#listening to it after i smoke is like lucid dreaming

[finitofreeway]

Its a sad day in history when you have to give up a song you've always loved because there's memories attached to it you have to let go.

I have to give up "Goapele - Closer to my Dreams" permanently because the instrumental is cursed with good memories and attached to the failures in my last relationship.

I couldn't reshape that song in my mind if I tried.

[oddinary4bts]

Coffee Stain | jjk

☆summary: you grief, and it's the expression of your everlasting love for Jungkook.

☆pairings: Jungkook x reader

☆rating: 18+ (it deals with heavy themes)

☆genre: grief!au, angst

☆warnings: this is a grief!au so it's rough. jungkook died and reader tries to grieve him. lucid dream where she sees him and talks to him again, curses, a lot of crying

☆word count: 1.9k

☆a/n: this hurts. idk why i wrote it. i was sad watching a sad instagram reel and then this happened. i apologize, and i love y'all, and if you need to talk just reach out <3 i'm always here for you guys.

☆☆☆☆☆

            There’s been a coffee stain on the kitchen counter for weeks.

Staring at it, you can almost hear the laughter it brought forth then. A laughter of crinkling doe eyes, of a bunny grin and arms wrapping around your middle. It’s a hand clutching around your heart, like it used to clutch around your fingers.

It’s the ghost of bodies entwined that weren’t meant to be separated.

In the bathroom, his towel has started to smell like humidity instead of the body wash he used, the one he claimed was good for his hair too. A 3-in-1 combo thing, something you used to tease him constantly about. And though the smell is a sign that you need to clean the towel, you can’t bring yourself to do the laundry.

In fact, you can’t bring yourself to do any chores. You just let Bam out three times a day, and then you go back to bed. Back to a cold bed that was supposed to be an island of you and him.

Now it’s an island of your grief, of tear-stained pillows and sorrow-filled sheets.

The sun rises and sets every day, but time has stopped. Time stopped on a surprised rainy day when he didn’t come home.

And he’ll never come home again.

It burns. It burns like the pizza you put in the oven, thinking that maybe you’d eat for the first time in weeks. The smoke pricks your eyes, suffocates your lungs. You hope it’ll steal your breath like his breath was stolen, too.

A last exhale, one you weren’t there to share.

You open the windows to air the room, and late spring flows in. Chirping birds and a soft breeze surround you, and you feel sick to your stomach. Because he won’t experience any other season. His life ended on a rainy April day, forever altering yours in the process.

Bam watches you from where he’s lying down by the door, still waiting for him to come home. Indeed, he’d used to come home around this time every day, to whisk you in his arms and tell you he loves you. But not that day.

No, that day, you sat on the couch watching the raindrops chasing themselves on the window, your phone clutched in your hand because he’d been supposed to be home an hour ago. When the phone rang bringing the news, your life became quiet.

It’s been quiet since then.

Your friends come over in the evening, with food you try to eat. You remember evenings that you’d spend with them and him, laughing and playing games and doing everything that young people do.

Young people aren’t supposed to die. Or so you tell yourself as you follow the conversation, but never participate, like maybe he left with your voice too. Your friends don’t complain about it – they know how much he meant to you, how much you meant to him, too.

You wonder what he’d say if he were here tonight, and you think you wouldn’t be able to hear it. Not when you haven’t been able to listen to his last voice message again, even though it sits on your phone, a keepsake of your love gone too soon.

When your friends leave, they hug you tight, though it’s never as tight as he used to hold you. Because he was the only one to know how to hold your pieces together and tonight, like every night since then, they fall apart. They fall apart like dandelions in the wind, so easily blown away.

You go to bed, Bam with you, staring up at the ceiling, imagining that it is his body next to yours. That it is his soft snores you can hear, his gentle breaths dragging you to sleep hours after you lied down.

You wake up feeling different. The light shines differently, like it’s from another world. The apartment smells of bacon and coffee, and you furrow your brows. The bed is empty, yet warmth lingers in the sheets next to you.

You step out of bed, tiptoe on a floor that you know to be usually cold in the morning, yet today it’s warm. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt he usually wears, and you feel like you’re forgetting something, yet you can’t quite tell what.

You walk out of the bedroom, and Bam greets you like he always does in the morning after his walk, with his tag wagging so wildly it’s making his whole body shake from side to side. You laugh, petting him as he tries to jump on you so that he can lick your face, though he eventually abandons to trot to the kitchen instead.

You follow behind him, smiling at the sight of his naked back, as he cooks something on the stove.

“You woke up just in time,” he tells you, shooting you a quick glance over his shoulder.

His eyes are sad. A sorrow deeper than the ocean hides in his pupils, and you’d frown if you hadn’t missed him so much.

“What are you making?” you ask.

He motions to a bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. And bacon and coffee, too.” He glances at you again, like maybe you disappeared while he was looking at the pan on the stove. “You can pour yourself a cup of coffee while I get everything ready.”

You nod, smiling softly, before doing so, grabbing your favourite mug from the cupboard. You frown – wasn’t there supposed to be a chip in it? Yet the mug looks pristine, entirely new. You shrug it off, and then you pour the coffee, before pouring one for him too. You set them on the table and sit in your usual spot, looking out the window.

The sky outside is purple and bright, and you think you can see constellations dusting it.

You know. You’ve known since you woke up, but you don’t care.

You watch him as he finishes cooking, and then he carries the food over to the table. He sits next to you, in his favourite spot because he gets to see you and the TV at the same time. The TV is not on right now, and his attention is solely on you, like he’s drinking you in like you’ve been drinking him in.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

His eyes are infinitely sad. It’s startling, and you can’t bear the weight they hold. So you focus on your food, while he sits there watching you.

“I slept okay,” you reply. “You?”

He chuckles. “I slept too much.” He sighs, and it’s heavier than the universe. “I’m always sleeping lately.”

You laugh, because what else are you supposed to do?

“You’re awake now,” you tease, and you pat his arm.

His skin is soft and warm, void of any scars.

“Only because you’re here,” he replies, and he smiles again as you meet his doe eyes. “Now eat.”

You obey, enjoying the taste of his food – he’s always made the best pancakes, and today is no different. You even think they’re better, though you reckon that would be impossible.

“You should make pancakes more often,” you say when you’re done eating. “I can’t remember the last time you made them.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners, yet the depths remain eternally sorrowful. “I’ll make them again soon.”

You smile, pausing to admire him for a few seconds before you ask, “Should we go back to bed?”

“We’re not Sunday,” he teases.

You narrow your eyes. “It can be Sunday just this once.”

His giggles accompany you as he grabs your hand and pulls you to the bedroom, and soon you’re in bed again, laughing as he tickles you.

“Fuck, I missed your laugh,” he says, and you pout.

“I missed you,” you answer.

He nods, and the sadness invades all his features. “I know.” Bam appears, jumping on the bed to lie next to you while Jungkook kneels between your legs, hands still resting on your sides. “You’ve been taking good care of Bam?”

“Yes,” you say. “We’ve been taking a lot of walks.”

He grins like the sadness was never there, and then he turns towards the dog. “Aren’t you lucky?”

Bam rolls on his back as Jungkook starts petting him, and soon he’s rubbing the dog’s belly, cooing like he’s talking to a baby. It’s adorable, and you admire the view even though it hurts so deeply you think you might be dying.

When he’s done with the dog, he looks at you again, a soft smile gracing his lips. “What have you been up to?”

You sigh, and you pull on his arm until he’s lying with his head on your chest. “Nothing.”

“That sounds boring,” he teases, and you think you feel his tears wetting the shirt you’re wearing, though you don’t mention it.

“Hey, I’m just doing my best,” you reply, pinching his side.

He laughs. “I know.”

“How long until you have to go?” you ask.

He sighs, and he glances at the time on the night table. “Not long.”

You rub a hand on his back, your arms tightening around him. He looks up at you, and you meet his gaze, hoping to find an eternity in them.

“I wish you could stay,” you whisper.

“Me too.”

He kisses you then, his feather soft lips meeting yours for a short embrace of the love you share. Your heart settles in your chest, your ache momentarily forgotten, and you wish to get lost in him. Wish to stay here with him forever, but he inevitably pulls away from the kiss, looking over his shoulder.

“It’s time to go,” he says.

You nod, because you know. You feel it too, and so you force yourself to get up. He quickly puts a shirt on, and then you follow him to the door.

“Text me when you get to work?” you tell him, eyes filled with tears.

“I will.” He meets your gaze, his own eyes lined with silver. “Please be safe.”

You chuckle. “You be safe.”

“Always,” he says. He opens the door, looking outside, but he doesn’t move for a while.

“Should we hang out again soon?” you ask, hoping that it’ll make him stay.

He looks back at you. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

You nod, and he takes a step outside. He’s fading out of focus, yet you try to hold onto it, to keep him here with you. It’s like it works – he turns back around, and then rushes to you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he hides his face in your neck. But you’re losing him again – already, the apartment has faded away, and all that’s left is the purple sky with its infinity of stars.

“I love you,” you whisper as he, too, fades away.

In the vast expanse of nothing, you think you hear him saying it back. You reach for him, and you think you can see him again, see his smile, though he’s just a little too far for you to touch.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come home.”

You wake, the bleak light from the sun filtering through the blinds, and the sky proves to be the blue of sorrow again. Grief, the expression of your everlasting love, sits on your chest, and you can’t breathe.

“I love you,” you whisper through the pain, and you mean it, more than you’ve ever meant anything before.

After all, there’s been a coffee stain on the kitchen counter for weeks.

