#like viscera oozing

[wanderxdusk]

Ooc: I miss the gritty death matches that i roleplayed in the Dragon Ball rpc

They didn't happen often but when they did, the raw emotion and brutal detail was amazing.

I want one again plz

[comatosebunny09]

vēnor | sylus

— summary: sylus must’ve gleaned all the info he needed during your exchange and dipped. figures. you’ve played your role well, and it seems he no longer requires your services. unbeknownst to you, crimson eyes narrow in the lowlight, watching the elevator doors swish shut as your target has his way with you. — cw: female reader, marking, biting, unprotected intercourse, creampie, rough sex, size kink, praise kink, cevix f-king, explicit language, jealousy, knife fight, alcohol use, mentions of blood and viscera, self-indulgent, not proofread, mdni — wc: ~4k — notes: you can prolly tell i was inspired by his new secret times, *fans self* thank you for reading, lovely! — now playing: wasted eyes - amaarae u, lost - jeremy pope

Your mission is simple.

Saunter in. Seduce your target. Extract as much information as you can concerning the whereabouts of a particular artifact. Smile pretty. Flutter your lashes. Lure him away with the promise of pleasure. Snuff him out like a candle’s flame when the moment allows.

The setup is flawless. Routine. Until it isn’t. 

The figure clad in black, oozing smugness and sex appeal beside you, complicates things. 

Typically, you complete your missions alone. You’ve played the role of seductress so long that it’s second nature. You’re more than capable of fending for yourself if shit hits the fan. You’re a menace with a blade and just as formidable without one. 

Besides, you live for the thrill of a good fight. A few bruises and broken bones have never deterred you. According to your intel, your target came stacked with security, so you anticipate possibly getting your hands dirty. 

But he insisted on accompanying you this time around—Sylus. Reasoned he didn’t want his diamond falling into the wrong hands, whatever the hell that meant. You figure it was an excuse to micromanage you. He’d been doing it a lot lately, ever-looming like a shadow, trained to your every move. 

So, here you are—standing beside your employer as the elevator lazily descends, fretting over your hair and the occasional slip of your blouse off your shoulder. 

You’re enveloped in an unbearably tense silence. Shift your weight between your feet, trying to keep your gaze on the gilded elevator doors ahead. Even that is a task within itself, scarlet eyes occasionally capturing yours in your reflection, coupled with an omniscient smirk that causes your chest and cheeks to swell with heat.

He stands in good form beside you, hand stuffed in his pocket, hair coiffed, dressed to the nines. He’s infuriatingly calm in contrast to the maelstrom brewing inside you. 

You feel much like a child about to perform at a piano recital in front of their parents for the first time. Insane, given you’ve never been this anxious around him before. But things are…

Well, things are different now.  

Lately, your relationship with your boss has shifted on its axis, making way for tender words and disarming touches where there were once indifferent looks and tedious banter. 

You’re not entirely sure when, but at some point under his tutelage, you’ve developed a fondness for him. A part of you wonders if he feels the same pull, his recent treatment towards you slowly dismantling that carefully constructed wall between you.

The elevator pings and dips, disrupting your thoughts once it reaches its destination. 

You release a breath you were unaware of holding. Square your shoulders, mentally preparing yourself for your mission. The doors slide open, a crisp breeze fanning over your inflamed skin, ruffling your floor-length skirt. You move to dismount the lift, but slender fingers encircling your wrist halt your exit. 

They’re like a brand on your skin, searing straight to your heart. You’re stock-still as Sylus nears you, swaddling you in the warmth and enthralling scent of scorched cedarwood and cracked vanilla beans he carries. He rounds you, the tips of his shoes staining your vision. You’re wordless as worn fingertips graze your temple, sweeping errant curls behind your ear.

He chuckles something low, his other set of fingers easing beneath your chin to tilt your head back. Your breath corks in your lungs when your gazes interlock.

It’s like he’s peering into your soul, the way he studies you with a reverent shine to his eyes despite the ever-present smirk twitching his lips. You swallow thickly past the barbs in your throat. Enraptured by his gaze, you hardly notice him pushing something into your ear. Not until a sharp pitch of feedback causes you to wince until it levels out.

“Stunning,” he lauds, brushing the flat of his nails over your earpiece, outlining the curve of your cartilage. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You vibrate internally from the praise. He smooths back your hair, ghosting over your neck and shoulder. Slides a thumb over the space just shy of your bottom lip, and he tracks its movement, irises darkening into a mysterious shade of garnet. 

You’re wearing his favorite color of lipstick–a dangerous shade of rouge reminiscent of wine shared over passionate nights. Your stomach pinches with something foreign. For a moment, your surroundings fall away, and only the pair of you exist in this world of pheromones and shrouded intentions. 

Briefly, you entertain the thought of conquering the gap between you. Entertain grabbing his shirt and tugging him into a kiss. Based on the flutter of his lashes as he studies your mouth, you don’t think he would be opposed to it. 

But fate has other plans for you tonight, another invasive ding from the elevator disrupting your reprieve. 

So caught up in your own little world, you hadn’t noticed that the doors closed in your idleness until someone outside called for the lift. 

“Oh shit! My bad,” says a sheepish voice from the hallway. With Sylus’ fingers still curved around your chin, the pair of you look at the intruder outside, Sylus’ expression reading annoyance, and yours, dreaminess. 

—

It helps that you’ve already had a drink—a glass of bourbon in your hotel room to take the edge off, loosening your inhibitions.

The music is good, too. Something sultry and ambient as you wend through the envious gazes and intrigued whispering of the bar’s other patrons in pursuit of your target. 

You feel his eyes on you, too. A familiar wash of scarlet trained on the space between your shoulder blades and the sway of your hips. The notion of him watching you so intensely sets your insides alight. 

You banish the memories of his breath on your skin—of his ghostly touches along your flesh—to the furthest reaches of your mind. It’s showtime. You’ll have plenty of time to confront these complicated feelings for your boss later. 

For now, you home in on your target. He’s dressed in something tailored and expensive, the material of his suit crisp as you slide a hand over his shoulder with a sultry smile rounding your lips. 

The gentleman looks up from the whiskey glass in his hands. Dons a smile of his own, straightening when you pour yourself onto the stool beside him. He signals to the bartender, then turns to face you, skimming over your visage with his brows lifted in intrigue. 

“Well now. What’s a pretty thing like you doing here all by yourself?” he queries, tone murky like the liquor in his glass. 

You tilt your head, your hair falling over your features just right. Cross your legs, offering him your hand to kiss. Your voice is husky. Disarming as you counter, “Handsome fella like you looked like you could use some company.” 

He drags his lips over the notches and grooves of your knuckles, whiskey-colored eyes fastened to you. Smiling, you pluck his glass from betwixt his fingers. Throw back what remains in it, the acrid sting warming your innards whilst you set it down on the sticky counter with a definitive clack.

The man whistles, clearly impressed. “Pretty and a drinker. I like you already.”

You laugh something rehearsed. Toy with the red-gemmed pendant between your collarbones. He’s charming. Good-looking. Maybe you’ll have a little fun before you take his life. You haven’t had your desires sated in a while, too busy tamping down your own needs for the love of your boss.

On cue, scarlet twinkles in your periphery. Sylus. He’s seated not too far off, nursing a glass of something viscous. Quietly biding his time, poised to step in if he deems it necessary. A part of you is spurred on by his attention. You play up the theatrics of your flirtations if only to get a rise out of him.

It’s relatively easy to fall into femme fatale mode thereafter. You chat up your target, inquiring about his profession and complimenting his taste in liquor, guided by Sylus via earpiece. 

You don’t miss the vexed clip in your boss’ voice whenever you get a little too handsy, laugh a little too bewitchingly, and bite back a smile at how envious he sounds in your ear. The gentleman is putty in your hands, a grinning, chuckling fool when you squeeze his thigh and stroke his ego. 

You pull out all the stops, feeding him alcohol until he’s red-faced with a loosened tongue, unwittingly spewing out the information you seek. He touches you as the night blurs, worn fingers smoothing over your thighs, cresting down the slope of your arm, brushing your cheek, dragging over your shoulder. 

You let him have his fill. It’s not like you aren’t enjoying yourself, too, the alcohol warming in your veins, heightening your need for physical stimulation. 

Finally, you sweep in for the kill. Angle yourself closer to your prey, your breasts pressing temptingly against his arm whilst your hands roost on his quad.

“Wanna take this party elsewhere?” you whisper, brushing the outer shell of his ear with your lips. He chuckles like the enamored fool you molded him into, dragging his mouth across your cheek in a kiss as you pull back.

“Got a room upstairs,” he husks in what little space dwells between your faces. “We could have some real fun there.”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

He takes your hand in his, drawing you from the stool. Twirls you ‘round to get a good look at you, the dangerous contours of your body accentuated by your outfit. 

Your target clicks his tongue, inwardly patting himself on the back for bagging such a beauty. He guides you through the crowd towards the elevator. And as he whisks you away, you survey your surroundings in search of a familiar shock of white. 

Disappointment spumes through you when you don’t find him through the bar's furling smoke and sultry lighting. He must’ve gleaned all the info he needed during your exchange and dipped. Figures. You’ve played your role well, and it seems he no longer requires your services for the time being. 

Where before, you felt guilty for seeking a little fun, the feeling sloughs off, replaced by disdain and spite spooling in your gut.

Your target draws you to him by your waist as the elevator doors slide shut, the pair of you flanked by two of his bodyguards. You succumb to his ministrations, his lips on a shameless excursion over your throat, drawing the sultriest little laugh from betwixt your lips. 

Unbeknownst to you, crimson eyes narrow in the lowlight, watching the elevator doors swish shut.

—

The hallway of the sixth floor is barren. Eerily quiet, the fluorescent lights above dancing over four figures moving over the carpeted floors. 

You toddle behind your prey, guided by interlaced fingers, swathed in the imposing aura of his bodyguards on either side of you. You feel for the blades cinched to your thigh, tucked beneath the veil of your skirt. Easing one from your garter belt, you conceal the knife in your palm, and the guards seem none-the-wiser.

Suddenly, muffled sounds erupt on either side of you. You glance back, alarmed to see the bodyguards wiped from existence. The only clue revealing their fate is a familiar, wispy coil of dark red left in their place. You narrow your eyes, jaw set in a rigid line. 

Sylus. 

Your target seems undeterred, continuing to prattle on ahead as he herds you to his room. Sylus must’ve assumed you couldn’t handle your own, which makes you buzz with irritation. 

Fine. He thinks you’re incapable? You’ll prove him wrong. 

With the blade held firm between your forefingers, you prepare to thrust it into your target’s neck. So much for having a bit of fun.

However, before you can complete the thought, something ensnares your wrist, snatching you from the hallway into the arms of an inky darkness. Your spine collides with something rigid and cold, the air siphoned from your lungs.

Your fight or flight senses kick into overdrive, and with the moonlight highlighting your assailant's silhouette, you swing your blade where you assume their head is. They release a brief sound of exertion, ducking beneath your attack. You cleave through the air again, coupling the swing with a series of kicks to put some space between you and land a hit. 

Your aggressor, seemingly familiar with your move set, catches your ankle, shoving it down to derail your attacks, and a dark chuckle vibrates the air. 

“That all you got?” they provoke, the timbre of their voice reminiscent of thunder rolling over the horizon.

You stumble back a few paces, righting yourself before charging with another slew of punches, swipes, and kicks. It’s a futile endeavor, scuffling in low visibility like this against an opponent who seems to be using the darkness to their advantage.

But you’ll be damned if you go down without a fight.

“Too slow,” tsks your foe, egging you on.

Suddenly, your attacker traps your hand clutching the blade, and you dumbly blink as they use your momentum to swing you ‘round, manacling both your wrists together at the small of your back. Your cheek squished against a glacial surface, your assailant shoves their weight against you, trapping you between a wall and the hardened slope of their body. 

Faint wisps of vanilla invade your scenes, yet the hot rush of adrenaline seeping through you blots out all logic and reason. You struggle against their hold, your labored breaths intermingling with their husky laughter. 

You grit your teeth when a hand eases down the curve of your hip, sliding over your thigh with practiced ease. You grit your teeth against the feel of it as it dips beneath your skirt’s slit to tug your remaining knives free of your garter belt.

You listen with pinched breaths as the crisp steel plunges into a far-off surface. How the hell did they know where you kept your knives?

In a ditch effort to free yourself, you thrust your hips back, momentarily throwing your attacker off-kilter. Their grip on your wrists slackens, and you spin around, planting your foot against their chest to create some distance. Twirling your knife, you thrust it towards the outline of a neck. It’s to no avail, those searing fingers once again taking possession of your wrist before you can land a blow. 

You release a frustrated cry, your hand twisting painfully until the blade plummets to the ground, sinking into the floor with a resounding thwack! Employing your other hand, you try to pry your wrist free, aiming an onslaught of kicks at your aggressor’s ribs. They effortlessly block them with the hard edge of their forearm, and your moot efforts seem to amuse them further. 

The severity of your situation settling in, soft light suddenly floods the narrow space, pouring down from overhead to reveal the contours of a familiar face.

“Sylus?” you gasp, bleary-eyed and chest heaving.

He uses your surprise to his advantage, surging forward to capture your lips. The air punched from��your lungs, you trade your alarm for a bitten-off moan, fingers instinctively seeking out the silken glide of his hair. 

He pushes his tongue into the warm cavern of your mouth, swallowing your groans whilst his hands make frantic expeditions over your sides, bunching up your blouse and skirt in pursuit of the supple glide of your skin. 

Fingers curl around your thighs where they pinch and knead the flesh there, Sylus notching himself between your legs. And fuck, he’s hard, your scuffle awakening things in him he thought himself dead to.

He lifts you into his arms, and your legs intuitively wind about his waist. The hotel door rattles behind you when he slams you against it, his hands greedily sprawling over your body, burning through the layers of your skin.

“What the fuck,” you breathe when he releases your mouth, and you crane your neck to the side, granting him more access whilst he brands your throat with the languid drag of his lips. 

He nips and sucks in a way that borders pain, his breaths sweltering and ragged, matching the roll of his hips. The rough stitching of his slacks acquaints itself with your center, and you sigh all hot and wanton, your spine scrubbing against the door whilst he grinds into you.

“Did you really think I’d let him have his way with you?” he pants through the lust-ladened haze, dragging his lips over your shoulder and collarbones, down to the ample swell of your breasts. He rakes his teeth over the skin there, sure to leave pretty blooms of purple and blue in their wake.

You huff a laugh, the back of your head colliding with the door. “Oh, Sylus. Don’t tell me you were jealous.” 

