#it happened over spin the bottle??? is that correct?

[sideofpunkforkos]

HELLO???? EVERYONE???? I HAVE NOT BEEN CAUGHT UP WITH CRITICAL ROLE CAMPAIGN 3 AT ALL BUT DID I HEAR THAT CALLOWMOORE IS REAL THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE???

[luveline]

what abouttttt

zombie!steve and reader (at any point tho i feel like this would make sense after the college got attacked) are like scavenging in a pharmacy and steve wanting to make his girl laugh puts on the stupidest prescription glasses that he found near the front desk but then? reader comes over and hes like have you always had that mole? and he refuses to take them off even tho theyre far sighted which makes the trek back to camp slightly unsafe but he cant stop staring at readers face because hes never seen it so clear

thank you for your request<3

“I really need some chocolate,” you lament, pulling at his hand as you drift together down the aisle toward the snack section. “If they don’t have any, I’m going to kill myself.” 

“You better kill me first.” Steve pulls you back. “Seriously. Have the decency.” 

“Find me some candy and I won’t have to.” 

“Find yourself some candy, loser. I need some painkillers. I’m sick of dealing with you.” 

You push at his arm. He resists the urge to yank you in for a kiss, letting your hand drop to part ways at the top of the aisle. He makes for the back of the store where the in-store pharmacy signs hangs half off of the wall, green glass shattered like coarse sugar grains underfoot. Steve cringes, clearing a path to the desk with the side of his shoe. 

“You okay?” you call from a few feet away, unseen but close enough to be heard clearly. 

“Fine! Signs of candy?” 

“No,” you say dejectedly. He nearly misses it. 

Steve’ll find you some chocolate if it’s the last thing he does, but first, he needs painkillers. His knee aches like he’s been beaten, a funny burning string of pain lining the underside of his leg every other step. Ideally he’d like some codeine, but more realistically he wants advil. He doesn’t know where to start, never does, but if you come over he’ll pretend he understands what things go where. 

He’s lucky. He bends down and finds a bottle of motrin on the floor, looking up to find a shelf teeming with it. “Yes,” he says, ecstatic. Things rarely ever go so obviously his way. “Fucking yes.” 

He shoves as many bottles of tylenol in his various pockets as he can. Then he looks around for anything interesting. He’s sure there’s a ton of things you could benefit from. He’s been wondering about epi-pens and emergency precautions, because god forbid something happen to you he couldn’t correct. Love makes him worry. You’re worrisome, you’re so sad lately, he knows you’re a few days from another burnout. He can’t handle it —he’ll take care of you, but seeing you down for the count hurts every single time. 

He leans heavily on the counter and lets himself think. Absent-minded, he reaches out to spin the intact rungs of a glasses stand, prescription lenses shining against the glare of the sun seeping in from the store’s caved metal roof. “Plus two,” he says to himself, “plus three, what?” He grabs an obscene pair and shoves it up his nose, blinking in surprise at the way his vision blurs. 

He turns the display to the mirrored back and grins. 

“Hey, loser? You okay?” he calls. 

You don’t answer. 

“Babe?” he says sharply. 

“Oh, you’re talking to me?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You appear at the end of the aisle with an arm full of chips, less blurry the closer you get. “Sorry. Don’t call me loser then. Oh, gosh, what are you wearing?” 

“Gosh,” he mimics with a laugh. “I’ve no idea.” 

His poor attempt at a southern accent makes you laugh too. “Nice glasses, Harrington. I didn’t know you needed them.” Steve crossed his arms in front of him. You drop the chips beside his sleeve and station yourself as he had, a mirror, your smile charmed as you push the glasses up his nose. “You look ridiculous. Here,” —you take a nicer pair from the rack and open the legs— “swap them.” 

He would, but he’s looking at you, and he’s thinking, What?

You move your head away from him instinctively, but ultimately let him hold your face, his thumb on the hill of your chin, fingers curled over your cheek. He can see the little silver scars of a cruel hand around your mouth, and the cut on your cheek from a surprising wooden beam, but what he’s never noticed is the pigmentation under your mouth. The little wrinkles by your eyes. Hell, he’s never realised your eyelashes looked quite like that until now. 

“Hey–” he starts, though you’re already ducking your chin. “Wait–”

“Stop, you’re staring.” 

“Yeah, I’m staring. You always had that freckle?” 

“Long as I can remember.” 

“Wait,” he pleads, trying to grab your chin as you step away. 

“I need chocolate, Steve, I’m not kidding. You can do whatever you want to me if you help me find some.” 

“You will come to love that decision very soon.” 

You giggle like crazy. Steve swaps the less attractive glasses for the ones you’ve recommended and follows you down the aisle to help you look for your sugar fix. He nearly trips over a split can of condensed milk, and you might act like you don’t like him, but you catch him by the arm and allow him to hold on. 

He isn’t great at helping you look, but he finds a couple of bars of cooking chocolate in the baking essentials aisle and decides it’s good enough to head home with. You eat lines of it as you walk, your fingers pressed between Steve’s, a little dab of chocolate he wouldn’t have noticed otherwise in the corner of your lips. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” you ask between bites. 

He’s gonna watch you eat the whole thing. “No thanks. I’m saving room for Robin’s artichoke heart and refried bean combo.” 

“Would you take those off?” Your cheek twitches as you smile. Your eyes glow with affection. “You can barely walk.” 

“You don’t like them?” 

“They really, really suit you, actually. I love them,” you say, to his secret delight. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

He trips over his own feet and has to grab your arm to stop from falling. “That’s the problem,” you say, in love enough to smile even when the world has gone to shit for you a thousand times. Your eyes follow down his nose to his lips. 

Steve grins and ducks forward for a kiss. “Oh, sorry,” he says when the glasses bump your nose. 

You laugh and touch under his chin to help him out. You taste like chocolate still as he kisses against the seam of your lips, a quick but blissfully deep kiss, a handful of seconds where Steve feels like you’re one in the same before he pulls away, just enough to see both of your eyes. 

“What’re you looking at?” you ask. 

“You have chocolate on your nose,” he lies. “Want me to get it?” 

“Yes,” you say bashfully. 

He kisses the tip of your nose, then the corner of your lip. 

[ace-of-gay]

hello <3 i hope you are doing well!

i was wondering if you could do a papa emeritus or ghoul x a regressor with a cold?

i have been down sick for like a week now and i live and breathe ghost agere right now

anyways thank you <3

Sickly ghoul

Warnings: just some not very detailed descriptions of age regression

age regression is a coping that can both voluntary and/or involuntary it is entirely safe and reccomended by therapists if they believe it would be effective for said person but as mentioned for some people it is entirely unpredictable, if this makes you uncomfortable please carry on elsewhere thank you <3

⸸~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⛧~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⸸

It started with the headache before the last ritual in this stretch of the country, a rolling pain that cast in like wayves in the ocean crashing as the shore rises.

not thinking much of it you drink an extra bottle of water and take a couple store brand over the counter pain killers giving it all through rehearsals to let them set in and do their job, the shrill of sodos guitar before tain stops him is absolutely agonizing, you try not to let it affect you but with how you wince back from your place just enough for papa copia to notice out of the corner of his eye and glance over but in that time you had corrected yourself and shrugged it off hoping that you could just take more pain killers between the rehearsal and the ritual.

After rehearsals, a spinning and pounding head was now accompanied by feeling like your body was cold sweating, making the assumption you were anxious yousit down to breath for a moment, taking one more pain killer and another swig of water you apply your glamor making your full ghoulish horns, tail and pierce grey skin fade to that of the complexion humans hold.

Putting on your mask once more standing up shaking off what you thought were nerves and returning to your place on stage.

One sense that ghouls are far more enhanced in is smell, using it to process how one another are doing, passing by swiss to head back on stage he caught the sense of something that seemed off, *surely youre not sick* he thinks to himself, *you might just be tired* he hopes thats all however during the ritual as you go about your routine putting on a show for the ritual goers, your eyes feeling warm and watery, it felt like it was both hot and cold in waves, you try once more to shrug it off for the rest of the show hoping its just a mix of a breeze and the lights seering down on all of you.

One thing you were thankful for when it came to your mask is the goggles part around the eyes worked like sunglasses so the flashing of the lights didn't do much of anything for you.

As you all go through ritual you prance around to swiss' side of the stage joining him on his little stage, as soon as the song started it came to a close with sodo wailing his whammy youd been trying to prepare for this part just incase the pain meds did nothing but by far it didn't work.

You only found out as he jerks his whammy bar making a siren wailing sound.

This time swiss could for certain smell and sense what was happening and against his hopes you were sick, he maneuvered behind you to keep you standing, "just a few more songs bub youre okay" he says loud enough for you to hear, the both of you making it look like a gentle preformative action, he takes your hand in his helping you step off of his riser and sending you back to your station in hopes to tough it through the rest of the ritual.

By the end of the ritual your head was pounding, you were congested, you felt like you were freezing while drenched in sweat and your chest felt so unbelievably tight, youre all lined up, swiss has you between him and rain, rain could instantly tell what was wrong by the simple touch of his hand holding yours.

Bowing and exiting the stage the two ghouls kept you infront of everyone calmly ushering you off stage, if for the sake of being sick they also knew that youd probably be regressing if you haven't already.

Leading to put your stuff away help the others but the sickness and the state of your mind slipping younger from not feeling good it had finally set it, walking over to mountains area to help with everything when gentle hands wrap kindly wrap around your shoulders from behind the hands graced with beautiful rough caloses that sang all of the time and effort they had put into their skill aethers hands so gentle and kind "youre sick little ghoul, youre going to go sit down and relax while we do this, go sit down baby" he hums as you give a pleading glance to mountain to get you out of this but the look he sends back is one that sets your headspace into full swing, a tiny little ghoul who just isnt feeling too good.

Aether with a caring hand on your back leads you once again back stage going straight to copia, you shake your head not wanting the confrontation of managing to get sick, "come on, theres nothing wrong with going to papa, hes our summoner, hes here to take care of us when needed and he can determine what you need best" he soothes the fiery fear in your regressed mind.

The great thing is he knew when his ghouls were regressed, being that its not uncommon for ghouls to regress with their instincts and such wired differently he wasnt new to soothing the ghouls as though they were kits.

Copia comes closer meeting you halfway with his hands open, his gould had already told him what was going on and he for certain would give you a good look over "come, come sit piccolo" he ushers.

Once seated he removes his gloves, this is proof that he cares because his gloves almost never come off around others unless hes handling his precious rats, he loosens the helmet like mask and setting it aside, gently lifting your chin to look at him.

"Drop your glamor for me per favore" he requests, watching as you return to your ghoulish self "aah perfetta" he sighs running his hands through your hair that had been flattened down, his fingertips brushing gently against yohr forehead when he feels just how warm your temperature is "oh kit, mio caro youre burning up" he worries, your sniffles break the silence as he looks so very kindly at you, he reaches over grabbing a paper towel and using it to wipe your nose like a parent would a child, completely disregarding how old you are out of this headspace, right now youre the kit and they will all hold and coddle you.

When all of the ghouls are done going about their after ritual routine they all start heading back to the tour bus to get comfortable now that they had a small week break between segments of the tour in this country, mountain and rain coming to collect you from copia, rain picking up your mask while mountain takes your hand helping you up on weak aching legs, slow steps and a gentle hold keeping you by his side so for you not to fall.

When you get there someone had already gotten you comfortable clothes that consisted of a hoodie from rains selections and some sweats and shirt from swiss' collection, all ready for you, their favorite thing to do when one of you is sick is to dote on the ill ghoul.

Gentle hands from sodo and rain helping you into the change of clothes "you smell like all of us, you will be better in no time kit, youre in the best hands" sodo smiles encouragingly, "lets get you to a nap, we'll wake you when we get to the hotel" aether comments leading you to the large bed in the back instead of to your bunk but stopping by to pick up your stuffy you take everywhere, "do you need cuddles little one?" To which you nod "yes pease" you respond, your voice coming out far more little and sickly than you had expected he nods laying down so you can lay around or against him however you please, you curl up with your head on his chest falling asleep almost immediately. He places a kiss to tour forehead only to notice that you very much have a fever, he mumbles out sadly "youre warmer than sodo on a bad day"

The cuddles were so perfect but was even better was as you bunked with swiss and phantom, they figured that even though normally its one to a bed, but the kit needs their cuddles and these two are happy to do so.

After a hot bath they had ran you they made sure for you to have eaten and gotten even more rest, when youd try to get up theyd tell you to point and theyd figure it out, so mu h love shared from all of your band mates, you were the baby and theyd do anything to take care of you the exact same way you do every time theyre in need of love and care, they would be happy to stick it through just to see you glow like your radiant self again.

Phantom wrapped around on your left eith swiss on your right theyre happy to so what they can until your cold went away, because they love the team kit, "sleep well baby, get some rest" hed hum, with plenty of comfort foods and snacks and drinks all together.

After such events even if you werent that sick in your opinion they would go out of their way to make sure you were healthy and happy

⸸~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⛧~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⸸

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 9, Where You Get Sobered Up (It's Not Nice)

AO3

The hellfire swallowed you whole; and then it spit you right out.

"What got you laughing, piccola? I’d love to hear that joke." 

Your laughter died in your throat. You blinked, the world still spinning slightly as you tried to piece together the blurry memories of events and places and people and... Why did everything hurt so much? Especially your head. It’s like you had a hangover from over drinking some apricot-scented schnapps.

Ah, wait, you know why. 

You were not on a burning pyre anymore, no longer tied up and contorted - instead, you found yourself strewn across the tangled and rumpled silk sheet of an all-too-familiar bed. The mansion's bedroom. Raphael was there beside you in his mortal guise; bare as the day he was born, his skin dewy with sweat. His hand lazily draped over your hip while another cradled a half-smoked cigar. His cock lay semi-flaccid but still glistening from...

Sex. Lots of sex you just had. Back in the Middle Ages. Back in the cloister. Right? But why was there... why was everything underneath you so sticky and wet and why were there handcuffs dangling from the bedpost? The whole room reeked of cum, apricot lube, and juices.

"We had sex," you said, and the sentence died somewhere between a question and a statement.  “We had sex?”

You didn't know why you were asking the obvious. You didn’t really know whom exactly you were asking, either. Raphael burst out laughing, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world, and there was something unnaturally agitated in the way he did it, something...

Was he high? Or just stupid happy?

"No love," he corrected with a smug smirk as he exhaled smoke, "We didn't have sex; we fucked. Like bloody animals. I haven't had such a riot since my twenties."

At least you knew whom you were asking now, and it was not the guy you thought you had fucked all night.

"Here?" you asked, nodding at the bed.

"Everywhere," Raul said with a snicker. "Every-fucking-where. Why, did I screw your brains out? Do you even remember your name? You seem to forget mine quite often."

No, you didn’t screw my brains out, Raphael did, you thought but said nothing. Raul hand trailed down your side to settle on your hip.

Where was Haarlep, even?

Was there ever a Haarlep?

"No, no, I just can hardly believe...what happened...whatever happened." You paused, taking in the clues scattered around the room: two empty bottles of wine (explains the headache), another half-drunk one, remnants of your t-shirt strewn about, and a slickened dildo discarded at the foot of the bed (Haarlep?). "...like I’ve been fucked by a whole football team."

"Ha! Don't flatter me too much. No, it was just little old me”, Raphael stretched languidly from head to toe. “For the record, I can hardly believe what had happened as well. You know, I've had my fair share of wild girls, but you... you fuck me like your very life depends on it." His tone shifted from playful to slightly more serious as he pulled you closer and whispered right into your ear: "You are quite something. Ti amo sempre, baby."

You found yourself staring at a small scar on his upper arm. A vaccination scar? Like those older people had - including your mother. Was it for smallpox?

A vaccination scar. 

Raul must be… how old is he? Who was he, really? And what did he do to you all night?

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Raul's voice interrupted your thoughts, an edge in his voice. "To the man who made you scream so loud security came knocking? They probably thought I was murdering you."

"I... I love you too," words stumbled out of your mouth. He nodded in satisfaction and then you added while continuing to stare at his scar,"...Raul.”

"Much better," he said, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I love hearing you say my name."

“How old are you, actually?", you asked, and realized how sore and bruised the back of your throat was.

"Why? Old enough for you to call me daddy," he teased. "I'll be celebrating forty-eight in a few months. We should throw a party. How about having one on a yacht? Do you like yachts? I'd absolutely adore gifting you one, with your name emblazoned on the side."

You stared at him trying to comprehend whatever the fuck he was saying - which fucking yacht, why do you need a fucking yacht - where were the monks, where was Haarlep? Were there ever monks? Wait, the monks were dead anyway. Did Raphael really kill them? Wouldn’t that alter history? Or was it already part of history? You need to google the burning of Bamberg.

“I don’t care for yachts”, you said quietly. “Never did”.

“The only women who don’t care for yachts are ones who've never been gifted one,” Raul countered with a smile.

Ri-i-ight. Well, wrong. But you had no strength to argue.

What even happened before you... fell back through time... if that's what really happened... because judging by the state of the room and Raul, you'd gotten up to something with Raul, not Raphael... how could this possibly add up? 

"So… eh, did you interrogate me? You don't think I work for Interpol anymore?" you asked, remembering whatever it was you had been arguing about before. 

"The bad guy inquisitor certainly put the little witch through a wringer, but she held her own. Took it all like a good girl," Raul flashed a wink at you. "If fucking like that is part of your cover, then consider me eternally fooled”.

Raul leaned over and pressed his lips against yours; reality hit you like a ton of bricks - there was no way in hell you could handle another round. You were utterly spent; completely wrung out. Every single inch of your body screamed in protest. 

"I can't... not again," your voice wavered beneath him as you scrambled to find the right words to appease him. "Raul… baby… please, I'm sore all over."

Your wrists and ankles were bruised from ropes, your skin felt like it had been burnt, your neck felt like there were still hands around it, and you’d rather not think about the ache between your legs. 

"Ah, don't you worry,” Raul cooed. “All will be fine come morning, I promise. How about I kiss my sweet girl all better?”

His lips traced a gentle path down your breasts and belly, seemingly intent on going lower. 

“Raul, please”, you whimpered. “I am done for today”.

“As you wish”, he sighed with a hint of disappointment. “What’s the matter, gattina? Feeling some post-coke blues? They’ll pass.”

Post-what blues? 

Did he snort coke? Did you? Was this all a hallucination? No way, coke doesn’t cause hallucinations or does it?

Maybe it’s Raul dreamt doing all those things while you were with Raphael in the Middle Ages? You preferred this version of events.

"Did we… did I… what?”, you asked. “I thought you were against drugs. You said Isabel had a habit”.

He said that in that really judgy tone, too.

“Anya," he chuckled, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your shoulder as he spoke. "Isabel had quite the habit, and we just let loose a little. It’s fine to indulge every once in a while, piccola. Honestly, for someone who seemed so into it…”

“I don't do drugs," you protested vehemently. "I've never done drugs, come on, I know myself. I wouldn't... I couldn't..."

"The hell you wouldn't," he guffawed. "First time, huh? Is that why you rubbed it on your pussy? I thought you were just being kinky."

You did what now?

“Dear God”, you mumbled under your breath and dove face-first into the pillow from sheer mortification. “I cannot have done any of that.”

"You're so cute when you act all innocent and not like you've been the naughtiest little kitten all night”, Raul chuckled again. “Fine. Get some rest, gattina. Tomorrow is another day”.

