#he collapsed like a fucking marionette. that's just how it works for him when THIS in specific happens. :'>

[habitual-creatures]

Dammit. I'll go put him on the porch. Just everyone watch the blood.

(He's helping him to the porch, making sure he's ok)

-Mystery guest

Yeah- uh- I'll start cleaning.

[shejustcalledmeafish]

“ you scared me. ” for John/Gwen?

John acted invincible. And when he’d turned up during the Miracle, he had been, in a way. Gwen had never really felt her technical immortality, but John seemed to relish in it. Using knives to slit tendons of their attackers, easily gritting his teeth when blows were landed in return. Immortality didn’t mean no pain, but John never seemed bothered.

He took a bullet for Jack once, the metal lodging in his shoulder when it could have been Jack’s heart. Tucked away in their safe house, Gwen had watched as John pulled the slug out with nothing more than a stolen pair of pliers and a fifth of whiskey. She continued watching, transfixed, as he pulled his flesh back together with neat, practiced stitches.

It wasn’t until now that she’d gotten the chance to see John properly. But you get to know a person, fighting corrupt all-powerful families and an alien power trying to kill the one person she knew they both loved.

She wasn’t sure how she felt that Jack and John seemed to be getting closer again. She knew they’d had sex at least once, Rex coming in swearing and complaining. She’d caught them herself, half-dressed and tangled against each other on the sofa. Jack had pressed a kiss to the knot of fresh pink scar tissue marring John’s shoulder, and she’d fled before either of them looked up to see her.

John didn’t leave her alone, always ready with a quip about her MILF status or the way she put Jack in his place. But when she gave orders, he followed them with an annoyingly sexy yes ma’am. It helped that they were working toward the same goal, John needed the Blessing resolved so he could safely leave the planet. Gwen could only hope that he wouldn’t be taking Jack with him. She wasn’t sure she could bear to lose him again, the wanker.

She’d been surprised when John offered to carry Jack’s blood. She didn’t know why. It made sense, he was the closest to Jack in physiology, and he assured them that the Time Agency matched for blood types as much as they did personalities and competencies. His joke about being Jack’s perfect match had left the air in the room sour. Gwen could see the history in their stares, everything that had led them to this point. She wondered how she could hope to compete.

Gwen didn’t know exactly what had happened in Buenos Aires. Only that John had done what he needed to do, a fresh bandage wrapped around his wrist, and that he’d brought all three of the Americans back alive, despite his jokes about being the superior Vera to the contrary.

They regrouped at a memorial to those whom death had finally taken, and Gwen had nearly had to pry apart John and Jack before they suffocated on each other’s tongues. She didn’t want to be anywhere near their hotel room that night (or maybe she did).

She didn’t have time to dwell on it, as Rex tried to chase down the CIA traitor, and she pulled a gun. Luckily for Rex, John had noticed it even before she did. Unluckily for John, even he wasn’t quite fast enough.

Jack let out a shout that made Gwen flinch as John collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. Rex tackled the CIA woman, while Gwen and Jack raced to John’s side. Gwen put pressure on his wound while Jack turned his face toward him, snapping his fingers to try to keep him awake and focused.

It didn’t help, and Gwen pulled back her hands, slick with John’s blood as he breathed his last. Jack collapsed over him, not quite weeping, but breathing in heavy, choked sobs, his face buried in John’s shoulder. Gwen just sat there, the blood slowly starting to dry.

Then John let out a terrifyingly familiar gasp. Jack sat bolt upright in shock, staring down at his undead ex-wife. John ripped at his own shirt, soaked with blood. The same blood on Gwen’s hands, the same blood, they all came to realize, that had come from Jack. John poked at his undamaged flesh, and let out an unhinged little giggle.

“Oh fuck,” he said, basically summing up everything Gwen was feeling. No. Not everything.

“You bloody idiot,” she hissed, moving closer to him and taking his face in her hands. Most other men would recoil at having their own blood smeared across their face, but John just looked up at her with those stupid pretty eyes. “You scared me!” Then before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned in and kissed him.

She knew it was a bad idea, especially now, with this new state of being he’d entered. Gwen had gotten enough grief from immortals. But how could she help it, she relented, as John kissed back, his hands slipping up under her jacket and resting against the warmth of her skin. She heard Jack make an interested noise and she couldn’t help but break the kiss to laugh.

This was new. But the world had been saved, and changed irrevocably. And what was Gwen Cooper to do but enjoy the ride?

[hotshotsxyz]

fundamental pieces

buddie (1.6k) (read it on AO3)

Eddie’s knees hit the ground with a dull thud that he doesn’t feel.

He doesn’t feel anything, actually. He can’t. Because if he feels something, he’s going to feel everything, and if he feels everything, he’s going to come apart at the seams.

He can’t look away from the smoldering pile of rubble in front of him. Dimly, he’s aware that there are other people around, people who could be hurt, people who might need his help. He’s frozen, though. Stuck on his knees, might as well be fossilized in amber.

Buck.

Buck is—

Fuck, Eddie can’t even bring himself to think it. The house was standing and now it’s not. The ground was stable and then it wasn’t. Buck was—

And now he’s not.

The flashing lights from the fire engine cast strange moving shadows across the debris. Eddie tracks each one of them, unable to stop himself. It can’t have been more than a minute — the dust from the collapse still lingers heavily in the air, and no one’s started shouting orders yet — but time is stretching and folding in on itself and Eddie’s pretty sure he’s going to be stuck in this moment for the rest of his life.

And then, his radio crackles to life.

“Buckley to 118, I could use a little help down here.”

Eddie can’t help the wounded noise that falls from his lips. His entire body sags, a marionette with strings cut.

He allows himself a count of three, then stumbles to his feet. Buck needs him. He shoves the past few minutes in a box he knows he’ll never want to open again. Buck needs him.

The next half hour is a blur filled with structural engineers and thermal cameras and half hearted jokes over the radio. Buck’s okay, just trapped in a pocket beneath one of the house’s sturdier beams.

It’s maddening, knowing that Buck is less than a hundred yards away and not being able to get to him. Eddie feels trapped in his own skin. He wants to say to hell with it and just start digging, but the engineers say that any wrong move could collapse the bubble that Buck’s in. So he clenches his jaw and waits.

His radio crackles again. “Hey Eddie?”

Eddie fumbles to press the button down so he can respond. “Buck? What’s wrong?” Eddie can hear the tension in his own voice, barely covering the panic that lies beneath.

“I’m fine,” Buck answers immediately. “I just… never mind. It’s stupid.”

“Tell me what it is,” Eddie says, as soft as he can manage right now.

There’s a long pause. “Can you talk to me?” Even over the radio, Buck’s voice sounds small.

Eddie lets out a breath. “Yeah, Buck, I can do that. What do you want to talk about?”

“What, uh, what’s Christopher doing at school this week?”

Eddie knows damn well Buck already knows the answer to that question, but he indulges it anyway, telling Buck about the history fair coming up and the diorama Chris wants to build.

“I’m pretty sure he’s going to conscript you for that one,” Eddie chuckles. It’s a little forced, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances.

“Well someone’s got to help him with the papier-mâché, and we both know it’s not going to be you,” Buck says.

“Hey!” Eddie says, mock-affronted. “I helped on the last one! With the solar system?”

“Eds, you popped the balloon before the sun was dry. It looked like a weird yellow raisin.” The amusement in Buck’s voice is good to hear.

He’s about to defend himself when Bobby claps him on the shoulder. “We’re moving in,” he says. “Let Buck know.”

Eddie swallows. “Buck? Still there?” It’s a stupid question. Nothing’s changed in the last 30 seconds, but waiting for Buck’s response still feels like standing on a precipice.

“Nowhere else to go,” Buck confirms.

“We’re on our way to you,” Eddie says roughly.

“Roger,” Buck replies. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just hang tight and keep your helmet on straight,” Bobby says.

“You got it, Cap.”

—

Digging through the rubble is delicate, and frankly terrifying, work. They’ve got airbags holding up the points that the engineers identified as load bearing, but every time something in the structure shifts, Eddie’s breath catches. Eventually, though, they’ve got a path cleared right up to where Buck should be.

“Nash to Buckley,” Bobby says into his radio.

“I read you, Cap.”

“We’re right on top of you. Keep your face covered and don’t try to help.”

Eddie swears he can hear the cheeky smile Buck must be wearing when he says, “No help from me, got it.”

It’s another agonizing ten minutes, then finally, finally, Eddie’s got one of Buck’s hands clasped in his, and he’s pulling him from the house’s crumbled remains.

“Shit,” Buck says, surveying the damage. “You must’ve thought—“

Eddie unintentionally tightens his grip on Buck’s hand. It’s the opposite of what he should be doing, but he can’t let go. Buck squeezes back.

“I’m fine, Eds,” he says softly.

And Eddie knows, he does, but he’s not going to believe it until he’s checked every inch of him over himself.

—

“Thank you,” Buck says, out of the blue.

It’s a few hours later, and they’re back at the station. As intense as the call had been, Buck had gotten out of it without a scrape, so they’re all still on duty.

“For what?” Eddie asks.

Everyone else is asleep, so it’s just the two of them sprawled out on the loft’s couch. There’s some nature documentary playing on the TV, but Eddie’s fairly certain neither of them is watching it.

“For distracting me. Earlier, I mean. I, uh. It helped.”

Eddie gives up his pretense of paying attention to the hyenas on the screen and turns to look at Buck.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he whispers. It gives away far too much, but he’s so far past the point of worrying about that.

Buck swallows heavily, like he’s heard everything that Eddie didn’t mean to reveal with those five words. He shifts until he’s pressed against Eddie, ankle to shoulder.

“I was scared,” Buck admits, toying with the sleeve of the LAFD hoodie he’s wearing. Eddie wants to take his hand all over again.

“I thought—“ Eddie can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. “I was scared, too,” he says instead.

Buck looks at him. He bites his lower lip and frowns. “I just kept thinking that I didn’t want to tell you over the radio,” he sighs finally.

“Tell me what?” Eddie asks.

Buck looks away again. He’s starting to hunch in on himself the way he does when he’s feeling vulnerable. Eddie gives into his earlier urge and takes Buck’s hand in his own.

“Whatever it is,” Eddie says softly, “you can tell me. I promise.”

Buck’s eyes shoot back up to Eddie’s, searching. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find.

“I love you,” he says simply.

He can’t mean it the way Eddie wants him to. The way Eddie’s wanted him to for months, years probably. He squeezes Buck’s hand tighter for want of words.

“I’m in love with you,” Buck clarifies. “I just… couldn’t not tell you.” His expression is almost resigned.

Eddie’s frozen all over again, but this time he let’s himself feel it all. Because Buck’s okay. Buck’s sitting right in front of him. Buck loves him.

“Evan,” Eddie breathes, unable to keep the name from slipping between his lips.

The resignation on Buck’s face shifts to hope, and he holds Eddie’s gaze. Lit by the blue glow of the television, he’s never looked more beautiful.

Eddie can’t wait another second. He ducks forward and brushes a feather light kiss across Buck’s lips. His intention is to lean back, to assess Buck’s reaction, but then Buck makes a strangled noise and surges forward, capturing Eddie’s mouth with his own.

The hand that isn’t otherwise occupied lifts of its own accord to cup Buck’s jaw. Buck’s free hand fists in the material of Eddie’s uniform. It’s like no kiss Eddie’s experienced before, fire and passion underlined by aching tenderness, and over all too soon.

Eddie leans his forehead against Buck’s breathing harshly.

“Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Buck pants.

“I think I might,” Eddie says.

Buck pulls back, just far enough to look Eddie in the eye. “You…”

Eddie wants to laugh. Even after that, of course Buck’s still not sure. Eddie’s not one for speeches, but Buck… Buck deserves to know exactly what he means to him. “Earlier, when I thought… it was like the whole world stopped. And I didn’t want it to start again, because I was terrified it’d be starting without you. I can’t do any of this without you. I don’t want to. I’ve been in love with you for so long it’s a fundamental part of who I am.”

It’s Buck’s turn to freeze.

“I love you,” Eddie says. He squeezes Buck’s hand.

The soft pressure must break him out of his stupor, because he lunges at Eddie again, this time throwing his arms around Eddie’s neck and burying his face in his shoulder. Eddie wraps his arms around Buck’s waist and buries his nose in Buck’s hair.

“I love you,” he whispers again, just because he can.

—

Bobby finds them the next morning, tangled together on the couch and snoring softly. He smiles, and resolves to make breakfast quietly.

[butcherknives]

The Holidays with the Sparda Men

Prompt kinda got away from me and became more of a pre-game than an actual holiday moment, but hopefully it’s fun and enjoyable all the same.

Ft. GN! Reader from the Devil May Cry series

> SFW

At first you believe that holidays aren’t exactly his “thing.” That it’s painted by a religion that isn't his, and it’s too bathed in traditionalism where Dante is anything but, between his attitude, his appearance, and his lifestyle. You think this, yet as the holidays grow closer, you notice that his mood seems to weaken and crumble. He isn’t irritable or sour. No, that isn’t it at all. You know Dante and his facades; this you recognize as depression.

You live within your perplexity only for a short time before you decide to ask. Side by side on the worn leather couch, your knee pressed against his as he reclines in a languid arch, you pose your observation with as much tact as you can muster. “You seem down.”

Without turning his head, his eyes slide toward you. He sweeps over your expression and you can feel the way he’s analyzing – likely approximating what you’ve gleaned. With quiet huff though his nose, he closes his eyes and leans his head back. “Well, damn. And here I thought I was the embodiment of ole Saint Nick.”

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

The silence that stretches is full of rumination. Dante is weighing his options, isn’t he? Considering if it’s worth telling you the truth. Your heart hammers in your chest as he measures you, weighs you, and finds you...

“I always feel kinda eh around the holidays.”

...worthy.

You wait with hopeful patience, quelling your thoughts and over-eager questions because there’s a physical shift, one there beneath the immediate surface, that tells you he has more to say. You rest your hand on his thigh and tip forward, attempting to remain a source of comfort.

He cracks one eye open to peek at you. The look you offer makes him sigh, sit up, and shake his head on a roll of his shoulders. “I guess it reminds me of my family. You know, sad little boy stuff.”

Oh.

What had the holidays been like before tragedy? And what had they been like prior to your arrival? You simmer on this for perhaps too long because Dante is visibly retreating into himself with that sideways, self-deprecating smile that warns you precisely where he’s about to bury his emotions. You rise to your feet. “Your family!”

He tips his head, lips flattening into pulled confusion-mirth-weariness that makes you switch your hips on a sheepish laugh.

“Yeah,” you continue. “What about your family?” The light has yet to click on. You continue with swelling emotion. “Vergil and Nero? And Lady, and Trish...” You bounce on the balls of your feet. “We could invite them over and do something fun. Like... Like a party.”

There’s slow realization dawning like the sunrise across Dante’s face and it’s equal in beauty. The sparkle in his eyes; the smile curling at his lips as he drops his forearms into his lap and leans forward until he’s grinning with silent, crinkled laughter. “A party, huh?”

“A holiday office party,” you say with an eager nod.

This does make him laugh. “You might just be onto something.”

“So, what do you think?” You watch as he rises to stand in front of you, his hand combing through his hair. “I think we could pull it off together. It could be a lot of fun.”

“Alright,” he says with an exaggerated shrug. “What the hell?” As lackadaisical a response it is, you can see his happiness. “You wanna decorate? I’ll send out the invitations.”

You agree with a grin, tipping forward to kiss his scruffy cheek, and as you saunter off toward the desk to gather a piece of scrap paper and a pen to start your planning, you feel much lighter than you had before.

“Hey,” he says and you spin to look. “Think we could get Morrison to dress as Santa?”

You laugh.

Vergil doesn’t seem to care that the holidays are around the corner, nor does he indicate any desire to celebrate. You’ve been mulling over how to breach the subject, not from fear but rather uncertain of what judgement he may pass. Surely, if you find any importance in the season, Vergil will indulge you to the best of his ability; you know this and yet you find yourself wondering if he’s fully against them in their entirety. He’s shown open disinterest in religion – Fortuna, you deduce, left a bad taste – but you think, perhaps, he might be open to a bit of spirit. At the very least, you’d love the excuse to have him spend time with the rest of his family.

Your answer comes in the form of a red wax-sealed envelope delivered to your home. Perplexed, you study the writing on the worn paper and see there is no return address listed. Curiosity guides your hands to the seal yet you stop yourself, deciding to share this moment with Vergil.

You find him in the study with several opened books across his desk, exactly as he had left them the night before. The door is open yet you knock to announce your presence. He doesn’t look up as he waves you in.

“I’ve yet to decipher these texts,” he says as you plop into the armchair across from where he stands. “I’m afraid the language may be too far removed from more recent demon tongue.”

“It’s fascinating how even demon language evolves.” He raises his gaze and you smile, lifting the envelope for him to see. “By the way, this came in the mail today. It’s got a wax seal. Think it might be important?”

Vergil’s attention flits to the envelope, then back to you. “Ominous.”

“Mm,” you agree. “Could be some wild invitation to battle to the death. Shall I open it?”

He nods, gesturing with a hand to carry on. You find anticipation builds as you peel back the seal and remove the folded letter within. The handwriting is scrawled, the penmanship overly decorated, but the words are thick, black and bold, as if written with an inkwell.