Of course, you were banking on it, playing your role too well. 

You yip when he bites you in warning, the predatory gleam of his eyes trained on your face. “How could I be jealous if you’re already mine?”

You scoff at that, a wave of ecstasy surging through you when his fingers ease between your thighs, grazing your labia, rucking your panties to one side to reveal your own desire. Your back bows when he prods your puckering sex with two fingers, and he chuckles against your neck, the sound of it making your pussy flutter with excitement.

“Seems I’m not the only one affected by our little spat.” With a few more strokes up the span of your cunt, he sinks his digits inside you, and you share a pleased exhale as you greedily suck him in down to the hilt. 

“Look at you. So ready for me. And to think you were so eager to give this away to another man.”

“Do you always talk this much,” you breathe, draping your arms around his shoulders. Screw your eyes shut, humping against his fingers, chasing that sweet coiling sensation building in your tummy.

“Are you always this impatient,” counters Sylus, open-mouthed against your chin, his thumb sifting through the thick folds of your sex in search of your clit. He presses down, and you shudder, the sound of his name curling around your tongue, making his dick jump.

“Only with you. Unh, fuck. Just with—just with you.”

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps into the hollow of your neck. Scissors his fingers inside you, slowly unraveling those bundles of nerves inside, the vulgar squelch of your cunt intermingling with your labored breaths. “Beg me to fuck you, or I’ll stop.”

To punctuate his words, he slows the pleasurable drag of his fingers, and you whine, clinging to his shoulders for dear life. 

The heat of embarrassment washes over you. You’re too far gone to care. Too enraptured to give a damn about your facade or pride. Need him inside you, otherwise, you might just die.

“Your words, sweetheart. Use them,” he coaxes on a rasp.

“Fuck me,” you relent, baring down on his digits curling inside you. “Fuck me, Sylus, please.”

“Good girl,” he praises, already freeing himself from the restrictive pull of his slacks and briefs. 

You’ve no time to admire his size in the dimness. Too clouded by lust, your eyes fixated on his while he rubs the swollen head against the seam of your pussy. He prods your sticky opening, and your mouth waters with anticipation, the sheer size of his head alone enough to stretch you nice and open for him.

“Deep breaths, darling,” he coos against your hinged-open mouth. And your thighs crater between his fingers as he sinks you onto his cock, the strain of pushing into you stealing the air from his chest. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” You’re halfway sobbing, gritting your teeth, your fingers buried in the collar of his shirt, and your face falls into the crook of his shoulder, where you bite and suck, seeking a little respite from the painful stretch. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Breathe for me.” He isn’t intentionally being pompous. Knows he’s thicker than the average bear, and as much as he burns to be buried inside you, he doesn’t want to hurt you more than necessary.

Soon, the pain subsides, making way for little flutters of pleasure when he’s fully eased home, his swollen cockhead kissing your cervix. When he’s sure you’ve adjusted to his girth, he fucks into you with shallow thrusts at first, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. 

Despite the moment, he’s a patient lover. Taking his time moving inside you, invoking pretty sounds from your lips. A thick ring of cream forms around the base of his cock as he ruts into you, your intermingled fluids scorching down the inner cut of your thigh. 

As time passes, your moans crescendo, spurring him on, and he fucks into you a little harder, your nails forming angry crescents in his traps through the fabric of his shirt. One of your heels falls off and clatters against the floor, he’s fucking you so good. So deep, battering against your cervix.

“You take me so well, sweetheart,” he dotes into the junction of your neck and shoulder, bouncing you on his cock a little faster. “So deep. It’s like you were made to be my precious little cock sleeve.”

You can do nothing but gasp at the delicious friction, blanketed in the throes of passion, in the feel of him nestled deep inside you, filling you to the brim. 

You feel like you’re in a dream, being fucked by your boss like this. The object of your desires, the focal point of your fantasies and affections. Your clit scrubs against his pelvic bone with each thrust, and that sparkling rush of ecstasy begins to bloom in your tummy.

“Gonna cum?” he husks, your walls clenching around him.

You nod, your voice lodged in your throat, and you tangle your fingers in the delicate sweep of hair at his nape, pulling him in for a kiss, pouring every pent-up feeling into the warm chasm of his mouth. 

Spurred by the delicious drag of his cock inside you, by his tongue licking into your mouth, and by your puckered nipples grazing against the hardened lines of his shirt, you cum. God, you cum.

And the world slides into white, your mouth opening with a moan seemingly dragged from the bowels of your chest, your toes curling against the divots of his buttocks. He fucks you through it, pulled over the edge with you, hot spurts of cum flooding the searing clench of your pussy.

He holds you like this against the door, swathed in the symphony of your quickened heartbeats and breaths. Gulps down air, his forehead nestled against your shoulder, a fine sheen of sweat covering your bodies whilst you pet through locks of powder white, drawing him down from the sky. 

He hums against your lips, drawing you into a sticky kiss that lingers and etches a smile onto your face. He plucks you from the door, tenderly gathering you into his hands to walk you into the bathroom. 

He sets you down on the crisp countertop, the marble cold beneath your inflamed skin. And you paw from him like a needy kitten whilst he divests himself of his clothing, chuckling when he steps between your thighs to rid you of your wrinkled attire.

“Sylus,” you query, blinking lazily up at him whilst he draws you into his arms, turning you toward the shower. He hums in reply, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a smile rounding his lips. “What about the target?”

Sylus snorts, depositing you beneath the warm spray of the shower, the water already working to ease the strain on your muscles. 

“I already took care of it.” And with his hands perched on your hips, he angles himself to kiss you, full-bodied on the lips, never wanting to hear another man’s name touch your tongue again.

—

Meanwhile, Luke and Kieran meander through the quiet halls of the sixth floor, their masks spattered with blood and viscera as they whistle a wistful tune.

[bloodblanks]

one umbrella cover two [mr. scarletella x reader] — chapter vii.

Your interactions with the entity holding you captive begin to escalate.

note: reader is not player (mc).

author’s note: dead dove: do not eat. this fanfiction will contain dark and explicit content, including heavy dub-con, stockholm syndrome, violence, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

<- previous chapter

My human.

From the very second he laid eyes on you, he knew you were his. While you were gifted to him by the woman in a raincoat, that fact alone had little influence on and could not even begin to encapsulate his desire for you.

He had a clear recollection of the moment he found you. You had been injured by the aforementioned woman, sanguine, exquisitely oozing out of the wound on your head. The sight of blood spilling down your delicate features was one he’d never forget, the image having been seared into his mind. You were so, so lovely. A hint of colour against the dull monochrome building; a singular rose blossoming in the dead of winter.

Pretty.

You were just as beautiful now as you had been upon your first meeting, if he could call it that. Though he had adored the way the fresh steaks of red glistened on your skin, he did not find you any less enchanting, even with the blood having dried and crumbled away.

You were truly a gift for him, and he’d cherish you as such.

Which is why he failed to understand your reaction, disagreeing and arguing with him about not having been given to him.

Despite his mild frustration at your incomprehensible response, he wouldn’t get angry with you. You were already afraid of him for some unknown reason, and he didn’t want to exacerbate that fear. Instead, he’d try his best to explain to you the situation. You had no reason to be frightful of him; he’d take good care of you.

Human not communicate. Me worry.

For a moment, you were unresponsive, leading him to worry that you would continue to protest. But then you slowly nodded your head at him.

Human understand. You understand me.

Me happy, he thought. Grateful.

He was unable to do anything but smile, grinning widely from cheek to cheek at your acceptance. You had accepted his desire to take care of you. You had accepted being his gift. You had accepted him.

“You want me.” His statement came out plain and simple, uttered more to himself than to you.

Eyes pretty.

You didn’t refuse him, however. You merely glanced at him with wide eyes, eyes that reflected away all the dreariness of this place with the utmost brilliance. He simply allowed himself a moment to gaze into them, admiring the way they glimmered.

You nodded once again, such a small, slow tilt of your head that he almost failed to catch it.

Human want me. You want me.

“You want me,” his smile widened. “You want me, you want me...”

He feverishly chanted those words, as if each repetition was a stronger confirmation of your feelings than the last.

His heart throbbed, an aching pulse that pulverized him from the inside. While the words existed in his language, he never understood them—not until now. What was once a foreign concept to him now became all too present and all too real.

He craved you with a primal need that swirled deep in his viscera, longing for you in ways he only just now began to comprehend.

And you wanted him too.

Want me.

Just that simple fact was enough for his chest to rumble with tremendous force, the world inside his heart shifting much like the larger expanse he resided in.

Want have human. Want touch.

You were here looking at him still with doe eyes, the sight only further amplifying his desire. As the urge to have you filled his mind, he reacted accordingly by reaching out to you. His fingers brushed against your hair with the intention of stroking it, but you instantly flinched away from him.

Head damaged, head hurt, he suddenly remembered.

He couldn’t run his fingers through your hair, but that did little to diminish his coveting for you. Instead, he settled for touching your face, his fingers tracing along your forehead, your cheeks, your jawline. When they trailed over your lips, he realized he preferred touching them over the rest of your face.

He brushed his fingers over your lips a few more times and each time he did, he yearned for you a bit more than the last.

Want mouth touch.

He wasn’t sure where that thought came from. It was unfamiliar, yet somehow, it felt natural. There was an aspect about the gesture of touching your mouth with his that made it seem different from doing so with his hands. He wasn’t sure why that was, but it was intriguing, this newfound concept.

Slowly, he moved his index finger between your lips, gently pushing them apart. Your lips were a bit damp there, something he found strangely inviting. He wanted to bring his mouth to yours, he wanted to feel your lips against his—and you wanted him, so you wanted this too.

“Want you,” he said, his voice softer than usual, yet filled with fervour.

Want you. He looked at you for a moment longer, before he followed his instincts, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours.

Pleasant.

Your mouth was astonishingly warm, all molten heat and liquid velvet against his own. So soft, so alluring, so inviting. It was a sensation that felt oddly familiar, stirring up something in his chest that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. He didn’t pay it much mind, instead enjoying the feeling of your mouths touching in a way that was all too intoxicating.

Me you together.

In that very moment, with his lips encapsulating yours, the two of you were connected. He liked that.

He liked the togetherness, wanted more of it as he tried moving his lips against yours, hoping you’d do the same. To his own surprise, he found himself disappointed at your lack of reaction. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he wanted more than just this. He craved you with an aching need, desperately longed for more of you. He wanted to feel you against him, he wanted you.

Still, you were inanimate, leading him to wonder why. He reasoned that you were likely new to this, much like he was. Perhaps you didn’t know what to do, or maybe humans had a different way of expressing desire. He wasn’t sure, but he knew he should be patient with you and give you time to get accustomed to this. He would be gentle with you. He would take good care of you and show you that you had no reason to fear him. He would treasure you as his gift. He would express how much he craves you.

He pulled away briefly so he could speak.

“Together,” he mumbled. “Me like.”

Your eyebrows scrunched slightly, your parted lips—now faintly glistening—pressing together into a frown. His own eyes widened in shock; was there something wrong?

“You hurt?” he tentatively asked, a myriad of concerns welling up in his chest. “You okay?”

Human upset. Not know why.

Your frown seemed to deepen, your eyes glazing over with moisture that confused him greatly. He waited patiently for you to respond. After a long moment of silence, you finally uttered a singular word.

“Hurt,” you reluctantly stated.

“Why?” His response was instant. He had been so careful with you. He was aware you were fragile, and he treated you like such. It was hard to imagine he had hurt you in some way.

“Hungry,” you answered. He briefly wondered if there was more to it than just hunger, but he realized then that you had told him about needing food quite some time ago. It made sense. It made sense, but he found himself wishing that wasn’t the case. He wanted to continue what he was doing with you; he wanted to keep enjoying the feeling of togetherness that he experienced with you. But he said he’d take care of you, and that meant ensuring you didn’t go hungry.

He nodded his head, pulling back from you and reaching over to give you the box that you claimed was consumable. You gingerly took it from him, pausing for a moment before a small smile formed on your face.

Human happy. Me like.

“Thank you,” you said. For a second, he was awestruck—the way your lips curved upwards made his heart throb tenderly in his chest. He instinctively put a hand on his own chest, though nothing about it felt different.

Heart change? Not know.

“Welcome,” he muttered, his voice almost breathy.

—

As you chewed on the granola, you found a variety of thoughts coming to mind. At the forefront, you found yourself thinking the granola was extremely delicious. You had not had granola this tasty before. That’s what hunger does to people, you supposed.

In the back of your mind, you found yourself wondering just where exactly your current circumstances would place as far as the misfortune side of the misfortune-complaining matrix went. You had thought being kidnapped and held captive by a ghostly entity was a seven. Being kidnapped, held captive, and kissed by said monster, however—that should probably rank higher, right?

The concerning part was your uncertainty about that point. It should rank higher. In anyone’s sane mind, it would be worse. But somewhere in the very back of your mind, hiding in the shadowy, dark recesses, was the realization that you didn’t find it repulsive.

It was most definitely strange; there was no doubt about that. No matter how you looked at or thought about it, kissing an inhuman creature was an abnormal thing. The very experience was bizarre, from the coldness of his lips, to the stiffness of his movements, and to, well, the fact that he wasn’t human.

Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate it. If you were being fully honest with yourself, the kiss was... fine. Not how you would imagine a kiss to happen, but nonetheless not displeasing.

Perhaps you had gone insane in the short time span of being here—you weren’t sure. You most definitely felt like you were losing your mind as you ruminated over the kiss.

You had only gone along with it because you didn’t want to upset him, and yet, you couldn’t help but feel extremely flustered about it.

It’s just a kiss, you told yourself. He probably doesn’t even understand how it works.

Your thoughts did little to convince yourself that you were not becoming mad. The ever watchful gaze of the red umbrella man was still on you, increasing the discomfort and awkwardness that you felt. You found yourself shying away, eyes fixated on your lap, on the granola bar that you had stopped chewing, on everything besides him.

“You okay?” He suddenly interrupted your thoughts to ask a question.

“C-Correct,” you stammered, slightly caught off guard. You didn’t know how exactly to say you were okay, so you settled for the closest word you knew. The language barrier still proved to be endlessly frustrating, even with the help you received from Mr. Silvair.

The red umbrella man touched his hand to your cheek, the unexpected movement causing a startled jump.

“Face hurt?” he questioned. You thought his question over before responding.

“Face hurt,” you agreed, lying through your teeth much like you did earlier. You hoped he wouldn’t notice; the sparseness of the language should be enough to cover for any unusualness on your part.

