot your mother took when you were fifteen, a rare moment amidst your spiraling home life, where you were curled up on the couch, fast asleep in your party outfit with your old teddy bear in your arms. (You gave him that photograph; he kept it in his wallet to this day.)

Ken’s eyes widened, and he sat up straighter in his seat when her eyes slowly opened, revealing a pair of gray orbs strikingly similar to his own. Fear and confusion were etched on her face, but they melted away when her eyes gleamed with recognition upon seeing him—and all he saw was the 6-year-old boy who had just moved to Los Angeles and didn’t speak a word of English.

“Mr. Nana?”

“Huh?”

Her weak, slightly hoarse voice must have alerted the nurse in the corner of the room, because she was right by their side within seconds. The nurse asked her how she was feeling and checked her vitals, her own voice low and gentle so as to not scare her patient. Both the nurse and your daughter kept glancing at him every now and then, and after she fully regained consciousness, her eyes never left Ken’s.

“She keeps calling you ‘Mr. Nana,’” the nurse chuckled softly. “I think she’s referring to your jersey number, Mr. Sato.”

A small smile made its way onto Ken’s face. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense.”

“Would you like to talk to him, sweetheart?”

Your daughter nodded bashfully, and the nurse helped her sit on the bed. He took it as a cue to move closer, gently dragging his chair to avoid the shrill sound of its metal legs against the floor. He let his shoulder slump a little so he could look at her at her eye level, though her gaze nervously flickered between him and the nurse standing by the other side of the bed.

“Hi,” Ken asked softly and awkwardly. “What’s your name?”

She blinked at him a couple times. “Emi.”

Emi. Emiko. His mother’s name.

“Emi?” He croaked out, and she nodded. A moment of silence passed between them before he took a deep breath and let his smile return to his face. “That’s a pretty name.”

“...Thank you,” Emi said shyly, glancing up at him before looking back at her fidgeting thumbs. “Mama said I’m named after someone pretty.”

(You really were the only person who could break his heart in a million different ways.)

He let out an amused snort. “Is that so?”

She nodded again; the next time she opened her mouth to speak, her surfacing excitement reminded him of whenever you talked about the topics you learned at debate practice or the things you just couldn’t discuss with anyone else but him.

“Mama also said that you’re the best baseball player in the world. Is that true?”

The greatest living player, you once said. “Yeah,” he chuckled softly. “Yeah, that’s right.”

If he hadn’t known better, he wouldn’t have thought that Emi had just been in a car crash a few hours ago. The little girl nearly bounced with how giddy she was, eyes widening and lips parting in wonder. His own smile widened at the sight and when he asked, “Do you like baseball too?”

“Yes!” Emi answered enthusiastically. “Mama showed me that- that when you play, you can hit the ball reeeally far!”

Ken let out a chuckle, warmth spreading in his chest when the thought of you singing his praises crossed his mind. “I can show you how to hit the ball really far too,” he said, trailing off to ponder on something before continuing. “When you get better, I’ll show you. How’s that sound?”

The proposition made Emi turn to look at the older nurse, seemingly for reassurance, and she simply nodded in Ken’s direction in response. Emi’s eyes gleamed in delight, a small smile on her face, and he couldn’t help but notice just how much she resembled you when she nodded bashfully.

(Maybe, just maybe, you’re finally home.)

taglist: @mochminnie

[the-kr8tor]

In Pursuit of Blood: Vampire or Cowboy?

A/N: just something silly that spawned in @pleaktale and I's dms lol enjoy!

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Synopsis: the camera crew finds something amiss.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW blood mention, Vampire! Hobie, Hobat 🦇, Vampire AU, mockumentary AU, set in the WWDITS universe, FLUFF

In Pursuit of Blood/vampire! Hobie Masterlist

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The camera enters Hobie's familiar abode. Red velvet curtains that drape along ceilings and windows greet the camera crew. There's a noticeable lack of dust and spiderwebs around the place, books properly shelved, and no evidence of blood on the now spick and span floors. There's even a fancy lavender scented candle sitting on the newly polished grand piano that's placed inside the interview room that was formerly known as the living room; or as you humorously called it when you moved in— the ‘undead room’.

Even with the mansion clean of any grime since the last time the crew visited, there's a lack of you or Hobie lingering around the vast corridors. The flame on the candle flickers, the producer expects Hobie to jump out at them any second now with his fangs out to scare them. After a beat, there's still no trace of a vampire telling them to fuck off.

There's a sigh behind the camera, the lenses zoom in and out of the opened supply closet that was left open where buckets of murky water sits. Used cloths are hanging from the shelves, jugs of soap and bleach sit half empty next to the dusty fabric. The entire place is like a ghost town where the occupants hurriedly left their dinner on the table, but this time they're cleaning supplies. The crew is left scratching their heads, not even a sound can be heard except for their footsteps against wood, and wires dragging across the floor. The camera whips around the quiet place, paintings upon paintings are the only sign of life left hanging on the walls.

The camera enters Hobie's record room where portraits and things full of sentimental value from your ancestors lie. There's no one in the room, not even a lone spider is left on the ceiling. A whispered “where the fuck are they?” Can be heard from the boom mic guy. The front doors were left unlocked for the crew to enter so that means that you and Hobie were expecting them.

The crew continued on, they passed by the front gates and the porch when they first entered so that means you weren't there doing your afternoon stretching. And with the sun still up, Hobie cannot be caught outside lest he crumples into dust. So there's only one place they need to check, Hobie's mysterious bedroom. The crew hasn't stepped foot in the room just yet, or even seen it for that matter. There was just no need for them to enter, until now. If he's missing, he could be sleeping inside his coffin, and where Hobie is, you'd be there.

Sure enough, when they climbed up the stairs and into the long hallway, the crew sees ripped packages scattered on the floor. Plastic packaging and boxes from an online shop are left like bread crumbs that lead towards the bedroom door that's left ajar.

Every person on the crew quietly makes their way to the door, an almost impossible feat considering there's seven of them lagging behind the main camera. The hallway grows dimmer, as they walk, the light left inside the room acts as a lighthouse to the stalking documentary crew. The cameraman is the first person who made it in front of the door, he kneels down silently despite the heavy camera on his shoulder. He turns the lenses inside the ajar door, peeking inside. With an adjustment of his lens, he zeroes in on your giddy face, grin wide and happy, hands occupied with what looks like a bat doll in front of you.

“So. Fucking. Cute!” You squeal, fists shaking from the adorable sight. You sit on a comfortable chair with Hobie's desk in front of you, already taking hundreds of pictures with your phone.

While you were too occupied with your dress up bat, the camera zooms in on the toy bat. Meanwhile, the other crew members peek overhead, trying not to make a peep whilst they look for Hobie inside the room. His coffin is wide open, red plush velvet lining around the strong oak resting place. The producer is sure that she saw a polaroid of you tucked inside the velvet, and an extra pink pillow with a matching blanket inside. Her thoughts are interrupted by Jared the cameraman, who's currently tugging at her sleeves. She follows where the camera points, failing to see anything except for the unmoving bat, she taps her tablet awake to see what the camera sees more clearly.