Raul reached for his iPhone. The FaceID failed to recognize him from the awkward angle and he punched in his passcode (3-6-5-2-3-6, note it, 3-6-5-2-3-6) before setting an alarm - first for 7:30 am, then after some contemplation, another one for 7:45 am. He fluffed up his pillow next, pulled your hips and positioned you to provide him maximum warmth and snuggled against your back.

“I have to say”, Raul slurred out sleepily, words tumbling over each other, his hand sliding in between your thighs to cup your sex. “I am very happy to have met you. Very happy indeed. You make me feel...words can't even capture it. More powerful, manlier, younger, luckier... When was the last time I scored five times in one night?”

Five times?

"I'll spoil you rotten tomorrow," he promised, his voice fading as he drifted off to sleep. "I'll give you everything and more."

Raul tugged you closer into a spooning position and he was warm and sticky against your back; both of you were hot messes. 

Your gaze remained fixed on the wall. Was there even Raphael? Was there ever a witch hunt? Where was Raphael right now? Why wasn’t he jealous of... He should be jealous! He should be... He better be. 

You are his mouse.

Your breathing was getting more and more ragged, Raul's more and more stable. If you got pregnant tomorrow, you'd have three potential fathers, two of them might be imaginary. Does it even matter who the father is if they all looked the same? God, your head hurts.

You waited until Raul was stark asleep, and wriggled away from his grasp (he held on surprisingly tight). As you tried to find your balance on your legs, you looked at his - no, Raphael’s, handsome face. Then, you dragged yourself to the bathroom to find out what yours looked like… 

Holy mother of god.

You had black trails all over your face - where your mascara had run - red marks of fingertips around your neck. Your lips cracked. Your eyes went downwards - red welts on your skin, dried up cum between your legs, hickeys, bite marks, scratches, bruises. 

You resembled a poster girl for a “call help before it’s too late” domestic abuse campaign.

Was it too late to call for help?

Call who, exactly? And why? Of course you looked like this. Raphael'd (Raul?) flogged you and he had whipped you and he had fucked you raw. You had asked for it. Begged him, even. Craved it... Right?

Right.

You cleaned up the mess as well as you could, came back to the bedroom and looked at the man in the bed. Stealthily reaching for his iPhone on the bedside table, you punched in the passcode you kept repeating in your head.

Please, for the love of God, stay asleep.

You sat beside the bed on the floor (god it hurts to sit so much), phone in your hand ready to be stashed away at a moment's notice. Then you began to scroll through his digital life - skimming over emails, messages, voicemails and texts on Signal.

(AUTHOR NOTE: the translation of the non-english texts are below in the author notes) "Enclosed herein, you will find the comprehensive investor report for Avernus Capital concerning the second quarter of the year 2024. It is with great pleasure and a sense of profound accomplishment that we announce our most prosperous quarter to date." "The Catholic Church? Seriously? Is their infrastructure worth anything at all? The leasehold is about to expire and will be abolished... Do you have any inside information that I don't know?" “Quel frocio non parlerà più. C'ho pensato io”. “stp rappelle moi stp tu me manque tro je suis dsl pour tout rappelle moi” "No idea how you managed acquiring G4S mate! Take a bow, you devil. Anyway, ring me up sometime, Thea sends her best." "I'm glad to hear you're feeling better. You can lower the Risperidone dose to 4mg and contact me if you experience memory loss again. Regarding your question, many people are struggling with mental issues these days. Bad ecology, stress, political situation. I wish you all the best. Kind Regards, Agnus.”  "So the Antitrust Commission is through now. Congratulations, you have your own PMC. I didn't think they'd let you get away with it. What do you need it for, even? A coup?" “Questa Berger è pulita come uno specchio, capo. Ho controllato il suo passato due volte, verificato tutto. Non è nessuno. Assolutamente nessuno. Impossibile che stia lavorando con gli sbirri." "What devil got into you? You are lobbying the FDL and you are not even subtle about it? You're biting off more than you can chew, Raul, they'd be coming for you very soon." “tu t'es trouvé une nouvelle pouffe, c'est ça? eh ben, va te faire foutre, toi et ta pute. on dirait que tu l'as ramassée sur le trottoir... Je parie qu'elle te laisse faire des trucs bien dégueulasses... DESOLEE d'avoir un MINIMUM de respect pour moi-même et de dignité, fdp” "Damn Raul, they have no more money and no more power because nobody goes to the bloody church! Nobody with half a brain anyway. God is dead, man, people aren't stupid enough to believe fairy tales anymore”. “So, think your money can buy you respect and esteem, huh? No, it won't. They'll always see you as nothing more than a mafia boss's son.” “Larian Studios? 70% private, 30% Tencent. Not scalable, no real profit potential, a pretty lacklustre ROI. Besides, the owner doesn’t want to give up full creative control. Are you sure I should double our offer?”. “they signed it haha THE STUPID FUCKS SIGNED YOUR DEAL you fucked them HARD damn now will control all the fucking borders I really just cannot believe that” “ok tu sais quoi tu peu aussi me faire tout ce que tu veux juste rappelle moi” “Kötter is top notch. Five years in Syria. You won’t find a better one”. "You know what? For once, I'm buying into your 21st century investment thesis. Climate change, wars, droughts, refugees, resource scarcity - yeah, people will start praying to God real good again." "J'ai vu un diable, ouais, j'ai vu un putain de monstre. Je suis désolée de t'avoir fait du mal, je suis désolée d'avoir parlé de toi comme ça, je prends des médicaments maintenant, JE VAIS BIEN MAINTENANT D'ACCORD?"

There were files too, lots of them. PowerPoint presentations, password-protected, emails coming in, notifications flashing non-stop.

Raul barely acknowledged the barrage of messages he got (the French ones never stood a chance), leaving them on "read" or replying with curt "ok"s and "got it"s. His longest recent message was to you, mentioning he'd be late for dinner.

So much you got: Raul is building up power. They both are, Raul and Raphael. They are building up power of enormous proportion, rapidly so, and then, well then it’s Raphael brave new world, which you promised to serve forever. 

Did you put that in writing? The scribers sure did. 

"I will serve the devil to my last breath and beyond."

Your words?

Your words. 

You meant them?

You sure meant them when you were high as a kite and about to burn in hellfire.

God, your head was killing you. Can you take ibuprofen right after cocaine? Google, can you?

SEEK HELP NOW

FEDERAL ADMINISTRATION OF DRUG CONTROL

Fuck you, Google. Soon the only answer you would be allowed is to “All Hail Archangel Raphael”. Who, by the way, does coke. 

Never-mind. Focus, Anya.

Why was all of it happening to you, how did it start, what happened?

YOU INSTALLED A MOD. THAT'S ALL YOU DID. 

They should write it in the history books: that's all she did before they paint you as some Eva Braun.  Sure, you handed over the Crown of Karsus to Raphael, there's no denying that part. To rule Torils and Hells. And that's it. Not to buy military contractors, not to lobby some conservative shitheads, not to exploit Catholic Church’s influence, not to do whatever the fuck he was doing there and WHY, can't he just...?

Why couldn't he play medieval inquisitor with you, burn the bad inquisitors, be cool and evil? Live comfortably, read some poetry, go to the theatre? Collect some debts from non-name NPCs? Just... calm the fuck down? Rule Toril and the Hells with you by his side? 

In fact, that’s where you both should be. That’s where you wanted to escape to. That's where you loved Raphael most. You'll move in with him there, you'll still be a good little mouse, you'll always be a good little mouse, but just, you know, you’ll serve him from some safe and sensible distance of a imaginary world, because WHAT THE FUCK IS HE THINKING BUYING LARIAN STUDIOS FOR? To do what, install micro transactions? You’d get booted off his own discord if you backed him on this.

Apropos discord - you fired it up and check if they have any thoughts on the matter.

They sure do. You were tagged 78 times while you were gone.

okay guys (GN) good news @devil’s favorite fleshlight is not dead I have a proof pic // who is that guy // @devil’s favorite fleshlight got herself an IRL Raphael OMG 💀 // what the fuck is it Isabelle Arnaud’s EX???? whole France was following this dumpster fire it was so bad // nooooooo way (I feel bad to admit it but he is kinda hot tho) // the guy is like 50 CREEPY FUCK // he raped his ex and she ended up in a rehab @devil’s favorite fleshlight did you even read up on him??? check this link /// worse. he ruined Overwatch. this is the guy behind Microsoft / Activision merge. rotten af /// google his lobbyist company and rassemblement nationale /// @devil’s favorite fleshlight stepped up her game and is now a villain fucker IRL /// REMEMBER WHEN @devil’s favorite fleshlight WENT OFF ABOUT TAXING THE RICH? Pepperidge farm remembers// @devil’s favorite fleshlight did you ask him to buy you Larian WTFFFFF sis /// @devil’s favorite fleshlight oh man, your handle sound super unfortunate right now/// @devil’s favorite fleshlight send us a sign if you're still among the living // @devil’s favorite fleshlight is chilling in the American psycho dungeon rn and has fully ascended to Hope status. RIP queen 👑 // now THAT'S commitment to cosplay 

You changed your handle (it was a goddamn joke, for Christ's sake, they all had stupid nicknames yourself) and left the discord server. A barrage of direct messages had flooded in, but you couldn't bring yourself to even glance at them.

Fuck this. You deleted the whole app.

They all just… wished… to be in your place. Yeah. Bet nobody of them ever got fucked by a hot billionaire. 

God, Anya, what? Are you serious? 

A sob escaped your lips, followed by a little laugh.

Why does Raphael have to drive you half-insane like this?

maybe it’s not him Anya maybe you are insane

you remember your own face in front of a black screen of a laptop

there was never a Raphael

there was only Raul, and stuff you very much liked to be true 

You found yourself quietly sobbing, and the most terrifying thing was that the sounds could wake up Raul. There you go. He already stirred and frowned in his sleep. You swallowed your sobs.

You need to go… 

You need to go elsewhere.

You need to go home.

It’s not like you were running, you thought, as you scrambled some hoodie and jeans from your suitcase, trying to be as quiet as a little mouse. It’s not like you were scared shitless and a little hurt, because why did Raphael let Raul fuck you? It’s either that, or you are insane. Are there really no other options?

You only let Raphael fuck you. And Haarlep, but that's beside the point. But that’s not who fucked tonight, was it? Did Raul really persuade you into anal? The discomfort was a very annoying reminder of his victory.

You need to change “fuck the rich” on one of your t-shirts to “got fucked by the rich”.

Yeah, time to take a little break, you thought as you clutched the keychain like a makeshift weapon and cast one last look at Raul in his slumber. Then you made your silent getaway downstairs.

The mansion door closed tight behind you.

Oh no, it’s the creepy blond guy at the gates again. 

Oh, fuck, you couldn’t be less lucky.

Or no, it’s not him. Well it’s him. But he got considerably more cambion-like. He now had wings and horns and looked like one you could summon late in the game. His colleagues had them, too. 

Wings and horns and guns.

Raphael was bringing over his private guard.

"Is something the matter, Ms. Berger?" he smiled, positioning himself with tactical precision between you and your only escape route. Jens Kötter was his badge. "Maybe I can assist?"

"No, I... I just... you know, I just realised I need to go home. Urgently. I forgot something important there. You know, packed in a rush, and just woke up and realized, yeah, I really need that thing, and I need it right now..."

His smile hung in the air like stale perfume. There was something so annoyingly ex-military about this guy with this buzz cut and these dead eyes. You knew the type. 

"It's 1:30 am, Ms. Berger. I am sure whatever you forgot can wait until the morning and I will be delighted to drive you to your former place and help you find that thing and bring you back home".

"No. I want to go now. Alone. Can I go, please? I already called an Uber. Here, look. A driver accepted! Money will be booked off my card now anyway!”

You demonstrated him your phone and the message “Altan Kuzey accepted your ride and is waiting for you at pick-up point in 8 minutes”.

But Kötter's icy blue eyes bore into you, cataloging the marks on your neck and wrists.

“I warned you against calling Uber to this place, Ms. Berger. No matter, I’ll take care of it. Did you and Mr. D'Avergni have a... misunderstanding of some sort?", he asked, his wingspan expanding like a predator ready to pounce. 

"No! No, nothing like that", you tried for a light-hearted laugh but it came out more like a strangled yelp. “Everything is great between me and Raul. He is sleeping, I didn’t want to bother him. He is so tired. He works a lot. No need to wake him up, really”.

You’d think so many times you tried to lie you’d actually learn how to do it.

Everybody kept smiling, all the four guards. They would probably continue smiling even if they were ordered to butcher you right then and there.

"Ms. Berger, I believe you are aware that Mr. D'Avergni is working on a very important deal right now”, Jens began in an unnervingly placid manner. “It's crucial that he does not receive any bad media coverage. He has already faced unfortunate accidents in the past, and none of us want them to repeat, do we?"

What was he implying?

His eyes bore into yours with alarming intensity.

"You're not planning on going to the authorities and reporting anything because you had a little fight, are you Ms.Berger?"

His smile teetered precariously between nauseatingly courteous and downright sinister.

"Absolutely not! Why would I? Report what?" you feigned shock. "Mr. D'Avergni is very nice to me. You mean the bruises? This was just roleplay between two consenting adults and frankly none of your fucking business. Look, it's a me issue. It's honestly just a me issue”. 

Jens sighed, opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

“Look, man”, you said. “This is a free country, if I want to go, I have the right to go".

"Well of course you are free to go, Ms. Berger. You're free to go...as long as Mr.D'Avergni agrees." He paused for effect before adding: "Sadly, he's currently indisposed due to it being, you know, the middle of the night."

“That’s not what free to go means”, you whispered. “That is actually the very opposite of what free to go means”. 

“Well, in this place there are certain procedures we follow,” Jens said. “I am contractually obligated to adhere strictly to these procedures. I am sorry, not much I can do, really”.

No.

No. 

You were not a prisoner. Raphael would never hold you prisoner. He was not that kind of a devil. Raul…

You don’t have any idea what he would or what he wouldn’t, but you had a hunch.

"I wish you to let me through”, you said with an edge in your voice. “This is my free will and my choice, and this is sacred, because this a free country by law, and law is fucking sacred. Let. Me. Through".

Jens’s face shifted, determination replaced by a dreamy-eyed, enthralled look. He moved out of your way.

Holy hell - it worked?

But why did it work? Did Raphael want you gone or was he hoping you'd stay? Was he pissed off with Raul too?

Was he truly not that kind of devil? 

"Jens, what the hell are you doing?" another cambion demanded, his tail retreating behind him in terror. "He'll flay us alive for this! What the actual fuck?"

“It’s her choice,” Jens echoed softly, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond your shoulder. “Her choice...choice is sacred; that much is true.”

***

"Evening!" the taxi driver greeted you as you stumbled into the backseat, barely managing to keep your balance. "Careful. Is everything okay?"

His smile disarmed you; you had not seen someone smiling so genuinely for a long time, especially that late at night. 

"Christ," you exhaled, wincing as you tried to get comfortable on the worn leather seat. Every movement sent a sharp pang that made sitting an ordeal. "Just drive. Now."

"Why, do we have some company?" he joked, glancing at the rear-view mirror.

“Drive, please”.

The cabbie's expression turned grave; he held his tongue until you were cruising down the highway.

"Relax, there is no one behind us," he soothed, visibly easing up. "Rough night?"

"In-fucking-sane," you muttered, staring blankly at the road ahead. “ I’d tell you but you wouldn’t believe it. No one would.”

"Oh, dear. I’ll put on some good music for you.” he asked, putting on some loud pop. “Bad client?",

"Huh?"

"Did one of those rich fucks give you trouble?" he asked. "I've done plenty of pick-ups from this part of town and let me tell ya, it ain't pretty for working girls."

"I am not a hooker. My boyfriend lives here, okay? That huge mansion in the distance? Yep, his".

"Oh... right…. your boyfriend," he repeated with a slightly embarrassed smile. “Sorry, my bad. So it’s him you are worried about?”

“Well, he gets the devil into him sometimes. Doesn’t even notice it himself”.

“I see,” The driver responded quietly, his eyes briefly flitting towards your neck before quickly returning to the road ahead."Look, I'm overstepping here," he admitted after a moment's pause, "but there's a cop shop at the end of this stretch. Just 'cause someone's got deep pockets doesn't mean they get to use you as a doormat."

"And do you really believe that?" You scoffed, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. "Look around and tell me if that's how the world really works."

"No”, he said after some thinking. “No, not really”. 

You shut your eyes tight, trying to block out everything but the grating pop song that had somehow wormed its way into your consciousness.

she may contain the urge to run away

“I just think it should be different”, he continued. “If you know what I mean. Some justice and order in this world, inshallah."

but hold her down with soggy clothes and breeze blocks

“Well, things might get very different soon very soon”, you replied. “Not sure about justice, but a bit more order, probably, yeah. You can thank me personally for that. Could you switch up the music, please?”

His fingers danced across the buttons as he tried to find another station. The next one was static-filled; the following one played the same catchy tune from its beginning. His attempts to find a new song only led him back to square one.

"Ha! What are the odds? Looks like our menu tonight has only one dish."

“Yeah”, you sighed, forehead against the glass, looking at the billboards passing by.

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE 

GO BACK WHERE YOU ARE TRULY LOVED

HERZ JESUS CATHOLIC FOUNDATION 

“Yeah”, you repeated. “I know the chef very well”.

***

You'd been half-convinced you were going to plow into a lamppost or swerve off the road and meet an oncoming semi (especially after that billboard screaming "beware of incoming traffic" at you). But no, you'd managed to navigate your way back to your flat - a place that now felt like a shabby alternate universe compared to Raul’s mansion.

As you approached your front door, something was off. The low murmur of voices seeped through the wood, like a radio tuned just below audible frequency. The door was slightly unhinged too (who wasn’t these days).

With a nudge, it swung open.

Your apartment looked like it had played host to an indoor tornado - papers flung around , drawers yanked out and their innards strewn across the floor, cushions flipped over and books scattered around. 

There were four intruders: one woman taking liberties with your office chair and three men wreaking havoc on your living space. It was obvious your uninvited guests had made themselves at home in your absence and hadn't expected an early return from their hostess.

"HOLY FUCK!”, you screamed, not even because you were so scared, but because you really, really, REALLY felt like screaming at someone. “HOLY FUCK! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY APARTMENT WHY ARE YOU..."

The shock wore off quickly for them. Their expressions morphed into professional masks.

"Ms Berger," came a voice, soothing yet authoritative enough to make you halt mid-rant. The blonde woman rose from your chair, her hands raised in a pacifying gesture. "What a surprise indeed. Please take a sit”.

You remained rooted to the spot, too stunned to move.

"We sincerely apologize for this... unwarranted intrusion," she began apologetically, shooting a reproachful look at one of her subordinates before continuing. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding on our end, I'm afraid." She let out a weary sigh. "We were under the impression you'd be at Mr. D'Avergni's place tonight."

Her eyes were sharp, her prim blonde hair cascaded down to her shoulders. 

"Who are you? Don’t you need an order for these things or something? What have I done?"

HHer partner stood nearby, his jet-black hair slicked back perfectly and wearing a black suit that seemed molded to his body. He cradled a mug of coffee in his hand, sipping it slowly as if each gulp contained some great secret.

Yeah, you knew that guy. 

"My name is Alyssa Ahlberg," she introduced herself, gesturing towards her partner, who seemed more interested in his coffee than the ongoing conversation, "and this is Christoph Weber. We're with ICPO - International Crime Police Organisation."