“Might need some more books to decipher this text, too,” you say with a snort, flashing the paper at Vergil who rolls his eyes in amusement. “Well, let’s see if I can read it.” You clear your throat with theatrics and shake the letter out, settling into your chair. “Dearest brother,” you start before you laugh. “Oh, spoiler alert.”

Vergil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dante...”

“Ever the showman,” you answer. “Okay, here we go.”

Dearest brother, I hope this letter finds you in good health and with haste, as time is not on our side. With the change of the season, I find myself longing to indulge in what has been described to me only as “holiday spirit.” It is for this reason that I cordially invite you and your love to my humble home for drink, company, and merriment. Sincerely, Dante

There’s a silence that follows during which Vergil rises to his full height. He closes his eyes while he folds his arms across his chest. You’re biting back your delight. “He sure knows how to make an entrance,” you say.

Vergil shakes his head before he holds out his hand, and without hesitation, you give him the letter. He scans the paper with pursed lips and brows drawn, then exhales a long-suffering sigh. “My brother has a propensity for theatrics.”

“And you don’t?”

He turns to you and for a moment, he seems scandalized. He flattens his expression. “It seems as though you already have an opinion.”

“The correct opinion.” There’s a playful thread between your banter and you can’t help but smile. “But so...” You tip your head and pull an accent that isn’t yours, “What say you?”

Vergil stares. For a moment, you think he’s going to admonish you, and yet his smile simmers with a telltale gleam. Your heart soars.

“Shall we respond in kind?”

You’ve decorated your shared space with lights and a tree, filled the living room with cheerful music, and hung stockings above the heater where you’ve joked that it’s the closest to a fireplace you have. You do this, and never once has Nero complained. He’s even assisted with stringing the lights around the top of the wall, further than you can stretch. Despite not being quite as enthusiastic about the holiday, you appreciate his acceptance of yours.

Beneath the glow of the flickering multi-colored lights, you’re placing a new ornament on the tree when Nero enters the front door. Clutched in his hand is an open envelope, familiar prickled irritation in the line of his shoulders.

“Welcome back.” Your brows knot in surprise. “What’s that?”

“Something stupid,” Nero answers. “It’s from Dante.”

You grin as you rise to your feet, clamoring over to the entrance while he’s distracted with shutting the door. He gets out a quick, “Hey!” before you snatch the envelope from his grip, spinning out of immediate reach.

“Oh, a seal? Fancy,” you’re saying as you slide the letter from its confines. Nero is following behind you, but each half-hearted swipe has you dodging. It’s a joyous dance that makes you giggle and you know that Nero isn’t truly angry; it’s for show when he throws his hands up and lets out a long groan, collapsing in a chair in front of the television like a cut marionette. “Did you read it yet?”

He sighs, jiggling his knee. “Got as far as the first line.”

You grin. “Then let’s read it together, hm?” Moving to stand behind him, you drape your arms around his shoulders and orient the letter in front of you both, resting your chin on the top of his head. “Oh, his handwriting is...”

“Fucking awful?” Nero supplies.

“Ornate,” you agree with a laugh. “Well, let’s see if I can read it.”

Dearest nephew, I bid you and yours good tidings! I am writing to cordially invite you and your loved one to join me at my abode for a holiday celebration this solstice. Fret not, for I will provide accommodations during your stay in the city of Red Grave. Sincerely, Dante

“What –”

“A party!” You unravel yourself from Nero’s warmth to sidle around him, beaming. “We’re definitely going.”

Nero stares at you and you stare back. There’s silence while his expression works into exhaustion. Nero breaks it with a click of his tongue. “Why’d he have to invite us to a party like an old vampire?”

“Why not?”

He snorts. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Just never would’a taken Dante for a family holiday kinda guy.”

You tilt your head with a patient stare, considering. “Well, Dante hasn’t really had a family until recently.” Nero quirks a brow. “I mean, you only got real confirmation a few months ago and Vergil –”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, waving his hand. Right, you think. Still a sore spot. “So you think Dante’ll invite him?”

You nod your understanding, slow and careful. “I think that’s likely.”

Nero’s lips mesh together as he nods, eyes falling to the floor, faraway in thought.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you say.

It takes Nero a moment to regain focus, but when he does, he’s looking at you with heavy deliberation. He’s reaching for your hands, drawing you into orbit until you’re standing between his knees. His thumbs rub small circles into your skin and you bask in his warmth. “You wanna go, right?”

“Could be fun,” you answer.

His chest fills on a deep inhale before he’s accepting his fate with surprising ease. “Okay, then can ya do me a favor and grab me the phone? I’ll let ‘im know.”

You grin. “You got it.”

[punkpresentmic]

Yamada has sensory issues with fabric/skin, so when Aizawl is shaving his face after usj and yamada will no snuggle into him neck, he think he has done a wrong thing.

I went ahead & set this after Bakugou was rescued from the League & Aizawa had to shave for that press conference. They work through some misunderstandings in the hectic time afterwards :)

Rated G, 1055 words

Shouta let out a long breath as he tugged off his tie with a vengeance. The whole press conference felt like a trap—like they were using him as shark bait—and the stiffness of the outfit they’d insisted he wear certainly had not helped with that. Bakugou was rescued, which was what mattered, but with All Might’s unexpected retirement and dangerous villains still loose, Shouta knew he wouldn’t hear the end of this for a long, long time. He’d take the night of respite while it lasted. 

He could hear the shower running as he stripped to his underwear, beyond ready to shed the uncomfortable clothes. He collapsed into bed with a huff, hearing the water turn off as he did. 

Soon Hizashi was sinking into their shared bed, still warm from his shower and smelling of his fancy conditioner. Shouta lifted their weighted blanket, waiting for the familiar press of his husband’s shape to his side so he could cocoon them both in as always. The routine was comforting, something they indulged in as often as their hectic schedules would allow. For a moment everything would be right in the world, exactly where it belonged: him and Hizashi in bed, wrapped in their blanket and each other. Hizashi would curl against his side with his face buried into his neck.

And that was what Hizashi did—everything settling into place in Shouta’s world��until Hizashi made a small sound. 

He pulled away from Shouta’s neck, moving instead to lie against his chest. It was a quick shift, and Hizashi didn’t mention it—nothing said but a murmured good night, I love you that Shouta returned, unquestioning though the change seemed glaring. 

They fell asleep together, almost but not quite the same as always, and they did the same over the next several days. In that time Shouta was pulled in a million different directions, having an important part to play in smoothing the transition to dorms. It was logical that Shouta was called to speak with student families. It was also logical given the circumstances that this transition would entail a move for him and Hizashi as well. He wished he could take a breath to discuss this with his husband, but their schedules barely overlapped to give them a second alone save for dropping into bed at the end of a too-long day for them both. 

Shouta was accustomed to being busy, but he’d never felt like such a marionette—kept dressed up and clean-shaven for parent meetings and press releases. It was wearing on him. And then there was Hizashi and the brief, almost-but-not-quite right moments they shared passing from one obligation to the next.

Hizashi’s typical go-to of an obnoxiously loud smooch to the cheek had been swapped out for princely kisses to the hand. It was sweet enough in its own right, but like the quiet shift in sleeping positions, it went unacknowledged. And choosing not to talk was never Hizashi’s style. It had Shouta stretching for answers, wondering if there was a reason behind it at all, wondering if this was a byproduct of stress, wondering if there was some need for a change, wondering if there was something Shouta had done wrong that was left swept under the rug to fester in all the chaos of ensuring the students’ safety. 

It nagged at the back of Shouta’s mind, that there could be a distance between them—subtle enough but noticeable—and beyond that, that some thoughtless, cutting comment or action of his could be behind it. 

He used the next opportunity he got: Hizashi returning home to Shouta dozing on the couch and promptly draping himself over Shouta’s chest with a deep sigh of relief. Hizashi was fidgety, likely a lot on his mind as he hummed an upbeat tune just to make noise. Shouta held him close. “Hi,” Shouta breathed up at the ceiling. 

“Hey. I’ve got a whole hour—can you believe it?”

Shouta made a noise of acknowledgement, then: “I missed you.” Hizashi melted further against him, reaching for his hand to press a long kiss to his knuckle, his humming paused for the moment, though a finger kept time to the beat. 

“Me too. You alright, Shou?” 

Shouta toyed with the hair that fell from Hizashi’s bun. “Is something wrong?” he asked finally. Hizashi’s tapping stopped. 

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t usually—” Shouta didn’t know where to begin explaining what he’d noticed. “Things have been a little… different lately… between us,” he tried instead. His fingers in Hizashi’s hair betrayed his nervousness as they danced faster, but his heartbeat had likely already done the same. “Did I… do something?” 

There was silence for a moment. Then to Shouta’s surprise and indignance Hizashi laughed—bright as the Sun. He sat up, holding Shouta’s hand to his heart, dipping to kiss it again. “No! No, you didn’t. It’s my—” He released Shouta to make a wide, fluttering gesture with both hands as he tried to think of how to put it, “—Skin thing.” He laughed again. “Yours feels differently lately,” he teased. 

It dawned on Shouta slowly, then all at once the puzzle pieces snapped together. His hand went to his unusually smooth cheek. 

Hizashi snorted at his face. “Yeah, that. Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you worrying; I’d assumed you’d guess. Stupid. Sorry.”

“Not stupid.” 

Hizashi’s smile was sweet. He squeezed Shouta’s hand. It made perfect sense; Shouta never shaved, not even for their wedding. The change alone must have been jarring, and that was paired with pre-existing issues with certain textures of skin and fabric. “It’s just such a weird feeling compared to usual! Doesn’t feel right, y’know? And it being you is almost like when you take a drink expecting water and get soda.” He shrugged, smile sheepish. “But I get it!” he was quick to add. “Of course I get it and it’s not like shaving your face is a bad thing; it’s just an uncomfortable sensory deal for me, I don’t want you to feel bad—”

“—Hizashi,” Shouta stopped him gently. “I understand.” He raised their entwined hands to give Hizashi’s a kiss of his own. “I love you. And I can’t fucking wait to not shave, or wear this stupid tie, ever again.” 

Hizashi dissolved into giggles, burying his head in Shouta’s chest once again.

[queenbirbs]

the mountain between us | Ethan x MC

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC (Sloane McTavish)

Rating: E

Warnings: language, adult content, N*FW, description of a panic attack

Word count: 8.1k

Summary: In which the return to Edenbrook doesn’t go as planned, or: Ethan and Sloane get the hell out of Dodge Boston. 

Notes: This story continues off my previous fic, waiting for rain , although this can be read as a stand-alone. It is a sort of AU of chapter 12, in which Danny has a separate funeral of his own (I mean, I get why PB wrote it to save time/redundancies, but I don’t see them somehow managing to secure burial plots right next to each other? Anyway, the wonders of fiction aside…). 

------

She makes it to the diagnostic office with two seconds to spare. 

The muffled thump of the door meeting the casing is like a gunshot, echoing in the quiet room. She stumbles past the table and over to the couch, trying to get out of direct line of sight. The leather creaks under her weight as she collapses onto the cushion. That constant undercurrent of dread builds into a wave, washing over her. Her hands start to shake and soon, the rest of her body follows suit. The faux-wood grain of the coffee table before her is the only thing in focus; the rest of the world is warped, as if she’s viewing it through binoculars. Her heart feels as if someone has a fist around it and is trying to pull it free through her throat. 

“Stop… fucking… crying,” she hisses, wiping furiously at her cheeks. But her lacrimal glands pay no mind to her threats, nor does the rest of her when she begs it to stop panicking. 

All this, she bemoans, over plastic wrap -- just a patient’s sandwich that he asked for her help unwrapping. But the moment she touched it and felt it crinkle under her hands, she was back in that tented room, shrouded by the thick plastic draped over the walls, sealed in and suffocated by the opaque sheeting, waiting and waiting and waiting to die.

She doesn’t remember what terrible joke she made about not being a fan of tuna, nor does she remember the trip from the oncology ward to here, several floors down. None of her friends must have seen her, because none of them have followed her in here, at the ready with their hugs and assurances, suffocating in their own loving way.

“You’re the worst… person on earth,” she whispers, clenching her jaw in an effort to stave off another round of tears.

“Sloane?” 

She glances up to see Ethan stepping into the room, his mouth crumpled into that familiar frown of worry -- the one he’s worn ever since she returned. He says her name like it’s a question, as if she has the option to shake her head no and become someone else. It’s a tempting idea. Her reply is at the ready, as natural as breathing now. Not that she’s doing a very good job of doing the latter.

“I’m fine.” 

“I see that.” Though the words should be harsh, his tone is anything but -- weighed down by all the concern in the world, it seems. His gaze roves over her, observing and diagnosing her like the specimen she is, walking through Edenbrook’s halls once more. “You’re having a panic attack,” he says, more to himself than to her.

“Correction: my second. First was in the supply closet. Decided I wanted a change of scenery.” 

Although it’s a struggle to get the words out, her audience doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

“Do you want me to sit with you?” he asks.

“Please.” The plea is whispered into her clasped hands. She tightens her grip, trying in vain to stop the tremors working through her. 

Ethan crosses the room and takes a seat next to her, giving her the illusion of space by twisting at the waist to look at her. In blocking her view of the hallway, he also blocks them from seeing her. His hand comes to rest on the space between them, a show of support that doesn’t make her feel crowded or trapped. She could kiss him right now, if it weren’t for the whole world-feeling-like-it’s-falling-out-from-underneath-her sensation. Her lungs ache with each choppy, shallow breath she drags in. 

“I’m here. You’re safe with me.” 

Untangling her laced hands, she reaches down and rests her hand atop his. With a gentle motion, his fingers shift to nestle alongside hers, grounding her with the pleasant warmth of his touch. With her eyes closed, she focuses on the smooth breaths he takes, mimicking them as best she can. Seconds turn to minutes, marked only by his murmured phrases of assurance and his pulse, sure and steady under her palm. Gradually, her breath begins to ebb and flow, rolling in and out of her lungs in languid sweeps. 

She opens her eyes. The office fades into focus. The track lighting is still too bright, so she turns to Ethan. The sympathy welling in his eyes almost makes her want to shut hers again. His gaze tracks over her in a fitful dance; he’s mapping out each tear that stains her cheeks and neck.  

“I’m okay,” she tries this time. 

His eyebrows scrunch down as he studies her. 

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, fine, I’m not.” Sloane leans forward and rubs at her cheeks. If she puts her hair down, she could maybe make it to the bathroom and wash away the evidence before a staff member notices. “Have you thought any more about Aurora’s proposal?”

“The one you two dropped on me at the private memorial we had on Tuesday morning? No, I can’t say that I have.” Shaking his head, he pinches at the bridge of his nose and sighs. “God, Sloane, I don’t want to talk about the hospital. I don’t give a damn about it right now. I only care about you.” 

The cushion creaks as she shifts, uncertain how to drive the conversation away from her. She goes with the best tactic: avoidance. 

“Well, thanks, then. But I should go. I’ve wasted enough time as it is. I’ve got to pick up some labs and check up on Mr. Evans and see what Baz wanted from--” 

Ethan puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, once, then again. 

“Stop. Stop worrying about everybody else for a second.”

She snorts out a humorless laugh at that. “I’m serious,” he continues, pressing on her shoulder and urging her to look at him. “I know that you practically begged Naveen to let you come back to work, even after I told you no, but I think you need to give yourself more time. I think you pushed yourself too hard.”

“I was stuck here for three days, and then stuck at home for another four. I’m done waiting around. I can only take so much medical leave. And I can’t just… sit at home cowering in fear.”

“So you thought doing it at work would be better?” he asks candidly.

“Fuck you.” 

Sloane jumps to her feet and rounds the table, leaving him to throw his pity party for her all by himself -- then freezes. Outside the glass walls, the hallway is teeming with people. Nurses and orderlies and patients mill about, pushing gurneys and cleaning carts and wheelchairs. Several nurses at the station spot her and then, like marionettes on shared strings, turn towards each other at once, their chins tipped low as they converse. She feels like a zoo animal, on display for the hospital to ogle at. 

“Go home, Sloane,” comes Ethan’s voice from behind her. His footsteps drag across the rug as he approaches. “For another day or two, at least. Please.”

She turns from the hallway and brings her arms around her chest to hug herself tight. 

“I… it’s no walk in the park there, either. Being there alone is frightening enough, but when everybody’s home, they walk on eggshells around me. Even Jackie, who I can always count on to be a certified bitch, has been coddling me. It’s... I hate being home. It’s like they’re too afraid to say something that might -- I don’t know, offend me? -- so they don’t say anything at all. It’s like living with a ghost, except I’m Bruce Willis in this scenario.” She stops short, figuring she’ll have to explain that one, but he holds up his palm to keep the synopsis at bay. 

“I understand your reference. You know, I have seen a film or two.” 

“Coulda fooled me.” 

She tries for the usual smile that wants to form when making fun of his limited pop culture knowledge. Her bravado falls away, though, as he comes to stand close to her. His arms cross over his chest, as if attempting to keep his hands to himself in front of their audience. “You know what it was like for me,” she continues, “being in that room, doing nothing--”

He cuts her off, his blue eyes suddenly ablaze.