She almost gasps at the sight. The camera has fully zoomed in on the bat’s face where a dozen or so piercings lie, the same piercings a certain vampire has. The said bat/vampire has a cowboy hat on, complete with a tiny feather decorating it. Instead of Hobie's black leather vest, a brown fringed vest has replaced it. There's even a gun belt around his tiny waist that has a very miniscule gun that glints in the yellow lamp of his desk.

Bat Hobie's eyes just stare at you, slowly blinking, nose twitching but not from annoyance. The crew can see that he's staying still for you, something they've never thought was possible in their six months of filming him and you. The camera lenses zoom out, showing the vast costumes on the floor next to the desk. There's the classic vampire cloak that's laying on a red chiffon dress, (oh Jared would kill to see bat Hobie in that) a chef hat next to dozens of plastic toy shoes that they're not sure would even fit a bat’s feet. But of course they're proven wrong when you carefully lift up bat Hobie's foot to place the cutest (most accurate) cowboy boots on each of his tiny feet.

You squeal again, Hobie puffs up his chest, posing for the camera. “Hell yeah! Just like that and you're on the cover of Vogue, Hobie!” They can all tell that the cowboy outfit is his favourite from the way he poses.

There's more unopened packages next to you, but you're still not satisfied with his look. In between your fingers, you hold a gilded sheriff badge. The crew watches as Hobie rejects the badge with a screech. He bares his fangs, for a moment, the crew is afraid that he'd bite you, forgetting that he's not an actual bat but an actual vampire that could drain you of your blood within a minute. You're not phased about it, not one bit. The pout on your lips and your puppy dog eyes can be seen from the camera. Hobie shakes his tiny head, large floppy ears swaying around as he moves.

You sigh, relenting. Hobie waddles his way towards your hand, taking it in his claws gently, and then he does what the crew would never expect from the most powerful vampire they've ever known. Hobie leans into your palm, giving you a little kitten lick across the pad of your finger. And then you do the unexpected, even in the entire crew's wildest dreams they could never think of it; based on how you, a vampire hunter from a renowned vampire hunting family could interact with a vampire you were tasked to kill three years ago. You lean down to kiss his fluffy cheek, he even has his eyes closed the entire time, savouring your affection yet chaste kiss. Chuckling, you're still not satisfied, you peck him once again to his delight. Hobie makes a purring sound from the kiss, the crew is sure that they cannot air whatever they're seeing.

“Aww, okay, no badge.” You shift in your seat, talking softly at bat Hobie. Ducking down towards the boxes to take a plastic horse, Hobie now has the perfect view of the peeping camera crew.

His stare freezes them in place, they don't know if he's embarrassed by the whole ordeal they caught him in, or Hobie's trying to intimidate him with a look. Either way, the camera crew is petrified.

“Horsey?” You ask, still oblivious to the danger that lies behind Hobie's red beady eyes. “Or no horsey?” You poke his fluffy side, sweetly calling his name. “You okay? What's wrong? We can stop if you're not having fun anymore.” The crew can barely recognize how sweet you're talking to him. Especially just last week you threw a knife at his head because he watched an episode without you.

Hobie flicks his eyes away from the crew, they sigh audibly, feeling their blood rush through their veins once again. They've seen what true fear was like, and you don't envy them when you turn around towards the sound.

“You guys are early. Again.” You nonchalantly say. “We're not done yet. Do you guys mind closing the door?” The crew is still frozen behind the door, some are gasping for air, some are just flat out terrified.

A puff of black smoke appears, and Hobie in all his glory, comes into view behind the fog like a theater curtain opening for him. He's in his regular clothes, but for some reason, the cowboy costume you've put on him also grew with him. The fringe vest fits perfectly on him, the spurs on his cowboy boots shine in the yellow lamp as he sits on the desk, one leg up on the table as you continue to sit in front of him while you're taking more photos of him.

“I don't understand the logic but holy shit this is the hottest thing ever.” You gasp, the shutters of your phone camera clicking relentlessly. Hobie glances at you, face hidden behind the brim of his hat, shadows covering his face. You smile at him, eyes roaming over him, fingers tugging at the hem of his vest. “Goddamn.” You sigh.

“Later, love. I need to get rid of pests.” He says with a nudge of his boot on your leg, there's tenderness hidden underneath it. But his eyes tell the opposite, with a flick of his hat, the crew has the perfect view of his eyes. The pupils of his wine red eyes move about, shaking in anger. “Get out.”

There's a gust of wind as he quickly moves to the door, crouching down, eye to eye with the camera, he stares at the lenses until the glass cracks. With a glance towards their terrified faces, they all run away for their lives. As if Hobie would actually kill them, especially if he can just tell them to delete the footage. Worst case scenario, he can delete the memory from their minds. It will be like dragging a file towards the trash bin icon but instead of a file it's their brains. They'll just get a headache for a few days, even so, he doesn't want to do that. Maybe he can reason with them by telling them (in front of their camera) a story during his time in the 1920s. Or maybe just pay for the lenses he broke.

As the entire crew runs, the mics capture your muffled yet loud laughter behind the door when Hobie slams the door shut.

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

[user211201]

Identity Death

--- Originally posted on 2024-04-12 by dumb-and-jocked. ---

As directed by @mrrharper

“Endless war will end our world!” Alan shouted.

“Stop funding our military!”

Alan was amongst the hundreds of protestors at the courthouse fighting against the proposed budgetary reforms. Schools, roads, transportation, parks, environmental protections agencies–they were all on the line. Through the presented bill, thousands of institutions would be shut down as billions of dollars would be rerouted towards a single entity: the military.

“The military corrupts! Stop the brainwashing!” Alan spat. He had organized this event under his alias, a popular political blogger on multiple social media outlets. Although his voice was loud and aggravated, Alan's physical appearance was anything but. He wore a baby blue tee and white-washed skinny jeans. 5’7 with bleached hair. All he needed was a rainbow somewhere to perfect his twink look. But he was not here to make that kind of statement. He was at the protest to make another form, something that could gain traction. Peering across the crowd, Alan saw his chance. 

A few of Alan’s fellow protestors were bombarding one of the towering guards with jeers. They scrutinized him, although it appeared none of their words got through the soldier’s heavy artillery padding. In fact, the solider stood proud in his position, dominantly poised with his chest puffed up in pride. Alan approached the guard slowly, noticing he remained perfectly still as the protestors continued to insult him. Without thinking twice, Alan approached and made his move. 

“How about you show us what they’re really funding, dickhead?”

Alan threw a fist at the soldier, putting all his strength behind the movement. Due to the crowds, the soldier did not recognize the motion until it was too late. Alan’s knuckle dove right into the much taller man’s neck, ricocheting into the muscular, masked chin. Instantly, there was a cheer from the crowd at the successful blow, but it was quickly hushed.

“You pathetic cocksucker,” the soldier growled. In a flurry, the once peaceful statue became a merciless brute, swinging down and dragging Alan out of the crowd. Before he knew it, Alan found himself handcuffed with the soldier escorting him off into the enemy’s territory.

“You can’t do this! This is illegal!” Alan cried out. 

