#it feels like there is glue in my mouth and i can barely speak to people im not close with bc of how exhausted and anxious i am

[melto]

something just like snapped in the back of my head like i Need to go like curl up in my room for like 5 days and play video games and not speak to like anyone

[xoxxbilliexoxx]

Pathetic

Brat Tamer Billie degrades and dominates you to put you back in your place after you decide to push the boundaries

established relationship, strap (r receiving), degradation, bratty reader, Daddy kink, Spit play, Light slapping, multiple orgasms, Billie cums from using the strap, loving aftercare

roughly 5000 words

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Y/N POV

We’ve been laying on the couch for about an hour now, when I finally get the strength to get up and throw away our take out containers before heading towards the bedroom and calling out to Billie that I’m changing into something more comfy. Once I shut the door behind me I feel a nervousness creep up from my stomach. I strip naked and pull out the night gown from my bag, throwing it on and walking to the bathroom. My boobs spill out of the red lace and the bottom ends before my ass does. Without any underwear on, my pussy can easily be seen with any slight movement I make.

As I look in the mirror I feel my confidence build. Feeling sexy always leaves me feeling powerful too, like it awakens a completely different version of myself. I mess up my hair slightly and put on my favorite lipstick, matching with the deep red, almost wine color of my slutty dress. I take one last look at myself, unable to stop from smiling at how hot I feel, before I head towards the door of the bedroom. Billie has yet to meet this version of me, and she’s in for quite a treat.

I walk out and return to the living room as if nothing has changed, completely ignoring Billie’s intense reaction. Her mouth stays hanging open as her eyes follow my every move. She sits up taller and her hand moves to adjust the crotch of her sweatpants, as if her dick just got hard or something. I walk in front of the couch, slow enough to let Billie get a good look at me and head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before returning to the living room. I set the glass down but before I return to my spot on the couch I walk over to grab a blanket from the basket. My back is towards Billie allowing her to get a full view of my bare pussy as I bend down. A loud groan fills the room coming from the couch behind me and I let out a small giggle before composing myself and walking back to the couch.

Billie’s body stays frozen as her eyes follow me closely. her bottom lip is caught so tight between her teeth it looks as if she’s about to break skin. She shuffles uncomfortably on the couch, as if it’s taking everything in her not to pounce on me already. I sit down next to her, continuing to watch the movie as if nothing has changed. When I feel Billie’s eyes stuck to me like glue I turn and raise my eyebrows at her. “What are you looking at?” I snap at her, a confident sass coming through in my words. “what do you mean, what am I looking at? I’m looking at how fucking hot you look in that slutty little night gown you just put on for me” She bites her lip again and moves towards me, waiting for me to take action or submit to her like usual.

I don’t do either of those things though. Instead, I let my brattiness build. “Put on for you?” I add a questioning tone to you, dragging it out to add emphasis, “I have no idea what you’re talking about Billie” She looks at me with a pained expression, like it’s hurting her that she isn’t touching me yet. Enjoying her needy discomfort, I cross one leg over the other, pulling the gown up and letting my pussy peek out again, only making the situation grow more tense.

Billie looks me up and down with an intensely hungry desire in her eyes. It makes my own arousal surge through me. “Fuck baby you’re too goddamn hot. Come give me a kiss I need you” I look at her with a tight smirk and let my response come out quick and sharp, “no.” My devilish expression hits her once again before I look back at the movie, my confidence and pride showing clearly in my eyes.

I see Billie’s tongue darting against the inside of her cheek as her eyes drink me in. She doesn’t speak for a moment, looking as if she’s deciding what to do next. I keep my slightly evil smirk displayed across my face and bring my hand up to stroke my thigh, scratching my skin lightly. I feel Billie’s eyes glued to me, it feels as if they’re burning a hole through me. Knowing I’m egging her on and teasing her with this new side of myself makes the power and enjoyment only build within me.

Billie shifts towards me, kissing my cheek first then grabbing my chin, pulling me in to meet her lips. I know her intention was a long, hot kiss, but instead I just peck her lips and go back to the movie. I try to settle my own discomfort and growing desire, wanting so badly to kiss her passionately, but I know holding out will only make things better in the long run. I want to be a brat first, I wanna push her buttons and see where that gets me. “mmmm, I see what you’re doing mama” Her tongue finds the inside of her cheek again as she looks at me through hooded eyes.

I look back at her to show my smug expression before turning away. Her hands find my chin, wrapping around it hard and pushing my lips together slightly, she moves my head until my eyes meet hers “This sexy outfit makin you feel confident huh? makin you think you can be all bratty and see what I’m gunna do about it?” I bite my lip and look up at her, a devilish sparkle in my eyes, “Seems like it’s working” I laugh back at her before continuing to tease, “seems like you’re getting real worked up over this Eilish” I let my words come out with a strong confidence and a flirtatious tone, my smirk never leaving my face.

She looks slightly stunned at my continued attitude and pauses for a moment to think. Her tongue slides against her teeth as she shakes her head just slightly. “get up and go get on the bed, I’ll show you what I’m gunna do about it” her words are direct and her dominance starts to come out more intensely, causing a shiver to trickle down my spine and hit my core. I swallow quietly before composing myself, not letting her win just yet. She’s standing above me now, looking down at my small frame on the couch in front of her. I look up at her and bite my lip with a smile, moving my hair behind my ear and tilting my head slightly to the side. “and what if I don’t? what then?” the words come out thick with attitude, I’m loving this and it’s very obvious.

That was her last straw. She reaches down and wraps her hand around my throat, pulling me in for a heated kiss, immediately establishing her dominance before pulling away, pleased with herself.bBending down, she wraps her hands around my ass and lifts me, carrying me into the bedroom as I yell from the sudden actions.

I’m thrown onto the bed hard. Opening my eyes after my landing I watch Billie grab her shirt and pull it off forcefully. Opening her mouth she lets out a short laugh before speaking, “put this slutty little outfit on to tease me then u wanna act like a brat? think ur not gunna get punished for it, huh? think I'm just gunna let you get away with that? Is that what you thought?” I nod with a slight giggle, although it feels impossible to distinguish if it’s a bratty giggle or a slightly fearful one. My bratty behavior and direct attitude has pulled a stronger dominance from her, like she’s about to make me sorry for acting like this, and fuck, I feel so hungry for it, so so needy for it.

I need to see how far she’ll go, how far she’ll let me push her before she really lets me have it. “Well what are you gunna do about it? Pace around and bitch to me?” I laugh after I speak, a mischievous expression directed right at Billie as she turns to face me after shutting the door. “You think you’re cute huh?” “very cute, yea” I snap back at her quicker than she expects.

Billie crawls over me on the bed, her hand finds my hair and the handful she quickly grabs is so tight it pulls my head back with it. A deep groan rips from my throat. She lets out a mocking laugh down at me before connecting her lips with mine. Shoving her tongue in my mouth, she makes it extremely clear who’s in control here. She’s not messing around anymore, I finally pushed her to her breaking point and I know I’m in for it.

As she pulls away she looks down at me, her eyes are dark and her evil, power hungry smile forces me to swallow. “Open your mouth, brat” She whispers her command down at me, her voice is low and raspy, far more dark and seductive than usual. I do as I’m told, opening my mouth and sticking my tongue out slightly as I look up at her. She leans down, our lips almost touching, and as she opens her own mouth she lets all her spit drip down onto my tongue before taking her hand and grabbing my chin, pushing it up for my mouth to shut. “Swallow daddys spit” I swallow hard. Her words, calling herself daddy, her spit sliding down my throat, it's all causing my pussy to gush. “ yea, that's right, there ya go” I snap back into my role, trying to come up with a bratty response to throw back at Billie.

All I can come up with is a quick snicker and a dramatic eye roll, the smirk only half formed from her hand tightly squeezing my lower jaw. But my actions seem to get to her just the same. Her tongue rolls against her check as she squeezes my jaw harder. “let’s see how long that cute bratty attitude will last when im fucking the shit outta you. need to fuck that slutty brattiness right out of you huh?” Her hand, still holding my jaw and chin hard, moves my head to the side as she lowers her head down, latching her lips onto my neck and biting as soon as she makes contact, pulling a long whimper from my lips.

I can feel myself losing control, the need to be touched growing too strong to hide. I let my hips move up, searching for something to grind against, anything to relieve the intense throbbing between my legs. Her hand leaves my jaw and lands harshly against my hips, stopping me from moving immediately. The painful grip and the lack of contact on my clit makes me whine again, the brattiness slowly slipping away. “Already so whiny for me? What happened to that little attitude of yours? Gone so soon baby?”

I try to move under her, try to get her hand to meet my dripping core, but she holds me down harder, laughing at my failed attempts. “I thought you were gunna fuck the brat outta me, come on baby, lemme have it, lemme see you try to punish me” Her hand immediately slaps my face, hard enough to stun me but gently enough to show she doesn’t want to hurt me, she doesn’t want to push me too far, still unsure of what I’m into.

But the slap only makes me moan louder, loving the harsh contact and angry dominance she’s beginning to show me. “Be patient. you don’t get to tell me what to do. Brats don’t get what they want right away” My heavy breathing fills the room, acting as a clear display of just how turned on she's gotten me, just how much I’m loving this. Her lips find my neck again, covering me with bites and bruises as I continue to whine and moan. She’s careful not to lean down on me, she won’t let herself connect with my core, won’t give me what I want yet.

Instead she begins to tease me. Her hands find their way to my inner thighs, grazing my skin softly. Each time she moves up, almost touching where I need her most, she pulls away again, laughing at every one of my whimpers. “Who’s got you so worked up, hmm? Who’re you bein such a slut for?” Her words tickle the sensitive skin on my neck before she bites down again. “You daddy, it's all for you” She groans when she hears her nickname. “Atta girl” Her head snakes down my body, finally heading to my throbbing center.

As she pulls my gown up higher, fully exposing me, she spreads my legs and growls, swallowing as soon as she sees how wet she has made me. “There’s my pretty fuckin pussy. lookin like it’s just begging to get fucked.” My back arches, my body finding any way to express how bad I need her right now, how painfully needy I am to be touched, to be fucked by her.

Her fingers fill me up suddenly, the unexpected pleasure makes me yell and grab the sheets. As I open my eyes I see her face right above mine again, watching with squinted eyes as she picks up her pace, my face contorting, mouth hanging open. All the build up left me so sensitive and Billies curved fingers are hitting every sweet spot I have. I’m a moaning mess under her, completely at her disposal, completely submitted to her. “Daddy, fuck, I’m gunna cum already, please let me cum” The nickname and begging works its magic on her and she throws her head back slightly, groans as she fucks into me even harder.

My orgasm rips through me suddenly and as I begin to shake and thrash under her she only speeds up her pace, curling her fingers even more. As my orgasm begins to slow, my moans growing quieter and my back returning down to the sheets, her other hand finds my clit, immediately drawing deep fast circles on the sensitive bud. I arch my back and cry out again, louder than before. She’s relentless, not giving me even a moment to breathe before my next high hits me. I’m a mess under her, completely caught up in pleasure. Her fingers begin to move inside of me, flicking back and forth right against my g-spot and without warning I feel the knot release. The sounds of my squirting fills the room and Billie's low, dirty laugh mixes in. She smiles down at me, gleaming with pride knowing she’s already fucked me through two orgasms.

“Can you take more or did I already ruin you too much?” She pulls out her fingers and immediately brings them to her mouth. I work hard to catch my breath and stop my legs from shaking. Billie hovers over me before leaning down and taking my boob, which has now spilled completely out of my gown, into her mouth. Her tongue circles my nipple before nipping at it and pulling away. “I want you to keep going. make me sorry. punish me for acting like a brat and being a slut” She smiles at my response, proud that I said exactly what I knew she wanted to hear.

“That's what you want baby? Want me to make you regret the attitude you gave me? Make you wish you didn’t decide to be such a slut tonight?” She nods mockingly in my face as she talks, her eyes squint and her teeth bite down hard on her lower lip. “Yes daddy, it's what I need, I need to be punished” I can see the way my words hit her body, swallowing hard and raising her eyebrow, showing how excited she is that I’m keeping this act up. “I’m about to fuck the shit outta you. fuck that slutty little brat outta you until you’re my good girl again” All I can do is groan.

She gets up and walks over to our bags in the corner of the room, taking off her pants and underwear. “What's the safe word mama?” Billie asks, turning briefly from her bag to look at me before returning to what's in front of her. “red” the response gets stuck in my throat after all my previous cries. I clear my throat and speak again, “It’s red.” My nervous excitement for what's to come can be heard in my voice. “Good girl” she stands and slides on the harness before walking over to me. “And if I ask for your color and you are starting to feel uncomfortable, what’ll you say then baby?” I look at her with a slight confusion before I process what she's asking “Orange, I’ll say orange. and if I feel good I’ll say green” She kisses me on the head when she finally gets over to me. “You're such a good girl when you want to be, huh mama?” I blush at the praise, enjoying the brief moment of softness we’re sharing.

When I feel Billie spreading my legs I look down and notice just how big of a dildo she has attached to her. Not only is it long, but it’s thicker than anything I’ve had inside of me. Before I can think about it too much, it’s inching into me. I feel the resistance immediately, but Billie continues to thrust. I whine at the slight pain, trying to push her stomach, make her stop for a moment before stretching me out fully. “nuh uh, you can fucking take it. Sluts like you can take this cock. Don’t run away now” I whimper again, nodding my head and fisting the sheets.

Billie pulls out slowly, but before I can feel the emptiness she slams her entire plastic dick inside of me, stretching and filling me so intensely. I scream out, unsure if it's from pain or pleasure as she repeats this action again, pulling out of me slowly before slamming herself into me hard. The pain of her big cock has disappeared, what's left is a form of pleasure I've yet to experience before this. She has already left my pussy so wet and sensitive from her fingers, and now her thick long faux cock is filling me so perfectly I’m seeing stars. I’m addicted, never having been fucked and dominated so aggressively in my life. Her thrusts are slow and intentional now, letting me feel every vein and ridge in her dick as she pulls out and pushes back in.

The noises spilling out of me are completely unfiltered. I’m drunk, only alive to be fucked by her in this very moment. “You’re such a whore for this dick, god its so fucking pathetic baby” All I can do is nod, I can’t even focus enough to get a word out anymore. With her weight propped up on one elbow and her hips still thrusting into me hard, Billie lifts her other hand to my jaw, grabbing harshly with a grip that almost hurts. “Eyes open, come on, look at me love” It takes me a moment to register her commands but finally I get my eyes opened, moaning at the power drunk face she’s making above me. “Open your mouth and stick out your fucking tongue” Her words come out in the same pattern as her thrusts, and her breath sounds heavier now as she continues to ruin me.