“You ▮▮▮▮?”

You knew Mr. Silvair used that word when speaking to the red umbrella man, but you didn’t quite know what it meant.

“Not understand,” you replied. You weren’t as hungry anymore, but you chewed on your granola bar anyway, hoping it would save you from further conversation.

He didn’t talk after that. You finished your granola bar in silence, its wrapper soon joining the other packaging that you had discarded into the box, using it as a temporary trash can.

A wave of exhaustion washed over your body all at once, the adrenaline from the day’s events finally all wearing off. You could feel a mild ache in your head still, causing you to frown.

You glanced at the red umbrella man, who had been soundlessly observing you—very much unsettling behaviour—and back at the bed, where a small pillow was. It didn’t appear that he planned on letting you go anytime soon. You decided that you might as well rest now. Maybe once you recover some energy, you would be able to find a way out, though having to go through those terrifying rooms again was not something you looked forward to.

You let out another vexed exhale before sliding your shoes off and crawling into bed.

“You ▮▮▮▮?” The red umbrella man—which you were getting tired of mentally using—asked again. The word must mean ‘rest.’

“Correct,” you nodded. “Me rest.”

—

Human need rest. Human weak. Cute.

He didn’t understand the exact sleeping needs of a human yet, but considering how you woke up not long ago, you needed to sleep much more than he did.

His needs for rest were mostly limited to his mind. His body rarely needed any fuel; besides the occasional meal and fluid, he required little else. However, silencing his mind was a different matter.

It wasn’t a thing he needed often, but it was more constant than his need for consumption and physical rest. Every here and there, he slept in order to give his mind a break. Continuous thinking proved to be bothersome after a lengthy enough period, and so he would refresh himself by shutting down temporarily.

Human rest. Me take care.

As you made yourself comfortable in bed and lied down, you reached to pull the covers over yourself. The covers were just slightly too far away, which he noticed when you were about to sit up again.

Quickly, he reached for the covers himself, gently tugging it over your body. Your eyes opened in surprise, but as he rested the fabric on your shoulders, you seemed to relax.

Human happy. Me like. A lot like.

You raised your head slightly to look at him before smiling, seemingly content. The organ in his chest fluttered once again, an unsettling sensation. He looked down to examine his torso—nothing was wrong.

Not understand, he thought.

It didn’t matter too much, however. Your mouth was curved upwards in the most delightful way, and he felt the urge to touch it with his own, but refrained. He would take care of you and allow you to sleep first.

“Goodnight,” he couldn’t help returning your smile. Yours faltered for a slight second before you let out a nervous laugh.

Pleasant.

“Goodnight,” you repeated back to him.

You snuggled into the pillow, seemingly comfortable in the bed. He felt proud of having taken good care of you, like he decided he would.

Your eyelids fluttered briefly, but just when he thought you’d fallen asleep, you abruptly opened them.

“You have name?” you unexpectedly inquired.

He opened his mouth, about to tell you that he didn’t, when a sharp, buzzing static pierced through his skull. 

next chapter ->

if you enjoy my writing, please consider reblogging; i really appreciate the interactions.

thank you everyone for reading and supporting my work! (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[ritsukakyrielight]

Y’all chill tf out this is a totally normal totally legit Omnipotent Wish-Granter. Like dude it’s just a shiny cup, it’s fine.

And no, before you ask, that’s a completely unrelated mass of demonic viscera oozing from a hole in the sky. Just ignore that.

[compendiumofdecay]

shrill. tenko shimura (t.shigaraki) (x reader)

NSFW. 18+. MDNI. DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT. emetophobia warning! major trigger warnings (listed below)!

cw: post-war tomura, uses tenko as his name again, canon non-complaint (fuck canon i'll write the ending), trauma, physical disabilities, mental impairment, vomiting, graphic depictions of violence, graphic description of illness, blood, panic attack, complex ptsd, abuse mentioned, suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms, age regression due to trauma, hurt/comfort trope

...

the hall light flickers with an intensity akin to rising heartbeats. sweat glistens on tenko's head in beads, dripping softly onto the linoleum tiles in the bathroom. he's shivering, it's so fucking cold here- too fucking cold. but he can't move, he's stuck here like a caught fly as waves of nausea overtake him.

the sun is coming up brightly in the small vented window, its painful to feel it beating down on his pale skin. he's too scared to move a muscle though, any shifting of his body will send him lurching into the ceramic bowl again. it hurts.

you didn't notice him even getting out of bed. it was during the earlier hours of the night, so he made sure to slink silently from under the thick duvet and pad off to the bathroom slowly, though his body was begging him to hurry faster. not again, not again, fuck.

it had been a year since the war ended. four months since he'd finally been rehabilitated completely, though he still had to see specialists and therapists and psychiatrists weekly, still had to deal with well-visits and physical and quirk therapy, still had to watch everyone who tried to kill him make it big on TV. he hated it. he hated being doted on, being studied like a foreign chemical, forced through interviews and trials and reports. most of all, he hated how you looked at him now. hated the way your eyes softened a little too much every time he spoke, hated how you'd remind him to take his meds of help him carry things, how you'd hand him his cane or urged him to use the chair. god, he hated it all so much, and had nowhere to even put that hate to use anymore. instead, it nestled into the empty pit inside of him left behind after all-for-one's death, the unfamiliar and disturbing chill of grief and silence. something he hadn't felt since he was a young child. he hated how juvenile he felt.

the nightmares never stopped. even with the medication and the therapy, they remained a constant abhorrent stick in his mind. flashes of blood and viscera coating his body, his hands warm with death. the smell of burning flesh, gunpowder, rot. it oozed through the wrinkles in his brain like the passage of time, the memories coiling around him like a pit of snakes.

the worst part was the screaming. the cries of mothers and children as they were torn apart. students and heroes alike mourning mid-battle. it was the kind of violence that turned legends to ghosts, forever haunting tenko's mind and staining it eternally. he couldn't forget. he wasn't supposed to forget. no, no. he wasn't allowed to forget.

remember all of it. forever.

every night he'd wake in a cold sweat, bile burning in the back of his throat, sweat sticking him to the crisp linen. tears overtaking his body, the feeling of the hot wetness rolling down his cheeks reminding him of the splattering guts against his skin. it all felt the same, burning and sticky and uncomfortable. not his. not his blood to spill, not his tears to cry.

some nights you'd wake to the sound of him sobbing, of holding back pained screams in his sleep, and it'd urge you to hold him, to wipe his face dry and open the windows, even in the dead of winter. the cold air would soothe him some, combined with your cascading touch down his sore arms and legs, heavy with the ache of being rebuilt. other nights you'd shoot up in a panic to muffled gags and retches, knowing there'd be no way to help him now except with a hair tie and time.

it was rare you didn't wake, actually- but lately, the nights had been a bit easier, tenko would sleep through most of the night with nothing more than a short panic. it was something that could be easily settled with a bear-hug and slow sips of water. he was getting better, and it soothed a part of you.

life was especially difficult now. before, and you'd never admit this to him in a million years- but before, he had nurses and doctors to help aid him when he was sick, or struggling. but since he'd returned home, life was exponentially harder for the both of you. you knew he'd never forgive himself if you'd admitted that some days, it was hard. but you knew he already knew it anyways, and it killed you. you loved him so much, the miracle of him returning home with nothing more than a few crutches was a godsend in every aspect. sure, the mobility aids were a learning curve for you both, but you worked with them. he was getting used to the cane, he no longer rejected the kinesiology tape or the braces, and he had finally started to let you push his wheelchair around on his bad days. hell, sometimes he even would ask for help eating, when before, he'd let himself go hungry before even considering it.

so tonight, you slept. you slept deeper than you had in months, not even the loudest alarm could wake you now. it was as if all the stress, anxiety, fear had left your body as you laid down with him that night, holding your love close against you, feeling his heartbeat on your own chest. it lulled you off in seconds, and even he couldn't resist closing his eyes after a few minutes, comforted by your soft breaths and warm skin.

it was so god-damned bright. bright and cold, and empty. the land stretched for miles beyond sight, but the ground was pure-white beneath his crooked toes and dirty soles. he was naked, walking for eternity across this crisp path leading to nowhere.

a voice from behind him urges him to turn around. no, commands him.

"my son."

tenko's feet picked up the pace, his body flailing as he ran, feeling as if he was treading water. he couldn't run- he was stationary. being pulled to the ground like a magnet.

"face me, tomura." the voice commanded him again.

"im not tomura, that's not my name" tenko tried to argue, but no words escaped him. he slammed his eyes shut, squeezing them as tightly together as he could. but it didn't work. all-for-one towered above him now, his broken and shattered body dripping with an unknown substance as he brough his mottled hands to his face. he picked at the skin around his temples, down to his jaw, slowly peeling his face back. he threw the skin to the ground, staining the pure-white ground with a wet shuck, revealing himself to tenko. his face was smeared around, teeth and hair and eyes arranged randomly on the surface of flesh, like a tumor. his voice slowed and deepened, slurring around as he cried, a hideous wail the echoed through the land.

"what have you done to me? why have you betrayed me, my son?" his voice bellowed through heavy, wet sighs. it sounded multiplied, like a choir, the words carrying with various resonance and distortion.

tenko couldn't speak. his mouth felt gummy, like it'd been tarred shut, he couldn't even scream. "help" he thought over and over, to no one at all. "help me".

all-for-one's face began to slop off in chunks, the meat piling at tenko's feet, spraying across his skin. the cries amplified, until it had become a shrill, piercing ring that rattled tenko's ears, his head swelling with pressure. he tried to scream again, to no avail. the noise pierced into his brain, sending tendrils of darkness to enter his vision through eyes slammed shut, a throbbing ache thumping horrifically to the tempo of the wailing. he was enshrouded in the nothingness, unable to move or see or scream...

he woke with a guttural groan, a trapped scream almost. you laid in the bed, coiled around a pillow, still sleeping soundly. he smiled gently to himself, desperate to remind himself it was just a nightmare. a nightmare, that's all. but his body twisted still, his insides churning with an unbearable, feverish heat. he took a slow, deep breath in, doing his best to slip off the bed and onto the floor. he took small steps, not bothering for his cane, swaying as his stomach reeled. he swallowed the rising bile hurriedly as he cracked the door open, slipping out of the room and shutting the door fast enough to stumble into the bathroom with shaky legs and quivering belches.

lurching for the toilet, he heaved and retched, emptying the contents of his stomach rapidly, salty tears stinging his already burning face. fuck, it stings. but a part of him took comfort in the sickening release, like it was siphoning the darkness out of him. he had explained it to you once, after a particularly difficult night, that it felt like he was bloodletting, releasing the past from his tired body and sweating the fever away. you had denied it, discouraging him from making peace with it and handing him an anti-nausea pill.

you didn't like how sick he always was. you despised it, even. he was already so frail, so thin and willowy, the thought of him spending his nights hugging a toilet bowl and being happy about it made you ache with disdain. it wasn't something you could argue with him, but fuck man, it was like you were watching him fade every day that passed.

you had done your best with feeding him, overloading his body with nutrients and vitamins, making him drink green smoothies and wellness shots, handing him calorie-mates throughout the day, encouraging him to eat with his favorite foods and drinks. you even learned how to make ohagi* for him, but even with a stomach full of the BRAT diet and Zofran, he would drain himself dry.

he felt the resentment for it, too. but he was too tired to try and stop it. he knew you didn't and couldn't understand him deeply enough, no matter how badly it hurt the both of you. he couldn't make it stop. the nightmares, the vomiting, the crying, the screams...he couldn't stop any of it.

his body crashed over with a wave of exhaustion, and he let his body fall completely to the floor, slumping onto the cool tile, the contact against his burning skin shocking him a bit. he was too scared now to move, already worried he woke you previously with the sounds of him vomiting. he squeezed his eyes shut, the action feeling pointless since the nightmare, but to his surprise it was dark and calm inside. he shuddered, the tears knocking from his eyelids onto the floor gently, cascading down his face with soft, shaky sobs. all of this is pointless. everything hurts, nothing matters. i should have died. i wasn't meant to live. i miss my grandma. i miss mon. i miss mommy, and hana, and grandpa. the thoughts ran rampant through his shattered mind, repeating over and over in his head with the same piercing voice he heard in his nightmare. the war should have killed me, this isn't worth it. i'm not worth it, they deserve to live better. i hate myself. i hate this. it hurts, god it fucking hurts, i wish i had died.

you wake slowly, stretching out and turning over to find tenko gone from bed. fuck, you spring up, where is he?

you slip out of bed and find his cane still propped against the nightstand, his wheelchair sat in the corner of the bedroom. he must've walked. how long has he been gone for? fuck, i feel so bad. you open the door and tread down the hallway with featherlight steps, nervous to scare or shock him. the hall light was on, the bathroom door closed. you reach out for the door, bracing yourself for the impact of another night-terror from him.

you find him laid out on the ground, curled into a fetal position, the scent of sick hanging heavily in the bathroom. you shake off the pang of disgust as you crouch to meet him, placing a hand softly but deliberately to his back, alerting him of your presence.

"tenko? baby, are you alright?"

your voice feels distant to him at first, like he's hearing it through a wall or dome. he blinks away the film of tears and props himself on his arms, shaking slightly.

"i'm okay, sorry. nightmare again." he cracks out, but his eyes are bloodshot, his lips cracked and bleeding. you take him into your arms, holding him and brushing the strands of sticky hair out of his face. he sits rigid for a while, before his voice cracks, and in the softest voice, he cries out.

"i hate being sick".

suddenly, he breaks, falling into your shoulder, gripping onto you as tight as he can. he sobs thickly, staining your shirt with tears. your own eyes well up, feeling that burn in your throat as you rock with him, shushing him through your own bout of cries.

"it's okay, ko. i know" you repeat to him, pressing your lips to his head, kissing his soft white hair. you comb through it with your fingers as he bawls, letting him feel it.

as your fingers drag through the tendrils, you notice something. through tears, you tell him, "your hair is growing".

it doesn't seem to phase him until you repeat yourself, this time adding; "it's black".

he grabs at his head with a panicked look, eyes wide as he pulls from you. "what?"

"your hair baby, its growing in black!" you laugh through swallowed cries, and reach for the little cosmetic mirror on the counter. you start pulling his hair back gently to show him, handing the little mirror to him. his roots, a very small sliver of length, are a deep, rich black.

