#ignore the jerky pacing

[saym0-0]

hi hello heres a wip animatic of my esmp jimmy never forgot au im brewing :33

rambles about the au under the cut vv

basically, the idea of it is that while lizzie went on land as in canon and forgot, when jimmy followed her he just. didnt forget. somehow. the curse thing just passed right on over him.

so basically hes just an immortal fish god woo! he spends most of his time up until esmp s1 disguised as a human, or another regular hybrid, and then in empires he still realises that lizzies his sister and he just never recognised her (not blue skin + a name she didnt have last time they saw each other + a long ass time does not usually equal recognition lawl)

post rapture he sticks with joel, and helps him achieve immortality and godhood, where he'll eventually become god joel of stratos.

the toy joke/relentless teasing is like. the sibling dynamic where you can bully and tease each other relentlessly but at the end of the day, if its a serious moment then they have each others backs. they've stuck together for a thousand years after all!

i have SO much to say about joel in this au but i'll probably save that for another post or maybe a reblog

[ckret2]

Chapter 49 of human Bill Cipher being such a miserable prisoner even the Pines are starting to feel bad for him: The Eclipse: Epilogue.

####

"The heck did you do to that poor woman?" Tate asked, staring out the window. Bill was sitting on the pier, legs dangling in the water, staring blankly into the depths. He was still muddy and trembling. "She looks more traumatized than when y'all left."

Ford couldn't meet Tate's gaze under the brim of his hat, but he could feel Tate raising a brow when he spotted Dipper pacing back and forth on the pier behind Bill, muttering furiously.

"We've had a very bad day," Ford said. 

"Uh-huh."

"Could I borrow your phone to call my brother?"

Outside, Dipper was oblivious to everything except the one line he'd managed to remember from the Axolotl, the words he'd picked out as they crossed the lake. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,'" Dipper murmured. He knew that much. It was a poem. It was a rhyme. He couldn't remember the rest. What did it mean? He murmured it over and over to himself as he walked, trying to remember the next line, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,' 'sixty degrees that come in threes'... breeze, freeze, ease, lease, knees—" He couldn't remember the rhyme.

Bill was considering grabbing Dipper by the ankle and dragging him off the pier just to shut him up when whatsisname, the younger McGucket came out of the shop. "Hello there? Miss Goldie?"

Human. Strange human. Human that Bill could get on his side. Be charming. He tried to remember how to be charming. He offered a feeble smile. "Yello?"

"I wanted to make sure you're all right," Tate said. "You look like you, uh... you've had a hard time."

Bill laughed ruefully. "Well, I've been dragged all over the mountain, I'm hungry, exhausted, and half-drowned, and I can barely walk—but I'm not currently dead. Allegedly. I'll take what I can get."

The corners of Tate's mouth twitched down in a concerned frown. "Is there anything you need? A..." He floundered for a moment, "A water, or...?"

"I've had enough water to last me a lifetime." He wondered idly whether he could claim he was too exhausted to make it all the way home—there was a sofa in the staff room, Tate would probably let the poor bedraggled "woman" take a nap, if Bill got that bit of distance between himself and the Pines maybe he could... maybe he could... do something with it? But he couldn't think of anything more definite than that and now Ford was coming back and the window of opportunity closed. He shrugged wearily. "Just need to get back to the shack. Thanks." He half heartedly used the lake water to wash the drying mud off his lower legs and knees.

"Stan will be here in about twenty minutes," Ford said, and tried to ignore the dirty look Tate gave him. 

"I'll be just inside if you need anything else," Tate said. "Watching." He headed inside—and then, indeed, stood at the shop window and watched.

Ford was never going to get on Tate's good side. He suspected Tate would be a little less sympathetic to the poor woman on the pier if he knew who he really was; but it certainly wouldn't make Tate like Ford any better for keeping him around.

"Nothing to do now but wait." Ford unloaded the rest of their supplies from the borrowed motor boat. He dropped Soos's Monster-Mon backpack beside Bill—it was heavy, Bill must have just shoved his clothes and bedsheet straight in without bothering to wring out the water—and the plastic bag of snacks Dipper had bought. "You ought to eat more while we wait." Ford nudged the snack bag.

Bill sneered at it. "I don't want that trash."

"What?" Ford examined the bag's contents. Jerky, chips, candy, cups of marshmallow cereal... "This is ninety percent of what you eat."

"Ninety percent of what I eat is what I can scavenge from the counters."

Ford looked through the bag again. Ah. Right. So it was. "If you want something else, you know you can ask us to..."

"Mac and cheese."

Maybe Ford had better stop talking. He sighed and glanced at Dipper to see how he was doing.

It didn't look like Dipper had even registered Ford's return, too busy pacing and muttering to himself. Ford frowned. "Dipper?"

"Axolotl," Bill explained. "He's obsessing over him. Didn't I tell you that meeting that thing would drive him insane?" He tilted his head toward Dipper. "Look at that, he's already mumbling to himself. Don't suppose you have his therapist's number, do you? I doubt that would save him, but it might slow the process—"

Ford shushed him.

Dipper had briefly tuned back into the conversation when he heard Bill say Axolotl; and now he grit his teeth and stubbornly tuned it back out. No. He was not going insane. Dipper would figure this out. If he just remembered the rest he'd be fine. He tried to go through all the potential rhymes alphabetically, "—bees, cease, d—deez?" That wasn't a word. "Fees, geese, he's..." and on and on, "seas, tees, uh... vees? Wheeze..."

"I've had enough of you trying to convince that boy he's about to go mad," Ford muttered to Bill. "What do you get out of saying that? Even if you do convince him he's insane, it won't make him start trusting anything else you say."

"I'm not lying," Bill said heatedly. "You ought to know that, you've been in the multiverse, you've seen plenty of maddening sights. You saw them before you even left the Nightmare Realm."

Ford hesitated before responding; was Bill trying to persuade Ford he was insane? But he could still remember those first few moments of terror in the Nightmare Realm: the creatures that had seemed to move and shift in impossible ways as they swam in and out of dimensions Ford couldn't see, the lights and colors that throbbed like an inverted migraine, Bill himself seemingly suspended a million light years away and a foot in front of Ford's face at the same time. Until Ford had latched onto his quest to destroy Bill and let that focus him, his mind had felt like an unraveling sock. "You were chief among those maddening sights."

"I was," Bill acknowledged neutrally.

"But I didn't go insane."

"Because you knew when to look away." He cast a sideways glance at Dipper, an implicit unlike him. "I know you used to read cosmic horror. Do you know why the narrator always goes mad just from looking at some giant beast? It's not because it's too ugly to take. It's because once you meet something, you try to understand it; but if you want to understand the reality something like that comes from," he rolled an eye up toward where the invisible Axolotl had hung in the sky, "you have to lose your understanding of your own reality. They're incompatible. Like the lunatics who escaped Plato's cave and came back ranting about nonsense like sunlight and colors."

It was a twisted interpretation of the cave allegory. Plato had meant it as a metaphor for education: that learning about the true nature of reality was enlightening, but alienated you from your peers.

Perhaps to Bill, enlightenment and insanity were the same thing.

Ford murmured, "Once your eyes have been too dazzled by the sunlight to see the dim shadows, you'll never be awed by a candle again."

"You have been there before."

Ford didn't answer.

"Once you've seen something like that, if you let yourself dwell on the significance of it all, you're doomed. Better to tell yourself it's unimportant and try to forget it ever happened."

Ford thought of Fiddleford.

Bill twisted around to snap tiredly at Dipper, "So stop staring at the sun before you go blind, moron."

"Shut up." Dipper had been trying to mentally drown out Bill's dire predictions by grasping for more rhymes—"disease, unease, Socrates"—but enough filtered through to make his stomach churn with nervousness. What if Bill was right? What if he never remembered what the Axolotl told him—what if he drove himself mad trying? What if this turned into a lifelong obsession—but he'd be fine and could let it go once he remembered—was that the trap? Was whatever it had told him impossible for a human to remember? Was it something so incomprehensible a human couldn't remember it without going crazy?

But he'd seen plenty of stuff last summer that was supposed to make humans go "insane." Bill had to be messing with him. He remembered the first line—surely that meant he could remember the rest—but was that part of the trap? "'Sixty degrees that come in threes'... come on, there's something else, I know it, what is it? 'Sixty degrees that come in threes'—"

Bill sighed irritably. "'Watches through the eyes in trees.'"

Dipper stopped pacing. He hadn't realized he'd raised his voice enough to be audible. "What?"

"What?" Bill said.

"What's the rest of it?"

"What rest of it? It's a couplet. That's all," Bill said. "Is that what he told you? He gets rhymey when he feels self-important, it's no big deal. Maybe you're lucky. Put it out of your head and you'll be fine."

Dipper turned the words over in his head. Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches through the eyes in trees... "That's not exactly right," he said slowly. "It was 'watches from within birch trees.'"

"Is that how he translated it? I've never heard it in English before. I got close, though, I knew it'd rhyme."

Ford echoed, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes.' Like a triangle?"

Dipper gave him a perplexed look. "What?"

"You're taking geometry next year, aren't you? The inner angles of polygons always have the same number of degrees; and a triangle has a hundred and eighty degrees. Three angles of sixty degrees forms... an equilateral triangle."

Dipper and Ford stared at Bill.

Bill gave them a tired, unreadable look. "What?" he said. "Don't look at me. I'm not the only equilateral triangle in the universe."

Well, now Dipper was sure there was more to the poem than just a couplet. "How many other equilateral triangles spy on people through birch trees?"

"Lay off," Bill said crabbily. "I didn't have to tell you that line. Don't make me regret it." He planted his elbows on his knees, laced his hands together, pressed his forehead to them, and massaged his eyelids with his thumbs.

He tilted slightly to the right, keeping the weight of his head off his left arm.

####

"Nice shirt," Stan said, eyeing Ford's anger management t-shirt.

"If you like it, you can have it."

"What happened to your coat?"

"Somewhere at the bottom of the lake," Ford sighed.

"How...?"

"I'll fill you in later."

Bill's trembling was almost unnoticeable by the time Stan arrived. Or, at least, it was slight enough that he could stand and make the short walk from the pier to the car without an obvious struggle. 

He climbed into the back seat, slid across the bench, leaned against the door, wrapped his arms around his Monster-Mon backpack, fell asleep, and didn't wake up for the entire drive home.

Dipper and Ford fell silent when they noticed; and, sensing the heavy atmosphere, Stan followed suit.

####

The event organizers for Higher Dimensional Gate had arranged for the Magister Mentium's audience to surround him in a circle with as large a circumference as possible, so that as many shapes as possible could pack into the first few rows where they could see him. Even so, the crowd was much too large for everyone to be in the first few rows. Speakers had to be planted throughout the crowd so that they'd all be able to hear the Magister speak. Most of his audience couldn't see him.

But he, with his all-seeing eye, could see all of them.

The crowd extended back, row after row after row, in every direction like flecks of multicolor confetti filling the air all the way to the horizon. He'd never spoken to such a large crowd before. He didn't think he'd ever seen such a large crowd before.

Not all of them were his worshipers. He didn't have that many worshipers. The rest were drawn in by his boast—to be the first shape outside of legends to predict an eclipse, over six months ahead of schedule. They were here for a spectacle. He meant to give them one.

If he succeeded, all these spectators would become his worshipers, he was sure of it. If he didn't succeed, he lost everything. The whole nation knew about his bet. He'd be financially ruined. His worshipers would abandon him. There would be no fleeing to a new town and starting over; everyone everywhere knew who he was. His life would be over.

This would be only the third eclipse he could recall. There's no way to neatly map shape ages onto human ages. Different year lengths, different aging speeds, different mental and physical milestones. But approximately, compared to a human, he was scarcely over fifteen years old. 

But he wouldn't fail. He pushed all his fears aside. He didn't even want to think about them. He wouldn't, because he couldn't, because he could see what nobody else saw. He could see the eclipse's approach.

It was traveling across the vast empty gulf outside the world.

The only other third dimensional objects he'd ever seen were the sun—which looked to him like a circle—and the stars—which seemed to be mere points. He assumed all third dimensional objects were fundamentally just second dimensional objects, moving on a strange plane. He had no capacity to model a 3D object in his mind.

But the eclipse was a beast that twirled and gyrated around impossible axes, moving and rotating in ways his eye couldn't even comprehend. To him, it looked as though the living creature—he assumed it was a living creature, sometimes it manifested a couple of limbs or an eye—was constantly shapeshifting, its perimeter moving and altering. Its uncanny undulations had haunted his nightmares for months after he first watched it, so young he'd barely started school. It wasn't any less nightmarish now.