I obey immediately and as soon as my mouth opens Billie drops her spit on my tongue, then again in the back of my throat. Before I can close my mouth she shoves two of her fingers in, pushing down on my tongue hard. I close my mouth around them sucking and swirling my tongue over her digits for a moment before she pulls them out. With my mouth still open Billie takes her fingers and spreads the mixture of her saliva and mine all over my chin, cheeks and mouth, a maniacal laugh coming out of her as she does it. The thick mixture coats my face completely and when she slaps her hand on top of it, it stings slightly. Her actions are painfully degrading and only fueling the intensely erotic hunger in me more, so intoxicated by her energy.

“My pathetic baby, thought she could be a brat and get away with it, thought I wasn’t gunna show who’s in charge here, what I do with bratty pathetic sluts. You like it, don’t you baby, like when I humiliate you, when I get you drunk off my cock, do anything I want to you. Is that right?” She lets her words hit me in the face as she picks up her speed, thrusting into me much faster and harder now. “color?” her voice is firm and serious as she checks in on me. It makes me feel so safe and allows me to enjoy all this so much more. “green Billie, don’t stop” she smiles at my quick answer before continuing to destroy me.

“God, you’re making this pussy feel so fucking good. Fuckkkk” I take a deep breath and let out a loud moan before continuing, “Thats your fucking pussy, this pussy is all yours Daddy” Billie lifts herself off her elbows onto her hands, pinned on both sides of me, and the new angle allows her to thrust freer now. She throws her head back when she hears what I said, groaning loudly, making it clear I am making her so horny, that she’s loving the way I’m letting her ruin me. “MMMM thats right, this is my perfect little pussy, my pussy to fuck, to destroy, to lick the cum off of” Her fingers move down to connect with my oversensitive clit and within minutes I’m yelling out that I’m cumming again, coating her dick in my creamy white arousal.

Before I can think straight I’m being flipped onto my stomach. Billie lifts me up for just a moment to put a pillow under my lower stomach before laying me back down till my whole body is pressed into the bed. She straddles my thighs with her legs on both sides of mine and her hands grab at my ass cheeks, spreading them to get a view of my completely ruined pussy. I feel her warm spit land on my cunt and before long the tip of her strap is rubbing up at my entrance again. I am both completely fucked out, and yet entirely hungry for more.

“Are you gunna be a good girl, gunna take daddy’s dick like a good girl for me?” I nod my head, unable to think straight from all the orgasms I’ve had in the last hour. Billie slaps my ass hard causing me to let out a yelp that echoes around the room. “Words, brat, I need words” “Yes, yes I’m gonna be your good girl” I whimper out “That's it, that's what I thought” her words come out in a moan that mixes with mine as she slowly slides into me. The new position, my stomach flat against a pillow and my legs tightly closed, makes for an intoxicating new feeling. “Oh fuck Billie that feels sooooo good, oh my god baby yes” “mmmm mmhhmm mama I know, I know it does, such a good girl telling me how good you feel, thats my good girl”

“AUGHhhshhh fuckkkk daddy, dont stop it feels so fucking good” This pleasure is addicting, I’m melting all over her thick cock, completely, entirely drunk of this feeling, mouth hanging open, sweet grunts coming out with every single thrust. Billie's hand gripping my hair and pushing my face deeper into the bed only makes me more turned on, the way she’s still showing me her nasty dominance only fuels my desire to keep taking her, keep being a good girl for her. “Color?” I don’t hear her, too focused on how good she’s making me feel. Her hand grips my hair tighter, the pain snapping me back into reality. “Color y/n?! when I speak you answer, got it?” “Yes daddy, yes, I'm sorry. Green, it’s green, keep fucking going, I can take it”

Her own whimpers and grunts begin to fill the room, matching with mine. I’ve learned them well over the last week, I know her high is building fast. Her thrusts speed up and grow more and more sloppy as her moans get louder. I’m so in love, so happy to be letting her use me in this moment, fucking me hard and pulling us both to another high. “Thats my pussy huh baby? My *thrust* fucking *thrust* Pussy *thrust*” I yell out a loud groan and nod my head under her hand, hoping that she’ll accept that as a good enough answer. “Mmmm yea it is, good girl. This is your fucking cock, your cock you’re taking sooooo well for me”

“Mmmm FUCK yes thats my cock, you’re fucking me so good daddy, uhhhhh” Every sound leaving my mouth is high pitched and working as a perfect display of how hypnotized I am on her dick. “God baby, cum for me again, coat this dick with your cum, lemme see you make a mess on me one more time mama” I whine as she pushes into me deeper and moans.

“I’m gunna cum mama, fuck cum with me. Cum! all! Over! this! Dick” each of her words hits me with a thrust of her hips and we both explode. We cry out eachother names over and over with an occasional “fuck” or incoherent moan. They echo and bounce back at us as we shake against each other, both coming completely undone as we experience earth shattering orgasms at the same time.

She collapses on top of me with a deep sigh and our breathing matches up as we try to slow our heartbeats down. Our skin sticks together, covered in sweat, cum and spit from the last hour of nasty pleasure. My pussy throbs on the plastic dick still filling me up and every so often a whimper leaves my lips.

I feel Billie lift her head up and kiss my sweaty forehead. “Did so good for me baby, so so good for me” She pulls out slowly, causing me to whimper slightly from how overstimulated I am. “you okay mama?” She kisses my head again as she lands on the bed next to me, pulling me on top of her and rubbing my back. “i’m good, really good” I giggle slightly, making it clear how much I enjoyed all of it. “I love you Billie” the post sex high is coursing through my veins and I feel so wildly in love with the girl laying next to me. “I love you too mama” I pull her in for a kiss before laying my head on her chest. “I don’t think I can move, you fucked me too good” I laugh at my own honest confession and look up at her. “Why don’t I run a bath for us and we can get cleaned up before we go to sleep? Does that sound okay?” My face blushes as she looks at me.

“God, that sounds amazing. if I woulda known you could fuck me so hard then treat me so sweet, i woulda made a move on you a lot faster eilish” “mmmm and if I woulda know you could be such a nasty little slut I woulda locked you in a lot faster too, sunny” she looks down and winks at me before sliding out from under me and moving towards the bathroom. I spread out on the bed and close my eyes, taking in the high I feel and trying to convince myself that all this is real.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FLOWERS FOR THE SICK AND GONE (II)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER III

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 6.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking, talks of death, weapons, explosives, violence, gore, strained mother-daughter relationship, suggestive thoughts, mentions of sex, toxic modeling standards, etc. (Series 18+)

A/N: I started this before Nikto was confirmed for MWII multi., but I'll be using the 'Powercell' skin as his main attire now because it's literally so attractive.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You look at your hands as they rest in your lap, right foot jumping up and down in a display of internal anxiety under the table in your Mom’s office. It was cold, and the AC was turned all the way up; the floors barely helped—tile covered by thin rugs and windows open to the chilly morning. Like the opposite of Hellfire. 

Two days had passed since the explosion and you’d only just gotten the ability to leave the hospital. The doctors had wanted to keep you longer, but you had turned in a favor from your matriarch to have them ease off with their prodding and poking. 

The fact that they had been more interested in your permanent colorblindness had tipped you off that all the help you were going to be given had already been passed out. As a whole, that had been in the form of pain medication and surgical glue to the minuscule cut on your temple. 

The head bleeds a lot, you know, even if the injury is minor. You weren’t overly surprised the gash had been tiny; you know what a violent wound to that part of the skull looks like. 

Feels like.

Your lips thin at the thought of the nurses and their curious and narrowed eyes—the doctor wanting to do more in-depth tests as if you hadn’t gone through a slew of them before.

There was a reason you hated hospitals.

Shivering, you take a deep breath to calm down right as the door behind you opens with the sound of heeled feet and a hurried sigh. The door automatically shuts with a slam and a click of metal hinges.

“Thank God nothing happened to your face!” A hand sets itself on your shoulder and you restrain a flinch, looking to the side to the familiar face of your mom as her head tilts to look you up and down in your seat. “Stand up, let me see you.”

You open your mouth to speak but you’re quickly cut off by her serious expression. 

Standing, you steady yourself by placing a hand on the side of the seat, knuckles tight as your casual sneakers take your weight. “It’s just a scratch Mom, promise. I got lucky.” When you can stand without the fear of falling over, you release it and study your mother’s fancy attire.

Dress pants, blouse, and pounds of extravagant jewelry around her neck and wrists like shackles. She looks just the same as you’d always seen her. Cold. 

In some ways, she was more suited to this city than you were. 

“I’ll say—you could have damaged your skin.” She motions to your body, shaking her head and sighing before moving behind her desk to sit down. A large window is behind her—shining in chilled light. “We’ll have to hope and pray that the cut heals before the next photoshoot you have scheduled. Have they told you when you’ll be back in the Agency?”

“...three people are dead, and you’re worried about me?” you say quietly, gut-twisting. “What about them?”

She pauses, her hand half holding a piece of paper from her pile. She glances up at you and thinks for a moment. Your eyes dig into hers, dejected. But she doesn’t think much of this, judging by the confused emotion that swirls behind her gray pigment. 

“I’m sorry, Beauty,” no, she’s not. Your face pulls at the nickname, but you say nothing until she’s done talking. “But their job was to keep you safe. They succeeded, it’s unfortunate, I know, but if they had to…pass,” she strains through the word, not wanting to say the other. For your benefit or hers, you know not. “To keep you alive, then I say it was an even trade.” 

It’s nearly like a slap to your face as your body goes tight, sitting back down into the seat with a puff of air. Like you’d just been slipped poison, your throat starts to fizzle with bile. 

Yefim’s dead body slashes in the back of your mind; the lower half gone and the rest spilling out. Confused eyes and burned skin that smells like something out of a kitchen no matter how morbid the thought was. 

She wasn’t there, you tell yourself. She doesn’t know how bad it was.

Screaming mixed in with crying and Alyona’s insistent barks of orders. Her hands pulled you up and shielded you from the disintegrated ash of Petya and Aleksandr. One splayed out the broken window and the other lay in an unrecognizable heap a foot from the bakery. 

The only people to survive were the Baker’s boy and the two of you, but then again that was half. 

“I don’t think that’s right—”

“If you were a mother, then you’d be agreeing with me,” the Consul explains, shaking her head. “But that’s not why I wanted to bring you here.” With your mom, sometimes it was better just to let things go and have them disappear into the past; you’d gotten good at brushing past comments just to satisfy her. It was just easier.

“Okay,” you whisper, looking down at your lap before closing your eyes. Looking back up, the woman is signing papers and doesn’t glance at you before speaking. 

“There was a break-in at the bakery an hour before you went there,” your body stills, a strange feeling in your gut as it tightens. “Nothing was stolen but Mr. Morozov,” the owner, “says the locks were broken off; he never told authorities until now because it was minor. I think that leaves us with the answer about how that explosive got under the floorboards.” The scribble of a pen before it’s placed down and your mom’s eyes settle back on you with a frown on her lips. Her makeup makes her look like a stone statue you’d see in a museum; blank with an undertone of something else. 

You stutter in broken intervals, repeatedly tapping your finger on your wrist, “How do you know about this?” 

“I’m paid to know,” your mother mutters but offers more. “One of the employees is American. He’s here and planning to extend his visa for four years to care for his dying father.” Her voice drops. “Thank God that he wasn’t working.” 

Being one of the two American Consulate Generals in Russia, your mother’s job was to, officially, “...Preserve and protect the relationship, and be a point of contact, between the United States of America and Russia.” 

It also meant that any American citizens in Yekaterinburg were under her watchful eyes. This Consulate building provides a multitude of services—issuing visas, and renewing passports were the big ones, while registering births and deaths was also added to that chart. You’d never looked much into it, but knew it was intensive work. Everything ‘American’ going on in this city, your mom knows about. 

“I’ve got a landfill of paperwork, so I’ll have to cut this off at the base,” she continues and you rub at the base of your cut with a flinching hand. You carefully tense as if a bombshell is going to be dropped on you, thighs shifting on the seat and feet unconsciously putting themselves farther under the chair. 

The woman blinks at you and folds her hands on the table, knuckles tight. 

“The Russian government is eager to keep lines of communication open with the USA, which means me.” You don’t like where this is going—certainly not with that folder that your mother was grabbing from out of her top drawer; having to unlock it with the name tag around her neck. A small beep echoes over the large room. “I don’t think I need to explain how much this puts me in a hole now that a stalker is after a Consul’s daughter and everyone knows about it.” You feel guilty but you don’t know why. This wasn’t your fault….right? 

“I have meetings planned into next week from the second the sun rises until it peaks its stupid ass back up on the other end.” She speaks low, running a hand over her head but still keeping you in her sight. She slaps a bulging manila folder onto the desk and leans back with a sigh. 

Your eyes meet in a locking of wills and you restrain yourself from apologizing. In your lap your hands clench.

“Any weapon,” she speaks slowly so you take in every word—as if you were a toddler. You hate when she gets like this. “Any goes through so many hoops to be owned it’s practically not worth it, and the same goes for possible parts used to make them. Whoever did this either has connections or a pile of money to use for bribes; I don’t know which I’d prefer, but based on his presents I have a good guess.” 

“But why would someone do that?” You have to speak—to ask. How could someone be so cruel and malicious? Kill someone—multiple someones? To you, it was just unthinkable. Even just being a part of it had wreaked your sleep schedule, left you writhing in bed from an inability to sleep out of fear of seeing Yefim’s face again—gray blood; colorless gore. It was a chore to get up in the morning and eat what little you could.

Being unable to see color had never left you more terrified than when that pretty boy’s eyes had stared into yours until everything was snuffed out like a matchstick. 

“Because this person,” the Consul states, answering you firmly. “He doesn’t care about you as an individual. To him, Beauty…you’re just an object that he wants to own. Your picture is all he thinks about and everyone else needs to be out of the background, do you understand?”

You go lightheaded, face quickly tilting down and contorting into itself. 

Your mother sits straighter and reaches a hand across the table, lightly saying your name with the voice she would use to read stories in your youth. Skin burning, you look at it, but after a moment you weakly place your own into hers, heart hammering and brain laced with a primal fear. Though the woman’s grip tightens and squeezes lightly, you get no warmth from the gesture. Yet still, it’s better than nothing. 

Alyona was away with her relatives and fiance since she’d been released from the hospital earlier; you’d spoken there briefly, but it wasn’t the same as it would have been if you’d had her here.

“We’re going to get this figured out, okay?” You nod, trying to smile as she studies your face—lingering on your temple before she frowns deeply and pulls back. Loudly, she states, “I’ll order some scar cream to your penthouse when we’re done.” 

“Alright,” your lips mumble, ribs like iron cages for too-large lungs.

“But now into the important part. I need you to pick one.” She pushes the folder closer to you, and your hand snaps out to grab it. It instead punches the desk and you hiss, bringing it back to your chest. Your mother minutely blinks in shock, eyes confused. “Still with that Spatial Awareness? I thought you said it was getting better?”

“I’m…still working through it,” you grumble. You wanted to tell her there wasn’t any ‘getting better’ from this. It was just another problem you’d have to deal with your entire life. But, again, it’s easier.