“Shut your whiny mouth.” As soon as they were out of public sight, the soldier slapped Alan hard across the face. The warmth of blood soon filled his cheeks where the bruise began to bloom. Alan made sure not to react, but he could not hide the worry in his voice.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The barracks, you fairy prick.”

The soldier brought Alan to a building not too far from the protest lines. He guided them down numerous hallways, Alan losing track before they even made it halfway there. There were checkpoints, various nods, and some curt conversations with other soldiers, but nobody questioned about Alan or the situation. Eventually, Alan was tossed into a small makeshift bedroom, only holding a cot and a pile of unwashed clothes.

“Get undressed,” the soldier demanded.

“Why should I listen to you?”

Alan was met with another forceful assault, this time a punch to his gut.

“Cause I’m First Sergeant, maggot, which means out of the two of us, I’m in charge.”

Alan scoffed. “Is that your name: ‘First Sergeant’?”

“First Sergeant QF24,” the soldier gruffly shot back.

“That’s not a name either,” Alan replied. 

“Been in service so long I don’t need a civilian name.”

Alan wanted to jump on this, make a point about how this was evidence of the dangers of the military, but First Sergeant continued.

“While my identity is real, I assume the one you were about to give me is not. What do you go by, something like that 'AlanActivist' snot?”

Alan blushed, believing that his pseudonym had been cool and unique.

“It’s about time you considered that maybe it is not the military that enforces this ‘identity death’ you all are so worried about, but your own belief system.”

“You can’t be serious,” Alan snarked, surprised at the soldier’s intelligent argument. First Sergeant was however humorless, once again pointing to the pile of discarded clothes.

“Get dressed, degenerate.”

The soldier placed one of his giant, gloved hands behind the twink’s back and pushed him towards the pile. It appeared to Alan as a giant heap of army green and camouflage. Slowly but hesitantly, he began to strip himself of his clothing, hoping to avoid any further hazing. Once down to his underwear, he silently pleaded that he would not have to drop anything else.

“Soldiers go commando, sissy.”

First Sergeant quickly appeared behind Alan before ripping his underwear clean off, exposing the twink’s bare bottom and small package to the world. Alan quickly covered himself up with one hand before leaning down towards the pile. He grimaced, his fear no longer overriding the powerful musk seeping from the military cloth. First Sergeant chuckled at his disgust from behind.

“Aren’t homos supposed to like that kind of thing?” he asked, before grabbing the back of Alan’s head. “Go on, get a better whiff of it!” Amused, First Sergeant plunged Alan’s head into the musky pile of clothes. Alan’s oxygen supply was cut off, forcing him to inhale the overpowering masculine fumes.

“You idiots never consider that being in the military is hard work. It’s not all fun and guns.” First Sergeant smothered Alan’s head further. “‘Bout time you realize what it’s like, standing on the front line all day, hot and sweaty and random strangers berating you for protecting their country, their freedom.”

The military body odor seeped into Alan’s system, numbing his body and clouding his mind. By the time he was pulled away, the naked twink struggled to form a coherent thought.

“Much better,” First Sergeant noted the lopsided smile on the twink’s face. “Now, fit yourself into some tactical gear.”

Without questioning it, Alan followed the soldier’s command. He did not know every single piece of equipment that went into the common soldier’s uniform, nor did he understand the procedure to follow, but somehow Alan managed to get the attire onto his body.

Combat pants, military-grade socks, gore tex boots. Camouflage button-up, hardshell jacket, belt with holster and magazine pouches. Shooting gloves, army print hat, face mask. It took a minute longer for Alan to place every minor piece of tactical protection onto himself, but finally his smaller frame was completely covered, dwarfed by the oversized gear.

“Looking like a real soldier there,” First Sergeant mocked. “Now let’s actually make you one.”

Already covered in the musky clothing, Alan’s intellectual ability had been dulled considerably. But when First Sergeant approached, clutching Alan’s head once more before shoving it into his wet armpit, his brain completely halted. Coming straight from the source, the soldier’s stench wafted past all Alan’s barriers, taking control immediately. Its first instruction was to keep sniffing, its second was to conform.

With a chuckle, First Sergeant watched as Alan’s body began to expand underneath his hold. The shrimpy twink grew inside of the tactical gear, filling it out properly in every direction. Muscular arms filled the sleeves of the jacket, meaty hands stuffing the crevices of the gloves. The vest became as padded on the back as it was in the front, juicy pectorals and rigid abdominals forcefully pushing against the fabric. 

Thicker thighs padded the pants, bloated feet crowded the massive boots. Two muscular buttocks crammed the seat of Alan’s pants. A lantern jaw and cleft chin became prominent underneath the face mask. Buzz cut hidden by the cap, deeper voice waiting to confirm with “Sir, yes sir!” First Sergeant even noticed the prominent padding his new soldier was developing beneath the belt. When he ultimately removed Alan from his hold, the man before him now stood at the same domineering height.

“Good, now just stand still for one moment.”

Even if he wanted to, Alan could not move. The musk was still lingering in his mind, holding him steady as First Sergeant deposited an obnoxious military headset onto Alan’s head. He then plugged the headset into a walkie-talkie before tuning it to an empty channel. A robotic voice began looping into Alan’s ears, along with a few simple tones to open up the receptive pathways in his brain.

“Ready to get back out there?” First Sergeant asked, knowing his fellow soldier could not hear him. With a smirk, he escorted the dumbfounded subordinate out of the room, pacing slowly as Alan absorbed the propaganda. It was simple phrases, nothing too complicated but through repetition effective on the psyche. “Military good,” “pacifism bad”. “Nationalism good,” “multiculturalism bad.” “Masculinity good,” “progressivism bad.” The messages were rudimentary, but deliberate.

Once they stepped back into the open, fresh air, Alan’s consciousness resurfaced. He tried to fight back against the rampant messaging, doing his best to tune out the audios as the First Sergeant led him back to the front line. Alan was being attacked on all fronts: his morals, his identity, his sexuality. Every time he turned away to defend one trait, it was like he lost another. He felt himself dwindling, chipping away.

Before long, the two stood directly in front of the courthouse, mere feet away from their first encounter. First Sergeant loaded the new soldier up, arming the man with a weapon and other items necessary in case of an emergency.

“Let’s see if you’re done cooking yet.” First Sergeant looked directly into his subordinate’s eyes, pleased with their reflective quality. He then removed the headphones.

“Name and rank, soldier?” he saluted. The other man fell into place, mirroring his actions.

“Private Aaron Steel, MH36 sir!”

First Sergeant smiled. The name change was a good sign of transition, but complete removal would have been preffered.

“Ready for the task, soldier? Will you be loyal and obedient to the greatest nation? Follow every instruction in the name of tradition?”

The soldier nodded his head quickly, “Affirmative, sir.”

“Alright then.” First Sergeant replaced the headphones back onto the private’s head, knowing a little more time would do the trick. “Dismissed. Get back to work, private.”

“Sir yes sir!”

First Sergeant strolled back to his command at the front line. The new private monitored the crowd, absorbing his commands as he scanned for any disturbances.