☆☆☆☆☆

if you need to talk please reach out, and also don't hesitate to scream at me for this bc idk wtf it is

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate

[thelordofgifs]

@disorganisedautodidact voted for Eldacar in the otb tournament and requested “Maedhros comforting Maglor after a nightmare” to collect on their bribefic! I hope you enjoy ❤️

-

The cry was hoarse and faint, torn as it was from a throat made raw by smoke, and yet it roused Maedhros instantly. He forced the battle-tension from his limbs – the worst of the fighting was over, and this was no war-shout, only Maglor thrashing in his bed, caught in the throes of some fevered dream. He cried out again in his sleep.

“Káno,” Maedhros said, taking Maglor’s hand in his. He drew his chair closer to the bedside. “Káno, wake up.”

Maglor’s eyes flew open. He looked around wildly for a moment before his gaze alighted on Maedhros; then he pushed himself up to a seated position, drawing in rattling gulps of air through his damaged throat.

Maedhros fetched him some water and made him drink it. “Don’t try to talk,” he ordered. “Thy throat needs rest.”

Maglor, who obeyed Maedhros in all other matters, would not listen to this, of course. He took another unsteady breath and rasped, “There was – fire – fire everywhere—”

“I know, Káno,” Maedhros soothed. “The dragon came, dost thou remember? But he is gone now, and thou art in Himring – thou’rt safe now.”

Maglor shook his head. “It was burning!” he gasped. “All burning – all gone—”

Maedhros squeezed his fingers. “Not all gone – not yet,” he said. “The Gap may be lost, but Himring stands. Hithlum is not yet fallen.” He would save the news of Fingolfin’s death, he had already decided, for when Maglor was stronger. “And – the reports are still muddled, but it seems our brothers all survive, Káno.”

Maglor blinked at him through eyes yet glazed with fever and said, “Telvo?”

There was a lump in Maedhros’ throat. “Not – not Telvo,” he managed. “But the rest.”

Maglor did not seem to understand him. He raised his hand to where a loose curl of Maedhros’ hair had fallen on his shoulder. “Thy hair is like his,” he said. “But – no. Nelyo. Nelyo.”

“It is I, Káno,” said Maedhros, trying to conceal his nervousness. It was concerning that Maglor was still so badly confused. He had been more lucid just a few days ago, and his injuries were healing. “It’s Nelyo. I’m here.”

“Nelyo,” Maglor repeated. “But – thou wert burning – I saw it—”

“I have not burned, Káno,” Maedhros said softly. “See? I am here.” He squeezed Maglor’s fingers again.

“That is so,” Maglor said. He looked down at their clasped hands with an expression of wonderment. “Telvo is all ashes now. Atar, too.” He laughed suddenly: a harsh, hacking thing that soon devolved into a fit of coughing. O for Maglor’s laugh, that light and lilting sound almost sweeter than his song! Was there nothing Morgoth would not ruin?

Maedhros held him through the coughing fit, and once it had subsided he drew Maglor closer still, letting him nestle his head into Maedhros’ shoulder. “Hush,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Hush, Káno. I am here.” Maglor’s skin was hot and dry.

“Am I burning, too?” Maglor asked against Maedhros’ neck.

“No,” Maedhros said, “it’s only the fever, dearest.” Had he not once been in the habit of soothing a whole host of restless little children with bruised knees and tearful eyes? When had it become the other way round – when had Maglor become Maedhros’ strength, instead? “From the wound on thy hip, dost thou remember? It festered a little in the foul air – we have seen many such infections lately. But it is healing now, and thou wilt be well again.”

Maglor’s scorching fingers found Maedhros’ face. “I watched thee burn,” he whispered, and nothing Maedhros could say would console him.

[johnniesmoke]

Enlightenments Hangover - Johnnie Smoke

Analysis:

Johnnie Smoke’s lyrics are a deeply introspective journey through struggle, ambition, and the weight of expectation. The song balances raw emotion with philosophical musings, painting a vivid picture of a mind navigating the pressures of existence. Themes of perseverance, self-doubt, and authenticity weave throughout, creating a powerful narrative that resonates with listeners seeking meaning. The juxtaposition of vulnerability and confidence is striking—expressing hesitation about fame while simultaneously asserting artistic dominance. Smoke’s wordplay is sharp, exposing societal flaws while reinforcing personal convictions. The repeated questioning of belief highlights the search for truth, making the lyrics relatable. His commentary on enlightenment and the cost of wisdom emphasizes that knowledge comes with burdens. The closing lines suggest resilience, as despite the heaviness, there's a determination to remain level-headed. This work captures the essence of an artist who refuses to compromise, driven by a purpose far greater than personal gain.

Enlightenments Hangover - Johnnie Smoke

Lyrics:

Hey, fam. /

I hate breaking hearts, but it's better theirs than mine, just trying to stay alive. /

Okay? /

It's a place where it's to me and mine and fuck all those other guys. /

Yeah, fuck all else. /

Fuck lying when the truth is the truth. /

Some vibe that'll move you. /

Some vibe to fill the void. /

Some vibe for those kids without a voice. /

At the end of the day, I suppose, we all have a choice. /

But this one's for the—yeah, this one's for the dreams i'll soil. /

And for the instance, one kid brings it all home. /

Exclude me from the question, /

Are you restless about just what it is? /

I'm laughing at every kid who says this is what it isn't because they ain't the ones really living it?/

And it is all one might get to, believe in the finer things. /

There were days where I couldn't see them, couldn't believe it. /

You don't need it, like I fucking need it. /

I can keep it. /

Nah, there's always a catch. /

Yeah if it's too good to be true, what you all[yall'] forget is the hangover. /

The one that came with enlightenment but I won't let you forget it. /

I'm only partly lucid, but I'll take it over no taste of the real real world /

Tell me what I'm really here for./

Yes sir! Because I know there's something that wishes was you, not me. /

But if you're hearing it, well, you were pretty fucking close with humanity. /

What am I supposed to believe after what happened? /

Do y'all really think I could come with something less than classic? /

Someone of this stature is hard to convince of anything. /

But I'm quick to go all in./

Now getting after this pretty radical. /

Make sure you're surrounded by love. /

It's only when push comes to shove you'll find the inspiration to give it a run. /

High and dry they will leave you with money on your mind. /

Something must have rubbed me right, and something must scare me enough to hit it this hard. /

I'm shining on them. /

I don't gotta ask, "What if?" it's more like as if it's all me. /

More like I've got all I need and I see all I want scrolling my feed with every risk, there's a leap of faith. /

And well, if you realize it's hard to get this deep on a record, yeah, let it set in./

We'll be seeing eye to eye on one thing. /

Hopefully restoring faith. /

If you're gonna compliment the day, I'll hear it /

But most shit if rather leave it where it is./

Dared by revelation. /

Yeah, I was promised the world. /

Sure on the piano, I can play a few chords elevated by the hurt. /

And it's a natural ecstasy that I'm afraid of because I'll go into it feels like I was just crowned king. /

But by the morning, I'll be wishing it wasn't me, yeah. /

With new responsibilities and the weight of an entire era riding on me well I'll wear a smile on my lows. /

Just because I want you all [y'all'] to know I touched the peak. /

Hoping it's reminiscent of just what we need. /

And I'd give anything to let you experience it. /

If you were inspired once, then you're still inspired it strikes every day as long as you let it. /

Yeah its heavy but we're still level-headed. /

[kayawolfhorse]

Supermoon – Chapter Three | Read on Ao3

Previous / Next

— ☾ —

The second day of traveling is quieter than the first.

Everyone had awoken at dawn in noticeably grimmer spirits. Tents were deconstructed and stowed away in inventories, breakfast was eaten, and horses were cared for and tacked up all with almost mechanical efficiency. There was light banter here and there, but the serious atmosphere weighed down upon everyone.

Grian checks the communicator on his wrist for their current coordinates, as the forest around them transitions from dark oak to birch. If his math is correct, they’re far enough away now from the second portal to begin searching for their destination. The thought sends a chill down his spine as he reaches for the first eye.

Grian calls for the group to slow as he steadies his arm, preparing to throw. Under the expectant gazes of his friends, Grian tosses the eye of ender in front of him, and it catches itself midair, floating upwards and swerving to the side. Grian glances towards the sun to calculate the eye’s position. Further north it is, then. They can’t be more than a thousand blocks away.

An unlucky throw; the eye breaks midair. With nothing left to linger for, Grian urges his horse forward.

Dread tugs at his stomach, and it only grows as Grian glances around the haggard faces of the Boatem crew. Though nobody has said it directly, he knows no one has gotten a restful sleep the night before. Grian thinks of his own terrible dreams and hopes none of the others had suffered the same.

Could the Watchers see them? Grian put an illusion over everyone before they left, making it seem like they were all still back at their bases, but all that smoke and mirrors stuff has never been his strong suit. If it has failed, he has failed, and they will lose the crucial element of surprise.

He may not be good at illusions, but he knows someone who is.

Grian turns to Scar, who rides next to him. “Hey, Scar, could you help me with something?” Grian may still remember some of his old Watcher tricks after leaving them, but Scar is a vex, far more skilled in misdirection and trickery than Grian suspects even some Watchers are.

After quietly listening to Grian’s explanation, Scar hands his reins over and dismounts, coming to stand in front of everyone. Another round of explaining is given to the other three, and Scar raises his hands, palms pointed upwards.

Scar’s normally green eyes, so vivid they’re akin to emeralds, glow a bright silver-blue. His hair changes to match them, white streaks threading throughout before devouring the brown entirely. Grian glances at Scar’s teeth to find them normal. Not full vex then; just the stage that Scar calls his ‘wizard mode’, allowing him to cast magic.

Small, elegant slivers of magic, so unlike the vex mob’s jagged points of it, dance across Scar’s palms as he turns them out towards the group, and though the slivers dissipate a block or two after leaving Scar’s hand, Grian still feels the effect of them, settling over his shoulders like heavy silk. Looking behind him, Pearl is the only other one that visibly notices the feeling, her antennae twitching slightly.