She huffs as you correctly locate the folder and pick it up, placing it gently into your lap and flipping it open. Inside you find file after file, taking the first one into your fingers and propping it up before blinking in confusion at the black ink and tiny picture of a man. 

You briefly look at the name, processing, before gazing back up at the woman with a furrow in your brows. 

“Mom?” 

She smiles.

“I have three men of Russian descent who are candidates to be your next around-the-clock guard.” Your matriarch is oblivious to your apparent hesitation to take on another person into your life, your shoulders hunching in. “All part of a PMC group called KorTac. I’d ask for a broader scale, but being born here and previously serving in the military would give them far more privileges than any others.” 

You’re already shaking your head, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I still have to send my apologies to all the others’ families. I–I,” your voice cuts before you can let the tears weigh your sentence down with emotion. 

Your mother didn’t do that kind of thing. 

“Sweetheart,” the woman draws out, shaking her head, “they don’t want to hear from you, you know that.” Her voice hardens. “You’re my responsibility. Now, look at the options.” 

Gritting your teeth, you want to stand and stalk out, say to hell with her PMCs and her bland eyes. The way she talks with care but hides it behind a wall of knives like some protective barrier; like she needs to do that. 

But you stay your voice and look back down, brushing past pages to have all of the pictures lined up right next to each other.

Blinking, you ask, numbly, “What kind of privileges?”

Your mother smiles though a thankful breath. “Weapons, body armor; they’ll be allowed to enter and go about business as they see fit without normal blockades. People here trust their own.”  

Fire races through your mind, all-consuming black smoke and the bland ash of a burning building. Trust their own? One of their own had just killed three people and injured three more just to get your attention. How was that trust?

Your eyes gloss over words, or what little of them you could read beyond inked-out sections. Names smudge and achievements blurr; medals with no hold on you and a list of missions accomplished with what you assumed to be perfect records. 

“These men have killed people,” you say, shifting to the last file as you don’t look at it right away, instead leveling the Consul with a pleading twist to your lips. “A lot of people.”

As an individual, you wouldn’t say you were very confrontational or quick to jump to violence—you did damage control and appeased more than antagonized. There was less stress when everyone could get a portion of what they wanted.

You just didn’t like senseless brutality.

“Then there’s no one better for the job.” Sometimes you wonder if your mother even raised you at all. 

Forehead creased, you shift back to the papers, staring at the last man of the three in a moment of flickering orbs. His intimidating appearance makes your eyes go slightly wider with shock as you focus in. 

Nikto is all that was given for the man’s name—Russian: Никто—and the individual was shrouded in so much black you wondered if he might create a void of energy around him; some kind of gruff and grueling cloud. Even from the picture, the pale, contrasted, eyes dug into you, even brighter than Petya’s had once been. Though, these eyes were inlaid into some strange mask, the top of the covering a type of Kevlar and the bottom covered in rough canvas that pulls back and completely covers the rest of the head. There are straps that extend to hold his chin and on the sides of his nose… 

Your face pulls with mild disgust. Are those two screws? What the hell…?

This Russian was, plainly put, the face of death. Perhaps even something worse.

The theme of black continued, as it was the only color besides white you could identify. Strapped vest of armor plates, arms and hands that rest behind his back covered by long sleeves. Ammo was clipped at the sides of his upper chest and a large collar of armor stamped with the letters and number of ‘MP-0’. Your eyes slide to what you can read about him, morbidly intrigued as you frown at his belt full of grenades and knives. An assault rifle hangs from his chest by a long strap, limp as a dead limb.

But as you look, there was even less information available about this beast than there was visible skin behind the face-paint smeared into his sockets. Not even an age.

“Nikto,” you murmur. You wondered why you liked how it slipped off the tongue. 

But you’ll also wonder in the future why you choose him at all. 

Maybe it was the way for the first time in two days you’d felt something other than fear and regret; something that spread like water into the lines of your face to make them smooth. Maybe it was because out of the others, he would be the type to do his job and then leave entirely without a trace.

A blink and then…gone. 

You can't have anyone else die on you—and Nikto seems the only one able to take death by the throat and throttle him with the handle of his own scythe. 

Maybe.

Maybe.

Your head tilted, and you blinked. 

“This one,” you toss the file to your mother’s desk and watch it hit off-center. the woman’s face twitches at the monster-esc profile. It’s like she ages ten years.

“...Lovely.”

—

One day later you meet Nikto, but before you do, you make a quick visit to the hospital with a bundle of fresh flowers. You’d brokenly asked for blue and white, but you can’t verify if that was really what you were holding. 

At the front desk, you ask for room three and are simply pointed down the hallway without a word. A small smile is handed over, but no one answers as you slink away, guiding your legs along the lines of the tile on the ground. Standing outside you knock softly and grasp the handle, pushing it open after a deep breath. 

The Baker’s Boy lays in a bed and his dark eyes snap to yours immediately, widening. His curls are crisped and shorter now, singed at the ends. Arms taped with bandages and gauze, his wounds are not wide-spread but severe enough to keep him for longer than you and Alyona. 

“Sergei?” You ask, standing in the doorway and plastering a soft smile on your face. You’d gotten his name through a text with Aly, where she asked you to give him a kind word as you dropped off your gift.

Sergi blinks quickly at you, and something like fear slashes his face. You raise your hands rapidly, flowers in the crook of your elbow. 

“N-no, I’m sorry. I know you’ve probably heard a lot about me, the news has been…uh…” Your words trail to a fake chuff of laughter, looking to the side wall for a moment. “Well, it’s not right of me to take no blame.” The man only stares and stays silent, sitting up straighter in bed and thinning his lips. His body is tense. 

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to drop these off. I-I’ll leave.” Walking quickly to the side table, you place down the flowers and clear your throat, sending him a very guilty glance. “The woman I was with gives her well-wishes for your recovery. I’m sorry,” you say again, nodding your head and locking your hands in front of your abdomen. 

Turning on your feet like an elite track star, you dart quickly back to the door. 

“Girl.” You halt in the doorway, one arm quivering just as it had before the explosion. Your head swivels, surprised. 

Sergi gazes at you, his dark eyes large and serious, tinged with unease. His English is barely understandable, and he struggles through the words with an accent so deep it’s a series of throaty grunts. 

“Do not come back.” 

Your lungs tighten as if someone squeezes them in a ruthless fist. Nodding shakily, you dash out and don’t stop until you’re back outside, breathing in gasps and putting a hand to your mouth to stifle your ragged breaths. People who come and go look at you as you lean heavily into the wall, some concernedly furrowing their brows but ultimately walking past. 

You suppose they didn’t recognize you in all of the normal clothes—a thick turtleneck under a jacket and sweatpants. No makeup with a ball cap atop your head. Clearing your dry throat, you get a hold of yourself and keep your face down-cast, slithering off with a zig-zag pattern of feet. 

It’s okay. It’s okay. He has a right to feel like that. It’s going to be okay.

But it doesn’t stop the pit in your heart from growing until it threatens to swallow you whole.

It’s only when you’re five minutes late to the Consulate building that your mother levels you with an unimpressed look, standing at the entrance with her arms crossed. You walk quickly to hide the rings around your eyes from her, not wanting to start an argument about what went wrong.

“He’s been here for half an hour, Seraph,” you cringe, waving to the woman at the front desk who nods and gives a pitying tilt of her head. 

Half an hour? Talk about a time freak.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just lost track of time.” Hands take you by the side of your arms and swivel you back around as you hang up your jacket, making you flinch but go along with the action. 

Your mother levels you with a stare that the long it goes on, eases. It mingles on the border of comfort and concern before she awkwardly squeezes and lets go of you, eyelids blinking to study the trash can near the door. 

“Stop…apologizing, Beauty.” The curtain re-falls and your mom stands straighter, brushing down her fitted blouse and clearing her throat. “It’s unbecoming. Now, remember to smile—everyone loves your smile.” 

You hide your yearning and plaster on a fake grin, feeling nervousness infecting your blood. 

In your career, meeting new people was a requirement. Photographers, other models, business associates who reach out for brand deals; the list was long. Beyond a desirable body and the mask of provocative expressions, physical image was only a part of it—being good at playing sales broker added to appeal. At the parties AMA shipped you off to, especially. 

Alyona often called the two of you exceptionally well-paid and up-standing sex workers, but withholding the intimacy of sheets and panting breath. You sold the idea of sex just by being there, which, oftentimes, is far better than the sin of flesh itself. Your agency knows it well.

Your face was an asset; just like your body and expressions—a tool.

But somehow you knew that whatever face you put on, model or the woman who’d just seen immense horror, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Just on a picture alone, Nikto had ingrained himself in your mind as an idol of seriousness and blunt orders. Not like Yefim, but somehow that made you feel better about this situation. It was even the reason you had chosen him in the first place.

No getting close to this one, you reason as your mother guides you down a hallway, hand firm on your back. 

“Is there anything I can know besides his name?” Watching room after room passes you, you’re brought to the far back of the Consulate building. You study the large wooden door. 

It’s a moment before your mom responds, rubbing lightly along your spine. “I’ve heard he’s a former FSB Agent. Spetsnaz as well. He has an extensive record, but no...concerns to worry about. You’re in exceptionally good hands.”  

“Concerns?” A huff. “Like if he’ll kill me before the creep has the chance,” you’re leveled with a stiff look.

“No one is going to die, Seraph.” People already have. 

With a frown, you grasp the handle and shrug off your mother’s touch, entering the room and letting the door shut behind you with a thump as you pad through. It’s only a millisecond, but you plaster back on a content expression and loosen your muscles; the internal warfare of constant tension makes everything ache. 

You lock eyes with a standing absence of light. 

In person, he was even more dark…and you didn’t just mean the outfit. Staring, bright eyes dig into your soul with no emotions—so departed from normal expression it’s like looking into a corpse. 

Nikto’s standing with his hands behind his back, his shoulders loose but pulled with soldier-like authority. He’s tall, and the large bulk of his chest and thighs make you swallow down saliva as you stand still and blink quickly. His stomach bulges with muscle from under his armor—the same you’d seen in his profile. 

The Russian was all the same except for the lack of weapons, though, the duffel bag at his side certainly held them in its inky depths.

He’s built like a damn brick wall, your mind blanks, not lying with the feelings of slight unease. Nikto was just…still. Not blinking. Watching you with a gleam of something strange. The Russian man’s eyes narrow with…disgust? Maybe you were reading too much into that, but one thing was certain.  

He was studying you... aggressively. Prodding.

A second passes like this.

Oh, your face remains a plastered calm but your heart skips a beat, he’s waiting for me to introduce myself. You quickly clear your throat and walk forward, not seeing the way he tenses and sets his feet harder into the ground. 

“Umh,” scolding yourself for your hesitation, you shakily put out a hand for him to shake, keeping a respectable distance away. 

Finally, a slight movement; a dart of his eyes down to your limb.

“I’m Seraph, nice to meet you. You go by Nikto, right? Just Nikto…? I’m sorry, that was all I was able to read on your file.” You’re blinked at slowly, left gazing up into this beast's covered face and his terrifying mask of fabric and rigid material. 

How tall can a man be before it becomes insulting to be standing next to him?

As the silence continues, your hand stutters before you let it fall, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket. 

Alright.

“There was…” You lick your lips, glancing off to a gray picture on the far wall. “A lot of black ink, to be honest. Quite the record, huh?” 

A strained chuckle bounces off the small space. 

Nikto doesn’t respond and you blink quickly through confusion and growing embarrassment. Your face burns like a heat gun was set on it. A highly uncomfortable silence falls, but you very much doubt that the man in front of you even feels it like you do—a slow deterioration of your confidence.

And why in the hell was he still looking at you like that?! All you’d done is walk through the damn door and lock eyes with him!

But then he speaks as you’re just about to turn away and walk out of the room with your tail between your legs, mentally exhausted and needing to put ice on your forehead. 

“Seraph, like angel?” Broken English, but better than Sergi’s. What caught you was the depth of it—the rough scrape of vocal cords and raspy grit. Sandpaper, nearly. You restrain yourself from cringing. Nikto scoffs and he looks away from you, stance immobile. “You do not look like angel.”

Your mind takes a moment to latch onto the words, jaw slackening in shock and lashes fluttering for a second. “E…excuse me?”

Nikto grunts and glares at the door. 

It’s your turn to stare, mouth opening and closing with small smacks of lips with a sudden blankness to your brain. Your ability to speak seems to leave you in a small instant between the stab of insult and brief anger. While you felt yourself above the base instinct of vexation, Nikto’s words had soaked you in their substance of prodding bluntness. 

Your beauty was all you had, certainly, he hadn’t meant that. Surely it was just a translation error. Your lips darken with a frown, eyes flashing. 

But something else pierces you in the chest, too.

Without another exchange, you turn around and begin walking to the exit, hands in your pockets clenched into your palms. There’s a silent padding of feet right behind you and the shuffle of a duffel bag. Your body freezes and you slowly look over your shoulder. 

The Void follows, bag in hand and dead eyes peeling back your psyche as if this was normal; you find him a few steps forward from where he was, like your own personal shadow.

He freezes as you do, but this is more… purposeful. Both of you lock gazes, nothingness and veiled discourse flaring. 

But you were better than that. 

You had to be better. 

So you soften your expression and, under your breath, sigh heavily. “I’ll write you up my schedule,” Nikto blinks, brows barely pulling in. “Get you a copy from AMA or something.” 

“Already acquired.” His hulking figure seems to always be tense and ready to strike. For a second you’re reminded of Petya with a sharp slap to your face. But Nikto’s bark is far sterner if that was even possible. Almost like a single sound.

You bring a hand to itch at your temple, stopping before you can peel at the soft skin covered in scar cream.  

“...Right,” at a slight loss of what to do, you shuffle your feet and open the door—leaving the room and holding the thing partially open behind you for the Russian. “Of course.” Your grumble only meets your ears, put off. 

Nikto moves out of the doorway, having to slightly tilt his shoulders to fit through the opening without slamming into the frame. He does so fluidly and almost robotically. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you walk like a scary dog?” You let go of the door and pull ahead, smiling somewhat more real as the light eyes snap down at you. There’s a brief grunt of breath from behind his mask.

Nikto is silent for a long while, growling out, “Hет.” Formal. Brisk. 

No. 

You get the feeling that you’re annoying him, but you can’t help but slightly enjoy it. Finally, some semblance of normality you could cling to. “Well, they should,” you admit, studying the loping walk—a slightly tilted pace that would suit a wolf or a bear, even. Making sure your own hand slides against the wall to keep you in a straight line, you continue, cheekily. “Because you do.” 

Nikto stares straight ahead and stays silent, something akin to irritation in his visible portions; free hand twitching. You tilt your head.

“Y’know, this would be better if you could hold a conversation.” 

“Да.” You smile wider.

“So you’ll have a conversation with me?” 

 “Hет.” Nikto glares from a side-eye, the words hissed through clenched teeth. If he was this easy to rile up, this would be more fun than you thought.