[dmwrites]

When everyone was finally dead, the final body slumped to the ground, the world went a bit funny. There was a pause as the world went silent for the first time in weeks. Blood ran, soaking the ground red, as everything lay in horrible, grizzly stillness.

And then, the glitches came out, first slinking in the shadows at night, and gradually getting more and more braver when there were no repercussions. Horrible things, scavengers that resembled wolves, dark and twitching, made from the static of the world boarder. They feasted on the bodies left behind, half rotted, pierced by arrows and swords and all numbers of other things.

And when the bones had been licked clean and scattered, that’s when the cleaning lady came to put the world back together.

Pearl hadn’t called herself the cleaning lady back when she’d started. She had been selected, invited, whatever you wanted to call it- they’d remembered her. You’re Grian’s sister, right? They weren’t related, but Pearl didn’t like to piss them off like Grian had, so she had just nodded. We have a job for you.

The job was simple, horrible. A game had been played, the watchers explained, a game of three lives. When the players go red on their third life, they become bloodthirsty animals, killing for the entertainment of the watchers, although the players hasn’t known there was an audience. The stage had been sullied now, and they needed someone to make it fresh. For the next time, the watchers said, and Pearl wondered what a next time would entail. But she had been plucked from her world and brought here, pat on the head and given brooms and buckets, and told to get to work. It wasn’t like she had another option, so she did.

She stood in a rather unremarkable grove, but gunpowder purfumed the air heavily. With her buckets and shovels in hand, she made her way through the world, and soon found evidence of the battles that had taken place and marred the landscape. Craters from explosions, a village torn apart. Bits of bone and cloth scattered. And blood, blood everywhere, a portrait of bitter ends. A desert so torn apart that the stone underneath bled through like the bones of some slain beast.

Pearl hiked up a sandy dune to an odd formation of cactus. They seemed to encircle the bloodiest part of the whole world. There was a skeleton’s head lodged right in the middle, and it looked like it was smirking at her. Other bones, bleached white by the sun, were scattered within that circle. And the blood, dried as it was, had dyed the sand a deep red.

Pearl stood beside one of the cacti for a moment, looking in on the scene like the watchful cacti were. The desert was so quiet, only the sigh of sand moved by the wind. This must have been one of those fights to the death the Watchers had told her about. A bad one too. She felt watched as she stepped into the circle, like this was the real stage.

Pearl picked up the skull, brushed off the sand that stuck to it. Its gaping grin unnerved her, but still, she felt bad. She smoothed the jaw of the skull unnecessarily, then set it to one side. In the pile went all the other bones too, teeth and ribs and pelvis. When she’d picked all she could find, she pulled out her bucket to wash the sand down with.

As she set the bucket spilling down the embankment, she saw another skeleton appear from under the cliff’s edge- had someone jumped? She watched it move about with the stream of water, and then caught sight of a bit of fabric stuck to some of the ribs. Red. Not like the dried blood, but bright red. A familiar red.

Heart in her mouth, Pearl slid down the sandy dune, clumsily making her way to the skeleton. She recognized the fabric, even frayed as it was.

“Gri?”

Her voice echoed, distorted, across the sand, and suddenly she was floating in the air, looking down onto two figures climbing their way to the cactus circle. She moved closer. Grian was there, his sweater frayed and damaged, with some other man with grey skin slick with sweat. They talked- it was muffled- Grian smiling so painfully. He looked so tired. And then, he struck the other man hard across the jaw. The two fought, Grian punching the other again and again, the other man not really fighting back. There was a bolt of lightning, and the other man was dead. Grian was laughing. Grian was crying. His mouth was open in some kind of horrible scream. And then, he turned and jumped off the side of the sandy embankment.

Pearl jolted back to the present, tears in her eyes. “Grian, no!” She pulled the skeleton towards her, and it fell apart in her arms. Her heart ached with a loss she hadn’t even realized she’d needed to have. She didn’t have the energy to cry, she just stared at the bones that had made up her friend.

“I thought he was one of you!” Pearl called to the sky. “It is him, isn’t it?”

He won.

“Won? Does this look like winning to you?” Pearl shrieked, grabbing Grian’s skull unceremoniously and thrusting it towards the sky. Sand trickled down her forearm, dislodged from Grian’s skull. Off in the distance, thunder rolled, suddenly and angrily. Pearl lowered the skull and put it gently down next to the pile of bones that had made up the winner. She almost smiled. If anyone had to win, it would have to be him, wouldn’t it.

Time blurred as Pearl hurried herself in her cleaning. The more she was here, walking this land, the more connected she felt, the more heartbreak she experienced. She talked to Grian to keep her sane, or, at least, the skull of Grian she attached to her belt with rope. She did smile at the idea of Grian seeing this somehow, complaining about being hip-height to her. Land was terraformed, sculpted into groves of trees, a huge, jutting mountain. The blood was washed clean with water and scrub brushes. The sand, what was left of it at least, was confined to river beds and shallow ponds.

And when it was done, she went back to that small grove, now a flat, grassy hill surrounded by trees, and called to the Watchers above.

“I’ve done it, no thanks to you lot. You can take me away now.”

Not finished.

“What? I’ve done what you asked!” Pearl was so tired. She could collapse here, and die like the rest, but she knew the Watchers would never allow that.

We need our players.

“What?”

Assemble the performers, and the game can start once again.

There was a stuttering, pained growl from behind her. Pearl turned around and froze in fright as a creature came slinking out of the woods, a dog-like thing that usually scavenged in packs at night. Made of the things of the world boarder, hardly keeping shape, Pearl had nicknamed them glitches. Pearl had seen them from the house she’d slept in at night. They were vicious with each other, fighting for the precious few resources left, but let her be usually. And now, one was here, slinking into the sunlight, holding a bone in its mouth. It dropped the bone, and scrambled away.

“Assemble the performers… no…” Pearl whispered, reaching down and taking the bone in her hand. Thunder rumbled, and Pearl sank to her knees. “That’s… horrible. You want me to make these skeletons… whole again? I don’t even know…”

She trailed off, because there was another growl. And another. Glitches were all around her, bringing thigh bones and ribs and skulls. Dropping them around her, retreating into thr forest, watching her. They were quiet, as quiet as glitches could be, almost as if they were sorry.

And so, Pearl began her final task. With help from the glitches, who came closer and closer each day, delivering bones, she assembled bodies. She fitted parts of the body together, hoped they were right. It was a complicated puzzle that she didn’t have the right answers to. She didn’t even know how many people there had been. She worked day and night, just wanting it to be over.

Sixteen skeletons lay before her, sixteen actors in the Watcher’s sick play. Pearl held the final puzzle peice in her hands, looking at all she had done. She kissed the top of Grian’s skull, and placed it gently on the top of the final body. The glitches stood around her, gazing up to the sky with her.

“I’m done now.”

You’ve set our stage well, cleaning lady. We can begin now.

There was a sizzle of pure power from all around her, and the glitches melted into the air, forming a translucent force field around the arena. Pearl hoped they’d be okay. A light shone down onto the bodies on the hill, so bright that Pearl was blinded. She closed her eyes, waiting to be taken away.