"Interpol", you laughed, and then you couldn’t stop laughing. “You guys are from Interpol. Seriously? Come on now”.

So Raul wasn't off his rocker after all. It seemed like everyone was sane except for you.

"That is the accepted abbreviation," Alyssa confirmed dryly. “What exactly do you find funny?”

"Are you guys even real?", you asked without much hope for an honest answer. “Because no offence to you guys but even the inquisitors seemed less far-fetched.”

No, Anya, we are not real, we are your hallucination.

In fact, you are long dead, Anya.

In fact, we are wrapping your corpse in plastic right now.

Alyssa maintained her poker face in response to your question. "Yes, Ms. Berger," she confirmed solemnly. "Interpol is a real organization, I am afraid."

"And Agent Cooper over there is real too?", you nodded towards the guy with the coffee mug who seemed frozen in one position ever since you came into the apartment. 

"Excuse me?", asked Agent Cooper.

"Alright, alright,” you sighed heavily, resigning yourself to their existence for the moment. "I've been feeling... out of sorts lately”.

You sat on your own bed.

"We understand your distress, Ms. Berger," Alyssa said before offering you a glass of water which you took. “You do seem, a bit, ugh, out of sorts. Has something occurred between yourself and Mr. D'Avergni? Do you need medical attention?”

"No”, you shook your head. “No! Absolutely not. Raul did not do anything to me".

Your denial came out sharper than intended. 

They exchanged glances but remained silent.

"Ms. Berger, how did you come to know Mr. D'Avergni, if you don’t mind me asking?" Alyssa asked, her tone deceptively casual.

"Ugh, it was... at a cafe," you muttered.

"A cafe..." She echoed slowly as if she was trying to digest this new piece of information. "Forgive me, it seems rather unconventional for a man of his means to meet a woman in a cafe. Ms. Berger, how much do you know about Mr. D’Avergni?”

You gave her a noncommittal shrug in response. Your phone rang; it was Raul’s number. 

Agent Cooper interjected, "Ms. Berger, if this discussion is causing discomfort, you are not obligated to answer any further questions."

"Why are you asking at all?” you asked. “Why are you here? Did Raul kill someone?"

"Do you have any suspicions that Mr. D’Avergni may have committed murder?" Agent Cooper raised a brow.

"No, I just... No. I don’t".

“That was not what we are investigating, but if you have something to tell us, please do so”, Alyssa said. “We're looking into Mr. D'Avergni's possible involvement in economic crimes. Money laundering, corruption, tax fraud…"

It sounded simultaneously worse and not quite as bad as tormenting millions of souls.

A dry chuckle bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, so nothing too bad then."

Agent Cooper shot you a side-eye before returning his gaze to his coffee mug.

"The ripple effect of Mr D'Avergni's alleged actions is immense and devastating, Ms. Berger,” Alyssa said with a cough to clear her throat. “I wouldn’t write it off as 'nothing too bad'. Listen..." 

She sat right next to you on the bed and gave what you would describe a very empathetic smile. 

“You strike me as a sweet and smart young woman, Ms Berger. You’ve gotten yourself tangled up in something dangerous that clearly isn’t your usual scene. It’s never too late to turn back and make the right choice. Your involvement with this man, judging that you rushed back home this late at night and in this state..."

She let out a deep breath.

"We can help you, is what I am saying. And by helping us with a bit of information, you could help a lot of other people. Mr D’Avergni is not a good man, Ms. Berger, trust me, I’ve spent… quite some years on him. I believe, however, you know that already. You won’t pick the phone up, I suppose?”

Your phone buzzed again; Raul was nothing if not persistent.

“The guy clearly does not understand when his attention is unwelcome”, Agent Cooper muttered under his breath with palpable distaste.

“Ms. Berger, would you even feel safe here?”, Alyssa asked. “We can take you somewhere else where you won’t…”

“I don’t think there is a place safe from Raphael”, you said, and quickly added: “Not that I even would want it”.

"Raphael?", Alyssa frowned. "I'm afraid we have no knowledge of a Raphael in Mr. D’Avergni’s entourage."

You scoffed.

"Raphael is the guy you actually should be afraid of”.

"I see. Why don’t you tell us more about him then?” Alyssa said as she moved a bit closer to you.

“Right. Raphael is... ah… it doesn't matter. What I am saying is that Raul is way, way more dangerous than you realize, and I would never do anything against him, and I don’t advise you to, either".

There was some silence at your statement. . 

Agent Cooper sipped his coffee and stared out of the window.

"I think you're underestimating what we know about Mr. D’Avergni, Ms. Berger. And it seems like we've underestimated your knowledge as well." Alyssa paused before adding, "We could possibly enlighten each other. You should understand by now how serious the situation is".

"You'd never believe me if I told you just how serious the situation is”, you said. “I mean, our world is probably at stake".

“Well, I do kind of agree, Ms. Berger. If not all the world, then at least some parts of the free world, yes”, Alyssa said with a sigh. "Democracy for one. So I'm more than willing to hear you out. God knows there have been things lately that I can't make heads or tails of either”.

Like hell she would believe you. 

God, you were so alone in this, so alone in your madness, not a single soul you could tell what was happening - not even Raul.

"Really? Okay then... I think Raul might be possessed by a devil. He probably doesn’t even realize it himself."

Their faces. Their faces... What did you expect? For somebody to ever actually listen to what you have to say?

"Yes”, you snapped. “Yes, I am totally losing my mind, absolutely batshit crazy, stop staring at me like that! STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!"

Alyssa reached out and lightly touched your shoulder.

"Ms. Berger," she implored gently, "please calm yourself down”. She hesitated before asking, “Have you perhaps taken any...medication or..."

"I HAVEN'T!” You shrugged her hand off your shoulder. “WELL I HAVE! COKE! But that's beyond the point!"

To hell with them for treating you like some deranged lunatic.

To hell with everyone.

"You know what?”, you hissed. “Let's test if I am crazy. Let's test it. And if I am crazy, well, that’s not really new, and I am not… well, you will have some damn news. I wish you to... ah... what do I wish for... I wish you to trip over and... Well, I am not a mean person, so... I wish you to trip over and get a small but nasty scratch. Deep. Bloody. But nothing life-threatening. Yes, I wish for that. That’s my wish".

"Ms Berger," Alyssa responded with an edge of wariness. "We didn't mean to upset you but it’s quite clear your mental state is… somewhat disturbed. Maybe it would be best if you took some time out to rest.”

“Somewhat”, you laughed. “Somewhat, yeah. I’ve been burned alive by inquisition tonight. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, actually, but still”.

That seemed to be the last straw for Alyssa. She slowly got up, and lurched forward - really stupidly, it must be said  - her leg caught on the bedpost and she careened towards the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.

The only person to laugh was you, though.

Alyssa’s face paled to a ghostly white as she looked at her arm in disbelief, like she was witnessing a low-budget horror flick so bad it was almost good. It was a nasty cut all right she was looking at, and it bled more than it should have. 

What did she even cut herself against? She must have asked herself the same question as she searched the floor with her hands.

Nothing. Alyssa looked back at you, then back at Agent Cooper, then back at you. Her voice barely above a whisper, she managed to choke out one word: "How?"

She was scared, you could see that. She stopped smiling, her body stiffened like an icy statue.

“How did you do that, Anya?”, she repeated. 

“Alyssa,” Agent Cooper interjected. “All right, this is getting out of hand now. The girl is already disturbed enough; we don't need to feed into her delusions.”

"I'm not pandering to her fantasies, Christoph," Alyssa snapped back. "What's happening here? Are you trying to get me fired?"

"It's infernal magic," you chimed in smugly, relishing in the sudden shift of power tilting towards you like an unsteady seesaw.

You felt your whole posture change.

You could do magic. It’s pretty contingent on how well you suck a certain devil’s cock, but you could do it. 

"Get a grip, Ms. Berger," Alyssa growled, her facade of calmness rapidly disintegrating. "This is the furthest thing from funny."

"I'll make believers out of all of you yet," you promised, your eyes locking onto Agent Cooper like a missile, and something Raphael did gave you an idea. "I wish for you to choke on that damn fine coffee until I command otherwise."

The gap between your proclamation and its fruition shrank to nothing - Agent Cooper was gagging before the words had even fully left your lips. Nobody dared to write it off as chance or shock; instead, they recoiled from you like you were a bomb counting down to zero.

The expressions on their faces were priceless.

Insane girls can be terrifying, no doubt about that. But the best part was they were starting to feel what you felt – their rules of reality had suddenly been thrown out the window to never ever call back.

"What is happening?" Alyssa's voice quivered with fear. "If this is some sick joke, it's not funny... I swear to God..."

Agent Cooper choked for air, his hands clawing at his throat in a desperate attempt to breathe while he stared at you in sheer horror. He tried to form words, or so you thought. A plea for mercy?

“Are we all enjoying our descent into insanity?”, you laughed. “Because that's how I feel every single day! And do you know why? Because THE DEVIL IS REAL! HE EXISTS! Do any of you believe me now!? Oh and by the way, stop choking, Agent Cooper; I don’t actually want to kill you - I love Twin Peaks."

Air returned to him; he collapsed onto the floor wheezing. Some guy who'd been skulking in the corner was now pointing a gun at you.

"Go on, pull the trigger!" You taunted. "Do it! Kill the witch!”

"Fader vår, som är i himlen,” Alyssa whimpered from her knees. “Don’t shoot her. Jesus, don’t shoot her, we will never be able to explain that”.

"Bet you didn’t believe in God yesterday, huh?”, you smiled at her.

Alyssa sprung to her feet, recoiling from you as if you were contagious. They were all scrambling for an exit now; it was downright hilarious. Little old you, who they thought they could mock, ignore, and bully, not answer your messages, talk shit behind your back, managed to scare four armed people shitless.

"Want a parting piece of wisdom?" You hollered after them. "Don't fuck with the devil! Trust me on this one... I FUCKED HIM!"

They made their exit leaving you alone and shaking; half-crying, half-laughing, completely out of it, crashing on the floor next to bed. 

What did you do? 

Who were you anymore?

Was the whole sequence real?

What do you think, Anya?

What do you think? 

Agent Cooper was searching your apartment in the night, what do you think, Anya, was it real, what do you wanna bet on this one? Meeting the Interpol? They'll be strapping you into a straightjacket next, Anya. Do you have any proof of what had happened just now except your apartment is thrashed?

Doesn’t matter. 

They are gone now anyway. 

You are all alone.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

There's definitely some shadow lurking in the bathroom. You went straight there and turned the lights on; gone, nothing there but your paranoia. Now, your discarded clothes slumped over the bedroom chair seemed alive, as if they could sprout legs and start wandering about any moment. 

Staring at them only fueled your anxiety.

Desperate for distraction, you cranked open the faucet and listened to bathwater gushing into the tub.

And then there's... Raul. Six missed calls from him flashing on your screen. No escaping this guy, huh?

Do you have anyone in your life? Friends maybe? Ha, friends. Busy talking shit while you are not looking. Colleagues? Scratch that – jobless now aren’t we?

So who does that leave us with? Do you have anyone at all?

"Mum, hi. Sorry, it's a bit early to be calling, I know," you said into the phone as you sat curled up in the bath, knees up to your chest. The water was scalding hot. You liked it that way. "I just wanted to hear your voice”.

"Anya, what happened?" came her worried and sleepy voice from the other end. "It's five in the morning. Are you okay? Are you hurt?."

"Can I come and visit you, actually? For a couple of nights, maybe”. 

"What?! Anya, what's happened? Did Raul do something?" Your mum’s words tumble out in rapid succession.

"No," you reassure her quickly as cold porcelain presses against your back. "Everything's fine with Raul. I just miss you."

"ANYA! WHAT ON EARTH HAS HAPPENED?! ANYA!"

"Mum, a lot has happened and we may not always agree (we never agree) but I just wanted to tell you that I love you, Mum."

Now she probably thinks you have cancer. 

"Oh dear," she said. "Oh god. Something has definitely happened. You're pregnant, is that it? That's definitely it, he got you pregnant. That's EXACTLY what Nadine said would happen. When are you coming? Come right away!"

"Like... on the first train. I am not pregnant. We dated, like, for a week”. 

"The first train is long gone! Take the next one now and send me your live location. OK? Send me your live location. Anya, OKAY!? Anya, I will not get off the phone until I see your live location".

"OK", you said, and then you dropped off and took a dive in the bathtub. 

You let the water envelop you, its hot embrace a very welcome respite from reality. So what’s next what’s next what’s next 

No idea. Maybe you stayed under for a minute, maybe more. 

By the time you emerged, gasping for air and shaking off droplets of water from your skin, your phone had buzzed twice with missed calls from Raul.

You picked up your phone and texted:

I am sorry all good just need some time to figure out stuff and take care of myself. <3 love you baby please don’t be mad

His response was immediate and curt:

Pick up your damn phone.

The full stop at the end was like an executioner's axe.

I'll call you tomorrow soooo tired okay :-)

Answer your phone now.

Jens saw them leaving. Don't think I don't know who they are.

Panic surged through you like a tidal wave. You could feel his fury seeping through each word. You stumbled from the tub, feet nearly slipping on slick tiles.

I'm on my way over.

You owe me an explanation.

The thought of facing him made bile rise in your throat; Raphael’s magic would probably not work against Raphael’s real life avatar himself.

It better be convincing, Anya, I mean it.

Shitshitshitshitshit

Shit what happened to I forgive you everything if you fuck me nasty?

Then you realised that you were just as afraid of Raul as you were of Raphael. For what it's worth, the former might be worse.

He was human after all, and no one could outdo humans when it came to being monsters.

Who the hell knows what's in that guy's head now? 

What if he kills you? 

You grabbed the clothes that were closest to you.

What if he rapes you?

Your shirt.

Will Raphael intervene? 

Jeans.

Or take over? 

Socks.

Or just watch? 

Mismatched; screw it, mismatched then.

Will he make you like it?

Jens must be standing right outside the apartment complex. Probably on his way here to the apartment already. Probably armed.

You'd probably like it. 

Not the front door, no. Go up one floor. Wait for Jens to pass.

Yeah, you know what, you'd definitely like it. You’ll love it. 

He passed. Was it Jens? Yeah, it was him. The wings rustle. No, do not go to the main exit on the ground floor.

You'll probably beg for more.

The garage door.

You should never have called him Daddy, you should have put your foot right back there.

The underground car park exit.

How can you feel so powerful and so powerless at the same time?

Get lucky for once.

How can your life be dictated so much by a fictional devil? How did all of this happen? Some damn escapism you did there, Anya. Escaped reality and common sense and any hope for a normal life for good measure. 

You got lucky; you made it out of the apartment complex. Jens' armored jeep was parked nearby, another cambion guard was smoking next to it. You quickly pulled the hoodie all over your face and walked to the closest subway station.

The sky was ablaze with the first light of dawn.

[ctimenefic]

I know the admins have probably already driven the joke into the ground but if anyone wanted a short meditation on Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, daddy kink and a side of landoscar and carcar, boy, do I have that under the cut

Lando should’ve had enough of thinking by 1am on the Monday morning after the Monaco GP. There hadn’t been much to do but think during the race - ask about the gap to George, think, gain half a second on Carlos, think, catch a glimpse of the battle for 12th somehow two whole laps behind him, think. And in the end, cross the line exactly where he started, because it was fucking Monaco on zero pit stops, and Charles was never going to gamble, so neither could anyone else. 

Maybe it’s too much time spent playing percentages without ever taking a fucking risk, but as he flops back into a VIP booth he finds himself weighing the odds again. Charles is soaking wet for the third time that day - first champagne, second the harbour swill, and now some rank mix of vodka, sweat and liquid fucking joy oozing out of his with every flail. It’s disgusting and adorable and Lando will not be accepting any comparisons to Miami. Not home before sunrise, Lando reckons. Four piss-stop strategy, hah.

Oscar slides in opposite, a clutch of beers in hand, because he’s still super fucking awkward about bottle service at Jimmy’z coming via girls with tiny skirts, even though Lando has explained, like, four times by now, that is kind of the point of bottle service.  “Not taking a spin on the decks?” Oscar asks, because he’s secretly fifty years old. 

“Nah, tracks were mid. Not dancing?”

Oscar shoots a look over his shoulder at the increasingly large space around the second prince of Monaco. “Ah, no. Might’ve had a boring race but I don’t need to take my life in my hands.”

And that’s when it happens. The line just materialises in his brain, as instinctive as correcting for understeer. 

Not even with your new daddy? 

He barely gets ahead of it, teeth slamming shut after an inhale. And his brain starts racing, harder than he raced all fucking weekend. He’s got a rep for saying stupid shit off the cuff, but this one he thinks about. 

Maybe he says it, and Oscar snorts and drinks his beer, plays it off with a joke about his brother Leo, his uncle Arthur, whatever six new permutations of the joke have evolved as everyone with so much as a sniff at a paddock pass gets shitfaced in the same club.

Maybe he says it, and Oscar’s eyes widen, too taken aback to laugh, but weirded out, and there’ll be a few stilted messages before Montreal wipes the slate clean. And Lando will play things straight, in all senses, til at least summer break.

Maybe he says it, and Oscar’s freckles disappear into the flush across his cheeks. He’ll dart another look back at Charles, shove his beers into Lando’s reach, and stride across the dancefloor to Charles and Carlos and Pierre. He’ll get his hands on Charles’ shoulders to steady him, when he beams back drunk and sloppy, and he’ll share some twist on Lando’s joke, wry and quiet and yet perfectly clear over the thump of what is objectively a mid remix. And Charles will listen and blink as the words leak through to what little remains of his conscious brain six hours after the fucking win of his life. Maybe then he’ll laugh, so loud Lando can hear it, and Carlos and Pierre too, and Oscar will look back at him and grin and sure, the remix is mid, but Lando kinda wants to dance actually. 

Maybe Charles won’t laugh. Because that’s another set of odds - Charles isn’t going home alone, he’s going to slip-stagger through the streets that love him in someone’s arms, maybe many someones. Maybe Charles won’t laugh, but he’ll hook a sweaty elbow round the back of Oscar’s neck, and get a grip in Oscar’s hair, and they’ll dance like they just got 1-2 in Monaco. Lando will be stuck in the fucking booth watching as Charles’s bracelets catch the lights when he winds his arms round Oscar’s neck, catch the flash of the stupid sponsor watch when Oscar puts a steady hand on his waist. And he can’t read lips, can’t know, but Oscar will lean close to say something in Charles’ ear, and Lando will know it’s “Daddy” a few hundredths before Charles gasps.  And it’ll be too public, Jimmy’z on a fucking GP Sunday, Carlos might let Charles burn alive but Pierre’ll keep it clean, but Lando will know, Charles will know, Oscar will know - il predestinato and the rookie who could, on a fucking collision course. 