Your eyes linger on his form, the biceps, and the forearms that strain behind padded pieces of thick material. Combat boots and loose black cargo pants shoved into them.

This might be a good distraction, at the very least. Let the authorities work in the background and keep this cut of the crop. No feelings, of course. Not like Yefim, you remind yourself again. Never again like Yefim. 

The dead man’s face slips behind your eyelids and you blink your face forward. 

“Are you only going to say ‘yes’ or ‘no?’” Nikto’s bulk enshrouds you heavily as you take a right back to the lobby where your mother waits. He hums in his throat, before muttering something under his breath in harsh Russian. You have no idea what that means or if you even want to decipher it, you shrug and shut up. 

It was probably a curse anyway. Or a plea for reassignment. 

Your mother’s face pulls tight as Nikto shows himself beside you, his sights locking onto the Consul as you grab your jacket, missing the hook once before you grasp it firmly and slip it on. 

“If everything is in order…?” She trails, before frowning at the man and coming over to you. 

“We can always find a way to bring you back to the States,” you blink, her face serious as it slashes through you. “Get your passport up to date and find a different modeling agency.” 

What’s with the change in attitude? You ask yourself, brows pulling in and studying your mom’s expression. She’s older, but maybe you’re only realizing it now that you care to look. Wrinkles and a certain film to her gaze that parents seem to grow when they’re trying to convince you of something.

Nikto watches and listens closely a few feet from the door, duffel bag still in hand. 

“You know that’s not an option. Allurement is exclusive—I won’t get a better deal than the one I have.” Your words come out confused. “Weren’t you the one that told me this was the best option, that they would be the only ones to take me?” You pause. “Especially with the way I am?”

Her face twists, shaking her head instantly with a scrunched nose and flashing orbs. Even mentioning what happened made her act like water near the brim of a glass; one shake and the liquid would seep over and pool to the counter. “I don’t remember saying that.” 

You close your mouth before changing the subject, offering an easy, yet strained, smile. 

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Besides, the guy’ll get caught before we know it. All of them do. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim,” your voice tightens, “will get to rest easy.” 

Your matriarch gives a small twitch of her lips back, kisses your forehead, and says, “Alright, Beauty,” you hide your cringe, “I’m one call away.” 

She walks off with a click of her heels. 

“Girl,” you look up from zipping your jacket. Nikto glares at you. “быстро. Hurry up.” 

“Hurry up?” Your voice bounces as you make your way to the exit, sending a thinly hidden face of amusement. “I’m just going home, there’s no rush to things.”

“We need to secure the premises.”

We? You nearly ask, wondering what he meant. Obviously, he didn’t mean you and him, based on general attitude right now. Maybe that was just a strange quirk of his. 

“Around my penthouse?” Nikto’s shoulder presses on the barrier and he’s outside before you can finish your sentence. You narrowly catch the door and slip past like a horrible snake, elbow slapping the frame—you hold back a hiss and enter the street. “I…I don’t think it’s overly necessary, the police move through that area a lot—”

“Not the penthouse, Whelp,” you struggle along, feet rapid to stay at his side and multitask by staying in a line. He walks in long strides, parting people away from him with only a sharp glance and a scoff. “Inside.” 

Your body halts before you blink back to your senses and make a noise in the back of your throat.

“I-inside, Nikto? I’m sorry, I’m not following.” You huff under your breath and stick beside him, using his presence as a sort of barrier. He walks near the road. “I never agreed to that. And Whelp? What the hell, man?”

“I do not care.” 

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” You grumble, sighing. 

I guess I’m having guests. 

Has your mother given permission for that? A stranger with weapons thumping inside of your penthouse like he was your live-in boy toy? Eating in your kitchen and putting his feet up on the coffee table? God, the public would have a field day with it when they saw him walking down with you in the morning to go to work.

He couldn’t have been put in the building across the street? But you suppose there are worse things that can happen—you have the space for it. With a dejected expression, you sigh; you seem to be doing that a lot recently.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Nikto stares down at you as your feet stutter along, seeming to raise a brow in annoyed question as to why you were struggling to keep up. 

You wondered how much he had been told beyond some rich Consul's daughter needed a new bodyguard. Did he know any of it? 

“What?” Your lips twist, smile flicking out. “See something you like?”

“No. You’re slow.” You hide your groan and face forward, brows falling into a line.

But you’re not oblivious to the way his piercing eyes survey the crowd, and while the mask is drawing attention, random people peeping break off like sticks as he’s clocked by you, darting to make room. How his large shoulders span and block the road from you, pace pulling back to fit right behind you with a low grunt as your arms brush. 

A grunter too—he really is a scary dog.

“Why do you walk like this,” Nikto growls. “Are you unable to feel your feet? It is pathetic.”

“Are you going to stop insulting me?” You glare ahead and cross your arms. “Or are you going to keep playing the jerk until this is over?” 

His eyes burn into yours for a moment, before he places such a heavy hand on your shoulder that you almost squeak at the pressure. It nearly slants you forward before your back tightens. 

“Keep quiet. Walk.” 

“Well, now I don’t think I’m going to,” his eyes flash, those colorless films going into themselves with tiny flecks of surprise. You suppose no one’s ever had banter like this with him before, being in a PMC…or really just being him as a whole. He doesn’t seem the joking type over a back-handed sarcastic comment.

“So, how has your day been, Nikto?” Your voice is smug and your smile large, perfect and bright, and ravishing. “Today I woke up at five AM and ate an apple with yogurt. Then I—”

Nikto growls deeply and forces you on through a gawking crowd. 

The rest of the walk is filled with a one-sided conversation coming from a grinning face, pale, boiling eyes, and the shadow across the street who watches through the thin glass of a bookstore. The perfect view.

A hat on his head. 

A slight distance to his addled expression.

A medium slip-joint knife in his pocket.

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[deadpool15]

This is fucking bullshit. All of this is so stupid. I’m gonna kick his fucking ass. Me and Woo-Jin had been kinda on and off for about two years, at first it was fine because I wasn’t ready to settle down so it was all fun and games. But now I’ve been trying to slowly show him I’m ready for the real thing. Full on relationship, our parents had already met, with my parents practically becoming friends for life with his after agreeing to endorse his father’s campaign. His mother constantly telling me how much of a good daughter I am, and how she views me as her own.

Everything was slowly coming together until that fucking teacher arrived. Her nasty disgusting elderly ass decides to fuck my man. It seems like no one in this school realized Woo-Jin belonged to me. Not even him, well not yet. Storming through the school with my shirt slightly unbuttoned from the top leaving my sloppy tie on display just how I like it. It’s a style. Skirts were always a hit or miss for me, seemed no one in Korea understood the struggles of having a fat ass. My knee-high socks had fallen down slightly revealing a few of my tattoos. Shall I say baddest bitch at school for you. Yes, yes indeed.

I make my way up to our special classroom where I had told the man himself to meet me. Walking in the room I notice He-ra in there as well. Now before you say it that’s my bitch. Love her to death. But now isn’t the time for her and her constant back talk that I know she will give without explanation. “He-ra I love you so much babe, but I’m about to embarrass the fuck outta your bestie right now so can you please give us a minute. And I mean go to class not wait outside and listen this time.” She turns to me grabbing her things, “I wasn’t gonna listen to your guys speak, last time I tried to ease drop on you two felt like I was listening to unfiltered porn.”

Watching her walk out the room I see him sitting there smirking. “Stop that you make me sick. You piece of shit.” He motions for me to come closer as I was standing up still. Dropping my bag on the floor, I sit in the chair next to him only for him to grab my arm and push me into his lap. “What’s wrong, Cherie? And what are you gonna embarrass me with?” Pushing his hands that had landed on my hips off me, I sit firmly. Feeling the tension in the room. “When where u gonna tell me you are into old broke bitches now, huh? Miss me that much? You have your sluts acting out of order around me.” He tries to speak up but I place my finger on his plump lips. Causing him to slowly wrap his lips around my finger.

Wow can’t believe he is playing dirty right now. Two can play that game. “Guess your skills are getting old, it’s not working for you anymore is that it baby, is that why you are fucking old women now.” He removes his lips from my fingers and starts leaving kisses on my neck. Open-mouthed kisses are my fucking weakness and he knows this. “What did she say to you?” For a minute I couldn’t respond. I was lying through my teeth this entire time his skills always worked but I knew so did mine. “Kept trying to speak to me saying how worried she was about me since she has noticed me and you barely talk. She wanted to offer me a moment to let out my emotional side and show her how impacted I am now that you have moved on to someone new apparently. Messy ass teacher.”

Hearing this he stopped, “aww are you jealous, baby?” Seeing the mischievous smile on his amazing face almost made me crumble until I started to lean in for him to show off something I know would get me victory. “Is that a fucking hickey? Cherie you’re not serious right, no marks we talked about that. You have shitty guys leaving marks on your body to remember them.” He gripped my neck once he realized I was smiling, “Oo I didn’t even notice he was mainly focused on my bottom half when he did that, guess that’s my bad.” Chuckling and making my way to move off of his lap until he gripped my hips keeping me firmly placed glued to him. “No more of that, me and you that’s it. You only need me, how many times do I have to fuck you to prove that huh? Do you hate walking, is that it?”

“You’re sleeping around too, asshole. Get that dog under control and maybe I’ll let you have me. Any way you want it baby.” He smiles at me before unlocking his phone and pressing the camera icon. “What are you doing, sending her photos Woo-Jin? Wow you truly don’t give a fuck about me do you. Such an asshole.” He wipes my tears before leaning in to kiss me softly. “Cherie I like you so much, actually I fucking love you. Everything about you. I’m not sending her pictures, two options ok. I could text her it’s over or I could bend you over this chair and fuck you til you’re begging me to stop and send it to her. But, something tells me you like the second option more.”

Leaning closer to bite his ear, I whisper, “how many rounds can you give me before next class, huh pretty boy?” He grabs my breast, before kissing my ear. “My next course doesn’t start until 4, it’s currently 1. Which means we have to test this theory, are you up for it beautiful?” Unbuttoning his shirt, while spreading my hands across his chest I nod. “Always up for a challenge, pretty boy. But can you handle it. I don’t move at that same pace as you’re used to now. Since you have downgraded to fucking the retirement community. Can you even keep up?” He pulls me closer kissing my hands. “Can I, handle you? Baby you’re not leaving this room til you tap out.”

“Say less, pretty boy.”

[crepesuzette2023]

Beatles Books as vaguely defined friends and relatives at a party you attend with a new crush, whose name you keep mispronouncing.

The longer you stay, the more trouble you have remembering what the occasion was.

The lights keep changing. Shortly after you arrived, your crush shrunk to the size of a mouse, and scurried away. You’re on your own.

The Beatles (Bob Spitz) greets you, an attractive silver fox who seems to be shunned by most of the others. You wonder why. It’s as easy to imagine him as a crying wreck as it is to imagine him on a golf course. Here, There, and Everywhere (Geoff Emerick) disrupts your musings by pulling tapes from his mouth. Seeing your discomfort, he stops and hands you a photograph of John Lennon and Paul McCartney singing into the same microphone. As he does, his pupils take on the shape of hearts. Someone called George announces his intent to poison him.

Anthology (The Beatles) saunters in, puts eight arms around you, and promises to tell you the whole story. They proceed to speak in tongues, and throw popcorn at you. Stu Sutcliffe jumps from a pendant around their neck, lands on the floor, and scurries after your crush.

“It’s always like this,” says Body Count (Francie Schwartz). “I assume you don’t want to listen to my story about a gifted woman who got locked up for depression? That’s fine, I can also talk about frottage, and a certain man’s curves.”

“Oh, stop it,” says John (Cynthia Lennon). She turns to you. “My advice is: Turn around and run as fast as you can.” She demonstrates what she means by disappearing, leaving behind a purse filled with cheerful letters and drawings of herself getting married and giving birth. Everything smells of olive oil. Francie spots Loving John (May Pang), and rushes to her, greedy for gossip. Loving John (May Pang) is everyone’s favorite, because she doesn’t really know anyone very well, but she knows how to make everyone feel comfortable by saying things that make sense in the moment.

Living the Beatles Legend: The Mal Evans Story (Ken Womack) ends up taking her home; they both live at The Fringes. Her home is a little further than his, which is just this side of Weird whereas she’s all the way in Montauk, but he’ll make sure she gets there safely.

To make up for the disappearance of your crush, Remember (Mike McCartney) cuts your hair. Each snip of the scissors slots a black-and-white picture into your field of vision. Windows in time blow noise and heat in your face, and visions of a screaming band that looks a bit like the young Beatles. Then there’s the quiet heat of summer, towels rippling on the line, and a drain pipe screwed to the wall of a house. He talks about childhood, and you’re almost there, but you never will be, because he won’t let you in. His more verbose twin, The Macs (Mike McCartney), recites letters his brother and John wrote from Hamburg, but you can barely understand what he says, because he stuffed a tissue into his mouth.

“It’s only a story,” says The Lyrics (Paul McCartney). “Pleased to meet you. I’m a storyteller myself.” He sings a love song. “I must have thought about these things when I wrote it,” he muses. “Interesting. What a mind, as Linda used to say.”

He tears a few pages from a diary he kept in Paris in 1961 and hands them to you without comment.

At this point, the party is dissolving. Crocheted furniture floats away and stretches.

“Am I too late?” Skywriting by Word of Mouth (John Lennon) squeezes himself out of the lowest drawer of an antique desk, where, judging from by his crinkly pajamas, he slept. “I’m in pieces. Mend me with glue.”

“I will, I will!” Tune In—All These Years, Vol I (Mark Lewisohn) yells ecstatically. “I’m so glad you could make it Sit down with me and celebrate the heritage of Liverpool.”

Skywriting drapes himself around Tune In, who starts purring and rutting against him.

“Excuse me?” It’s The Fifth Beatle: The Brian Epstein Story (Vivek Tiwary), torero boots clicking on the invisible floor as he strides towards the couch. A spotlight follows him. “I’m managing this show, and I insist on expanding the scene.” Around them, a hotel room forms.

Skywriting lights a cigarette. “Join us in bed, Bri.”

“Yes,” moans Tune In. “I’m so lonely. I’m the oldest of a triplet, or so they say, but the other two haven’t been born yet.”

The Fifth Beatle sits down and observes the unhinged biography losing himself in the friction of rubbing against the shapeshifting Skywriting. Finally, things reach a conclusion.

“And so,” says The Fifth Beatle, “what partially was, finished.”

“Stop repeating lines from a bad movie, Brian," says Skywriting, "you’re better than that.”

As you try to plot ways to escape through the skylight, The McCartney Legacy, Vol 1 (Sinclair & Kozinn) slides out from under the bed, a broad-shouldered lady in a bright red dress. A half-hatched alien with long legs and sunglasses squirms between her breasts, and makes mouth percussion sounds.