But as incomprehensible and terrifying as it was, he could see it, and nobody else here could, and that was all that mattered. He could watch it on the horizon and publicly announce that it would cross the sun in two weeks—and then in about three days—and then, to his humiliation, not tomorrow but today, guaranteed, as the creature sped up and threw off his estimate. His worshipers and bemused spectators had taken over the square to while away the time. They'd quickly gathered around him to wait after he'd declared it would arrive within the hour

That had been almost an hour and a half ago. The stupid thing had slowed down.

The triangle was terrified.

In every direction, shapes were staring at him. Waiting. His father was watching him—his stare seemed to grow heavier by the minute. He could see reporters in the crowd taking notes.

He had to fight not to pace, not to cringe, not to show any nerves in front of the hundreds of eyes.

Now. It had to be now. It was so close. Please don't let him be wrong. Every cord in his body quivered in terror as he grabbed his microphone and announced: "Lines, bis, tris—quads, quints, and more! My dear students and beloved believers, and my—" he cut off the urge to say something nastier, "—curious visitors, who I hope will join our quest for enlightenment. This is the moment you've been waiting for! The eclipse is upon us! In less than a minute, it will begin!" He had to keep his gaze forward as he spoke, looking at his audience. (His mother had always said the way his eye went white when he was looking at the third dimension unnerved people.) "Soon—you won't have to take all my claims about the third dimension on faith. You'll be able to see for yourself the effect of the third dimension on the plane."

The crowd murmured excitedly. He could see his father relax. He stared up-but-not-north, gnawing nervously on his eyelid until he caught himself. The beast above glowed a warm pink in the light of the nearby sun.

And the stupid thing. Slowed. Again.

He stared in disbelief.

"Sixty seconds," his father whispered, out of range of the microphone.

His stomach flopped. He was dead.

"One minute, fifteen seconds. What's going—?"

He held his microphone away and hissed, "The eclipse decided to zigzag."

"Eclipses can zigzag?"

"Shhh!" He'd already failed. He'd already shown everyone he was wrong. He could hear the murmurs. His eye hurt from staring at the sun and from straining for so long to turn so far upward-not-northward, go faster faster faster—

There! The snout of the eclipse was this close to kissing the perimeter of the sun. He cried triumphantly, "Now!"

The wretched beast did a loop-the-loop around the sun and missed it entirely.

The triangle felt the last strands of his fraying self-composure snap.

He howled in rage.

He could hear laughs from the crowd. They felt like daggers in his sides.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" He was bellowing into outer space as if he thought it might hear him, "Do your think this is a game?! Is this funny?! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the whole world!" His father put a hand on his arm; the triangle shoved him away. "Get back here right now! You thick, brainless, blobby, pink, feeler-faced two-eyed freak of nature! GET BACK HERE and LOOK ME IN THE EYE!" He was a lunatic, everyone would know it, their leader raving in a direction no one could actually see about some big pink delusion, what did he care, no one would ever take him seriously again anyway—

And the thing in the sky.

Stopped.

And looped back.

And came closer, and closer, and bigger, and bigger—it just kept getting bigger, how far away had it been before, how large was it, how large was the sun?

He hardly noticed the crowd's gasp as the creature twirled between them and the sun—the light shone through its body, pink with blood—and then out of the way, and then in again, and out—until finally it was so close that its perimeter completely engulfed the sun. He'd taken a field trip to the planet's surface once—an enormous solid mass of stone and crystal. Until now, he'd never seen another solid objects so large. To his limited understanding of 3D objects, it looked as though there were no organs inside its perimeter—just a layer of solid, uninterrupted flesh. He didn't know how it could even move.

It stopped straight over him.

He was sure the two black circles embedded inside its body must be its eyes. His whole life he'd heard psychic powers—psychic powers like his own—described as having an "inner eye." But he'd thought the phrase was just a metaphor. An eye on the inside of a body instead of on its perimeter would be useless to most people. He'd never seen a creature with an eye literally on the inside of its body. But the eclipse had two.

And they were looking at him.

A giant ever-shapeshifting cosmic horror from outside of reality, staring through the veil separating the sane world from outerplanar space, and it was looking—at—him.

He was terrified.

He heard an alien voice in his head, vast and deep and slow as distant whale song:

"Hello there!" It was overjoyed. It was tickled pink. "I've never been spoken to by a shape on the wall before. I didn't know you could see off of it!"

Weakly, the triangle repeated, "'A shape on the'...?"

"Yes, this wall of yours." The eclipse gestured with its tail at—everything. A single sweep that took in an entire dimension. "I've probably commuted past this wall billions of times, and nothing's ever called to me before. I didn't know shadows could do that!"

"'Shadows'?" the triangle echoed again. That was all they were? An eclipse's shadows?

"I'm absolutely delighted," the eclipse said. "First contact from a lower-dimensional species! I've watched you for eons and never imagined. Isn't this exciting! How charming of you! Tell me who you are."

Him? "Me?"

"Of course. Who else?" It stared at him. Only him. A shapeshifting force of nature the size of a planet with two inner eyes, an eclipse that saw him as a shadow—and it was looking only at him.

Weakly, he said, "I'm... the Magister Mentium."

The eclipse thought that over. Its tone was a tad dubious and not terribly impressed (why should it be impressed? he was embarrassed at himself for giving his silly puffed-up title)—but it said, "Yes, I suppose that's true. I am the Axolotl. It's been a pleasure meeting you." It began to shapeshift again—its eyes slid sideways through its body, until one reached its perimeter and disappeared.

It dawned on the triangle, in its first immature understanding of third dimensional objects, that its eye had disappeared because the Axolotl was turning away. "Wait!" he cried. "Why..." Why answer him? Why focused on him so completely, if he was just a shadow? Why ask who he was like he mattered? He didn't even know how to put those questions to words in his own mind, much less out loud. "Why are you here so early?"

The Axolotl turned back to the triangle. "Oh! I had to go back for some documents I forgot at the office. Big case in the morning," it said. "You shadows know my schedule?"

"You... pass in front of the sun."

The Axolotl turned away, eyes disappearing and frills fluttering, to look at the sun. "So I do! How funny." It turned toward the triangle and gave him a strange, grotesque look that—by the tone of its psychic voice—he suspected was a smile. "I must get going. I'll be heading into the office a few hours late tomorrow, but perhaps I'll see you again then." And it turned away. It felt like it took forever for the enormous body to sail over-not-north-of the triangle—and pass, at last, out of the sun's path.

The triangle didn't look down-but-not-south until someone shook his side—his father. He lowered his dazed gaze to the crowd—the cheering, applauding crowd. Ma-gi-ster, Ma-gi-ster. A sea of multicolor confetti shapes that filled the air to the horizon.

Shadows.

His father shook him again—"Go on, say something. They're waiting"—and the triangle held up his mic as though he were in a dream. He tried to remember what he was supposed to say. "I was right," he said flatly. "Just like I always told you. I can see the third dimension. The realm of dreams—of colors, of light, and..." The lies left a sick taste in the back of his eye. He couldn't say them. Points of light in darkness and pink nightmares.

"I'm s— You'll all have to excuse me," he said, his voice childish and small. "I can't—I've had a... a... profound... spiritual experience. I must meditate on the revelations I've received." The words felt like woo-woo mumbo-jumbo. "The next eclipse will be a few months after the new year." It seemed important, for some reason, to pass that information on. Wasn't that what he always said he did? Share the wisdom of third dimensional spirits with his followers? "I... have to go now."

His father took his elbow. "This is your moment," he whispered. "Come on, son—you don't want to lose your chance to speak directly to them, do you?"

He shoved the microphone in his father's side. "You speak to them."

"But—"

"I can't," he said. "I can't."

He cut through the crowd as fast as it would part for him—if they were any slower, he'd have started stabbing his way through—haunted the whole way by their applause.

####

And that was it.

From the Axolotl's perspective, he had just had a brief pleasant exchange with a precocious tadpole in a sidewalk puddle.

From the triangle's perspective, he might as well have been standing on the boat deck watching as Cthulhu rose from his millennia of dead slumber at the bottom of the ocean, turned to the fragile vessel bobbing on the waves, and said, "Good morning! Glorious weather we're having, isn't it?"

And from the perspective of the Higher Dimensional Gate, their Magister Mentium had predicted an eclipse, been rightfully insulted when it didn't come the exact second he ordered it, and furiously summoned down an eclipse darker and swifter and longer than any in recorded history.

Up until then, he had been seen as, at best, an oracle. A prophet. A messenger to share the secrets of the third dimension, but that was all he could do. But now, he had commanded forces in an unseen dimension, creating an eclipse months before it was natural. He had made it flicker on and off like he had his finger on the sun's light switch. News reports and the most unimpeachable scientific authorities reported that the eclipse had centered on the location of the Higher Dimensional Gate rally, narrowed down to an inexplicably small radius around that point, and then remained unchanged for several long minutes, long enough for anyone in its shadow to grow fatigued from the missing sunshine. Nothing like that had ever happened before. It defied every known fact about the science of eclipses.

People around the gathering—even people who had known nothing about the Higher Dimensional Gate rally—reported that during the eclipse, they'd become inexplicably disoriented, unable to tell compass directions, and had felt themselves fall toward the darkness—as if gravity's pull had suddenly moved from the south to the epicenter of the eclipse. Public building inspections confirmed that somehow the entire town had shifted, ever so slightly, closer to the epicenter. Closer to the Magister.

Never mind prophecy; as far as the Magister's rapidly-increasing followers were concerned, he might have been a god.

It was the greatest triumph a baby cult leader could ask for.

He barely noticed.

####

For days, he could hardly sleep, speak, or think. He kept losing track of conversations to stare into space. Now, it awed his followers when his eye turned an empty white—he must have been communing with something in a higher dimension.

He didn't argue. It was better than letting them know he was losing his mind.

He spent his time alone locked in his room, pacing back and forth, trying not to look up-but-not-north and failing. Dwelling on the significance of it all. Feeling like he'd never figure it out.

He used to love cosmic horror stories, back when he had time to read. They followed a reliable pattern: the hero travels farther than any rational shape ever should, meets something big, and goes mad from the realization.

And what was it that the hero always realized? That he was a dust fleck in the firmament. That he was insignificant. That he didn't matter. That there were things out there he'd never seen before and would never truly understand, and that they cared not for mere shadows on the wall like him, and that in the grand scheme of the cosmos he was nothing. That he was utterly unimportant.

In moments of what felt like lucidity in between the shivering horror, the triangle  wryly acknowledged that it was no surprise he'd ended up in a cosmic horror story. He could see into another dimension. In the stories he'd read, that made it all but inevitable.

But all the authors had gotten the maddening revelation wrong. He could have handled knowing he was nothing. It almost would have been a relief. 

True horror was knowing he mattered.

He'd spent the majority of his young life selling the idea that he was oh-so-important, as part of a big con to trick gullible idiots into liking him and flinging cash at his rotten undeserving family—and he'd only been able to do it because when the guilt got to him, when his conscience asked what would become of the shapes forking over their life savings on false promises of divine secrets, he could look out into bleak black space and tell himself that nothing really mattered, nothing was important, nothing he'd ever do would really make a difference, and the people he manipulated didn't matter any more than he did. He meant everything to his worshipers, and nothing to the universe. He could do anything and it didn't matter.

For a moment, a vast mind-melting shape-shifting incomprehensible eldritch god had focused its full attention on him—of all the universe, of all the dimensions beyond the known universe, it had looked at him and only him—a mere shadow on the wall, and yet in that moment, it found him interesting. It found him worthy of notice. He had screamed into the cold uncaring void, and the void had cared. For a moment, he'd held cosmic importance. He mattered. His actions mattered.

He'd felt it see him as important, but why? What was so important about him? There had to have been something significant he'd done, something he showed it, something in what he said. He replayed their conversation in his mind over and over and over and over, trying to remember what he'd done that proved he mattered.

He didn't know what it was. He couldn't find it. All he could remember was just... being.

The writers were wrong. Cosmic horror wasn't when an elder god's eyes slid past you without noticing you existed. It was when the elder god gazed down at you at your lowest and bleakest, during your most petty and selfish act of mass swindling, from a dimension where not even slamming the door and shutting your eye could shield you from its gaze—and it decided you were worth caring about. Cosmic horror was when you encountered a colossal alien that planted the incomprehensibly alien idea in your head that you had an inherent worth just because you existed. Cosmic horror was when a force of nature asked the name of a shadow on the wall.

If it was true... if it all mattered... then what was he doing? How could he? What had he done?

####

He was lucky—he was lucky that his parents had raised him to think so clearly about issues like morality and money and easy marks. His only saving grace was that he was too rational to seriously entertain the Axolotl's mad ideas.

And yet, his mind boiled with mad regret. It blazed with insane guilt. The heat of it could burn him out. It was months before he could continue his public sermons without feeling sick—and even once he did, he could still feel the delusion that what he did mattered, festering in his mind.