And when she opened her eyes again, sixteen people were standing around a square of bedrock. A single enchanting table sat right in the middle. Everyone was quiet, eyes closed, breathing softly.

“Wait, I’m still here! Why… I get to leave now, right?” Pearl asked, a shake in her voice.

Play well, Pearlescentmoon.

[samcarpentersgirlfriend]

Wes getting attacked (but living) and being comforted by gn reader

found this in the drafts, sorry it took so long </3

summary: above

includes: gn!reader, swearing, maybe some light angst?? (no mention of judy or her death idk pretend it doesn’t happen here if you want to)

word count: 1k

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

“Wes! Wes! I came as soon as I- Oh my God,”

It’s like seeing your boyfriend laying here all bandaged and bruise makes the situation sickeningly real instead of just some twisted nightmare. “Wes,” is all you can bring yourself to breathe out.

You think you’re going to be sick.

“Hey,” Wes croaks out, and God, he sounds so much worse than he looks - if that’s even possible. His skin is an eeriely translucent, and white and tubes jut out from his body from all sorts of unnatural angles. You can practically feel your heart sink to the floor.

“Oh my God,” you repeat once more, stumbling over to his side. You know you should do more - offer your boyfriend some stupid semblance of comfort and security, but you need a minute to pull yourself together - for both of your sakes. Wes wasn’t exactly frail, and the idea that one day you might see him this vulnerable, this bare, hadn’t ever crossed your mind.

You reach out to cup his face, running a finger over his cheek tentatively. It’s one of the only places you can touch, one of the only that isn’t dressed or stitched up somehow. Wes leans into the touch as his eyes flicker closed, letting out a pained sigh.

“What happened?” You urge, voice barely above a whisper. It can’t be any worst than the nightmarish images you’ve conjured up in your mind - visions of your boyfriend screaming for help, a knife tearing through his beautiful skin like paper as he bleeds out all alone.

“Fucking Ghostface,” he breathes out, attempting a hollow laugh but wincing when the effort is evidently too painful for him. “He got in the house, took me by surprise. I tried to fight him off but he was stronger than me. I coul- I couldn’t-“

Telltale tears well in his eyes, and you notice the way he attempts to rapidly blink them away.

“Hey, it’s okay. I got you.” You clasp his fingers in yours as you press a soft kiss to his temple, and that’s all it takes for Wes to burst into tears. You don’t push him to speak or even stop crying; you simply sit besides him, grasping onto his hand as if it’s a lifeline. God, you feel so damn useless, but what is there for you to do? What do you say to your boyfriend who almost got stabbed to death? How do you even start to fix this?

The two of you sit like that for a while - Wes shaking from the effort of his tears, your hands still interlocked. You can’t help but think just how close you were to loosing him- loosing all of this. How you’d never see that stupid grin and bleach blonde hair ever again. How you’d be forced to live, expected to go on in darkness after the blinding light that was Wes had flickered out. It’s enough to make you want to scream.

But you can’t. Not now. And not in front of Wes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, low and strained. His red eyes meet yours, and all of a sudden, you’re angry. Angrier than you think you’ve ever felt before. Not at Wes - never at Wes - but just at how damn unfair this all is. Why was Wes - your Wes- falling apart and barely alive when the monster who did this to him was still out there? How was it fair that he feels like he has to apologise for you for daring to cry about almost dying?

“No,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. Your ire must seep deep into your tone though, because Wes glances back up at you before turning his head away once more. Gently, you turn his chin so his eyes are back on you, and you repeat yourself again - this time, much more softly.

“No. Don’t you dare apologise, you hear me? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. And I’m not angry at you, baby. It’s just-“ you sigh before you speak again. “It’s just that… I hate whoever did this to you. When we find out who it is, I swear, I’m gonna fucking kill them myself. “

Wes smiles. “Didn’t know I had my own personal bodyguard.” The fact that he still has the ability to crack jokes after all that’s happened, you realise, makes you want to smile and sob - preferably at the same time. Wes really is the most resilient person you know, but goddamn it, he shouldn’t have to be.

“I wish I was your body guard,” you reply, lips quirked upwards. “Then I could be with you all the time. Means you wouldn’t have been by yourself when it happened.”

At that, Wes’s gaze snaps up, all traces of his grin gone in an instant. “And have you lying here next to me - fuck, instead of me? Have you dead? No way in hell.” His tone leaves no room for argument, so you you simply keep quiet. Neither you nor Wes speak, the two of you presumably both lost in your own racing thoughts. It strangely borders on comfortable, and more importantly, it’s enough.

After a while, you shuffle closer to your boyfriend, carefully resting your head in the crook of his neck as he places his head on top of yours. It’s the best thing you can think of right now - you can’t wrap Wes up and tell him everything’s okay because it’s not. None of this is okay.

“I love you,” you murmur into the silence, because you need Wes to know. Need him to know how grateful you are to have him, how grateful you are that he’s alive. Because honestly? You have no idea what you’d do without him - you dread to even think. “And I’ll be here for you every single step of the way. Promise.” You hold out your pinky with the last word - it’s childish, you know that, but after everything, maybe that’s exactly what you need right now.

“Love you too,” he echoes, interlocking his finger with yours before squeezing it tight. “More than you’ll ever know.”

[certain-death-awaits]

Character Design Notes: Warren

This is the third in a series of Kyoto Animation-style character design sheets. They’re in the style of my Fablehaven animation. I go into detail under the cut.

Here are some quotes from the books referencing Warren’s appearance.

'Handsome and quiet? White hair and skin? Dale's brother' Warren was no longer albino. He had dark hair and intense hazel eyes. Warren wore a dark orange T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Contrasted against the shirt, his arms looked white as milk. Dale turned him so that he was seated on the edge of the bed. When Dale let go, Kendra half-expected Warren to topple over, but he remained seated upright, eyes vacant. He looked to be in his twenties, at least ten years younger than Dale. Even with pale skin, white hair, and empty eyes, Warren was unexpectedly handsome. Not quite as tall as his brother, Warren Had broader shoulders and a firmer jaw. His features were more finely sculpted. Looking at Dale, she would not picture his brother handsome. Looking at Warren, she would not picture his brother plain. And yet seen together, a family resemblance persisted. Standing in the doorway, he studied her. He looked even more handsome now that he had possession of himself. His striking eyes were a silvery hazel. Had they been that color before? He ran a white hand through his thick hair, then stared at his palm. "I thought I was looking sort of bleached", he said, flexing his fingers. "I have leather armor under my shirt," Warren said. "The freak still gave me a good scratch. I keep my knives sharp." Warren crouched, recovering his throwing knife from where it had fallen. Warren wore several new rings and clung to a sheathed sword with a pearly hilt.

Seeing that he had "several new rings" implies he would wear rings normally, and that those are additions.

When introducing himself, Warren mentions being a Scorpio, making him... something of a zodiac girlie.

All this gave me the impression of him that you see reflected in his design. The throwing knives, too, and evidence of frequent injury are present.

Below is a design for the sword with the pearly hilt from Lost Mesa. Swords aren't a weapon really seen in Navajo or Hopi cultures, so I tried to make a sword of fairy-like design.