“That isn’t what I saw. You stood by Rafael’s side. You helped him when you yourself couldn’t walk without falling over. You lost every semblance of control during the worst moment of your life, and you still were able to relay the changes in your symptoms. You saved Rafael’s life--”

“That was all Tobias and the team’s--”

“You know as well as I do that patient care is more than an antidote in a syringe. You think that if we’d stuck him in a room alone, away from you, or inside one of those glass boxes that he would still be alive? Think again, Rookie.” 

The passion and heat in his voice, along with the return of her nickname, sends a tingle up the length of her spine. “I watched you struggle to be by his side. I watched you have all your faculties ripped away. Which is why I’m so worried that you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Ethan--” she starts, but he barrels right over the deflection attempt.

“If you had a patient who was experiencing the same symptoms at work, would you tell them to get over it? Would you tell them to push past their fears and their anxieties, in order to stay on the clock?” 

Her lips purse at his point, knowing that he’s right. But she doesn’t want to let him win this one.

“Doctors do a lot of things they tell their patients not to. We’re the biggest hypocrites of them all.”

“No, I think that honor falls on politicians,” he quips.  

The little laugh feels foreign in her mouth. She can’t help but notice the way his eyes light up in response to the noise. 

“I have an idea.” She raises a brow in interest, spurring him on. “Let me take you somewhere. Anywhere you’d like. We can leave today, spend a long weekend away. We’ll swing by your place, pack you a bag, and go.”

“And you think we can just… leave? Slack off on our duties like that? What about our patients?”

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a smirk. 

“You’re talking to the person who does the scheduling. And I happen to know your boss wouldn’t mind. My boss has been not-so-subtly sending me couples vacation rentals after seeing our appearance on national television.” 

Taking a deep breath, Sloane considers the offer as he watches her, not an ounce of hesitation on his face. That tingling sensation returns, banking higher and higher within her. 

“Okay,” she agrees, hating how her heart beats a little faster at the brilliant smile on his face. “I like the way you think. Let’s go.”

------

Within two hours, they load up Ethan’s car and make their way out of Boston, Jenner wiggling happily in the backseat. 

The city center gives way to the urban sprawl. That soon becomes overtaken by suburbia and its penchant for shopping outlets and tract housing. Sloane can’t help the sigh of relief that comes when they reach Medford and the city skyline drops away in the rearview. They leave the coastal lowlands of Massachusetts behind, heading north along the interstate and up into New Hampshire. Though she packed a bag with what little information he gave her, she’s curious still when they stop at a food truck for lunch. 

“You realize you could hit the navigation screen on the GPS, right?” Ethan points out. “It’ll tell you exactly where we’re going.” 

“That’s cheating. I thought you taught me to be a better doctor than that.”

“No, I taught you how to be a smarter doctor. Besides, you’re the one knowledgeable about technology.” When she doesn’t immediately outright ask, he settles back in his chair and pets Jenner when she approaches for attention. “All right, then. Diagnose it.”

Sloane’s fork pauses on its way to her mouth. She shoots him an incredulous look, but when he simply cocks an eyebrow, she takes the bait. 

“We’re headed north. At first, I thought Maine, especially with what you suggested I bring, but we’ve gone too far west now. It wouldn’t make any sense to make a big right turn and head east. And we’re not going as far as Canada, because you didn’t tell me to bring my passport -- which I do have, by the way, though I’ve only gotten to use it one time.”

“I know,” he tells her. “There’s several photos of your semester abroad on your Pictagram page.” 

“Those photos are from my senior year of undergrad. That means you scrolled for quite a while, Dr. Ramsey.” It’s impossible to miss the blush burning along his cheeks and up his ears. Sloane tips her head to the side, eyes wide, her words teasing: “Were you that interested in Stockholm?”

“It’s a lovely city.” 

That thick, bottom lip of his ticks up in a grin. The little cafe suddenly feels too warm for her, but she resists the urge to tug at her sweater.

“Right. So, not Canada. I have to admit, I’m not well-versed in what New Hampshire or Vermont have to offer, other than maple syrup and hiking. Ooh, and Ben and Jerry’s.” Twirling her straw wrapper around her finger, she looks him over for another minute before giving up with a shrug. “Nope, I’ve got nothin’.”

“Some dedicated physician you are.” 

His grin widens as the balled-up wrapper hits his chest. 

------

They leave the interstate behind after entering Vermont.

Instead, the state highway takes them through the proper countryside. When the satellite radio fails to connect, Sloane steals the aux cord and plugs in her phone. Ethan’s protests quiet down soon enough when, instead of the pop drivel he expects, Nat King Cole croons out of the speakers. 

The Taconic mountains roll along beside them, as if shielding them from the outside world; Sloane appreciates the gesture. Clusters of horses and cattle float along in their fenced-in pastures, the grass rippling under a light wind blowing off the mountains. Towns seem to sneak up on them as the road curves through the valley. Tiny stores and tiny gas stations and tiny churches, Johnson’s Hardware and Morgan’s Jewelry and Lee’s Drugstore line up along the roadside. Hanging signs advertise berry farms and local maple syrup, their arrows pointing up into the hills. Then the highway curves again, and the towns disappear from the rearview. 

Sloane watches it all from her reclined position against the center console, her hand in Ethan’s as he drives. Jenner’s wet nose bumps against her cheek when the Boxer mix demands affection. Though they swore off it back in Massachusetts, they talk about work, which leads them to medical articles, which leads them to the inaccuracies in medical dramas. Serenading about her need for a Sunday kind of love, Etta James joins them as they cross into New York. 

It doesn’t take too long before the feminine voice of the GPS announces that they’ve arrived. Sloane does a double-take at the welcome sign as they pass it. 

“Wait -- isn’t this where that horror movie was set?” she asks. 

“The film took place in Maine, actually.”

“How are you suddenly an expert on horror movies from the late nineties? And how did I not know that? Did I finally find your film niche?” 

“My friend forced me to attend his Halloween party in high school,” he admits with a sigh. 

They pass by the shops and bars and restaurants that line Main Street, all the brick facades and rugged decor blocking the view. Locals and fellow tourists clog the sidewalks, meandering in and out of the storefronts as they enjoy the afternoon sunshine. Eventually, the buildings fall away, and the world is filled with nothing but a cloudless sky and clear water that stretches wide beyond the guardrail. Just over a stretch of land, Lake Placid burns a deep blue in the sunlight.

Sloane keeps her eyes on the sights, but shifts her attention back to the man in the driver’s seat.

“Okay, now I have to know: what was your costume?” 

“A doctor,” he says, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. 

She chuckles at the image of a teenage Ethan in his white coat and his patterned tie, swimming in his tailored shirts and trousers, lecturing his friends on the risks of alcohol poisoning.  

“Oh my god, of course you did. Did you at least dump fake blood on yourself or something?”

“No.” His brow crinkles as he glances over at her, confused. “Why would I have done that?”

“To look scary.”

A smirk appears on his face at the idea. “Right. And what did you dress up as when you were sixteen?”

“I’m pretty sure I went as Daphne. My girlfriend Ruby went as Velma.”

“What, you didn’t douse yourself with fake blood?”

“Honestly, we should have. That would’ve looked badass.”  

Ethan shakes his head at her, but she can see that smirk of his hasn’t disappeared. Turning off the main drag, he takes them down a one-lane road that winds back into the wilderness. After passing the town lodge, the occasional driveway and accompanying mailbox are the only signs of human life among the towering pines.

The house is tucked back off the road, a pretty little cottage painted robin’s egg blue. Two rocking chairs frame either side of the front door. Once Sloane releases her, Jenner darts out and takes full advantage of the lush front lawn, sniffing along the shrubs and tree line. Leaving Jenner to her exploring, Ethan hauls in their bags with Sloane following behind. The rustic decor leans too far towards kitschy for both of them, but she finds the log bed frame and large, dramatic painting of a howling wolf charming. The real draw, though, is the wide back deck, where the sea of trees parts to offer a stunning view of the lake. 

It’s the perfect place, she decides later while sipping from her second glass of scotch, to watch the sunset. From his position, Ethan seems to agree. His arms are wrapped around her waist as they spread out across the porch swing. Bundled up in scarves and blankets to ward off the evening chill, they watch the sky turn from blue to orange to black. The stars, when they fade into view, are thrown into sharp relief against the night. It’s almost dizzying to be able to see so many. 

It reminds her of back home, of lying on Ruby’s hood in her grandparents’ driveway under the pretense of looking for falling stars, but actually making out under the cover of darkness. 

Curled up atop their feet, Jenner sighs in her sleep; Sloane mimics the noise, stretching out against Ethan. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his lips against her temple.  

“Do you remember the Stevensons’ house down in North Quincy?” he asks, continuing before she can respond, because he knows that she doesn’t forget a patient. “This place reminds me of that. But the desire for peace and solitude makes a lot more sense to me, now.”

She shifts in his arms to rest her cheek against his shoulder. 

“It reminds me of where I grew up, in this one-horse town in Virginia.” It’s a detour of the conversation he wants to have, but she can’t help but avoid talking about That for just a little while longer. “I mean, really, a real hole-in-the-wall kind of place. My grandparents lived there for sixty years, though, so that was home. When I was nine, my mom dropped me and my brother off at their house and never came back. So, it became our home, too. They took us in and let us have the run of the land -- which was easy to do, since we were surrounded on all sides by mountains. I was happy there -- happier than I’d been with my mom. But I spent a lot of time daydreaming about living in the big city, going to all the college parties that I saw on television, and travelling the world.” 

His grip tightens around her. “And then you didn’t,” he murmurs. 

“No, I didn’t,” is all she says, knowing he’s replaying her deathbed confession in his head, just as she is. “Though I blame that more on becoming infatuated with this diagnostician who wrote all these amazing books, and who inspired me to go to medical school and one day become one of the country’s greatest doctors.”

“What do you mean?” At her hum of confusion, he clarifies. “You already are, Sloane.” 

Tears spring to her eyes at his declaration, but she hides them by burrowing closer into his warmth. 

“But yeah, despite growing up in the middle of nowhere, it’s nice to be there again. I mean, you can’t get views like this back in Boston.” She waves a hand towards the thick spread of stars above them.  

“Your file didn’t list your grandparents as contacts.”

The invitation to talk about her past lies in the proverbial space between them; she takes it.  

“They passed within a few months of each other when I was seventeen. They left what little they had to me and my brother, and I used that to get to college.” 

She tells him about the farmhouse and how it would become so big and lonely; and the vintage, rose-patterned sofas that would collect dust; and the little kitchen at the back that would never smell of fresh coffee and banana bread again. 

She doesn’t tell him about how it felt like being abandoned all over again. 

Time has healed the wound’s edges, but it flares to life on occasion. Over the years, she’s learned to sit with the grief, to take long moments to study it and inspect it and move through it. It’s how she knows, despite the horrific tragedy at Edenbrook, that she’ll be okay. Maybe not right now, or next week, or next month, but someday. 

From inside, muffled through the French doors, comes Gladys Knight singing about life’s ups and downs. Sloane closes her eyes, focusing on the song and on the steady brush of Ethan’s thumb as he strokes her arm. Across the dark expanse of the woods, a whippoorwill calls out, its warble echoing off the water. 

At some point, she stirs to the sensation of movement, of warm lines of pressure along her back and behind her knees. Ethan is talking to Jenner in that low, gravelly voice of his, as if trying not to wake her. Before she can tease him for it, the blanket of sleep wraps around her once more. 

------

After a lengthy argument on staying in bed versus exploring the town, Ethan takes the loss with a surprising amount of grace. 

Oh, he grumbles a bit as he tugs on his sweater and makes several comments on how proper vacation etiquette does not include rising before nine a.m. But once she gets him downtown to the farmer’s market and gives him the task of finding the ugliest souvenir for her to give to her roommates, he perks right up. 

Under a stretch of white tents, card tables are laden with wares and plants and produce. Buckets of brightly-colored croton and chrysanthemums flare against the white tablecloths. Necklaces, fishing lures, and welded sculptures glint, swing, and jingle, catching the attention of passers-by. Wines and cheeses and honey are bottled and wrapped and canned, their labels touting how local, how fresh, how organic they are. From somewhere along the thoroughfare comes the smell of hot apple cider as it drifts between the stalls. 

Sloane is marveling at a collection of wind chimes that she has no use for whatsoever when she feels a hand settle on her lower back.  

“I found it.” There’s a strange sense of pride in his voice as he lifts a nondescript, brown paper bag up for emphasis. Jenner knocks her body into his legs, as if reminding him of her role in the game. “Alright, well, technically Jenner did.” 

“What is it?”

“As per your request, the most hideous object known to mankind.”

“I don’t think I was that--”

“Fine,” he concedes, “known to this region -- or state, at the very least.” 

Out from the Lake Placid News’s crumpled pages comes a tankard of a coffee mug with Don’t confuse your GOOGLE search with my Medical Degree! printed along the side. Then, stamped underneath as if an afterthought: Adirondack Mountains, NY. Sloane stares at it with a sort of horrified amazement. 

“It’s…” she trails off, unable to form words. 

“I know,” Ethan agrees, turning the mug around to read over it again. Looped around his wrist is another smaller bag.

“What else did you get?” 

“That one’s a surprise.”

Jostling the tote bag on her shoulder, she gestures to the cork sticking out. “I bought us some wine to go with dinner. C’mon, show me what you bought.” It may sound like she’s whining, but she’s not. 

“Are you unaware of how surprises work?” he questions, raising a brow at her insistence. 

“Okay, fine.” She lets the topic slide, grinning and rolling her eyes at his desire for secrecy.

Reaching towards him, he answers in kind by sliding his arm through hers. They spend the rest of the morning strolling through the stalls together. He buys a nice bottle of bourbon for Naveen; she buys a little box of self-care items for Sienna. When Sloane comments to the shop owner on the pretty photo printed around the candle, he mentions that it’s his own photograph of a nearby trail. 

“It’s a short hike, no more than three miles roundtrip,” Terry tells them as he wraps up her gift. “You pass Lake Placid Lodge and keep going about four, four ‘n a half miles, and the trail is at the end of the road. You can’t miss it.” 

------

Terry was right. 

It’s impossible to miss the trail, given that four-hundred feet past their cottage, the road dead ends in a gravel semi-circle. Two boulders and a single post mark the trailhead: Kiver Mountain, 1.4 miles. After dropping off their purchases and changing into more terrain-friendly shoes, they set off on foot from the cottage.  

Despite autumn’s grip on the foliage above, the last vestiges of late summer remain on the forest floor. Thick, leafy undergrowth makes the trees appear as if swimming in a downy sea of green. The hike’s elevation gain is slow and steady, which Sloane is grateful for, considering that eighty percent of her exercise comes in the form of running up and down hospital hallways. The other twenty percent is spent with ‘the boys’ in their dungeon gym that hasn’t seen the wet side of a paint roller since the Clinton administration. The views there, however, certainly make up for the lack of decor.  

It’s the same view she’s enjoying now, what with Ethan in front of her. There is something to be said about wearing the proper apparel for such an activity, she’s finding.

“Sloane?” 

Her gaze shoots up just as Ethan twists to look over his shoulder. “Were you listening?”

“No, sorry, I was--” she fumbles for something to say. The altitude must be getting to her, she reasons, because the next words out of her mouth were about to be ‘staring at your ass.’ “--um, I thought I saw a… snake.”

“They’re usually more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“You’ve never experienced me with a snake before.” 

“I’ll make sure to warn them of your presence if I see one, then.”   

“All snakes in the surrounding area just gave a collective sigh of relief.”

Her poor attempt at humor earns her an exasperated sigh, though she does catch the chuckle that follows. Ethan keeps talking, but she doesn’t really hear him. Mostly due to the fact that Jenner and he keep going, while her attention is caught by a small, branching path through the trees.

It’s been a long time since she spent a weekend away from the city. When her friends spent fall break camping or borrowing a friend of a friend’s uncle’s boat to cruise around on the lake, she stayed holed up at her desk, studying and outlining. Her first copy of Diagnostic Principles looks like she closed it around a rainbow, what with all of the colorful sticky notes peeking out from the pages. That same copy moved with her through every dorm at Duke, all the way across the Atlantic for her semester at Karolinska, and then at every off-campus apartment at Johns Hopkins. 

After she left for college, the closest she came to the wilderness were the views on her Pictagram feed, or the nature documentaries Aurora likes to watch. Here, as Sloane pushes past bristly limbs, the scenery stretches out before her, live and in full-color. Drenched in sunlight, the valley stretches wide to whatever direction she’s facing. A trio of birds swoop down from above her, heading towards the staggering shelves of trees that line the distant hills. At the furthest edge, the blue shadows of the mountains melt into a spatter of gray clouds. It’s all very picturesque, so much so that when she hears a noise on the path behind her, she expects to turn and see a frolicking deer. 

“Did you not hear me calling your name? What are you doing?” Ethan demands, his jaw firmly set as he looks her over. Trotting along beside him, Jenner sniffs at the ground, unaware of the impending argument. Sloane hops down from the outcropping she climbed for a better view.

“Sorry, I was--”

“You shouldn’t go off on your own like that.” The heat of frustration burns along his reprimand, surprising her with its intensity for such a small offense. “This isn’t a walk around the block back home. I was-- you can’t disappear on me like that.” 

Sloane tries to let his tone roll off, but she also isn’t going to roll over for him. She sucks in a breath and mentally counts to five. 

“Wow, okay. You’ve never fought me before about something so absurd. What’s this really about?”