It would fester for the next trillion years.

####

(And that concludes this plot arc! I hope y'all enjoyed it!! I'd love to hear what y'all thought of the whole thing—especially now that we've looped back to the original eclipse. 😁)

[robolvrr]

can't get enough ! ⋆ ★

ratchet x gn! reader x drift warnings: nsfw. threesome.

pleasure threatens to lull you dumb.

close to it, anyhow. drift can tell, your spine arches helpless, feline and on the verge of that special something him and his partner can't explain.

what ever power you hold over the pair is beyond logic and they've given up the frivolities of embarrassment - it was much more interesting to see just what else you could do instead.

his optics brighten, blazing and wavering at the cusp of your ass. how it meets him in jerky, motivated smacks, veins rushing with blood and muscle and fat rippling by sheer force.

this image plays over and over, until a squeak politely reminds his servos to lessen their might, alloy thumbs smoothing over the raw skin in affectionate afterthought.

he remembers first approaching you and how silly it all was.

a human, with a cybertronian, let alone two? the thought was as taboo as it was unheard of, as far as his knowledge goes. he hadn't devoted himself to a life of modesty, but even he knew tipsy on engex that what he offered was scandalous.

the surprise from him and ratchet? painting worthy. you had smiled up to them so sweetly, their precious, little secret, whispering that you had noticed them both staring. that you invited it, gladly. that you were more than happy to introduce them to just how resilient the human body could be under the right circumstances.

"keep them steady."

ratchet's voice, itching with electricity and a buzz in his field he could never ignore, tears him from ruminating. the mech raises an optical ridge, half-gazing with a lazy sort of amusement. drift ignores the stammer of his spark, continuing his hips when you whine "right there, right there!" - his kind doesn't have to stop, doesn't tire the same way and can actually pound that spot in you that makes you squirt for as long and rough as you'd like.

since you've been good, since ratchet has given him the green flag to do so, drift makes sure the back of your thighs nuzzle the front of his, warmth and softness sending tingles to his sensors. he admires the way your arousal clashes, oil and water, bright carnation and creamy pearl pitter pattering puddles on the floor.

your toes curl and fingers ball to fists, jingle of a brand new gift making music near the curve of your neck.

ratchet had been the one to bestow it. made sure the golden charm was perfectly center when he had clasped it, tightened just shy of breathless.

the insinuations, reality of it all, still drive drift crazy. his groans grow heated, heightened by the uninterrupted watchfulness of his conjux.

your vision is blurred. lips parted, your chest is sticky while you work yourself on drift's spike, stomach bulging at the angle he's pretzeled you in. not that you're complaining. the warrior still treats a tangle of sex like a battlefield, more than observant for the ticks and triggers that'll earn him raspy sighs.

ratchet? is obsessive in his own ways. he commands respect and you rarely try your bratty tricks with him. you can tell he's in the mood for stress relief, servo cupping the underside of your sweat-slick chin.

"open your mouth."

"hhhhguh?"

shushing you, you fold as he leans forward.

"no need to use your pretty head. just open."

in seconds, the fat tip of his spike lands flat on your tongue. you don't have to be mindful of teeth, though relax your jaw in efforts to swallow as much of his girth as you can.

a groan signals you've been... improving.

shallow thrusts split your mind in half, not in pace with drift's. when you lose rhythm, either or of them gently nurture you back on course. if anyone walked in, it'd be a debauched scene worthy the grimiest of hedonia's pleasure habs.

flesh can't handle excitement this passionate the way metal does. white starbursts behind your then shut eyelids, whimpers petering to a roughed up whine as you flounder for support.

you feel... squished. sandwiched more - while you don't have the energy or frankly the autonomy to peek, your hearing is just as good. a swap of something wet. muffled moans.

they're kissing. and ratchet's spike is further down your throat than usual, drift's almost hilted from behind. their glossas messily unlatch from one another and both holes empty at the same time.

gooey, another weak hiccup leaves you. digits course across your scalp, back, cheekbones.

the lost light is quiet. your lovers are content and you - you just can't get enough of it.

robolvrr 2024

a/n : another of the drafts i HAD to get out. please. please. PLEASE get me between those old men. i just know they'd love a little pet tbh.

[rae-writes]

Literally obsessed with how you write Levi, so if we could pretty please get some more NSFW of him I'd be in your debt.

Levi Levi Levi- we love our whiny, secretive-degenerate snake slut

"M-mc! You k-know I can't- oh- can't be quiet..w-w-we can't do this here— a-ah! Ngh...mmm..mm!"

Levi was such a pretty sight, neck bared as his head tipped back to rest on the chair he was slumped in, chest heaving and hips bucking up into your hand.

And your hand, palming teasingly at the aching hard on in his pants, ignored his pitiful try at a plea, slipping past his waistband to grip at his cock.

"O-oh, ff-uck! M-m-mc....hnn, s-stroke me faster, please..p-please!" His body writhed in the chair, knees knocking against the underside of the desk as he tried to get more.

"Yeah? Like this?" The pace you jerked him off at was almost brutal, fingers curled tightly around him while the thumb- occasionally- swiped at the head and dug into his slit, just like he liked. "I thought we couldn't here, Levi? Thought you were scared of being caught?"

He was- he'd be mortified if anyone walked in this very not locked and free-to-use classroom, but that thought had been melted away by the feel of your hand, replaced by a need that made him think he'd go crazy if you didn't give it to him.

"I-I don't care!" His moans had gotten louder, higher pitched, unrestrained. His lower half was raised completely off the chair as he practically fucked your fist, movements jerky and desperate.

"D-d-don't care, please, Mc, j-just keep playing with me! 'M s-so close...W-wanna be good f'you, lemme be good for you, g-give you my cum! Please!"

[redflagshipwriter]

Red Hot Ghouls 14 part 1/2

masterpost

“Hey, what’s up? Just checking in. Any luck so far? I finished my books!” Danny read mockingly off the burner phone with only one contact. He felt his eyebrow twitch. “What is this guy’s problem?” He got up in a jerky motion and started pacing around his one room apartment like the world’s most broke-ass tiger. It took three steps to get off the rug and onto the 3 tiles in front of his front door. He wheeled on his heel and did it again, and again, and then he forcibly collapsed back onto his couch in a huff. “What a bitch,” Danny complained. He kicked at the cushion. “Where does he get off talking to me like he doesn’t know…”

His voice trailed off as he accidentally had a thought. The thought happened to him entirely against his will. He really hated the thought.

Like. What if, just as a guess. What if he supposed that Jason the hapless performance-art biker tough guy rough guy had not found his secret identity? What if he had just like, gone out to a dark coffeeshop to read a new book? And from his perspective, some weird guy had yelled at him and made a funny face like a pissy toddler?

Shit. Shit, fuck, and damn. Danny groaned. Was Jason just a local??? Had he walked into that place by chance- oh. Holy fucking shit.

“I am the dumbest engineer I know,” Danny marveled. He looked up at the ceiling and sort of wished it would fall in and kill him instantly. “Jeremy is in Arkham. That implies he committed this crime in Gotham. That would imply his victim was from Gotham.”

Honestly… He had kinda just thought that Jeremy was in Arkham because it was convenient for him. But of course not. No one knew he was in Gotham. If Jeremy knew that Danny Phantom was on Gotham he would have been taking out creepy billboards to beg for his attention and damnation or something.

‘So Jason just thinks I am a total weirdo.’

Pain. Pain. Psychic damage. Danny threw his arm over his face and muffled a scream into his forearm, fucking mortified. Why was he so embarrassing? 

‘I don’t actually know that this happened in Gotham; Jeremy could have gone outside of city limits for his little ritual. Jason didn’t ask me to take him to Gotham from the GZ,’ Danny clung to in faint hope. ‘Maybe he really did hunt me down. Or maybe he looked up ectobiologists, learned about my family, and just sought out the geographically closest Fenton.’ 

…Get real. Come on. Jason wasn’t a detective. The straightest line between two points was the most likely path of events.

He unlocked his phone with numb fingers and started searching for any proof that this guy was a Gothamite. 

Jason Gotham

A bunch of Linked in profiles, a bunch of articles about rich people, and a flood of bookface profiles. It was a common name.

“That figures,” Danny huffed, feeling a little stupid for thinking that would work. He blew out a long breath. “It’s not like there’s ever just one guy in the world. There’s a billion Dannys out there for chrissake. There’s a Danny in my Econ class.”

Jason Gotham big strong guy

There was a wrestler from Gotham whose agent was named Jason. Danny clicked through the article to look at the photos just in case. No dice. His Jason was built prettier than the agent or the wrestler, Danny thought absently. Oh. He did have something that a wrestler didn’t, though.

Jason Gotham guns

Weirdly, the Linked-in profiles came back up. Danny was baffled and curious enough to read through a couple. “Gotham is such a goddamn place,” he marveled, eyebrows traveling up. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk about things like…” Then the penny dropped. “Henchmen get hired off Linked-in?” He sat up explicitly so that he could shake his head in disbelief at the state of this city. “Wild.”

Well. The mission was not a success. Danny buried his face in his hands and accidentally smacked himself with the phone still in his hand. He ignored the stinging of his cheekbone to wallow in self-pity. It would heal up fast anyway.

“I think I need to answer his message,” Danny said. He felt real low. He felt like such a silly bastard. “I have to be smart and feel out if he knows I’m Danny.” He paused. “Danny Fenton, not Danny Phantom. Because I introduced myself as Danny Phantom.” Danny groaned. That seemed like an unnecessary clue, now that he really thought about it.

‘I need to avoid Jazz,’ Danny thought grimly. ‘If she sees me, she is going to sense weakness and find out what I did.’

He mulled over his options for a bit, trying to plot a response that would reveal all of Jason’s secrets and also make sense in conversation.

He failed. “I’m not a smart man,” Danny said conversationally, and sent,

You finished all those books already?? You unemployed, dude???

Jason must have been waiting on him. His response was pretty fast. 

Self-employed, actually. 

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Pride! Untamed please!

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

 Lan Wangji is standing next to his brother as he makes small talk with Nie Mingjue – their closeness had never really recovered after the war, despite Xichen’s best efforts and Jin Guangyao’s lukewarm ones – when a Jin servant steps to his side and whispers, “Your wife is requesting your presence in Lady Jiang’s sitting room.”

Even as quietly as he’d spoken, Xichen and Nie Mingjue had obviously heard him. Xichen frowns. “Is she alright?”

Her injuries had been superficial and mostly healed. But Lan Wangji had seen the exhaustion that she didn’t want to admit to and said nothing, because they’d already gotten into one fight today and he understood pride well enough. Perhaps he should have insisted.

The servant lowers his eyes. “Apologies, Sect Leader Lan. I have only been instructed to escort Master Lan.”

“Excuse me,” he says, dipping his head to Nie Mingjue and falling into step with the servant. His pace is unhurried, which Lan Wangji tries to find reassuring. If something was wrong, surely they would be moving with more urgency.

He sees Jiang Cheng first and has to keep his lip from curling back in distaste. He’s ducked his head to speak with Jiang Yanli, the two of them standing outside of her rooms, but they both cut off their conversation when they see him. He bows shallowly to Jiang Yanli, ignoring Jiang Cheng completely. “Madame Jin. Is-“

“She’s fine,” she says, but the tension around her eyes and the strain in her smile tells a different story. “Please go in, Lan Wangji.”

He pushes the door open, closing it behind him, and at least he doesn’t have to look far for her. “Are you hurt?”

Xuanyu looks up at him, a faint redness in her eyes that speaks of tears. She’s dressed much like she was when he first met her, back in the Jin gold and cream and her hair turned sleek and pulled in hairstyle that’s half up in a braided bun on top of head and the rest of her hair flowing freely. It’s a Jiang hairstyle, one that Jiang Yanli used to wear when they were younger. The hair ornament in Xuanyu’s hair is Jiang Yanli’s as well.

The only Lan thing on her is her forehead ribbon, and it startles him with how out of place it looks, while Jiang and Jin seem to blend seamlessly. It causes something to twist uncomfortably in his chest, but he ignores it to repeat, “Are you hurt?”

“Sit down,” she says, gesturing to the place at the table across from her. He takes the seat next to her instead, looking her over for some sort of new injury or pain, but he can’t find anything amiss. “Ah, okay. Okay. So.”

He waits, but she just twists her hands together, occasionally reaching up to touch her hair and then realizing that with this new hair style it’s not where she expects it, and lowers her hands.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

She starts to shake her head then gives a jerky nod. “I – I – I’m. Yanli-jie’s healer came to see me.”

The stab of worry is almost becoming familiar when it comes to Xuanyu, but that doesn’t make it any more comfortable. “Are you ill? Have your injuries worsened?”