As Scar finishes his spell, the energy seems to evaporate off of Grian. He stands still for a moment before shaking his head and wringing his hands out, heading back for his horse.

“All set!” Scar confirms, coming to grip his reins once more. “So long as none of you get too far away from me, the spell is in place. I should be able to hold it pretty long with the energy I’ve got.”

“And our Boatem selves?” Grian asks, after giving Scar a grateful nod for his effort.

“Working on our mega bases, of course! Lots of staying in single, confined areas,” Scar says with a wink.

“Good thinking. Now, for the ‘energy that you’ve got’, how much do you actually have?” Vex magic always saps Scar’s energy, to a degree, and though he seems lucid enough as Grian assesses him, there’s sleepiness in Scar’s slightly slowed blinking.

Scar waves a hand dismissively. “I’m a bit tired, but nothing extraordinary. I’m used to it.” Grian believes him, mostly, but resolves to keep an eye on him anyway as they urge their horses into a canter.

If the Watchers can’t see them... Grian tentatively extends his vision beyond his own two eyes, a movement that has always felt like unfolding a spyglass, and is met with nothing. The trees they walk between appear completely uninhabited, save for the mobs of the forest.

Ahead of him, Scar tilts his head slightly, and Grian realizes that he must be able to feel the magic upon his own. “Just me,” he calls out, just loudly enough for Scar to hear.

“I know,” is Scar’s reply, soft enough Grian almost can’t catch it.

When the mountains from Grian’s map start to appear at the horizon, sun directly overhead, he gestures for the group to stop. “It’s close enough now we should be able to walk. Let’s leave the horses here, for safety’s sake,” Grian says, whipping out materials for a temporary fence from his inventory.

“Would we be able to fly?” Impulse asks, clipping a lead to his horse.

“We’ve got to stay in a pretty tight group to keep in range of Scar’s cloak. I’d rather not risk it.” Grian shakes his head. He wishes they could fly. Being on horseback instead of his own two wings for two days has him feeling restless.

Scar pats his mount’s neck. “I’m sure going to miss you, Peanut Butter.” The horse nuzzles his hand, and Scar feeds it a golden carrot.

“You named your horse Peanut Butter?” Grian asks in amusement.

“Well sure! They’re a matching set, you know,” Scar replies.

Impulse laughs before saying, “Ah, I get it. Peanut Butter and Jellie, I like that.”

Scar regales the group with tales of Peanut Butter and Jellie’s supposed friendship as they walk, mostly of the cat sitting aloofly in front of Peanut Butter’s stall and graciously allowing a single curious sniff from the horse before sauntering off to find a better place to lay. Grian’s grateful for the goofiness, amidst it all, and surrounded by the warmth of laughter and the afternoon sun above him, he tosses up the next eye.

— ☾ —

“That’s my last one,” Grian says, watching the fragments of his final eye of ender sparkle and disappear midair. “Does anyone have more ender pearls? I have blaze powder.”

“Yep, I’ve got you.” Impulse hands over a few ender pearls. “We should be getting pretty close anyway, right?”

“Yep,” Grian confirms as he crafts up more eyes of ender. “Just a couple more eyes should do it.”

“Good, because that’s all I’ve got left.”

Mercifully, the second to last eye Grian tosses up shoots downwards, burrowing under the grass beneath Mumbo’s feet.

“Well, looks like we’ve got our spot. Start digging, fellas.” Grian summons a shovel and starts clearing away dirt, Mumbo joining in next to him. Together they carve out a winding staircase, Grian mining the stone and Mumbo placing torches behind him.

“I’m not seeing it,” Grian says, their staircase surely far enough down now.

“Start poking holes?” Mumbo asks, grasping his pickaxe.

Grian’s about to confirm when Impulse shouts, “I’ve got it!” somewhere nearby. Following the sound of his voice, Grian and Mumbo tunnel towards him, and the group reunites atop blocks of stone bricks.

“Are we ready?” Impulse prepares to break through the bricks.

“Only one way to find out!” Pearl mines the block next to her, and after peering down it for a second, drops through it.

“Armor on, everyone,” Grian says, and follows Pearl’s lead down.

It takes Grian’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness around them, as he listens for the telltale thump of Mumbo, Scar, and Impulse landing behind him.

His vision brightens, and the view Grian’s met with is spectacular.

The ceiling, high above them, is supported by slender, curving stone arches spaced evenly apart that stretch from the top of the room to the floor of it, torches hung on every one to give the room a dim glow. The builder in him grudgingly admits the beauty to it all, but the arches remind Grian of a ribcage, and he can’t help but feel like the massive room has swallowed him whole.

Between the pillars, lines of unmoving hostile mobs stand in the shadows, and Grian does a double take before realizing that they, like almost everything else in the room, are carved from rock. The surly stone faces of vindicators, illusioners, and witches stare back at him. Grian only hopes there aren’t any real ravagers nearby.

The sight is impressive, but what really cuts deep is the chill, slicing through protective layers and directly piercing bone. Grian shivers without meaning to, and pulls at the jumper beneath his chestplate. He’s never liked the armor—too restricting, despite the flexible leather back to accommodate his wings—but he’s grateful now at least for another layer.

Grian and Mumbo huddle together for warmth as they search for traps, tripwires, anything. There’s no obvious lead to another room, as far as Grian can see. Beyond the difficulty of finding their way deeper into the stronghold, this all feels too straightforward and too still for what Grian would expect of the Watchers.

Scar voices Grian’s thoughts, “I hate to say it, but this feels too easy.”

Just as he gets the last syllable out, the room explodes into movement. The statues crack and burst open, spraying chunks of rock and revealing the mobs they were sculpted after. Witches crackle and pillagers load crossbows, all rushing forward at them, as Grian scrambles for his sword.

Impulse shouts a warning, and Grian whirls just in time to avoid a vindicator’s axe. He catches the edge of the axe with his own blade and shoves it aside, plunging his sword into the vindicator’s chest. From this close, he can make out the mob’s eyes, and with a sharp inhale, Grian realizes its irises are purple.

Grian disposes of the vindicator and runs to help Mumbo, who’s having troubles with a witch. To his right, Pearl holds a sword in one hand and a sickle in the other, slicing at the mobs after her, and behind him, Grian can hear the clang of Scar and Impulse’s weapons.

Swing, dodge, slice, leap back. It’s a stupid amount of mobs after them, and their tactic seems to be to surround and overwhelm each person. One pillager aims for the vulnerable part of Grian’s back, and he swerves, but pays for it with an arrow caught in a wing. Biting back a scream, he keeps going.

They hardly have time to breathe after the wave of mobs is finally dealt with. The few remaining statues lining the walls explode into life. Illusioners, the last mobs to remain encased in stone, hold up their hands, particles billowing above them.

Grian’s vision goes dark, and he blindly, desperately, feels around for something, anything, before it clears moments later. A strangled yelp comes from someone somewhere behind him, and it matches how Grian feels as he stands before an army with his friends’ faces.

— ☾ —

An Impulse thrusts an axe towards him, and Grian doesn’t react quickly enough to prevent it scraping against his chestplate. “Impulse!” Grian shouts, “Impulse!”

“Over here!” comes his friend’s reply, distant amidst the clang of blades and armor between them.

Even with the assurance that the real Impulse is not the one in front of Grian, it hurts to kill the doppelgänger. Grian stabs at Not-Impulse’s side, and his own heart aches with it. Without so much of a jolt, the Not-Impulse disappears, and a Not-Mumbo and Not-Pearl are quick to run up Grian’s flank and take its place, Grian rushing to keep up.

The worst part is the faces. Grian’s never seen such hateful sneers curve his friends’ lips, nor have their actual eyes ever held so much malice. His real friends’ eyes aren’t that terrible, terrible purple. They’re not real, they’re not real, Grian repeats to himself, over and over, as he fights the illusions off, looking for the source.

The illusions even manage to mimic the fighting styles of those they take after, and the Not-Pearl Grian fights now twirls its sword in an upwards arc, and as Grian’s distracted, trying to block it, sweeps a leg under his foot—a move the real Pearl favors when the fight isn’t completely clean.

Mumbo’s illusions place down end crystals. One explosion catches the side of Grian’s arm and it burns, its wake filling the air with thick, concealing smoke that catches in Grian’s chest. Hardly able to see, Grian swings his blade wildly, desperately, and it clangs against the actual Scar’s sword.

“It’s me!” Grian shouts, panicked, and Scar looks as relieved as he feels to see one of his real friends.

They share a nod, and in tandem, Grian and Scar move to protect each other’s back, cutting down the illusions as they come. Another Not-Mumbo places down a crystal, and it’s pure instinct that moves Grian’s hands, shoving Scar away from it and taking most of the blast himself. Grian curses beneath his breath in place of the whimper threatening to escape his throat, and Scar turns and kills the Not-Mumbo who’d placed it with a fury Grian hasn’t seen on him in a long time.

Scar switches to a bow, and one of his arrows finds the illusioner pretending to be Mumbo. Another shot kills the thing, and with its death the Not-Mumbo’s dissolve into nothingness, taking the smoking crystals with them. Moments later, Pearl gets the Not-Impulse illusioner with her sickle, cloak billowing out behind her, letting out a whoop of ferocious victory.

In the center of chaos, Impulse nicks the real Mumbo on the arm, and the distraction unsteadies Mumbo’s movements enough that a Not-Scar—who has now switched to a bow, to mimic the real Scar—is able to get a good aim on him, and releases its arrow. Grian, faster than he thought possible, darts between it and Mumbo with his summoned shield held aloft. The arrow meets wood with a twang, the projectile disappearing seconds later as the real Scar finds and kills his illusioner self.