"my...my family had black hair". he sniffles, wiping his face with the back of his hand. you smile at him with a quivering lip, kissing his forehead. he hiccups as his crying slows, the fervent episode finally lulling. he nods and sets the mirror down, shaking still.

for some reason, it made you feel at ease. as if the growth of his hair was a sign that maybe, finally, he'd started to heal even a bit. and no, it wasn't going to be perfect. it was going to be like this, for a very long time. maybe even forever. it was hard. the grief was indescribable, you were mourning someone who stood right in front of you. the man you fell in love with, tomura shigaraki, had died. in his wake, he left tenko shimura. but not only did you have to get used to him and get to know him, so did he. and as long as you were together...it might not be as hard.

"we should get a puppy".

...

*a/n: 1. ohagi (botamochi) is a traditional japanese confectionary made with glutinous rice and a layer of red bean paste. it's typically consumed in the autumn and spring months; in autumn it is called ohagi because the color of the paste resembles the color of the "hagi" flower that blooms in japan's autumnal months, in the spring, it is called botamochi named after the peony flower that blossoms in spring. (source) 2. ohagi is shown as tenko's favorite food in mha volume 24, chapter 234: destruction sense.

[goodolddumbbanana]

[Nexus & Sun] See you in the dream - I hate you [3]

[1]; [2]

Warning: Nexus cringe thoughts. This is Nexus POV so it is very biased. Also here is fluff, Nexus misses and sees Sun in his dream.

If the opposite of love isn’t hate, then what the hell was Nexus doing with his life now?

The laboratory was still cold without a soul in sight. The monotonous whiteness and the hum of the machines running, the beeping of the symbols on the screen still showing negative signs as he searched for traces of the Wither Storm.

The air reeked of negative star power, dripping like the disgusting black coffee that Nexus had seen these mechanics gulping down like animals before, back when he was Moon.

The tapping is getting louder and louder. Nexus tapped furiously on the keyboard. 

Why was everything he needed always so far out of his reach?

His fingers scraped lightly across the surface, the bones glinting in the moonlight and starlight. Nothing came out of it, and Ruin was nowhere to be found, probably hiding in their box, or clinging to Dark Sun like a starving dog is willing to flipping its belly over to anyone who would feed it in order to escape Nexus’s presence.

Why such a pathetic leech existed, Nexus had no idea what their Creator was thinking when hí alternative dad let that monster live.

Boredom crept into Nexus’s viscera, heavy and toxic like cyanide. The emptiness was so painful that it made his hands itch, making him want to smash the lab into a pile of dust and throw his damned staring hat away.

Nexus needed something to relieve stress, and with no gaming equipment around (he ignored his thoughts screaming that no one would play with him…); smashing Ruin’s circuit board over and over again was the only way to ease the pain of the negative star power on his increasingly broken body.

It honestly wasn’t personal. Nexus thought boredly, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table. The chair creaked as he spun around.

Nexus didn’t actually hate the two-colored clown as much as they perceived, and while Nexus certainly loathed and disgusted by them, watching Ruin whimper and cry at his feet was only fun the first dozen times before things started to fall into the tedium of routine.

***

[“Hey, Ruin. Remember that game you made me play before?” Nexus’s footsteps slowly moved closer to the red and blue clown struggling pathetically on his hands and knees, his colors ragged like a rag doll with oil and blood oozing from his joints. “Tic tac toe? Or 1,2,3? How does it feel when it's applied to you now, huh?

Nexus grabbed Ruin's rays, bending them sideways so hard they were forced to look into his eyes, to look closely at the monster they had created.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Nexus laughed dryly, the dull, oxidized ruby ​​staring at the hate-filled greens before them. Even now, they still hold that arrogant pity as if they were above him.

"I have gone through so much pain because of you." Nexus whispered. Ash-colored claws traced the rims of their eyes, gliding through the butterfly lashes, enjoying the gasps and pearly tears they couldn't hold back as he dug his nails deeper.

The pathetic scream of the leech, as Nexus dug deep into their eye sockets, crushing the stalks to break out the fat black oil is so exhilarating.

The sound of something breaking like an egg is like music to his ears.

“Shhh… It’s okay… Okay…”

Nexus chuckled, holding them struggling in his arms, as if the thing before him was nothing more than a kitten. He could easily have ordered them to sit still, but this was more fun. Knowing that no matter how hard they tried, they would still be dragonflies, allowing him to pluck their wings and pin their tails to the wall.

Nothing personal. Nexus thought blandly as he flicked the shiny oil off his hand and dropped Nexus to the ground after he finished playing.

The metal echoed dryly in the vast hallway. The soundproofing here was excellent, though no matter how much Ruin screamed, no one would come to their rescue.

Nexus would love hearing that leech screaming for help someday.  

Black droplets bloomed like roses, dripping profusely on the gray floor of the sterile lab, splashing onto the leech’s brick pants, onto the tips of Nexus’ shoes.

Filthy. Ruin’s colors are reflected in Nexus’s irises. All Ruin had to pay today was the price they had to pay for the lives they had taken.

And if that was the punishment and Nexus was destined to be the executioner, then who was he to disobey?]

***

Perhaps he had gone too far, but even that Wrong Sun had appeared from wherever holes they were working and asked him to keep his toys tidy and not break them too soon.

Anyway, Nexus yawned, his hand coming to his mouth. His joints were stiff, the system constantly reporting that he was on the verge of running out of battery, the result of working tirelessly without sleep for about two weeks straight.

His fan was running too loud and the copper inside the circuit board was so hot that he could feel it when Nexus pressed his hand against the plastic outside.

Guess even though this body was a machine, his personality chip would still be overloaded if he didn't get enough rest.

It wasn't like he didn't know that. He just… Nexus knew he should try to take better care of himself, especially when there was no one nagging him or trying to get him into bed anymore.

No more pats on the head of his hat, no more tugging on his sleeves when they realized he was too sleepy. No more whispers waking him up every morning, no more hands holding his cheeks to check if Nexus's internal systems were okay.

The yellow shadow still hovered over Nexus's shoulder, the trembling concern lingering in their eyes like ghosts of memories. And Earth's laughter, moss-colored eyes looking at him with the loving trust of an old time. 

Nexus's eyes twitched, wine-red staring into space before he grabbed a piece of incorrect equation from the table and crumpled it tightly and threw it hard on the ground.

Nexus didn't need anyone, he was fine, he was still fine.

He was going to die soon anyway, wasn't he? Why the hell should he care about the people he left behind anyway?

They hated him, they all stopped caring about him a long time ago.

No one bother try to—

If the love he had tried to give them was so easy to cool off, wouldn’t it be better for Nexus to make a big fuss before he left forever?

He’s tired. Nexus is tired of caring. It would be more fun for them all to disappear in a flash, so he wouldn’t remember or get mentioned about it ever again…

“Is that really what you believe?”

Sun’s soft voice made him turn around in surprise.

Not SUN, the one who was wrong. That cruel bastard who always acted like he knew it all would sneer if he saw him in such an emotional state. The silver eyes were the same, but if the one in front had the softness of a lily and the clarity of a lake reflecting the moon on a clear night, the one behind was the roughness of rusted silver and the boiling surface of a stormy day.

“How did you get in here?” His back stiffened, his fingers curled together. The bones glistened, wrapped in fine cloth and black silk gloves.

Everything was suddenly too hot and cold, and the light was too bright. They stood in the doorway, awkwardly, bewildered, dirty and greasy as if they had just cried, the silver plating constantly rubbing against each other, as if it wanted to distort their knuckles.

Their backs were hunched, their rays were so pale it was almost silver. They looked so small, and sad, as if they would shatter if he actually touched them.

They still looked at him like the moon and the stars.

“I just wanted to know if you were okay,” Sun replied awkwardly, the bells chiming like bright music to the place where, though free, it was no different than another prison.

Just by these words, and all the sharp words Nexus wanted to say, stuck in his throat.

All the anger, all the bitterness, was rising and rising, like a deflated balloon, like a wave toppling a sand castle on the sea.

They trembled and Nexus wanted nothing more than to get closer.

Reaching forward to hold them and comfort them like how good of a brother he had been. Like he always did and Sun rarely does. 

But could he still touch them when there was no turning back? When the bond Nexus had desperately built in the first place, ironically it was him to destroy it all?

It hurt, because no matter what he said, no matter how he lied to himself, Nexus still wanted to throw himself into Sun's arms and hold them and let them comfort him like the little brother he was.

The warmth he had lost since that dream, only came alive when he caressed Sun.

Nexus hated Sun as much as he had loved them, that even when all that remained between them were broken like pieces of glass, Nexus couldn't help but pick them up carefully.

Why did Sun have to exist? What did he do to deserve this bastard?

He wasn't ready to meet Sun. Nexus still didn’t want to see Sun again, not since the last failed kidnapping.

He wanted him to be the one in control, he wanted him to surprise Sun, to make them hate and fear him and not catch him off guard like that. He wanted to hurt Sun, tear Sun apart, terrorize them enough to when he looked into their eyes, he would see him there,  and not some broken mirror reflection of a dead monster.

The drops of oil were sticky on his fingers. Nexus touched his face, tracing the wet cracks on the plate. The laughter he let out echoed and creaked along the cracks in the wall, dulling the echoes with each beat.

“Okay?” His mouth twisted painfully, he couldn’t help but hurl harsh words like a hurt child. “Isn’t it all thanks to you? Wasn’t it your pathetic bodyguard’s attempt to shoot me? And now you dare.. to show up here? Are you serious?! Are you even real???”

They fell silent. Nexus could imagine the gears turning in their heads, as they decided that instead of taking the blame on themselves, they would blame the outside world, and on him. As always and always, the good Sun did nothing wrong, and the bad one was always Nexus.

I’ve always been a burden to you, haven’t I, Sun?

“You tried to kidnap me.” They said stiffly, looking at them with naked, blunt truth.

He dodged their eyes. It was like diamonds and cold steel, the way their words nested in his skull, like knives twisting into Nexus’s ribs. When all he felt was the coldness that Sun reserved for those they accepted had gone too far to be saved.

He didn’t want love, he just wanted recognition.

But the Nexus Sun knew had always been a crybaby.

Don’t leave me…

“And yet, you’re still whole.” Nexus scoffed. He moved closer, staring at the silver bell hanging from their wrist and the scarlet tassels. 

The waves were crashing somewhere. It felt like his head was underwater and his eyes were looking through the foam. Nexus could taste the salt and grit of sand, the wind that smelled of coconut and dry sun. The meowing of cats and the scent of dinner someone was urging him on to.

Nexus hadn’t known how much he longed for the old days until he’d rather eat broken glass than go back.

“You can’t be here. The Sun I knew would never have been smart enough to break in here alone.” Nexus was cold, he quickly noticed the incomplete details of his room. ‘and cared enough to come looking for me.’ The latter part was bitterly left unfinished.

“So what are you? Some kind of hallucination, some remnant of my old subconscious trying to tell me I’m on the wrong path? Or a dream? Because I don’t care. I’ve had enough ghosts telling me that. What difference could a Sun like you make?”

He almost screamed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Sun by the neck and break it, to tear the plastic plate to shreds and let them sink into oblivion.

He wanted Sun to stop looking at him as if all they wanted was for him to come home.

Because he wouldn’t. There was no home for Nexus to return to anymore.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just wish to meet you and then I am here.”

Quietly, gently wrap around Sun’s legs like the tail of a calico cat. Their voices always sounded like they were about to crack, like they were about to cry. They moved closer, bowing their heads to look at him. It was funny, he was always taller than them, but Sun was always the one looking down at him.

“I don’t know if I’m real or not. But either way, I’m happy.”

“Why?” Nexus sneered, jabbing his hand into their chest. “Because I haven’t grabbed you and plugged you into the machine, turned you into something usable like you did to me right away?” Nexus ignored the pain and betrayal that sparkled in their lily eyes. “Or used negative star power to torture you like your poor Moony did?” His voice grew louder and louder, so loud that tears came to his eyes, so loud that his voice seemed to crack in two like them.

There was something boiling in Nexus’s chest, and he couldn’t help but take it all out on Sun.

‘Why am I always the one who has to comfort you? When will it be my turn to be held?’

The child in Nexus was sobbing in despair.

“Because I got to see you.”

Nexus was taken aback. That… wasn’t the answer he expected. That was the answer he wanted, but—

Should he care when this was just a dream? But if he didn’t care, why didn’t he do anything when Sun wiped his tears?

Their faces were soaked too, oil dripping down their lapels. If it were the real Sun, they would probably scream, and spend all their time cleaning up and finding new clothes. If it were the real Sun, they would probably run away from his sight, looking at him with tired disappointment like everything he did was their fault. And it was true.

Nexus hated Sun. If it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t have gone crazy. If it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t have been living in fear from the first day he woke up. If they hadn’t always compared him to that damned Old Moon, he probably wouldn’t have felt so broken every time he looked in the mirror.

Was it fair that he was always the one tiptoeing around Sun? When he had no sin other than being Moon’s code?

Why was I always the one protecting you when you were supposed to be protecting me? Aren’t you my big brother, Sun?

“I don’t care.” That was what he said. “I’ll kill you and wake up right now.” That was what he should have done.

But his eyes remained closed, and his nonexistent heart still pounded lively in his core. Nexus still didn’t move, his cowardice making him enjoy the way they caressed his face so gently and carefully, checking for every wound like the old day when they’d do whenever he hurt, no matter if it’s big or small.

It was warm. Nexus pressed his cheek against Sun’s neck.

Has anyone cared about him like that since that white-haired bitch kicked him out of space? Even Solar now looked at him with a bitter look, half wanting to fix him, half wanting to tear him apart.

“Why aren’t you Solar?” Nexus grabbed Sun’s ashen hand desperately to not fall to his knees. “Why do I still hurt so much because of you?” His chest felt like it was being squeezed, making it hard for him to breathe. 

Solar was easier. They were easy to play with, talk with, easy to love, easy to keep. Although the last part probably wasn’t true for a long time.

Loving Solar was easy, they always accepted Nexus, always played along with any of his selfish or fleeting thoughts. They never refused, never were weak enough to need his protection, never left him.

But they did. They died, and in the process of him trying to save them, Nexus went crazy too.

Only Sun stayed. And he was the one who left.

Nexus hated how warm he missed his brother's embrace. He hated that this dream was everything he wished for in reality. He hated that he fell for Sun so easily as if he had never left.

He hated that choosing to love Sun meant he would be chained up again.

Sun's love was kind, but it was also as harsh as touching the thorns of a rose with your bare hands.

And Nexus couldn't bear to bleed any longer.

"I hate you. I hate you. It's all your fault." Nexus kept talking as he clinged on Sun tighter, when he couldn't tell if it was their tears or his, when he didn't care if everything turned into a nightmare right now or if he woke up.

Reality had long since shattered in Nexus’s eyes.