She shakes her head, and it should be a relief, but instead his worry just deepens. “No, no. It’s. Um. Not – I. It’s just that – well. You know. In the cold spring. And then the wall. And the bed.”

It takes him a moment but then heat flushes his cheeks. She is referring to when he became inebriated and took her. “Did I hurt you?”

She had said that it was not the type of hurt that was unwelcome or lingered and she’d never flinched away from him. But it was a first time for both of them and he barely remembers what he did and at the time he was significantly stronger than her and she was still injured from their spar. It’s entirely possible he harmed her in some way.

“No!” She bites her lip, staring at him with an intensity that he doesn’t understand. “Wangji, dammit, are you really going to make me say it?”

“If you wish me to understand, then you’re going to have to,” he says, worry and guilt pushing him to his own frustration.

Xuanyu blinks several times, and he’s about to apologize, but then she says, “I’m pregnant.”

He stares.

“From when we – you know – obviously,” she says. “So. Yeah.”

His eyes drop to her stomach. Several things snap into place at once but he can’t focus on any of them beyond the roar in his ears and the acid churning in his stomach.

He is no better than his father.

Xuanyu is his wife not by choice but circumstances out of her control and she had never wanted him and even if she enjoyed that night, he had lost his senses and demanded what she hadn’t offered freely, not even doing her the courtesy of taking the care to spill outside of her. Now his child grows inside her, pinning her in place and shackling her as his mother was shackled.

“Wangji?” she asks, voice concerningly high pitched. “Say something.”

“I’m sorry.”

She goes perfectly still except for where she’s gripping her robe above her knees. “Oh.”

“I never intended,” he starts but the lump in his throat makes it difficult to get anything else out. Instead he gets to his feet, bows to her, and is pushing out of the room as quickly as his feet can carry him.

Everything is too hot and too close and he can’t breathe. He needs to get outside. He needs to think.

“Hey!” Jiang Cheng shouts as he rushes past, but his voice softens as he says, “Oh, shit.”

It’s too bright and too close and too loud and he has no patience for Jiang Cheng even at his best and he just needs – he needs –

“Wangji?” Xichen grabs his elbow as he’s headed for the exit, eyes wide and concerned. “Is she – what’s wrong with Lady Xuanyu?”

“I,” he starts, and still can’t make himself speak. He pulls himself out of his grip and continues for the door. He hears his brother make his apologies to whoever he’d been speaking to and then his presense at his back, following him out.

He’ll probably be grateful for that when his head clears, but for now it’s too full of panic and shame and a bitter self hatred he hasn’t felt this intently since he’d lost Wei Wuxian.

“I know somewhere private,” Xichen says softly as soon as they’re outside, the lungful of fresh air not nearly as clarifying as he’d hoped it’d be. “Come.”

He follows his brother, focuses on breathing, and not why it feels like he can’t get enough air despite how greedily he sucks it in.

[gigglesandfreckles-hp]

I AM HERE FOR THE TEENAGE JILY ANGST

So just to be a little more evil to them can you please do "Can we talk?" and "I think we've all said what we wanted to say." 😈😈😈

lily got her drama moment, so it's james's turn because i am nothing if not fair and magnanimous.

from this prompt list

Lily liked it better when she didn’t know all his secrets, didn’t know there was nowhere in this bloody castle she could hide because he has a map. It’s why she’s only startled, not surprised when she turns the corner headed down toward Potions and runs into him on the fifth floor.

“No,” she says, immediately picking up her pace to walk past him.

His long legs meet her stride easily. “Stop running away from me, Lil. Just—”

“I’m late for Potions.”

“Fuck Potions, Evans. I need to talk to you.”

“It can wait.”

“It can’t,” he insists.

“I don’t want—” But her defence is intercepted by a tight grip on her forearm as he grabs her and tugs her straight out of the main traffic of the corridor, ignoring her protests as he pushes past a tapestry and stops them in the secluded alcove just on the other side.

The jerky movement loosens several strands from her plait, which simply won’t do for Potions. As soon as he releases her arm, she reaches up to pull the elastic from her hair, intending to redo it quickly.

Before she can grab a section of hair, James’s hand darts out, snatching the elastic from her fingers and stuffing it into the front pocket of his trousers.

“What are you—”

“Can we talk?” he asks earnestly, leaning toward her.

He smells good. That annoying boy smell that isn’t something Lily would ever want in a bottle of fragrance for herself, but somehow she knows she wouldn’t mind bathing in it, sleeping next to it, living in a house full of it forever.

She chooses her words carefully. “I think we’ve both said what we wanted to say.”

“When exactly did that happen? Because I seem to remember you disappearing as soon as we stopped—”

“Okay,” she says, putting up a hand between them, because she can’t hear him say it. She can’t handle hearing evidence that what they did last night actually happened, outside of her dreams.

They kissed, actually kissed, and Lily thinks she’s going to black out if she doesn’t put some distance between the two of them right now.

“Okay what?” he presses, stepping closer. “This isn't fair. Don’t shut me out just because—”

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” she promises, feeling overwhelmed by his closeness, his intensity. “I just…I don’t know what happened, okay? It—we were caught up in the moment. And—”

“Are you being serious right now?”

She flushes under the harshness of his tone. “Wh-what?”

“Is that the position you want to take? Because that’s fine, Evans. I’m not going to force you to admit that what happened between us was good and a long bloody time coming at that. Whatever. Be delusional. But don’t—don’t act like we were caught up in the moment. What the fuck is that? I care about you. You know that, Lily, and—”

She shakes her head and steps away from them, her back hitting the wall. “I can’t handle this right now. I just…I can’t, James.”

He watches her silently, his expression a mixture of pain and resignation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he speaks again. “So that’s it?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, quietly.

“Maybe you can act like it didn’t happen…but I can’t. I don’t want to. So if you really…if this is how you feel,” a crease appears across his forehead and Lily wants to reach across and smooth it out more than anything, “then we’re done.”

Lily’s heart lurches in her chest. “What do you—”

“I can’t be your friend anymore, Evans,” he says, sounding so wretched Lily wants to cry. “So I’m going to ask you again. But when we walk out from behind that tapestry, no matter what your answer is—there’s no going backward. I can’t…I can’t do that. It’s killing me.”

Lily's heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice. She swallows hard, trying to compose herself. "James," she murmurs.

He shuts his eyes tight and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then opens them and looks down at her. “Can we talk?” he asks again, his voice strained with emotion. “And that means we don’t leave here until we’ve both been honest. I want to be with you, Evans. You know that. Just…" Something a little desperate seeps into his tone. "Don’t you want to be happy together?”

Her lip quivers, and she feels tears threatening to spill over. "I…" she begins, but the words catch in her throat.

“Answer me, Lily."

“James, I can’t,” she whispers, her voice breaking off. “But it’s only—”

James's shoulders slump, and he takes a step back, his gaze dropping from her to the floor for a moment. Without another word, he turns away from her, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor as he pushes through the tapestry and moves back into the corridor, leaving Lily alone.

[gildui]

crimson

wc: 1.3k | simon riley x f!reader | 18+ dddne implied coercion . cumplay . unreliable narrator . breeding kink-ish . the concept of welding things to skin (man i was horny idk) . spanking . toxic relationships . idgaf!ghost . mean!ghost . inner monologue!ghost . reader dresses in a skirt, has afab parts, and paints their nails but is otherwise featureless

Simon Riley’s bird was gone. 

Fled his nest while he was out fighting for his country.

Shameless, really. 

 Left him with nothing but a handwritten note, a few bits and bobs forgotten around his house, and a pair of forgotten used knickers beneath his bed. 

The gusset was crusted, dried with past slick, long forgotten during one of the many nights that Simon would fuck you hard enough to leave the drywall behind your headboard indented. Simon hadn’t cared about fixing it then. Still didn’t care about it now as he stood before the full length mirror in front of your bed in his travel gear, covered in grime and foreign gunk, his boots impeccably laced, his hoodie too small to contain his frame, thighs near bursting from his worn jeans, duffle bag clutched in his free hand. 

They smelled like you too. 

A slip of red fabric, too rich in colour to remind him of blood, yet still reminded him of the hue you’d been painting your toes when he left weeks prior. Satiny fabric, intricately printed lace across the front with one of those teeny, tiny bows at the waistband that did not untie anything despite how much you had reprimanded him to stop trying to unknot it, Simon. 

At some point the bag dropped from his hand. His gloves discarded, left in small piles at his feet. His mask rucked up above his nose, knickers pressed flat against his face inhaling as he angrily fisted his weeping cock in front of the mirror. His forehead knocked against the pristine glass, smudging the pane in a way that would usually result in you yelling at him for leaving prints against what you’d just washed. 

You’d tear him to shreds over it, yowl in his ear on and on about mucking it up, and he’d love every moment of it. The way your teeth would set back in a snarl, upper lip curled. Your right eyebrow always went higher than your left when you were annoyed. Your nose always crinkled in distaste like a mutt primed to bite. The way your voice went shrill after he'd said he would help around the house whilst you were off to work, and yet, every time, the chores went on untouched and he remained on the couch as you stepped through the door. 

He would do anything for it. To see that snarl, to watch the anger light up your eyes, your jagged, jerky movements—lacking in any sort of grace, reminding him of a fawn just learning to stand—as you paced, hands pumping at your sides as you yelled and cried and spat and whined and pestered until he got fed up with it. 

Then, and only when you were about to fragment, break into a million pieces, desperate enough to hurl something at his head, to do harm, did he acknowledge your existence. Half-lidded brown eyes would examine your figure. Leering over you. Objectfying. Undressing you with his beady gaze. Somehow, all at the same time, he managed to make you feel as if he were slightly disgusted by your presence.

He’d huff, like he were the one incensed and you were the inconvenience. Then, he’d bend you over the table. Yank up your skirt, ignore the way your crimson nails swiped at his forearms—”beasty,” he’d coo with that infuriating chuckle of his—and when your nails connect with his skin.

Oh, how he’d be waiting for that, returning fire with a scorching handprint across your asscheek. Imprinting himself into you. Holding you down by the scruff of your neck, your face pressed against the wooden grain of your table as he rutted his cock between your thighs, never quite allowing you the satisfying fullness you’d keen for.

 Punishment. 

Cumming on your clothes—your pretty floral skirt, your expensive jumper—spreading it across your knickers, ruining the fabric, labelling everything that is yours as his, and only after, he’d fuck you in bed, leave you a blubbering mess afterwards. Too drunk on his cock, too full of his seed, orifices leaking his slimy, accursed essence. 

Anything to get you to shut the fuck up, really. 

His cock wept as his textured hand tugged on it. Using the precum as lubricant, his thumb notched back his foreskin, thumbpad rubbing against his ruddy cockhead, flicking at it with his blunt nail. Simon inhaled your knickers again, ran a hot stripe across the fabric as if he could rehydrate the fabric enough to suck your taste from it. 

It wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. Knickers in his hand, Simon slammed his open palm against the wall, rattling the mirror, knocking down a picture frame you’d hung ages ago. The glass shattered along the flooring, yet, Simon only dropped that hand to his groin. More delicate than he’d ever handled your body, he wrapped the fabric around his shaft. Carefully made sure the gusset—the closest thing to you he had left, bleached, stained, worn far too many times to be considered part of your ‘sexy clothes’—was lined up with his slit. 

Simon’s hand squeezed tightly as he rutted into the fabric, aiming to fuck his hand with enough vigor that he’d forget it all. The small fact that you were gone. Brown eyes set in weary, pale skin and sodden with eyeblack remained open, vigilant in his watch, as the fabric darkened from scarlet to maroon. As he staked his claim into the final things of yours he had left. His breaths fogged the glass, his cock smudged against it, leaving prints each time he thrust too far into his hand. So close, yet not close enough. 

You had been wearing red the first night he met you. A scarf around your neck that had him thinking about how pretty you’d look with a collar—his name carved across it—of the same colour forever welded against your skin. You’d looked pretty wrapped around another man’s arm, huddled from the wind, Simon was enamoured then. Now, he was obsessed. 

His final few thrusts were sloppy. The burning that had started at the base of his spine spread like wildfire as quiet grunts escaped his gritted teeth. Simon shut his eyes against the onslaught, pretending it was your cunt he was spurting long, heated strings of semen into—as if it was your sticky womb he was once more filling, overfilling—instead of the cold, stiff mirror. 

It was your complaints about the bedsheets being gross because he’d refused to wear a condom—”cunt squeezes me so good we don’t need one, beasty” he’d reason only when he knew you were too focused on the rumble of his voice box against your hardened nipples as he peppered kisses along your skin—instead of the roaring silence of an empty house, tinnitus ringing without the blanket of gunfire or of a Scotsman yapping for too long in his ear. 