“Gentlemen.” The McCartney Legacy retrieves a very, very long rosary from her pocket. “Is anyone interested in an exquisitely crafted, finely wrought chronology?”

At the sound of the word “chronology,” The Beatles (Hunter Davies) crashes through the ceiling.

“Don’t fall for it!” The Beatles snatches the vocalizing baby alien from The McCartney Legacy’s chest, and kills it by wringing its neck. “Time stopped in 1968. The only valid extension are my own salacious additions. Strictly off the record.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” says The Fifth Beatle.

You exchange a glance with Skywriting, who is plucking pieces of Tune In from his body like children snatch pieces of dough, and sticking them in his mouth.

A camera clicks.

“Excellent.”

The Eyes of the Storm (Paul McCartney) lowers the camera, and changes into a suntanned, gleaming likeness of George Harrison. Then he changes into a fish.

“Everyone looking at the pictures will think they know,” the fish says. “They’ll have no idea!”

The floor dissolves under you. You fall into a pool, just in time to save your crush from being sucked into the drain, and after a barely audible edit you find yourself back home, with no memories at all, the taste of chewing gum in your mouth, and wearing matching tops saying, I visited Fellini’s Satyricon, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. (ETA: I can't believe I forgot about Dreaming the Beatles (Rob Sheffield). I guess I'll have to include him in the inevitable sequel to this...thing, as the +1 of John and Paul: A Love Story in Songs (Ian Leslie).)

[cottoncandyswisherz]

mine.

this is for @l0akkzz because she said do angst

exbf!chris x trackstar!reader

warnings: angst, kissing, swearing, very very suggestive/damn near smut

lil background info because i dont feel like writing all that: theyre in college and y/n runs track. y/n and chris used to date but they broke up bc chris cheated and y/n started dating chris' teammate but shes miserable. they hooked up a week before the story takes place and the chris told y/n to break up with said ex. savannah is y/ns friend thats trynna get with chris.

-

"why i'm still with him is none of your business. i am none of your fucking business, chris. what happened that night was because we were wasted. you said i could blame you, so this is me blaming you and telling you to leave me the hell alone. "

"but i don't want to. "

"are you a fucking masochist?"

"not usually, no. in fact, some might say i'm the exact opposite, but i'm ready for you to come to your senses."

"have you heard a word i've said? i want nothing to do with you."

"say that again and try to mean it this time." my mouth gets close to hers. i can smell the notes of coconut oil drifting from her hair. i can smell the mint rushing from her lips in fractured breaths. "unless... you can't?"

she glares up at me and there's so much heat beneath that honey in her eyes, but she doesn't push me. not even once.

y/n might lash out, but my mere nearness is causing her a shortness of breath. her chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm.

so i press my chest to hers. firm nipples glue to mine and the thud of her heartbeat slams and mixes with my own.

what the fuck is this girl doing to me?

why on earth can't i keep my hands off her? does she have witch blood? is she made of fucking drugs?

i reach my hand out and grip her throat lightly. barely any pressure. but enough to let her know who's in control.

"you're a fucking nightmare." she mutters, her throat working beneath my fingers.

"your nightmare." "i hate you." "i don't." "you're fucking crazy."

"about you." i whisper against her lips and claim them with a guttural moan.

she doesn't push away. she certainly does not turn her face or look like she's uncomfortable with the attention.

in fact, the exact opposite happens.

her lashes flutter over her cheeks as she groans, and i eat that sound teh fuck up. i eat her the fuck up.

i swallow her whole. teeth clashing, tongues swirling and lips chasing.

god fucking damn it.

i've been fantasizing about his last since last week. every morning, noon, and night. every goddamn second of every fucking day, all i wanted was to have a taste again.

but i didn't want to freak her out or send her running for the hills. i sure as hell don't give two flying fucks about that possibility right now, though.

i soak her all in, exploring, feasting absolutely drowning in her fucking mouth.

she tastes of honey, mint and pending fucking addiction.

i twirl my tongue against hers and i'm rewarded with her hard nips. babydoll kisses me as thoroughly as i kiss her, her fingers tugging on the bottom of my hoodie to keep me glued to her naked torso.

i roll her bottom lips between my teeth and nibble on the skin until she's whimpering, shuddering and fucking shaking against me,

give me more.

more.

fucking more.

i shove my raging erection against her and i can practically feel the heat radiating from her pussy.

she's hot. for me.

again.

"you're so fucking turned on for someone who claims she wants nothing to do with me." i speak against her perfect lips. " you're not drunk now either."

"don't mock me...." she breathes out even as her mouth seems to chase mine. "i would've gotten this way for anyone. it's called a physical reaction."

this fucking- i swear she's asking to be torn apart.

i slide my tongue down her neck and bite her collar bone, hard, then suck just as savagely, giving her back the hickey she hid for a whole week.

"stop it..." she grunts, shoving her hand against my chest.

only, she put not actual strength behind it.

i trail a path of bites to where her collarbone meets her chest. i pull her bra off, then i scrape my my teeth of her nipples.

she spits out the most erotic moan i've ever heard, and i jam two of my fingers down in her mouth then spread them against his tongue.

i need her to stop fucking talking and ruining every moment with her damn mouth.

my tongue swirls around her brown areola, then i tug the nipple between my teeth, sucking and biting until all i hear are the muffled noises spilling from her stuffed mouth.

"you like this don't you?" i move to the other nipple, sucking the skin around it, leaving a huge hickey before i bite down on the little bud. "you look perfect marked by me. my own piece of fucking art."

one of her hands is on my shoulder, pushing me away, but the other is in my hair, pulling me close.

she's a fucking conundrum, my babydoll, and i can't wait to break her into fucking pieces.

her body is stiff against me, but her tongue swirls around my fingers, and her teeth bite down whenever i nibble on her nipple.

i'm so drunk on her and her taste. so addicted to how responsive she is.

i can't fucking get enough.

not after one lick or two or a thousand. i want to throw her down and feast on her properly. i want to watch her shudder and whine and moan as i kiss every inch of her gorgeous skin.

i doubt she'd be thrilled with that idea, so i'll take what i can get.

my mouth leaves bites and marks all over her chest before i slide my tongue back to her jaw.

"you taste like my new favorite addiction baby."

she whines against my fingers and i remove them, so i can hear her intoxicating voice.

"you infuriate me." she tries to push against me, but i slam my hands against the locker on either side of her head, once again shoving my chest against hers. i'm so close. i can see that fire burning in her eyes.

more.

i smirk, staring down at her puffed out lips. "someone's mad."

"fuck you."

"baby, you know i love it when you talk dirty to me."

she grabs me by the throat, her nails digging ruthlessly into the sides. "you need to stay the hell away from me."

"no." i try to step closer and she tightens her grip until i can barely breathe. my lungs burn, and i can feel the veins in my neck bulging.

"i'm going to fucking kill you."

"mmm. i love it when you get rough."

"you think i'm joking?" her short acrylics sink into my skin.

"tell me more. your mouth makes me so fucking hard." i roll my hips and slam them against her again,

and fuck.

fuck me.

"i can feel your pussy though your shorts. you're wet babydoll. if i touch you, will i find you dripping for me?"

"you fucking-" she cuts her own self off and her fingers compress so hard they shake.

she's shaking. my babydoll, losing her precious control one layer at a time.

and what do i do?

trap her between my teeth and never let go. of course.

"you can fight me, can choke the life out of me, but that won't stop you from wanting me," i strain and wrap my hand around her throat on the hickey that's beginning to re-form. "you came here to stop me from fucking savannah. you weren't mad for her, you were mad at her. you didn't like the way she touched me, right?"

"shut up."

"you're pissed off at me because i let her touch me?"

that beautiful rage shines behind her eyes. but then she says the exact opposite of what she's thinking. "why would i care what you do?"

"always playing a role, doll. hiding, pretending. you broke up with him tonight? why didn't you tell me that?"

"how..?"

"he told me he was going through a breakup and was looking to forget during practice this morning." i try to get my head closer but she keeps me in place with her unyielding hold. "you did it for me, didn't you? you lost him because i told you to. no. you did it because you wanted to be with me. because you know i'm the only one who can give you what you need."

"stop dreaming."

"stop fucking pretending." i remove the band-aid on her thigh, revealing only tattoo she only kept hidden. my fucking name in black cursive letters. "stop hiding."

she shakes her head, but her fingers loosen around my throat. y/n isn't weak. sure, i'm bigger, but she has strength. the reason she let me touch her pervious times isn't because she couldn't stop me. it's because she chose not to stop me.

like right now.

her war for control breaks like ice beneath her feet.

i'm the lake waiting to swallow her.

my fingers spread on her sharp jaw, my lips an inch from hers.

"dont...." she whispers and it's shaky, breathless.

she clearly wants me. she's burning for it. her body language gives her away. eyes darkening, nostrils flaring, and fingers holding my neck so lovingly (though she'd argue otherwise).

but she's still fighting tooth and nail, still refusing to admit the inevitable.

"wanna blame me again?" i murmur against her skin.

a puff of air leaves her mouth and she nods once.

"then blame me all you want, baby."

i slam my lips to hers, taking what's mine.

because she is.

mine.

niyah speaks i hate this.

taglist: @mattslolita @mattssluttygf @muwapsturniolo @zniyadgaf

[amaramizuki666]

Identity crisis part.2

Danny wasnt having a very good day, week, month, who knows time in the infinity realms has always been iffy. You see danny was recently crowned king of the realms, king of the dead, the balance between life and death, protected of the dead, holder of space, poor kid has a lot on his shoulders.

And now his council including frostbite, amber, and clockwork are suggesting him to marry. So danny can split the responsibility of being king.

Danny is flying to the far frozen when he hears it the call of being summoned. A faint wisper, the wish of those who summoned the ghost king, danny always had a choice weither to go, whether to listen to the whims of the mortals.

But before danny chose to be summoned or not, always depended on what he heard the wisper said. Danny stopped and floated in the green void of the realms. He closed his eyes and listened.

'𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔�� 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆'

Danny heard the wisper and emiditly let the summon take hold of him pulling him to the one summoning him. Danny opened his eyes to see he was surrounded by a thick ectoplasm like substance. It had the consistency of Elmer's glue and it burned Danny's skin.

Danny looked around himself with ergency trying to spot his summoner. He looked down and saw a kid around his age sinking to the bottom of this pit of green.

His hair was black danny thinks his eyes are blue but cant see them properly they are barely open. The boy looks lucid. But then again he does appear to be bleeding out and sinking in a bit of Lazarus goop sooo.

Danny floats down to the boy and speaks

"𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕞𝕖, 𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕥���𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕕, ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞. 𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥".

The boys eyes fluttered. He tried to open his mouth only bubbles escaped but thankfully danny could hear him or more accurately his desire.

"𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆'

Danny could feel it in his core, the need to save the need to 卩尺ㄖㄒ乇匚ㄒ. But danny cant just do that no he is the king.

"𝕀 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝, 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦" danny spoke.

The boys eyes finally drifted to him, holding Danny's gaze. '𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆' the boys heart sang.

Danny thought for a moment. This really was the perfect opportunity.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕝, 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 𝕞𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖, 𝕕𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕔𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕒𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥" danny asks his voice soft yet powerful. The boy accepted.

Danny pulled the boy in ty I his arms. A green aroura not dissimilar to his crown glowed around them as the contract finalized.

This boy was now his. Danny reversed the summoning and brought both of them back to the realms.

Danny looked at the boy in his arms, he was becoming paler. Danny quickly set off for the far frozen. He had to see frost bite regardless. St least now he wont bug him about finding a partner.

_____________

Part 1

Part 3

[sohn-der-felder]

✧ »➣ Open Starter

(it's my first ever one please have mercy)

Rain, he couldn't remember the last time he felt it. It pricked against his face in a weird way he couldn't understand - waking slowly as he slowly gained feeling once more.

Despite realizing he was face down in concrete the first feelings that came back to him were unkind and cruel - it was a horrible pain in every bone of his body. A sharp ringing ripped through his ears as everything became too much on his senses. The shock of it all was a struggle within itself but it felt like getting up was an even harder task to do.

His body felt weak and for the first time in awhile he felt utterly defeated and vulnerable. Laying on the concrete like an utter fool without a way to defend himself - whatever higher being there could've been felt dead to him now.

Seconds to Minutes to Hours. Time continued on despite his troubles and it pissed him off to no end for some reason. Though with that time he finally gained the strength to push against the concrete and sit up in a kneeling position.

"Dammit Deimos what have you gotten yourself into now..." The man was referring to himself - Deimos. A previous agent of the A.A.H.W before he sought out 'greener pastures' regarding work some may say. A rebellious man, a heavy smoker, an annoyance. He's referred to as many things but in this moment of time the only thing you could call him would be completely lost.

He'd cough a bit, feeling in his mouth before spitting out a loose tooth. "Well shit... that ain't gonna grow back." He grumbled to himself, clenching the small bone in an angry fist before simply shoving it into his pant pocket. "Whatever, maybe Doc can glue it back in or some..thing?" Deimos cut himself off as he finally lifted his head to finally see where he landed himself.

Luckily it seemed like the area he was in was a secluded parking lot, but nothing made sense as he would continue to rapidly glance around; finding trees, a cloudy sky that wasn't the shade of red he grew accustom to... It was as if everything was back to normal before all hell broke loose.

"What the.. What the hell?!" He tried to get up, whether to examine things further or try to run from his current reality - he'd fail. Knees buckling under him with a speed he didn't know was possible and groaning at the impact; knees feeling like they were about to crack under the abrupt pressure of his body.

"Fuck! That hurt..." Things were closing in on his psyche and the world felt like a soup of colors and barely understandable shapes. "Where the hell am I.. 'cause this is definitely not Nevada..."Deimos would speak to himself.

Though he maybe realized far too late that he wasn't alone, just another 'fun' surprise the vast universe decided to throw at him. Reaching for the gun in his utility belt he'd draw the weapon towards the sound of footsteps. "Who's there?!" He'd yell out - vision ever blurry but by God was he ready to fight to survive.

[elliebyrrdwrites]

Distantly, there’s a muffled voice. It’s like I’m stuff under water, stuck at the bottom of the seat and up above, there’s somebody shouting down at me. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I just know they’re trying to talk to me but I can’t make myself swim and break the surface.

My limbs are too heavy, like they’re full of lead. Vaguely, I’m aware of my cheek being slapped. There is no pain, I feel nothing. I’m not even fully inside of my body. The slaps increase, they grow firmer. Finally, I feel the sting of a palm cracking across my face. It’s hard enough to jolt my mind back into my body.

But I can’t open my eyes, they’re glued together and all of that gravel from last night is stuck inside of my throat, filling up my cheeks.

“Do you think you’re funny?” My father voice is loud, my head pulses with pain with each word he speaks.

My eyelids squeeze tighter together.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” His heel is digging into my thigh as he pushes and kicks at me, nudging me out of bed.

When I finally open my eyes, it feels like there’s sand and glue mixed together, fighting to keep them closed. Fuck me. I’ve always assumed, at some point, I’ve died.