“It’s so mess up.” Nexus laughed in pain, clinging to the soft hem of Sun’s shirt, smelling the familiar antiseptic and powdery scent of lavender and vanilla. When he cried and the hand that patted his shoulder was a barrier protecting Nexus from the world.

“You never held me this voluntarily and this was the only thing I miss about you.” Why was the sun always the center of everything with all the planets revolving in its orbit? Why was Nexus always get caught in Sun’s way? 

“Why can’t you love me for who I am?” 

Nexus sobbed, holding onto his home and prison, ignoring the pain from the fan running too loud and him being overwhelmed. 

“Why am I always a monster to you Sun?” The question came from a younger, more innocent version of him, the one Nexus had killed to become himself again.

“Tell me Sun, am I that terrible to love?”

The short question scratched sobbingly in the air, mixed with their soft sobs of apology.

“I loved you and when I needed you the most you left me! Why did you leave me?” Nexus struggled out of Sun’s arms, only to be held back by Sun’s pleading grip. By Sun’s tighter hug, by the passionate words of love they whispered in his ear.

“Let me go! I’m tired of you, I don’t need you anymore!”

“I hate you.”

“Why can’t you just do what I say and leave me alone? Why do you have to love me but treat me like this?!”

“It’s not fair, it’s not fair at all!”

“I’m so tired… I’m so tired Sun…”

Like hitting a brick wall, no answer came back to Nexus no matter how loudly he screamed or how hard he pounded his hand on Sun’s shoulder. Did he hurt Sun? A vague thought crossed Nexus’s lips before it shattered like crushed pearls.

Like one man standing on the shore, and another had sunk deep into the sea.

‘Why don’t you jump in with me?’

The darkness gently embraced Nexus, welcoming him to wake up still on the same desk.

The cooling fan whirred, the beeping noises signaling some new developments of interest for him to study on the screen.

Ruin had returned, the leech limping, looking at him with confusion and feigned concern.

“You’ve been asleep for a while, are you okay Nexus?”

“Go away…”

“Huh?” The clown’s face was filled with pitiful confusion, the buttercup yellow still flickering just beyond Nexus’s vision. “I said go away!!”

He threw Ruin against the wall. The rumbling noise sent a bot rolling to the floor. The monster groaned pitifully, then hobbled up, clutching its shoulder, walking quickly through the cuts, leaving a look of horror and hatred behind. “Of course Nexus.”

The icy loneliness whispered like a ghost to the moon animatronic standing in the middle of the room, still unable to stop shaking from shock.

Papers flew everywhere like paper airplanes, a ghost looked back at him, their harmless single-legged smiles like a sad crescent moon looking at Nexus.

‘Why don’t you look back?’

[eddiestightywhities]

SNIPPET SUNDAY

so there i was minding my own business working away on my s08e08 coda when BAM! charlie @playinginthunderstorms goes and drops THIS SHOW-STOPPING FIC and completely derails my efforts by inspiring me to write a completely different fic that is also a coda for s08e08 lmao. having writer friends is never, ever boring, amirite?!

anyways here's an excerpt seeing as i thought i'd get it finished tonight but didn't and need the motivation to keep going with it asfhjhsk

ps pls be kind as it's completely unedited xp

now complete and found HERE on ao3

.

“Take it off.”

Buck looks up to where Eddie is standing in the door jam, big hands on slim hips and pink lips pinched.

“Huh?” he replies.

Because huh?

Eddie gives him The Look; his patented Buck look.

“Buck,” he says in the exact same way Buck just heard it in his head.

Then Eddie's eyebrows shoot up in the way Buck knows to mean you know what I mean, and although most of the time Buck knows precisely what Eddie means with just one pointed eyebrow-raise, right now he has zero clue of whatever it is Eddie is trying to tell him.

“What?” he says, his own brows asking half the question for him.

Eddie sighs, and it's kind of pained and long-suffering, which—fair.

“The hoodie, lover-boy. Take it off.”

The penny-drop is immediate.

For some reason, Buck blushes a little under Eddie's gaze—and maybe a little at his use of the weirdly alluring moniker.

Buck is wearing one of Tommy's hoodies.

He doesn't pout, but it's a close thing.

“But it's—Eds, it's the only thing I have left of him,” he protests, voice pathetically brittle and small.

Eddie's eyes go so soft you could top hot chocolate with them and cover them in squirty cream.

“Look, Buck, keeping it is bad enough. But wearing it? That's some pretty solid self-sabotaging behaviour, man. Trust me; I should know.” His words are cleanly direct, as they always are, only his mouth treats them with such gentleness, and such care, that Buck kind of wants to cry.

Eddie always looks after him. Always works hard to keep Buck's heart safe from harm.

Buck pictures it now, his heart laying uselessly in his friend's cupped hands as it continues to pump Buck's blood out of its floppy ventricles, even though there's nowhere left for it to go.

Tommy left him.

They all leave, eventually. Because everybody leaves Buck, he should know that by now.

Everyone except Eddie.

Adversely, though, it was only yesterday that Eddie had told Buck about his absolutely batshit crazy idea of moving back to El Paso, after which Buck's brain had consequently stopped sending messages to his body to tell it how to breathe.

He remembers picturing Yesterday Eddie crushing Buck's heart in a tight fist, blood and viscera oozing out from between his fingers and dripping down over his knuckles, right onto the sparkling white kitchen tiles. Then, rounding the table and chairs to step on the pedal bin pedal, he'd proceeded to throw Buck's heart away into the trash bag along with the rest of the trash.

Somehow though, in the space between the last of Buck's now-crushed heartbeats and him blinking back to reality, Buck had managed to snap out of the fucked-up vision to remind his body to keep working in the way that it's supposed to.

He'd then forced a plastic smile onto his face and painted it with as much selfless understanding as he could muster, before coming out with, “Well, we should move this party to the couch,” and offering himself up as a Realtor Virtual Meeting Wingman like a certified insane person.

Buck loved Eddie—he was his best friend in all the world—so what the fuck was he doing helping the guy turn his life into a living hell?

But helping being his first instinct was what made him realise he loved Eddie and Christopher enough to give them up, if that's what it was going to take to facilitate them getting their happiness back.

…Or so he thought.

As much as he had tried—and by god, he had really, really tried—Buck just couldn't keep up the Supportive Best Friend charade for very long.

That's when all hell had broken loose.

.

you can now read the completed fic HERE on ao3!

tags are under the cut, play or nay:

@inell @rosieposiepuddingnpie @sortasirius @angela-feelstoomuch @woodchoc-magnum @kitteneddiediaz @buddiebeginz @watchyourbuck @treasurehuntbuck @daffi-990 @colonoscopys @shitouttabuck @lamardeuse @idealuk @veronae-buddie @isaacthedruid @team-118 @wildehacked @playinginthunderstorms @kyoteugly @hotshotsxyz

[kinglazrus]

this isn't the beginning (but it's a start)

An AU where Portal Danny went missing his senior year of high school, and he's back home twenty years later.

Ch. 2 | Ch. 4 | Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Chapter Three: Fenton Works

Nothing in his head is real.

Words: 3593

Warnings: Gore and vomiting in the opening sequence

Blood coats his teeth. It’s gathered along his gums, congealing in thick globs that ooze when he prods them with his tongue. He can barely breathe past it, choking on the smell and the way it clogs his throat. His mouth feels too sticky and too dry all at once. Before he can think better of it, he swallows, or tries to—tries to work up the saliva to spit it all out. But there’s a pop when he bites down, and something too solid to be a clump of drying blood bursts open across his tongue, filling his mouth with a sour taste.

He lurches upright, and even though he’s already gagging on the stringy bits of viscera stuck between his teeth, the way his head spins is what pushes him over the edge.

Bile hits his tongue for a brief, bitter moment before he heaves. Every retch after that is dry, tearing at his throat while his stomach squeezes again and again even though he already feels like his insides have been scooped out. And no wonder why. A pale band of light illuminates the pool of blood spread before him. It’s a considerable amount of blood. Even though it’s too dark to see anything beyond that one pale stripe, there’s no mistaking how slick the floor is beneath his palm, how damp his knees are growing. The fleshy chunks that make him recoil every time he moves his hand.

He’s not sure where he is. Why he’s here. Can’t even remember how he got here, at least not clearly. His eyes had been fixed on that dark space, searching for a glimmer of light, any sign that he was mistaken. That the star would still be there, if only he looked closer. Everything after that is lost to a haze of blood and tears.

He can’t say how long it’s been since he was thrust out of the shadows. Long enough that his tears have dried. Short enough that the blood at his knees hasn’t.

Apparently, his body hasn’t caught on to the fact that he’s already wrung dry, because the retching doesn’t stop. The convulsions drive the pounding in his head and leave him shaking. He presses a hand against his abdomen, but it does little to soothe the sharp, pulsing throbs that twist his stomach every time his muscles clench.

It comes in waves, and between bouts, he inches toward the crack in the wall where the light comes through. A room lies beyond it, still dim but not completely dark, thanks to the windows set high on the walls. It must be nighttime, since there’s just enough light to see by, not that there’s much to see. Counters that run along the two longest walls, the cupboards underneath them, and a doorway on the opposite end of the room, through which lies a set of stairs leading up. Otherwise, it’s empty.

The wall shudders as he leans against it, though maybe it’s not a wall at all. His hand nearly slips off a ridge along the bottom of the wall, and as he steadies himself, his fingers curl over a worn edge, finding a narrow gap within which lies some kind of track. For a door, most likely, to slide open and shut.

Wall or door, it doesn’t matter either way. The metal is cool against his sweat-slicked temple as he tips his face into the light. He’s never been scared of the dark, but at the moment, the shadows squeeze around his heart. He doesn’t even want to close his eyes, though it might stop the room from spinning and help settle his stomach, just so he doesn’t lose that sliver of light.

A burst of music drills into his skull. He claps his hands over his ears and jerks back, banging into the door. It makes an awful screech, and he thinks he might have knocked it off its tracks. But after a few seconds where the only thing that falls on him is rust, he realizes the door is sturdier than it sounds and relaxes against it.

The music blares from his pocket, but he ignores his phone in favour of hugging himself tightly and folding over his knees. His stomach aches. His throat burns. His head pulses out of sync with the erratic thrumming of his core.

Blood and bile and buzzing, and jeans stiffening as they dry, and a single rust flake caught in his eyelashes, and a cloying, citrus scent that somehow cuts through every other wretched smell assaulting him now, and, and, and a dozen little things piled atop each other until it’s one great weight pressing on his shoulders, setting his nerves on fire, pushing a thousand needles beneath his skin as it all sinks in, and he needs out.

He drags himself up, body tilting one way while the world twists in the opposite direction, and throws himself against the door. It shrieks with every hit, but it moves, inch-by-inch, and as soon as the gap is wide enough, he squeezes through to tumble into the room beyond. Dirt, or some kind of grime that’s layered thick and damp in a way dust shouldn’t be in a place like this, smears across his palms as he catches himself on his hands and knees.

It’s quieter out here. The roaring in his head fades a little more with every breath that isn’t laced in shadows, and soon enough he can hear the wind howling outside, and the rain beating down on brick and metal and glass, and a steady creaking in the distance. A symphony, not wholly unpleasant, that he would be glad to listen to for a long while if his phone weren’t still ringing.

The melody plays two more times before he drags his phone from his pocket and checks the caller ID. Fruit Loop, it says. The call stops before he can make up his mind about answering, and a flood of missed notifications fills the screen instead.

Thirteen missed calls—nine from Fruit Loop and two more from School—and a handful of texts from the former.

Fruit Loop Friday 3:17 PM We’ll continue this discussion when you get home. Friday 6:23 PM Are you still at school? Friday 10:17 Answer your phone. This is childish. I’ll keep calling until you pick up. Saturday 1:17 PM I’m sure Johnny is excellent company, but this is getting ridiculous. We will be talking. Are you finally eating? Answer your phone. Yesterday 8:46 AM Why are the police here What did you do Answer the phone Yesterday 11:31 AM Whose blood was that This is serious you’re putting us both at risk Pick up the phone Pick up the damn phone Today 10:06 PM I’ve taken care of it. I told you humans are too fragile.

His nausea, which had waned, surges forth once more as he reads those final messages. It settles into a steady, miserable rolling deep in his stomach that’s somehow worse than when he was stuck in that tight, dark space that reeks of blood and citrus. At least he doesn’t throw up again, small relief that it is.

He jabs the call button, almost surprised when the screen doesn’t crack from the force of it, and slowly pushes himself up. He makes it one step and halfway through the first ring before the call is answered and a stern voice demands, “Where are you?”

“I—”

“Do you have any idea how much danger you put us in? You’re lucky this only went as far as the police. If the school had suspected anything, they could have called the Ward.”

The rant fades out of his awareness as he steers himself toward the nearest counter. His shoes peel off the tile with a wet ripping sound that has him gritting his teeth, and leaves a trail of tacky red footprints behind him. He folds himself over the counter once he reaches it, forehead pressed to the metal despite the dust that tickles his nose.

“I managed to redirect their concerns, of course, and you’re still welcome back next year to finish your licensure program. Why you want to be a teacher of all things…”

“Fruit Loop?” he interrupts. He doesn’t mean to make it a question, but the little rise in his voice is present regardless of his will.

“Oh, yes, very funny. You and your clever quips. What do you—oh. Hm.” Fruit Loop goes quiet.

The silence quickly grows unbearable, after only a few seconds, but he can’t bring himself to break it. What would he even say? He shoves himself up—much too quickly, oh that doesn’t feel good—and opens the cupboard underneath the counter, desperate for a distraction. He has to grip the cupboard door to keep himself balanced as he crouches, as the room sways. Maybe there’s more to the nausea and the piercing pain in his temple than he thought. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten a concussion. Once he feels steady enough, he picks through the cabinet.

Bits of frayed wire. Metal scraps. A cluster of jars on the bottom shelf, all lined with a strange residue. In most of the jars, it’s faded to grey, and crumbles like chalk when he taps the glass.

“Do you know how I am?” Fruit Loop asks, a sharpness to it that suggests he’s repeating himself.

“Yes!” It’s not very convincing, with how quick the answer comes.

He scowls, tilting his head to get a better look at the jars. A greenish-black stain spreads between them. Crouching lower, he spies another jar at the back of the shelf, cracked along its side. Inside is a sprout of some kind. It has a deep, hollow stalk, coloured black, with curling lips that split into something almost like flower petals. Its roots creep along the glass, and mycelium dangles from the lid. The stain seems to spill from this jar, where hair-thin fibres have forced their way through the crack in the glass. They’re softer than he expects.