Simon didn’t bother wiping down the mirror, tossed the knickers back under the bed, stepped over the broken glass, as he headed for the dining room. He paused long enough at the table to scoop up your note, reading the delicate, dainty curves of your handwriting whilst his feet moved instinctively to the couch. 

Off on a work trip.  Call when you get home.                                           xx,                           your beasty

He was watching football when you got home. Ignored you as you stepped through the front door, greeting him with a kiss to the crown of his head when you passed by to make your way into the bedroom. He counted to five before you came storming back out.

“What the fuck did you do to the mirror, Simon?! What the fuckin’ hell?!”

At least, this time, he swept the broken glass out of the main entryway and toward your side of the bed. To be found and stepped on later when the two of you went to bed.

Wouldn’t want you to spill that pretty red blood before he could lap it up. 

[lulublack90]

Prompt 17 - Dawn

@jegulus-microfic August 17, Word count 766

Previous part First Wolfstar part

He followed James through the wooden entrance doors and then left down the steps towards the dungeons. He kept close to James and tried to match his footsteps, so the echoing corridors didn’t give him away. 

They stopped before the blank expanse of wall that served as the secret entrance to the Slytherin dorms.

“Oxyuranus microlepidotus,” James recited, and the wall began to shudder. A door with intricate silver filigree adorning it appeared in the previously empty wall. James hesitantly reached for the handle and swung it open. 

The Slytherin Common room was exactly as he remembered it. Dark, with black leather chairs and sofas, sparsely illuminated by a few candles dotted about, helped by the small amount of light that drifted in through the waters of the black lake, but right now, with it being dark outside, the windows that made up the far wall were as dark and cold as obsidian. 

“Hi, erm, Mr Slytherin sir,” Regulus’s head snapped in the direction of James’s voice. He’d moved to stand in front of the portrait and was trying to get its attention. “Hi, sorry, I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?” James continued. Salazar ignored him, looking out of the side of the frame away from James. Regulus felt a surge of anger swell in his stomach. He ripped the cloak off and stormed across the Common room. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Salazar sneered as Regulus came to a stop beside James. 

“Oh, he talks,” Regulus shot back rudely, balling his hands into fists. 

“I do to students I recognise. This one I do not.” Salazar peered closely at James. “He looks decidedly Gryffindor to me,” 

“James Potter, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” James forced a smile on his face and Regulus caught the jerky movement of his arm, realising James had been about to offer his hand to the painting. 

“Hmmm,” Salazar replied. “And why are you darkening our doors again, Mr Black?” Regulus rolled his eyes before retrieving the locket from his pocket. 

“Look familiar?” He said, letting it swing to and fro on its chain. 

Salazar lunged out of his chair and got as close to them as the confines of his canvas would allow. 

“Where did you get that?!” He spluttered. 

“In a god-awful cave surrounded by inferi,” Regulus answered, letting the locket rest in the flat of his hand, the chain pooling around it.  

“It is wrong,” Salazar murmured, as he moved his head trying to get a better look. Regulus took a step towards him, holding it aloft. "What has been done to my locket?" He furrowed his brow as he continued to examine it.  

“We believe that a man who calls himself Lord Voldemort has turned it into a Horcrux,” Regulus told him.

“OUTRAGEOUS!!!” The portrait bellowed, the frame around it coming away from the wall with the force of his emotion. “HOW DARE HE!!! THAT DESPICABLE EXCUSE FOR AN HEIR!!!” Salazar paced around his small area, his snake coiling itself under his ornate chair to avoid his stomping feet. “Curse that Tom Riddle!” Salazar continued his tirade. He spun to look at them again. “What do you need?” He asked with determination in his eyes.

“We need to know how to open it so we can destroy it and in turn destroy Voldemort,” Regulus told him, being totally honest. 

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” James butted in. Regulus, too, wanted to know he’d never heard that name before.

“They are one and the same,” Salazar said, sitting down in his chair, tired from his outburst, and retrieved his snake from under his chair, hissing what Regulus guessed were soothing words to it. “A childish nickname he made up for himself now his only name,” Salazar looked up from his snake. “Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort,” Regulus and James looked at each other. This was new information. Something no one else knew. 

“Now about my locket…”

By the time Salazar had given them as much information as he could, the pinks and golds of dawn were peeking above the horizon. Regulus was exhausted, his mind swirling with too much information, and all he wanted was to slip into James’s comfy bed and snuggle into the man beside him, but first he had to follow James up to Dumbledore’s office. He yawned under the cloak as James spoke the password and followed him up the stairs behind the stone gargoyle.

“Ah, James, good morning,” Professor Dumbledore welcomed him the second they stepped into the office. “Please, sit down, we have a lot to discuss. Sherbet Lemon?” 

Next part

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

the greatest thing we've lost: santimarc [e]

“I missed you,” Marc manages to say, mouth slack and wanting, eyes bright on the half light.

Santi flattens his free palm against the cradle of Marc’s ribcage. Feels him breathe, the sharp staccato of it, and the heat of his skin. His tongue is leaden—clumsy. There’s too much to say, he thinks. Or maybe he’s being too emotional.

He kisses Marc’s collarbone, the jut of bone there. Then his arm—the bad one, the one that he’s spent years losing sleep about. His scars are raised and rough under his lips. Marc jolts, a sound caught in his throat, wet, needy. Jolts again when Santi realizes he’s distracted and crooks his fingers inside him. He throws his head back, sweat pooling on his hairline, casting him on a silvery sheen.

The night flies by him in jerky flashes. Dinner, too fast—though Santi knows they spent hours in that restaurant, laughing, too full of good food, though technically this must breach at least one contract. The track to Marc’s hotel room is a meaningless blur.

But this—

Santi has this moment in excruciating detail, punishingly so. Marc at the door, king-of-the-world reckless— how about one more drink? Which had lasted for three seconds flat, and then his mouth was on Santi’s, insistent, demanding. A hand under his shirt, and the other on his belt, blundering, inelegant, all want. He'd been thinking about kissing him for what felt like days, staring at the stain of rosé wine on his lips.

“Santi,” Marc bites out, urgent, his eyes fever bright and wide. He’s pretty like a heart attack like this.

“I’m here.”

“Another—why don’t you give me another?” He sounds frustrated, cleaved open, voice catching on a whine.

Santi rests his forehead against Marc’s sweat slippery thigh, panting wetly into the crease of his hip. Sinks his teeth into the flesh there, the imprint of his mouth red and mean. Marc jerks, sighs, goes slack at the pain.

He doesn’t say take it easy . “You’re something else.”

It comes out sickeningly, predictably fond. Same old. Marc puts his hand on Santi’s nape, tugs at the curls growing there. A laugh bubbles out of them both. Something giddy and light tangles in Santi’s chest—a champagne frizz under the podium, just tossing the data away and marveling at the show.

Santi would do anything for him. To him. That realization rakes its nails over his nerves, makes him buck against the bed.

Marc goes up on his elbows to look at him. There’s a flush on his cheeks, pink, precious, and an open-mouthed, reckless smile. His cock smears silver-shiny streaks of pre-come on his abs. Unfair. Troublesome . Even more when he smells the weakness Santi can feel breaking out on his own expression and does what he always will—latches on.

“I missed you,” Marc says again, dogged, unrelenting, painfully adoring.

And he clenches in convulsive, little spasms around his fingers. Santi has to bite on his tongue hard. Count back on every corner where the Honda is slow.

It’s fucking—insane.

“Me too.” But he keeps the same pace, only two fingers, scissoring them gently, not quite skimming against Marc’s prostate, not quite ignoring it.

Marc moans, wretched, wanting. It’s the mind-fuck of Santi’s life .

He hadn’t thought about this. It wasn’t ever like that, except in the odd stretch of time between 2018 and 2019, with Marc crystal-fragile and carrying a fiery streak of the divine anyway. You and me, Santi, just us, we’re the best, can you believe this ? As if he had ever doubted.

As if anyone could ever doubt, with Marc tucked against their side, champagne-slack, bright like gold.

But it wasn’t serious . Not when he had Marc’s data, and his wins, and his safety on his hands. Now he has this—the bruise on Marc’s collarbones, and his lube-shiny hole stretching wide, and the way his lashes fall over his cheeks.

If he could burn that image in his mind forever, he would. Thinks he already has.

Santi must be going too slow again. Marc makes a noise, one hand bunched on the sheets, the other digging into his shoulder. The thought of carrying Marc’s bruises comes like a knife to the guts sort of realization about himself.

“Can’t you just fuck me?” He bites out. Mouthy, still halfway to a plea anyway.

And he goes vice-tight again. The squelch of lube becomes deafening, obscene. Christ on the cross .

“Marc,” Santi chides, his voice gravelly, strained. He’s thinking about it—just slipping inside him already, God fucking damn it all.

“Hm?” His eyes are hazy. His hips work in small, tortuous circles when Santi freezes.

He would like it, is the thing. Another Marc-ism to add to the list— fastmeanrough here too. Santi tucks a laugh against the slippery crook of his neck, slows down his fingers, presses down against a smooth, trembling thigh to keep him in place when he bucks against his hand. He’s so hard his vision starts to blur around the edges, cock throbbing like a sucker punch between his legs.

But it’s his job to worry. Always has.

“Marc, are you happy?”

Marc’s lashes flutter over his cheeks. He’s pretty—pretty and wired and flushed pink, eyes round and wide, his bottom lip wobbling. “ Yes ,” he groans, grabs Santi’s wrist. His nails scramble against the delicate skin there. Mean, greedy. “Yes, but I wish things hadn’t—that we were still—”

His heart is three sizes too big for his chest. Also, his underwear feels gross, sticky, where he’s been leaking all over himself. Through that outpour of fondness, of need, Santi leans in to nuzzle Marc’s forehead.

It isn’t—it isn’t what they thought they’d always be. Honda forever, Marc had blurted out at—one of the Sachsenrings, he thinks, both of them drunk out of their asses, delirious with joy, with the fever pitch of king of the Ring .

And if not that, a team forever. It isn’t Santi going through ten hail marys over quali, over a divine save, and Marc dragging him up the podium after that, glued together from calf to shoulder.

“You’re gonna be just fine, babychamp,” he whispers.

Marc nods sharply. He’s fever-hot on his fingers, restless, feet digging uselessly into the sweat-damp mattress. “If I could I’d have never—”

Santi knows. Tries to shush him because he knows , but hearing it might unlodge that sharp piece of loss stuck somewhere around his ribs. Might unlodge that I wish you hadn’t, and you were the best thing I ever held, and I thought that without me you wouldn’t have done it that burns in his throat.

But Marc has clearly been working himself towards something. His gaze goes flinty, cutting—clear visor on a left-hander track, laser-focused.

His legs wrap around Santi’s waist. Suddenly he’s on back, scrambling for breath, wrangled like Marc’s bike when it tried to buck him off. Marc is there, everywhere, above him, boyish curls casting shadows on his determination, on his furrowed brows.

Santi blinks hard to the ceiling. He feels light, untethered, mustang wild—fourteen years later is either the most singularly stupid moment to do this or the only one that works.

“Sometimes,” he says, harsh, yearning, “I want to say fuck Ducati, fuck Gresini, fuck Frankie and hand you my data. Get you to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Santi laughs. Tries to. What comes out is a reedy noise he doesn’t recognize as human—Marc eviscerates him and reaches behind himself to get Santi’s cock out of his underwear. His hand is iron-hot, calloused from the brakes. He can see where this is going, but his head might be stuffed with cotton, slow on the uptake, stuck on a syrupy wave of want.

“Should I talk you through a lap in Motegi?”

“No.” He goes crinkly-eyed, mischievous. Brno 2019 levels of bad for Santi’s blood pressure. It’s not any less devastating from up close. “I know you’re going to complain about my braking.”

“You eat too much ty—”

Marc smiles, shark-like, and drops down on his cock, mouth going wanton and slack.

It’s just the tip, because Santi grabs his waist and holds tight to keep him in place. Stops him from fucking himself in one single, ruinous stroke. A whine knocks its way past his teeth, searing, almost inaudible through the pound of his heartbeat in his ears. Marc looks smug, hungry—unfortunately, unflatteringly attractive.

“Be careful,” Santi hisses, nowhere near as authoritative as he aimed for. It comes out choked, a plea. It's not like that warning has ever worked.

Marc smells blood on the water. Grins, shiv-quick, a flash of white teeth and his tongue sweeping over them. You you you you you you , Santi thinks, or chants, snapping his hips to fuck into Marc.

It’s—surreal. Marc flattens his hands over Santi’s shoulders, stuttering through his next breath. That little noise is almost as good as winning with him.

[dishoneykisses]

And more to be added!