But this is actual death. It feels like all of the blood has been drained from my body and filled with lead. It feels like my head is cracking open, exposing my skull, leaving it vulnerable for abuse.

Which is exactly what’s happening as my father’s hand smacks me over the top of the head. “How long have you been hiding this?”

I dodge his hand and pull myself out of bed, securely on the other side, away from him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I can barely get the words out, my head hurts so bad. I have to whisper just to not worsen the headache.

“You have made a fool out of yourself. You made a fool out of everyone!”

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Your fiance has locked herself in her room, refusing to come out. She’s humiliated. Her father,” Guy, her father’s name is Guy Greengrass. What kind of a name is Guy? It’s like his parents ran out of ideas. If you say it enough times, it feels like you’re trying to clear a glob of peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.

Despite the pain of my head cracking open and my stomach rolling like I’m stuck on a boat in torrent seas, I can’t help but laugh. I can’t help the giggles that bubble their way up my throat because I just can’t figure out why he’s so upset. But, it’s quite lovely.

“You sneaky little cunt!”

My eyebrows push up into my forehead, and I have to flinch to ignore the pain. “Ooh!” I run a hand over my mouth. It’s starting to water. I think I’m going to throw up. “Such pretty language for such an old man.”

“You’ve been hiding her all this time, haven’t you?”

My laughter dies. Is he talking about Granger? All this time, I thought he was the one hiding her from me. The point is, he’s realized I’ve been lying to him. And now I know he hasn’t been able to find her, either. What a clever little witch.

“It doesn’t matter,” he hisses. “You’ve made it impossible to cover up.”

My stomach heaves, and my cheeks puff up. I close my eyes and wait for the wave of nausea to pass. When it does, I kept them closed. I’m afraid the world will spin if I open them. “Would you please just tell me what the fuck you are talking about?”

“You’re drunk.” He sniffs the air. “No wonder it stinks in here. It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting. Getting drunk and declaring your love for a filthy mudblood on the eve of your wedding. Were you trying to commit suicide?”

“Actually,” I crack an eye open. “I was drunk yesterday.” He’s holding the Prophet in his hand. It’s rolled up tight, like he’s about to beat me like a dog. “So, that would mean that I am hungover.”

The point is, my father’s jaw is so rigid, he’s probably cracking his molars. His grey eyes are murderous. “Malfoy’s don’t drink.”

“Well, I do. Seeing as I’m about to commit suicide of the soul by walking down that aisle, I figure last night was as good a time as any to start. Now,” I lift my chin, gesturing to the paper on his hand. “If you’re through with all this foreplay, would you mind handing that over, so I can figure out what the hell it is you’re talking about.”

Father sniffs. He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes on me before tossing the Prophet onto the bed, unrolling to expose the front page. The photo replays over and over, on the loop all magical photos do. And in this photo, there’s the store front of Flourish and Blotts. There’s flowers lining the front of the store. Hundreds of pink roses.

There’s me and a bucket of paint. Im holding this bucket of paint and my wand and on the shop windows, there’s words painted there. Like red blood, the paint drips from each letter.

The words blink like a flashing, and changing each time.

The photo plays on a loop and from start to finish, a smirk grows on my face as I stare at the windows. As I stare at the words, my eyes seem to glow like the moon.

Well, I have gone and done it now. I’ve vandalized the beloved book shop of Diagon Alley, and I can’t remember a lick of it, but I have to believe it. Because I look down at my body and there’s red paint smudged down the front of my shirt.

I laugh because now I know Guy Greengrass is going to kill me. My father is going to kill me.

That is, if Granger doesn’t kill me first.

Because the words flash from one phrase to the next;

From, granger, i love you

To

i fucked up

Little fucking Jonas Dart.

[honourablejester]

Heart: The City Beneath - Minor Abilities

I just want to give a quick peek at my favourite minor abilities from each of the Heart classes.

When you make a character, you get one major and three minor abilities from their class. Each of the classes has minor abilities that let them pick up skills, domains or +1 resistance protections. Your standard, staple picks. And then there are my favourites, which are minor abilities that often let you pick up a skill or a domain but ALSO give you something else small and weird to go along with it. So. A quick look at my favourite minor ability for each class:

Cleaver:

PITCHSKIN. Your skin bubbles and shifts into night-black tones as tar seeps through the pores. Gain the Sneak skill. The secretions from your skin are flammable and adhesive, acting as a sort of volatile glue you can exude at will.

Cleavers are vaguely (or explicitly) cannibalistic survivalists who vibe with the eldritch nature of the Heart, so naturally to sneak they secrete flammable tar from their pores to become permanently and literally pitch black and hard to see. And now you can give yourself flammable glue whenever you want it! Win-win!

Deadwalker:

DIRT UNDER THE FINGERNAILS. You dug your way out of your own grave. Gain the Warren domain. You can dig through earth and mud with your bare hands as though you had a shovel; your fingernails are always stained with a little soil, and you cannot clean it off.

Deadwalkers are thieves and infiltrators that have already died and are haunted by the personifications of their own deaths. Their abilities tend to be evocative of death and funerals, but I think I love this one the most. I did also consider LAST RITES, which lets you ask the spirit of a dead person one question as you perform their last rites, but the whole ‘you dug your way out of your grave so now you have mole claws’ just does it for me, I think.

Deep Apiarist:

APISAMBULATION. Your body sleeps while your mind, riddled with industrious bees, marches on. Gain access to the Delve skill. Once per session, while on a delve, you can opt to fall asleep and let the bees inside your body steer you. In this state, the bees speak for you and perform actions on your behalf – roleplay accordingly (the GM can use Fortune fallout to represent your inhuman pilots). Assuming you get a few hours’ rest and progress on the delve, refresh D6 from any of your resistances.

Deep Apiarists are living walking hives of eldritch bees, and nothing makes that more clear that this fantastic and horrifying/hilarious ability. Need a nap and some healing but you’ve got to stay on the move? Nap anyway, and let your body be piloted by your bees! Which sounds like a hilarious time for you and your entire party that absolutely will not have any bad consequences whatsoever.

Heretic:

SHARD OF THE TEMPLE DOOR. The great doors of the Moon Ascendant temple were smashed to pieces on the night of the purge. You carry a shard of the door, reminding you that your faith is eternal. Gain the Endure skill. Once per session, when you touch the shard to a closed door, it will not open for at least an hour (unless it is destroyed).

The Heretic and their abilities have a distinctly gothic sort of vibe, and I love them a lot. I was so tempted to go for LIAR’S BURDEN which lets you roll if you think someone’s lying to you and on a success your goddess deals d4 stress to them if they were lying as their mouth bleeds as if eating glass. Which, metal. But I love SHARD because it feels … You’re carrying a relic of the night your faith was purged, and it gives you strength, and the shattered temple doors still do their best to protect you. I love that.

Hound:

ROUND THE NEXT CORNER. You can find a place to shelter, smoke a roll-up and let things blow over. Gain the Delve skill. Once per delve, you find an out-of-the-way location where you can catch your breath and recuperate without fear of being discovered by your enemies. You can take your time and heal here without incurring a bane.

Hounds are a lot more practical and less … excitable than a lot of other classes. Their abilities do tend towards normal, practical solutions to problems. I like this one. The perpetual soldier’s instinct to just find a nice nook or cranny to hunch up for a bit and breathe.

Incarnadine:

EYES IN THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD. You’ve set up enough crooked deals to know when you’re about to be suckered into one. Gain the Discern skill. When you stand still and concentrate, you can quite literally see behind you as though you had eyes in the back of your head. Doing this for too long causes headaches and nausea.

Incarnadines are themed around debts, acquisitions and trade. I was tempted to go for RED MARKETEER, which gives you the Warren domain, but also makes your attacks Brutal if its against someone trying to steal from you, which I just find funny? But I went with EYES, because literal eyes in the back of your head that give you a headache if you use them too long is both hilarious and cool.

Junk Mage:

MARK OF HUNGER. You can taste the power slumbering in the City Beneath, and you want it more than anything. Gain the Delve skill. You can smell sources of magical power – the more potent and active, the more pungent the smell. Different types of magic have different scents: relics of the Moon Beneath have the aroma of wine and butter, necromancy smells like nujabian kafee and the occult technology of the Vermissian resembles malt and rich tannins.

I actually like a lot of the Junk Mage abilities, because a lot of them use things like tattoos or junk or relics to channel abilities, but I think my favourite is this one. Because Junk Mages are junkies. They crave magic and power, they crave the hit. So how they find magic? They can smell it. Extremely literally. And, since a lot of their abilities require destroying occult resources to power spells, being able to sniff out replacements is extremely handy.

Vermissian Knight:

SANGUINARY ARRAY. Your inefficient mortal heart is supplemented by a rig that extracts, filters and nourishes your vital fluids. One side effect of this is that your blood acts as an antenna for the scattershot electrical impulses of the Heart. Gain the Discern skill. If one of your senses becomes damaged or unusable, you can replace it with the weird echoes that shudder through your exposed blood – it’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

Vermissian Knights’ abilities are themed around their train-steel armour. Different abilities are different pieces of equipment you’ve installed on yours. And while I love a LOT of them, this one has to win prizes for being the weirdest? If your senses get damaged, the weird occult purification array that’s running your heart can function as a replacement in a pinch. By picking up eldritch vibes in your vicinity for you to steer by. Also, like. What does that look like? Someone tries to open your armour to help/hurt you and is like, what the fuck is this?

Witch:

RAMBLEWYRD. You are well-versed in exploring and surviving the places most connected to the Heart Itself; sometimes you do it for pleasure. Gain the Cursed domain. Once per session, when you are in an area with the Cursed domain, remove D6 stress from resistances of your choice.

Witches, as people blood-cursed by the Heart, have a lot of fun abilities, from healing spit to aura vision, but I think this one is my favourite, just for the … spite? Not spite, but close. Cursed areas are some of the most dangerous in an already just generally eldritch setting, and you’re not only fine in them, you feel actively better inside them. Actively, mechanically better. You walk into a cursed landmark, take a nice deep breath, and are like, ah, feels like home! I love that. I just vibe with that.

End Thoughts:

This is such a funky game and setting. Like, it’s weird, and it’s fantastic. Let your body be piloted by bees! Hook up a weird purification rig to your heart that’ll function as eldritch eyesight in a pinch! Smell magic! Become the tar monster from Scooby Doo! The tone is just absolutely fabulous. If you enjoy games like Fallen London/Sunless Sea, Heart: The City Beneath absolutely has your vibes. (I do. I do enjoy those games a lot. This is such a funky setting for me). Granted, there is a lot of body horror. Do keep that in mind. But the weirdness is just *chef’s kiss*.

[cartcop]

oops, thought too hard about "I don't believe in magic, I believe in chemistry" "oh, it's science, I see" and "works like magic" and Buck's experience working in construction and I accidentally wrote a 6x17 coda

On the difference between magic and chemistry, and their relationship to thermoset adhesives

6x17 coda, ~860 words

“I have never been so excited to get a call from you,” Buck says, barging into the house with a plastic bag bearing the name of a local craft store on his arm.

“Glad my deficiencies are so thrilling,” Eddie breathes out. He’s trying to focus on the pieces of the model in front of him–Chris’ drafts are irritatingly well-labeled, which makes how much he’s struggling to piece them together that much more embarrassing. 

“Ah,” Buck grins, quirking an eyebrow as he settles down next to Eddie, drawing the model pieces away from Eddie to sit in front of him instead, “but it takes real wisdom to know when to call in the experts.”

He plucks the wall Eddie’s attempting to position from his fingertips, flipping it around and slotting it in place, right where it belongs. Eddie has the passing thought that maybe he should feel a little bit like he’s failing, needing Buck to come help him assemble his own kid’s design; he doesn’t, though. There was a twinge of it–when he was sitting here alone, staring at the pieces laid out on the coffee table, trying to make sense of it all–but calling Buck never feels like admitting defeat. It hasn't for a long, long time. 

“Sorry to drag you over here. I’m sure you have better things to do on your 48 off,” Eddie says, not really meaning a word of it until–“Shit, you didn’t have plans with Natalia, did you?”

Buck looks away from the model pieces for the first time since he sat down, his gaze dropping into his lap. On his next inhale, his face cracks into a rueful smile Eddie’s seen too many times before. Maybe it's a little presumptuous to think he can read Buck’s insecurities in the tilt of his mouth, but Eddie’s pretty sure Buck can read him the same way.

“No, I, uh–” he stutters out, and Eddie wants to scream at the world for putting him through this, whatever it turns out to be this time, on top of everything else. “I think that’s probably over. Kameron showed up at my place while we were having dinner, and I had just had to tell her about Taylor, and we had run into Lucy the other night, and–I don’t know. Seemed like maybe it was too much for her.”

Seems like I was too much for her, Buck doesn’t say, but Eddie reads it in the wobble of his not-quite-right smile and the sadness behind his eyes.

“Anyways,” Buck says with a grin, a real one this time, “that’s why I was so glad you called.” 

Eddie’s heart doesn’t skip in his chest, because what the hell would that say about him? Buck barrels on, “Kameron showed up at the loft looking for a place to stay–don’t ask, she was freaking out so much she wasn’t speaking in full sentences; except, conveniently, to tell me she really needed pickles; but I don’t know what’s happening with her and Connor–and then passes out in my bed, so I was stuck on the couch, and it sucks, Eddie, it’s so uncomfortable.”

“Well,” Eddie replies smoothly, somehow–despite the fact that he’d barely registered the majority of Buck’s run-on sentence, still stuck on the way his own breath hitched when he thought Buck had meant he was glad Eddie asked him to come over because–not important. There’s a bigger task at hand. “Glad I can offer you mine, at least,” Eddie says, gesturing at the couch, “for the small price of helping me put my kid’s genius plans together.”

“Like I wouldn’t do that anyway,” and Buck’s smiling so wide as he props the last wall up, it makes Eddie’s chest ache. Why is his chest aching? 

“Task at hand,” Buck says, nodding down at the level’s four walls he’s holding in place, “where’s the glue?”

“Epoxy,” Eddie says, grabbing it off the table and uncapping it, bringing it down to the point where the balsa walls meet the plastic base they’re building on, “I ran into Marisol, that woman whose house we helped fix up last fall, at the hardware store. She said this one ‘works like magic.’” 

As Eddie draws the little tube around the base of the four walls, hands slipping under and around Buck’s while they hold them steady, Buck goes suspiciously silent. Eddie glances up at Buck hovering over him, where he's now leaning awkwardly over the table to reach the model where Buck had pulled it in front of himself. There’s a funny look on Buck’s face where it looks down at Eddie, and this time he can't quite interpret the emotion behind it.

“It’s not magic,” Buck says, a little more pointedly than Eddie would expect for his usually whimsical nature, “It’s chemistry. I read about it a few weeks ago, when Chris was building that model water molecule for his science class out of styrofoam–we didn’t know why super glue wasn’t working and I went down a rabbit hole–anyways, its,” and he inhales, for the first time since he started talking, “it thermosets, that’s why it’s so strong. It’s chemistry.”