Or maybe Charles won’t laugh, and he’ll get a grip in Oscar’s hair, and Oscar will lean close, and Pierre will steer them to the door, pull in George and Alex to run interference, because they understand appearances, and Charles will take Oscar back to his flat, the only place any of them have in Monaco that feels truly like a home (no offence to Kelly, but her decorating is straight out of Pinterest’s Most Wanted). Oscar’ll fit there, among the knick knacks and family photos and all the shit Charles still has because he didn’t move every six months of his teens; Oscar’ll earnestly compliment some quilt or throw that was made by Charles’ 107-year-old grandmother and Charles’ll look at him with those huge doe eyes, and the fog of alcohol will clear but the intent will still be there, hot and possessive. Maybe Oscar doesn’t need to call him daddy now because Charles is smart enough to see a trophy when it’s in his hands. So he’ll press him up against his piano because what neighbour is going to complain about noise the night Monaco’s man won the GP, even if chords turn to the half-shouts of a beautiful boy being fucked out, the squeak of sweat-soaked skin on polished ebony. Lando will wake up with his mouth tasting like death and a short message letting him know he’ll be alone on the McLaren jet, unless he offers George a lift, and he’ll have to decide what’s worse, styling it out or feeling George look at him every few minutes, long fingers on the executive-suite sick bag they hide down the side of the seat. 

But maybe Charles will laugh, and Pierre will laugh, but Carlos won’t. Carlos’s jaw will work like he’s taking a grid place penalty for a racing incident, and then he will laugh, but low, mocking. Osc’ll turn, already annoyed, shoulders rising, but Carlos will drop a lazy hand on the nape of his neck and squeeze as he gestures with the other, back and forth, a two-fingered point and shake at Charles, then tapping twice on his own chest for emphasis. He’ll tug Oscar in closer, and there’ll be some of their usual animosity in it, too much strength, Oscar’s chin tilted forwards. Carlos will set his mouth against Oscar’s ear and say “he can’t be your daddy”, or whatever, the smooth operator equivalent, except Carlos is never smooth, just raw and fucked up and hot enough to blast through anyone’s higher brain function. So Oscar will follow when Carlos saunters out, and only someone who knows him well will be able to see beyond that blank expression that he’s practically shellshocked. Carlos won’t notice; Carlos will take him to a hotel room, tease him about putting him on his knees in the parking garage, in the elevator, somewhere where the cold could seep through Oscar’s unbearably thin trousers, but only really send him down once they're behind a locked door with plush carpet underfoot, because Carlos is a bit of a bastard but really good at casual, considerate without it coming across as anything so frightening as real feelings. He’ll tell Oscar to say it again, say it until he’s hoarse, and if Oscar chokes on the word that’ll be nothing to Carlos’s dick, not when Carlos has something to prove and three hours of staring at Oscar’s rear wing to motivate him. And Lando won’t fly out alone, but Oscar’ll be quiet and rumpled and he’ll ask for extra lemon in his fucking ice water and that’ll be worse, so much worse. 

So maybe he doesn’t say it. Maybe that’s it, and they dance and they drink and nothing changes. Seventy-eight laps and he finishes where he started, Oscar one position out of reach. 

Or. 

Or he says it, and Oscar says, “What.”

He says it, and Oscar says, “Sorry, repeat that?”

He says it, and Oscar says, “I don’t think you want me calling Charles daddy.”

He says it, and Oscar says, “Say that again. No, just the last word. Say it to me.”

And Lando will- he’ll- he’s going to-

His race stutters out. He blinks, and the mid remix hits the chorus again. 

Oscar’s looking at him, a half smile on his face. Slightly expectant, like he’s learnt to anticipate one of Lando’s jokes. 

Lando opens his big fat mouth. 

[mel-is-sanonymous1994]

Kisses Taste Like Candy

Part 1

Part 2

-Orla McCool x Michelle Mallon

-Didn’t proof read it so I’m sure it’s not the greatest

-I have never lived in Ireland or even pretended to so I’m not so good at the slang part

Summary: Jenny Joyce is Evil and it doesn’t get better during summer home from university. What’s the worst that could happen during spin the bottle.

“You can’t be serious!” I said.

“Come on Michelle it’s just a wee peck you don’t even have to do anything.” Claire whispered. Since college she has grown a bit of a spine it seems must be the college girls.

“It’s Orla for christs sake!” I said glancing at the girl in question she was focused on something else entirely already bored with the game they had just started playing. Whoever said spin the bottle would be fun lied.

“Is it because she’s a girl?” Claire asked me with a flash of hurt in her eyes.

“No, I’ve been to college parties Claire I’ve probably kissed more girls than you’ve even looked at.” I said.

“But you both went to an all girls catholic school.” James pointed out.

“A rides a ride James.” I said blushing a bit.

“So then what’s the problem?” Erin asked.

“Is someone backing down?” Jenny Joyce taunted. She had already came out on top in this game not only avoiding all of the girls but managing to get to make out with the hottest man to ever step foot in Derry.

“I’m not backing down I just don’t think it’s fair to Orla is all.” I explained. Jenny smirked her wicked smirk and looked to Orla who was busy taking the ends of her hair and individually separating the section strand by strand almost as if she was counting them.

“She gets a pass doesn’t she?” James asked.

“Yeah, she does.” Erin smiled.

“It’s not a pass though.” Claire said remembering the rules.

“That’s correct Claire, Michelle can pass but she would have to take whoever it lands on next and the person who goes after her has to take Orla.” Aisling said with a sad look on her face. She had only gotten nicer being away from Jenny and her influence but she was still the loyal puppet to the superior girl. I looked next to me as Orla tuned back into the game.

“Oi I’ve got no problem with making out with her, she’s a ride.” The male to my left said. I shot glare at James who earlier had decided to make me sit next to the absolute dickhead who was currently staring at Orla in a way that would make even the brightest girls feel uncomfortable.

“Sorry what did I miss?” Orla asked as she looked at everyone staring at her. She turned red from the attention. I had to admit the dance classes she had been taking were paying off, she chose to stay in Derry and work at the local animal shelter after school.

“You were picked for spin the bottle and Michelle passed on you.” Jenny said harshly. Orla didn’t understand though.

“I thought we were playing tag.” She frowned.

“Tonsil tag.” Jenny Joyce said with a snicker.

“I don’t have my tonsils anymore Jenny, your da took em.” Orla scrunched her eyebrows in confusion. The ballbag next to me stood up and walked over to Orla grabbing her arm hoisting her up.

“Hey! Wait!” I said as I saw Orlas look of confusion once she stood facing him. He had already put his hand on her face.

“You already passed.” The guy said holding Orla possessively.

“I didn’t officially, I just hesitated.” I said nervously standing up quickly to take his place. Typically we didnt have to stand for this stupid game but the fucker had to make it a big deal.

“Go on then Michelle.” Jenny said. I glared at her as the asshole petted Orla’s head and then winked at me and sat back down. I stood in front of the taller girl.

“You alright Michelle?” She smiled at me as she looked less uncomfortable with a familiar face in front of her.

“I’m alright Orla.” I said.

“Enough of the small talk.” Jenny said with her arms crossed.

“I’m gonna kiss you now Orla is that ok?” I asked silently hoping she’d say no.

“Alright Michelle.” She said. I leaned in and placed my hand on her cheek looking carefully in her eyes for any sign that she changed her mind. She closed her eyes as my lips were mere millimeters from hers. I rolled my eyes and just went for it connecting our closed lips in a very innocent kiss. She had lip gloss on. I could smell the little alcohol she had drank mixing with the cotton candy flavored lip smacker she insisted on applying anytime she could, the smell was intoxicating. Her lips were soft and warm. I felt her jaw open slightly and on instinct deepened the kiss a bit quickly going from a quick peck to full snog. I could taste the lip gloss now mixing with the lingering taste of Tequila on my own tongue. I was addicted. I came back into my brain for a minute when I realized that Orla wasn’t participating as much as I was. I pulled away quickly and breathed heavy as if I just ran a marathon. Orla’s brown eyes were staring back at me. I put my hand to my lips covering the evidence as best I could. Orla’s face was flushed. I began to panic, how could I have done that with one of my best friends, the sweetest and most innocent of us all. I felt the sharp sting of tears in my eyes as I ran out of the room. I heard James calling after me but I kept running until I couldn’t breathe anymore and noticed I had ran all the way to finnoulas. I bent over and clutched my sides as I fought to get air to stay in my lungs.

“Stupid Michelle! How could you do that! She’s never gonna speak to you again!” I yelled at myself. I tried to dissect every second of the kiss. The smell the taste the feelings, everything. I panicked more when I realized that I actually really liked kissing Orla and I found myself wishing I could do it again. I almost started running again but a small voice stopped me.

“Michelle, are you alright?” Orla asked as I stood up straight still struggling to breathe properly.

“I’m sorry Orla. I shouldn’t have agreed to kiss you, that wasn’t fair to you. I should’ve just said we should leave.” I apologized.

“Michelle.” She started but I cut her off.

“And I’m sorry I stuck my tongue in your mouth, that was uncalled for and I totally understand if you never want to speak to me ever again.” I said with tears in my eyes now. She opened her mouth to speak but I couldn’t stop.

“You are one of my best friends Orla and I’ve gone and messed that up just because Jenny Joyce is an evil cunt.” I said with tears blurring my eyes until Orla was just a smudge in front of me. Before she could say anything I heard more footsteps approaching quickly. I saw it was the other girls and James.

“Is everything alright?” James asked noticing I was crying. He knew I wasn’t one to cry over just anything. I shook my head. I didn’t dare look at Orla who was still trying to get a word in while Erin, Claire, and James fussed over me.

“I’m gonna take her home.” I heard James say as he put his arm around me and walked us towards our house which wasn’t too far away.

“Wait..” I heard Orla say but Erin had pulled her in the other direction.

[bestworstcase]

On that recent note about Ruby being at a boiling point when the next confrontation with Salem rolls around, would you mind going into that a bit more? Namely, I have a couple thoughts about a) it’s narratively boring to have the same thing happen twice, and “Ruby’s personal issues get overrun by a bunch of other issues she feels she has to address first” is how we got to V10 in the first place, and b) it really feels like WBY (and maybe Jaune, but he has his own stuff going on, we’ll see) would be much more conscious of the fact that it happened very visibly and the possibility of that happening again, and thus act to help Ruby away from that edge should she stray there again. Just a couple thoughts, really.

what i anticipate���again mostly on the basis of reading rwby x jl pt in context with the events of v9 and the 9.11 animatic—is less round two of ruby pretending to be fine until she explodes and more of an over-correction. a pendulum swing. ruby knows she can’t bury things behind a smile without destroying herself now, but she also… doesn’t… really know how to regulate her emotions in a healthy way, because she’s been viciously repressing those feelings her whole life.

she’s also (as ruby herself notes in B4) not at all comfortable asking for help and in vacuo she is going to be under a lot of pressure as the girl who sent the message—and in B4, we’ve already seen that she is, for example, getting waylaid in the streets for photos with strangers and that yang, despite having every reason to be overprotective at present, doesn’t interfere and actively tries to put a positive spin on it (“personally i think it’s about time everybody knew how cool my sister is”) even as she’s obviously concerned about the harm it might be doing to ruby. they’re both being pragmatic.

so while ruby’s closest friends will be (and do, in the jl film) watching like hawks for the signals they missed in the ever after, they can’t do anything about her celebrity among the vacuan refugees or the material reality of the situation in vacuo: if a major grimm attack coincides with ruby feeling bad, everyone has to prioritize repelling the attack over talking about how ruby feels, them’s the breaks.

ruby knows this. her team knows this. none of them want her to go back to bottling stuff up until it kills her, but it’s going to be really, really hard to carve out the space she needs to rest and recover and learn how to handle her feelings.

what happens?

well, judging by the jl film, ruby gets kind of… manic. she’s reckless. she brushes off their attempts to get her to stop being reckless. at one point she more or less tells clark that she expects to die in the war and she’s decided to try as hard as she can to do as much good as she can in the time she has left, and later when she gets the wind knocked out of her and yang freaks out ruby’s like "don’t worry, i’m not a quitter like mom" about it.

in a way, she’s backslid all the way to where she was at the top of v1—remember how reckless ruby was during the initiation, out of desperation to prove herself? except she’s also, pretty blatantly, pushing her bad feelings outward in the form of this danger-seeking go-go-go attitude. it’ll be okay if she dies as long as she goes down fighting to the end right!!! as long as she’s honest and open about not being able to imagine a future where she is alive after the war, that’s fine!!! because she’s not bottling it up anymore!!!

and (this is evident even just in the jl film) she’s a bit taken aback by how alarming her team finds this new attitude, because to her all that’s changed is she’s not keeping it a secret that she feels this way but to them it’s abruptly seeing, in vivid technicolor, that ruby genuinely does not care whether she lives or dies and in fact is terrifyingly comfortable with the idea that she’ll die fighting salem. so i think ruby is going to experience this as mixed signals; they say they want her to be more open and share what she feels, but when she’s (in her mind) feeling good they get mad at her for not… feeling the way they want her to feel… so what is she supposed to do?

over the longer term, the shape of ruby’s character arc from here on is a journey toward rebuilding her presently non-existent sense of self-worth. but in the immediate term it’s more about clearing the hurdle of believing that one epiphany in the tree did not, in fact, fix her or solve the deeper problem of her suicide ideation. (which is very much what’s going on with ruby in the jl film.)

and i think it’s really interesting and pretty smart for the narrative to juxtapose that with salem battling her own emotional strife, because the heroic cast all believe that salem ultimately just wants to die but i don’t think that’s true, and salem herself certainly seems to be envisioning a future that she is beginning to realize she cannot achieve without making sacrifices; no cost is too great, she says, and she’s lying to herself.

i think ruby’s second boiling point is not “i don’t want to be me anymore” but rather “i don’t want to die anymore” and this dovetails nicely with salem hitting this critical mass, reaching the line she can’t cross because the cost is too great. the hero realizing that she desperately wants to live after all + the villain choosing the life of one person she cares for above everything else. it creates an opening for empathy and understanding in both directions.

if ruby spends nearly all of v10 skating over the deep well of her fear by pushing it outward as glibly nihilistic thrill-seeking, and then gets thrust into a situation where she really might die and feels that abrupt, visceral desperation to survive—that is not too far afield of salem’s desperation to remake the world into one where she’s allowed to live. likewise, if the unstoppable force of salem’s ruthlessness collided with the immovable object of cinder, she knocks herself sideways into a corner she can’t escape—which isn’t dissimilar to how hopeless ruby feels. and then they each have the other’s answer, potentially.

[friesforfriday]

A real first kiss (Matt Murdock x F!Reader / College AU)

Summary: You tell Matt no one has ever kissed you out of love. He makes sure to correct that.

Wordcount: 2.5K ish

Warnings/Tags: No use of y/n, reader uses she/her pronouns (no physical descriptions aside from that), college AU, Matt and reader are both in law school, some angst, something that could be read as dissociation (reader feels disconnected to an experience), reader is not straight? (no sexual orientation specified but there's an interaction that is not heterosexual / only kissing tho), comfort at the end (bc I am a sucker for happy endings lol)

A/N: This was oddly personal, and while it’s a little short it was very therapeutic to write. Pretty much wanted to do something that related to being a late bloomer (like I have been my whole life) plus some fluff (: Please take into account that this wasn't proof read and that English isn't my first language; if you happen to see any mistakes, do let me know so I can fix them. Hope you enjoy this!

For most people, their first kiss was usually a memory of their early teenage years, maybe even a childhood one. You could recall the stories your friends have told you. For some it was born out of sunny days during summer camp where connections were born after swimming in a lake all afternoon, quickly followed by laughter scattered into open fields or forests between games of capture the flag. That turned into late-night conversations, sneaking out from each other’s cabin after curfew to meet under the starry sky. 

Or perhaps for some it started out as a hallway crush. The kind that you would reveal only to your closest friends, and you all hid under silly codenames. If you locked eyes during free period, it stirred up giggling. And guess what?It turned out they’d been watching you all along. After gathering all your courage, a study date would turn into something more once your knuckles brushed accidentally.

The list could go and on, their stories all very innocent and sweet, most likely a terrible kisses, but nevertheless worth remembering.

If you added to that all the romantic books you’d read, movies, and what not, there were plenty more stories you could think of, from childhood friends turned to high school sweethearts or plenty about games of truth or dare or spin the bottle. Reality or fiction, first kisses tended to be meaningless beyond their experience value, with the rare exception of those who actually found love through them.

Throughout the years, you had patiently waited for your turn. You didn’t have many expectations of how it would actually happen, you just held on for the moment to finally occur. How difficult could it be? It literally seemed to happen to everyone around you. So you just waited, surely things would flow naturally, right?

Middle school rolled by, which was fine. A lot of people need more time to grow into themselves, it would eventually happen, you were sure. Maybe it wasn’t going to be one of those awkward extended pecks that your friends said seemed to last forever. They insisted it was for the best, no one really knows what they’re doing when they still haven’t even fully hit puberty. If you had your first kiss a little later in life, there was a higher chance it wasn’t going to be completely awful. You could deal with that; high school was supposed to be a more exciting chance to expand your circle. 

Boy were you wrong.

By this point, it was possible that maybe you had watched too many rom-coms or read one too many romance novels. You’re sure now that it helped in no way to ease your expectations. Seriously how difficult could it be? You saw it all. Your best friends got into relationships, went on dates, celebrated anniversaries, and had their hearts broken, only to survive them and start all over again. Kids in your classes, the kind to never speak their minds, suddenly grew into themselves and found their people too. 

During lunchtime, couples sat next to each other, holding hands in the cafeteria. Field trips meant seeing impromptu make-out sessions in the back of the school bus. Your friends received proposals for homecoming and eventually proms; always happy to invite you to come along when you didn’t receive any. At the occasional party you did attend, corners turned into your safe spot as you watched as others were approached. Not once did anyone come to strike up a conversation, to casually sweep you off your feet. It only led you to wonder if you were doing something, anything, wrong.

Love seemed to be everywhere, just never in your life.

You’d be lying to say it didn’t hurt your self-esteem. How come it hadn’t happened to you? Were you really that unattractive or uninteresting or whatever it was for no one to be interested in you? Your friends, or anyone who found out, always assured you saying you weren’t the problem, but the evidence seemed to point elsewhere. 

You manages to endure a little longer. After your high school graduation, the prospect of college lifted you spirits. With all the people that attended such a big school, you’d be sure to meet new people or at least get your mind off it.

It was even worse. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the embarrassment inexperience brought upon you. At some point you just started to lie your way through games of never have I ever; because let’s face it, admitting to a dozen strangers that you’ve never even held hands romantically wasn’t how you pictured spending your Friday and Saturday evenings. And that wasn’t even the worst part. Opening bathroom doors to couples straight up fucking or having to leave your dorm when your roommate brought a date every other week made you feel majority behind.

After spending your freshman year sulking, you decided it had been enough. At this point, you knew you were a late bloomer, but c’mon, those “the right person will find you when you least expect it” pep talks were starting to feel like bullshit. For fucks sake, it didn’t even matter anymore if they actually liked you, you just wanted to get it over with.

Matters were taken into your own hands on a Saturday night. The crowded spaces did you no favors to appease your social anxiety. As you walked around, room after room was filled to the brim with strangers, your friends nowhere to be found. The floor of the frat house they had dragged you to remained particularly sticky everywhere you went, especially in the kitchen where you had stopped to refill the red plastic cup in your hands.

As you poured rum into your half full glass of coke, a familiar voice called your name from across the room, “Oh my God, is that really you?”

And so, greetings were exchanged, as well as short debriefings of what you’d been up to since graduating. For all the time you’d been at Columbia, that was the first time you’d run into someone from your hometown.

Soon enough you were sitting in a half-empty deck, laughing and reminiscing about middle school. The green eyes that looked at you weren’t full of love or lust, but had a strange tinge of nostalgia. If you were being honest, it was one of those old friendships that stood had faded into nothing more than an acquaintance, and you suddenly knew you had an opportunity laid at your feet.