Wrap Me Up In New Fixations by Sirmoulin (E, Complete, 25,827K)

Relationships:

Poly141 - Relationship, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John "Soap" MacTavish/John Price/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Tags:

Scent Kink, Polyamory, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Fluff and Smut, Double Penetration, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Creampies, Aftercare

Summary:

Taking care of curly hair was a process, a pain in the ass really. But at least the shampoo smells nice.

Four chapters of Gaz getting dicked down because the 141 thinks his hair smells good.

Ghost is annoyed (Thread) by Arson (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Konig

Tags:

Summary:

Ghost is annoyed that König's dick is bigger than his, so he makes it his business to show the taller man that it can't possibly be better than his own.

Trans man Soap (Thread) by iammadeofpages (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

dysphoria, self deprecation, lots of pussy talk, cunnilingus.

Summary:

People say it's not a problem. They always fucking do. As if the lie won't have to come out at some point? Like ignoring it works.

Ghost being so /done/ (Thread) by Raven (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Price/Soap, Ghost/Soap

Tags:

overstimulation, trans!soap, brat tamer!Price.

Summary:

Thinking of Ghost being so /done/ with bratty Soap that he just sends him to Price so that the Captain can bend him over his knee and wreck him.

Edge (Thread) by Bailiah (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

Summary:

Ghost being more turned on than ever, and Soap absolutely not helping

i'm afraid i'll go to heaven by casiferfans (E, Complete -multiple parts -, 7,787K)

Relationships:

John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Tags:

Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Accidental Voyeurism, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Top Simon "Ghost" Riley, Bottom John "Soap" MacTavish, Banter, Blackmail, Protectiveness, Biting

Summary:

"It’s information,” Price spit out, beginning to pace back and forth. He tacked on, “Information on us," as if his original anger and statement didn’t make that obvious.

“So blackmail,” Ghost supplied. Price gave a jerky nod in affirmation. “Okay. What in the fresh hell does it have to do with me?”

It's Tactical by WhisperedWords12 (E, Complete - part of short series, Stand alone - 1, 979K)

Relationships:

Rodolfo Parra/Alejandro VargasJohn "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Tags:

Hand JobsBlow Jobs, Teasing, Dirty Talk, One Shot, Stand Alone, Voyeurism, Past Accidental Voyeurism

Summary:

“I’d advise you not to look,” Ghost said.

A thud against the car, the vehicle swaying slightly.

“What in the bloody hell—“ Soap cursed, hand on his weapon, looking to the side mirror. Alejandro had Rudy pinned against the car by his hips, was biting hungrily at his bottom lip.

“Told you not to look,” Ghost mumbled. “Unless that’s your thing. I won’t judge.”

Backseat Driver by WhisperedWords12 (E, Complete, - part of series, stand alone - 5,249K)

Relationships:

John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley, Rodolfo Parra/Alejandro Vargas, John "Soap" MacTavish/Rodolfo Parra/Simon "Ghost" Riley/Alejandro Vargas

Tags:

Foursome - M/M/M/M, Car Sex, Established Relationship, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Fingerfucking, Praise Kink, Voyeurism, Explicit Sexual Content, Bottom John "Soap" MacTavishTop Simon "Ghost" RileySwitch Alejandro Vargas, Switch Rodolfo ParraPlot What Plot/Porn Without Plot

Summary:

Ghost gave Soap a look that was dark and just a little bit hungry. “Get into the back seat,” he said, his voice low.

Soap swallowed, confused. “The back?” he asked. He had a very distinct problem that he was trying to hide. There was no way he was going to be getting into the back with the other two right there.

But Ghost nodded, eyes back on the road. A hand reached out from behind him on the door side, squeezing his bicep. It was Alejandro, leaning forwards in his seat. “Come here, Soap,” he said, tugging gently on Soap’s shirt.

When Soap looked into the backseat he saw that both Rudy and Alejandro wore a similar expression to Ghost’s

Soap finds out about dick piercings by Bob Mcee (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

Summary:

Soap finds out about dick piercings and has a meltdown about it. Ghost has been pining for him since he first saw him and uses this to try and make a move on him.

TW: NON-CON Tempting Obsidian by WhisperedWords12 (E, Complete, 11,555K)

Relationships:

John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" RileyJohn "Soap" MacTavish/TentaclesJohn "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley/Tentacles

Tags:

hreesome - M/M/Other, Tentacles, Aphrodisiacs, Drugged Sex, Possessive Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Rape/Non-con Elements, Extremely Dubious Consent, Medical Experimentation, Restraints, Choking, Prostate Massage, Oral Fixation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Asphyxiation, First Time Bottoming, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence

Summary:

Soap falls in the field, only to wake up in some kind of medical facility.

And what are captured soldiers for, if not to be used in scientific experimentations? Unfortunately, this one’s side effects come as a surprise to everyone.

Uhhh (vagueing) by Mosser (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

Summary:

Nsfw ghostsoap face riding

Quick by Bob Mcee (E, fluff, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

Summary:

Ghost has a high libido and Soap is a raging asexual

Johnny, I swear by Dilf doney (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

Summary:

“Johnny, I swear to go— hnn!” Ghost cuts off with a choked moan, pressing his forehead into the bed.

real slow and steady by bailish (E, Short thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Price

Tags:

Summary:

Real slow and steady, luxuriating in it, all the while knowing exactly how the sound travels between where he is and Price’s office, knows damn well the captain can hear him

thoughts by Jae (E, short thread)

Relationships:

Ghost/Soap

Tags:

Summary:

Ghost who absolutely will not recieve during sex. Like anything, at all.

omegaverse by Limerence (E, Short Thread)

Relationships:

Soap/Ghost

Tags:

Summary:

Soap & Ghost are undercover in an omega brothel, when it happens.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Spinoff Story Vampire & Vampire Hunter part 12

Warnings: human being Turned, traumatic past events, blood & gore, mention of death, alcohol

An anon awhile back asked to learn about Alex's traumatic past, so here it is! The very reason why Alex is so shady about his past as a human, and why he doesn't like talking about it/mentally blocked it out. This one's extra long, so enjoy!

He understood what Mallory meant now, more than his pride wanted to admit.

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

Flashback: How Alex was Turned (gives some insight into his traumatic past)

Alex was stumbling away in the dark of the night, laughing and joking with his two friends who had spent the night drinking and partying with him to celebrate his 26th birthday. It had been fun, but left everyone feeling spent and tired. A symptom of good times had by all.

"Thank you all, for giving me this," Alex laughed giddily, face flushed from alcohol. He wasn't usually a drinker, but tonight was special, so he'd allowed himself to get carried away.

"Of course! It's not every day you turn 26!" His redhead friend Jacob slurred chipperly. "You're almost getting too old for parties!" Alex gave him a playful shove, sending Jacob staggering with a laugh.

"Uh, guys? Who's that, and why do they look like some creepy king of darkness?" Austin suddenly spoke up.

Jacob and Alex stopped in their tracks and followed his gaze to see what he was looking at. There was a tall man wearing a dark cloak, the hood pulled up over his head and shrouding his face in darkness. But he was walking swiftly toward the group, his gait unnaturally twitchy and jerky. The streetlights were the only thing illuminating his figure as he approached, silent as a ghost.

"Think he's homeless?" Jacob whispered.

"Don't know, but I'd rather not stick around to find out," Alex whispered back. There had been a recent spike of murders happening around the area, and he wasn't interested in finding out if the stranger was the cause of them. Because the way he was walking was... unsettling. There was an aura of menacing energy that radiated from him.

"Guys, let's get out of here," Austin suggested shakily. None of them argued, hurriedly turning away from the man and picking up their pace. But when Alex glanced behind him, the man was following. Definitely intentional.

"I really don't like this," he hissed under his breath to Jacob.

"Just keep walking, don't look back," his friend replied nervously. "Only a few blocks to your house. Then we'll be safe."

Alex couldn't help another brief look behind, and ice raced up his spine when he saw there was nobody there. The man was gone. His head snapped forward when he heard Austin yelp in surprise, and the man was standing right there in front of them, as if he'd teleported. He pulled down his hood, revealing piercing silver eyes and... fangs. Sharp fangs.

"What is that thing?? What IS that?!" Jacob shouted.

The stranger's hand suddenly shot out, snatching Austin by the throat and pulling him close while he kicked and flailed uselessly.

"HEY! Let him go, creep!" Without thinking twice, Alex ran forward and shoved the man hard in the chest, intending to startle him into dropping his friend -- and he did drop Austin… to grab Alex instead. The man had a handful of the front of his shirt, keeping Alex from jerking away.

"Let go! LET GO!!" Alex shrieked, panicking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his two friends abandoning him to flee, staggering away and screaming in terror.

Alex punched and clawed at the stranger's face, but it was like the man couldn't feel pain at all, because he ignored the blows completely, tangling his free hand in Alex's hair and roughly jerking his head to the side.

"What're you--" Alex's voice turned into a bloodcurdling shriek of agony as fangs plunged deep into the side of his neck, tearing through skin and muscle like paper.

Vampire, he realized in horror. He'd heard stories about them, but never thought they were actually real!

"Sir, please!" Alex begged desperately. Ice-cold adrenaline flooded all his senses, and he could feel the blood being sucked out of him too fast to keep up with, pure terror consuming his thoughts, his entire being.

It was like nothing he expected, nothing like the movies or the books. He could feel flesh and veins tearing as the vampire drank his blood with a terrifying ferocity, the pain so excruciating his vision turned red.

"I don't want to die!" Alex wailed uselessly before screaming again. His legs turned to jelly as the blood flowed out of him, spots forming in his vision, a roaring sound rushing in his ears. And still the vampire fed, showing no signs of stopping.

Alex's gut twisted violently with dread, the panic clawing up his throat and choking him, the awful realization that he was dying right now. This is what dying felt like. He tried to lift his hands, to push the predator away, but even his panic quickly faded as he realized he was too weak. His sight was starting to fade, blurred by helpless tears.

And then the vampire finally stopped drinking, releasing his drained body to crumple in a boneless heap on the ground, Alex's head hitting the sidewalk with an awful crack.

"Thanks, human. I needed that," the stranger chuckled cruelly. Then he turned away without another word, walking off into the night and leaving Alex to die alone out in the cold. He'd simply been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the path of a hungry, opportunistic predator.

Alex could barely breathe, his breaths coming ragged and shallow and uneven. He moaned in pain, barely conscious as the darkness came rushing in to pull him down into death. He was so, so cold, but didn't even have the energy left to shiver, his sluggish heartbeat slowing to a stuttering whisper as it struggled to pump blood that was no longer there.

What a way to end his 26th birthday, some part of him thought. Another murder to be eventually found and added to the growing list.

His mouth gaped open as he fought to keep drawing air, barely alive. He was distantly aware of a shadow falling over him, the air displacing nearby that told him someone was crouching down next to him.

"Poor human, looks like you have some seriously bad luck tonight," a voice rumbled above him.

Alex didn't respond, couldn't respond, his body failing to listen to him.

"You know... I can save you, if you'd like. Give you the gift of survival. I'm in a rather generous mood tonight after visiting an old friend of mine. Blink twice if you accept my offer."

Alex felt a flicker of desperate hope in his mind, and mustered every ounce of remaining strength in his dying body to blink.

Once, twice.

"Brave human," the voice laughed darkly. "My gift has many catches and strings attached, but you'll find that out on your own soon enough..."

Alex didn't have time to ponder the implication of those words before someone lifted his limp arm off the ground, and a stabbing pain pierced his wrist. He wanted to scream in pain as a fiery agony entered his veins, but was physically incapable of it at this point, the last of his energy seeping away. His eyes rolled back in his skull a moment later, and he gave himself up to the welcoming darkness unconsciousness had to offer.

He didn't expect to wake up again, but he did. Miraculously. And the memories all came rushing back to him. His eyes snapped open, and he realized he was still on the sidewalk, and it was still the middle of the night. He sucked in a huge gulping gasp of air, getting his bearings together before pushing himself to sit up.

There was blood -- his blood -- spattered and dried on the concrete. The stranger who had saved him was nowhere in sight.

Alex choked on a sob, dragging his shaky body to his feet and stumbling off, making his way home. His head thrummed and buzzed with pain the whole time, and he didn't even bother changing his bloody clothes before collapsing into his bed. He burrowed under a pile of blankets, but couldn't shake how devastatingly cold he felt, hollowed-out on the inside.

But maybe... maybe all this was just some awful nightmare, maybe he'd wake up tomorrow and find out this wasn't real, that none of this had happened.

It was real. It had happened. Because he looked in the mirror the next morning to see his pale face staring back at him, appearance disheveled and ragged.

But what was worse... was the exact moment he found out he had fangs. Because... he was a monster now too. He hadn’t realized that's what his rescuer had meant by 'saving him'.