In an instant, the fire is gone from his eyes. Ethan wipes a hand across his face and over his jaw; he gives his head a little shake, as if rousing himself from the spell of anger. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, the blue of his eyes burning cool now. “I hoped that if we got away from the hospital that…” his words trail away under the birdsongs echoing around them. 

Sloane takes Jenner’s leash and motions for Ethan to keep moving up the trail. She gives him an encouraging look when he glances over, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. The gentle slope becomes steep stone steps that they trudge up, climbing higher and higher, wary of the loose ones that wiggle under their feet. 

“I thought that I would get better at this,” he finally says.

“This?” she prods.

“At coming to terms with what happened. And not just with you, although that’s a large part of it, obviously. But when Naveen was sick, when he was damn near death, I could still work. I could still be Doctor Ramsey. But when you…” he swallows and shakes his head again. At his sides, his hands clench into fists. “I was terrified, and I think some parts of me still are. But when I was in that lab with Travis, and I saw him lying on that bed near death, I felt vindicated in some horrible way. I was happy that he was in pain, for what he did to you.” 

“Ethan--”

“He refused to give me any information,” he bowls over her attempt at reassurances, his voice strained. “Then he begged me to ease his suffering. It was his dying request and I walked away. As someone whose friends he had killed and injured, I can compartmentalize that. But as a physician, how can I continue treating patients? How can I work with them when I not only failed, but refused to ease another patient’s suffering?”

They reach the top and step out onto the cliff.

Over the edge, purple-tipped shrubs choke the rock shelves that stagger down the cliff until they reach the forest floor below. The valley dips low before them, cradled by a long line of mountains in the distance. They roll along in a lazy sort of wave, deepening to a hazy blue the farther they stretch. True to its name, the water of Lake Placid is calm and still, reflecting the foliage’s vibrant array of colors, fuschias and reds and oranges peppering the mountains that flank the lake. Pale crags of rock decorate some of their peaks, so bleached from the sun that they almost look like snow.

Keeping a firm grip on Jenner’s leash, she breaks the silence they’ve fallen into. 

“Unfortunately, you suffer from something incurable.” At his answering noise of interest, she wraps an arm around his waist and hugs him close. “You’re human.”

His hand sweeps across her back, holding her tight. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She shoves down her need to use humor as an emotional crutch by mentioning this must be a record number of apologies for him. Instead, she lets her head rest on his shoulder. 

“What for?” 

“For burdening you with my problems, which pale in comparison to what you went through. It’s not fair to--”

“Hey,” she cuts him off, hugging him tighter for a beat. “You can’t work through the trauma if you discount it like that.”

“You sound just like Naveen.”

“Smart minds think alike.” 

Her heart squeezes at his familiar, half-formed huff of laughter. They spend a good length of time at the top, enjoying the peaceful view and watching clouds roll in from the west. Eventually, her stomach growls and he teases her about doing strenuous activity on an empty stomach. Jenner leads the way as they start back down the trail. 

The two boulders and trailhead sign come into sight just as the rain arrives. 

Fat raindrops plod the canopy above, drumming through the leaves and onto them. Ethan lets out an undignified yelp when cold rain lands on him, prompting a full-throated laugh from Sloane. They race down the path, sprinting between the boulders and down the road. Jenner barks with excitement when she tugs free of Sloane’s grip and barrels ahead of them.  

They reach the cottage, Jenner at his heels when Ethan rushes inside for towels. He makes it to the hall closet before realizing that Sloane isn’t following. Retracing his steps, he returns to the little porch and finds her standing out on the front path. Her arms are stretched out beside her as the rain soaks her clothes and hair. He sets the towels down on the rocking chair and approaches her, raising his voice to be heard above the downpour. 

“What are you doing?” 

“It’s silly,” she answers with a shrug. Contentment and grief coat the words; it’s an effort to push them free of her throat. This close, he can see the rivulets of water running along her trembling lips. “But I was waiting for this. It’s been sunny every day since… and all I wanted was for it to rain.” 

It’s not difficult to recall her angry words as they drove away from Danny’s funeral. 

“It’s not silly.” Reaching for her, he takes her hand and guides her under the porch and out of the storm. “Silly would be how I worry about you constantly now -- that if I leave you alone, or you go off somewhere without me knowing, that it could happen again. I’m terrified, Sloane, of losing you again. Every patient room you step into could lead to another disaster, and it might be another one that I can’t fix.”

He keeps busy while he talks, picking up a towel and wrapping it around her shoulders. With another he dries her hair; his fingers clench and release the wavy strands like he saw her do a lifetime ago in their shared hotel room.  

“It’s why I’ve been keeping tabs on you this week,” he says with no small amount of embarrassment. “Why I’ve been following you around the hospital. It’s how I knew to go to the office yesterday. And I know that’s awful and overbearing of me, and I understand on every sensible level that you’re safe. But there’s that one percent of something that keeps me at it.”

Sloane reaches up for the towel in his hands and tugs it away, letting it drop to the ground. He cups the back of her head and settles her against his chest, right against his heart where she belongs. 

“I’ve spent enough years being a cynic and a pessimist, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Ethan clears his throat, swallows, and steadies on. “But when I held your hand that night, I didn’t think about what the next hour would bring, because I wasn’t sure if that next hour would include you. And to have to stand there and watch you -- you, who’s always brave in the face of death and danger -- accept your fate in those last hours, that scared me more than anything.” 

“I knew it would hurt more if I begged you all to save me.” She feels the shaky rise of his chest, the tension of the muscles as he goes rigid at her words. “But I’m glad I wasn’t alone.” Her cheeks are wet with tears -- whether his or hers, she isn’t sure. “I -- my grandma, we didn’t make it to the hospital in time before she passed, and she died alone, and I know that hurt my grandpa more than anything. So I’m glad you were with me.” 

When he speaks, the passion and heartache in his tone unfurls something in her chest. 

“I don’t want to waste what time we have left. I’m tired of playing pretend. I’m tired of holding myself back. I don’t know what to do, other than tell you that I care about you, and that I want to be with you. And I know it’ll be messy, and I don’t have all the answers for how we go about it, but I know that I want you so goddamn much, Sloane, that I don’t care anymore.” 

Gripping his wet shirt, she pulls him down for a kiss. He answers in kind, his lips dragging against hers; his hands come up to frame her face, to keep her close as he drops another kiss, then two, then three against the corner of her mouth. The roar of the rain turns to a muffled drum as they fumble their way through the door and down the hall. 

The bedroom is lit only by the tall windows, reflecting what weak sunlight manages through the cloudy sky. A wall of fog floats between the trees, blocking out the rest of the world. Sloane leans down to the nightstand and flicks on the Tiffany lamp. Honeyed shafts of light fill the space, warming the room with their glow. 

Ethan peels their wet clothes away, stripping the both of them bare. His lips cruise every inch of her damp skin; she shivers at the cool, stagnant air of the bedroom, then again at the heat of his mouth as he kisses her shoulder, her breast, her belly. He guides her to the bed and she sinks onto the soft mattress, the sheets smelling of them: his soap and her shampoo, his aftershave and her lotion. It’s a scent she wants to wake up to every morning. 

“I never got to take my time with you,” he laments as he lays her down. Goosebumps follow in his wake as he runs the backs of his knuckles down her throat. He cups one breast and then the other, brushing the pad of his thumb over her pebbled nipples. Mesmerizing, he thinks, of the sweet noises she makes and the way her hips shift in time to his touch. 

“We’ve got time,” she assures him, her fingers trailing up and down his ribs. She’s unable to hide her grin when he squirms, obviously ticklish around his sixth and seventh rib. Lifting up onto his knees just enough to capture her hands, he presses her to the bed and takes a long moment to admire.

Frizzled from the rain, her strands spread across the pillow and dampen it -- no doubt the one that he’ll end up being forced to sleep on. The light dusting of freckles across her nose and shoulders are more pronounced in the yellow light. There’s the scar along her inner thigh from climbing over chicken wire to feed the hens, the burn mark on her inner arm from fumbling a hot pan of cinnamon rolls. He kisses the sharp cut of her cheekbone and the soft skin of her stomach, reveling in every facet of her. He takes a deep breath, and then another; they feel like his first real ones since approaching the window of that damned room. 

Her hands, along with the rest of her, squirm underneath his hold.   

“Ethan.” 

He doesn’t ask what she’s demanding; he takes one of his hands back and urges her thighs apart, pressing the heel of his palm against her and circling her wet heat. Her response is almost as erotic as the act itself; her knees jerk up, her muscles stuttering as her body rolls into his touch. Her freed hand snakes down her body to circle his wrist, her nail digging into his pulse point as she directs him how she likes. Increasing the pressure, Ethan can feel his cock growing harder as he watches her enjoyment. He’s too enthralled by her; his grip loosens on her other hand. In a flurry of movement, she’s got an arm around his neck and hauls him down to her for a messy kiss. He retaliates by changing gears; he slides two fingers inside her, delighted at the strangled moan that escapes her. 

“Is it good?” he asks, unable to stop the smarmy grin on his face. 

“Yes,” Sloane breathes out. She rolls her hips down when he curls his fingers and strokes her with all the precision in the world. “Yes, it’s good, it’s--” the words are lost to the crest of another wave as it pounds through her. She squeezes his wrist in a vice-like grip, keeping him where she needs him, and croaks out his name as she comes. 

He eases the glide of his fingers, but doesn’t stop until he’s got her climbing again.

“God, you’re still so tight.” He nuzzles the arm she has planted against his shoulder, nipping at the sweat-tinged skin. Her fingers dig into his flesh in time with his thrusts. “So responsive, all for me.” 

“Please,” she begs, “please, Ethan, I need--”

In a flash, he slides down her body, scoops up her hips, and drags the flat of his tongue across her. Sloane cries out, arching up into the wet heat of his mouth. His knees ache as he kneels before her and worships, coaxing hymns from her lips until she’s dragged under once more. Ethan eases her down from her high, running his fingers up and over her hip as her equilibrium returns. He rouses from his own arousal-induced haze at the sensation of fingers stroking through his hair.

“Come here.” 

He goes, without question, into the circle of her awaiting arms. She meets him with a messy kiss, her tongue tracing the corner of his mouth. His blood pulses hot underneath his skin, knowing she’s tasting herself on his lips. One of her curious hands skims along his stomach and down to wrap around his cock. 

“I want to make you feel good, too,” she murmurs, stroking him with a quick, little twist at the base, her thumb swiping across the swollen head. He barely holds it together, clenching his jaw to keep from thrusting into her hand like some horny teenager. “I… ever since that last time, you’re all I think about.”

“It’s the same for me,” he admits, too many emotions bubbling to the surface that he isn’t comfortable with declaring right now. Pressed against the long line of her body, he feels the vibration of her laughter when it comes, ringing through the room. 

“Well, yeah, that too. I was mostly talking about when I masturbate, though.” 

“Oh.” The word tumbles out before his brain has a chance to catch up and say something suave. It gets another giggle out of her, though -- and he finds that the taste of her laughter is even better than the sound of it. “Christ, Sloane,” he groans when he breaks their kiss, “tell me what you need.”

“You,” she says in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were stupid for expecting another answer.  

Ethan slides an arm across her back, cradling her close, needing to feel her against every inch of him. He pushes into her soaked heat, his breath escaping him in a moan when she digs her nails into his shoulders. Giving her a moment to adjust to the stretch, he nips at the soft skin of her breasts, pleased with the rosy marks that bloom from his attention. One of her hands drifts down to his ass and squeezes. 

“Move,” she begs.

At her command, he does; he wraps his free hand around her hip and uses the leverage to drag his cock in and out of her with short, heavy strokes. Her legs come up to encircle his waist, her body rocking up to meet his. The new angle is sweeter, deeper than before. Sloane gasps at his next thrust. Words fall free from his lips, nothing more than murmurs of praise. She writhes and keens underneath him; he has enough wherewithal to slide a hand down between them, knowing exactly what she needs. The rhythmic clenching of her sends him overboard with her, the both of them are dragged under the warm sea of pleasure. He pulls out and collapses next to her, nestling close when she slings an arm across him. The room spins around them as they wait for their breathing to turn to normal. 

As his heart rate slows, he finally hears it: the rain, beating steadily against the tin roof, a cocoon of white noise that shelters them from the outside. Before he can speak, he hears another familiar sound. Sloane rubs her nose against his shoulder and chuckles. 

“What was it that you said about strenuous activity on an empty stomach?” 

His laughter echoes through the room. After some poking and prodding, he manages to convince her to get out of bed and meet him in the kitchen. Ethan is reprimanding Jenner for dancing around his feet and gathering ingredients when she wanders in, dressed only in his button-down and a pair of wool socks. He manages to not whack his head against the upper cabinets, but only just barely. 

“Hey, you never showed me what you bought.” 

He follows her finger to the little brown bag, still sitting on the bar where he dropped it off earlier.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he says. 

“And satisfaction brought it back,” she replies in a sing-songy tone.  

“Go ahead. Open it.” 

He watches her sift through the tissue paper and lift the object out. The snow globe catches in the kitchen’s recessed lights. Inside the glass is an overly-contrasted photo of Lake Placid, looking out towards Whiteface Mountain and the surrounding Adirondacks. “I figured you could add this to your collection.”

Sloane looks up in confusion. “My collection?”

“When I visited your apartment, I noticed the one you had from Stockholm on your shelf. Now, the next time you travel, you’ll know what tacky souvenir to buy yourself.” 

“Why would I do that, when I have you to do it for me?” she teases. 

Setting the snow globe down on the table and away from Jenner’s interested nose, she crosses the kitchen and slides her arms around his waist. The kiss she gives him is gentle and sweet, her lips curled into a smile as they press against his; he wishes for a thousand more. “But that’s a good idea. Too bad I didn’t get one in Miami.” 

He switches on the gas stove, glancing back at her with an impish grin. 

“We could always go back.”

“You know,” she hums, “I like the way you think.”

------ 

Author’s notes and what-have-yous: 

There’s probably a reference to something recognizable in here, but the only one I can think of is a line from an Alan Jackson song (don’t ask, I’m just having fun). 

[keiths3dart]

Max in The Black Lodge: a Life is Strange / Twin Peaks Crossover.

Part 3.

The thing most casual viewers don't realise about Chloe Price is just how vulnerable she is. For years she's projected this rebellious, 'Hella Gay, Fuck You’ attitude. Drink, drugs, sex, familial discord, flunking school, limited social circle, Chloe embraced the lot. Every self destructive impulse leapt upon with gusto.

It was all a front, Chloe's big secret was the fact that she's a sweet, funny, loving, and decent girl living to be loved. Whose father was taken from her. Whose best friend moved away and indeed moved on. Whose first love cheated on her (and with a man of all things!), then left. Who basically circled the emotional wagons and held the world at bay with a snarl and a defiant middle finger. Her demeanour, borne of feelings of abandonment and loneliness becoming a self fulfilling and self sustaining state of permanent friction and conflict in her life.

Well that was until Max came back into it. Until Max saved it. Numerous times. At a horrendous hidden psychological cost Max had still to face the bill for. Until Max peeled back the layers of hurt Chloe had padded her bruised heart with, letting the real Chloe shine back through, something Chloe had never allowed to happen, not since Rachel. Maybe not even with Rachel, maybe she'd even played up those traits since it seemed to be received positively by the volatile blonde.

And now Chloe finds herself in a remote woodland clearing looking down at Max's shoulder bag, abandoned on the ground next to the final forlorn dying embers of a small campfire.

She knows exactly how it feels.

Chloe was drained of everything, she felt like an empty shell just standing there in the clearing, unable to think. Her every fibre felt like it was plummeting into an infinitely dark abyss, dragging her thoughts with her.

Max had gone again. The love she had let back into her heart felt like it had been torn straight out of her chest. She felt so, just So. Fucking. Alone. Again.

As Chloe stood in the clearing trembling in dismay, Deputy Bobby Briggs scouted around the fringes of the clearing, looking for any signs of where Max had exited the clearing and what direction she had gone. His companion, the big Nez-Pence tribesman Deputy Hawk was poking about in the fire. His weathered face was grave.

Hawk was concerned. He knew this clearing. This place was known in his tribal legend, this had been the destination Agent Dale Cooper uncovered in his investigations into the greater mysteries unearthed by the Laura Palmer case. Cooper had disappeared at this very spot and had later returned. Different. Then, abruptly, he had left and no-one knew where. Even his superiors at the FBI had no idea. They'd been in Twin Peaks several years ago asking questions about Cooper, Gordon Cole and the other one, that insufferable little shit Albert Rosenthal.

Hawk looked at his partner with sadness. Poor Bobby, his father Major Briggs had disappeared too a few years later. Again on this very spot. Bobby continued to comb the perimeter but Hawk knew he would not find an exit trail. The darkening shadow on his heart told him that Max too had departed this earth for… The Other Place. Whatever the hell that was. The question was, would Max return like Cooper had? Or would her friend Chloe have to live with the loss and uncertainty of Max remaining missing. Hawk had seen how it had affected Bobby, and Bobby had not had the best of relations with his father. Hawk looked to Chloe now, his experienced eye could see she was on the verge of emotional collapse. Perhaps she too felt that sinking dread that seeped from the very ground of this supernatural place.

This was going to be a difficult conversation. Hawk knew he needed to talk to Chloe. Needed to say Something at least. But all his years of police experience couldn't provide more than a number of carefully nuanced platitudes he knew Chloe would see through in a second. Then go in to complete meltdown.