Forged in fire, Eddie thinks, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

[imlivinginyourtrashcan]

Request granted,tell me everything you have time to tell me about

Ok!!!! So the one thats been on my mind lately thars not exchanged, is a lab/scientist au.

Naven Nuknuk is the lead scientist and he uses his speech therapy program to trick Molly, Feenie and Trixie into becoming his test dummies. Hes successful and mashes the girls into a horrifying amalgamation; like this!

Yoomtah and Zora are his assistance, with Yoomtah being very NOT okay with what he's doing. Zoras indifferent cuz shes getting paid (in this au the events of the Museam arc didnt happen)

Lorelai (who actually cares about her sister in this au!!! WHAT?!?! OMG ITS UNHEARD OF!!!) starts getting the feeling somethings wrong and takes matters into her own hands, searching for the three girls until finding Giovanni (in this au theyre friends) and shes like "yo gio help me out" and hes like "bet, trix is my cousin don't want her getting hurt at all"

Then they go to thw police n are all "yo help us out" and theyre like "mehhh" cuz they dont think theyre serious (Yoomtah has been sending Lorelai clues and tidbits about where they are) but Percy takes it seriously n is like "ok bet gotchu" n sends a search party

Meanwhile Naven is testing on the poor girls and keeps em in a room with Rick (whos his test tube baby and essentially a human fish with sentience)

After a lot of gaps in plot; this happens:

Lorelai runs up to the door, banging on its metalic surface hard enough to injure herself. She pulls it back, shaking it aggressively,

"You okay???" Giovanni asks, peering over her shoulder in order to get a better look at her hand

"No!" Lorelai replies with the obvious, sucking her teeth in. "The doors bolted shut!"

She takes out her phone, pulling up the number that 'The Zinger' had been texting her with, scrambling to type with one hand

LORELAI:We r here ope door

LORELAI:*were

LORELAI:*open

LORELAI:Sort wridt hurts tryib to type wigh one hand

THE ZINGER: LMFAOOO did u try punching the door??

LORELAI: do n luagh at m

The Zinger sends a gif of a smug looking cat

THE ZINGER: Dokayyyyyyy

THE ZINGER: Sadly, naynay kept the outside door non elecy, so ur gonna hafta figure that out urself 😗😗✌️✌️

"Shit!" Lorelai half screamed

"What?" Giovanni asks

"The doors not electrical! Woulda been nice to know that EARLIER, Zinger!"

"Awh come on!"

Giovanni takes out his CRUEL CRIME CROWBAR, walking up to the door. He sets one foot in it, hooking the crowbar beneath the doors handles. Once hes locked it, he yanks it until the door loosens.

"Good thing I had this!" He says, giving the door a light kick as pay back for giving them trouble. He gestures for Lorelai to follow him inside, and they enter in together to see..

Naven..

He turns to face them, with a phone in his hands. Yoomtahs.

"My my my, how persistant the two of you are!" He sets the phone on the table, setting his hands firmly behind his back as he inches closer. "Its almost..."

He stops when he's face to face with Lorelai, creaking open his eyes. The smile on his face laced with hatred and mal-intent.

"Infuritating..."

He lifts his lanky body back from her gaze, his eyes falling closed. He turns away from them

"I'm afraid youre too late, however"

"Woah wah woah woah woah what- what do you mean??" Giovanni asks, his shoulders tensing. Naven lets out a small chuckle in response,

"Would you care to see?"

He begins to walk off, drawing in the uneasy curiosiry of Lorelai and Giovanni.

They stop outside of a room, which Naven opens with the keycard. Giovanni and Lorelai hear strained, pained moans from inside. Naven enters the room, the other two scuttling behind him like scared crabs. Theyre brought to a stop at what they see, a large mushed glue monster of what was once was a person. The faces of Molly, Feenie and Trixie sticking out, all wailing painfully.

Lorelai covers her mouth, eyes wider than saucers. Giovanni can barely speak, even though his mouth was opens.

Navens stands in front of the abomination.

"This is what I had been up to all this time, Isn't she beautiful?"

Lorelais shock morphed into rage, hands forming into fists. "What. Did you do?!"

"Something glorious..." he extends his arms, his pink eyes shooting open for the first time. His smile unhinged and manic, pupils the size of grapes. "ARENT YOU PROUD OF WHAT I'VE DONE?! ARENT YOU PROUD OF MY WORK! LOOK AT HER! GAZE INTO HER MANY EYES AND REVEL AT MY OWN CREATION!"

...

I may or may not have been inspo'd by ur pfp

[randomwritingdrabbles]

Danny lets his head tilt sideways, not letting anything but mild intruige show (not amazingly hard when your face is currently made up of eyes and void).

"Oh? Is this his lifetime then? Or is he a parent or unborn child?" There's a brief break in the tension as the taste of confusion starts to filter through the air.

"His lifetime?" Comes the tightly controlled voice of the batman.

Danny flares some of his wings out and rotates his head to tilt in the other direction, little star sparks and black holes spawn and are destroyed around him at the movement.

"Hmmm, how to explain it?" He murmurs, speaking in the slow unworried manner he'd blatantly stolen from clockwork. "The infinite realms are the connection between all times and spaces. Every single moment of every single realm can be accessed by me on a whim. Sometimes when I enter a realm he has been dead for aeons and sometimes he is barely a glimpse in the future. Such is the nature of my role."

There is no longer weapons pointed at him but he can see the cogs ticking in the minds of his family. Danny was lucky that wearing his ring and crown tended to put him in a different headspace than normal because holy shit he deserves an oscar for this bullshit.

"If you are so powerful-" starts Nightwing, eyes holding the kind of protective intensity that Jazz used to look at their parents with before everything had gone tits up, the look of someone who would do anything to protect what is theirs, "why would you remember the name of a child that you admitted isn't even alive while you're there half the time?"

A spark of an idea settles in Danny's mind, a way to tie all his personas together neatly. Clockwork and ghostwriter eat your heart out, Danny is about to tell the story of a century.

He barks out a laugh, the void that makes up his face splitting to reveal a mouth of glowing crystalline fangs.

"Well it was my name many many aeons ago, it might be a bit self absorbed but it does help me keep track of where in time the realm I'm visiting is." Danny watches, slightly guilty as his family goes pale and freezes.

"Of course not every me dies the same. Sometimes I survive the accident, sometimes it never happens, sometimes the portal ends up working and that me isn't lost to the infinite realms. "

"I sometimes even end up meeting my own self from further back in my timeline, from back when I was newly dead and couldn't quite remember much more than to protect; I've actually glimpsed him in this realm recently, I went by Danny Phantom back then, not the most original but I don't think I remembered my original name so it's honestly a suprise I got that close." He lets out a little bark of laughter, as if his other form was some infant who had done something mildly impressive.

The feeling in the room was tense and solemn and god did that not make Danny feel guilty but he really needed to glue his identities back together somehow and this was they only way he could think of that didn't make them think he kept it from them cus he didn't trust them or something like that.

"You mentioned an accident?" Batman states, voice hollow and gruffer than normal.

Danny needs to fucking up the mood so hard, he hates seeing them like this.

He sighs and lets the stars on his form dim as he narrows some of his eyes at Batman.

"While almost every ghost would destroy you for asking about their death, I can sense that it seems to be coming from a place of concern. I guess my other self is still alive in this realm? And somehow entangled with Gotham's favoured?"

Amusement spikes through Danny as he watches Jason incredulously mouth 'gothams favoured'.

"Yes. I- ..." Bruce starts and then clears his throat, voice sounding hurt in all the ways that makes Danny want to collapse back into his human form and hug him "Is that not the case for you?"

"Oh no." Danny says airily, as if he isn't just bullshitting his way to victory, "I had never even entered gotham before my death. I remember it all too vividly given how impossibly long ago it occured. I was fourteen and mired by the childish need to seem 'cool' to my peers. I made the fatal mistake of not checking whether the portal I was stumbling into was on or not."

Danny lets the melancholy he sometimes feels when thinking about the accident steal all the stars from his form, the only light shining from his many eyes.

"Alas, childish stupidity paid it's toll and the portal sparked on only long enough to collapse in on itself with me still inside it. I was ejected into the ghost realm filled with all the ectoplasm the portal had used to punch a hole into reality itself."

"Newly formed ghosts are not meant to have that much power available to them so it drowned out almost everything other than my obsessions. Spent the next few milenia drifting through realms enjoying the cosmos and protecting those who needed it. I eventually remembered but by then it had been so long since I was 'Daniel James Fention' that even if I went back to the moment it all happened, I would still be unrecognisable to those I cared about most, so instead I just watched from afar as they moved on."

This bit wasn't actually bullshit, Danny had seen an alternate version of himself from Clockwork's tower who'd actually lived through this and ngl it had plunged him into a bit of a depressive spiral until Jazz had kicked him in the shins and told him that what could have been doesn't fucking matter and he needed to stop wallowing.

"Wait so that little shit Phantom is you? Or well, a younger you?" Jason barks out but there's no heat behind it and Danny knows full well that Jason's first choice for a mission partner is Phantom.

"Yes, though don't mention that to him. I was rather prone to the occasional egotistical moment at that age, mentioning he grows up into the king of the infinite realms will help absolutely no one."

Danny thinks of back when he first got his powers and some of the BS he ended up pulling just cus he could, and shudders.

He lets his galaxies start to reappear and smiles his toothy grin at the league.

"I'm calling it a day, don't treat my other selves too strangely would you, they'd need countless millennia to get close to my level so it would be rather a waste of your time. If you need me, well, you know how to contact me."

Danny absently gestured with the coil of writing shadows that made up one of his arms at the summoning circle beneath him before he lets himself melt into a puddle of galaxy goop and falls back through the portal onto his bed in his human form.

He runs a hand through his hair and tries to ignore the weird mix of anticipation and guilt that swirls through his stomach.

A flash of neon yellow catches his eye and he snaps his eyes to a post-it note drifting down onto his lap.

"It will all work out. Good Job. -C"

The breath bursts out of him in a gush and he grins as the piece of paper. It'll be fine.

Triple Identity Crisis

Danny had a problem. If it was a big one, he couldn't tell yet but he was partially sure Clockwork was at fault for this. Or at least he wanted to blame his ghostly godparent who most likely just wanted to cause some chaos for entertainment with the pretext of helping Danny. Which was a very likely reason for why Danny had a problem right now.

As it was the former Fenton now Fenton-Wayne boy was pacing his room in the Manor trying to think what is next step should be, because as it was his 'new' family –Did new still apply if he was living with them for a little more than a year now? – knew him under three different Identities now. And to top it all off they were not aware that the three identities were all pretty much connected as one.

For one. His family, knew him as Danny, the space obsessed kid, who became a meta because of his ectobiology science obsessed parents and his teenager recklessness. A kid that was actually a genius if you gave him enough time for school and could make you anything out of a ancients be damed toaster. That was the Danny they mainly knew. The Kid they took in, let in on the family business and then chose, to the happiness of Alfred and dismay of some of his 'new' siblings, normal life over vigilante life.

Then they knew Phantom. A dead ghost hero that was helping the Justice League and Young Justice to help them deal with the aftermath of the huge fallout caused by the GIW, Guys in White or rather Ghost Investigation Ward. And while Danny didn't know he had apparently worked with nearly his entire family and that time he knew it now. Which was awkward because he had pretty much pestered one of his elder brothers about his condition until Red Hood, aka Jason, let Phantom help him. Ancient, things might get awkward if that secret is lifted. He had done a lot of things Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Orphan and Robin had scowled him for. Thankfully they only thought of him as a dead teen hero and didn't know what a Halfa was. So they didn't make the connection, and he had yet to meet Signal, aka Duke as Phantom.

Now came the third identity, which totally did not happen by his choice. After all officially he hadn't accepted the throne yet and would only get it once he was dead dead not half dead. To bad ancient texts don't care about formalities. So when trouble hit the fan really hard the Justice League Dark had the bright Idea of getting some other worldly help. Which in other words was summoning the Ghost King. Oh boy, was it fun to learn that way that Danny could get summoned against his will. Clockwork did not give him that warning when he told him about the future of his afterlife. But best of all? Oh he doesn't get summoned as Phantom which would have made things maybe a bit easier, oh no. Life wasn't easy. He got someone's in some as a super weird black-green mass of a formless eltrich body with sharp teeth, claws and glowing green eyes with no pupils or irises. Hell Danny even scared himself when he saw his own reflection in a window and he didn't have a single idea how to change his form.

Let it be known that Danny acted then on purpose like he didn't know a single person in that room he had been summoned in right out of his bed and that he wasn't staring at his adoptive father like he needed help who interpreted his stare as the ghost king sizing him up. And Danny knows this because Dick had a good laugh about that at the dinner table with the rest of his siblings.

Now a smart person would probably come clean to his family and explain to them the three identities they knew him under and how they are connected.

To bad Danny wasn't 'smart' when it came to things like that. No in his panic and newfound awkwardness of the situation of what he had done on separate occasions with his identity as Phantom AND Ghost King, he decided to keep acting like he didn't knew them personally like the truely does. Really how hard could that be? Besides he liked the way his family treated him now. He didn't want to get treated differently because he was half dead, or a Ghost King. He liked that his family was treating him as plain old Danny who had an obsession with space and was their quirkily little brother with powers.

So that gave him even more incentive to keep the act up. Even if it was hard at times, especially if he got summoned out of nowhere. It would be easier if he could get a hang of the duplication power. He even had played with the thought of getting one of his ghost rogues to help but his family was perceptive. Maybe not perceptive enough to realise that all three identities were one and the same person but they would notice if Danny acted just slightly different or if Phantom was more of then usually. But somehow he still managed to keep it up.

But it was the hard way that he learned, Danny was bad at doing the 'talking' and realized that maybe Jazz was right and he was going to slip up one day causing huge misunderstandings like right now.

He stared down at Batman and Nightwing in his Ghost King form. Red Hood had his guns pulled on him, Wonder Woman and Superman looked like they where going to try to pull back Batman any second now while Nightwing, maybe at first was going to try to calm down the bat but Danny was pretty sure the eldest bat kid was now fiercely glaring at him too. He was also pretty sure the only reason he didn't see Red Robin or Robin threaten him too was because their super friends were somehow holding them back. For their own or his safety he doesn't know at the moment.

Because apparently the Bats did not fear fighting otherworldly beings to protect one of their own.

"What did you just say about Danny Fentons death?!" Batman grunted out and Danny just knew his adoptive father was glaring at him. Ancients Danny cursed his brain to mouth filter right now. As he had the collective hero scene before him staring at his Ghost King form. Would this be a good or bad moment to come completely clean or maybe he should find some kind of philosophical bullshit of 'All things death belong to him'....