Alex threw his head back and wailed, knowing his whole life would never be the same again. And he would live an eternity with his regrets, never to escape them. His own personal hell. Unable to truly live ever again.

The change was... difficult, especially without another vampire to guide him. He learned most things the hard way. Like how badly the sun burned if he got caught in it, that there were humans in this world whose entire jobs were killing creatures like him. He found a way to order animal blood to survive off of, but he didn't have much in the way of money, and eventually it wasn't enough to get him anywhere at all.

That's when he'd gone feral with hunger and killed his first human. It had been awful and satisfying at the same time. And that's when he first met Anisa, who had smelled the blood of his victim and come to investigate, finding him sobbing wretchedly on the floor in the aftermath. She'd taken him in and showed him how to be a proper vampire, how to feed and live the half-dead life of a bloodsucker. Even bought him his own mansion to stay at and offered him a safe shelter away from vampire hunters, and made sure he'd always have packaged blood available to stave off hunger. He owed her everything.

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

"Hello? Alex?"

Alex snapped out of it, blinking, the haunting memories retreating back to the corner of his mind he frequently banished them to to forget.

Mallory was staring at him with a confused expression. "Where did you go just now?" He breathed. "You were talking like normal and then suddenly looked... lost."

Alex grimaced. "Just... remembering some stuff. PTSD like you have, you know?"

"Doubt it's as bad as mine," Mallory scoffed.

"It's not. It's far worse." Alex didn't elaborate, and the hunter didn't press him on it, sitting in awkward silence with the predator, deeply lost in thought. But eventually the night chill was too much to bear, and Mallory stood up with a shiver, aiming to head back into the hunter base. He paused when a hand lightly grabbed his wrist, glaring at Alex, who cleared his throat.

“Mallory, for whatever it's worth… I truly am sorry for what I put you through.”

“I don't forgive you,” Mallory said evenly.

“I wasn't expecting you to. I just wanted to let you know.”

Mallory nodded, then let out a harsh breath. “I don't forgive you right now, and I might never…” he hesitated. “But… this is a good start.” he pulled his wrist out of Alex's hand and headed back inside without another word, leaving the bloodsucker alone to his thoughts.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy @floral-comet-whump

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @nevermore-ramblings @mj-or-say10

@tippytappytyping

[breannasfluff]

Twilight was being weird again. Ever since Wild’s encounter with the wolves, even though Twilight wasn’t present, he acted strange.

The rancher was intimidating; obviously well-traveled and well-balanced. He might have the least oddities in the group and his input was often taken by Time.

No one asked for Wild’s input but…that was probably for the best. The few times he suggests battle plans they are shot down as too risky, too many bombs; just asking to be smitten by the Goddesses.

Silly, really. He survived his adventure with his wits and unconventional approaches.

Twilight could always be counted on to be level-headed and keep the group together. Rather like a flock of sheep and Twilight circled the edges of the herd, making sure they stayed a cohesive unit.

Wild didn’t take well to being herded and hemmed in, but he put up with it on occasion because it seemed unconscious for the hero. Now, though, the level was taken to the extreme.

“Wild!” Twilight’s calling him from where he stopped to examine a mushroom. “Stick with the group!”

Grinding his teeth, Wild stares back and pointedly picks the mushroom first. He’s not familiar with it, but the slate will identify it for him later. Still sulking, he drags his feet to join the group. He was only a few feet away, for Hylia’s sake! What did Twilight expect, a monster to pop out of the bush and stab him?

Possibly, because 10 minutes later when Wild stops to pull a rock from his shoe, Twilight is circling back again.

“What are you doing? C’mon, stay with the group.” His body reads wary, nervous, annoyed.

Wild bares his teeth before remembering it’s a canine gesture and not a hylian one. ‘Rock in my shoe,’ he signs, hands jerky.

Twilight ignores it and nudges him to keep moving. “Got to stick together out here.”

Glaring, Wild moves, if only to avoid being poked again. He worms his way to the middle of the group and pointedly takes up a spot by Wind, who easily transfers his chatter from Four to him.

Being in the middle of the group and stuck on the trail chafes, but maybe Twilight will calm down.

By evening, Wild wants to scream, or kill a monster, or wrestle Wolfie until the buzzing in his head stops. Wolfie’s been missing since the wolves, though, and it’s his fault. If he hadn’t attacked his friend, lost in battle memories and confusion, the wolf wouldn’t stay away.

Every day that passes without him carves out a deeper hollow in his chest. Wolfie was one of the few Wild felt comfortable near—someone to count as more than a friend. A companion, for all he was an animal. Wolfie listened to his fears and helped in his own way. He provided a warm body to cuddle against when the touch of others drove him away.

Wolfie made sense, and Wild drove him away.

“Champion.” Time’s looking at him with a frown and he wanders over. “What are you thinking about?”

‘Have you seen Wolfie recently?’ Wild signs.

Their leader shakes his head, eyes glancing across the group and landing on Twilight for some reason. “I haven’t. Are you worried about him? He comes and goes as he pleases.”

True, but Wolfie is pack and pack sticks together. They keep each other safe. “I hurt him.” The words are hard to force out and his voice grinds like rocks in his throat. “I scared him.”

“I think Wolfie was scared for you, not of you, Wild.”

‘You weren’t there. You didn’t see him.’ The Champion turns to pace, unable to remain still with emotion buzzing through his muscles.

Time nods once. “I didn’t, but I heard about it from the others. Didn’t you and Wolfie make up?”

Yes, Wild apologized the best he could, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. ‘He’s still gone,’ Wild points out. Pack doesn’t betray, and he did. He deserves the cold shoulder, but the thought of Wolfie leaving—

He cuts off the thought because it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe he’s just delayed somewhere.

Telegraphing his move, Time carefully rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, cub, I’m sure he will show up soon.”

Wild looks away and moves to the edge of the camp, kicking rocks and picking up sticks for the fire. Behind him, Time moves to sit with Twilight. He can feel their eyes boring into his back and he sticks close to the camp. No need for Twilight to herd him further.

Read the rest here!

[leapingbadger]

Entangled - Chapter 4 - Caught (Fennter Fic)

The Fennter brain rot continues. Check out Chapter 4!

Summary: Tension rises as Hunter and Shand manage their unlikely partnership and precarious situation. Will they be able to trust each other as the net closes in on them?

Hunter paused at the top of the steps to let Shand pass and followed her through to the cockpit. He noticed her gingerly sitting in the seat, arm still wrapped around her stomach.

“Do you need a med patch?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said curtly, pulling the lever to see a blue and green planet fall into view. “Wait, where are we?” she asked, looking down at the nav computer, her lips forming a thin line.

“The coordinates from the datarod. It’s the Corillian system,” Hunter said, peering out the window.

“Kriff it,” Shand said under her breath.

Hunter noticed she’d gone ridged again, her motions jerky and tight. “Problem?” he asked, his voice low.

She ignored him, bringing the ship in low over the sprawling grey city before taking it wide into the surrounding forest.

“You missed the…”

“I didn’t miss anything. We can just land in the port, they’ll find us. We’ll trek in on foot. Won’t take more than a couple of hours.” She said, her voice efficient and curt.

“Are you up to that?” he asked, as the ship landed in a forest clearing with a bump.

She swiveled around in the chair aggressively, her narrowed eyes stormy and dark. She stood up with a wince, pushing Hunter back into the door of the cockpit, her arm at his throat.

“I don’t need your opinion or your advice. I give the orders; I make the decisions. I do not need a clone’s help,” she spat.

Hunter stared down at her, frustration and anger bubbling up inside of him. He didn’t need this. No amount of credits was worth this hassle. He pushed her off him, pulling her arm and pushing her against the spot he had just vacated. He didn’t slam her into the space as she had done to him, conscious of her injury.

“If you want to push yourself into an early grave, that’s fine. I’m here for the credits and I don’t care if I have to provide your corpse to the guild to get them. I have done worse things in this life to get what I needed. I am not going down with you for this so take the kriffin’ med patch, gear up and let’s get this over with.” Hunter released her, threw a med patch at her feet and left the cockpit for the air of the cargo hold.

Hunter felt the adrenalin circulating as he paced in the hold, his beathing heavy and ragged. He couldn’t remember being this angry for a long time. He could hear his heartbeat in his chest but also Shand’s in the cockpit. The scent from the forest beyond seemed to be seeping into the ship. He squinted at the bright light and was almost consumed with overstimulation until he noticed his helmet at his feet where he had dropped it hours ago. He threw it on his head and sighed loudly. Drinking in the muffled feeling of serenity amongst chaos.

Her heard the faint whoosh of the cockpit door opening. Shand stood at the top of the steps, glaring down at him. She slid easily down the stairs, crossed in front of him, pulling a large cabinet open.

The armory was well stocked, blasters, rifles, detonators and knives. Hunter watched as she methodically strapped knives to her arms and legs, shoved blasters in their holsters and pulled the strap of her rifle over her shoulder.

She came to stand in front of him, picking her helmet up from the floor at his feet. She rose to meet his gaze before slipping the black and orange mask over her face and holding out her left hand.

“Ready?” she asked, the tone of her voice returned to normal.

Hunter took the thermal detonators from her and placed them in his backpack. “After you.” he said before following her down the ramp and out into Corellia.

The trek to the city was tedious and silent. Hunter took point, occasionally pausing for strange sounds or smells. Shand seemed content to let him lead for now, noticing when he stopped and hanging back. Hunter wasn’t sure if this was due to respect or the hopes that if something was coming for them, it would get him first.

The forest land ended abruptly, like the city had been slammed down in the middle of an otherwise uninhabited planet. As soon as their feet hit concrete and steel an imperial stormtrooper patrol crossed their path. Hunter turned his head, Shand lowered her gaze as they mingled with the villagers coming into the city.

He felt Shand tug on his sleeve to redirect him down an alleyway, strewn with crates. She took the lead, and wended her way through the city, ducking down side-streets, pausing at intersections as battalions walked past. Hunter could tell she knew these streets well. She walked with purpose and familiarity. The med patch had clearly had its desired effect, he just hoped it would continue to work as they got closer to their target, and their goal.

Whatever friction had existed hours ago had evaporated and Hunter was glad for it. They didn’t need to be friends, didn’t even need to trust each other, but outright hostility would get them killed and he refused to die alone on a planet like this.

“Any idea where Moto could be? the intel wasn’t specific,” Hunter said quietly as they spotted a checkpoint and ducked down another street to avoid it.

“I have a theory” she said, without giving any details.

Hunter sighed in frustration but didn’t push it. They travelled through a maze of streets and alleyways. The Imperial presence was growing the closer they got to the city center. It was now impossible to not pass a stormtrooper every few streets. Hunter’s hand hovered over his over his blaster.

“Guild members.” Shand whispered urgently, shoving Hunter sideways into an alleyway. He saw fat raindrops hit his armor and he and Shand walked shoulder to shoulder only to see a battalion of stormtroopers approaching from the other direction, their feet splashing in the newly formed puddles.

Heavy footfalls behind them indicated the guild members had chosen this alley to avoid imperial choke points as well.

“Who do you want to take out first?” Hunter asked, Blaster in hand.

“Take off your helmet,” she hissed.

“What?”

“Just do it,” She snapped.

Hunter removed his helmet as Shand removed hers. She grabbed him by the chestplate, swung him around so his back collided with the wall and planted her lips directly on his.

Hunter’s senses seemed to dim; his body’s only focus on the soft lips against his own. His ears, so good at knowing what was happening miles away, could only hear Shand’s heart clattering in her chest and his own beating rapidly to match it. His sense of smell, able to pick up the faint perfume of blossoms of the weeping maya tree on Pabu’s crest, could suddenly only catch the scent of her hair and the rain.

Shand’s lips were still on his. But as time stood frozen, and the danger had yet to pass, she kissed him again and he found himself kissing her back. She raised her hand to his jaw, pulling him closer to her. The catcalls and jibes that erupted from the stormtroopers and guild members were muted as they passed until the stomping boots had retreated entirely.

They broke apart to an empty alley. Shand took a step back, looked as though she was going to say something before thinking better of it. She put on her helmet and turned to continue on. Hunter followed suit, brushing his rain soaked hair out of his face and biting his tingling lips.

The rain was heavier now, sending merchants scattering under awnings. Shand strode forward while Hunter hung behind, blaster still in hand, aware that they would be lucky to get out of Corellia alive. Shand paused, “more guild members,” she said, pulling out her blaster. “We have to be getting close.”

“You think part of the guild is protecting Moto?” Hunter asked.

“Why else would they be here?” Shand asked.

“They could be looking for him like we are.”

“We’re the only ones with the coordinates…”

“That you know of.” Hunter Interjected.

She looked up at him and noticed a questioning look on her face through the slit in her helmet. They followed the guild members until they came to a club.