The Not-Pearl and Not-Grian illusioners are found and disposed of mercifully fast after that, and, sweaty and exhausted, the group is given a real break.

“Nobody move,” Grian whispers between heaving breaths, lest their movement activate another trap. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself to the floor.

Impulse and Mumbo sit together, Impulse murmuring apologies as he wraps Mumbo’s upper arm in bandages. Mumbo waves it off and hugs him to prove there are no hard feelings.

Hugs. Grian could use a hug. He turns, and after checking them over for any injuries, gives one to both Scar and Pearl. The solidness that marks their realness is reassuring.

The next couple minutes are spent eating, tending to wounds, and simply leaning against each other. As the adrenaline fades Grian’s side and wing start to ache with a sharp stab, and though the golden apple Impulse hands him helps heal the most of it and his wing entirely, where the explosion had most directly touched his skin still hurts.

The battle they’d just faced is burned into the back of Grian’s eyelids, and every time he blinks he sees flashes of himself, hurting his friends—not his friends, he reminds himself sternly—over and over.

Grian tried to coax his brain into not running endless loops of things he doesn’t want to think about. He’s drowning in the misery.

It doesn’t work. Grian’s grateful, desperate for distraction, when Scar takes a breath, as if he is about to speak.

“I’m sorry, I think we made that fight harder by being here.” Scar slumps against Pearl before jolting upright, attempting to shake the exhaustion from his face. It still shines through the cracks, in the worried lines on his forehead and crinkle of his eyes.

“Actually, I don’t think we could’ve made it without the extra help. There were five statues when we came in—we would’ve still had to fight them,” Pearl points out, and nudges Scar with her shoulder.

“Would they have just mimicked whoever came through here?” Mumbo asks, looking inquisitive in the same way he might looking at a complex redstone problem.

Pearl shrugs. “It’s possible, I guess. Maybe Grian and I would’ve just had to fight multiple versions of ourselves.”

Grian shudders. “Let’s all be glad we didn’t. Just one of each of us both is enough.” Pearl snorts, and everyone else is quick to follow with quiet, tired chuckles.

“Well! What do you say we get a move on?” Scar says brightly, after a few moments of resting.

“Um... I’m not sure where we can get a move on to.” Grian looks around the room. The stone walls are smooth and solid, and there are no indications of any rooms beyond this one.

After testing that movement won’t trigger another trap, the next task is to find a way to the next room that Grian’s sure exists—it would be stupid to have all this set up and nothing else, right?

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long, and Scar finds a trapdoor that Pearl confirms must’ve been under one of the statues.

The hole is dark, with a single long, wooden ladder mounted against one wall and a dim glow at the base. Pearl and Impulse climb down first, as arguably the best fighters among them, and Grian can just barely make out the displeasure on their faces as they reach the bottom and glance up to give everyone the okay to follow them down.

“Well.” Mumbo peers down the long, narrow corridor filled with lava ten blocks down, bits of broken floor sporadically dotted at the same level as their feet across it. “You reckon we could just build across?”

“I do enjoy completely disregarding stupid rules!” Grian moves to pull out a stack of cobblestone from his inventory. He attempts to place it down, and frowns. He tries again. No luck. The cobble will not leave his hand.

A pang of dread stabs at Grian’s gut. “Fellas, I don’t know what sort of magic they’ve managed to put here, but I think we’re essentially in adventure mode.”

Adventure mode is rare, used on servers and maps the admins wish to keep untouched. The Hermitcraft server should most certainly not be in it.

Pearl swings her pickaxe at the closest wall experimentally. The stone doesn’t so much as crack. “Well, that’s frustrating. And the hallway’s too narrow for flight.” She attempts to spread her wings only for the wall to stop her, proving her point.

“You think there’d be a lever or something at the end, that would put the floor back in place if someone manages to cross and activate it?- No, the Watchers aren’t that nice, that’d be boring,” Grian interrupts himself with a sigh. “Did anyone pack fire resistance, at least?”

As it turned out, Impulse did have fire resistance potions, but the lava was too low to simply swim to the other side, they quickly deduced.

“Guess we just have to parkour it?” Grian says, scratching the back of his neck. No one looks particularly excited at the prospect.

Just as Impulse is about to leap forward onto the first platform, Mumbo cries out, “Wait!”

It’s too late. Impulse is already midair, and the moment his boot touches down, a pressure plate clicks and the platform is slammed back into the wall. Mumbo and Pearl both lurch forward, making a desperate grab for him, but the distance is too far, and Impulse plunges into the lava below.

“Fire res! Drink the fire res!” Pearl and Grian shout in tandem, and Impulse is just barely able to get the bottle to his lips before slipping under completely.

Seconds later, Impulse bobs back up, and the sigh of relief amidst the adrenaline is shared four ways.

“Do you have any pearls?” Pearl calls down, and Impulse shakes his head. He’d given them all to Grian earlier, and Grian had made them into eyes of ender.

“Could we just throw a rope down? I’ve got a lead,” Mumbo offers.

“Oh, that’s not a bad idea.” Pearl nods, and the lead is cast down to just above the lava. Impulse grabs hold, and the four of them work to haul him up.

Orange particles float off of Impulse as he lays face up on the floor, heaving. The fire resistance had saved his skin, literally, but his clothing hadn’t escaped completely unscathed, bits of char eating at green cargo pants and his black-and-yellow shirt.

“You alright mate?” Pearl helps Impulse sit up and hands him a water bottle. Impulse nods, but mid gesture, he’s cut off by an awful, low groaning sound that reverberates all around them.

“Uh... Guys?” Scar points at the wall behind them, the way they came in. The wall steadily edges forward, stone grinding against stone. Grian looks up. The entrance has already been covered, the ladder broken beneath the moving mass.

“We go now!” Pearl shouts over the noise, taking a running jump at the next closest platform, to the right of the one Impulse triggered. Grian’s yell dies in his throat as Pearl lands, and the floor stays steady beneath her.

“Toss me the ladder!”

At the team’s confused glances, Pearl makes an urgent motion with her hands and raises her brows. Mumbo shrugs, gathers up the broken sticks on the floor, gingerly throwing them to Pearl.

She catches them with a grin, and breaks one of the pieces further. The stick she holds is just long enough to reach the next platform, and as Grian realizes her plan, Pearl leans over and jabs the pressure plate with the ladder piece. The floor holds. She leaps to it.

Grian crosses after Pearl and follows the path she makes, poking the plates as she goes, Mumbo right behind him. On the second to last step, Grian pitches too far forward and almost falls, flapping his wings as far as the walls will let him to no avail. Mumbo grabs his arm just in time, and they make it over.

At the end, Grian turns to watch Impulse and Scar cross together, the latter’s movements wobbly. The moving wall crashes into the platform just behind them, destroying it, and shakes the room.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Grian’s heart pounds in his ears, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. Come on, come on, he silently urges the pair, the rumbling too loud to speak over.

One last push and Scar and Impulse are safe, and together the five sprint for the next room, just as the wall envelops the parkour completely and comes to a halt with a shuddering slam.

Panting, Grian looks away from the group and takes in the room. It’s small, wooden- the only room so far that hasn’t been made out of stone. Two chests sit side by side in the center of the floor. Dread prickles at Grian’s fingertips. He knows what this is.

Wordlessly, before anyone can stop him, Grian steps up, and opens one of the chests.

“Grian, no, it could be a trick!” Impulse surges forward.

Inside the first chest is a brilliant blue, shiny stack of diamonds. Inside the second is two measly pieces of coal.

Grian knows this test. He knows what they want from him.

He takes the coal, leaving the diamonds where they sit. Impulse is unmoving next to him, and for a moment, everything is silent.

Something clicks. Grian’s held flint to steel far too many times to not recognize the sound. The wooden room is on fire, and they are trapped.

(Reblogs do more than likes!)

[lilyevanstan1325]

✨ Astral Lovers ✨

Chapter 5

Lily POV

Five days had passed.

Five horrible days.

With my father, the situation was stable.

We had been ignoring each other since the morning of the fight.

That same afternoon I headed to work in a very bad mood.

Not even my favorite music could cheer me up.

In five days I will have listened to the entire Coldplay and Bruno Mars discography hundreds of times.

Yet my mood remained on the ground.

Thinking about it, I could have avoided that discussion with my father.

I sigh.

Did I really believe, even for a moment, that this trip could be the solution?

What did I think I was getting?

Assuming he'd let me go, pure utopia, what exactly did I think I'd find in New York?

Did I really think that when I get to New York I will find some trace of Steve?

Am I really so desperate?

So pathetic?

Steve doesn't exist.

I have repeat it to me like a mantra for the past five day.

Every night for the last five nights, I went to bed hoping to dream about him again.

I've read hundreds of articles on Google about lucid dreaming.

I took notes.

I have tried relaxation techniques.

I meditated.

But none of that worked.

Quite the contrary.

The nightmare is back.

Harder.

Scarier.

More real.

Always the same nightmare since my mother died.

She has passed away, after a long agony, in a hospital bed.

Glioblastoma.

This was the report that was given to us just two months earlier.

The doctor was keen to point out that unfortunately this was one of the most aggressive forms of brain tumor.

The hopes we were given were minimal but the doctors would do everything in their power to save her.

She underwent surgery to try to remove the tumor mass and then began with radiotherapy.

Following by chemotherapy.

At last the woman on that hospital bed was no longer my mother.

A skeletal face and dull eyes were what I saw every day.

But I was putting up with it because I would never forgive myself if I missed one of the last few moments she had left.

The smiling woman, with long curly black hair and green eyes like emeralds, was gone.