What could he do though? The truth of the matter, absolutely preposterous though it seemed was: that her friend Max had been taken from this place to, some other world/reality/dimension by persons/beings unknown for the purposes of fuck only knows and may / may not return at some undisclosed point in the future and may / may not be a barking mad murderous psychopath when they do.

“Fuck that” thought Hawk and Opted instead to use the hollow platitudes from the Crisis Response Management course Harry had sent him on when he made Deputy Chief.

“Chloe…” he began before he sensed something. A change in the air like static electricity or…

The whole of space and time exploded at once, spinning off in an infinite number of directions at once, the whole of creation in one spiralling maelstrom of light, sound, and sensation. Right in front of deputy Hawk.

But it was the sudden knee to the face that took the big man down.

Max was feeling dreamy, she'd lost herself in the soporific rhythm of the gentle shuffle beat for a moment. Or had it been hours?

This thought brought Max back to her senses. Her environment had been acting on her like a drug, lowering her alertness, subtly sedating her mind.

“That Food-Eater Jefferson must love it in here” Max thought venomously.

Almost on cue, like he'd been summoned by the very thought of his name, the head of Mark Jefferson turned to face Max.

“OLLEH XAM!” he said in that eerie style the inhabitants of this room used.

Max felt like recoiling from that gaze. Bad memories. But Max had grown to be made of sterner stuff. She would NOT let that scumbag have power over her. So she held the gaze, pouring all of her rage and loathing into that gaze. A gaze that would have reduced Chloe to ashes, would have sent Chuck Norris fleeing in panic to the florist to get something to apologize with, fell in vain upon the impassive face of Mark Jefferson as he now began to rise from his seat.

“I DLUOC ERUTPAC UOY NI A TNEMOM” he intoned, framing Max with his hands, like an imaginary camera.

Max had heard this particular speech before, and she began to edge away from Jefferson and the little man who now sat next to him, watching the whole exchange with amusement.

Suddenly the air was rend by a piercing scream. Max span round to see Rachel Amber, leaning forward in her chair, her face contorted in rage letting out this ungodly screech.

It stopped Mark Jefferson in his tracks.

“ON! OUY T’NOD TEG OT EVAH REH.” Rachel's voice sounded harsh and bitter and Max watched on as Rachel thrust forward her right hand towards a suddenly terrified Jefferson.

“”ESAELP, ON” he whined.

“ERIF! KLAW HTIW EM!” Rachel spat, as Jefferson, chair and all was consumed by a pillar of fire.

The little Man began to laugh and clap his hands again.

That was it for Max. Wherever she was, it was time to leave. And Rachel was coming with her.

“Rachel, let's get out of here” she said, grabbing Rachel by the arm.

Rachel looked up at her uncertainly.

“EREHT SI ON YAW TUO” the little man said solemnly.

“Mm m Max?” It was Rachel. Her voice hesitant but normal.

“Come on, we need to get back to Chloe” Max urged, pulling the bewildered blonde to her feet.

“Chloe? Yes. Chloe. Must get back to Chloe” Rachel mumbled, still appearing dazed and lost. Like someone abruptly woken from a very deep sleep.

“EREHT SI ON YAW TUO” the little man repeated. He looked to the two girls, a look of almost pity in his big eyes. “M’I YRROS”.

But still they ran. Through red draped, tile floored corridor after red draped, tile floored corridor. Every single one the same, every single one emerging back into the same room. The little man still sat. Watching on sadly.

Eventually Max collapsed to her knees in defeat. The little man was right. There was no way out. She was stuck here. Forever. Never to see her Chloe again. She wished she'd never come to this place. She'd managed to find Rachel only to share her fate. She wished she'd never… A desperate idea came to Max, she'd kept items with her when she'd rewound before, would it work with a human being? Was there any other option?

“Rachel, hold me tight and don't let go”.

“Jesus Max, is now the time?”

“You know what I mean” Max said, grabbing Rachel around the waist. “Now to rewind as far as possible, and please God get us both back to the woods and Chloe" Max thought as she reached forward to channel her strange power.

Suddenly, the little man jumped up in alarm, his eyes wide with fear.

“T’NOD ESU TAHT EREH!!!” He cried almost hysterically but it was too late.

Max had never thought there could be pain like the pain she felt. Searing up her arm and into her chest. And her head, her head felt like molten metal was being poured into it. Max was almost delirious with pain, everything was a strobing kaleidoscope of colour, she could no longer see the red Room. She couldn't see when she was going and she couldn't stop. But she could feel the weight of Rachel clutching at her, until the moment it all went black. The moment Max couldn't feel Rachel anymore. The moment Max couldn't feel anything anymore. There was only the black.

And then not even that.

The sudden change in the air had brought Chloe back to her senses. She looked up just in time to see it. The thing she could never describe. The thing deputy Hawk would never forget.

And then the two bodies came, flung out of the light as though they'd been spat out like used chewing gum. Rachel Amber and Max Caulfield. Rachel's knee catching the poor deputy chief square in the face knocking him down. Rachel was awake and trying to get up, holding her knee in pain.

Max lay still in a crumpled pile, like a discarded marionette.

Chloe didn't know what to do. She was so shocked by a succession of things that had just happened she just stood there wide eyed with shock.

Deputy Briggs had been caught unsighted by the whole thing, having been scanning the ground for traces of footprints. Suddenly the ground was lit as bright as day and there was a sharp crack followed by some dull thuds. He span round, automatically drawing his service revolver.

Rachel hit the ground in a heap, her knee throbbing having struck something on the way down. She felt like hammered shit and could barely adapt to the gloom after so long in the Red Room. She could just make out the fuzzy outline of Max lying in front of her and made to crawl towards her.

Max lay in a foetal position, her breathing was shallow, her chest barely moving, eyes closed. She might almost be asleep.

Hawk raised himself up into a sitting position, the right side of his face beginning to swell after the impact with Rachel's knee but the reason Hawk's head was spinning was due to the intense visions he'd seen when the gateway between worlds opened in front of him.

Chloe could see Rachel leaning over Max and it galvanized her into action. She dropped to her knees beside her two friends, joining Rachel in checking on the inert Max.

“Max? Max?” Chloe quavered, gently shaking her to no avail.

“She's breathing” Rachel was able to confirm.

No response from Max, she remained unconscious though reassuringly still alive. Rachel rolled to her side and tried to clear her head. Her vision was still fuzzy.

Chloe knelt, Max's head cradled in her lap, gently stroking her face. Tears dropped from her cheek and splashed onto Max's face. Chloe wiped them away with concern

“Shit, sorry Max”.

Bobby had holstered his weapon and checked on Hawk, the big man seemed a bit shook up but otherwise ok. Now he had to take charge of the situation, it looked like one of the girls was hurt. They'd need to get back out of the woods quickly. Time was of the essence, and the hospital in Twin Peaks was a long hike and a bumpy ride away.

“We need to get her back to town” he said, placing a hand on Chloe's shoulder. “Are you ok? Can you walk?” He added towards Rachel.

Rachel simply nodded in affirmative and unsteadily began to get to her feet. Bobby moved to help Chloe with Max.

“No, leave her. I've got her” Chloe sobbed, recoiling from Bobby.

Deputy Hawk had made it to his feet and was on the radio to the sheriff. An ambulance had been summoned and would meet them at the road end.

Chloe lifted Max out of the nest of pine needles. She felt so light, so fragile. How could something so fundamentally central to her life feel so insubstantial in her arms?

And thus the procession made their way down from the Ghost wood. Bobby took the lead followed by the still woozy Hawk. Chloe came next with Max and Rachel Amber brought up the rear, her head rapidly clearing, now just feeling bone tired.

“Don't worry my love, everything is going to be fine” Chloe cooed to the unconscious Max.

Behind them, a strange flicker danced in the eyes of Rachel for a moment before it was gone.

[hazbincalifornia]

Warmth

Chapter 20: Blitzo works his way through heat.

Warnings: Mpreg, explicit sexual content. This one’s basically all smutty, we return to the actual plot next time.

Likes, replies, and reblogs are all appreciated, both here and on ao3!

Ao3 link

The air was heavy with heat and panting breaths as Blitzo’s tail curled around one of Stolas’s legs. After one haphazard ‘at stolsas don worry honey’ text to Loona, the last few hours had been spent pretty much just trying to figure out which positions still worked, which ones didn’t, and which ones were even better now that Blitzo had a belly that Stolas seemed particularly fond of touching somehow while Blitzo fucked into him. At the moment, they were sprawled out on his couch once the bed had started getting a little too hot and sticky.

“Of course you’re into that,” Blitzo growled out, feeling Stolas’s cock rubbing against his stomach as he was buried up to the hilt in owl ass. “Like feeling my big baby belly against your feathers, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes Daddy… it feels so good,” Stolas moaned back, and Blitzo only stalled for a moment before going with it.

“Like it when Daddy is real rough?” His grip tightened on Stolas’s hips. “You want to be good for Daddy, don’t you?”

“Please-”

“Then be quiet and let me finish,” Blitzo said, sweat dripping down his face as he pulled back some. “You want to make Daddy happy, don’t you? Then do as you’re told.”

Stolas opened his mouth before snapping it shut, nodding- and Blitzo didn’t even need the gag this time. Now that he thought of it, though… He pulled the rest of the way out, grabbing Stolas’s head and shoving him down just hard enough to feel the shiver that ran through the prince at his forcefulness as he spread his legs. “Be a good boy and finish what you started.”

Stolas’s top eyes closed as he started sucking enthusiastically, wet tongue running around Blitzo’s cock as the imp’s fingers tangled in the feathers on his head. There was a little spark of pain as Stolas’s beak dragged along the top of his length, but it was quickly drowned out by the pleasure. “F-fuck, yeah, just like that…” He could feel Stolas’s soft head feathers bobbing underneath his baby gut, and it was somehow genuinely tying with the blowjob for the best thing he had going on at the moment. From the whimpers Stolas made from under his belly and around his cock, and the way his lower eyes were squinting happily, he was enjoying himself just as much.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Stolas was stroking himself, but it was all just white noise in his brain at the moment as his third climax in the past hour built up. “Swallow it,” he managed to say, and Stolas gave a single bob in agreement, using his other hand to hook slender fingers inside of Blitzo’s entrance and making the imp cum directly into his mouth with a cry. Stolas was grinning around Blitzo as he swallowed, looking up at him, and the way his throat flexed in and out as he did jolted at Blitzo’s stomach just as the kid turned over.

_____________

Fingers intertwined and then pulled apart again to grip at hips and thighs and arms, desperate to grab at anything they could touch. Stolas was so soft, how hadn’t he realized just how soft he was before now? So soft and warm, and very, very, eager. It was exactly what he needed and he lost himself in it, just enjoying each other’s touches and moans.

_____________

“That’s it, princess,” Blitzo growled out, tugging on the leash connected to the collar around Stolas’s neck as he buried himself inside of him, feeling as much as hearing the owl whimper as the fabric of his skirt shifted. “You like feeling my cock in you, don’t you? You like your pretty prince doing whatever he wants to you?”

Stolas nodded, his entire face glowing with how his eyes- even half-lidded- were practically flooding out light as he squirmed, the handcuffs clinking between them. “Oh, yes…”

The past day had been a bit of a blur. Blitzo had kind of lost track of what round they were on, honestly, but the worst of the burn had faded. It was almost a game to see how long they could both last now- and Blitzo hated losing. He flipped Stolas over and bit his neck just hard enough to draw blood, getting a drawn-out moan as he lapped it up. It was so, so much better than any other bloody meat he’d been trying to substitute, and Stolas’s legs crossed behind his back to keep him doing it.

A few droplets landed on the white patch on Stolas’s chest, and they both looked down at it before Blitzo leaned forward and started licking.

“You taste so damn good,” Blitzo muttered, and Stolas moaned a little, bucking his chest up.

“Taste me then…”

Blitzo was more than happy to oblige.

_____________

Blitzo really, really liked licking and biting today. It was nice getting to see the marks when he pulled back, even though he got a mouthful of feathers in the process.

_____________

They both fell asleep at some point. Stolas was a much better bed than the actual bed, even though that one was like floating on a cloud. He never wanted to leave.

______________

He could drink in the noises and half-coherent words Stolas made and never need air again. Feeling that hand on his face made the world dissolve away, nothing but warm heat around him as fingers with claws dragged down, leaving trails of pain that he couldn’t get enough of.

______________

More. More. More.

______________

“Hmmph-grah?” Blitzo blinked his eyes open as he felt himself swaying from side to side, pressed against something that was partially soft and partially kinda crusty. “Wha’s…?”

“You passed out,” Stolas replied. As Blitzo’s eyes adjusted, he realized that he was leaning against a feathery chest. “Just collapsed right on top of me, like a little marionette with all the strings cut.” He tutted. “I was going to clean both of us up.”

Blitzo sniffed at the air- he could smell jizz, blood, and sweat all mixing together, and had to admit that it probably was a good idea to scrub down some before it started caking on his skin and Stolas’s feathers. Er, more than it already had. His tail lazily waved from side to side as Stolas hugged him tight to his body before draping over his middle. The kid was warm and content in there, lucky little bastard, out here their daddy was soaked in a lot of unpleasant substances.

“So, anybody seeing us…?”

“It’s late,” Stolas said simply as he shifted Blitzo to use one hand to open the bathroom door. “The bathroom is right off my bedroom anyway, you woke up quickly when I moved you.”

“Ah.” Yeah, being a light sleeper was for people without senses like a hawk who didn’t kill for a living. At some point he’d lost his shirt- he wasn’t sure if Stolas had managed to peel it off or he’d ripped it off himself at some point in the haze of heat. He hoped it was the former, he liked that shirt. “So, not that I don’t know, but how long…?”

“Well, counting the time that we both passed out earlier, I believe it’s been about two days,” Stolas said as he settled Blitzo against the wall in the shower. “I’m sure your little coworkers can handle IMP for a while longer if need be.”

“Think the heat’s starting to fade,” Blitzo muttered with a yawn, hugging himself and rubbing up and down his arms as he looked around- this was more like a small room than a shower, with beautiful blue carvings in the wall marble of mermaids and stars and shit. Considering what they’d been doing for the past (apparently) two days, he felt oddly vulnerable now, skinned bare as Stolas fussed with the knobs. “Where’s the shower head anyw-” He was cut off as jets erupted from above, left and right, battering him as he sputtered. “Hey, hey!”

“Slip of the fingers!” Stolas twisted something and the left and right water tapered off, leaving only the softer stream from directly above him. The water trickled down, bits of black blood pooling at his feet. He could definitely feel scratches over his skin, so he had no real idea if it was his blood or Stolas’s, not when the water made the marks sting either way. Stolas bent over a bit and cupped his cheek. “Is that better?”

Yes, it definitely was, considering the soft touch was making his stomach do flips. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Blitzo reached over a little flat rack to grab a washcloth, but his legs were still unsteady and the first step he made his knees buckled. “Woah- fuck!”

“Blitzy!” Stolas fumbled for him, barely managing to catch him by the chest before he slammed into the floor. “Goodness, you need to be more careful!”

“Yeah, well, you kinda put me through the wringer,” he muttered, pushing Stolas away as soon as his feet felt steady underneath him again and starting to scrub the washcloth over the grimiest-feeling bits. Stolas clucked his tongue as he wrung out a patch of feathers on his chest that washed out black water.

“You did it to yourself, darling. You sounded so desperate… it’s lucky I’m so mad for you, and it was so much fun these past few days.”

“And who got me all hormonal and shit in the first place, huh?” Blitzo raised an eyebrow. “Checkpiss or whatever. Now can you let me clean myself off or what?”

“I could do that, or…” Stolas glanced to the side. “Or I could take care of you. You’ve been so good, these past few days…” He squeezed his washcloth to get rid of the gunk on it and set it on Blitzo’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Let yourself relax, Blitzy.” He shifted the washcloth over the imp’s belly, and Blitzo’s breath hitched as he cupped it with his other hand. “You look so wonderful like this, filled with our child…” The cloth was way, way softer than it had any right to be, and Blitzo swayed a little before Stolas set a hand on his butt.

“Hey-”

“One moment.” He scooped Blitzo up like a doll, setting him down where the washcloths had been. It was a little tight, but everything in here being fucking huge kinda worked out- now he was only a little under Stolas’s eye-level instead of way under it. Stolas began to hum some tune that Blitzo vaguely recognized as being from an old-timey movie as he cleaned him off, allowing his hands and eyes to roam as Blitzo’s eyes slipped to half-lidded.

Damn, he really was tired, wasn’t he? Between the warm-but-not-hot water and Stolas’s gentle touch he found himself drifting off a little. Even the weight in his middle and resting on his thighs was sort of comfortable now that he’d gotten used to it, like a hot water bottle over an ache. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for long- he jolted when he felt fingers sliding into him just below his dick, sputtering out water he’d nearly choked on. “Stolas!”

“I said I wanted to help you relax, didn’t I?” Stolas’s grin was a little too wide, blurry through the water but the emotions coming across loud and clear. “You’ve given that wonderful cock of yours quite a workout, I’m just giving the other part some attention too.”

“I was just getting comfortable,” Blitzo muttered. After a few moments, he realized that Stolas didn’t seem like he was trying to spread him to enter, just rubbing his fingers around the outside before gently scooping them in against the warm inner walls. He was going slow and even, and it… actually was sort of relaxing, a kind of warm gooiness that he didn’t usually get since he generally preferred jerking off over fingering himself.