In all honesty, you could’ve gone simply with catching up and then left to look for one of your friends. Looking at him, you recalled all the times you joked around in Literature class or the times his parents gave you a ride home before you inevitably grew apart in high school. There was no spark when your knees brushed in the small sofa you were sitting in; but there was no discomfort either, so against your better judgement you decided to go for it.

By all means, it was a good kiss, at least that’s how you remember it now. At the time, there wasn’t anything else to compare it to, but none of the complaints you’d heard before happened. There wasn’t any unnecessary clash of teeth, it didn’t feel like he was shoving his tongue down your throat, he kept his hands safely and softly cupping your cheeks and neck. According to all the standards of all of your friends, this was an A+ experience.

By the time you were heading back to your dorm, you found yourself finally able to check having your first kiss off your bucket list. A sudden feeling of pride ran through your body as you walked through campus. Finally.

Unfortunately, though, after you’d washed your face and were sharing the news over the phone with your best friend, you realized that while everything had seemingly gone smoothly, you still felt the odd knot inside your chest. Like nothing had really changed. It was hard to put into words, how your body had felt out of its own, like you were playing a character as your lips met his, or maybe it was just your mind playing tricks on you. Because for some reason, you hadn’t really felt there when it happened. It just sort of seemed to occur.

“You’re kidding, right?” Matt’s said flat out, although you knew his deadpan tone was just for show.

Letting out a giggle you said, “Why would I lie about that?”

“That jerk was your first kiss?”

“He wasn’t a jerk, we were friends in mid-” you tried to defend the choices of you past self between bursts of laughter, but he didn’t let you continue. His sour expression growing by the second.

“He’s a conservative bigot, a Republican-governor-wannabe, how is he not–”

“He wasn’t back then!” Raising your tone, you barely held it in before your laughter burst out again at the same time Matt’s did, because yeah he was right – that dude did end up becoming a jerk. Except it didn’t really matter because you were never actually into him, and you can’t blame yourself for who your middle school classmates end up becoming.

“But he is now.”

You both kept laughing, shoulders brushing as you sat on the bed on his side of the dorm room. Foggy had ditched you both for tonight, opting out of your usual weekend hangout in favor of a date with someone called Marci, or so he’d said.

“Okay, okay, fiiiine, I’ll give you that,” you said in your defense, lightly shoving his shoulder with your own. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t actually like him.”

“Wait…” Matt said scrunching his nose in disbelief, his laughter slowly dying down, his face dead serious for real this time. “What are you talking about, why'd you kiss him then?”

With his face suddenly turned in your direction, you felt a your cheeks grow warm. “I guess… I just wanted to get it over with.”

An apologetic smile was what he offered in return, with no real judgment behind it. “Well, it should’ve been more special ... silly as it may be, you know... not just anyone.”

His words stop you in your tracks for a split second, a bittersweet feeling creeping up your chest. You’d never actually considered it, but in the years that had passed since that night, you didn’t recall that any other single kiss you’d received had actually been born from real love or any true feelings at all. 

There was that one time you hit it off with someone at a friend’s birthday. The light conversation between the colorful lights had you blushing more than usual. Their body was warm against yours when their lips were pressed to your own. The taste of their lip balm was sweet, almost sugary on your tongue, but it was all a spur-of-the-moment situation. While, unlike the first time, where you’d felt disconnected from your body, this time you’d actually enjoyed it. There was a warm feeling, maybe happiness, but definitely not affection and surely not love.

Then there were some other guys, whom you had very much liked. They listened to you and talked eagerly with you every time you bumped into each other, yet never actually asked you out. They flirted with you or had their friends act as their wingmen to eventually end up making out with you during random parties, but never – you realized – not one single time had anyone ever been interested in you affectionately, with tenderness or sincerity.

As if on cue, as if he could somehow sense what you were thinking, Matt broke the sudden silence that had grown in the room. “I didn’t mean to overstep I–”

You shook your head, breaking free from your thoughts, “No, no, I just… I don’t think I’ve ever had a…” Your voice quieted down before you could finish the sentence. While you weren’t ashamed of any of your experiences anymore, you couldn’t quite seem to get rid of the lingering pain that followed all of them.

“A real connection?”

Your eyes darted up to look at Matt; red glasses were shielding his eyes from yours, but did not cover the furrow of concern between his brows. It wasn’t a secret to Matt that you’d never been in a relationship. You’d told him at some point, during one of the many late-night conversations you enjoyed having. He’d found it hard to believe, truly, how anyone would pass on the chance of earning your trust. The thing was, anyone willing to pass on your endless compassion, your particular sense of humor, the softness of your skin, or the brilliance of your mind was a jackass, and he sure as hell wasn’t one.

He’d known you all of law school, at least all year and a half you’d both taken of it, although to him it might as well be a lifetime because he couldn’t quite picture a time when he didn’t recognize the sound of your heartbeat by memory. Right from the day you sat next to him in the Civil Procedures course, it took him no time to think of an excuse to talk to you, ignoring Foggy – who was also sitting next to him – to ask you if you’d care to study together someday.

Here and now, your very same heartbeat thumped loudly mere inches away from him. The opportunity he had once longed for.

“C’mon man, you gotta tell her at some point” was what Foggy had told him a few hours prior, before he’d left you two alone on purpose. “She obviously likes you, for real. It’s time.”

“I don’t know, Foggy. I don’t want to pressure her, what if she doesn’t want to be anything more than friends? I–”

“Oh my God, Matt! Are you being serious?” He said in a mock tone, “You don’t want to pressure her? She has completely memorized the way you take your tea and somehow prepares it perfectly in the shitty dining hall microwave. She genuinely prefers spending every Saturday night holed up in our dorm or out at Josie’s or pretty much anywhere just to sit next to you. She literally looks at you with stars in her eyes.”

Chuckling, Matt did his best to play coy, “Well, I can’t know about that last part–”

“You know what I mean. You have to tell her, tonight.” Foggy insisted as he made his way out of the dorm room; he pointed his finger at Matt before he fully headed out, “God forbids you actually pursue something that might make you happy. I’ll be over at Marci’s, don’t wait up for me…”

So yeah, Matt knew what he had to do. “I think I’d like to object to that… if that’s okay with you.”

At your silence– aside from the way your heartbeat continued to pick up – he proceeded, “You don’t really think there isn’t a single soul who’d honestly care for you, do you?”

His hand slowly moved from where it rested atop his lap. His knuckles gently brushed your knee and grazed your hand, guiding themselves with the line of your arm all the way up until they reached your shoulder. A small smile grew on your face and quickly turned into laughter. “Matt, are you serious?”

“I’m sorry it took me this long to tell you.” In a second, he mirrored your laughter, nodding his head. He felt the warmth of your fingers cover his other hand. “Is it okay if I– can I kiss you?”

If you recalled correctly, no one had ever asked you that, in all of your lifetime. Surely, for you, this was a first of its kind.

As soon as you said yes, dexterous fingers slid around your waist, gently coaxing you towards him, before taking off his glasses. Your body didn’t resist complying, the warmth of Matt’s chest as inviting as the feeling of his heartbeat against yours, your legs at ease around his own. 

The stubble across his neck gently brushed against your fingers, a tingling sensation that almost sent shivers down your spine. This close, there was no escaping the soft smell of soap and cinnamon from his skin or the way his breath fanned across your face. Warmth grew inside your chest as you felt the soft brush of his lips on yours, almost melting together. It was slow and languid, much like honey trickling down your tongue. You were sure it could be just as sweet too, a kind of feeling you had never felt before. 

A feeling you guessed was reciprocated if the rumble that reverberated through Matt’s throat was anything to go by. He couldn’t tell why he had waited so long to do this; all of his excuses gone the second the softest skin of your mouth met his. As far as he knew, he could stay with you like this for hours. He didn’t want to pressure you– not even when your breathing got a little faster or when your lips parted oh-so-gently to let him seek out your taste– but this much he could do.

The only reason he found to pull back was to ask you, catching his breath and brushing his thumb over your lower lip, “Does this mean I can take you out tomorrow night? We can do this properly.”

You smiled to yourself, “Only if you kiss me like that again.”

If you're here, thank you so much for reading!!! Please please please let me know what you thought - all feedback is appreciated- and consider reblogging if possible (:

[creative-frequency]

The idea of soft and amnesiac Raphael is living in my head rent-free so here you go. All thanks to certain someone.

“Seems that I may have caused some unintentional heartburn to your friend.”

Your bag hit the floor with a loud thump. Hopefully the potion bottles inside stayed unbroken.

Raphael met your shock with amusement.

He stood up from the burnt-sienna coloured lounge chair and swiped some imaginary dust off his doublet – or maybe it was Scratch’s hair.

“You’re… awake!” you yelped in horror mixed with relief.

“All thanks to your efforts, I’ve been told,” Raphael said, eyeing you with curiosity. His chestnut brown eyes were bright with no traces of sleep.

“Well, what happened to you? Why were you knocked out in the middle of the road?” you asked fervently, but deemed it best to keep some distance between you and him.

However, as he spoke, Raphael started narrowing that distance. You realised no one else was home. Gale had probably taken Scratch with him to Ramazith’s Tower. Damn Astarion for leaving you on the spot like that.

But wait, Astarion would’ve never left you to deal with a devil alone. Something unexpected was going on.

“I thought maybe you could shed some light to what happened to me,” Raphael said slowly and kept walking towards you.

“You don’t remember anything?” you asked and with Raphael faintly shaking his head in denial, you continued: “We found you on the way from Candlekeep to Baldur’s Gate. Visibly, you were unharmed, but you slept for almost three days in a row.”

If Raphael was surprised to learn of this, he didn’t show it. He stopped right in front of you and said in thought: “And you were kind enough to pick me up in your little caravan and bring me to the city.”

You swallowed, waiting for him to blow up into flames or impale you with a clawed hand any second now. “That’s correct.”

Something resembling a smile flashed on Raphael’s lips. He took your hand, bowed and brushed his lips over the back of your hand. You winced in surprise.

“Thank you, my dear. I am in your debt.”

Your head was spinning. Whoever this man was, he was only Raphael in looks, scent, mannerisms and voice.

“U-uhm. Of course, I could never leave you– I mean, anyone on the side of the road like that,” you managed to explain in a shaky voice.

Raphael smirked at your slip up and let go. The back of your hand was almost burning and you had to take a glance to make sure he hadn’t caused a burn mark.

[erimeows]

Knowing (NSFW)

The night that Vogler gets voted off the board, Wilson drives back up to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in the pouring rain to go celebrate with Chase, Foreman, and House in the latter’s office. Wilson, whose position was conveniently reinstated by Cuddy and the rest of the board, brings a bottle of whiskey in for the four of them to split between the shot glasses he knows House keeps in his desk drawer.

They stay there, making fun of Vogler and chatting away until half past midnight. Chase and Foreman excuse themselves around the same time. 

“And then there were two,” Wilson chimes with a half smile as he screws the lid back onto the glass whiskey bottle and slides it under House’s desk. He doesn’t drink much- hardly drank any of it tonight- so he figures House will get more use out of it than he ever will. “How are you feeling?”

“Think they’re going home together?” House hums, totally ignoring Wilson’s question. House is shaken due to that day’s happenings and just refuses to admit it to anyone- even himself. It makes sense that he won’t acknowledge it. “I could’ve sworn there was some tension recently.”

“I think that has more to do with the fact that you had them at each other’s throats than it has to do with what you’re implying,” Wilson scoffs and shakes his head.

Wilson looks toward the window. House has the blinds open for once. Finally, even if it’s only for tonight, House isn’t closing off the rest of the world.

Wilson stands from where he’s sat in front of House’s desk so he can go to peer out the window. Rain continuously showers over the building and trickles down the window in big fat drops to shroud their already-foggy view of the city. 

“Ah, you’re no fun,” House feigns a pout and lifts himself from his spinning chair so he can slip his big coat over his shoulders. A few awkward seconds pass. Wilson waits for House to inevitably make his exit with a sarcastic farewell, but the exit never comes. Instead, House uses his cane to walk until he’s standing next to Wilson. He leans against the window and stares out at the city rather than at Wilson himself. Meanwhile, all Wilson can stare at is House. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be going home to your wife? She might get lonely without you. Poor thing.”

Wilson rolls his eyes at that. He doesn’t want his wife- he wants House. His marriage has been over since it started and at this point, he’s just waiting for Julie to serve him with papers. 

“I’m an oncologist, House, it’s not like she’s used to having me home at this time of night anyways. The only reason I’m not working right now is because I just got hired back.”

“But you could be home with her if you really wanted to,” House points out- ever so excited to correct someone, even if it’s Wilson- no, especially if it’s Wilson. The man is sadistic; always seizing the opportunity to point out somebody else’s flaws if it draws attention away from his own. By pointing out the fact that Wilson should be home with his wife right now, he draws the attention away from how he refused to keep his head down with Vogler and got Wilson fired. “And you could also be pounding that hot nurse you had lunch with if you really wanted to. I bet she’d light some candles at her apartment and put rose petals on the bed to make it real nice- a contrast from the dead bedroom you’re probably suffering from with Julie right now. So, why are you here with me when you could be with either of them? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You’re right,” Wilson shrugs. He knows better to engage with House by arguing. That’s exactly what House wants, so he refuses to play into it. He puts his own jacket on and shoots House a sharp glare. “If you’re going to be like this about it, though, I’m going home.”

Wilson goes to leave, only to feel a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to see House standing there with an unreadable expression (because even after all these years, this man is still an enigma).

“But do you want to go home to her?”

Wilson gulps and looks down, avoiding House’s prying gaze.

House reaches up to grab Wilson’s chin- to make Wilson look at him. Wilson does what he knows House wants him to and makes eye contact. Icy blue burns into light brown at the same time that Wilson’s cheeks flush pink. 

He’s had feelings for House since… Well, he doesn’t know when. One day, their friendship was just that, and the next, Wilson found himself with a notebook full of the man’s favorite things; found himself stealing glances and dreaming of things that he shouldn’t have been. Casual outings with his best friend turned into him spending his afternoons in preparation, trying on different outfits and mulling over which one would impress House the most. Peaceful nights with his wife- wives, over the years- turned into early mornings with him knelt on the floor of his bathroom, praying to God for House’s health, for House’s happiness, for House’s work, for House. Things changed so fast he couldn’t see it coming, let alone stop it.

Wilson remains lost in thought until House clears his throat, impatient. He recenters himself and meets House’s eyes again. Clearly, House reciprocates. Wilson isn’t oblivious to that. Wilson is the only person House spends time with, the only person House is interested in, the only person House has decided not to shut out. Wilson is the only person House has loved since Stacy.

But, whether or not House actually wants a relationship, Wilson has no idea. House isn’t the kind of man to hesitate. He would’ve made a move by now if he wanted it. Then again, he clearly returns Wilson’s feelings. So, if it’s not a relationship, what does House want? For them to stay in this limbo forever, wanting each other so desperately but never doing anything about it?

Wilson eyes House up and down. Still, his expression remains unreadable, but Wilson can tell that he’s tense with the way he taps his cane against the floor and purses his lips. 

“You know Julie and I haven’t been doing well. Why would I want to go home to her right now? And why does it matter to you?”

At that, House’s face falls. Wilson has successfully backed him into a corner and it’s apparent he doesn’t like it. 

“No reason.”

House backs away from Wilson like he’s on fire and retreats to his desk to gather his things. Wilson follows, unable to notice how House puts extra effort into facing away from him to hide his reddening cheeks.

“You never ask questions without a reason- you never do anything without a reason,” He argues.

“I can’t help but notice that you’re still here,” House grumbles and points up at the analogue clock on the wall. It’s almost one in the morning now. “You said you were going to leave two minutes ago, so leave.”

“You’re the one who stopped me,” Wilson shrugs. With each of these tense, awkward interactions, he feels as if he and House are getting progressively closer to something big. But then nothing happens, and he’s left disappointed like he is every other time. “You should be getting home, too. It’s late.”

“Ooh, so we can leave together,” House smirks and clacks his cane against the floor again. “I love it.”

Wilson flinches at a crack of thunder that booms through the sky.

“Are you sure you should drive in this?” He asks in reference to the downpour outside.

“What, are you gonna offer to chauffeur me to my place and then make that drive all the way back to yours?”

“No,” Wilson answers with a shake of his head. “I was gonna ask if I could drive us both to your apartment and stay with you tonight.”

“Wow, you’re really trying to get in my pants, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Wilson snaps. House blinks in what Wilson assumes is surprise. “You’re not a genius for figuring that one out; I’ve only been interested for a decade. So what?”

House pauses, standing behind his desk and staring at Wilson with a twinkle in his icy blue eyes. The tension in the room becomes so thick that it’s palpable until House walks towards the door of his office and utters one sentence.

“I don’t sleep with married men.”

Then, he shoots Wilson a wink and a smile before gingerly exiting the office, leaving nothing more than a confused and disappointed oncologist. Wilson sighs and looks at the clock again.

It’s one in the morning. He should be getting home.

~

A few months pass. Wilson moves out of the apartment he shared with Julie, which she doesn’t question. He also gets together with a lawyer and gets her served with divorce papers. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t question that either, and when he goes back to the apartment for the rest of his things, he’s not shocked by the fact that there’s another car in his parking space and a pair of men’s steel-toed boots by the front door. 

As much as Wilson could complain about acquiring a third alimony payment, he’s so relieved that it’s over that he doesn’t think to do so. Instead, he makes copies of all the documents pertaining to the divorce, storms into House’s office, and throws them down onto the diagnostician’s desk. 

House, who was sitting in his chair and bouncing his tennis ball on the floor, glances up at Wilson with a half-smile.

“What’s this? STD test results? I knew your panty-peeling ways would catch up to you eventually,” House jokes before picking up the stack of papers and staring down at it. Upon reading the words, his eyes go wide. “You really did it…”

“I’m not a married man anymore,” Wilson smirks. “What now?”

House tilts his head. His small half of a smile morphs into a large, cheshire grin.

“I don’t sleep with people who know me.”

“Really? That’s it? Not ‘I’m not gay’?” Wilson sputters. House must be coming up with excuses to avoid the inevitable at this point- either that or just trying to fuck with him for the fun of it. They love each other, and they both know they love each other, but that was never the problem. It’s always been House and whatever reservations he has back in that complicated head of his. “That’s your reason, that you know me?”

“Yes,” House nods and tosses the copies of Wilson’s divorce papers into the trash can next to his desk. Then, he starts spinning in his chair like a child and tosses his tennis ball in Wilson’s direction. Wilson barely catches it. “And I’ve never confirmed or denied the thing about being gay- I like to keep people on their toes, keep ‘em guessing.”

“You like to keep people on their toes, huh? That’s one hell of an understatement. What about Cuddy? Or Stacy? And I’m pretty sure you’ve at least considered Cameron. You know all of them.”

“Sure I do, but they don’t know me,” House explains and crosses his arms. “You, however, do.”

“And you don’t sleep with people who know you- you won’t risk being with me even though we have these feelings for each other-” Wilson pauses, pointing at himself as he puts it together. “Because you’re afraid of being known.”