Every day she cried because she didn't want to leave me, she didn't want my last memory of her to be that.

She pass away one morning in early spring.

The hot days had begun to replace the cold ones.

Flowers and plants came back to life.

The animals woke up.

While she was leaving instead.

I had spent the night with her.

She seemed to be doing a little better.

She had even managed to drink some soup.

She smiled at me.

The next morning, when I woke up, she was there staring at me, the shadow of a smile still on her lips.

At that moment I understood.

But something was wrong, she was too stiff.

My screams filled the still silent and empty corridors of the hospital.

A nurse followed by a doctor rushed forward.

Her death was confirmed.

My father arrived ten minutes later.

He found me with my head resting on my mother's lap.

Her hands clasped in mine.

He literally had to tear me from her lifeless body.

Two days later there was her funeral.

I wore one of her favorite shirts that day, the Black Sabbath one.

I quarreled with my father.

He yelled at me that I was indecent.

That I was the shame of the family.

But I didn't care about his words.

I knew mom would approve.

I didn't want to mourn her death that day.

I wanted to commemorate her life.

Remember her for what she had been.

The woman who taught me the values of love, respect and trust.

The woman who taught me to put on lipstick.

And to tame my curls so similar to hers.

From the night of the funeral I started having that nightmare.

And it's always the same.

It's me and my mother.

Locked in a dark place, buried in rubble.

The room is in the gloom.

I only see smoke and fire.

There is only death and destruction around us.

She keeps telling me to stay calm.

That we will come out alive and together.

Then I lose consciousness.

I hear my mother begging me to fight.

To fight hard.

And I do it, for her.

When I open my eyes I see a man hugging her.

He cries.

I don't see his face.

I don't understand who he is.

He is only a shadow but his cry is desperate, from his lips a continuous litany.

"Forgive me, forgive me Sophia"

I understand immediately what happened.

And usually, that's when I wake up screaming.

My therapist used to repeat to me that this nightmare was the dream representation of my grief.

Of the pain of my loss.

The room we're trapped in represents my mother's illness.

I, who remain stuck under the rubble, symbolizes my feeling helpless in not being able to help her.

The man who suffers is my father, who has become a shadow for the pain of having lost his life partner.

Two years of therapy and in the end that damned nightmare was still there.

I stopped with the sessions.

I lied saying I'm fine.

I was doing better.

I actually couldn't stand being told that everything would be fine.

That I would be fine again.

Bullshit.

My mother was gone.

I would never be well again.

I was just surviving.

I just survive.

But I'm not doing it for me.

I do it for her because I know she doesn't want me to stop fighting.

She would have liked me to go on and make all my dreams come true.

Now I'm back home from work, I had to replace my colleague again today so I had to cover another afternoon shift.

I find myself walking through the dark streets with my inevitable Airpods in my ears.

The words of You Are The Reason by Calum Scott rang in my ears.

I reach the porch of the house, open the door and go directly to my room.

But I stop abruptly in front of the kitchen door.

The light is on and my father is there.

He is setting at the table, table full of every good thing.

Filled with Chinese food.

My favourite.

I look at him dazed.

Almost dismayed.

I take off the Airpods and I clear my throat.

He turns to me and gives me a half smile.

Immediately afterwards he exclaims "Truce?"

Pointing to the laid table.

I can't help it but smile.

It is the first nice gesture he has made towards me since time immemorial.

I sit at the table without ever taking my eyes off of him.

"Truce" I agree.

He sits down too, tie loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

His hair is smooth and pulled back, a sprinkle of salt and pepper on his temples.

His eyes are gray, hard.

Timeless.

For a while we eat in silence.

His voice brings me back to reality.

"I'm sorry to be like that.You have all the right to hate me"

I feel guilty.

"Dad I don't hate you..."

"Don't interrupt me please" the shadow of a smile appear on his lips.

I make the gesture to lock my lips and then I make to throw the key behind me.

He laughs.

"As I was telling I'm sorry.I know I'm tough and unaffective.I want you to know that everything I do, I do it to keep you safe.I don't want anything happen to you.I lost your mother.I can't lose you too.I can't..."

At the end of the sentence his voice breaks.

I see his eyes, they are always hard but I can see that they have become wet.

I feel guilty.

Almost.

I can understand his thinking, now that he has given me the opportunity to know it.

Even if I don't agree with it.

We continue to eat.

When we both finish I get up to clear the table but he stops me.

"I'll take care of it, you go to rest" he says.

I nod in response but before leaving the room I hug him.

"I'm sorry too, I know I'm trouble sometimes!You know, after all, I don't particularly care about going to New York"

Lie.

"Brookville isn't that bad!"

He just returns the hug.

Big lie.

He is like that, I'm not mad at him .

I go up to my room and throw myself on the bed.

Even if it weighs on me, I have to admit that I needed this.

His words makes me feel less alone.

Maybe I'm not the only one grieving my mother's death.

With a full stomach and a light spirit I fall asleep.

The first thing I feel, even before opening my eyes, is a light breeze.

It is fresh and pleasant.

I open my eyes.

I have to blink several times to get my vision to adjust and get used to the light.

The show that appears in front of my eyes is breathtaking.

A beautiful sunset, orange red and pink mix with each other.

It almost looks like a painting.

I can't look away.

I know where I am.

In my heart I know.

I'm back in New York.

This must definitely be the Hudson River.

I watch the sun go down completely.

The sky slowly becomes a dark mantle.

Like velvet.

A few stars make their appearance.

I am both excited and scared to be here.

My reason tells me to stay here.

Wait for my awakening and in the meantime enjoy the New York skyline, with all its lights and splendor.

But my heart tells me to move.

Maybe go find that bar.

Maybe I might even see him again.

I don'y know what to do.

I just think a few more seconds at his eyes and my feet begin to move on their own.

In a short time I find myself in the crowd.

I try to find a detail that reminds me the road of the last time.

The cupcake shop.

I do not know where to go.

Or the large building right in front of the bar, the one that had a large stylized A on top.

Without realizing it, I take a secondary road.

Less busy with both cars and pedestrians.

In addition, as if that were not enough, it begins to rain.

I stop and rise my face to the sky.

One drop hits my nose, one the corner of my eye.

One falls on my lips and then goes down to my neck.

When I look down again I see three men giggling.

They are drunk.

I understand this from their staggering.

Two of them are short-sleeved, as if they don't feel the cold.

Certainly because of the alcohol in their blood, while the other is wearing a denim jacket and holding a bottle in his hand.

It looks like some kind of liquor.

I don't see their faces because they are still too far away.

I pretend nothing has happened and continue to walk with my head down.

In the meantime, the rain falls more steadily.

I hope they are in a hurry.

That they don't want to get wet, that they pass me by without noticing me.

"Hi beauty, what are you doing alone around here?"

I was wrong.

Damn.

I ignore them and carry on.

"If you want I know a place to dry" mumbles the one with the bottle in his hand.

"And maybe even warm up a little" adds one of his friends.

All three burst into lewd laughter.

As if they were already looking forward to that moment.

I get goosebumps.

I'm terrified.

I cross my arms across my chest and step forward.

A kick in the balls maybe?

I'm starting to think about some self-defense moves.

They are stronger than me but I will not give up.

I'll take them down with me as much as I can.

Now I'm only a couple of steps away.

I am praying to wake up with all my strength.

But it doesn't happen.

Suddenly I feel a huge arm encircle my shoulders and press me against his body.

The only thing I can think of is that they surrounded me.

They were already watching me.

And there was a fourth man I didn't see.

Easy prey for them.

"Please God, I just want to wake up" I whisper.

Steve POV

After training, Bucky insists on taking me out for a beer.

I'm not in the mood at all but I can't tell him no.

So we both decide to go for a shower and make an appointment in the hall in 30 minutes.

Arriving in my room I enter the bathroom.

I take off my shirt, followed by my pants and boxers.

I open the shower faucet and while I wait for the water to reach the right temperature, I observe my reflection in the mirror.

The blonde hair is pulled back.

The beard has grown, maybe I should trim it.

The eyes are a little red with a slight black shadow underneath, a clear sign that I am getting little sleep.

Overthinking too much.

Too many responsibilities.

S.H.I.E.L.D.

The Avengers.

Lily.

Lily is a constant in my thoughts.

I can't help but think a lot about her.

The room is saturated with steam, a sign that I can enter the shower.

Think about when we touched and I was literally overwhelmed by a discharge of pure electricity.

I put my head under the jet of water, let the heat melt my aching muscles.

I put my hands on the wall in front of me and I lean my head forward.

I let the hot water calm my body and my spirit. Twenty-five minutes later I'm ready.

Me and Bucky head to our favorite bar.

We sit in our usual place and order a couple of beers.

The evening flows pleasantly cheerful.

We laugh like two jerks remembering old anecdotes from our childhood.

"You know Buck you were right" I tell him.

"I'm always right" he smiles slyly back, "What exactly are you referring to this time?"

"We are o aren't we best friends?" Bucky exclaims solemnly after taking a generous sip of his beer.

"You're the usual modest" I laugh, "Anyway it was a way to thank you for the nice evening.I thought I didn't need it when it wasn't so" I admit, "You always know what's best for me before I even know it"

"Yes we are and I could never live without our friendship"

"I know, is the same for me, Steve"

I drink my beer and obviously I argue with Bucky about who gets to pay the bill tonight.

Obviously it's my turn.

Oh Buck!

We say goodbye in front of the bar.

Tonight I'm not sleeping in my room at Stark Tower or whatever it's called now at Avengers Tower.

Tonight I will sleep at my old apartment.

When I need to be alone with my thoughts I go there.

"Are you sure, buddy?" a slightly worried Bucky asks me.

"Sure pal!" I answer him laughing heartily.