He drags his finger through the stain. To his surprise, only the top layer is dry, a thin crust that breaks easily. Underneath, it’s fuzzy and a rather toxic green. It also makes his skin tingle where the substance clings to his fingertip.

Leaning close, he sniffs it, and isn’t surprised when citrus stings his nose. Ectoplasm has a very distinct smell, although he could be mistaken. He sticks his tongue out to lick his finger.

“Well?”

He starts, mouth snapping shut and catching the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and hisses. “Yes, I know who you are!” He pauses a second too long. “Vlad.”

That feels right, and it must be, because Vlad sighs in relief. “Good. You’re not as far gone as you could be.”

“Wow, thanks.”

It’s easy to spot the mould hidden around the room, now that he’s aware of it. Gathered in the corners, festering between the tiles. It’s noticeably lacking on the far side of the room, by the doorway leading up, and grows more obvious deeper in, spreading beyond damp corners. He traces the patches back to the hole in the wall behind him.

And it is just a hole in the wall, the place he stumbled from. He thought it might have been a closet of some kind, but closets don’t have big octagonal openings blocked by a set of heavy doors striped black and yellow like caution tape.

As he stares at it, an odd feeling creeps through him. It’s not enough to rip the air from his lungs. It doesn’t even touch the ache already settled in his chest, though it still makes his knees weak. He grips the countertop to keep himself from crumpling to the floor.

“Where are you?” Vlad asks.

A laugh bubbles out of him at Vlad’s excellent timing. It’s a choked thing, closer to a sob. But it’s not, because he isn’t sad. He isn’t in pain, at least not from this, or anguished, or even the littlest bit upset.

He’s just…here.

“Do you know where you are?” Vlad prompts again.

“Yes.”

“Good. I can come get you.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“If you’re unstable, and you must be if you can’t remember who I am—”

“I remembered!”

“—and considering what happened on Friday—”

“Nothing happened!”

Vlad pauses. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He’d like to stop saying that. He’d like even more if he didn’t sound so weak and unsure every time he does.

“You know how much I care about you. Well, you might not at the moment, but you’re very important to me. I need to know if you’ve been affected by William Lancer’s dea—”

A screech drowns out the final word. The metal countertop folds under his hand, and he has to pry his fingers from the indents left behind. Vlad has gone quiet again, so he takes the moment to inspect his trembling hand. The slope of his fingers where they’ve begun to taper toward the nail, the image of flesh and keratin melting away. It takes a few slow flexes before the mirage returns, but the colour is off still. The shade of pale skews toward I-have-no-circulation rather than I-need-vitamin-D.

He clenches his fist and tucks his hand into his pocket. “Please.”

“So you do know?”

“No! I didn’t…” He gasps. His nails dig into his thigh, hard enough to prick, but that’s nothing compared to the knife carving into his chest. Every breath drives the blade deeper, through blood and bone, piercing him to the core. When he opens his eyes—can’t even remember closing them—he expects to see his chest flayed open, skin peeled back, ribs cracked to expose the empty cavity inside him.

There’s nothing. He’s crumbling from the inside out and somehow, there’s not a mark on him. That’s now how pain is supposed to work.

“Do you know what day it is? What’s the last thing you remember?”

Polka dot napkins. The image floats to the front of his mind. Couldn’t he remember more, minutes ago? It’s all shrouded in a grey fog, now. Except for the parts that are darkness and light and blood and the place where light should be.

Maybe he makes a sound. Maybe Vlad gets bored with the silence. Either way, he’s torn from his spiralling thoughts by a sigh from the phone.

“I suppose next time you’ll know better than to latch on to the first familiar thing you see.”

His phone cracks against the wall. He doesn’t register that he threw it until he’s staring at the blue plastic of his phone case, shattered where it struck the portal’s frame.

The portal.

He’s heard it described many times. Not its shape, but what it did. How it ruined his life. The way it would have torn him open, scooped out his insides, and filled him with something else, something strange. He imagined how vast it must have felt when he took his first steps inside. The pain it would have brought. The connection forged between him and it at that moment. Surely, if he could recognize anything from his former life, it would be this. This would be familiar.

But it’s only a hole in the wall.

He clutches at this chest, breaths coming faster as he tears his gaze away.

There has to be something, something.

Turning on his heels, he runs for the stairs. Colour leeches from his body as he reaches the top and rushes through the door without opening it. He meets resistance on the other side, only for a second, before there’s a tearing sound and a plastic sheet folds around him. He rips the tarp off, paying no heed to the oily green sheet it leaves on his hands and clothes, and leaves it crumpled on the floor.

It’s no brighter here in the kitchen than it was downstairs. One window, covered by a sheet similar to the one that assaults him seconds ago, and boarded up behind that. A broken table in the middle of the room, its legs snapped, the chairs beside it in similar states. Empty cabinets. A fridge—wrapped in another tarp—swathed in caution tape.

No one’s lived here for years.

He knew, if he ever came, that he might find strangers within the walls, but he didn’t think it would be empty. That’s worse, somehow, than finding an unknown face at the door. To know the place he once called home is hollow, too.

He tries to imagine what it would have looked like, once. The fridge unwrapped, covered in magnets holding up report cards and Polaroids and drawings. The cupboards full of food. The table set and ready for a meal. But the people sitting at the table have no faces. And the pictures are patchworks of colour with no real form. The cupboards are full of the oils and spices and jars of dry pasta from Vlad’s manor.

Nothing in his head is real.

The only thing waiting for him here are the Xs spray-painted on the walls.

The front room is much the same, except the graffiti is joined by broken beer bottles and crumpled chip bags. A cold wind comes through one of the windows where the boards nailed over it have been pried away, the protective sheet peeled back. A couch sits under the window, its cushions covered in grime and faded footprints. Has it always been there? Maybe with a TV stand on the other side of the room. Or did it used to sit against the back wall, facing the front of the house, so they could sit there and look out the window to the street?

He tries to picture it.

He can’t.

Upstairs, then. He grips the banister so hard the wood creaks in his hand. His skin is no longer pale, but now a bleached white. He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t think about it. Focuses on the few blank spaces on the walls where he can see paint beneath the graffiti, on the squares where the paint is less faded, where picture frames must have once hung.

He finds four doors on the landing. Two to the left, two to the right. Only one is covered in a tarp that’s carefully taped along the edges, the letters R-I-P sprayed across it.

Hesitation seizes his limbs for only a moment before he rips the tarp down and tosses it away. A prickle spreads across his tongue before he even opens the door, and he already knows what he’ll find. Mould. Here, it infects every corner of the room. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. What he first thinks might be a soft carpet is, in fact, a dense layer of mould. It’s thickest beneath the empty bed frame, rising into a fuzzy mound with sprouts growing out of it, similar to the one in the jar downstairs.

He steps inside, and light ripples out, spreading in waves across the room from wherever he touches the mould. Clouds of spores puff into the air where he steps. They fall in gentle waves, like snow. If this were any other time, he might stick his tongue out to try and catch one.

But he doesn’t care about this. Doesn’t care that it exists. Doesn’t care that it’s here, eating this room from the inside out while the rest of the house grows stagnant.

This was his room. It isn’t, anymore. It isn’t anything.

He runs. Flees down the stairs and throws himself at the front door, but his body doesn’t pass through it, at least not completely. His head smacks against something hard enough that his ears ring. He stumbles back, clutching his temple, and rips the door open, splintering the frame when the deadbolt tears through the rotting wood. A gleaming white panel covers the other side. 

His core buzzes at the sight of it. He doesn’t need to test it to know he can’t phase through that, so he pivots toward the broken window, clambering though. The frame is already clear of glass. He heads for the street, where the wind shoves him to his knees and the rain beats against his back, and he looks up.

The windows are dark. Cracks climb the brickwork. The flower box beside the stairs is full of weeds, and the grass rises to his knees. The only sound coming from the building is the creak of old joints, from the sign hanging over the sidewalk. His gaze slides across it, skimming over the rusted letters, but the name slips from his mind as soon as his eyes leave it.

This is just a house, and he wants to go home.

Where is that?

“With…” he trails off as the name escapes him. With who? Does he live with anyone? Does he live anywhere? Maybe he’s always been here, kneeling in the rain.

Where are you?

“I don’t…”

Who are you?

“I…”

What’s wrong?

He stares down at his hands, at his blackening fingertips, and realizes he doesn’t know.

“There’s…a hole,” he says. Somewhere. In a place where a star used to sit.

So, fill it.

As he pushes himself up, darkness coalesces at his feet, but he resists their pull. He can’t go there, where it’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone. Instead, he sets off down the street, with slow, staggering steps, and leaves the ghost once known as Fenton Works behind.

—

Masterpost | Next chapter

[pansexualkiba]

"Shit..." Bakugou huffed, "Get out of here, you frigid bitch. This one's mine-"

"Wait, what's that sound?" Todoroki suddenly asked, perking up at the distant sounds of squealing. "Is that... A car?"

Suddenly, a car exploded through All for One's torso, splattering his viscera across the pavement. It was a sleek racing car, dark green in color with black lines and similarly-black upholstery. The hubcaps on the white-wall tires were bright red, and the license plate read "IZUKU" in bold green.

Todoroki and Bakugou stared in shock as the car swerved to stop in front of them, suicide doors opening to reveal no one was at the wheel.

"M-Midoriya?" Todoroki slowly asked. "Is... That you?"

"Yeah!" Midoriya beeped, his headlights pulsing as he talked, "This is the Second Holder's original Quirk! Gearshift!"

"Gearshift..." Todoroki tested the word on his tongue. Bakugou continued to gape in shock.

"Yes! Let's go!" Midoriya urged them. "I can't hold this form for much longer! Get in!"

"Both of us?!" Bakugou finally broke out of his stupor.

"Are you sure we'll both fit inside you at once?" Todoroki asked.

"Don't worry!" Midoriya assured both of them, "I can take anything when I'm with you two."

Bakugou and Todoroki looked at each other.

"I can drive." Bakugou called before sitting in the driver's seat.

"...Teach me, just in case." Todoroki asked, sitting shotgun. The doors slid closed, and with a screech of tires, the trio were sailing down the highway, leaving behind All for One, slowly reforming himself from the ooze of gore.

The trio sped down the road, the sunset slowly giving away to night and the distant cities beginning to glow with light.

Inside the car, Todoroki fiddled with the radio until he settled on a moody, jazzy tune. As the singer's husky voice filled the cabin, Todoroki leaned back in the passenger's seat, sighing as he let the vibrations of Midoriya's purring engine massage his spine.

"Hey, Cold Stuff." Bakugou huffed, finally speaking up. "You wanted to learn how to drive, right?"

"While we're on the road?" Todoroki blinked.

"No one else here, so why not." Bakugou shrugged, then pointed at his feet. "Most cars don't have three pedals, by the way. What you're seeing is a manual drive. The pedal I'm pressing is the accelerator, the one to the left is the brake, and the one left to that is the clutch." Bakugou smirked. "You think Izuku's fast now?"

Todoroki tried to imagine Midoriya going faster than he already was. His skin began to feel clammy just from thinking about it.

"Here, put your hand on the lever." Bakugou pointed at the stick between them. "That's the gear shifter - probably why he turned into a manual drive, thinking about it. Go ahead and put your hand on it."

Todoroki slowly, trepidly, placed his hand on Midoriya's gear shift.

Bakugou placed his hand over Todoroki's, perfectly interlacing their fingers.

"Watch my feet, now." Bakugou softly commanded.

Todoroki watched, enraptured, as Bakugou, at the same time, pressed the clutch and took his foot off the accelerator. Despite that, Todoroki could detect no loss of speed, from the feeling of Midoriya's motors through his seat.

"Now, while we're cruising like this..." Bakugou slowly moved Todoroki's hand, and the gear shift, into a new position. "Shift into second gear..." In another swift movement of his feet, the accelerator was pressed again. "And Izuku'll be even faster. Rinse and-"

Bakugou was interrupted by a sudden explosion on the road, and Midoriya swerved violently, though stayed his course.

"What the fuck?!" Bakugou swore, and adjusted one of his mirrors. Todoroki, under no societal compunctions such as "road safety", simply turned around in his seat.

Behind them was an equally-slick, yet distinctly more deadly vehicle. It was black in color, with seats lined with velvet-red leather. The vanity plate on the fender stated "DEM0N", with an ostentatious crown as a decal next to it.

"Foolish One for All..." The car announced, in a deep, chilling voice that had Todoroki's hair stand on end. "Did you truly think yourself so special?! Indeed, your first mistake was to assume you were the only one with the capacity to turn into a car!"

Suddenly, the car picked up intense speed, matching, and even beginning to outstrip, Midoriya and his passengers.

"As you can see, I am now a car as well!" All for One's baritone roared through his surround-sound speakers

[honeysickledream]

'Overgrown' | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | Chapter Five (Halloween Edition)

(photo cred: me (@honeysickledream) | dividers by @/saradika-graphics) tags / cw: Middle Ages-ish AU, body horror, horror, injuries, gore, blood, nightmares, panic attacks, hallucinations, self-doubt, bits of married bliss, dead dove do not eat, Simon's POV | if i missed anything, let me know please [my account is nsfw and 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI] w/c: ~1.4k a/n: please for the love of whatever, do not read this chapter if you can't handle horror and everything else in the tags. or at least skip the italicized parts (about 300 words) if you want to avoid the true nightmare scene. i love torturing characters, this entire chapter is just that. happy halloween!

Chap 1. | Chap 2. | Chap 3. | Chap 4. || AO3

White satin topped with tulle slipped through his fingers, the fine fabrics snagging on his rough and dry hands. He watched as you spun one last time in the mirror before smoothing your hands down your bodice. You’d spent hours agonizing over every stitch that went into making tiny flowers of various kinds. A labor of love and devotion to the perfect wedding dress that flattered you more than the simple one you’d worn for the original wedding.

Simon’s fingers brushed against necklace you wore: silver antlers forming an approximation of a torc. Sharp and dangerous and beautiful, the perfect hidden weapon to be used if someone messed with you while he wasn’t around. He knew you wouldn’t wear it day-to-day, no matter how much pleading he did, but he liked knowing you had something like the necklace in your possession.

He liked imagining you as some vicious thing waiting for the wrong person to underestimate your fury. It made his blood thrum as it rushed in his veins. The side of his mind he deemed wicked and tried to hide from you clawing at its battered cage. He wanted to see you lay into someone, to destroy the very foundations of their person and bring them crumbling to their knees before you.