“No. I just know better than to mix being known with the terrible thing that is my sex life. Why are you so insistent on making this a me problem?” House demands. While it’s apparent that he’s trying to maintain his composure, Wilson has known the man long enough to tell that he’s frazzled as he looks for his cane. Upon locating it, House grabs it from where it fell onto the floor at some point and gets up from his chair. “Is it because you don’t want to admit that it could be you?”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Wilson huffs. He throws his hands up in frustration and furrows his brow in anger. House starts to walk like he’s going to go past Wilson and to the door of his office, so Wilson blocks his way by moving in front of him. House shoots a glare that would work on just about anyone else- that would make Cameron or Chase or Foreman or any of House’s clinic patients turn their backs and walk away- but Wilson hasn’t been friends with House for over a decade by walking away from him. “You just admitted it was you and the weird prerequisites that you have for your sexual partners!”

“Well, you’ve had three failed marriages and you’re the only common denominator, so are we going to sit here and pretend that I’m the problem in this relationship?”

“I know I’m not perfect, you idiot- we’re both the problem!”

“Listen, Wilson, we’re at work and I’m sure you’ve got a ton of dying bald little freaks to save,” House says with a harsh tap of his cane to the floor for emphasis. 

“You’re fucked up.”

“I know. We both are,” House says and leans down to Wilson’s ear, daring to nip on the lobe. A flash of heat tears through Wilson’s spine. He can’t remember the last time he was so enthralled with someone; was it during his marriages? No, he would’ve remembered. Before House? Or was it always House? He’s so close that Wilson can smell past the cologne he wears and the shampoo he puts in his hair to get the scent of him, just him. Wilson knows his eyes are wide as House whispers in his ear. “Now get back to work. Or, if you’re just going to spend the rest of your shift thinking about me anyway, go home where you can fantasize about what I’m like in bed without getting interrupted.”

House, thinking he’s won this, side-steps as smoothly as he can given his infarction and goes to take another step forward so he can briskly escape this tense situation. Wilson, however, doesn’t intend on letting House escape. He’s always been good at surprising House, which he does yet again when he entangles his fingers in the loose ends of House’s hair and moves closer until they’re chest to chest. He waits for House to push him away, to say something, to tell Wilson that he doesn’t want this for some other stupid reason he’s come up with to push Wilson away for the millionth time.

Silence ensues. House doesn’t speak, just remains perfectly still with his back pin straight and his icy blue eyes trained on Wilson. He’s just holding his breath, watching, waiting for the oncologist to make the next move. Wilson enjoys the moment for what it is; being this close to House and being able to touch him isn’t something he’s ever gotten to partake in. 

House’s hair is peppery in color and a little coarse, and the ends are grown out so he has a couple small curls at the base of his neck. He’s long overdue for a hair cut. Wilson runs his fingers through it and revels in the sensation of his chest against House’s. 

He wonders what it would be like if they were at House’s apartment and not surrounded by the staff of the hospital walking by. He thinks about what this would feel like without the layers of clothes between them. He imagines what House would sound like if they weren’t standing here at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital staring each other down- if they were in House’s queen-sized bed, mouths on each other’s, hands roaming bodies and sweat staining House’s dark blue bed sheets.

“Tell me you don’t love me, or that I’m ugly, or that I have too much baggage. Tell me something- anything- about me that’s so bad that you don’t want this,” Wilson commands. “Tell me that I’ve put on too much weight since my second divorce, that my savior-complex is annoying, that I’m a serial cheater, that I always put your empty cereal boxes back in the pantry after I finish off the bag, anything. Please.”

“It’s not-” House starts with a quizzical expression, only for Wilson to quickly interject.

“Not about you or your fears. Give me a good, valid reason you don’t want me, and I’ll stop. I’ll leave, we can go back to being normal friends- hell, you can choose not to talk to me ever again- and that’ll be the end of it. But I’m not going to walk away knowing that you want me just as much as I want you. I can’t do that to us, House.”

“I…”

House looks anywhere but at Wilson now; the clock on the wall, the cane in his hand, the floor, Wilson’s stupid pink tie. He can’t do it and they both know that. Wilson isn’t surprised. What he is surprised by is how House kisses his forehead so tenderly. Wilson almost doesn’t believe it’s him doing it… and then it’s his nose, and his cheek, and finally, House is kissing him on the lips, slow and sweet.

Wilson hesitantly kisses back. It doesn’t seem real, but it is. It must be real if the large hand squeezing his waist and the stubble brushing against his chin are anything to go off of. He pulls away just enough to whisper against House’s lips.

“We’re at work. Shouldn’t you stop now?”

“Yes,” House breathes, even as he goes in for another kiss, and then another, as if he’ll die without; as if he’s drowning and Wilson is his only source of air. Wilson accepts it, craves it, allows himself to be taken in and kissed until he’s out of breath and his lips are bruised. It quickly escalates into something that he knows he’d get fired for at any other hospital. Briefly, he worries about people walking past and seeing this through the glass door of House’s office until he realizes that he wants them to see. He wants them to see that no, his devotion to House isn’t meaningless- that their relationship does mean something, that House can and will feel love for the right person, and that Wilson is the only one worthy of said love. “I should.”

“But you’re not going to?” Wilson laughs.

“No, I’m not,” House says and dips for another peck between sentences. “Fuck, I don’t think I could stop this even if I wanted to.”

“Then shut the blinds, lock your office door, and bend over the desk.”

~

A couple more weeks pass. Some days, they sleep together. Some days, they don’t. Regardless, things are the same as they always have been minus the sex.

Wilson should be disappointed. He wanted House to open up and he wanted them to connect, to have a real relationship. But right now…

Well, he can’t bring himself to be disappointed when they’re like this, having just finished. 

He’d seen House naked many times before; it’s hard not to when you’re friends with someone for so long. He can’t even count the number of times he’s accidentally walked in on House jerking off or pinned to his couch by some random hooker. He can count the number of times the pain has been so bad that House has needed help with things as basic as getting dressed or getting in and out of the shower. It was never like this, though, with House underneath him, back arching off his bed. The older man’s icy blue eyes are shut with his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He’s flushed dark pink from his head to the center of his narrow chest, which rapidly rises and falls with every labored breath he takes.

The mattress they’re on is an old, creaky piece of shit that creaks when Wilson carefully rests his weight on top of House. They’re covered in sweat and cum and god knows what else.

“Look at me,” Wilson pleads. House does just that, forcing his eyes open enough to meet Wilson’s. His pupils are blown wide and though it’s clear he’s drowning in their shared pleasure, Wilson can’t read much else. Is House just as enraptured by Wilson as Wilson is by him? Is House hoping he’ll stay after they clean up? “You’re beautiful… So beautiful.”

“And you’re cringeworthy. We’re in my bed, not The Notebook,” House references with a half-hearted roll of his eyes and a playful smack of one hand against Wilson’s shoulder. “So shut up and get off of me.”

Wilson does as told and rolls off of House, onto the bed. He’s learned where House keeps everything so that House can just lie there and let Wilson clean the both of them up on nights like this. They never have sex at Wilson’s as Wilson is living in a hotel following the divorce and has yet to settle into a new place of his own. 

He settles on his side next to House with his head on one of the pillows. There used to be one, but Wilson noticed after the first night he came over to do this, House bought another. Still, he hasn’t asked Wilson to stay the night. Wilson wonders if House even wants him to. Then again, there’s a lot of things he wonders about House. 

Wilson stares at House, who is still on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He already has his boxers back on which makes Wilson self conscious enough to grab his from the floor and put them on as well. 

Wilson wishes he knew what was running through the man’s mind right now. He’s quiet, contemplative, and serious in a way that’s out of character for him. Usually it’s awkward enough that Wilson leaves, and they pretend this never happened (until the next time it happens), but Wilson is growing weary of this cycle they’ve created over the last few weeks. Instead of quickly dressing himself and leaving, he gets back into the bed and pulls one of House’s large blankets over the two of them. House’s eyes widen. His gaze flickers to Wilson; questioning, cautious.

“There’s more I wish I knew about you,” Wilson softly murmurs. “More I wish you’d tell me. Things I’d ask about if I thought I could actually get an honest answer out of you.”

House furrows his brow.

“Like what?”

“Will you answer me honestly?”

“Depends on what you wanna know,” House answers.

Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, Wilson worms his way between one of House’s arms and his body so he can rest his head on the man’s chest. House tenses at first before relaxing his muscles and wrapping his arm around Wilson’s body to return the affection.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this… A few months ago, you lied to me about that transplant patient- Carly Forlano- you lied to all of us.”

“Who was that again?” House questions. 

Wilson doesn’t know if he’s serious or not.

“That business woman who came in with a ton of problems and ended up in congestive heart failure despite being perfectly healthy. You lied-”

“I like to call it ‘spinning the truth’.”

“So? What was wrong with the patient that met the exclusion criteria for the transplant list anyway? We both know that Chase figured it out and ratted to Vogler and Cuddy during her surgery.”

“She was taking Ipepac,” House says after a long pause, to which Wilson blinks up at him with confusion written on his face.

“You mean she took it once? There’s no way one use would cause that kind of damage to someone so young unless-”

“She said ‘maybe three times a week’. She was bulimic- or, is bulimic- who knows,” House shrugs as much as he can do so considering that Wilson’s weight is on top of him. Still, the expression on his face is unreadable. Wilson remains baffled; why would he lie for her? Why would he take the chance with his medical license by lying like that? Did he have some sort of personal connection with her, or was it just for the sake of solving one of his cases? Just to prove to himself that he was right? “But when bulimics give you a number for the amount they’re purging, it’s usually much more than what they’re actually willing to admit out loud, so I’d bank on it being at least once a day.”

“She’s a smart woman; smart enough to know the kind of damage that could do to her heart, and she did it anyway,” Wilson huffs. He knows everyone copes with stress differently, but he also remembers being very frustrated with that patient while she was in their care. She would use her cell phone during important texting and prioritize her many business calls over her health. Worst of all, she tried to rush herself out of the hospital to get back to work, assuming nothing was seriously wrong and that it was just a random one time health scare at first. If not for the staff’s insistence that she stay, she would’ve died from heart failure. “So why the hell would you grant her the transplant? Better yet, why would you lie to everyone to get her that transplant and risk your job- your medical license? You said you thought you were doing what’s right when we talked about it the first time.”

“I did, because that’s what I thought, and I still think that.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said I saw a bit of you in that patient?”

At that, Wilson gets off of House and sits up in the bed to stare down at the man, whose expression is unreadable as ever. 

“House, I’m not-”

“I know you’re not bulimic, but you’re great at making the worst possible choices for yourself at every turn and ruining your otherwise very accomplished life. That’s another form of self-harm in itself,” House says, sitting up as well. Wilson doesn’t miss the wince that momentarily takes over the other man’s face as he grabs his leg in pain from performing the motion. “Going into oncology even though it makes you miserable, jumping into three marriages that you knew weren’t going to work out, beating up that guy over a Billy Joel song at a bar during an important medical conference, allowing me to befriend you-”

“-you bailed me out of jail, what was I-”

“Staying as my friend even after the conference, allowing me to seep into your personal life and ruin aspect of it, and better yet, your professional life, too!”

“I still have a job and a good reputation, so-”

“Sure, because you got lucky with Cuddy pulling the plug on Vogler, which you had no way of knowing she would do. If that hadn’t happened, your little gesture of voting to keep me on staff even though you knew you’d get canned too still would’ve played out the way it was supposed to. You would’ve been fucked.”

“And what you’re saying is?” Wilson sighs. 

“Everyone else in my life; they’re sane enough to not want to deal with me the way I am but crazy enough to try and fix me. You, on the other hand, are sane enough to know I can’t be fixed but crazy enough to stay with me anyway. Even though you’ve made the mistake of getting to know me, you’re still here,” Silence. Wilson isn’t sure what to say, so he tentatively reaches out. House holds his hand and intertwines their fingers with a bittersweet smile. “Nothing to say?”

“Well… What’s so bad about knowing you?”

“Being known is simultaneously one of the best and worst things that could happen to someone. When it works out, it’s great, and when it doesn’t work out, it’s not… And let’s not pretend I’m not a huge asshole. It’s a miracle you’re still friends with me after all these years.”

“That’s all it is?” Wilson asks, to which House nods. “I don’t get it, then. We’ve been friends for a long time, House, you know I can take whatever you can dish out… Unless… Are you afraid I’m going to leave?”

“We could be naive enough to sit here and assume that things are always going to be this way; that we’ll always catch each other when we fall, but people fall out of love. People turn their backs, and they let each other fall. People grow and change and before you know it, your best friend becomes a stranger, and you don’t know them like you thought you did,” House drops Wilson’s hand and turns around to toss both of his legs over the side of the bed. Again, he winces from the pain caused by his infarction. It looks like he wants to stand to leave the room for something but can’t gather the strength to do so. “We’ve both had it happen to us before, and you know it’s real. You’ve been through three marriages and I’ve ran through plenty of relationships in the last few decades. You’re just making the worst possible decision for yourself yet again by throwing yourself into the pits with me.”

“But that’s my decision to make. Whether or not we do anything about our feelings doesn’t change them. There’s no stopping this, at least not for me,” Wilson insists and rushes to stand up so he can go around the side of the bed and offer his hands.

House refuses to take them, refuses to accept the help. The older man fumbles around until he manages to retrieve his cane from where he abandoned it on the floor earlier. Instead of using Wilson as leverage, he uses his cane and stands from the bed to walk towards the door of the bedroom. Wilson follows him into the kitchen in wait of a response.

“You’re not scared at all?”

“Of course I’m scared! I’m terrified. I’ve seen our track records with relationships, but… If it means that I get to be with you, I can be scared and still put my best foot forward, to try and make this work. I’m in love with you, Greg House.”

House walks towards the fridge without a word. Again, Wilson follows in wait of a response, this time wrapping his arms around House’s waist and resting his chin on the man’s shoulder from behind.

“You’re persistent.”

“So? You’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep making me wait on you. Seriously, it’s been over a decade of this nonsense with two weeks of confusing sex stacked on top of it,” Wilson scolds. House just looks back at him as if he’s not sure this is real. “So? What do you say?” “I say… I’m in love with you too, James Wilson,” House chuckles, reaches into the fridge, and grabs a beer for each of them with a large grin. “Good luck.”

[scenezfreak]

hiii, can you please do EJ x reader x jeff (poly) where reader has vasovagal syncope (basically that she faints a lot or gets really light headed all the time ) I have it and it really stresses me out so I was wondering how they would react.

thankss 💕

A/N: Of course I can! I don’t know much about this so I had to research it a bit- sorry if things aren’t correct!

Also make sure you stay safe, my love <3

Jeff the killer x Reader X EJ with an

s/o with vasovagal syncope

Warnings: Fainting/passing out

NOT PROOF READ, MINORS DNI

Jeff and EJ were steady talking to each other about useless crap, more like arguing.. “I clearly got the last kill” you’d hear Jeff and his huge ego say. EJ sighed in return, trying to ignore him. You honestly don’t know what happened next..them arguing was stressful as always but this time it felt different. where you having an episode..oh gods. Your head felt fuzzy and you felt detached from the two men that were less than 5 feet away.

"cut it out.." you murmured, obviously they didn't hear you. What idiots. You sighed and got up to get water, deciding it'd be nice to get away from them a bit and maybe it could clear the cloud in your head.

Perhaps you got up too fast because now the world seemed to be spinning. You quickly grabbed your head and the last thing you remember was landing onto something soft. Anything after that is history.

~

"Y/N!!!" Jeff yelled but not too loudly as he reached his arm to you, EJ being turned away from Jeff from their recent argument took a second to fully turn around to the situation. You landed safely in Jeff’s arms and he turned to EJ. They both knew you had this condition and didn’t mind helping you at all. EJ silently took you from Jeff’s grip, who seemed reluctant to let go but EJ was smarter in this stuff than him. EJ laid you down on the bed.

“She’ll need water when she wakes up.” EJ said as he pet your head. Jeff didn’t hesitate to run out of the room to get some water from the fridge. When he got back you were starting to wake up, EJ telling you not to sit up too fast. Jeff opened the water bottle and helped you drink from it as EJ rubbed your back gently. “Thank you..” you said softly, scared that you upset them.

“No need to think us, we don’t mind helping you at all.” EJ stated, he brought you into a soft hug before laying you back down. “I’m sorry for stressing you out by arguin’ with Jack.” Jeff looked away, setting the now closed water bottle onto the bedside table. You huffed out a laugh, Jeff was actually apologizing? “What!? Don’t laugh!” He said, EJ stood up and laughed a bit too and patted Jeff on the shoulder.

“I’m going to get started on dinner. Keep an eye on her and call me if anything happens.” With that he walked out of the bedroom to get started on dinner. Jeff walked over and sat on the bed next to you. “You okay?” He hesitantly asked. You nodded, “I’m so lucky you guys were there..” Jeff smiled and ruffled your hair, “We’d never let anything hurt you, darling.”

[the-torchwood-archive]

From TWM #9, Harm's Way Part Two.

Full text is under the cut. This was a quick transcription so please let me know if you find any mistakes.

The hospital was busy. Crowded, in fact. But Rhys barely noticed. He walked up to the reception desk in A&E in a daze, although he could still feel his guts churning.

‘I’m here for Gwen Cooper,’ he said, his mouth dry as paper. ‘She’s my fiancée. I had a call…’

He left the words to die, allowing the haunted look in his eyes convince the pretty girl behind the triage desk. Without a word, the girl cast her eyes down at her VDU and began to rattle the keyboard.

‘Room seven,’ she said, without a smile. There wasn’t much to smile about in a city centre casualty department on Saturday night, ‘Through the double doors, straight on, then left. Next set of doors. You can’t miss it. Ask if you do.’

‘Thanks,’ Rhys threaded his way through the sick and injured as they milled around the waiting area coffee machine.  Rhys passed a miserable looking man sitting up on a gurney in the corner, nursing a hand wrapped in a blood-stained tea towel. His wife was standing nearby, nagging him about being more careful when using a bread knife – and what was he thinking, using it to open a cereal box anyway? Judging by the look on the man’s face as he glared at the woman, he was already thinking about another good use for a bread knife.

Rhys found room seven and went in. There was a bad and a low chair and a strong antiseptic smell. In the bed was a woman, with dark hair pulled back from a face as white as the pillow. Plastic tubes ran from the woman’s nose to a series of bottles and instruments, and an intravenous drip was connected to her arm. It took him a few moments to realize that the pale, injured person in the bed was his fiancée.

Gwen’s eyes were closed, her face slack, no sign of life. Until now, Rhys had never properly thought of the word ‘deathly’ before.

‘Gwen?’ he whispered.

No response, not even a flicker of an eyelid. Oh, God.

He sat down, slowly, in the chair. It was far too low, but it brought his eyes level with her face. In profile she looked even less like the Gwen he knew. White-faced, still, lifeless.

On the far side of the bed, a machine clicked and whirred with a doleful rhythm. For a long while there was no other sound in the room, or even the hospital beyond. No other sound in the whole world, until a footstep alerted Rhys to the fact that there was someone in the doorway.

‘She’s gonna be ok,’ said Captain Jack Harkness. He came into the room, tall, athletic, healthy. He even managed to make that old RAF greatcoat look good. And in that instant, Rhys hated him more than he had ever hated any other human being in his life.

‘Ok?’ Rhys spat the letters out one by one, his face twisted into a derisive sneer, ‘What do you mean ok? Look at her!’ Rhys was on his feet now, fully intending to lash out, but then his legs seem to give way and he slumped back down into the low chair, his voice cracking, ‘Look at her, look what you’ve done to her you stupid…’

Jack put his hand on Rhys' shoulder, ‘I said she’s going to be okay. I promise.’

