#im working on more pariahs stuff more jujutsu kaisen stuff and i swear to god this mason fic will be done someday

[rotworld]

Inhuman AU: A Brief Escape

an anon asked:

Hi I’m new to your blog and I’ve been consuming a lot of WP and the Inhuman AU, I don’t know if this has been asked before though did the MC in Inhuman AU ever try to leave before? Is it even possible for MC in both original and the AU to leave now? I just want to see the boys in emotional distress 🫣

in the original continuity, the reader does eventually leave (not successfully, of course, because that leads into sore loser) but interestingly enough, the inhuman au mc actually hasn't tried to leave yet. i don't think it's even on their mind. but i wanted to see the boys in emotional distress too lol so let's see what a minor case of this looks like!

->mostly inhuman au!rex/reader, but the other two make guest appearances. contains possessive behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamics and brief, implied mind-altering magic/hypnosis.

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You look like a runaway, or an escaped convict. Somewhere between frightened and guilty, you curl up on the stiff, gaudily-patterned motel bedspread with your shoes still on. The room is cold, poorly insulated with a heater that doesn’t work. One of the lamps is dead and the other is dull, flickering, threatening to die. You’re lying in a puddle of your own soggy clothes, and you dragged the rain in with you, a dark carpet trail leading to the door. 

They can track that, you catch yourself thinking. Like they’re bloodhounds or something. You just know, somehow, that it’d be enough. Jay’s always going on about how you smell (“Good, baby, so fucking good.”) and you catch Rex sniffing the air when he thinks you aren’t looking. Levine doesn’t do that, but there’s probably something else. Something about the rain coming off your skin that singles you out to the kinds of things they are, like blood to a shark.

Your phone vibrates on the bedside table. Texts now, because you haven’t picked up the last twenty calls. They’ll come rapid-fire, one after another, and then they’ll stop for an hour or two. You wonder what Rex does in the time between, why he starts up again. You don’t want to talk. Not when he gets like this. 

It’s stupid. It always is. It’s always over meaningless shit. Before, things would diffuse themselves before they got too heated. You’d go your separate ways for the night and then come slinking back to each other the next morning like sad, lonely animals. But Rex is different ever since Jay and Levine showed up. It’s like he’s tense all the time. Things that’d roll off him back then stick now, and they fester, and they sink their claws in, and they make him lash out. And it’s not like they make things any easier, the way they pile on, pouring gasoline on the fire. Things don’t work like they used to. It feels hard to breathe sometimes.

So you left. You didn’t go far. You didn’t want to stay home and you didn’t want to be near them, so you went downtown and found a cheap place to hide for a little while. Just for a night. And maybe you should’ve said something to one of them, at least, but that felt like favoritism, like another thing for them to get mad about, and now it’s too late. 

Thunder shakes the building, windows rattling in their frames. The lamp buzzes and flickers again. You wipe away angry, frustrated tears. Your phone goes off again and it’s a call this time. You pick up impulsively, something vicious on the tip of your tongue, but you lose it when nobody starts yelling on the other end. 

There’s silence. It lasts so long you start to think you lost the call, but then you hear Rex say your name. It’s so quiet you almost miss it, hoarse and choked and desperate. 

“Rex?” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says. And that sounds more like him, his usual gruff, standoffish tone, but it’s softer than usual. You hear him inhale shakily. “Really wish you wouldn’t do shit like this. Thought something happened to you.” 

“I’m okay,” you tell him. You sit against the headboard and suddenly wish he was with you. “I just…I hate it when you get mad like that. I hate when you all fight.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a while. You only know he’s still there because you can hear him breathing. He sounds like a wreck, like he was running somewhere. “I know,” he mumbles. “I know you hate it. Sorry.” The apology is brief, more of a cough than a word, but you hear it. You hear the quiver in his voice when he says it. “I’m not mad. Not at you, okay? And we agreed to cool it for tonight. Jay’s with me right now. We can pick you up, if you’re in town somewhere.” 

You think it over. The motel room is dark and drafty. Your clothes are soaked through. The thought of being sandwiched between Rex and Jay on Rex’s shitty couch, curled up under a shared blanket with chips and bad movies and their warmth around you, almost makes you whimper. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Rex says. You can practically feel all the tension leave him through his voice alone. “We can take you home, or we can hang for a while. Up to you. Where are you at?” 

“It’s, uh,” you pause, laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing, “it’s that shitty motel on the strip. You know the first one right when you come off the interstate?” 

“Wait for us in the lobby.” 

“I might use the shower first—”

“I’m not asking,” Rex says. All that tender uncertainty vanishes in an instant. There’s something about his voice, more than anger, more than that irritating bossiness, that makes a shiver run down your spine. “You’re going to get up,” he says, and you do. Your body moves without permission, lurching out of bed. “And you’re going to walk to the door. And you’re going to go to the lobby. You’re going to do that right now. And you’re staying on the phone with me until we get there.” 

You think about arguing. About telling him this is exactly what you hate, this paranoia, this obsessive need to know where you are at all times. You’re already twisting the door handle and shouldering through into the hall, but you think about it. You open your mouth, but the words never come. Because as you throw one last glance back into the room, you see slender, creeping fingers curl along the bottom of the bed from underneath, too long, too thin, black like shadow. 

You take the stairs, two at a time, down to the lobby.