"I'm fine, I just need some peace of mind.I promise you that if I need anything you will be the first one I call!"

Bucky looks pretty convinced.

He greets me with a nod of the head, turns and goes away with his hands in his pockets.

I watch him until he disappears into the crowd.

I go too.

It has started to rain but fortunately by cutting a secondary road I will be home in a moment.

I walk with my head down to prevent the water from bathing my face, when suddenly I hear coarse laughter.

There are three guys, visibly drunk, bothering a young woman.

My heart skips a beat.

And then another.

That woman is her.

I increase my pace and in a few moments I'm behind her.

Lily.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

"Please God, I just want to wake up" I hear her whisper.

I hold her tighter to me and after a moment I rise with an authoritative voice, so that those slimy people can hear me.

"Hey honey, I finally found you"

I immediately feel her relax.

She recognized me.

My heart is beating wildly.

I'm divided by the desire to take her away and make sure she is okay and the desire to chase those guys to smash their face.

She turns to me and the only thing I can see are her huge eyes filled with terror.

The instinct to protect her is stronger, I hold her even closer to me and take her to a safe place.

Meanwhile, those three idiots turned their heels and ran away.

Cowards.

"I got you honey.It's all over.You'll be okay" I whisper in her ear.

She trembles but continues to cling to me.

As if she needed it.

We find shelter in an underpass.

I need it.

Our clothes are soaked in water.

We break the hug and it's almost a physical pain.

We stare into each other eyes.

"Thank you" she says in a faint whisper.

I can't answer.

The anger is mounting inside me.

I am angry at how she ditched me.

I don't want to but I am.

"You're gone" mine is an accusation, but I immediately regret it and I try to soften my tone when I see her eyes fill with tears.

She is in shock and I am acting like an asshole.

"Of course you don't owe me any explanation.I was just worried"

"I know Steve.I'm sorry"

For God Sake my name on her lips is music.

"We have to dry off.Do you need a place for the night?" I ask greedy for a yes.

I'm not ready to let her go.

"I...I don't know.I don't want to bother you, to be a burden" she replies, insecure, with a faint voice.

She is so sweet.

And submissive.

Such a good girl.

"Come on, let's go.Do you trust me?"

I know this is a stupid question.

After all, she barely knows me.

"Yes" she replies without hesitation.

I am blown away and delighted at the same time.

I hold out my arm and she clings to me.

My heart is doing somersaults.

Can you hear it, Lily?

We head to my apartment, in a few minutes we are in front of the front door.

Can you feel how you make me feel?

"Here we are, welcome"

I watch her.

I open the door and I let her enter into my home.

She is wearing a white shirt, which the water has made transparent.

It sticks to her body in a sinful way.

Her nipples push wildly against the thin fabric.

Her legs are wrapped in high-waisted jeans.

Her hair, darkened by the rain, sticks to her face and falls on her back.

I look away, I don't want to make her uncomfortable.

I move behind a chair, seeking shelter from her eyes.

I try to fix the erection that wildly presses into my pants.

I'm not that kind of man.

I don't want her to feel uncomfortable with me.

But I can't help too feel this... weird and new sensations.

It is the effect of her closeness.

She is silent.

She looks around.

"You better take off your clothes or you'll get sick"

I curse myself mentally.

I just looked like an idiot.

Idiot and pervert.

"I don't mean that...I mean you can take a hot shower.And you can wear something of mine while your clothes dry"

She doesn't answer and I panic.

I think she has noticed because she bursts out laughing.

"Breathe Steve.It's okay.I understand what you mean and I gladly accept" she replies with a very sweet smile.

I relax and smile back.

"This way" I place a hand on her lower back, just above the curve of her ass and walk her to the bathroom door.

As soon as our skin makes contact again that electrical discharge.

She shivers.

I'm not the only one then...

I feel burned but I try to be casual.

"Here are clean towels and a change.They are not the best but at least they are dry and clean" I tell her, pointing to the cabinet to her right.

"I'm going"

"Steve?"

Her voice, my name spilling from her lips, stops me.

"Thanks.Thanks for everything"

"It was a pleasure ma'am"

Fifteen minutes later she comes out wrapped in my clothes.

A simple blue t-shirt that is huge on her.

It reaches her mid-thigh.

And under the shirt I can barely see my boxers.

If I thought she was sexy in wet clothes...well I have to change my mind.

With my clothes on she's a show to be enjoyed.

And who knows how she would be without...

Before my thoughts go too far I overtaking her and I head for the bathroom.

I need a shower too.

Possibly frozen.

After 10 minutes I'm back in my living room.

She is looking out the window.

She is really beautiful illuminated by the city lights.

She is almost ethereal.

I don't want to scare her so I clear my throat.

"Here I am"

I take a few steps closer to her.

She is looking me in the eyes now with a disarming intensity.

"Steve..." her voice sounds like a plea.

A prayer that I don't know how to answer.

Lily POV

I hear him clear his throat.

I turn around and as soon as I see him my heart skips a beat.

His hair is damp from the shower and his eyes are brighter than ever.

He is wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweetpants.

I try not to focus too much on his body.

"Steve..." I whimper.

His name leaves my lips like a plea.

I don't know if I want him to stay away from me or if I want him holds me in his arms.

He approaches slowly.

Very slowly.

A few inches separate us.

I can feel his sweet breath on my face.

It tastes like beer and mint.

His skin, on the other hand, smells like laundry soap, sun and leather.

As if my hand has a life of its own, I see it rise and trembling, it rests on his chest.

Right on his heart.

I can feel its pulse through the thin fabric.

I stand up on my tip toes.

He lowers his face towards mine.

And our lips touch.

They touch each other with a disarming slowness.

A sweet torture.

My other hand reaches for his chest.

His hands go to my neck, thumbs to caress my cheeks.

My head tilts back.

I feel like I'm dizzy.

At this moment my mind is empty.

There is only one word bouncing back and forth.

Home.

Kissing Steve is like coming home.

Our lips continue to touch.

His beard tickles my chin.

I feel his tongue caress my lower lip, as if he asking the permission to continue...

And at that moment I freeze.

I can't.

I can't let this happen.

He isn't real.

And if I barely survived at the pain just from talking to him what if I go further?

What impact would it have on my life?

On my real life I mean.

With a light pressure of my hands on his chest I push him.

I'm afraid he won't notice but instead he stops.

"Sorry...I...I can't" I murmur in a faint voice.

I look down guilty.

Steve rests his forehead against mine.

His hands go down until they join mine which are still on his chest.

We stay that way until our breaths return to normal.

He takes me by the hand and we sit on the sofa.

He uses two fingers to lift my chin so that I can look him in the eye and with a look of total sincerity he whispers "It's ok honey, It's ok.I promised myself I'd take it easy...but you're so beautiful" he smiles shyly.

After a few moments of embarrassment, I'm the one who breaks the silence.

"So tell me something about you.What do you do in life?"

What the hell is he talking about?

He looks at me confused, but then seeing that I am serious he replies in a visibly amused way "Besides being Captain America, you mean?"

Obviously I have no idea.

Maybe since I read a lot of fantasy books it made Steve a super hero in this way.

Maybe.

I wear my best poker face and pretend I know what he's talking about.

"Of course, besides being Captain America" I reply.

And so we relax.

"I like to draw, run in the early morning and spend time with my best friend Bucky.I'll introduce him to you someday, I'm sure you will get along"

And the time flows.

Steve tells me about the serum, how he became Captain America and how he ended up from the 1940s to the present day.

Absolutely fascinating story.

I wonder how I imagined all of this.

Ok the imagination but all the details, the details are extraordinary.

Insane.

"...and then I hid in the garbage bin.I was terrified!"

I finish my story with a laughter.

Steve throws his head back laughing heartily.

Jesus Christ he is so fucking beautiful when he laughs.

"Please tell me you didn't really do it" he asks me between the laughs.

"Yeah...I did!"

"Oh my God!" Steve exclaims starting to laugh again.

Little by little, as the laughter stops, we find ourselves staring into each other's eyes.

I look down at my intertwined hands.

"Tell me that tomorrow morning you will still be by my side.That you will not disappear again"

I can't tell him the truth.

So I remain silent.

But I don't want to lie to him either.

Although...what would the truth be?

What would be the lie?

He simply doesn't exist.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him raising his big hand to rest it on mine.

Jesus, his hand is so big that it covers both mine entirely.

"It's ok honey.When you are ready you will tell me"

When I open my eyes I only see the ceiling of my bedroom.

So saying he hugs me and we stay like that until we fall asleep.

A tear escapes from my eyes.

Steve POV

I watch her until she falls asleep.

I want to enjoy every moment with her.

For God Sake that kiss.

It was sweet.

Stupendous.

Before her I had only kissed two women in my life.

Peggy my great love and Sharon.

Two Carters.

Great.

With Sharon, however, nothing ever clicked.

I think I have confused gratitude with a feeling of affection.

She was close to me when I needed her.

She went against the law to help me to save Bucky.

She has lost a lot because of me and I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I cannot give her what she is looking for.

And now Lily.

Met one night by chance and I know that if I didn't stop her I would have regretted it for my whole life.

I honestly understand her for interrupting the kiss.

Something troubles her mind.

And I'm damned serious when I say I'm willing to wait for her to be ready.

I try to stay awake as long as possible but I feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier.

At last they close and I too abandon myself to sleep.

Close to her.

The light of dawn invades my living room.

I open my eyes but I immediately realize that there is something different.

The seat next to me on the sofa is empty.

"Shit, not again..." I sigh.

I don't know.

Maybe she will come back.

Maybe not.

But I hope so.