‘How can you know that?’ Rhys said thickly. His face was in his hands, ‘She’s in a bloody hospital bed for Christ’s sake.’

They both looked at each other then. She hadn’t moved throughout the exchange, hadn’t acknowledged their presence in any way whatsoever. The machines continued their steady hiss and beep.

Rhys looked up at Jack with red eyes, ‘What happened? Just tell me what the hell happened.’

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

Owen was driving at breakneck speed.

‘Have you still got a death wish or something?’ asked Ianto, clinging onto the passenger seat arm rests as Owen swung the Torchwood SUV into another wild turn. The vehicle rocked on its suspension as it scrambled over the uneven ground.

‘Life wish,’ Owen corrected him, stamping on the footbrake and spinning the wheel. The SUV skidded on its own axis and then surged forward, ‘Saving lives is what I want to do, and I can’t afford to go slow.’

Ianto closed his eyes as the SUV came to a hard stop in the middle of a building site. This was going to be a supermarket, but right now it was little more than a big expanse of dirt, foundation trenches and large plastic components for the sewers. There were a couple of pieces of heavy plant machinery here and there, but apart from that the place was dead.

Above them the early evening clouds promised rain. Lots of it.

‘You’re in the right place,’ said Toshiko, who was back in the Hub, her voice coming clear over Ianto’s communications link. He thanked her and passed the message on to Owen, who wasn’t wearing his own earpiece because half his face was covered by a huge surgical dressing. The exposed skin of his lips and cheek were raw and swollen and his left eye was barely open.

Ianto grabbed his arm before he opened the car door, ‘ Owen, you don’t have to prove anything to me.’

‘I know that,’ Owen snapped as he got out. He was hurting, but Ianto knew there was more to it than a fractured cheek bone. He had insisted on patching himself up before leaving the Hub, despite the protestations of his collogues.

Toshiko’s voice came through Ianto’s comms again, ‘You’re close to the Rift disturbance now. You should be able to locate the exact spot from there.’

‘Ok,’ Ianto said, activating his PDA. As he waited for the device to decipher the readings, he asked Toshiko for news about Gwen.

‘She’s stable, that’s all the hospital would tell Jack,’ came the reply, ‘He’s there now, deflecting questions from the police.’

Ianto’s PDA chirruped as it picked up a chronon flare, ‘ Rift activity,’ he reported automatically, ‘This way Doctor Harper…’

Owen followed him across the building site, drawing his gun. Ianto glanced back at him and Owen shrugged. Guns hadn’t had much of an effect so far but he felt better with one in his hand.

They climbed over a pile of rubble and stopped short. Lying in the middle of the ground was a long, amber crust about the size and shape of a coffin. It looked exactly like what it actually was: a giant chrysalis.

‘Empty,’ grunted Owen, circling cautiously.

‘No life signs at all,’ reported Ianto, checking the PDA sensor.

‘You can say that again,’ Owen looked down at the ground. Laying at his feet was the body of a man in a hi-vis jacket caked in mug, and a hard hat split open to reveal a mass of congealed hair and brain matter.

‘Oh no,’ said Ianto.

There were other bodies laying around, half hidden in the dirt, looking like bundles of rags left out in the rain. One of them had been decapitated.

‘Builders must have found the chrysalis,’ Owen said, ‘Poor bastards never stood a chance.’

Ianto nodded and touched his earpiece, ‘Tosh? We’ve found it all right. It’s another chrysalis, identical to the first. But this one’s already open.’

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

‘The first one came down in a back garden in Pontcanna,’ said Jack, ‘We took it to the Hub for analysis and identified it as some sort of alien chrysalis.’

Rhys watched him carefully. Jack was leaning back against the far wall, striped by the light from the street lamps outside, sneaking in through the Venetian blinds. He wasn’t smiling and his eyes were the colour of storm clouds. The words severe weather warning leapt into Rhy’s mind.

‘It wasn’t long before it opened. What came out was…hostile.’

Rhys looked back at Gwen. She was still unconscious. He was beginning to worry that it was a coma or something. ‘It escaped…’ he heard Jack say, ‘Injuring Owen, Ianto and Gwen in the process.’

‘But not you,’ Rhys said without looking up, his voice full of ice-cold anger.

‘Believe me, if I could swap places with her, I would.’

Rhys stood up, ‘I knew this was going to happen. I bloody knew it! I said to her only this morning, I said: you’re going to get hurt, Gwen. You’re going to get hurt or killed running around after Captain Jack Harkness and Torchwood, and chasing bloody space aliens!’

He yelled he last bit, just as a nurse walked in to check on Gwen. She glanced at Jack, excused herself with a self-conscious smile, and went about her business fixing a fresh saline bag to the IV drip. The two men watched her in thunderous silence. Rhys wanted to ask her if Gwen was going to be alright, but didn’t trust himself to speak properly now. There was a great big, spiky ball of emotion swelling up inside his throat. Eventually the nurse went out, and Rhys turned on Jack again, ‘So what happens now?’

‘The doctors said she’s suffering from a concussion,’ Jack said, ‘X-rays showed a hairline fracture of the skull. There are some cracked ribs too,’ He sighed, ‘To be honest, it could have been worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘She could have been killed!’ Now, suddenly, Jack had lost his cool as well, as if his calm demeanor of a few moments ago had been little more than a thin mask covering his real emotions. His voice shook slightly as he repeated, almost hoarsely, ‘She could have been killed.’

But for Rhys that just made things worse. He glared at Jack, ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t wish it was you lying there?’ He jabbed a finger at the silent, unmoving figure in the bed.

Two more nurses came in then, both looking straight at Jack. One of them was the nurse who’d just been in, and clearly she had gone to fetch a friend. The friend’s eyes roved Jack up and down in expert appraisal. Jack smiled at them both, but the nurses knew they had just walked into an argument, ‘Listen, you boys,’ said the first nurse, ‘It’s not going to do this young lady any good to hear you two arguing over her, is it?’

‘We’re not – ‘ both men began, and then stopped abruptly, neither one wanting to look as if they were doing just that.

‘I’m not in love with her,’ Jack said quietly, at exactly the same time as Rhys said, ‘She’s my fiancée.’

The nurse sighed, ‘ Why don’t you both go outside and cool off a bit?’

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

‘Is she going to be ok?’ Rhys asked as they were ushered into the corridor.

‘She’s hurt and she needs time to heal. She’s in the best possible place, honestly,’ the nurse smiled at him, ‘Go and get a cup of tea or something. We’ll let you know as soon as she wakes up.’

Rhys nodded dumbly, all the fight gone out of him now. Eventually he became aware of Jack taking a call on his earpiece.

‘Tosh? What gives?’

‘Owen and Ianto have found a second chrysalis.’

‘Damn.’

‘And it’s open.’

‘Damn!’

‘There are already fatalities, Jack…’

‘Damn!’ Jack took a deep breath, ‘Ok, we’ve gotta find it before it kills again. We stopped the first one so we can stop this one.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll think of something. Get them to pick me up from the hospital.’

‘Ok. How’s Gwen?’

‘Just the same. Rhys is with her now.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah,’ Jack closed the call and turned back to Rhys, ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘I heard. Chasing aliens.’

‘Someone’s got to do it.’

It was said without a hint of irony, and Rhys was too tired and worried to care. But something made him ask, ‘How did you stop it, in the end? The thing that got Gwen?’

He wanted to hear how Jack and the team had made the beast pay for what it had done, but Jack simply shook his head, ‘We didn’t stop it, not really. The alien was looking for the exit when I crawled out of the autopsy room. But the Hub’s a sealed environment designed to stop hostile extraterrestrial forces from escaping into the real world. So the thing wasn’t exactly happy. It was flinging itself around, smashing into walls, wrecking the place.’

‘Sounds like some kind of wild animal,’ Rhys was almost relieved, as if Gwen’s condition could be excused as an accident of nature, rather than a deliberate attack by an intelligent force.

‘I’m not so sure,’ Jack frowned, ‘I looked into its eyes at one point. It was looking right back at me. And it knew. It knew I was gonna try to stop it.’

Rhys swallowed, feeling a bilious mix of fear and rage churning in his stomach, ‘So…?’

‘Ianto had an idea – a one shot chance at stopping it in its tracks for good. He said the creature was a predator, and naturally armoured, but there’s always a week spot. He reckoned every time it opened its mouth, there was a soft unprotected part of the palate that was exposed. A bullet through that would pass, relatively unobstructed, straight into the brain. It was a kill shot, but one requiring absolute precision in difficult circumstances. The target would be exposed for only a second as the creature roared, and then it would be right on top of you. If you hadn’t got it by then, you’d be dead meat yourself.’

Rhys reguarded Jack with genuine respect, ‘And you did it?’

Jack laughed, ‘Are you kidding? Hey, I’m good – but I’m not that good.’

‘So…?’

‘Luckily Tosh had a better idea; we lured the alien to the Rift manipulator and she hot-wired a small, highly localised time field. Slowed down a discrete pocket of time surrounding the creature. Now it’s still alive – just moving real slow. Tosh says the effect won’t last long, though. When the time-field snaps, back in line with everything else, the creature will just carry on doing exactly what it was in the middle of. Before then we have to find a way to stop it permanently.’

‘Well you’ve got another chance to find a way now, haven’t you? If there’s another one on the loose.’

‘Yeah, maybe. But how many people is it gonna kill before we find it?’ Jack’s earpiece bleeped, ‘ They’re here. I’ve gotta go.”

Rhys nodded, ‘I’ll stay here with Gwen. I want to be the first thing she sees when she wakes up,’ he held out his hand, ‘Good luck.’

Jack saluted with his fingertips and then left without another word.

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

‘We’ve got a fix, somewhere in Grangetown,’ said Ianto as Jack climbed into the SUV. It had clouded over and rain was in its way.

Owen tooled the car out of the hospital grounds and accelerated westbound onto Eastern Avenue.

‘It’s heading for the city,’ Ianto said, studying the flat screen in front of him. The light gave his face a soft blue pallor. The bruise on his forehead looked purple and sore.

‘Mouth shot, huh?’ said Jack.

Ianto looked at him, ‘It was only an idea.’

‘Not one of your best, Ianto,’ commented Owen.

‘At the moment it’s all we’ve got,’ Jack opened the cylinder on his old Webley revolver, checked it was fully loaded, then snapped it shut. He turned around to look at Ianto, ‘When we catch up with this guy, you can be the one to ask it to open wide for me, ok?’

Ianto raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

‘Police report on a traffic pile up near the Taff Embankment on Penarth Road,’ Owen announced. His earpiece was not jammed into his good ear and tuned to the police network.

‘So take a detour.’

‘You don’t understand. The thing that caused the pile up – cops are calling it some kind of nine-foot monster. First car hit it square on and bounced off. Then it wrecked the other vehicles and threw a lorry into the river.’

Jack’s face hardened, ‘Step on it.’

In the Hub, deep beneath Roald Dahl Plass, Toshiko took a moment to admire her handiwork. By using the Rift manipulator to bend the laws of physics, Toshiko had slowed time down in a bubble around the alien. It was a peculiar effect, the beast had paused like a snapshot suspended in mid-air. But, unlike the image on a TV screen, if you watched it carefully, you could still see the alien moving, as slowly – or as quickly – as the hour hand on a watch.

‘Bullet time,’ Ianto had said. He’s still been clutching the big Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle, ‘Why don’t we shoot it now?’

‘Because as soon as the bullet enters the protracted tachyon field it’ll slow right down as well,’ Tosh had told him, ‘And besides, it’s mouth is closed.’

The sound of police sirens filled the Hub, relayed via the comms link in the SUV as it sped towards the city centre. Soon Jack’s voice had also crackled through the air, and Tosh heard him loud and clear as he made his way into the growing chaos, ‘Get these people out of the way! This is Torchwood! We’re dealing with the situation now.’

Toshiko shook her head. Were they? As usual they seemed to be reacting to events rather than controlling them. She had just realized a whole branch of theoretical physics at a moments notice, and there wasn’t even time to appreciate it. But Torchwood never paused, not even for thought. Everything they did was fast, reactive, and above all secret. This was the 21st Century. Everything was changing and  they had to be ready.

‘Tosh, are you getting me?’ Jack’s voice snapped Toshiko out of her reverie. ‘I hear you Jack. Go ahead.’

‘We’re closing in on the second alien. It’s having some kinda tantrum in the city centre. We’ll stay online and keep you informed. See if you can come up with anything that can help.

‘Like a bloody big gun,’ suggested Owen, crackling over the speakers.

Tosh touched her earpiece, ‘Jack, I don’t know if it’s any use, but –‘

‘There it is!’ She heard Jack’s voice cutting across her. The speakers made his voice crackle and distort, ‘Hang a left. Whoa! It’s on top of that bus! Hey, it’s grown. Man, that’s one big guy…’

Toshiko almost screamed in frustration. She couldn’t see a thing. With one hand she was trying to punch up CCTV images from the city centre on her monitors, but it was murderously slow business.

‘How could it get that big?’ asked Ianto.

‘Will it ever stop growing?’ Owen pitched in, ‘I mean, are we talking a Godzilla scenario, or what?’

Tosh began to feel the cold dread building up inside her. She felt totally cut off from the events, helpless as she listened to them. What could she do? The slo-mo monster in the time bubble wasn’t going to wait forever. And neither was its twin, the thing that was already carving a bloody path through central Cardiff.

‘It’s tearing cars in half with its bare hands,’ she heard Ianto’s voice, ‘There are armed police, but they can’t do any good.’

‘I’m gonna find their commanding officer,’ Jack said, ‘We’ve got the pull them back, right out of harm’s way.’

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

Toshiko heard a crash, like a car accident, and them more shouting. Shots were fired. There were screams. Impatiently she rapped at her earpiece with her fingers, ‘Jack?’

‘Busy now, Tosh,’ came the reply. A pause, then the sound of more shots. Men shouting. Jack’s voice snapping out orders, presumably to the police. It sounded like he was reporting from a war zone. Suddenly there was silence. Then: ‘Ok, Toshiko. What have you got for me? Make it good.’

‘I’ve been looking at the chrysalis, Jack. I’ve compared the markings we found on the first one with the images of the second.’

‘Tosh, we’ve got a hostile alien tearing lumps out of Central Square. People are dying. What’s the bottom line?’

Before Toshiko could say another word, she heard a terrific crash over the speakers and yet more screaming. Machine gun fire rattled out into the night. She swiveled in her seat as CCTV images from the centre of town finally rolled into life on her screens. Those that were working showed the swirling blue lights of emergency vehicles, silhouettes running, some of them armed. There was no sign of the SUV.

One of the cameras caught a glimpse of the alien: brutish, part-simian and part-scorpion, trampling vehicles underfoot. Heavy rain and the low resolution image made it difficult to see any details, and the creature disappeared in a flash down a side street.

‘Jack? Can you hear me? Owen? Ianto? Is anyone receiving me?’

Nothing but static. The connection was dead. Everything was slipping out of her control. What could she do?

She switched one of the screens onto the BBC News channel. A local correspondent was reporting from Cardiff city centre, huddled in a raincoat, police cars behind them, ‘…something loose in the city centre, extremely hostile. A police spokesman refused to be drawn on the exact nature of the emergency, but we do know that the EVAC Cardiff response team is currently holding an emergency meeting in City Hall. The city centre has been sealed off and the police are flooding the area with armed response units. Residents are advised to stay…’

His final words were drowned out by the roar of a huge explosion, an orange fireball erupting in the background. Pieces of debris sped towards the screen in a blue and then, abruptly, the image disappeared as the camera went offline.

Toshiko sat back, stunned. No Jack. Nothing from Ianto or Owen. Gwen unconscious in hospital. A hostile alien causing chaos in the city, and another one right behind her, poised to rip her to shreds the moment time began to flow freely once again.

What could she do all by herself?

[luveline]

Hello,dear writer!if your requests are still open,how about an s/o that gets really lovesick for eddie when drunk?

absolutely!! tysm for ur request!!! ♡ fem!reader

"Eddie," you say, sweet but clumsy, smelling way too much like red wine.

He frowns at you because you've lost your jacket and an earring, and he hadn't known there was red wine in Harrington's house to drink.

"Where've you been?" he asks, a concerned murmur. Your neck is hot under his hand as he pulls you toward him, an intoxicated flush.

Your earring is definitely missing.

"Steve found wine. His mom's wine. And she's, like, super rich."

"Yeah? So you had the whole bottle?"

"Two glasses," you correct.

Your voice is lilting, near melodious as you talk, and your smile is uninhibited. Being drunk has made you look very, very pretty. Eddie wants to sit you down in his lap and tell you all about it, but sober you is really gonna miss that earring.

He follows down the crook of your elbow and takes your hand into his. You make sure to thread your fingers and squeeze three times. He squeezes back.

Through the hallway and into the kitchen again, he finds Steve and Robin in states similar to your own. Being drunk hasn't made either of them any prettier — Steve has his head in Robin's lap, eyes glassy and somewhere else as she pets his forehead.

"Steve," she coos, "you're so dumb."

Eddie laughs. You spin, stop, and beam at him. Your tenacity is kind of creepy.

"What?' he asks. He looks down at the front of his shirt. "I got something on me?"

"You have the nicest laugh ever, teddy."

"Oh, you're drunk. Can't believe I forgot."

You ignore his serious tone and bring your joined hands up to your chest. "Laugh again? It was really nice."

"Let me think about it."

You look over his shoulder at his friends, who seem to be having simultaneous breakdowns. Robin has dissolved into laughter thin and delicate as candy floss. Steve complains in her lap about being a spectacle for her, "You're fucking so mean. Where did Y/N go?"

"Hi Steve."

"Oh, she's right there. Hey! Are you gonna come and save me?"

You step closer to Eddie and drop your cheek into his chest. He raises his eyebrows in surprise as you begin to nuzzle like an overeager puppy.

"With my boy, sorry."

"Ugh, whatever. Why are you in here?" he asks Eddie.

"You want me so bad, Stevie-kins."

Steve chokes on a breath and turns into Robin's stomach, muttering, "This is all your fault. Told you not to let me drink wine again."

You've lost all will to move on, melting and melded to Eddie's front. Your hands rove over his waist until you've found what you want — the hem of his t-shirt. You slide a hand underneath and he tries not to laugh as your fingertips tickle as they climb his back, nail scratching gently against the dip of his spine.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks, wondering if maybe you're clingy because you're upset.

"Y'smell really nice. Nice and," — you wrap both arms around him tight, the soft of your stomach squished to his — "warm and... You're such a good hugger. Best hugs ever."

He ignores your drunken little hiccups and instead looks over your head to scour the floor for your earring.

"Sweetheart," he says, dipping his face to speak into your ear, "I'm never letting you out of my sight again." Because you're wasted, he doesn't say. Extremely wasted, considering you'd been apart for half an hour.

"I don't wanna be away from you either. Ever. Makes me so sad when you have to go."

He softens. "Maybe we should go home, huh? Get you into bed."

He rubs circles into your back to sweeten the deal. Eddie's nothing if not persuasive.

"No, just wanna hug you," you mumble.

"You can hug me in bed."

"Wanna hug you now."

Eddie's not an idiot. If a pretty girl like you wants to hug him all night then that's what's gonna happen. Your back rises under his hands, your drunken breathing slow and sluggish, and you make a contented sound that vibrates into each of his fingers. He pats your back in return, to say Yeah, the feeling's mutual.