Your eyes met in the mirror and you flashed him a smile that made his heart skip—your smiles always did. When you turned, his heart dropped to his feet. The face he’d grown to love, the one he dreamed of peppering with kisses until you were exasperated, was gone. Your skin had grown over every facial feature. He blinked once, twice, thrice but his mind didn’t undo the twisted image before him.

Blood stained your fingers as you reached for him while groaning lowly. Mud and viscera clung to your torn and slightly charred wedding dress. The points of the silver antlers around your neck as embedded in flesh, rot and blood oozed from the wounds. Cold wrapped around his neck as you finally got a hold of him and—

Simon gasped and choked on his heart as it raced in his throat. Black spots built up along the hazy edges of his vision as he fought against the erratic tensing of his muscles. His mouth hung open in a silent scream as the vision of a faceless you covered in the filth he was terrified of transferring to you, flashed behind his eyes rapidly.

He struggled to free himself from the suffocating blankets on the bed and stumbled towards the farthest corner where he collapsed. His lungs seemingly refused to inflate as his vision went totally black and he flushed icy. His vision returned when warm hands grabbed his bare shoulders and jostled him a bit. A soft voice called his name frantically and his body began to regulate.

His vision filled with you—the real you—as you knelt beside him, rubbing his shoulders with firm but not cruel hands as a series of rushed questions fell from your lips. Tears fell from your eyes, wetting your cheeks as you brought him back from what he was certain was his death. He reached up and cupped your cheek hesitantly.

You didn’t fade away. Your face remained yours and not the blank skin canvas from his dreams. He grabbed at what ever parts of you he could, squeezing and tracing your naked flesh to prove to himself that he truly was awake. Simon let his head fall back against the wall with a heavy thud. His nightmares had only gotten worse in the last week or so, and tonight had been the worst by far. Full of color, of sounds and touch, vivid imagery remaining far too long after waking.

“Come,” you said as you tugged his hand. “Get back into bed, I’ll get you some water.”

“No—no bed,” he panted. He could feel the nightmare lingering over his pillow, jagged tendrils attempting to creep closer and pull him back into his personal hell. “Just…need a minute to calm down. Sun’s gonna be up soon, yes?”

You shook your head softly. “We’re hours away from sunrise. I think we only slept for three hours.”

Simon’s expression dropped. Hours until sunrise and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. He wasn’t even sure being hit hard upside the head would knock him out. The plan he’d had for the day—breakfast with you, finishing up the bookshelf, dragging you along to the market and maybe the lake—was ruined. To be even moderately functioning he needed a decent chunk of sleep, without it, he would crash at noon and be drowsy until he trudged to bed.

“We could arrange some pillows and blankets on the parlor floor,” you suggested. “Or we could get an early start to the day. I could even help you with the bookshelf, or start moving things in here?”

“Why don’t I move myself into yer room?” Simon pushed off the wall and floor, standing on unsteady feet. “Don’t want whatever bad spirits are in here to catch ya. Not sure I know how to fight ‘em off effectively.”

“All right, you’ll move into my room. But first, if we’re going to start our day, we need tea. Some that’s strong enough to warp wood.” You grabbed your chemise and pulled it over your head before leaving the room.

He watched you leave before he kicked his pants up and snatched them out of the air. He gave the bed one last look, grimacing. The day his father finally did something right by him and passed away, Simon should have burned all the furniture in the room and built his own. He grabbed some parchment from his desk and a charcoal pencil before meeting you in the kitchen.

That would be his proper wedding present to you: a whole new, ornate set of bedroom furniture. Untainted, his thoughts of protection engraved into every inch of wood. No more horrors, no more nightmares or fears that tried to rule his life and ruin one of the few good things life had blessed him with.

Simon could tell the hammer in your hands felt out of place. You managed to hit the head of the nail more times than not, but he knew the weight of the tool was heavier than you were used to. Needles and sheers, the occasional forceps, all requiring a gentleness that a hammer did not. Still, you gave the last few nails your best and looked back at him with a giddy smile, pointing out your handiwork.

He pressed a kiss to your gloved hands before handing you a chisel. He stood behind you and guided you as you chipped the wood away, carving your initials right beside his. As he carried it inside, you rushed ahead to make sure the path to the second bedroom was clear and directed him so he didn’t trip or hit corners. He placed it beside your cluttered vanity and wardrobe. The height and width seemed a decent choice now that it was in its place.

Nearly every book in the cabin piled up on the five shelves. You organized them by height, then reorganized them by the color, then topic which is what you stuck with. Trinkets you’d picked up during the last four, almost five months, along with some of his own were placed in the empty spaces. The bottom shelf was dedicated to your medical case and his empty quiver.

Lingering along the edge of his vision stood a translucent specter, faceless and tall, broad and twisted. His father, he knew just from the flood of ice in his veins. A hallucination of the monster who haunted him in life and in his death, his mind’s wicked way of spoiling his happiness because he believed—some part of him truly believed he didn’t deserve anything good.

You kissed his cheek and he startled. The specter faded into oblivion and his blood warmed.

“Maybe we could move,” he suggested suddenly. “Into town, I mean. Puts you closer to your patients, and if we got the right place, we could ‘ost dinner for the guys and get you properly introduced.”

“Simon—“

“Think on it, love. Just…think on it.” For me, he wanted to say. Please think on it for me, help save me from the horror.

[absylphe]

Sefoni's stretching her arms over her head as if she's just gotten out of a great yoga session, splattered with the same viscera as you are. Everything is dead or unconscious now. All that's left to hear is wind, your heartbeat, Sefoni's humming, and the idling engines of a transport shuttle.

Something else -- a stuttering, anxious pulse. Far too quick to be Sol.

One more left.

You take slow, intentional steps up the catwalk and lazily turn your pupils up toward the lone pilot left over, training a rifle on you with unsteady hands. An ambush. He must have thought himself quite clever, hiding for this long while everyone died around him. You blink intently, head already starting to throb as you make eye contact.

You stare at each other. It burns discomfort through you like newspaper catching alight, but you hold his gaze for as long as it takes.

His hands shake. His finger tenses on the trigger aimed right between your horns, but he can't quite commit. Confusion, resistance, panic -- all flit across his face. You're too tired to panic. Too angry to loosen your iron grip on his autonomy.

"You have been working too hard," you murmur, watching his spine snap to attention, straight as a pole at the sound of your voice. "Go ahead, take a nap."

Clawed fingers flex, resist, shake with the effort, even as the wrists and arms move swift and smooth, mechanically. A roundabout motion, as if practiced.

With a full-bodied brutality you doubt you could muster up in your current post-strife comedown, the pilot crashes the butt of his rifle into the side of his own head, sending him hurtling horn-first into the board -- horns smash into the console, sparks shooting everywhere. Something oozes from the controls. Not blood, though, you'd recognize blood.

Sickkk.

Fingers to his carotid, as if you can't hear his pulse from here. He's unconscious.

You don't let yourself feel bad. He's only about thirty meters from a hospital, after all.

"Is there anything fun left to do in here?" Sefoni bounces up from behind you smelling like a rainbow drinker buffet, picking flecks of gore out of her hair and wiping her face with the remains of a sheer veil. "I could keep going."

"No, I'm afraid that was the last one. Come along." You pretend not to notice the little pout, the sulking as she follows behind you. "If you had gotten here earlier, there would have been more left for you."

Sefoni gives a maniacal little grin, all teeth and gleaming eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry for trying not to draw attention by acting suspiciously at the party."

"You should be," you accuse, a fondness in your voice even as you rub a thumb over your bruised knuckles. "I am glad you showed up, though."

The pod is enormous, filled with something that looks like sopor, though you can't smell it. Even from this close, it's hard to hear Sol's pusher. The material is dense.

The console it's attached to just reads like... gibberish. Tapping the haptic interface with your knuckle pulls up requirements for administrator credentials, mandatory blood sample, ocular scan, password, override key. Hal pipes up in the corner of your glasses to ask for just a second, but you're tired. And you're sick of this place.

Palms pressed to the surface of the pod, you close your eyes and let the space between you flood into your perception, hyperawareness singing across every nerve in your body. The molecules that make up Sol, the molecules that make up everything else. The exact delineation between stasis goo and pod exterior -- the silhouette of your friend's shape begins to take form. You pick out every strand of hair, every tiny membrane on her tail, each lash and itty bitty bump and pore. Her missing horns, her crooked fangs.

The pod is not too terribly dissimilar to an avocado, if you think about it.

Once you're satisfied you won't nick her accidentally, you press lightly against the pod with your palms. There's a clatter behind you as a razor-thin, perfect ring of metal you have teleported falls and clatters to the floor, dancing in a circle as it flattens to the ground. As if caught by surprise, the equal remaining halves of the pod split apart and fall to the floor with a clatter.

The viscosity of the slime gives you just enough time to reach forward and pick Sol out of it before she can fall to the floor, pulling her close to your chest, breathing weakly and covered in ooze. You take a step back, cognizant of your aching back, Sefoni behind you. You lean a shoulder against her, make Her part of You. The shape of you both -- the shape of all three of you, a 3D object rendered in space. Lightly, she places a hand on your back.

Reinforcements in 15 seconds. Escape plan?

"Take a deep breath," you instruct Sefoni -- it's the only warning you give before you're all standing in your transportalizer room, dripping slime and viscera all over the floor.

[ditzyredrobin]

Broken Glass (and Other Fragile Things)

I’m back again with a new fic! With the help of @balthazarusrex and the Wip Wednesday Game community, I’ve finally been able to sit down and focus again. Thank you so much for pushing me to write again!

@araydre made a beautiful piece of are here inspired by a snippet I put out recently so please show them some love! 💜

Chapter 2 of 2 should be along shortly.

-

Chapter 1 of 2

The shluck of blades ripping through flesh and viscera, once, twice, the hoarse gasp of air leaving Z’s chest cavity. Pru and Owens choking, drowning in their own blood, hot and sticky and wet.

Blood. So. Much. Blood. And he was couldn’t stop it. He just laid there in agony while his friends died, just bleeding, while the Widower grinned over him, “The Council of Spiders thanks you for your participation.”

All that blood and for what? His friends were dead and dying and he couldn’t move as agony ripped through him like the assassins blade to his gut. His fingers fumbled like frankfurters, numb, and stiff.

He couldn’t die here—if he did, everything he had been working towards, everything he sacrificed would be lost, everything they sacrificed. If he died, Bruce died with him.

He had to get up, he had to move, he had to—to do something, he—

Tim gasps, chest heaving, coming back to himself. The Widower—the Widower, the Council, is gone. He made sure of that, and the League had seen to the clean up, any outlying factions were long gone. Ra’s didn’t take to having a mockery made out of the League, which, in turn, was just an extension of himself. No one made a fool of Ra’s Al Ghul. Tim had experienced that first hand, tumbling out of a high rise without a grapple.

The Council was dead and buried and had been for the better part of three years, Bruce was back from the time stream, Pru was still griping his ear off on a semi-infrequent basis, but part of Tim was still back in Iraq, bleeding out in the sand dunes under the stars.

He saved the day—he was a hero but at what cost? Was there something more he could’ve done? A better way that didn’t involve dragging his friends to their death? Not just Z and Owens.

Tim Drake is a plague.

Everyone around him died eventually, Kon, Bart, Steph, his mom, his dad, Bruce—some were just fortunate enough to make it back.

Some much blood, the stench was heavy in his nose, hot and sticky, oozing between his fingers, he feels like he’s going to be sick. Gasping, choking, and—and he doesn’t know when he got out of bed, or how the Nest became some dingy Gotham back alleyway.

He’s on the ground in a dark alley, his heart pounding in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, the only light coming from his cracked phone screen. He’s barefoot, hands and feet stinging and there’s blood actually oozing out of a cut on his palm. Glass reflects off the faint light and the blood makes his stomach churn and—

“Hey babe you there?”

Tim freezes. There’s a selfie of Roy with Lian, grinning, both covered head to toe in ice cream after an ice cream fight Jason was less than thrilled about. He slowly lifts the phone to his ear, smearing blood on the screen.

“Hi,” his voice is with hoarse with misuse, like he’s been crying or screaming—maybe he had been.

“Everything okay?” Roy asks excruciatingly gently and oh so patient, unfairly so for this time of night.

Tim has a hard time fishing for the right words, eventually landing on, “I’m bleeding.”

There’s movement on the other end of the line, blankets rustling, and Tim can make out the sleep-heavy tone of Jason’s voice in the background.

They were in bed. Of course they were they were in bed, he realizes, it was just after 4:30am, there was little doubt in his mind that they had just gotten in from patrol and settled.

“It’s okay—Jay and I don’t mind.” Roy reassures with a muffled yawn, sitting up and stretching. “Do you need help?” Oh, he must have said that out loud. Oops.

“Yes,” is all he manages.

Roy hums, “Alright, I’ll send Jay.” He says like a promise. “Can you tell me where you are?”

Tim shakes his head only to realize Roy can’t see that over the phone. “An alley.” He’s trying to be more precise but it’s dark and his brain feels like sludge between his ears, giving the world a hazy sort of quality.

“Can you see any landmarks?” Roy asks. “We can trace your call but it’ll take Jay a little longer to find you.”

Tim blinked dumbly, looking up from the blood pooling in the palm of his hand. After a long pause, Tim is able to gather enough brain juice to make sense of his surroundings in the dim glow of sodium lights. There is the faint glow retro neon sign from the pizza parlor across the way, and the dulled bass of a club a couple of blocks up. “I think I’m near the video rental,” the pain is a distant thing, blood oozing between his fingers. “The one we went to last week near Rao’s Pizza.”

Jay is coming.

Jay is coming for him.

There’s soft voices over the line again as Roy seemingly relays the info before he’s back, giving Tim his undivided attention. “Jay is on his way. Can you tell me how much you’re bleeding?”

“A little,” Tim supplies numbly. “I cut my hand.”

“A little by vigilante standards or civilian standards?”

Tim pauses to think, “Civilian.”

“That’s good, I’m glad.” Roy sounds pleased and it sends a little thrill down his spine. “Lucky for you, you’re not very far from the apartment. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Tim’s face prickles and his eyes burn, and he nods. “My feet hurt, I stepped on glass.”

“We can fix that.” Roy promises, muffling another yawn.

“I’m sorry.” It was late (early?) for a vigilante.

“Don’t be. You know we’re happy to help you anytime you need, even if it’s late.” Tim nods again even though Roy can’t see it, hugging his knees to his chest. The damp pavement was soaking in through his night pants sending goosebumps down his arms and legs.

He tries to will himself to say something along the lines of, I’m okay, no seriously I’m fine, or like seriously okay, but headlights illuminate the alleyway before he can say anything.