As a personal touch, I gave him the down-turned eyes of an elderly cat. His face is meant to look like a smug, somewhat mischievous elderly cat.

[deliciouskeys]

Cozy Corner Kinktober 2024 prompt #27: Temperature Play

Butchlander; Rated... G? But honestly has horror elements so probably not G. TW: I'm not going to say agere, but some kind of unhealthy mental state is portrayed.

This was originally supposed to be a joke fill of this prompt and ~500 words. Instead, it became >4k words and not funny at all, I'm sorry to report.

Just a quick (needless) note: This is set presumably some time after S4E5 where they get Stan Edgar out of prison for a hot minute, but in some sort of alternative timeline where all the turning points of S4E8 either haven't happened yet, or won't ever happen because of a canon divergence. Aaand that makes it sound more complicated than it needs to be. Carry on.

Butcher isn't sure if there's anything new he could learn about Homelander by going to the compound where he grew up, but it can't hurt to check. Stan Edgar tipped him off about the secret location, a nondescript office building with a largely empty ground floor and sham offices to act as a front in the windows, but underground there is a facility that goes six stories deep. It's close to the landmark Edison Labs in West Orange, NJ.  It's not a long drive from the city for Butcher to make. An afternoon trip-- he can be in and out. Stan assured him there was only one security guard on every floor and Butcher has a bulletproof vest and several guns hidden in his coat, so he's prepared to breach the facility, maybe grill the scientists he finds in there, although he has doubts he’s find many who worked there in the era he’s interested in. But right now the parking lot is completely empty. Odd, because Stan said the facility was still in pretty heavy use, though nothing like the heyday of the seventies and eighties.

It's too risky to park in the lot and be that conspicuous sole car, so Butcher leaves his car far away and walks. Something feels off. There doesn't seem to be a single person anywhere on site, although maybe he's doing something very stupid by just walking up to the facility's door in broad daylight. Maybe he's about to be snipered off of some other building or even the roof of this one.

There's no one anywhere that he can see. He tries the door and it opens, against his expectations. There's a security desk behind what looks bulletproof glass, but it's smashed or melted on one side and there's no one there. There’s caution tape in a lazy X across the elevator which Butcher doesn't even tear away before pressing the only button, the one with the down arrow, because he has no expectation that it will do anything. But the elevator dings and its doors open. And against his better judgement, Butcher pulls the tape off the wall edges and enters and goes straight for the lowest floor. B6.

His instinct says something is seriously wrong. Stan described a very different scene to him. This building looks abandoned and as if something violent happened. When the door opens to the B6 level a strong smell of bleach hits Butcher hard. The place looks empty, but there's still scientific equipment. Butcher can't tell whether it's modern or not, but something about the scene looks like people have been here recently. He steps out cautiously, half expecting a gun to cock and press into the back of his head, but there's no one around. Where's security? He saw a camera on the way in, and it wasn't obvious if it was on or not. There aren't even any cameras visible on this level.

Butcher's not one for getting scared, but there's something decidedly creepy about the place and how empty and silent it is, aside from the hum of some machines that are apparently still on, and the air being circulated through the ducts. Yet more evidence this building is in use, at least occasionally. It looks hastily abandoned, but there's no way it's been abandoned for years. He approaches the wall where there's a framed picture hanging up. Three scientists in lab coats, maybe four, if the woman with the big 80s hair is also one, although she looks like someone from corporate. But what Butcher's eye is drawn to is the child in the middle, dressed in a white nightgown. He stares at the face, at first not even certain whether it's a boy or a girl, but slowly coming to recognize the features that would later morph into the face of the man he's been so obsessed with over the years. It's completely uncanny. It was one thing to hear Vogelbaum wax sentimental about Homelander as a five year old, but it's quite another to actually see a picture before puberty really hit. His expression looks pouty, sullen. He's certainly more than five years old here, which means they had already "gone to work on him" for a few years, whatever Vogelbaum meant by that ominous sounding phrase.

Butcher takes a picture on his phone and looks around for more. He's got his curiosity to find more on the one hand, but he's also quite sick to his stomach. This all feels wrong. The place is hideously depressing, and Butcher's mind is starting to play tricks on him, thinking he hears someone or something lurking, maybe on some floor above. He wishes he'd brought someone else along. He can't believe he's chickening out but he doesn't think he can take any more of this. There's a heavy red metal door that's ajar, almost inviting him to look inside, but Butcher has never had such a strong premonition to leave without investigating any further. He heads toward the elevator, is about to press the button to go up when the elevator suddenly starts ascending, making a ding noise as it passes each floor.

Maybe it's just programmed to return to the ground floor, Butcher tells himself, but there's cold sweat running down his back. He presses the button anyway, sees the elevator reach the ground floor, pause, and then head back down again. It feels like it takes forever. Butcher cannot wait to get back up, leave this claustrophobic stuffy underground hellhole behind, go back to his car and never ever come back here again.

The metal elevator doors open and Butcher steps back when he sees none other than Homelander standing in the elevator.

"Long time no see, William. I'm so flattered you decided to investigate where I grew up!" Homelander walks out, effectively blocking Butcher's path to get inside, so Butcher stands still. 

As scared as he should be to see Homelander catch him in the act of snooping around this lab, he's almost relieved to not be alone in here. He'd prefer to be on the highway, hauling ass back to the city, of course, but this is how it's playing out.

Homelander raises his eyebrows dramatically. "Or at least that's what I assume you were doing. Hm?"

Butcher shrugs. "More or less."

"If you're wondering how I knew you were here, Vought Analytics kindly tipped me off when they caught you on camera. Pretty ballsy, just walking right in." Homelander grins, then takes a look around. "Wow, they really cleaned this place up since I last visited. Although the bleach fumes don't seem to air out very well from this level."

Butcher has no idea what to answer, or where this conversation is meant to be going.

"You want a tour? Or… what, a dramatic reenactment of my childhood, or…?"

Butcher stands still, mulling over whether there's any chance he leaves here alive, and whether what he says has any bearing on that.

Homelander takes it upon himself to start narrating some kind of demented walk-through without waiting for an answer. "Well, here…" He spreads his arms and gestures around. "Is where I spent all my conscious childhood years until they finally started letting me out at sixteen."

"You lived here?" Butcher asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Oh yes, all my time. In here. I don't remember seeing the sun or open skies until I was probably ten years old, and very rarely. I had books about the outdoors, I dreamed about it. But I never saw it." Homelander's smile falters, then reanimates itself. "So yes, not only did I spend most of my life on this floor, I actually spent quite a bit of the time just locked away in here…"

He gestures toward the ominous red door. Butcher follows him inside even though he takes one longing look at the elevator, knowing there's no way Homelander would let his captive audience just walk out.

The room seems blindingly bright compared to the rest of the floor, white walls everywhere, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. It feels cold and clinical, and Butcher has a suspicion that the white paint is a thin layer over reinforced metal. It's completely empty.

"Yes, this room is where I slept, ate my meals, did my studies, took my shits. And if they felt like it, where I was just abandoned for days when they working on something else and couldn't be bothered with me." Homelander stops roving the room with his eyes and fixes them on Butcher, standing akimbo. "Well? What do you think?"