"Kiss?" you mumble.

He leans back. You smooth all the hair out of his face in preparation, eyes widened by an obvious infatuation. You almost step on his toes as you raise off your heels and give him a surprisingly lovely kiss. You taste like wine, and you're a smidge too far to the right, but the tips of your noses touch and you're soft as silk under his hands.

"Love you so much," you murmur into him, turning your face to one side.

He kisses you harder than he means to and then holds you at shoulders length. "Love you, sweet thing. Home now?"

"Mm, yeah please."

He cups your cheek. You smile until your lashes touch at the corners.

-

[rednightmar3]

HALLOWEEN (PT 1)

a sluff fic

SLASH- I admired myself in the mirror, silently thanking my mom for my ass. Damn, I was sexy tonight. I had already worn this a few months ago, but this time was special. I was dressed to impress, and impress I would. Maybe my scrawny freshman ass would be made fun of, but fuck it, I was gonna have fun tonight.

DUFF- I plucked through my closet, searching for the final piece to my costume. I needed the gloves I had bought around a week ago, elbow high white silk gloves. I’m not entirely sure what I was being, but it included a sparkly pink tutu, a plain white shirt, fishnets, and a tiara. I hoped Slash would be there, he said he would, after all. I wondered what he was gonna show up as…

Slash stepped out of his car, walking a block to Axl’s house. He was throwing a Halloween party, and nearly everyone was invited. As he rounded the corner, he could already tell which house it was. He stepped up to the driveway, already absorbing the vibe. You could feel the bass under your feet, lights were flashing in every window, you could hear yelling from the backyard, and the whole premises reeked of booze and weed. Just his kind of atmosphere. Before even going up to the door, he glanced around for quick exits if the cops were called. He doubted that would happen, as this neighborhood was known as “Party Central” at school.

He staggered up the driveway, wobbling on the heels he borrowed, and flung open the door. He was welcomed by Izzy throwing himself onto Slash, shaking his shoulders vigorously. “It’s about time you got here! Food just arrived, fuckin’ knock yourself out.” Slash took in Izzy’s costume. He had a little wire halo above his head, cotton balls glued around it. He had fake angel wings on his back, and just a white shirt and black jeans on. “Axl’s the devil,” he gestured over to the living room, where Axl had little devil horns on and had four girls sitting around him and two other guys, all playing spin the bottle.

Slash chatted with Izzy for a minute, but then soon worked his way deeper into the party. His original assumption was correct: people did stare. But not in the way he thought they would.

“Who’s that?”

“Damn, she’s hot!”

“She looks so familiar I just can’t remember from where…”

Slash held back a grin, walking confidently over to the drinks. He snagged a beer from the watery cooler, and moved to meander around the house. He had practiced his woman voice, finding the perfect octave before he even left, so he was set for conversation.

Slash maneuvered around the house, striking up conversation with people he recognized from school. He passed Steven, flirting with a chick from school he knew very well. She had been hanging around their group a lot recently, Slash could barely remember her name. He thought it was Ariana? Amelia? He couldn’t remember.

He stopped by to say hi, immediately recognizing how fucked up both of them were. “Hey Stevie, where’s the good shit?” He needed to get straight to the point, he needed to get as fucked up as quickly as possible. He gestured over to a few people passing around a bottle of vodka, and Slash thanked him before turning to the group. The chick, Adeline? Stopped him though. “Hey honey, what’s your name?”

Slash hesitated, he was still using his girl voice with Steven so maybe she was addressing him like a woman. “Shirley, what about you?” She glanced over at Steven before replying, “I’m Adriana, but everyone just calls me Adrie,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, looking in Axl’s direction over in the living room, “But Axl calls me rocket queen.” Slash looked over with her, and felt her tug on his arm. “Anyways, I gotta get back to my boyfriend, Stevie, but have fun, girlfriend!”

Slash said goodbye, wandering over to the group with the vodka. He made sure to alter his posture to better display his ass and tits, before tapping on a girl’s shoulder. “Hey, where’d you get the vodka?” She glanced over at the guy currently holding the half finished bottle before jerking her thumb over to a door by the fridge. “Top shelf, pantry. There’s like a bottle left so you might wanna hurry.” Slash needed no hesitation before rushing to the pantry and flinging open the door. There were already three people in there, all trying to reach the vodka. It was really wedged up there, and Slash had an amazing idea.

“Move it, losers!” He shoved his way through the people, reaching the shelves. They were built into the wall, he knew they wouldn’t fall on him if he scaled them. Which he was planning to do.

He peeled off his heels, setting them on a shelf closer to the floor and planted one foot on a shelf. He ignored the people behind him complaining, and reached up to grab a higher shelf. He pulled himself up, keeping his body close to the shelves as he steadied his feet. He carefully stepped up another shelf, gripping on with his hands for dear life.

The bottle was at eye level now, and he slowly released one of his hands to set the vodka on a shelf slightly lower. He kicked a guy trying to take it now that it was within reach, and carefully climbed back down, vodka proudly in hand. He slid on his heels, and sauntered out of the pantry with the three guys following him closely from behind.

“Come on, we had dibs on it first!”

“Don’t be a bitch, just share it with us!”

Slash rolled his eyes, finding a spot slightly hidden from everyone else, and chugged nearly a third of the bottle, grinning madly as he felt his throat burn. He took light sips, observing the party around him. Still no sign of Duff. He saw Axl trying to get Izzy to join spin-the-bottle-seven-minutes-in-heaven, but Izzy declined.

After the bottle was about half finished, Slash tried to find the dudes who he stole from, and came across them sitting on the stairs taking turns passing a beer around. He overheard their conversation before approaching them, hesitating slightly.

“Dude, all the fuckin’ beer is gone, there’s nothing left! And after that bitch stole the vodka, we legit have nothin’. If I see her, I’m gonna beat her ass!” Slash wandered over to them, holding out the vodka. “Hey, here you go. I’m done with it.”

The guy with a lameass excuse for a beard snagged it from him immediately, his jaw dropping as he felt the weight. “You… you drank all of this?” Slash nodded proudly, and the dudes just looked away and passed it between themselves. Slash walked away, being free from extra weight to carry around.

He wandered around for a little while longer, a few guys grabbing his ass before he turned around and gave em’ a good ol’ man voice that scared them off. Sure, his voice was already feminine, but his normal voice combined with lookin’ like a chick? Instant fear.

He moved from the kitchen to the living room, and took an empty seat on a loveseat by the spin the bottle people. He spent a while observing, picking at his red painted nails and adjusting his dress boredly. Axl turned to Slash after about three rounds and beckoned him to join. Slash jumped up, taking a seat next to a chick with huge tits.

“Alrighty, this is my friend, Shirley. She doesn’t go to our school, she’s homeschooled and she just moved here,” Axl introduced Slash, a huge grin stretched across his face, Slash being thankful that Axl was playing along. This was going to be a lot more fun if the people that knew about his costume were acting like he was a chick. Slash waved to everyone, giving a short introduction himself before Axl began the game. They played two rounds, Slash being up next when he heard the front door open for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. He didn’t even bother to look up, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a sparkly pink tutu and fishnets. He immediately knew it was, based on the beads on the converse.

Duff sat down across from Slash, turning to Axl. He glanced at Slash, then did a double take. His jaw dropped slightly, looking Slash up and down. Slash just smirked slightly, taking the bottle and giving it a good whirl. It slowed around the dude sitting next to Duff, before Axl kicked it slightly and pointed it towards the pretty princess sitting across from Slash. Slash stood up, beckoning Duff to stand up. Duff stood, following Slash to whatever closet this fucked up game of spin-the-bottle-seven-minutes-in-heaven was going on in, and shut the door behind him.

[flkmoresluvr]

Best Friend ( Slaxl one shot. )

< axl x slash , gif credits to me , kinda inspired by dress by taylor swift , not proofread or grammatically corrected so enjoy :) >

blue orbs pointed straight ahead, the splat on the wall of the lounge entertained his attention. oblivious to the fact that his bandmates were trying desperately to hold a conversation with him but his mind . . . was elsewhere.

with a snap of duff’s fingers, axl’s head bolted to their direction. vacant look on his face, his eyebrows slightly raised. he cleared his throat. “yeah?”

“you alright, man? you’re acting weird.” a hint of concern filled duff’s tone as he sipped from the bottle of vodka he had bought not even fifteen minutes ago, now almost empty.

slash, slouched down across from axl in the booth, too busy flirting with the woman at the bar to even notice the love but desperation that swallowed the redhead whole.

the week prior, the two went out drinking together after a frantic slash wanted to distract his mind from his girlfriend who ditched him for a girls trip.

“how could she do that to me?” slash slurred his words, picking up the bottle of whiskey to take another sip before slamming it back down onto the wooden table. “fuck!” he groaned, picking up the bottle yet again but he chugs it this time.

“hey, slow it down.” axl, seated on the floor, his own bottle of whiskey placed in his lap but he was still on his first bottle. he stopped counting with how much slash was drinking.

slash slowly nodded his head, setting the bottle down onto the table. “sorry. just a little upset.” he shrugged his shoulders, standing up from his spot and began pacing.

the room had fallen silent, other than the sounds of slash’s boots making contact with the hardwood flooring. axl narrowed his eyes, observing slash’s facial expressions and how his hands were shaking marginally. a line appearing between his eyebrows.

axl shook his head slightly, now standing up on his own two feet. then in such a quick motion, almost enough to make axl’s head spin, slash grabbed him by the collar of his plaid shirt with his fists. their faces inches away from each other and it scared axl to no end.

he could smell the whiskey from slash’s breath, feeling the warmth radiating off him and how his hands were still shaking. they’ve never, NEVER, been this close before. not like this, not even when they were fighting

“slash.” axl says gently, his voice not being above a whisper as their eyes were locked in tight. slash’s face was burnt with deep thought.

his fists loosened around axl’s collar, then he let go completely. but not without pressing his lips against the other for a broken kiss, their noses clashing and axl stood there with his eyes widened. his heart beating out of his chest, almost certain that it would break through the skin.

the two haven’t spoken a word about what happened, about how they made out in slash’s living room and how they were close to having sex right there if the damn phone hadn’t rung. it was his girlfriend, telling him how sorry she was and how she was headed back to his place.

“you’re gonna have to leave.” slash said with no ill intentions but axl felt a pang of hurt in his chest. he didn’t let it show, he nodded his head and said his goodbyes.

on the way home, praying that the alcohol would make them forget about what happened but it seemed to only work for slash.

now sitting in front of slash at the lounge, gathered around the others, axl stared a hole through his head in hopes that he would get the memo.

‘hey, i’m trying to talk to you, idiot!’ axl would scream in his head, even going as far as trying to lift the table to tip his drink over but slash was oblivious. his brown orbs glued to the woman that sat at the bar and it filled the redhead with an intense amount of jealousy for no reason.

when it came time for the band to leave, slash still pretended that axl wasn’t even there.

duff and steven drunkenly wandered off to the parking lot to find their vehicle, izzy was still inside chatting away with the female bartender. leaving axl and slash standing in front of the entrance of the lounge.

a cigarette placed between slash’s lips, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans and axl was staring right at him but he wasn’t looking back. his head held high, facing the sky. a cold breeze brushing past both of them.

“i’ve tried to stay silent but what the fuck is your problem?” axl spoke firmly, causing the other to snap his head towards his way.

slash moved the cigarette from his lips, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. “my problem?” he repeated, a smile playing on his face. “don’t have one. do you?”

axl shifted, facing him. “‘course i do. you don’t fuckin’ remember but i sure as hell do.”

“axl, fuck off. we’re not talking about this when our best friends are here.” slash responds, rolling his eyes as he takes another drag of his cigarette before letting it fall on the ground. putting it out with his boot.

axl paused, his eyebrows furrowed. “best friends? slash, i’m your best friend.”

the other shrugs his shoulders. “well, i don’t want you like a best friend.”

“slash . . . ” axl says quietly, his eyes widened at the sudden confession from him. “why the fuck have you been avoiding me then?”

slash lets another chuckle leave his lips, stepping closer to the redhead. “let’s talk about it later, yeah?”

the sound of an engine caused both men to jump, their heads bolting to the direction. it was just steven and duff giggling away with the smell of marijuana.

“steven broke the damn mirror. where’s izzy?” duff exclaims, looking around to spot izzy.

“still inside.” slash mumbles, pulling out a cigarette pack from his pockets.

“he’ll probably go home with that chick tonight, hop in.” steven yells, leaning over the passenger’s side to the drivers.

axl glances over at slash, shaking his head before climbing into the backseat. the other following shortly after, another cigarette pressed between his lips.

how the hell were they supposed to talk about this later?

[sichore]

Kloktober Day 22: sea horror or cosmic horror

[Both? Both. It's a bit of both. Y'all know the visuals for I Tamper With the Evidence at the Murdersite of Odin? This is about that level of weird and violent and unsettling. With the bonus of an OC, a brief mention of seggs, and the four most horrifying words no one wants to hear.]

It's rotating. 

Pickles tries to ignore it like everything else, with a cocktail of chemicals coursing through his veins and a bottle in his hand. Things are fine, good, great even. Whatever is happening between him and Jimi is fantastic.

But he feels their ripples of worry, gnawing at them like a beast, churning their insides. Only he has that right.

It's nothing to talk about, though. Everything was fine, after all. His evenings have gotten fairly routine. If he's home and the band's not working into the night, or partying, then he's camped out on Jimi's couch. He'd probably be here in the studio even if there was a party, anyway. If he's gonna black out, he may as well do it while in the comforting flow of Jimi's work.

It's rotating.

His head tilts back onto the back of the couch. Pickles doesn't have to look at Jimi to see them deep in concentration at their easel. And slouching, no doubt. Grinning to himself, he reaches out in the sixth way, and feels the gentle curve of Jimi straightening up in response. With a bit of effort, he reaches in the seventh way, like a flow of water over their head, and tingles as the warm glow of Jimi's content falls over him like leaves.

Things are good. Great. Whatever is spinning out there is none of his business.

The room is cast in yellow, painted in the light cast from Jimi's lamp. (Or what did they call the hue that one time? Orchard? Ochre. Because of course they had to correct him.) Pickles closes his eyes, and when he opens them, the room is dark and cast in ripples of blue – no, indigo, and the mournful green of shipwrecks, and the swimming shadows of the deep.

Jimi stands before him, still as stone. The lens of their glasses blaze white like the sun.

"We need to talk."

"Whoa, babe," Pickles chuckles, shivers briefly. "What's got yer panties in a twist? Need me to undo 'em?"

Pickles. He sinks back into the cushions from the force of his name, beaten into him like a gong. Jimi may say 'talk', but Pickles needs to listen.

"Okee, okee, here." He has the foresight to set his bottle on the floor at least; can't have a single drop staining the couch, after all. 

Jimi's head tilts. Their glasses flash and now Pickles can see the brown eyes he's searching for, narrowed in pain.

He beckons with both hands. "C'mere, baby."

Jimi shakes their head. Their curls hang loose, and Pickles watches their bounce slow in real time, like ribbons in the sea, losing momentum in the current. "You've been feeling it, too, right?" they ask.

He has. Ever since that kiss in the kitchen. Ever since the beginning, really. That's why it's fine. It's always been there. "I know, Jim, and it's fine, so just–"

"No!" Jimi shrieks like a fallen chandelier, shattering, and then they're on him. They curl over Pickles as a lion does over their fresh kill, over their mate. Pickles tries to pull them down, to have that wonderful weight press against all of him, but Jimi is rigid and unrelenting under his hands.

Pickles does his best to keep them together, while Jimi grabs at his shirt, his shoulders, shaking, eyes squeezed shut. It's very much like trying to catch raindrops, and though he tries to get a bearing on their face, Jimi moves, dodges his movements. "Baby, baby, hey," he calls out, and the keening wail that tears out of Jimi rips him in two.

"What's happening to us?" Jimi pleads, grasping both sides of his face. Pickles can finally see their face past the skewed glasses and the ink bleeding into their eyes, widened in panic.

So that's it. They're sinking. He can deal with that.

Pickles holds their head between his hands, fingers tangling in their curls, wrapping around his fingers like flotsam. He presses their foreheads together and the command comes out on instinct: "Look at me."

Jimi Looks at him as the dark takes over their eyes, as autumn fades under the eclipse, and they fall as one in a spiral.

It's rotating, and as infinity condenses into a moment, briefly, Pickles understands. Planets and stars swirl around them as streaks of light, titans that collide and birth and die and blind him. Jimi is there, and then they're not, and he has to reach out across galaxies to grasp and wrap them to him.

Where are you going? The drummer asks uselessly, as his thousand eyes have grown back and Jimi is right there, quivering and resplendent, the starlight of her scales signaling faster than he can keep up. 

I can't stop it! the painter shouts from several mouths, her teeth dripping viscera and nebulae alike. Pickles swims with them, tendrils binding so tight that they twist and coil into themselves until they burst and bleed meteors. He bathes in the starshower and bares his throat, arduously, when Jimi lunges and rips out his jugular.

There in the Ocean amidst the dirge of the chaos and the infant cries of the cosmos, there are no friends, no lovers. There is only that which exists in perpetuity, and can only be defined as inevitable. And as lord, He Sees.

The shimmering sea, the primordial waves of Their domain. The glittering expanse is mirrored, and just for a moment, before Jimi closes their mind to him and they return to being two instead of one, he sees the source of their despair: the crimson eye, a burning, hellish gateway.

Time snaps, ticks on, drips down like the sweat on Pickles' temple. He eases up his grip on Jimi's bare thigh and idly pats the drenched shirt on her back. The room still sways in the hues of the Ocean, but the waves are quiet now. Jimi clings to his shoulders as they would driftwood, and carefully, as they pull out from the aching cavity of his chest, he unwinds that sixth sense, feeling, whatever. Jimi lifts their hips with some effort, and gingerly, Pickles pulls out, breath whooshing as he does so.

Pussy's got him in a chokehold, for real. 

"Hey, champ," he sighs, rubbing down Jimi's spine. "You good?"

"Mmph," Jimi replies elegantly. They ease back so Pickles can brush aside the curls clinging to their face. Their glasses are… somewhere, and their brown eyes are calm and blissfully blown out. Kiss-flushed lips part and ask, "Are we good?"

"Yeah, of course, babe." 

Something tugs at the back of Pickles' mind, something besides that Other they're unraveling at the edges of the Ocean. Like an angry red pin prick of blood, already clotted and fading.

Pickles kisses the tip of Jimi's wide, round nose, pleased when they predictably giggle and shy away from the tickle of his beard. He pats their plush hip. "Of course we're good. What else would we be?"

Jimi's smile wavers, eyes darting around and away from Pickles. The tides have receded, and the room's settled into the familiar deep blues of night, accented by the harsh, red lines of Mordhaus' exterior lights. 

Jimi taps out anxiety against his collar. In reply, Pickles' drums out a merry beat on their thighs. That makes those pretty lips turn up again. "I – I don't know what we are."

"We don't gotta be anything. I'm good with this right here." And Pickles grabs two handfuls of ass, laughs at Jimi's eye roll. "Riiiight here. Okey?"

"Okay," Jimi concedes, kisses him, and then again.

It's rotating, this great force around them, groaning with the passing of ages, growling like a pacing beast. So long as they harmonize, Pickles can ignore the call.