Please comment, share and rate ❤️

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@deansapplepie

[the-very-awesome-prussia]

Nyotalia Shenanigans

"Listen to me! You should be worshiping me for just being here but you sit on your ass and sleep!? How dare you!"

Prussia opened his right eye to see a silver haired lady straddling him on the bed. Like literally she was standing on his bed.

"And who are you again?" He asked as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Are you stupid? Or are you just an asshole? I'm the one, the only, Prussia of course!" She stated, striking a couple of poses as she spoke.

Prussia chuckled into his fist, "you're not the only one if I'm right here!"

"Well this is going to get annoying isn't it…" She scratched her head.

"Why don't I call you Prussia 2? Since you are the second gender after all-" he snickered.

"Gender politics are unnecessary, and I say otherwise. You should be Prussia 2 because I had to come to your lame bedroom instead of my, gorgeous beautiful awesome never seen before, bedroom!"

"It's been seen before, just not by me, lol."

"Shut up! Who gave you the right to make fun of me!? The awesomest girl in the world!" She pointed a finger at his face.

"You're standing on my bed, that gave me the right."

She quickly jumped off, pouting to her heart's content. "You're truly the worst, you know that?" She sat on the side of the bed, crossing her arms.

"I'm you, dumbass. If I was truly the worst then aren't you as well?"

"It doesn't matter! Anyways I have something to show you.~ Something you definitely don't have," she held out her hand and magically a very pretty lady appeared.

"This is my girlfriend, you probably don't have a partner, you kinda look like a virgin loser," she snickered.

"I am not a loser! I- I have a boyfriend!"

"Oh. We're not so ahead of your timeline now I see. Sad, and I thought you were gonna stay single forever, boo hoo," she pretended to cry.

"This feels unnecessary," the very pretty lady deadpanned.

"You're unnecessary!" She huffed.

"Wait a sec," Prussia sat up a bit, "didn't you have longer hair the last time I saw you?" He asked, pointing to her hair.

The pretty lady puffed her hair, "hm, I guess so," she smiled with malintent, "do you like it, pretty boy?"

"Ah- uhmmmm," he exploded again.

"Stop flirting with the boy version with me! I know you're bisexual but come on!" She huffed, trying to shoo her away.

She chuckled, "come on, what's the harm in a little fun?"

"I know you have standards! And he's under them!! Look at him, who would want to date him!?"

On cue, his boyfriend came in, "Prussia I can't find the- what the hell."

"I can explain. Wait no I can't."

"Hey male version of Austria, do you think I'm sexy?" Fem Prussia did a little wink at him.

"No," he stated bluntly as he walked over to the rest of them.

"Haha, loser!" Prussia laughed at his own expense technically.

"You're not sexy either, Prussia."

He pouted, "how rude! I am so awesome and cool and epic and- and you still don't call me sexy!?"

"I like you for you Prussia, not for what you think you are," he rolled his eyes.

"Whatever."

"Hey boy toy-" fem Prussia grabbed Austria and forced him by her side, "don't you think my girlfriend is sexy!?"

He took a glance at her and it felt like he was looking in a really fucked up mirror, "she looks exactly like me but girl, I can't really say anything or it'll be selfcest."

"BORING!" She tossed him aside, "I think she's sexy and beautiful and the best girlfriend I could ever have," she hugged her arm.

Fem Austria chuckled, "thanks sweetie."

"WHEN DO WE GET TO USE PETNAMES AUSTRIA!?" Prussia yelled.

"When I die."

"I can't believe he hates me like this!"

"Anyways, and here's my beautiful sister!" She snapped her fingers and fem Germany from the smoke.

"Why did you bring me here this time," she crossed her arms.

"Just to be seen!" She smiled.

"I was in the middle of a different dream, now he's gonna wake up…"

"Dream?" Prussia asked.

"Yeah, and you're probably gonna wake up soon, no lucid dreaming for you bitch!"

Just as expected, he woke up to Austria shaking him, "WHO WERE YOU DREAMING ABOUT."

"Huh!?"

"YOU WERE CALLING SOMEONE SEXY, WHO WAS IT!?"

"It was just the girl version of you, relax."

He let go, awkwardly looking away, "oh. That's awkward."

"Yeah, obviously."

"So anyways…"

[madscarypod]

Episode 1 Recap: The Color Under the Shadow of Space

Welcome back! It's our first official episode. 

If you listened to our intro episode and/or read the blog you know that we’re officially kicking off our research with AI-generated recommendation Under the Shadow (2016). After we wrapped recording, I decided to throw my pick The Color Out of Space (2020) for a solid - something comes into my house and ruins the vibes - double bill.   Hey look! It's us.

Before we get into that, we start off by chatting about our fancy photo shoot with photographer of Terrifier 2 fame and friend of the pod, Jeff Harris Studios. Thank you, Jeff! Dropped a few favorites below. Spooky stuff. 

We’re super excited to have him on in a few episodes to discuss shooting on horror film sets and some of his favorite scary movie tropes.  Cannibal stuff is mad scary and mad gross, yo. I insist on digging in on Armie Hammer’s disturbing proclivities. After a viewing of House of Hammer, I’m left speechless on what I’ve seen & heard but excited to share my vengeance-filled lucid dreams. Also richies probably eat people all the time, right?

Rina then shares an update on OpenAI’s legal hot water. ChatGPT be hallucinating too much and OpenAI is going to need to evaluate their loosey goosey legal language. Finally, we share shark attack stories since Jaws was back in theaters 4th of July weekend. Also, are there lake sharks? I don’t want to know. 

We then dig into Babak Anvari’s Under the Shadow (2016) but Rina is unfortunately reminded of another Babak Anvari movie, Wounds (2019). She did not care for it. Guess who’s in it? Armie Hammer. Womp, womp. He was definitely part of the problem but Rina's not keen on the execution overall.

Anywho, we do a pretty solid recap of the movie - it’s 1988, Tehran and we’re introduced to a family navigating life during a war as well as mysterious and supernatural happenings in their home. Rina does a great job laying out the lore of the Djinn and chat some of the tropes - creepy little kids, Moms being suss, and real-life terror juxtaposed with supernatural terror. We discuss some of the creative choices that really stood out to us; like the fact there was little to no music and the washed out, bright overexposed photograph look of the movie. We talk about our favorite scenes - a solid jump scare, a creepy foot through a ceiling crack, and an open-ended non-ending. All in all a fantastic movie. Mad Scary not Mad Corns. Significantly better than Wounds. This was definitely Babak’s story to tell. 

We keep it going and chat through Richard Stanley’s  The Color Out of Space (2019) based on the H.P. Lovecraft story of the same name. Jesus Christ. This movie. We talk high-level about the plot. You have five to ten minutes of exposition and an introduction to the Gardner family - they live in the country, they have llamas which may or may not be a poor investment, the daughter is a Wiccan, her brother is into smoking weed and space stuff, their little brother wears glasses and has a lisp.

Things immediately start going crazy after a meteorite crashes onto the Gardner’s land. The level and pace in which this movie escalates can only be likened to a freight train speeding into a fever dream. It’s also mad gross. This is Richard Stanley’s second mainstream movie. His first was the ill-fated Island of Dr. Moreau (1996). It was so bad they made a documentary about it. Anywho, this man clearly likes gooey gross because he leans in hard. The body horror and gore is off the chain. My man also has an unsavory past with women - can we separate the art from the artist? I'm having a time with it.

Wait!? Did I mention Nick Cage plays Papa Gardner? I didn’t!? My bad. Um, Nicholas Cage plays the dad in this movie and I just love him for it. If I ever get to meet him, I need to ask him about some of his choices -  all inspired but I just want to know why he made them cuz we got theories. Mr. Cage, what's up with that voice? Nick Cage's performance, the saturated colors, and the narrative device make this movie a must watch. Mad Scary approved.  

We’ve collected some tropes from both movies. While Rina felt they weren’t super similar, I think the tropes speak volumes. Horror movies that take place in the home feel the scariest because our homes are where we are meant to feel safe, comfortable, and the most ourselves. The idea of something coming into that safe space and terrorizing you, and you have nowhere to go to escape it, is mad scary. 

Common Horror Movie / Scary Tropes & Devices

Here are the interviews that I promised:   Babak Anvari Interview Richard Stanley Interview

For Episode 2, we decided on Alex Garland’s Ex Machina (2015), a movie we were planning to watch together pre-podcast. It’s one of Rina’s favorites and feels very fitting in terms of our AI co-collaborator. Finally, we asked Chat GPT to recommend a good companion film for Ex Machina. Here’s how it went: 

In classic ChatGPT form, it beefed the request and recommended an episode of Black Mirror. No. That’s not a movie. We try again:  

Ok! We’ll be watching Ex Machina & The Machine next episode. We’ll also start to talk about our writing process and make some plans/next steps around writing our script. I’ll also try to limit the amount of times I say the word fascinating. See you in a few weeks!

[latte-fairytaekwoon]

Demon! Ateez: Getting Extremely Close In Your Relationship (Rated)

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Warnings: NSFW content including lucid dreams with an incubus, a scene of manhandling, recollections of past trauma involving violence/gore/attempted assault, a scene with a panic attack, allusions to faith and other fantasy themes.

❥𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓗𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓳𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓰

Slamming his fingers down on the magnificent organ, Hongjoong let out an overly irritated and exhausted sigh, hand dragging down his vexed face. You yourself were feeling pretty tired. Spending countless hours underground in his lair, practicing nonstop a piece that you were starting to loathe and become frustrated with.

"I think even I need a break." The demon stood up, walking over to the glass case in his music room. Opening it up, he picked up a glass bottle that had a strange crimson hue in it and poured it into a small shot glass. You looked at it with fearful intrigue when it started to smoke a little. Noticing your stare, Hongjoong chuckled.