A beat up Honda pulls up in front of the alleyway, headlights illuminating it with more light than should be allowed. Tim squints against the light as Jay steps out of the beater. He rounds the hood, outlined by the headlights.

“Jay,” Tim breathes.

Roy says something but he can’t make it out, his voice a distant din, because Jay is here.

His hair is mussed with sleep with dark shadows under his eyes and a furrowed brow. One look at Tim and he’s shrugging off his leather jacket, wrapping it around his shoulders. It smells like Marlboro Reds and aftershave and it’s the first time Tim feels like he can breathe.

“Roy said cut your hand?” Jason asks and Tim finds himself nodding. “Can I see?”

Tim, without thought, holds out his bleeding palm. Jason carefully takes it in his own large and calloused, tilting to the light. “S’not so bad—nothing a set a tweezers and some antibiotics can’t take care of. You hiding anything else?”

“My feet,” is all Tim can say.

Jason grunts and sets his palm back, moving on to his bare feet. He cradles one delicately, repeating the same careful ministrations. “Roy’s gonna have a field day with you.” He muses, moving on to the other foot.

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers, hot tears finally slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh baby doll, come ‘ere,” Jason sighs, gathering their Baby Bird in his arms like the delicate thing he is. “You don’t gotta be sorry about anything, me ‘n Roy are always gonna come when you call. You hear me?”

“But-“

“But nothing. Don’t gotta to worry ‘bout nothing but bein’ here with me now, yeah?” Jason says, in that silky, loving drawl of his. “‘sides, if anything, I should say sorry to you. I wouldn’t expect Roy to let you go ‘til at least the bottoms of your feet have healed up.”

A week or so of cuddles on the couch might be nice, he thinks absently, burrowing into Jason’s neck. He’s warm and solid and protects him from the lazy Gotham drizzle.

“That Roy still on the phone?” Jason rumbles, cradling him to his chest with one arm, using his free hand to open the passenger side door.

“Oh,” Tim blinks, pulling the phone away. Roy is still illuminated on the screen. “Yes.”

Jason settles him in the car, the seat warmer is already on high and toasty under his ass, “Can I talk to him?”

“Okay,” Tim agrees distantly, holding it out. He doesn’t think there’s anything else he can say.

Jason, ignoring the blood smears on the screen, takes it, holding it between his shoulder and ear as he buckles him in. He pushes Tim back against the headrest, his hand gentle yet firm.

Tim just rolls with it.

He becomes aware of the seatbelt clicking into place and Jason talking above him but the words don’t register. He doesn’t mind, though, letting his eyes shut.

The heater is on full blast which feels nice but it doesn’t fully chase away the chill or the sand.

“The Council of Spiders thanks you for your participation.”

-

When he opens his eyes again, Roy is opening his door, eyes wide and so so green, looking a little frantic.

“Pretty,” Tim mumbles, letting himself be manhandled out of the car.

Jason snorts behind him which Roy pointedly ignores, but a little tension eases from his shoulders. “Let’s get you upstairs, ‘kay? I have dry clothes and a hot bath waiting for you once we get you patched up. Sound good?”

Dry clothes sounded nice, a bath with his vigilante boyfriends sounded even better.

Roy just smiled and bundled him in close to his chest. When Tim blinked again, he was sat on Roy’s lap while Jason tsked over his over his feet. The tackle box of a first-aid kit was spilled out over the bathroom counter.

“I don’t like this one bit, Sweets, somethin’ just ain’t addin’ up. Why was he out there barefoot in the first place?”

Roy hums considering and smoothes the hair off of Tim’s forehead, his touch more gentle than his mother’s. “We’ll just have to wait and ask him,” he says gently. “What do you think, Redbird?”

Tim burrows his face into the crook of Roy’s neck, just breathing. His heart is a steady best under his ear—unlike Owens, or Z, which would never beat again. They died choking on their own blood and he did nothing to stop it, lying in his own agony.

He stopped the Council, stopped more people from needlessly dying, assassins or not. He should be happy—he should be proud—he—he is aware of Roy’s arms tightening around him, holding him close, while he and Jay talk in low, soothing tones over him, too quiet to make out.

His hand and feet are cleaned and he’s being maneuvered again as they stripe him out of his damp sleep clothes, starting with Jason’s jacket, still tucked around his shoulders, which Tim isn’t a fan of. In fact it leaves him feel naked and without shield, but Tim doesn’t have the strength to protest.

It’s odd, not being full in control of his motor functions, but he’s too heavy and spent to put up a fight.

Together, he’s carefully stripped down until he’s bare, hanging limply between his boyfriends. There’s nothing even remotely sexy about it.

They keep murmuring gentle reassurances even when his eyes fill up and spill over at uneven intervals.

He’s passed from one strong set of arms to the next as he’s lowered into the warm water. His back is pressed against the front of either Roy or Jason, he can’t tell, his vision blurred from tears that just keep falling.

He remembers gentle hands methodically cleaning away blood and back alley grime and fingers massaging shampoo and conditioner through his too long hair. They spend extra time, massaging his scalp until he’s a limp mess between them. His hands and feet are carefully kept out of the water.

When he was done, there were fluffy towels patting him down before being dressed in something soft and familiar, and laid in bed, the blankets tugged up to his chin.

Then, and only then, a kiss was pressed to his hair and he drifts away.

[officialbruciewayne]

The Annotated Death of Helena Wayne

Helena Wayne's death certificate is provided to her family, signed with the certainty of a medical examiner who knows a tragic accident when she sees one. The investigation is kept decisively short, no effort made to determine blood alcohol out of misplaced respect. The documentation is provided and closure is offered in a slim envelope.

The investigation does not stop there.

Where Bruce Wayne withdraws in mourning from the world, retreating into the forbidding walls of Wayne Manor, the Bat is hardly restrained to his foreboding cavern below. There is obsession here, of course, even he can admit he is looking for proof that all those experts are wrong, that there is foul play involved, that Helena is not gone.

Even he knows he's in denial. It's just that his denial is thorough. Compulsively detailed. Relentless and he half-suspects his family has resigned themselves to him needing his own investigation.

The first indication that there is a problem with the police's account of the situation is glaringly obvious from his first look over what is now unmistakably a crime scene.

The vehicle swerved into a tree, but there are no traces of rubber on the road, no heat of them left in agitated bituminous oils. Evidence that would have been left if brakes had applied to the tires. Strange, isn't it, that Helena Wayne swerved from the road, but made absolutely no attempt to use her brakes to prevent crashing into a tree.

An ordinary girl, and he might have considered fear or shock, but not Helena. No, this is a point of inconsistency. The postmortem of the vehicle revealed only the fuel line's weakness, not the brakes.

It draws his attention into the evidence; a body has two options in an accident. Either like a bug shaken in a glass, oozing organs and unrecognizable viscera, or more or less intact. This is not the latter, but the the second does not align with the mass lost. Something is amiss. Was anyone in the vehicle when it crashed?

The bones bother him too, even at the typical internal temperature of combustion, even then, there is something in the crystallization of the bone fragmentation. Obscured DNA. 1073.15 Kelvin, 973 Kelvin, 423 Kelvin. He needs to check the blood.

And the blood- this is where Bruce's investigation turns from paranoia to feverish triumph. Sleepless and grim, as he confirms the blood is Helena Wayne's, something he had half-thought would not happen, and produces dulled rage in him--

But it is the detailed analysis that vindicates the madness. That justifies going without rest for all these days, shunning society and instead poring over evidence.

The platelets are wrong.

The red cell count can be explained, yes, but there are only two explanations for the shocking distortion of thrombocyte levels: either Helena Wayne had some form of leukemia or this blood is older than the accident.

Leukemia briefly takes his thoughts. Was she sick? Was she dying? Is the lack of brakes because this is a suicide...?

Despair and denial are equally fierce. It cannot be that. No. The blood must be old. Planted. Faked. The inconsistencies arise from the falsification; he is not imagining patterns that are not there, he is half-mad over this, but not a fool.

Kidnapping, Bruce decides, allowing himself the luxury of a break. A long stretch of both his arms, working tension from the muscles, a scalding hot shower- taken in the Cave of course -as he leaves the Batcomputer to rake through Helena's accounts, and financials. To pick through surveillance. To begin the work of tracking isotopic tracers that he no longer feels remotely guilty about.

His daughter is not dead, but she is gone. She has been kidnapped.

The case proceeds to its next phase of investigation.

@the-best-of-waynes (tagging so you can read)

[sebbiesolace]

*A while later, after the bodies have cooled, the walkie talkie crackles to life, and Parker’s voice oozes through the speakers.*

“Hello! We interrupt our regularly scheduled static and silence to bring you… an obituary.”

*A pistol’s hammer is pulled back.*

“Talk. Just like we rehearsed.”

*A different, wavering voice speaks.*

“I- I am the c-captain of MTF unit 713. The remainder of m-my squad has been s-slaughtered by an escaped EXR-P, and I am c-currently bound and held at g-gunpoint. M-my identification code is Sierra Oscar Bravo Echo K-kilo.”

*The MTF hesitates, before resuming their speech.*

“M-my squad was pinned between an emplaced turret and my captor. I chose to fall back from the turret. I made a mistake. S-Send reinforcements. We can’t handle the breach and rogue elements at the same time.”

*Silence.*

“I- I said what you told me to, are you gonna let me go now?”

*Desperation tinges the Soldier’s voice.*

“… no, why? Did you think I would?”

“B-but I- you said- I- I did everything you said!”

“Why does everyone think that doin’ everythin’ I say mean they’ll get to live? It’s not like you’ve got anythin’ left to give me. At this point, I get more enjoyment killin’ you, than I do keepin’ ya alive.”

*Parker’s voice is matter of fact, as if the MTF’s irrelevance was more obvious than the sky being blue.*

“Anyways, I think you’ve had enough time to ruminate on that. Now, let the world you dream about be the one you live in now.”

“No- Please, I- Please don’t- WAIT, STO-”

*BLAM*

*Parker sighs, seemingly unenthused despite the sound of dripping viscera.*

“I’m not sure what you were expectin’. A prison is where you leave people to be forgotten to history. It’s where you leave folks like me, cause the people I killed got buried instead of delivering our pizza and fighting our wars. You think these two bit hired hands are gonna do any good?”

*He chuckles, then continues.*

“Unfortunately, I take offense to that.

Watch your backs, Urbanshade. Nevermore, signing off.”

*The audio feed shuts off, leaving static.*

[He winced at the gunshots he could hear, holding a claw over his earfin. He allowed this to happen. He allowed more bloodshed. Just to keep someone down here. Was he... was he wrong. He lied to Parker. Those walkies... they could have called down a submarine. They could have gotten out.]

"I'm sorry, Parker..."

[He was quiet. So, so quiet. The MTF soldiers last words, and Parkers response rang through his head like a cow bell. The soldier... He was still human. Was it senseless? He had killed and torn and eaten but... He NEEDED to.]

"Rest.. Rest in peace, SOBEK. May death be kinder to you then life."

[Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Dead. He sent Parker out on a goose chase, and Parker found the goose. He and p.AI.nter.]

"May.. may death. May death be kinder to you. May.. May death. May it be kinder to you then- Then-"

[He LET Parker do that. He ENCOURAGED it. ]

"Then THIS."

[yearningaces]

Would the house be okay with me putting new stuff inside? Like plants! I hope you have a lovely day~

Thank you!

And 100%! The house thrives on the emotions in it, so bringing things in that make you happy will feed it that happiness

It will mess with things though

Specifically any living things like plants...

Just know it's okay if the new leaf growing on your plant looks like it oozes viscera after a certain hour. Ignore if the bare spot where the trimmed branches or leaves once were seem like eyes after dark. Don't worry if the plants always appear in the windowsills whenever the moon is over half full. It's all perfectly fine! Just... Part of the experience :D

[the-slasher-files]

YOUR FLESH IS MINE

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY – IMPROMPTU

This fic is what happens when you're listening to deftones and thinking about Ghost. Sorry not sorry

MASTERLIST

There was no warning before his mass of muscle cornered you. Brown eyes blown with desire. Lust. Hate. They looked black under the dim light of the dingy hotel. He was just a wolf tonight. Hunting. Searching. Hungry.

The violence was still inside him, bleeding out like poison. Rippling under each flex of his armored body. Fuck he was so big. Towering above you. Raising your hands above your trembling body. The gunpowder, fire and copper clashed around you as he was fresh off the field. Blood still oozing through bandages as he lifted you against the wall.

Black paint heavy around tortured eyes, he didn't want to do this... he needed to. A release of something so sinister he swore to protect you from. He changed. The beast looming and tearing away the gear in hot kisses. Lapping. Biting. Swallowing you whole. This wasn't Simon. It was Ghost. A phantom of a man that had seen too much and was stained forever in viscera. Something that hunts and leers in the night. A killing machine born from blades, bullets and hurricanes of devastation englufed in flames.

"Let me..." Gruff. Rage pooring off in melted metal. "Need"

He could see the way you opened for him. A sacrificial night to a God that torn your ribcage apart, keeping your head fuzzy and plunged inside. Fucking you in his arms, pinned with forceful restriction against the wall.

It had been too long. So much death in between. A man reduced to human needs.

Starved from you —he bit into the delicate, tender flesh bared upon your neck and shoulder. Tasting the sweat, your perfume and droplets of blood under sharp canines. Every snapping thrust of his hips, you would swallow him. A tortured game of who was eating who. All consuming basics. He was ridged flesh covered in scars and tissue, the size of him shielded you from the danger he left behind.

Dehydration sunk in —Drinking your moans. Licking up the taste of your tongue on his, blooming in dangerous pleasure. Guttural, wolfish growls rumbled. Shaking him to his core, feeling your hot slick drip down him. He needed it. Cover himself in it and drown against the force that was you to crash down on the sand again as a man, not a monster.

"Take it. FUCKIN—" He slammed his massive fist against the dry wall, bits crumbled around the glove. "Good girl. Cum and fucking look at ME"

"M'sorry...M'sorry. Angel. Sorry" Simon shook, hiding away in your neck. The black paint marking you against the bruises as he sobbed. "I never wanted to let you see that"

The precipice crashed around you, violently shaking within his devastation. Milking his hot spurts, draining all he had to give you. Eyes eating each other whole in frenzy. It was clear to you when his fog lifted.

You hushed him, over and over again. Your fingers scraped gently across his back and neck, tangling in the blonde hair layered with ash.

"Simon.. it's okay. You're safe, " Ghosted lips whispered into his shoulder. "It's going to be okay. You're safe"