Butcher wonders if Homelander actually expects an answer. It seems like he's really waiting. "Mate… I think the whole thing is fucked up beyond belief. That's what I think."

Homelander smiles, and the smile almost looks genuinely friendly. "That's what I say! But as a child, I didn't know anything else, you know? They told me I was special and this is what they needed to do, and that this was an acceptable way for me to live, and who was I to argue with them? They didn't like it when I complained about anything. It was frowned upon. Moving on…" 

Butcher is all too happy to obey Homelander's beckoning gesture and follow him out of the claustrophobic little room. Butcher was never a believer in vibes, but the whole place makes him uneasy.

"Here's the table where the scientists who worked on this floor took lunch. They used to talk and joke and laugh, and I think listening to that banter was probably how I learned to sound like I was raised in a normal family. I could watch them out of the window in the door if they didn't cover it up with metal because they wanted privacy. I never got any privacy. There were four cameras in that tiny room, one in each ceiling corner, and my whole life was recorded. I wonder if they kept all those tapes. Must be the most boring footage in the world, so they probably recycled them unless I did something interesting. I should say that every birthday they did allow me to sit with them at the table and have my piece of cake and they'd all pretend we were friends and that we were celebrating my birthday and not their own milestone that they were congratulating themselves for. Back then they might have even been celebrating my real birthday, before the corporate one they came up with in committee that fit the television schedule well. Not that I remember what my real birthdate was. They didn't really emphasize dates or give me access to calendars or anything… I never had a good grasp on how much time was passing…."

Homelander really sounds like he's talking to himself at this point, processing something, face twitching as his efforts to smile keep drooping into a more sinister expression with bared teeth. He trails off and sighs at some point. "I'm sorry, where were we?"

Butcher just stares at him.

"Sorry, am I boring you?" Homelander asks, and his face is cold and collected again.

"Not at all, unfortunately," Butcher answers. "I don't know what the fuck they were doing to you, but it's sick. A company can't own a child."

"Oh it's completely illegal," Homelander says, laughing, and his face is friendlier again, an amiable smile playing on his lips. "But you don't make trillions of dollars without breaking a few people, am I right?"

"Why are you still working for Vought?" Butcher asks, suddenly feeling angry. It feels like anger on Homelander's behalf, which is a new emotion for Butcher and he's not sure he likes it.

"I'm not working for them," Homelander says. "I took over the entire thing. They're working for me."

"Keep telling yourself that. How do you know they're not raising another little supe like you, somewhere out in some other secret facility. Maybe tens of them. Maybe torturing them until only the strongest survives?"

"I- I'd know about that, as a board member."

Butcher hears the falter in his voice.

"Anyway. Sometimes Barb- the head of the lab would let me walk around the lab and sit at this table when the rest of them weren't having lunch and working. She used to give me pen and paper to draw and write, but… I guess eventually they didn't let me anymore when I kept drawing things they didn't like… One of the lab members, Joe, I think was his name, Joe Nesbitt, yes. I should remember them all, but it's not like they wore nametags and didn't always introduce themselves depending on how closely they worked with me. But Joe had this dog he'd bring in. I thought it was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. You have to remember, I didn't ever get to see other children or pets or anything except these labworkers and janitors. Everything else was just from books. Well Joe was bringing his dog in, even though I don't think Vogelbaum or Barbara approved at all. He'd let me play with the dog, which was… pretty remarkable if you think about how little they trusted me to control my powers back then. I wasn't supposed to touch the dog of course. But if I sat on my heels in the middle of the floor, the dog would usually come and want to play, and pounce on me, and even lick me. And I wanted to pet it so bad, but I just kept my hands behind my back to remind myself not to ever touch it. I played fetch with it, even though they weren't happy that I was making the dog run around the room. Eventually they told Joe to stop bringing the dog, that it was inappropriate and distracting to everyone. He was an actually kind guy. I remember they were discussing it, maybe thinking I couldn't hear behind the door of the Bad Room, but the Bad Room only blocked my vision, not my hearing. He said he wasn't bringing the dog in for himself, that he was bringing it in for me. That he thought I desperately needed a pet to take care of, to develop my personality properly. I remember when I listened, my breath hitching, wishing so hard they'd let me have a pet. But they said no, that it was an unnecessary distraction for me too. But he was right of course. A pet would have been so good for me. I should have told them I wanted a pet. I should have insisted. But instead I thought I shouldn't ask for something if they didn't want me to have it."

It's a bit bewildering to hear so much sadness pour out of this cruel, deplorable shitstain of a supe, but it's so hard not to feel something for him. Being here is creepy, and it's bringing out strange memories in this guy.

"I don't know what happened to Joe. I think he ended up getting sick. Died of cancer or something, even before I was twelve. Wouldn't be surprised if working here wasn't good for a mudperson's health, and yet so many people seemed to work here forever and carry on with their pointless little lives just fine."

"Maybe we should go upstairs…" Butcher says, cautious about saying anything that will make Homelander snap out of whatever mood this is, and maybe snap completely.

Homelander smiles. "No, we can't leave before we see the oven."

Butcher has had the sinking feeling all along that this is all one prolonged monologue before Homelander executes him, and now he knows the method by which he will die. Well, it was a good run, he guesses. He eyes the elevator, but there's just no way. Maybe getting lasered in the back is going to be less painful than whatever Homelander has planned for him, but he just can't force himself to make a break for it, his legs feeling strangely leaden. Maybe he's become hypnotized by the story, being able to imagine it all the more vividly now that he's seen the childhood photograph on the wall.

"This is where they burned me, to build up my resistance to heat damage. Probably weekly if not more often. I don't know why they had a window. I guess to watch the progress inside? Not sure they would have seen anything happening other than me crying my little eyes out. All the window allowed me to do was watch how people were just going about their work, except for the couple who were directly involved in baking me in the oven. No one gave a shit that I was suffering."

Butcher raises his eyebrows when Homelander leans down and starts taking off his boots. By the time he's taken off his cape and starts opening the magnetized flap of his top half, Butcher can't help himself any longer. "What the hell are you doing right now?"

Homelander turns toward him sharply. "I want to show you. I want to show you exactly what they used to do to me. It won't hurt me now that I'm an adult. It hurt back then, but it won't hurt now. They got rid of my sensitivities that way."

Butcher can barely follow what he's saying. "Are you … going into the oven?"

Homelander nods nonchalantly. 

"You completely off your rocker? There's no way it's still operational anyway. What the fuck's the point?"

"Oh it's operational," Homelander says. "I saw it in action a few weeks ago."

Butcher is so confused he finds himself literally scratching his head, trying to make sense of what's happening. It feels like that fairytale where someone has to trick the witch into looking into the oven to push her in, except this witch is hopping into the oven himself, fully aware of what he's doing. Or maybe not fully aware, since he seems to be in some weird giddy nostalgic fucked up spiral.

Homelander is already naked by the time Butcher shakes those thoughts away.

"Why the hell do they still have this oven? Doesn't that mean they're still doing this to other kids?" Butcher asks.