“Mmm, you’re so cute when you squirm, darling,” Stolas cooed as Blitzo’s legs kicked out a little, pulling his fingers back. “I will stop if you wish, but-” The end of Blitzo’s tail wrapped around Stolas’s wrist, keeping it in.

“Eh, fuck it, you started it, might as well go all the way.”

Stolas leaned down for a kiss. “Excellent!” His thumb rubbed the extra-sensitive part on top where Blitzo’s cock had receded for the moment, and Blitzo bit back a groan as embers sputtered in his guts while Stolas’s other hand set the washcloth down and started stroking his belly by itself.

“You’re perfect, all laid out… a feast for the eyes. For all the senses,” Stolas half-chirped in delight as his two fingers slid in a bit further, slowly flexing in and out and driving Blitzo buck-fucking-wild as he gripped the edge of the washcloth holder. “I can’t imagine a better specimen- you’re the peak of what an imp can be, and the child will be absolutely marvelous. You carry them so well, Blitzy, you’re glowing even tired like this…” His free hand continued drawing circles on Blitzo’s belly as his fingers lower down worked Blitzo up, drawing out reactions as Blitzo bit down on his lip.

Internally, his cock was sore, but he wasn’t exactly eager to let Stolas inside him again at the moment- even though it wasn’t like he could really get pregnant again. (Or could he? Weird things happened with magic! For all he knew- oh wait, hold that thought, oh fuck yeah, right there, that was good.) It was more the principle of the thing, but fingering? Yeah, yeah that was fine, especially when Stolas was that talented with his fingers. He have to been practicing or something, because Blitzo kinda felt like a stick of butter melting under the hottest stage lights in Lust.

Stolas stole another kiss before hooking his fingers up at the knuckle. Blitzo slapped a hand over his mouth as he came with a final burst of internal flame and coiled pressure, Stolas’s other hand curling into a fist atop his rounded belly.

“Well, since we’re already in the shower, cleanup should be easy.” Stolas pulled back with a little laugh, and Blitzo felt a momentary pang before shaking it off, sliding off the rack and leaning against the wall. The cool, smooth texture under his palm was grounding. He took a deep breath as he reached for a new washcloth, pressing his tender legs together and feeling another little spiral of sparks that were intertwined with a burning in his chest as Stolas hummed next to him. Without thinking, his hand softly rubbed over where Stolas’s fingers had been on his belly.

[oikirstein]

𝙺𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚢 | 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

Synopsis: In a universe where the world is seen through a black and white lens until you make eye contact with your soulmate for the first time, Kiyoomi Sakusa’s life changes after he starts seeing in color subsequent to his match with Inarizaki.

Warnings: Major character death

Posted: 11/20/2020

Word count: 1,301

Atsumu was many things, but I definitely wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to be absolutely relentless. I guess he was keeping true to his word that he would show me how good his game was—if you counted texting me 24/7 and calling me within the late hours of night “game.” We (fortunately...unfortunately...I didn’t know anymore) lived hours away from each other, so we had to settle with communication via the phone, and of course about 80% of our conversations would be him doing the talking, since he couldn’t seem to get enough of it, and because I preferred to listen. As the months flew by, and we were getting closer and closer to going to nationals, I found myself anticipating his calls everyday, like it was routine—clockwork. Without fail, every single time, he’d deliver.

Which is why it was such a shock when he suddenly broke the cycle. It was the day before we were set to leave for nationals. As I sat on my bed and stared at the analog clock that stood on my bedside table, I told myself I didn’t care. That I was glad he was at long last leaving me alone. Maybe he finally got the hint. Nonetheless, while I watched the minutes pass, my stomach churned at the idea that he forgot about me, but how could he? He was the one who wanted this. He was the one who initiated this infatuation. I guess he was also the one with the power to ultimately end it.

I had a dream that night, as I uncomfortably, uneasily, and unwillingly, dozed off to sleep. 

I was in some sort of garden. Surrounded by a sea of flower beds, I stood in the midst of nowhere in particular—complete isolation. It was a beautiful sight: the tangerine sky was fluttering with cotton candy clouds as the brink of dusk approached. Hundreds of pink hyacinths and red chrysanthemum tickled my toes as I began to wander down a cleared out path. Specks of white camellias sprouted at the feet of a peach rose hedge just on the horizon, snaking past the blades of grass that grew within. I walked past bunches of crimson tulips, and watched from the corner of my eye as a single magenta zinnia began to bloom. Layers upon layers of petals bounced softly against each other as the flower began to open up, the contrast between the corolla and the golden center catching my attention. I walked towards it, careful as to not crush any of the surrounding flora under the weight of my feet. I was in awe of the sheer beauty something so delicate could possess. It was rare to find myself taking a moment to become completely immersed in the scenery. I was two steps away from the flower, when a distinct scent pierced through my nose. It was the perfect mix of sweet, spicy, and bright.

As if I wasn’t in control of my own body anymore, my legs started moving back through direction I came from, odor becoming more and more pungent the closer I got to my origin. Soon I noticed all the flowers I passed by earlier becoming slightly altered from their original form. Though the sun was nearly done setting, so I wasn’t sure if the descent in vibrancy was due to the absence of light.

It could’ve been record speed—the way the zinnia wilted, before turning the same shade as its core. The wealth of tulips faded into muted hues of yellow, that even bumble bees would find un-amusing, as the breeze contoured through its leaves and stems. Camellias, which were weeded throughout the floor, now took over the rose bush it lay under, rendering the image of peach roses concealed. All that was seen from the distance were the veins of pink flowing against green. With each step, the sky grew a little darker, but not yet so dim that I was walking around blindly. 

It was like some unknown force was pushing against me, forcing me to run through the deserted field—the previous path nonexistent. My feet were sore and covered in the blood of the flowers I could not avoid stepping on (maybe I should wear shoes in my next dream, I thought), and soon came to a halt. I almost collapsed on the spot, the second I felt the release of pressure from my back, like a marionette having its strings cut. I caught my breath before I looked up again. All I did was blink once, and suddenly it was the dead of night, the ethereal glow of the moon was the only thing illuminating the sky. The once pink hyacinths and red chrysanthemums that grazed against my feet, were now purple and white scattered all around the floor. 

There was one thing that shined especially bright in particular—juxtaposed from everything else. Under the moon’s beam sprouted a blue violet surrounded by bushes of wither rose. Then everything faded to black.

It was 3 in the morning when I woke up in a haze. What the fuck, was the only groggy thought I could muster before flopping back to sleep.

The next time I woke up was at 5:30 to the distinct sound of my alarm clock going off. January 5th hadn’t come soon enough. Despite that, I shut off my alarm and got up to take a shower before getting ready to leave. I put on my “god awful” Itachiyama tracksuit, as Atsumu called it, and slung the elastics of my mask over and around my ears before zipping my jacket three quarters of the way up and draping a black knit scarf around my neck.

I grabbed my bag before heading downstairs to the genkan, which thankfully was right by the base of the stairs. It was no surprise that the large house was empty and deprived of noise—father had already left for work, but then again even on the scarce chance he hadn’t, sounds were seldom made. By the time I stepped out of the door, it was already 6:30. While walking to school, I was left continuously pulling down on my messages screen. Nothing. Did something happen to him? Its so out of character for him to not even, at the very least, shoot a “Good morning Omi-kun~” text. Sighing in defeat as I approached the gates of the campus, I tucked my phone into my pocket and brushed the paranoia from my head. 

The time read 8:52 when we finally got to the stadium and started registering our names into the roster. Well, the rest of the team were registering themselves. I stood backed into a corner, anxious from all the people crammed into the room. Thank god Motoya offered to get my pass for me when he saw me shiver as we walked through the door. He told me to “focus on your breathing,” before he left to follow their captain, so that's what I did.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Vastly concentrated on keeping my lungs alive, I hadn’t noticed who was right in front of me. In the midst of the crowd, only a fraction of straight blonde hair could be seen through the gaps between shoulders and necks. My breath hitched in the middle of my inhale as one by one, everyone in the room started to disappear, until it was just us two. There was a spotlight on him, the way he beamed while his twin brother, Osamu, told him a joke I couldn’t hear. He looked fine. So why was he ignoring me? My brain said I could care less if he texted me back or not, but my body said otherwise when I looked away and suddenly felt as if my mask, my safety net, was suffocating me.

Previously

Next

Masterlist

To be continued...

Taglist:

@hearteyesfortobio​

[kazimakuwabara]

Counundrum 4

Part 4 to this

Kuwabara remains seated on his spot on the ground, his mouth open in awe as Toya and Hiei fight.

He can’t see a damn thing with his eyes, but his spiritual awareness is going crazy. He has a feeling if he closed his eyes, he’d have a better understanding of how the fight was going, but he's too stunned to do that just yet.

Kuwabara eases himself up slowly, and rotates his shoulder until the tense muscle in his back, behind his shoulder blade, unwinds. He sighs with relief as the pain eases off, and looks out in front of him and up, where he can sense the two demons fighting. He manages to catch a flash of blue, and then black, and catches a few angry words.

“What were you doing?” That was Toya.

“What right do you have to know?” And that was Hiei.

Kuwabara catches a few more words like, “Apologize,” and, “Fuck off,” but like the two dueling demons fight, he can’t keep up with the conversation either.

Kuwabara rubs his temple, and shouts, “Guys would you fuckin’ stop! Why the hell are you two even fighting!? Toya! You overreacted! I’m fine! Hey!”

There is no answer, but Kuwabara sees a tree get knocked over to the left, and then sees Toya struggling to get up from the remains. Hiei stands several yards away, his sword drawn and his left sleeve torn.

The hairs on the back of Kuwabara’s neck stand up, as he suddenly worries about the fight getting deadly. He hopes that's not the case, but the sight of the two glaring at each other makes Kuwabara's skin goosebumps anxiously. This is not going well.

“Guys! GUYS! Stop being idiots!” Kuwabara shouts jogging towards them. He needs to explain. Hiei didn't hurt him. Whatever Toya thought he saw, didn't happen. And Kuwabara also wants to tell Hiei he rejected Toya already; that there is nothing going on between them. Kuwabara's not sure what good that would do for Hiei to hear, but it would make Kuwabara feel better.

Toya disappears, and Kuwabara tries to do a retreat as he senses what is about to happen. He doesn’t have enough time to dodge or stop, as Toya reappears in front of him, hooking his arm around Kuwabara’s waist, and picking him up like he is nothing. It's rough, and he makes an, "Oof!' sounds as the air is knocked out of him.

Kuwabara fucking hates how strong demons are.

He hears Hiei growl somewhere behind him, but Kuwabara is lifted in the air, and then deposited underneath a shade of a tree. Toya’s brow is bleeding as he sets Kuwabara down with gentle care and cautions, “Stay here, you’ll be safe.”

Toya’s gone in a blink, but Kuwabara hopes he hears his angry shout of, “Are you fucking kidding me???” 

Kuwabara did not need to be scooped up and shuffled out of the way, because if there’s one thing Kuwabara can trust, is Hiei is not going to hit him. Not on purpose or accident. They've gone after each other before, but in a real fight, Hiei would never hit a teammate, or even a civilian for that matter. Hiei is in perfect control, even with his explosive abilities. Kuwabara wonders if that means Toya has less control of what he might do. If that’s the case, then if anyone is a danger to Kuwabara here, then it’s Toya.

Kuwabara hears Hiei’s energy collide with Toya’s, and the intense pressure of it makes Kuwabara think Hiei has come to the same conclusion.

This day, this plan Kuwabara had.... has gotten really fucking messy really quick.

Kuwabara is getting to his feet, when a hand clamps on his shoulder, and he jumps, shrieking in fright.

“Jesus! Chill, Kuwabara!” Yusuke says, flinching a little from Kuwabara’s reaction. 

Kurama is at Yusuke’s side, eyes darting left and right, mouth open in surprise. Kuwabara's a little jealous Kurama can keep up with it all. Can Kuwabara do more training? Does he have time after classes?

“We felt the fight from Kurama’s!” Yusuke says drawing Kuwabara’s attention again. “What’s going on? What’s Toya doing here?”

“He came to talk to me,” Kuwabara tries to explain, wondering if he should come clean about his lie about actually going to the demon world.

“What caused this?” Kurama asks, wincing as another tree is knocked over. Half burnt, and half covered in ice.

“Shit, they’re really trying to take each other out!” Yusuke says, fighting to sound serious and not amused.

The pair of them keep talking over Kuwabara, and he can’t get a word in. He growls in frustration as he realizes that they aren’t going to let him answer. Why ask a fucking question, if you don't want an answer?

“We should stop them before this gets out of hand!” Kurama continues, as Kuwabara tries to speak again.

“Stay right here Kuwabara, we got this!” Yusuke says, a hand squeezing Kuwabara’s shoulder.

Kurama and Yusuke take off the join the fray, and Kuwabara takes in a long breath.

This is all really, really, really stupid, and really frustrating.

‘It’s what I get for trying to come up with a fuckin' plan to trick these guys. Why the hell did I think I could trick them? I should have just told them they were assholes, and punched Hiei in his stupid head, and made him admit to Yukina who he was! I don’t have the smarts, and I don’t have the fuckin’ luck to get away with tricking them!’ Kuwabara thinks angrily, as his friends' burst of power explodes all around them.

Yusuke is trying to stop Hiei, and Kurama is trying to stop Toya.

He’s pissed that people keep shuffling him around, physically and emotionally. He’s even madder that apparently no one thinks he can be trusted to take care of himself. So they can keep Kuwabara out of the loop and feel fine by that, and now apparently he can be left out of a fight, that was about him.

No one can trust him with secrets, no one can trust that the can handle anything... is that it?

It's unfair. Hasn't he done enough to prove he's part of the team? He's with them? Is he just doomed to be left behind?

“I’m fucking done with this!” Kuwabara growls out, and steps out into the area where he feels his friends power the most. He kneels and presses glowing fingertips to the ground.

There’s a new technique he’s been trying to do with his spirit power. He got the idea from reading X-men comics in between study sessions. There’s a character, Gambit, who can put his mutation in cards, and when he throws them, they explode. He is dispersing his power so that it can be used in another way.

Kuwabara’s been wanting to try that.

He closes his eyes, and he can feel his friends’ presence much stronger than he could with his eyes open. Kurama and Genkai have said something about this making it easier for the third eye to open, or something like that. All Kuwabara knows is it works, and he pinpoints the quarreling demons with ease.

He splits his Jigen To into four, has it splits itself down his fingers. Kuwabara attaches more of his energy to the ends. Like needles and thread, he sends his splintered sword down into the ground, and cuts through the current dimension to disappear, and then reappear above his friends. The swords shoot down and loop his energy under one of their arms, and around their necks.

He pulls his energy taught.

It’s a hunting trick you use on clever animals, like raccoons, coyotes, and foxes. It forces them to have an arm up close and useless near the vulnerable part of their throat, while throwing the rest of their body off balance, forcing the panicked animal to try and not to lose balance, or choke. It is not enough to really stop or hurt his friends, but it’s enough of a bother, to get his friends’ attention, and separate them from the fight.

“Enough with this fucking bullshit!” Kuwabara says, his hand glowing as he pulls his energy tight, keeping his friends dangling from the string of his energy through the dimensions he had cut open.

All four of them, Kurama, Yusuke, Hiei, and Toya, look baffled, surprised, and impressed. They dangle like marionettes in the air.

Kuwabara is too pissed to feel flattered by their looks, “Stop pushing me aside! I can protect my damn self. And can take care of my own feelings too! And I’m not the only one. Yukina can handle her fucking self as well!” 

He is mad for the both of them, but if he admits it, he’s also mad at himself. 

“Look! Yukina fucking knows Hiei is her brother,” Kuwabara snaps, Kurama and Yusuke flinching in their caught snares. Toya looks confused, and Hiei’s lips purse tightly together.

“She just wants Hiei to be honest, and since all you assholes seem to know about it, but felt for some reason not to clue me in about it, I thought I’d fuck with you all and trick you into admitting it!” Kuwabara hotly confesses. He puts his free hand to the bridge of his nose and adds, “But apparently, at least from my guess, Hiei doesn’t really care that I know about him being Yukina’s brother, but for some fucking reason Yusuke and Kurama thought it’d be a great idea to keep it from big ol' dumb Kuwabara! So thanks for that, I love being the butt to everybody’s big fucking joke!”

Another nice thing about the snare Kuwabara has made, the energy is tight enough around their throats, that they are all struggling to speak. They can’t shout, and can only whisper, but for once, Kuwabara doesn’t wait for them to talk.

He talks over them.

“Toya! I’m sorry, but I’m a piece of shit, and I told these idiots I was going to your place this weekend, a lie, I thought would make them all nervous enough, to fucking fess up, because your crush on me has been a little... intense. I’m sorry. I’m a real asshole, I shouldn’t have done that. And it doesn’t matter that I didn’t think you’d show up out of the blue, the point is I was still willing to use your feeling to put pressure on my friends, and that was shitty of me! I’m not the type of person to come up with a plan to trick people into doing what I want. I should have done what I do!”

Kuwabara releases his powers, and his friends collapse to the ground, Yusuke making a startled yelp. 