[the-second-guest]

The Faceless

I’m up on the altar. I think its my wedding and I see a veiled white wedding dress across the room. The guests are all looking at me with hopeful eyes and excitement. I do not think anyone else can see It. It starts to glide past each row, fixing forlorn funeral faces on each guest that it passes until everyone is frozen like a statue. It is getting closer and closer, but the space between us seems to be the same. It looks far away until all of a sudden It is right in front of me. It has my height but makes me feel small. The light seems to bend around Its figure. The officiant starts to speak but there is no sound coming from his moving mouth.  There are long pauses for missing vows. The whole room has become absent of all sound, even absent of silence. The once lively room is unnaturally quiet and still. I feel like I have been standing for hours before I realize that the officiant was gone along with the crowd. I am alone with It. Lifting veil after veil after veil, lifting them faster and faster and faster, seeing no hints of eyes past endless layers of sheer fabric. Just a mouthless swirl of flesh briefly taking the shape of monochrome masks of people I’ve seen before and people I haven't yet met. My hands grab hold of the last veil and pull it back to meet the eyeless stare of The Faceless. It wastes no time in starting to take back pieces of you. Assimilating them back into the symphony of shapeshifting shuffles. It is a black hole for memories, a devourer of deadlined dreams. It takes away your mouth and I cant remember your voice. Memories of your laugh start to feel like tinny electronic reproductions out of a recordable birthday card played on a blown out toy speaker. It takes away your nose and I can only pretend to remember your scent. Replacing perfumes and recipes with the consistent dust of a vacant building. It’s starting to take away your eyes and its getting harder to picture you. Or remember how you kept your hair. Or remember how you looked at me. You are fading out of my peripheries like an eroding dune in heavy winds, letting the waves finally crash past it. The Faceless then grabs my hands with a cold porcelain grip. Its frostbite black hand contrasting the lace laid over It. I try to twist and turn, but the arms emulsify with my skin and stretch like dripping molten plastic, spreading up my own arms and starting to crawl up my neck. It took all of you and was only hungered more. It starts to take my face too. Digesting parts of me, peeling skin away like I'm molting into a new shell. I finally rip away, falling backwards off the altar to see the two of us standing there looking at each other, holding hands, and smiling. The Faceless is gone. There is still no sound. As I clamber to my feet, both heads snap to stare at me and I realize that their grins do not equate to smiles. The noise then returns like a crashing tsunami. The voices of a thousand guests expressing their objections and their disapprovals and their disappointments and their I-told-you-so’s. I cover my ears with my hands, but it makes no changes to the volume. I press harder just in case. I close my eyes and turn to run down the aisle, ramming into pews and knocking over decorations. I can’t tell if I’m being followed and I don’t know how much further I have left to run. I reopen my eyes and turn my head back to check to see the two of us replaced by The Faceless again hovering up on the altar. Its arms extended all the way down the aisle gripping my shoulders. I do not feel It, but I can tell I’m being slowed down like a mouse in an expired glue trap. With one last desperate sprint, I slam my body into the door and wake up on the floor next to my bed.

I am sweaty and my leg is trapped with the blankets tangled up in a ball. All my pillows are on the ground. The sun is just barely poking though the blinds and my alarm has not gone off yet. I break myself free and redistribute the sheets over the mattress. I pick up the pillows and lay down with them in the center of the bed. I don’t have any memory of seeing The Faceless, but when it is time to get out of bed it feels like there’s a tug on my shoulders. 

[pullhisteeth]

stuck | eddie munson x reader

bit of a random one but this is based off of one of my favourite poems of all time: 'Morning Love Poem' by Tara Skurtu. I'll leave it at the end in case you want to read it :)

summary you have a bad dream about Eddie and he comforts you (twice). [1k]

contains gn!reader, nightmares, death/dying (in dreams), panic, comfort, fluff, nudity (non-sexual)

-

The space around where Eddie sits is dark. He slips in and out of sight, form blending with the strange, bleak blackness, the table in front of him doing the same. It's the table in his trailer, the one you sit at together most nights, and yet here it stretches out before you, longer and longer until he's so far away you should barely be able to see him. Yet, at the same time, he's right up close, close enough for you to see everything: his pasty skin, tangled hair, hand gripping his throat.

He's spluttering, coughing but not really, because there's not enough breath. His elbows sit either side of the plate in front of him; the plate you gave him, with the food you made for him.

You can't move. The seat's made of glue or some intense force is keeping you there, you're not sure; it feels heavy, like your body can't lift. You can't help him, stuck instead watching him. Your eyes won't move, either, so you just look at him, hopeless and breathing fast. Around you, things end: cars collide, skies crack in two, shots are fired, fires burn.

Sitting bolt upright, you breathe a dry, deep gasp. The comforter falls around your waist and as your eyes adjust to the dim light, you realise you're in Eddie's bedroom. In Eddie's bed.

You turn to look down at the space to your left and sigh in relief when you find him where you left him, lying beside you, sleeping.

Except he's not sleeping; he's stirring. Hands rubbing his face he groans and sits, joining you.

"What's up?" he grumbles, sleepy words churned through gravel.

It's all you can do to just look at him, admire the way his face is soft from sleep, the messy mat of hair on one side of his head, the twist of his shirt where he's tossed and turned under the covers. His hands find your body, smoothing up and down your arm and your thigh.

It's now that you realise that you're crying, because when you try to speak the words get blocked, your throat inoperable. You just make a muffled, garbled noise, and Eddie pulls you into his side, resting his head on top of yours.

Hot tears drop from your face onto the sheets but Eddie doesn't say anything. You don't dare close your eyes, still lingering in that limbo after a bad dream wherein the possibility that it wasn't a dream is a little too high.

"You were gone," you manage, words rolling clumsily out of your mouth.

"I'm right here," he assures you, squeezing you tighter into his side, kissing the crown of your head. "Never goin' anywhere."

"It was my fault."

He pulls you away slightly and brings a hand to your face, manoeuvring it so he can look at you properly.

"What?"

"I killed you, Eds."

"It's okay," he coos as you cry some more, face crushed into the fabric of his t-shirt. "You gotta breathe for me, baby," he tells you as you struggle. "C'mon, in through your nose, out through your- there we go, you got it."

Eyes scrunched shut, you focus on his words, on calming yourself down. As you do he continues to mutter sweet nothings into your hair: I got you, I'm right here, never goin' anywhere, baby, you're not getting' rid of me that easy, I love you.

"Are you allergic to anythin'?"

He stills where he'd been rocking gently and asks again, "What?"

You pull yourself out of his side and look at him, repeating yourself. "Are you allergic to anything?"

"Wha- No?"

"Are you sure?"

"I mean, yeah."

"Okay," you respond, matter of fact, and it makes him breathe a laugh.

"Can I ask why you want to know?"

"I fed you something and it killed you," you admit. "I think you were allergic to it."

"Baby, you could feed me rocks and I'd lick the plate clean."

You shove him playfully, giggling with him, and then turn to look at the clock beside his bed. 04:29am.

"Gonna try sleep again?" he asks.

You hum and shuffle to lie back down. He joins you, wrapping you up, arms around your middle and face in the crook of your neck.

Sleep pulls you back quicker than you would have expected, but not without a catch. At some point you re-emerge in that twisted, twirling version of Eddie's kitchen and he's still dying. All his reassurances that he's not going anywhere are useless against this trick your brain is playing because right now, this is real.

When you wake this time, clammy and heaving, the room is brighter. The sun's up and as the blood stops rushing past your ears so fast, you hear the shower running in the next room.

It takes you a moment to regain your breath but when you do, you sit up and climb out of bed. There's only one thing on your mind, and your body's not stopping.

You tread quickly across the room and into the hall, and quietly you slip through the unlocked bathroom door. It's steamy and warm and you're in your pyjamas but it doesn't really cross your mind. Instead, you slide the shower curtain across and find a startled Eddie, mid-hair wash, staring at you with a dumbfounded look on his face that, under any other circumstances, would make you laugh.

Straight-faced, you step onto the shower tray, shuffling in next to him.

"Baby, you're in your PJs, what the fuck are you doing?"

There's no aggression in his tone, just genuine surprise, and all you can say to him is, "I need you."

He softens, bringing his hands down from his hair, and through the streams of hot water urges your arms up so he can pull your clothes off your body. Gently, he gets your top off and wrings it out in the corner where the water doesn't reach. He does the same for your shorts and hangs both over the curtain rail.

"Told you," he says lowly as he wraps his arms around you again, shampoo dripping suds down his face and onto his pretty wet shoulders, "I'm not goin' anywhere."

-

Morning Love Poem by Tara Skurtu

Dreamt last night I fed you, unknowingly, something you were allergic to.

And you were gone, like that.

You don't have even a single allergy, but still. The dream cracked. Cars nose-dived

off snow banks into side streets. Sometimes dreams slip poison, make the living

dead and then alive again, twirling in an unfamiliar room.

It's hard to say I need you enough.

Today I did. Walked into your morning shower fully clothed. All the moments

we stop ourselves just because we might feel embarrassed or impractical, or get wet.

[chaosbutautism]

Quick disclaimer: this is all my experience, which is a very weird one. My tics did not start and progress like most people’s and have been very intense before starting therapy. I’d also like to note that people love pointing fingers at people describing their experience with tics and immediately claiming they’re faking. Tics are weird, finicky things that scientists can’t decide are more based on psychology or neurology. They’re going to sound bizarre. Everyone’s experience with them is different and I hope you can find another person who can also give you insight bc tics vary so much from person to person.

A lot of my tics are verbal, but that took a LOT of therapy. They can be extremely random or actually respond to the situation (which is looked kinda annoying bc it makes it harder for other people to know what I do and do not mean while talking). A good thing to do would be to set up a roster of ‘common’ tics that occur through the story. Certain noises (animal sounds tend to stick), short actions like tapping someone or clapping. I keep stealing other people’s stuff in tics (I give it back as soon as I’m out of the tic). A VERY common tic is what I like to call the ‘neck tic’. It’s basically snapping your head to the side really quickly, sometimes just repeating that for entire minutes. There’s a good chance that if your character has this tic, they’re gonna have neck pain.

A Very Important Note is that cursing is actually a decently rare tic, only 1/10 people have it (I happen to be one of those -_-. My body loves losing the genetic lottery). There’s nothing wrong with making your character have a cursing tic, but it definitely in’t all that Tourette’s and tics in general are about.

My tics are in both languages I speak, so if your character speaks multiple languages, you could absolutely add that to your tics. Also, they can be very specific! I’ve had a tic that, translated into English, went ‘grab the cat, but it in the fridge’…I have two cats, neither of which have ever actually been inside a fridge. One of my tics is, weirdly enough, pressing the ‘Q’ button on someone’s laptop keyboard while proudl declaring ‘Q!’.

A common way to curb tourrete’s tics is by having an opposite movement to it. Right before you get a tic, or right after if you don’t feel it coming, you basically perform a motion that would make the tic your body is trying to do impossible. Eventually, your body will (hopefully, this doesn’t t work for everyone) get the memo and stop doing that tic. It’s like when you stop reacting to the antics of the annoying kid so they stop doing it bc they’re not getting a fun reaction out of you.

My tics LOVE reacting to things in my environment with varying degrees of coherence and logic, so the do quiet down when I’m alone. I’ve also found that they fluctuate with emotions. When I don’t feel good, sad or especially angry, they get worse. It can be very annoying when having an argument with someone and suddenly either a completely overblown reaction or straight-up nonsense comes out. When I’m happy, my tics will also be a bit more positive, I guess. Less ‘shut up!’ And more ‘cactus!’, if I had to compare. If your character has periods, you might find it helpful to know that that will ABSOLUTELY make the tics worse. There’s been times that I can barely be talked to bc my tics are so bad thanks to my period. That little fun fact will probably be pretty hard to find since women are *under-represented in the medical field* (Imagine me doing sarcastic jazz-hands).

Also, if the story takes place over a really long time, maybe switch the tic roster up. Tics come and go, sometimes reappear and sometimes stay gone. A lot of my harmful physical tics are near-permanently gone bc of therapy and I cycle through my verbal tics pretty quickly.

Common* physical tics include: clapping, softly slapping a surface, falling over, putting things in my mouth (I have bitten a glue stick, they’re not pleasant), licking things (I’ve gotten a mouth filled with cat hair and a very confused stare for my troubles), throwing things, suddenly sitting down, unexpected body spasms, freezing up while walking, grabbing onto someone, softly headbutting someone/something (once I headbutted a friends elbow and walked around with a bump for a good two weeks, kept teasing said friend for having hard elbows), pushing buttons, grabbing things, moving things, etc

common* verbal tics: a wide variety of animal sounds (the newest is a goose noise, a very loud ‘GAK!’), going ‘wow!’, making ‘sound effects’ like ‘boop’ to go along with physical tics, a variety of repeated sentences like ‘I want to go home’, ‘I miss [friend who attends a different school than me], ‘I’m allergic to ___’, or ‘just bite [thing/person somebody is mad/annoyed/sad at]. Certain phrases taken over from media I enjoy, clicking my tongue, just screaming for no reason, going ‘woo’, etc

(Common for me)

For a good roster of verbal tics, think of things your character likes, sounds or phrases they’d commonly hear in their environment, a couples of nonsensical words or phrases and enough sound effects to fill a soundboard.

For physical tics it really depends on how intense you want the tics to be. I have accidentally hurt people by throwing things, walked straight into walls, stole classmates’ stuff, kick into the air, slapped people HARD, made myself plummet into bushes or just dropped something in tics and all of that sucks, but there are much more simple tics. For example: blinking rapidly, poking something/someone, throwing your hands in the air, spontaneously hugging someone, flipping an object around, etc

I’d love to give you more examples, but if I watch someone with tics have tics, I will also get triggered into ticcing. If you put two people with tics in a room together, they will both make eachother worse. I have a friend irl who also started developing tics and hanging out has become really difficult to say the least.

But yeah, that’s everything I can think of at the moment. I’d love to see a person with tics represented positively in a story. Me and my friends like watching horror movies and we’ve thought that it would be fun to have a horror-comedy that has a final girl with tics trying to escape a slasher situation. I’m really happy that someone willing to make a story, especially something as cool as a bunch of disabled people saving the universe on a spaceship, with a person with tourretes as one of the main characters. Thank you for asking the community btw, so many terrible representation (ESPECIALLY gives a dirty look at Sia with her stupid movie) could’ve been avoided if someone just asked a disabled person about their experiences.

Although my situation is very confusing and has made multiple medical professionals scratch their head, I have a tic disorder and I'd love to give you some advice for the OC with tourretes. Just ask me what you need

TYYY!! I just need to know what kinds of tics are common-ish, and how often they happen. I know this can be different for a lot of people tho! A YouTuber I watch who has Tourette’s says that her tics get quieter in quiet places, and I was wondering if that’s a common thing? Any other information on how I would actually write a character with Tourette’s would be great. (I’ve only read one book that had a character with Tourette Syndrome, so I just wanna know if there’s a wide range of how people experience it).