Homelander shrugs. "Maybe they use it to bake glassware now. You know, to sterilize it? I have no idea. They were using the Bad Room to store all their old broken and outdated equipment, so who knows. It's empty now though. They cleaned it out pretty thoroughly…" 

Butcher doesn't like the smile on Homelander's face. It looks crazed. And it's not surprising, since he's determined to do something absolutely nonsensical. Butcher really needs to leave this building. There's some terrible energy or feng shui or juju or whatever people call it in here. Butcher felt better energy in the Tower of London as a child.

Homelander walks in through the oven's door.

"Why do you have to be naked for this?" Butcher asks.

"Because this thing gets over 1000 degrees inside. There's literal gas flames that come through the panels. My suit's built against the elements but I don't know if it'll hold up to that."

Butcher just can't help himself anymore. "And why the fuck do you feel the need to get in there, again?" What is he saying? Why is he offended by the idea of Homelander doing something so stupidly reckless. He probably knows he won't be hurt. And what if he is? Since when has Butcher ever worried about a supe hurting himself by doing something moronic? But something about spending his time down here, listening to Homelander's disturbing stream of conscience, makes Butcher feel like he's the designated driver, like he's strangely responsible for whatever happens next.

"I just want to show you." Homelander motions him over. "Shut the door and turn on that button on the side. The numbers above the knob tell you the temperature it's set to reach."

Butcher shuts the door, staring at Homelander's face through the thick transparent window, made of who knows what material. 

"Well? Go on." Homelander's voice sounds very faint and muffled from inside.

Butcher stares at the panel. "1200C" is what the knob is set to. What the hell is he doing? And why is he hesitating? He hits the button, surprised at the immediate swell of guilt he feels. He hears the door automatically bolt locked, and watches as the back wall splits like some heavy duty metal Venetian blinds, revealing a wall of flames right behind them.

Homelander's expression is manic. "Doesn't hurt like it used to," he announces, loud even through the thick glass, and yet when Butcher approaches the door to watch what's going on inside, Homelander is hugging himself and cowering and wincing a little bit, scrunching his eyes shut. Doesn't look painless.

Butcher glances back at the elevator. Well, here's his fucking chance. Even if Homelander is capable of breaking the door open, Butcher might have time to take the elevator and bound across the lot and be long gone before he manages to do that.

He starts backing up, still watching Homelander inside, flames all around him. Butcher doesn't believe in Heaven or Hell, but it certainly looks like Homelander is in one of those two places. Butcher's so close, so close to just turning around, walking towards the elevator, and getting the hell out of there. But Homelander looks up at  him and his eyes widen when he sees how far Butcher has distanced himself. It looks like it finally dawns on him that he gave Butcher the perfect escape while trying to relive his demented childhood traumas.

Butcher can't do it. In spite of every rational thought telling him not to walk back, he walks back to the panel and shuts the oven off. The door remains locked, probably a safety precaution since the inside temperature is still scorchingly hot. Homelander stands near the window, eyes big and round, and it's fucking uncanny but Butcher can't unsee the child version of his face etched into his current features.

Maybe he should leave now. At least he's turned the oven off, right? That has to be enough. "Is the door gonna unlock on its own?" Butcher verifies, hoping the answer is yes and that he can leave with a clear conscience.

"You have to override the safety from the outside. It won't open from the inside after being powered up." Homelander says, and Butcher can't tell if he sounds sheepish because of how quiet and muffled he is behind the glass, or because he's embarrassed about trusting that Butcher will stay and do all the honors.

But Butcher does stay and do the honors, mad as it all is. The door unlocks and opens, a rush of extremely hot air blowing into the rest of the room, fortunately far enough away from  where Butcher is standing that he only feels the air gust and not so much the temperature. Homelander traipses out of the oven, arms still wrapped around his torso.

"Looks like it still hurts from where I'm standin'," Butcher says. Homelander is looking at the ground and says nothing before picking up his suit and trying to put it back on, hissing quietly when anything touches his skin.

"You're an idiot." Butcher can't help himself. He's in complete disbelief. "Why on earth did you think that was a good idea?"

"It hurt more as a child," Homelander declares, as if that answers the question. But he seems to be regaining his composure. No harm no foul with these supes, even if you stick them in an inferno. "I just needed to convince myself that it wasn't as bad as I remember it."

"I'm sure it was as bad," Butcher says. He still doesn't know what happens next. As much as he's calling Homelander an idiot in his thoughts, he might be the bigger idiot for staying down here and saving him from himself. Now he might pay the ultimate price.

"I think that's all I have to say about this place…" Homelander says. "Funny. I killed a lot of the people who could verify that all the stuff I'm saying they did to me is true. Now maybe no one will ever know. And I'm fine with that. You don't have to remember anything I told you here. It's dead and buried in the past and has nothing to do with the present."

"I think it has something to do with the present…" Butcher can't help but counter.

"Doesn't matter. I'm thinking about the future, About Ryan and all that. And how I'll make sure he never goes through anything like I did." Homelander's face twists into anger again. "Did I even need to go through all that? It still hurts. It still fucking hurts. Maybe they didn't inure me to anything. Maybe they just told me they did and I believed them. Maybe it was all one big waste of time that could have been avoided."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Butcher says.

Homelander sniffs something like a laugh without any mirth, walks towards the elevator and presses the button to go upstairs. Butcher hesitates to follow, not quite believing that his ordeal is over.

"Well?" Homelander sound impatient after he walks in and holds the elevator by sticking out his arm, waiting for Butcher to make his way in. "Or were you planning on trying to find secret documents or something?"

"Nope," Butcher mumbles. Maybe he should, but he's not about to stay down there any longer than he has to.

"They took all the important documents once they cleared the place out. They had to do a bunch of cleanup anyway after my visit. Think they took everything important and stashed it away from busybodies like you."

"Left that picture on the wall," Butcher says, not sure why he's engaging in this conversation, but it's surreal to stand with Homelander in an elevator and openly discuss his efforts to get intel on him. "Maybe you should have taken it with you."

"Oh that thing, with Barbara and the rest?" Homelander makes a sour face. "Should have thrown it out. That's a chapter of my life I don't ever want to think about again."

Butcher doesn't know who Barbara is but guesses she must be the woman in the picture. He, for one, is glad he has a copy on his phone. Something about it is haunting but very very evocative, like he sees the man in front of him in a new light, and he didn't think that was possible after all the research and study he's already done on him over the years, and how crystallized his hatred has become.

Butcher is tempted to get down and kiss the ground when they finally walk out of the building, grateful he's no longer six floors down below.

"Don't come snooping around Vought properties," Homelander tells him His tone sounds official, like the voice he uses to give PSAs on TV. Not at all like the broken, slightly stuttering voice that was recounting his childhood down in B6.

Butcher flinches away when Homelander takes off without any warning, pushing off the asphalt and launching himself into the sky with a completely unnecessary sonic boom. He watches him fly towards Manhattan and slowly makes his way to where he left his car, checking his phone to make sure he did save the photo from the lab wall.

For safekeeping. Nothing stranger than that.

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