Kuwabara is breathing hard. That technique is harder than he thought it would be and took more out of him, than he thought. After a beat he growls, “I should have just told you guys I felt like you were being dicks, and keeping shit from me. And I don’t fucking know why. I don’t deserve it. And Yukina definitely doesn’t deserve it.”

Kuwabara turns towards Hiei, and opens his mouth. He can't bring himself to look at him or confess how he feels. Something he desperately wants to do at this moment. He clamps his mouth shut, and puts a hand over his face, his skin burning hot beneath his touch. Into his palm, he confesses, "I love you, Hiei." He didn't say it to Hiei, but at least its out, even if no one heard it.

Kuwabara is actually feeling like he might pass out, but he’ll be damned if he lets them see it.

Not waiting for any other answer, he cuts a portal open, beneath his feet and falls through it. He seals it, as he passes through it and lands on something wooden, which shatters. A chair most likely. He hisses, tears filling his eyes, as his foot turns under him. He’s twisted that pretty good and run out of energy, and maybe will really pass out. What a sorry state to be in, but Kuwabara decides he deserves it.

It's what he gets for trying to scheme. Karma.

He looks around and is relieved to see he at least came to where he wanted to be, and a second later, Yukina is running into the spare room of Genkai’s shrine. The place Kuwabara had wanted to go.

“Kazuma! Oh! Are you alright?”

Kuwabara is not alright. He’s a piece of shit, who feels like he used Toya’s feelings to play a trick on his friends, and it’s good that the stupid idea of his blew up in his face. He shouldn’t have done it.

Yukina’s hands are on his face, and only then Kuwabara realizes he’s crying.

“No.” He finally answers.

“I’ll heal you,” Yukina says gently, red eyes swimming with concern.

Kuwabara wishes they belonged to someone else.

“Don’t tell them I’m here?” He pleads as his head is lifted gently and cradled into her lap.

She doesn’t look like she understands, but promises him anyway.

Kuwabara nods, too tired to verbally thank her. 

He goes to sleep.

[outroshooky]

whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos​ (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch​; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart​ for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

 to see thy beauties fade;

 the night that follow’d such a morn

 had worn a deeper shade:

 thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

 and thou wert lovely to the last,

 extinguish’d, not decay’d;

 as stars that shoot along the sky

 shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a  sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

[luminescentlyricist]

🃏 _/[[ JESTER ]] 🃏

This was originally written in time for Halloween! ~

WARNINGS : Blood, gore, minor vomiting and minor drinking

~

YOUR NAME IS JEZAKK IMETAT.

YOU FEEL LOST.

One moment, everything was peaceful. Then, before you could properly react, there was purple all over you, and your ears were ringing with screams. What little comfort you had found in the troupe isn't real any more, and it never was. Everything has descended into silence. There was always a threat looming over you, and you knew that the RINGMASTER was up to no good, but NOBODY EVER FUCKING LISTENED TO YOU. Now, you seem to have payed the price. You walk blindly down the corridors that you were once familiar with, unwilling to open your eyes for fear of what may greet you if you do. Your feet track more purple across the floors, but it hardly matters enough. All that's on your mind is who matters, and you don't want to contend to anything else yet. There's just not enough TIME.

SOMETHING IS CHANGING. There's a sensation burning across your eyelids that you haven't felt in a long, long time. Even though the rooms are frigid cold, darkness seeping through your home that was once so brightly lit, you feel hot flushes of shame enveloping your cheeks and invading your steadily crumbling thoughts as you stagger forwards still. There are two people you want to see, and if they're safe, it might give you some kind of peace of mind. But the further you go, your feet shuffling numbly, you begin to doubt your hopes more and more. This is the same soulless place you knew when you were semi-conscious, a puppet for your MATESPRIT, and his eyes. He was only trying to protect himself from these horrors, and you swallow the lump in your throat. You realised that far too late.

But you know that nothing will work out the way you want it to. Your limbs feel like they're filled with lead, your thinkpan as fuzzy as if you were drunk on the pies you always had the strength to decline. But now you're NOT SO SURE YOU WOULD, surveying the scene with drooping eyelids that you force yourself to open once and for all. There are more bodies than you ever knew existed in the troupe in the first place, piled haphazardly with smears of gore up the walls. A low chuckle rumbles out from you, tears staining your cheeks as the sight throws you into hysterics. It's a coping mechanism, or so YOUR DEAREST OTHAMO would say. He never failed to make you laugh. You thought you needed that relief, but all it does is make your throat burn. You have no idea how long it's been since you had anything to drink.

Opening your eyes just enough to detect whether there are bottles around, you detect something filled with purple and walk towards it, grasping it in shaking claws and somehow unscrewing the lid. You knock it back in a few swallows without processing what the liquid even is, not particularly caring because it does its job of warding away THE ACIDIC TASTE COATING YOUR TONGUE. You think the label reads 'FAYGO', but your attention is already elsewhere and so is your gaze. You close your eyes, finding welcome relief in the darkness that seemed to scared you so easily before. Something in you tells you to STOP BEFORE IT GETS WORSE, but you're not one to follow directions like that. Besides, you feel the Faygo starting to kick in already.

Still you walk, tracing a path you've always known. Reaching your practice room, you push open the door, trembling fingers sliding away from the frame as your chest heaves with laboured breath. You continue your manic mixture of laughter and stuttering breathing almost soundlessly, but with the tears and the sharklike grin still plastered to your face. Upon seeing your mirror, you strike out at it, the resulting shattering noise a jarring and unwelcome contrast to your own. Your face paint was smeared, and you realised that YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANY MORE. What are you? The tears mingle with those once painted carefully across your cheeks, muddying the white and darker grey with a pale and pathetic purple hue.

Disregarding the glass shards embedded in your knuckles as if they're nothing more than your imagination, you retreat, returning to the room you're perhaps more familiar with than your own. You can see the strings that you had once helped soak, imbuing them with different oils so that they'd smell nice and Othamo wouldn't get confused as to what he was doing during his shows. Some of them are still in their jars, but you doubt anything will mask the stench of the rot that surrounds you. Who's fault is it, you wonder. Who would do such a thing, to leave your ONLY FRIEND to darkness? Your laughter shifts slowly into a trembling, monotonous hum, and you fumble about for the LIGHT SWITCH that seems to have been torn from its socket. How convenient.

You sense movement, a hulking figure behind you, and for a moment you freeze in fear. But it's your guardian, which makes you bare your teeth in a smile's attempt and lurch towards him unsteadily. Finally. Someone who cared. You nearly collapse when you see him, falling as your legs give out. Crawling towards him as if there's no pain stopping you, you stain his fur with blood and tears, beginning to violently sob into his matted and uneven fur. You feel so very pathetic, like you are and always were, but more so now than ever. You feel yourself BREAKING DOWN, becoming the scared little boy you were when you entered the Big Top for the first time all over again. There's another figure with him, but you can't quite gather enough light in your eyes in order to discern who it is. MAYBE THAT'S FOR THE BETTER. They seem to be leaning on the wall, as if they're not strong enough to support themselves alone.

THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG ABOUT YOUR DAD, even though you can't quite decipher what that is. Rolling him over gently, just enough to expose the side of his fur where the wound was created sweeps ago, you grit your teeth and prepare yourself. This is what you normally do; check if he's moved too much in his sleep, see if the wound's all fully scarred, despite the fact it never is. But nothing can quite prepare you for the smell, and the purple so deep it almost stains black upon the harp seal's snow white fur. You don't need to know what happened. All you know is that YOUR FATHER IS DEAD, and the figure leaning on the wall has crumpled to the floor as if they were never quite alive in the first place. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you advance towards the body after stumbling upright.

You don't get all that far, by virtue of the fact that your head is spinning like a carousel and you vomit on the floor, wiping your mouth harshly as the world heaves around you and sparks pop in front of your eyes, nearly causing you to fall over anew. You continue on after a minute or two, wishing you had access to more Faygo so EVERYTHING WOULD BE NUMB AGAIN. The body is right in front of you, and yet you don't look down at it yet. There's something tangled around your leg, so you pick it up. it's the top of a MARIONETTE'S BOARD, with a cross of wood and not-yet-scented string dangling down, snapped at uneven lengths. Your stomach flips. You don't even have to see the face to know who it is, and grimace at the way his wrists, ankles and neck are broken and twisted as if they were articulated puppet joints. You begin to shake, uncontrollable and vicious tremors that truly do force you to the ground.

You wail in anguish, a sound more animalistic and sorrowful than any troll language could articulate. Pounding your fists against the carpets, your vision fades in and out of blackness, and you scream and cry until your throat feels like it's been scraped by a million layers of sandpaper. Only then do you go silent, when you've ripped up the carpet to reveal the wooden boards. Only then do you begin pressing your hands onto to make deep, liquified prints in glaring hues of purple, unclearly yours or someone else's. Only then do you realise the depths of your loneliness. Only then do you truly realise what a monster you are.

Only then do you realise that it was you all along.

[victory-cookies]

Ooooooh 8 with Jonas?

A sick part of him found it almost funny, how he couldn’t remember what they had been fighting about at the time. He could remember the yelling, yes, and the frustration he felt, quickly building towards anger. But, even if his life depended on it, he wouldn’t be able to say what they actually argued about. He simply couldn’t remember.

And he knew she wouldn’t either. 

It had been late, and she had just gotten home from a long day at work, very tired and very irritable. Jonas had been sitting on the couch, still fuming over their previous spat that morning. They hadn’t been seeing eye to eye much lately, so this wasn’t exactly new. 

He had said something snarky, and she had reprimanded harshly him in return, and with that it seemed like everything boiled over for both of them and it became a shouting match. They had fought before, but for some reason Jonas felt angrier with her than he ever had before. He wasn’t much for swearing at the time, but he could confidently say he was really fucking tired of her bullshit. 

And then she’d decided to take a jab at his parents. Or, lack thereof. 

Something inside of him broke, and he had screamed. 

When he finally ran out of breath, he noticed that she’d fallen silent. Good, he had thought, at least until he had looked at her face to see her slack-jawed, with glazed, unfocused eyes. 

His heart dropped. Was she okay? Was she... “Auntie?” he asked worriedly.  

He nearly screamed again when she suddenly spoke in sync with him. He scrambled backwards, terrified as she went back to staring at nothing, utterly motionless. 

He then realized that something felt different, that something was horrifyingly off in some way. Like he had too many limbs, a second heartbeat, an extra set of thoughts. 

He looked back at his aunt, still motionless. 

Oh.

Oh.

Tentatively, he tried to move one of the new limbs, and just as he had thought, his aunt raised an arm, slowly and jerkily, like a lazy marionette. 

He screamed again. He couldn’t be doing that, right? That was impossible. 

What he was doing should have been impossible. And yet...

He began to panic, trying to stop whatever he was doing to his aunt, but he felt stuck. His consciousness was wrapped around hers, and it seemed like no amount of struggle was helping. He pulled and tugged, desperately trying to remove himself from inside her mind. Hot tears were streaming down his face as he tried harder and harder to free her for what seemed like an eternity. 

And then suddenly, he ripped himself out of her head. 

She collapsed to the ground, and he had scrambled over to her, helping her push herself up. 

She groaned, blinking groggily at him. “What just happened...?”

“I’m sorry, Auntie, I’m so sorry,” Jonas sobbed, pulling her into a hug.

She tensed and pushed him away. “I’m sorry... do I know you? What’s going on?”

He looked at her, confused and worried. “I’m... Jonas... your nephew.”

“I don’t have a nephew?” she replied slowly, trying to back away from him. “What are you doing in my house?”

“Auntie, I’m...” he trailed off, realizing what was happening. “I...”

“I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m going to have to ask you to please exit my house,” she said, standing up. “Immediately.”

Jonas simply nodded, not knowing what else to do. Slowly, he rose to his feet and robotically walked to the door. He turned around before he opened it, looking back at her, eyes blurry with tears. “I...” he started, but his aunt’s expression stopped him. He whirled back around and hurried out the door.

[theangrypokemaniac]

Since I rant enough about the wizening Ma and Pa received in Sinnoh it's only right to wreak bloody rhetorical vengeance elsewhere:

However harsh it may be, I'm glad Takeshi Shudo isn't alive to witness the hateful desecration of his legacy.

...

In a universe where no one's allowed to age, why are the modern Jessie and James so withered and decrepit?

Dragon Ball has been on for more than three decades. Its stars were permitted to grow up, because the head can cope with the opportunities this offers.

Yet Goku, Krillin, Bulma et al bear a greater similarity to their younger selves than these gurning invertebrates do to Team Rocket, wearing a papery approximation of their skin.

Akira Toriyama is actually concerned about his life's work, still coming up with interesting concepts, brand-new characters, and most importantly, values his audience by keeping to the established canon.

If a Dragon Ball fan reads this, I am so jealous of you.

Consider yourselves fortunate not to have seen the thing you loved the most pulverised and the resulting glutinous mass moulded back into makeshift sloppy cadavers.

Look at the state of that man! That's a good picture these days!

Why have the eyelid lines turned into upside down bags?

And why has she collected her lashes for this particular screen shot?

On eyes with a strangely feline slant...

Has she had a face lift?

Get yer money back on that one, love.

And why has he marks under his eyes and round his flapping gob to add the hint of exhaustion?

And why don't her lips reach the edge of her mouth anymore?

And why must he display Beaver Toof, as if he's only got six pegs left?

Giving it to him but not her implies she's lost the lot, needing to gum objects for a result.

And why do her low-slung ears consist only of lobe?

And why can you see his featureless lugs? Why does his barnet stand outwards in tentacles like he's taken to wearing a floppy Starmie?

What's that's meant to be, purple dreadlocks?

And why is her hairline curved and absolutely straight, like a bad wig, apart from the perfunctory bits to the side, which I guarantee won't alter their position throughout the run?

Hair used to move about, now by law there's a set pattern which cannot change. Stamp that life out immediately.

And what's that flaccid growth between his weary peepers? Is that meant to be fringe?

PFFFT!!!

And why are her digits just as thick and oblong as his?

It ain't fingers. It's trotters.

And why's he got a back to his throat, but she hasn't?

And why are we forced to witness it? You can see all the way to his dangler!

The great gaping pink cave looks like the end of Looney Tunes when Porky Pig pops up and stammers: "That's all folks!"

Remember a lack of Beaver Toof? And triangular mouths?

Remember when Meowth was a cheeky, spirited little cat, not a middle-aged human midget, an emaciated wreck bored of it all?

Remember when it wasn't deemed necessary to expose us to internal organs?

And when James was a handsome, hysterically camp dandy, not a creepy, snot-ridden science dweeb?

And when Jessie was a beautiful, stylish young girl, hot-tempered but loyal, not a sullen, cold, reptilian, Botoxed-to-the-gills gorgon?

Remember when Team Rocket were fun? And attractive?

Remember when they had joy in their hearts in spite of their poverty? And vim? And hope?

Remember them acting with flair and imagination?

Remember when their schemes had variety?

Remember when they had more than a single disguise per era?

Remember when they had many occupations? And were good at them?

Remember when they'd have a go at everything and weren't reduced to flipping condemned meat in a grotty burger van FOR THREE YEARS?!

Remember when those in charge didn't despise them, when they got happy endings?

Remember split screens? And face faults? And background tones? And purple streaks down your cheeks?

Remember big, bright open eyes, not shrunken, sagging and empty holes afflicted by glaucoma?

Remember when Jessie had eyelashes?

Remember when Pokémon was an anime?

And when James had a fringe, not a bent swelling like a balloon animal?

And when the artist could be arsed to draw Meowth's Charm properly?

Remember when the voices weren't nails down a blackboard?

When Meowth didn't sound like a wedge of coal grinding beneath an oil-deprived door?

When Jessie's dulcet tones had a wider range that just screechy, and weren't reminiscent of a cacophonous banshee clawing her way from a bog, using her own mug as a shovel?

When James speaking didn't suggest he was at best, suffering sinus difficulties, and at worst, constantly battling to swallow his own sick from looking at her?

Mind you, I'm grateful the 4Kids cast are no longer here. They deserve better, and their presence would only validate the crude bastardisations.

Every time the guttural howls reach my poor ears a chill runs through my system, and reminds me of The Pokémon Company sacking the real dub crew in preference for a job done on the cheap.

Remember speed lines? And Pokéball-throwing animation?

Remember a new motto performance in each installment, not the same stock footage reused again and again?

Remember when it rhymed?

It shows.

Remember remembering it?

Remember when Team Rocket would walk down the street in their uniforms and no one took a blind bit of notice despite the organisation operating there?

And they didn't fanny about in one scabby polyester costume every minute they were travelling, even when NO ONE KNOWS WHO THEY ARE?

Since Unova, whilst confronting Ash and this era's soon-to-be-forgotten companions, you get this exchange:

Moron-Of-The-Week: "Who are Team Rocket?"

Ash: "They're bad guys who steal other people's Pokémon."

EVERY SINGLE BLOODY TIME!!!

WORD-FOR-WORD IDENTICAL!!!

The writers have such deep appreciation for their work they're sending in cut-and-paste scripts.

Remember blasting off when something blew up, not an explosion from nowhere, or giving it the slip with a jet pack, or abduction by a Care Bear?

Remember when the eyebrows matched the hair?

Remember when he wore it long?

Remember blue shock? And sweat drop? And hammerspace? And comedy violence?

Remember her jagged hairline? And it being RED!!!