“We get tied up in a firefight here there’s no easy way out.” He said, thinking of the maze of streets they had walked through to get to this point.

“I know my way around well enough.” She took a deep breath. “You stay here. I’ll go in alone.”

“What? Why?” Hunter asked, suspiciously.

“If anything happens, you’re my backup.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes visible through the slit in her helmet.

Hunter hesitated but nodded and fell back to the previous street. He heard a roar as she entered the bar. “The famous Fennec Shand,” someone shouted over the din. Hunter closed his eyes, concentrating on the sounds from the bar, but they were muffled.

Time passed slowly as he waited in the rain. There was no sound of blaster fire or fighting but he hadn’t heard Shand’s sarcastic tone in a while and it put him on edge.  The rain was heavy now, weighing down his armor and clothes. The cool water was seeping into his skin and down to his bones but still he stood watch and waited.

It was almost an hour by the time Hunter sensed movement. He slid back behind the corner and peeked out.

“Take her to my ship,” a helmeted bounty hunter said. Two other men carried Shand under the armpits. Her head hung to her chest, her boots scraping the wet ground as they dragged her. Another six bounty hunters of various species exited and flanked them as they walked.

Hunter started to follow slowly behind. He could hear Shand’s faint heartbeat among the cacophony of others. She was stunned, but alive. He hung back as best he could.

He heard a low groan escape Shand and he took his shot.

The last two bounty hunters dropped before even knowing what hit them. Hunter had set one blaster to stun, the other to kill. As soon as the bodies dropped to the floor the others turned to shoot.

Hunter jumped off the wall of the alleyway, tackling one masked man, knocking him out as his head crashed to the ground. The other raised his blaster to Hunter’s chest but he deflected it, stomping on the back of his knee with a crack and stunning him in the face.

There were only four left now, the two dragging Shand away at a run and the others who blocked the alley, blasters raised. Hunter pulled his virboblade from its sheath, throwing it at a pipe above their heads. Steam erupted in their faces, giving him cover as he shot them both of them in quick succession. He stooped to pick up the blade as he continued his pursuit.

He took off at a run after the others. He skidded past an intersection and collided with one of the final kidnappers. Hunter threw himself out of the way of a blaster bold that ricochet off the wall. Shand let out another groan as she lay slumped on the ground at the end of the alley. The bounty hunter was on top of him, gloved hand clasped around his throat. Hunter got his foot under the assailant’s diaphragm and pushed, shoving the attacker up and over, Hunter rolled into a sitting position and shot.

The attacker fell back, head smacking on the concrete, a smoking blaster hole in the center of his chest.

Hunter ducked behind debris in the alleyway as another blaster bolt sailed past his head. The final assailant stood over Shand, blaster no longer pointed at Hunter, but pointed directly at her chest.

“The bounty is worth more if she’s alive. But I still get paid if she’s dead.” he said in a low, gravely voice.

Hunter paused, both blasters raised. Shand had started to stir but wasn’t going to be much help. Hunter pointed his blasters up and away I surrendered, slowly lowering them to the ground. As soon as the blasters hit the floor Hunter drew his vibroknife and thew it, hitting the bounty hunter in the neck.

The assailant hit the ground with a thunk next to Shand. Hunter crossed the distance quickly, holstering his blaster to help her into a seated position.

She shook her head and rested her hand on her helmet. Hunter threw himself over her in a split second as a blaster bolt sailed over this shoulder, where his head had been. Shand, still groggy, drew the blaster from Hunter’s holster, sending shots at the bounty hunter at the end of the street. Hunter noticed two perfect shots to the forehead as the final bounty hunter sank to the floor.

“You, okay?” Hunter asked, gruffly, climbing to his feet and offering her his hand.

She reluctantly took it, pulling her helmet off and whipping her face. “I’m getting really sick of you saving me,” she said, the corner of her lips twitching into a grin.

Hunter laughed. She was still groggy from being stunned and had started hugging her stomach again.

“Med patch wearing off?” he asked

“Uhuh,” she said, hunching over as she walked. “We’ve gotta move. They’ll know I escaped soon enough.” She quickened her pace, wincing as she did so.

“Where were they taking you?”

“Tatooine. You were right, they think I killed Dimitri. They don’t know where the ship is, but we’ll struggle to get through the city without detection.”

“You’re the expert on this place. Any ideas?” Hunter asked, making sure his blaster was drawn.

“Follow me,” she said, stepping over the bodies littering the ground and making her way down another street.

[ninkaku]

  ▍ CASE FILE . . . KURODA, NOZOMI ⤻ @avichor .

the cicadas sang deep into the sticky summer heat, grass beneath them cool and the bottle of whiskey they had managed to swipe passed between them as the tiny port - town descended into an eery quiet. since their arrival, such quiet had only served to suffocate them, that much dazai knew. the people too kind, too close and inquisitive. days spent at nozomi's side went either of two ways: an endless disaster of noise that of which only his performance of normality kept him upright with legs moving forward, an aid to ignore the shadow that lingered at his side and followed wherever he went — or this, an empty quiet pushing between them that not even the gentle sounds of their breathing could fill, words left unsaid between them that they dared not speak into existence, lies or truths that they couldn't afford to let the other hear.

even in spending the morning in a tangle of limbs, her hair in his mouth and his face pressed against the warm skin of her bare shoulder, neither of them had found what they were searching for to face the dawn of the new day. and so they had met it as ghosts, walking alongside each other under the sweltering heat of the sun as though only distantly real beyond the touch of their skin.

“ osappi. ” delicate tone of her voice breaking the silence between them, making them real again. amber gaze holding the horizon, dazai had let his eyes slide to her in dulled recognition and acknowledgment that she had spoken. “ can i hit you ? ” words followed by the immediate crease of his brow, blinking slowly before he looked back to the disappearing sun.

his reply came easily. “ you think it'll make you feel better. ” her silence had hung heavier that day, her breaths shallower and filled with an emotion he couldn't decipher, her steps sluggish despite their already lazy pace. whatever stirred within her, dazai could understand the need to justify it through pain, real and tangible with something to show for it. evidence of life. the thought took him back without warning, final words spoken on a dying breath stained with blood, you thought you would find a reason to live within violence and bloodshed, but nothing will ever fill that lonely hole within you. dazai could recite the words to her, the same mantra he told himself before sleep chose to claim him in the twilight hours, but it wouldn't serve the same purpose. “ it won't, one of us will just end up bleeding. ” the lift of his shoulder, but her question remained an echo to nag at his mind. some part of him found it pathetic, that something in her mirrored a part of him he had yet to acknowledge, that same recognisable need for raw, unchecked emotion that would go unpunished within themselves so long as it confirmed that they could feel, no matter the lengths they went to achieve the realisation.

though whatever hurt nozomi felt, whatever it was she needed to make it real, she had asked him for it, had the decency to do so where dazai had only ever known how to take. so then with the defeated click of his tongue dazai made to stand, pushing up from the grass and dusting his hands against his thighs. “ up. up. ” the jerky offer of his hand, for a moment his limbs stiffened before he decided she had taken too long to take it, instead leaning down to grasp her wrists and haul her to her feet before him, steadying her when they were face - to - face. making changes, helping people. “ zomi gets one shot at this ... ” a sigh falling from his breath, dropping one of her wrists but bringing her hand between them, manoeuvring her fingers into a well - formed fist, thumb on the outside to avoid breakage. a pat to it before he stepped back, shaking out the tension in his limbs. “ so she better make it count. ” then offering her the unblemished side of his face, the other bruised from the previous week's scuffle, arms falling to his side and body rid of its defences for his own unavoidable pain and her probable disappointment that her feelings remained unchanged — both things he would bare just this once. to do something for someone else, because they had asked. “ go for it. in the next five seconds, if you please. make it good. ”

[maestro04yayyy]

Match My Freak au, or anything really.

Chloè leaving after meeting the couffains (can't spell that name for shit.)-----

Luka turns towards Juleka with an uncharacteristically wild look in his normally calm eyes. Juleka raises an eyebrow, concern filling her. She tries to keep her breathing even, wondering if perhaps he didn't approve of the blonde girl.

"Juleka." His voice is strained, trying and failing to keep a lid on his emotions. An action he usually has no problem doing. Juleka can feel even more concern flood her.

"Yeah?" Her words don't shake, and Juleka thinks it's a miracle.

"If you weren't dating her, I would have mom sign adoption papers and have her living with us by the end of today." His words don't shake, the calmness returning to him with every word he says. Juleka knows that it's forced. Knows that he is locking up every emotion and focusing only on logic. She knows that he is only like this when he is overwhelmed.

"Why?" She doesn't even correct him. She's not dating Chloe, and she doesn't want any misunderstandings. But her brother is more important than the fluttering in her heart. She ignores the fact she doesn't want to correct him even without the concern she's feeling.

"Because her song is chaotic, Juleka." Luka doesn't shout. He doesn't raise his voice or grit his teeth in anger. He gets quiet, his hands are unclenched and his words are even. Luka's anger isn't loud. But its quietness forces everyone to listen. "It was perfectly normal the entire day. Fast and happy but slow and fond." He says, voice gaining a hint of approval, eyes losing the edge of hardness it had.

"But." The hardness comes back, his face darkening as he snarls. "The moment mom says something good about her. Something positive. Even a small compliment. And her song goes crazy! Its beat is wrong, as if unsure of whether to believe it or not!!"

Juleka has never seen her brother so worked up like this. She's never seen the tension in his frame, seen him so agitation he paces the floor in front of her. She's never seen the anger, the rage, at whatever it is that is happening to the blonde.

But Juleka has felt it. Has had it burning her chest every single time she has dealt with all the adults that claimed they raised Chloe.

Luka whirls around to look at Juleka, the action jerky and not at all like how he usually moves. The grace and smoothness he carries himself with is all but gone.

Juleka empathizes with how he's feeling. She's feeling much the same.

"Why haven't you done anything. Aren't you together with her as much as you are with Rose?" Luka hisses out. The anger in him spilling out, cracks forming on the near perfect lid he always has it under.

Although, Juleka muses, he's always found it hard to control his emotions when family is hurt.

But now isn't the time to focus on the warmth in her heart at her brother accepting the blonde so easily. Now is the time to focus on the ball of heat she had been attempting to smother the last few weeks. Ever since she met, and saw the true face of, Chloe's father.

And she has never felt as ashamed of herself as she does when she admits. "There's nothing I can do."

She can see the moment his anger increases, his face going blank as he stares incredulously at Juleka.

"What." His voice is flat, his face is blank. The last, and only, time she had seen that expression is when they found out her dad had walked out on them.

The sight of the poorly, at least to her, suppressed anger makes her hand shake in fear. Even knowing that it's not directed at her, that his anger is towards the people mistreating the blonde, doesn't stop the feeling fear in her heart.

"There's nothing I can do." She repeats, closing her eyes in shame. Her chest feels tight with conflicting emotions. Fear that her brother is angry at her being drowned out by the anger in her own chest.

"What do you mean there's nothing you can do? Juleka, she's hurting! We don't know why or how, and you're not going to do anything about it?!"

Even knowing that Luka has been stressed the past couple of weeks, that he's only concerned and worried for the one person that understands Juleka. Even knowing logically, that Luka doesn't mean what he's saying doesn't stop Juleka from snapping.

"I've TRIED! DON'T YOU DARE SAY I HAVEN'T! I've done everything aside from just straight up kidnapping her. I've tried, Luka! You don't get to say I didn't!" Juleka pants, her throat raw. She sees the guilt in his eyes, the shame, before she finds herself wrapped up in his arms.

She sighs, ragged and raw, her own arms coming up to wrap around him. She buries her face in his chest, listens to the steady thumping of his heart, she breathes.

They stay silent, the weight of their first serious arguments in years dragging them down.

"I'm sorry." Luka is the first to break the silence. His quiet apology echoes in the empty room of the boat.

Juleka hums, the sound muffled into her brothers shirt. "'am sorry too. 'dunno why I yelled." She mumbles. Luka just rubs her back, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "It's ok."

And that's that.

Eventually they separate, but the shame from their argument makes them hesitate to leave yet. Luka ends up making them hot chocolate and they end up inside his room, under a blanket and just basking in each other's presence.

"You really care about her, don't you Juleka?" Luka breaks the silence, taking a sip of the coco afterwards.

Juleka just nods, too drained to even deny it.

Luka hums. "Good. She's seems to understand you." He says. "Don't let her go." He tells her.

Juleka laughs, buries the relief she feels at his acceptance of her deep inside. Buries every hint of fondness she feels for the blonde girls. She finds it harder and harder to do each time. "I won't."

-----

Sorry for the shitty quality and for how ass the ending is. All I had planned was the argument and even that turned out shitty. Still, hope this is ok

AWESOME!!!