Remember proper highlights to it, rather than the odd white lump now and again, as if sweating like a pig, or their heads are infested with giant space ticks?

Remember when they were in all the episodes? And were main characters? And on the introduction sequence?

Remember when Jessie and James used to hug? And hold hands?

And bicker as only a couple can, but you knew they'd never cope alone?

Remember when they'd fly into each other's arms under the flimsiest pretext?

Remember when they meant more to one another than just being a pair of unconnected and disembodied wraiths coincidentally walking down the same road?

And they had more than civil interactions?

Remember when she loved him as much as he loved her?

And no one else could ever take his place?

And canon wasn't infected with the ruinous depiction of her as a hard, heartless bitch barely tolerating him until someone 'better' came along, at which point she'd fuck off without a backwards glance?

'Better', as in a scabby, satchel-mouthed, gormless cretin, just to add surly insult to merciless injury.

Never has such a life-long and hardcore defender of the faith flipped into an ardent Rumishipper as I did after that episode, once I'd swept up the fragments of my soul.

Remember when they were sympathetic?

Remember when they showed human warmth?

Remember when they cared about each other?

Remember when they weren't just a jangling, distorted mess of half-recollected traits?

Remember when they weren't really evil?

Remember Rocketshipping? That was a thing once, believe it or not.

Remember when they had a conscience?

Remember when actually wicked characters turned up, and Team Rocket ALWAYS sided with Ash, rather than the nauseating spectacle of suddenly being best buds with the Boss?

Remember when they had contact with the Twerps?

Remember when Team Rocket and the Twerps loved each other in secret and would endanger themselves to save their 'enemies'?

Everything that was once good and winning about them was sucked out, degree by degree, to leave the corpse, hollow and dead, strung up on wires as a grim marionette.

I'm sure most who see this will vehemently disagree, that I'm completely wrong, that THEY like them.

Yes, you like this three, but you don't like Team Rocket. This is not them. You have yours, and I have mine, but let's not pretend they are the same.

Why, if there is no difference, would I be so hostile, when they meant so much too me?

Did you ever wonder where the original fans went, why they all departed en masse? It's not because they 'moved on' or 'matured'.

They didn't leave Pokémon. Pokémon left them.

As the makers rely so heavily on repetition (sorry, nostalgia) they arrogantly expect us to still be here, having blithely welcomed our memories minced and our canon ripped up or ripped off, apparently.

We're intended to put up with watching them lay waste to ťhe series's body, clinging on for when a rotting bone is pulled up now and again and waved at us, before they chuck it aside to continue the dismemberment.

It's been eaten from the inside out, explaining the facial collapse. Behold the beauty on show:

You see what I mean, don't you?

Don't you? No, because otherwise you'd say the same.

How anyone feels able to describe three deformed freaks as 'hot' or 'cute' I will never comprehend.

The uniform collar protrudes like a solid pipe, emphasising the pencil necks.

It gives the impression of wrinkled, leathery tortoises peering out of their shells to secure a tasty lettuce treat.

Is that pretty? No.

Is it so surprising I don't care for my favourites to resemble melted waxwork skeletons of their own dæmonic counterparts?

S&M is a most fitting name, for this is torture.

In the film Death Becomes Her, Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn vie for the attention of Bruce Willis, both taking a serum giving everlasting youth and slimness.

The catch is it confers immortality, but not invulnerability, so when pushed down the stairs Meryl survives but is dead, her neck broken, thus she's zipped up in the morgue fridge.

When Goldie is shot with a canon she too rises, internal organs blown out.

The rest of the adventure involves the pair losing the war against time, patching up and painting over peeling grey skin, holding onto loose limbs as their bodies fall apart.

This obviously is the case here. The trio lapped the potion up at the close of Sinnoh, experienced a fatal accident and are now steadily crumbling to mush before us.

According to grave-diggers the head always goes first, so there you are then.

I have a suspicion that Giovanni lured all three to his crypt, experimenting on them to engineer his ultimate super soldier, which explains their flat, plastic appearance. Those since Unova began are the cyborgs, the real ones locked in his cellar.

You may notice I have about the lowest opinion possible of the current writing team, as they deserve.

Why should I have any respect for vindictive halfwits like this, who hate Team Rocket so much they're going out of their way to distort and uglify them, expressing the resentment in celluloid?

Jessie, James and Meowth lost their only defender in Takeshi Shudo. From that point they descended from loveable, hapless tragic figures to self-parodies (Hoenn) whiney, irritating divs dumping one another at every interval (Sinnoh), robotic, amoral scum (Unova and Kalos) and now physically repulsive minor additions (Alola and Galar). Is that trajectory all accidental?

It not that it's a new 'style' (for want of a better word), as were that the case, this hideousness would apply to the entire cast, but it's only done to Team Rocket. How could that be unless motivated by malice?

Given the sub thesps are obliged to prostrate themselves in the dust, begging fans to make their appreciation known, it smacks of desperation.

They wouldn't need to ask that were the trio treated as an integral component. They must sense the objections and are thus drumming up support to avoid the dole queue.

Are those in charge so resentful of their presence it manifests in mutilating them, keen to do anything that may alienate the fanbase, so at the first sign of a dip in popularity they can leap upon it as the perfect excuse to write Team Rocket out?

Why be surprised? These are imbeciles who reject their own canon at the close of every generation, so why care about someone else's?

If people have to harangue the writers with grovelling praise of their retcons, rehashes and all-round twatting about, butter 'em up sufficiently, with the implied threat of deserting the franchise should Team Rocket be ejected, taking their purses too, all so the smug, avaricious berks deign to put the trio in the next generation, that proves they don't want them, so how can what they write for their characters be objectively of any worth?

Team Rocket would've departed by now, were there not a palpable worry their absence might ring the death knell of the whole thing, turning off the financial tap, which is what matters.

Therefore they are retained, grudgingly, and only so long as the clamour continues at its current decibel level. If that drops it's over, and don't expect a romantic resolution. Why should pleasing you be a concern when you're to leave with them?

Ask yourself: how much of your devotion is based on what they are right now, and how much is from who they used to be?

How long can they live off past glories?

The offences done in Unova and Kalos were bad enough, but remarkably Game Freak found further depths to plumb, therefore it can only get worse.

I have of course retained the loveliest for last:

Be still, my beating heart.

No, really, be still. Stop infact. 

Planet of the Apes.

[svartalfhild]

The Knight Stars - Session 28 - Bodies on the Floor

Our latest DnD shenanigans. (Previous summaries can be found here.)

Heliodoro and Rue dump healing into Mornath, who doesn’t immediately wake.

Rue casts Nondetection on Mornath to protect her from potential scrying.  She suggests to Cinder that they hide the dead body of the cultist Mornath crispified.  Cinder quickly stuffs it in a broom closet.  Rue goes to distract the barkeep.  Barkeep goes to get towels and alcohol.

Rue explains to the barkeep that they don’t know what happened and persuades him not to get the guards involved immediately.

Helio carries Mornath back up to the party’s room and he works at cleaning her up.

Cael returns (looking fucking rough from his sexcapades) as Cinder is working on moving the body to a safer location.  Rue keeps watch while Cinder and Cael move the body to an unoccupied inn room. Cael suggests he pull out his Speak With Dead powers as a White Necromancer to talk to this cultist asshole.

They take the body to our room for the interrogation.  Cael searches the corpse and finds another cult medallion and the dagger with which the guy stabbed Mornath.  He notices the edge of a tattoo and takes of the cultist’s shirt to get a better look at it.  It’s reminiscent of the design of the medallion, at least in style.  Defs some cult shit.  Rue sketches the design in her notebook.

Cael casts his spell after they prop the corpse up.  The corpse comes to life in a creepy marionette sort of way and both its and Cael’s eye go black.

Helio asks who do you work and why did they want Mornath dead?  The corpse answers The Court and He Didn’t.  Helio follows that up with why did you stab her.  The corpse answers that You Pose Complications To The Grand Work.  Party asks what the Grand Work is and the corpse answers Salvation.  We then asked “What is the Court’s plan for Baldur’s Gate?”  The corpse answers Baldur’s Gate Is The Keystone To The Grand Work; The Culmination of Everything.  With that, corpse snaps backwards and collapses.

Rue goes to look for a room to stash the body in.  Cinder aids.  They find a room, get in and hide the body under the bed, making it look like the guy tried to hide there and died.  They scuttle back to the room.

Helio, Cinder, Rue to take shifts to watch while everyone sleeps.  Nothing happens in the night.

Mornath’s hair loses it’s blue tint, fading to pure white.

Rue gets Helio up, who looks quite rough and gets him to put on a costume.  Cinder likewise puts on a disguise.  Rue puts a wig on a still unconscious Mornath so that no one will recognize a description of her in the guard report.

Helio and Cinder go off to find a new inn to stay at and avoid the guards.  Before he leaves, Helio touches Mornath’s hand and kisses her forehead, whispering that he won’t let her down again.

Rue talks to the guards.  They mention they want to talk to Mornath once she wakes up and Rue sort of deflects their interest with talking of how Helio is in search of a healer.

Helio and Cinder go to the Temple of Gond to ask for help.  The high priest suggests that we can stay in the temple instead of an inn.  Helio and Cinder agree to this.  They inform the high priest that Mornath got stabbed and is stable, but isn’t getting better.

Helio and Cinder go to a bakery on their way back to the inn so they can eat their grief.

Mornath wakes up when Helio returns and says please when he talks to her.  She bolts upright and acts like scared animal until she gets her glasses on and says she recognizes Helio, that he’s always been there...why is he always there?  Everyone is very confused, especially after she starts intermittently speaking an ancient dialect of Elvish and her accent migrates all over the place while she goes on about not being dead but not being alive either and she’s lived many lives and Helio was in all of them.

Helio checks to make sure Mornath isn’t undead.  She’s not, but that just kind of raises more questions.

Cinder gets everyone to leave for the temple, saying we can finish this conversation in a safer place.

Rue hangs back to close up our tab at the inn.

Lord knows what’ll happen next, but shit keeps getting weirder.

[queenofeden]

Day 19: Double Penetration

Pairing: Nadia Satrinava/Julian Devorak/Female Apprentice

Word Count: 1351

Summary:

“Just relax, hm?” Laurel whispers, scratching at Nadia’s scalp, tangling long strands of silken hair between her fingers. “Let us take care of you for a change.”

✨ My Ko-Fi // Read on AO3 ✨

Gazing up at Nadia in all her glory is like staring too hard at the sun -- brilliant and bright, bad for your health, probably, but you just can’t help yourself. Its beauty draws you in, warms you up from the marrow of your bones to the roots of your hair, makes you feel alive where its rays brush over your skin. This is how Laurel feels, watching Nadia settle herself over Laurel’s lap, ready to sink down onto the false cock protruding proudly from Laurel’s mound. She smiles, tossing her long hair over her shoulders so that the ends of it tickle Laurel’s bare thighs. 

“You are so beautiful,” Nadia whispers, fingers trailing a winding dance up Laurel’s stomach.

“You’re beautiful,” Laurel whispers back, with a dopey grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She reaches out a hand to Julian, hovering behind Nadia’s back at the end of the bed.

“You’re also beautiful.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” he says, taking her hand in his and allowing her to tug him closer until he too straddles Laurel’s legs, knees bracketing her own. His grin is electric, easy to spot, towering over the crown of Nadia’s head even kneeling. 

He places his hands on Nadia’s shoulders, gently working the muscles of her neck with his thumbs. Laurel’s hands skim up the taut muscles of her thighs. Nadia sighs, tension oozing out of her body, replaced with pure bliss. With effortless grace, she lets her hips sink down, impaling herself on Laurel’s cock in one swift motion, taking the toy down to the root until her hot sex brushes over Laurel’s. A sound of satisfaction rumbles from deep in her chest, eyes sliding shut as Julian continues to rub her shoulders.

“You’re far too tense, Nadia,” he says, lips pressed to the top of her head. He guides her down, pressing at her shoulders until she caves, bending low so Laurel can wrap her arms around her.

“Just relax, hm?” Laurel whispers, scratching at Nadia’s scalp, tangling long strands of silken hair between her fingers. She gives a shallow thrust of her hips, slipping the phallus just the littlest bit deeper to make up for the change in angle. “Let us take care of you for a change.”

“Always do,” Nadia groans, mouth open against Laurel’s collarbone. Laurel runs hands along her back, down her shoulders to her ass, back up and down again. Gripping right where ass meets thigh, Laurel draws Nadia in, guiding her along with her thrusts. Nadia’s hips catch her rhythm quickly, pushing down as Laurel thrusts upwards to meet in a perfect stroke. All the while she mouths insistently at Laurel’s neck and jaw -- kisses, nips, little kitten licks that make Laurel shiver.

Over Nadia’s shoulder, Laurel watches Julian waiting patiently, petting over the globe of Nadia’s ass with one hand while the other fists his cock lazily. Nadia rises up on her elbows, hair a wild curtain, streaks of violet across her face. 

“Ready?” Laurel asks, brushing the errant strands away with a hand. Nadia kisses her palm, bites playfully at her wrist as it passes.

“Oh yes, I’m ready.”

Nadia bites her lip as Julian lines up behind her, pressing the head of his cock to her entrance alongside Laurel’s false one. Laurel cannot feel it, so she watches Nadia and Julian’s faces with rapt attention, watches as they both gasp in tandem, sweet echoes of each other’s pleasure as he pushes into her and Nadia receives him, tilting her hips back as much as she can without letting either of them slip out of her. Her forehead rests against Laurel’s breastbone, and Laurel can feel the heat of her skin sinking down through her. She wonders if Nadia can feel the rapid beat of her heart, pounding away with reckless abandon in her chest. 

It must be torturous, Nadia’s wet, tight heat, the stroke of every artfully carved vein and ridge in the phallus she had chosen rubbing against Julian as he seats himself fully inside. Nadia seems to handle the stretch well. There is a fine sheen of sweat in the small of her back, her mouth partly open and panting hot breath against Laurel’s skin. 

Then Julian begins to move, pulling back out slowly and pushing in again with a rough groan. Nadia whimpers, and Laurel strokes the back of her neck with a comforting touch.

“Are you alright?” she asks. 

Nadia’s eyes fly open with a sharp inhale, as if she’d forgotten all about the two of them behind and below her, so entirely wrapped up in the sensations overwhelming her. She catches Laurel’s gaze with her own, pupils blown wide enough to nearly swallow up the crimson red of her irises entirely.

“M-move, please,” Nadia breathes, desperation tinging her voice. She licks her lips. “Together, both of you, please.”

Laurel rolls her hips, trying to find Julian’s rhythm and match it. When one slides in, the other out, rocking against each other inside her gaping hole all the while. Julian leans across Nadia’s back, kissing at her ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth. Nadia purrs, and turns her head to catch his mouth in a sloppy, sideways kiss, tongue licking out over his lips, his teeth.

Eventually Julian’s breath turns ragged, his hips losing their slow pace one too-eager twitch at a time. “I -- I won’t last like this,” he gasps, red in the face. “Nadia should I -- may I--?”

“No, no,” Nadia grunts and Julian whines. “Hold, and come -- come up here to me.”

Laurel doesn’t feel him pull out, but her own thrusts suddenly move with much more ease. His fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, palm cupping his swollen sac, Julian hobbles on his knees around the side of them, whining when Nadia, propped up on an elbow, gestures him closer with a crook of her finger. He settles in a wide stance over Laurel’s head, her gaze entirely taken up by pale, muscular thighs, the faint curve of his ass, the whole of him smelling of sweat and sex.

Up on her hands now, Nadia leans in, mouth open, and takes Julian’s cock between her lips. Laurel watches the bob of her throat as she swallows around him, mesmerized, until the insistent rut of Nadia’s hips reminds her to thrust once again. Julian rocks gently into Nadia’s mouth and she lets him, holding still for them both to fuck in and out of her, no longer pressed together as one but filling her up all the same.

Julian babbles a warning, hands fluttering near and in her hair, but Nadia only takes him deeper. He spills down her throat with a bitten off cry, and Nadia swallows it with practiced ease, only a thin trail escaping from the corner of her mouth as he pulls out and collapses somewhere behind Laurel’s head. Laurel whimpers herself at the sight, mouth watering, wanting to lick it from Nadia’s chin. Instead she focuses her attention solely on bringing Nadia to the brink, thrusting her hips harder, hands once again gripping Nadia’s ass so that she can fuck up into her. She knows her angle must strike true when Nadia gasps, hands scrabbling to clutch at Laurel’s shoulders, nails digging in stinging crescents.

“Yes,” she rasps. “Just like that. Good, Laurel, that’s so good, yes--”

With three quick thrusts, Nadia slams herself down onto Laurel’s cock and begins to tremble, jaw clicking as her mouth opens on a near silent scream. Laurel’s hands pet her through her orgasm, stroking over Nadia’s thighs, her quivering abdomen, up her arms to her elbows, smoothing away the newly risen gooseflesh.

Then Nadia collapses, like a severed marionette, dropping so solidly and suddenly into Laurel’s embrace she can’t help but let out a quiet ‘oof.’

“Was that good?” she asks quietly, rubbing soothing circles into Nadia’s back now. Nadia lets out a low hum, turning her head so that she might kiss the corner of Laurel’s mouth.

“More than good, my love,” she mutters, voice rough and wrecked. “More than good.”