"I'm afraid I can't play the part of a good host and offer you any of these drinks. They're not meant for humans and even a tongue dip might leave even the strongest of men stupefied."

Not interested in finding out what hellish drink he poured himself, Y/N plopped down on the overly long couch and looked up at him in earnest.

"What fault did I make this time?" She always knew to brace herself for his incoming criticism.

"Well in technical points, nothing. Your voice is exceptional, and in such short time your pitch is remarkable and resonance incomparable." Pausing, he swirled the contents of the cup in his hand before bringing it up towards his lips. Y/N impatiently tapped her foot on the ground when he didn't resume.

"But?" She urged him to continue.

Placing the cup down, Hongjoong shook his head.

"You've lost all emotion in your voice. It's like listening to an extremely talented zombie. There's no more passion in your song."

Y/N's heart fell at his words. It was true, so focused she had been on trying to perfect her technique that she skipped on the most crucial part of singing.

"And how does my instructor suggest I bring more passion into the song?"

Seeing Hongjoong's devilish smirk consume his features never failed to send a chill down her spine while simultaneously making her core heat up. He paced around the room excruciatingly slowly, never taking his eyes off her which seemed to hold a bit of lust in them and Y/N wasn't sure how to feel about it or about his next words.

"Take off your clothing and touch yourself in front of me. Feel the passion in your body and then use it afterwards when he rehearse again."

❥𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓢𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝔀𝓪

The last thing you wanted was to come in to work after all the tragic events that recently unfolded in the past days. Not only did the news of Jia being brutally murdered intensely shocked you as well as the other employees, but finding out the now former CEO was the culprit definitely made everyone tense and uneasy. Indeed, it was all anyone could really talk about as you all gathered inside the conference room, waiting for the new boss to show up and introduce themselves to everyone.

As the minutes stretched on and everyone was getting comfortable, the doors bursted open and all sense of calmness that was starting to come over the people gathered quickly flew out the window when the new CEO looked around with a stern face at each of the individuals in there. You yourself could harhardly believe your eyes as none other than Seonghwa stood there.

What the hell was he doing there?

Meeting your eyes, he briefly smiled at you before outright grinning at all of those present.

"Fellow coworkers, it's a pleasure to meet all of you. From now on, I'll be taking over as CEO of-"

At that point you basically drowned out his eloquent and motivational speech as you tried to figure out what in the world was he up to now. Keeping the introduction short, Seonghwa dismissed all of them, letting them go out to their respective positions and making sure to smile at them. Just as you were going to skim past him, you felt him tug on your arm.

"Oh Miss Y/N, please follow me to my office and do catch me up on the achievements and development of the company."

Closing the door behind him, Seonghwa snickered at your suspicious stare.

"Why?" With that simply question, he understood very well what she meant.

"Come on Y/N, you should know that unless I'm by your side most of the time, I can't properly fulfill my part of the contract.." He cooed at you as if you were a child, hands cupping your cheeks and pinching them annoyingly. Unbeknownst to you, you had every right to be suspicious of Seonghwa, even more if you had been able to read his mind at that moment.

"And in this way I can keep close tabs and control over you darling."

❥𝓙𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓾𝓷𝓱𝓸

You let out a deep groan as you saw the 'Out Of Order' sign badly taped across the elevator.

"Are you f-" You stopped yourself before you finished that sentence, knowing it was very wrong to say such words.

You struggled to hold the large box in your arms, taking slow and painful steps up the stairs, already sweating and tired from knowing how many flights of stairs she'd have to climb up. As if by fate, your dashing neighbor was just coming down the stairs. Looking at you with a curious gaze, he pointed to the box you were holding, or more like fighting to hold.

"Want some help with that?"

Of course your immediate response was to shake your head whilst letting out a smile that came out more painful than you intended it to be.

"No-no thank you. I'm perfectly fine." You cringed inwardly at yourself, the tremble in your voice giving away your lie.

Before you could even take one more step, the huge weight was lifted off your shoulders and instead was placed in Yunho's grip, who didn't seem affected at all by the heaviness of the box.

"Shall we get going?"

Knowing you had no other alternative, you walked side by side with Yunho, every once in a while offering to take over his job but he adamantly refused each time. It was not exactly a short walk up and it amazed you how on earth was he not tired or showing any signs of getting exhausted? And even throughout the walk up to your floor, he was still the bright, happy person he was, smiling through his teeth as he made random conversation with you.

"Well here we are." Yunho announced when you two finally made it to your door.

Typing in your passcode and opening the door, you didn't give him a chance to protest as you took the box away from him.

"I got it from here. Thank you so much Yunho." Before you could shut the door behind you, Yunho pressed his palm against it, stopping it midway.

"Hey Y/N....do you wanna maybe .... go out sometime?"

Holding in the urge to squeal at being asked out on your first date, you nodded your head.

"I'd love to."

Pleased with your answer, Yunho promised to come for you the following weekend, waving enthusiastically at you even after you shut the door behind you. Turning on his heel, Yunho made his way to his own apartment, not only happy about getting a date with you...

But actually getting you to tell your very first lie, even if it was small.

❥𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓮𝓸𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓰

Having spent countless hours in the kitchen working hard to make a rather extravagant and complex meal for you, Yeosang was of course on the verge of fuming when he saw that you were hardly eating, only poking at your food and moving it around on the expensive dinner plate.

"Was the food not up to my Mistress' expectations?"

Hearing the disheartened tone from your demon disguised as a butler, you gave him an apologetic smile.

"No, I'm sure not even the top chefs in the entire world can compare...it's just...." Your stomach seemed to feel slightly sickened as you took in not just the food but the entire dining room. You were still not growing accustomed to the new lavish lifestyle that was a stark contrast to your former life, before you had summoned Yeosang and formed the contract with him. You began to wonder if you were out of your mind for actually following through on it and judging whether or not it was a good idea to accept.

Unbeknownst to you, the demon next to you could sense the doubts, making him irritated with you.

"Come now my dear Mistress, don't tell me you're actually starting to regret all of this?"

Sneaking up behind you, he effortlessly pulled the chair away from the table before lifting you up. You gasped when you found yourself pinned to the table by Yeosang, who's eyes were burning that fiery orange color that always terrified and consumed you. Softly smiling down, he used one hand to cup your chin while the other reached over for the glass of wine.

"My dear, perhaps you have already forgotten that no matter what, there is no turning back from what you've chosen to do.."

The hand on your chin came down to tear the choker off your neck, exposing the pentagram mark that signaled your contract with him.

"So you're going to have to start getting used to this new fancy life I promised you, even if I have to force it down your throat myself."

Before you could ask him what he meant by that, Yeosang had already poured some of the wine into his mouth and then proceeded to stoop down, hand grabbing the back of your neck to tilt your head up as he pressed his mouth down on yours. You couldn't help yourself as you moaned while swallowing down the contents, a few drops spilling out from the sides of your lips. Yeosang pulled away after making sure you had drunk it all, smirking triumphantly before poking his tongue out to lick up whatever had fallen on your neck.

"Shall we move on to dessert?"

❥𝓒𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓢𝓪𝓷

Once again drifted away into the erotic dreamland that you ventured to almost every night, you cried out in pleasure as your dream man fucked into you merciless from behind. You had already lost count of how many orgasms you had been through, your pussy red, swollen and dripping from the endless loads he had shot up into you, each one seeming to burst out more cum than the last. That night was different though as he decided to bring in some of his friends to watch as he played around with you, feeding into your exhibition kink.

"That sure is one fine slut you found my friend." One of them stated, hand wrapped around his monster cock just like the other 7 men around.

"She sure is and her pussy is amazing. Still soaking wet and tight no matter how many times I fuck it."

Wanting to prove his point, he pulled out of you, causing you to whine at the empty and void feeling which only made him and the other men laugh at you. Turning you around to face him, he smirked down at you before forcing your head down and keeping your ass up so the others could take a look at your gaping hole that was leaking out his cum.

"Fuck what a nice view." One of the other men stated as he forced his partner's mouth down to take all of his cock, making him gag in the process.

"It's not a view anymore. Just for tonight, I'm going to share my little slut with you, my dearest friends."

You shuddered in anticipation when you heard them all stand up and line up behind you, the first set of hands grabbing your ass and rubbing his head along your slits.

"Make sure to fuck her until she passes out."

Sometimes you swore your dreams were too real, especially when you woke up with an ache between your sore thighs, your stomach feeling like it got rearranged during the night. But you knew they were probably all just dreams, dreams that although you recalled the events, you could never remember the face of the individual that always made you scream for him, no matter how hard you tried. And that was disappointing to you.

Wanting to treat yourself for once, you went to a nearby restaurant and took a seat by the counter. Your eyes were so focused on pouring over the menu that you didn't notice someone had taken a seat next to you, the loud scraping of the chair startling you.

"Oh. My apologies, I didn't mean to scare you at such an early hour."

Although you had never seen him before, something about the stranger next to you left you speechless as well as with a growing need inside your panties that you felt embarrased about. Flashing a smile that showcased a pair of deadly dimples, he held out his hand to you.

"I'm Choi San. Nice to meet you."

❥𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓲

Slamming the door behind the both of you, Mingi pinched the bridge of his nose as he huffed out an exasperated breath of air. During one of your last missions, the perpetrators had come too close, way too close to actually hurting you severely. Mingi almost didn't make it on time and had he delayed just a bit, you could have already been...

He shook his head as he tried not to think about the what ifs. Kicking off the wall he was leaning against, he slowly made his way over to you. He tilted his head as he tried to read through your unwavering and emotionless stare that was fixed on the floor in front of you, staring at nothing in particular. It was starting to worry him, how you were becoming more and more numb after each gruesome trial you went after, and he was a hell fiend that more often than not loved the thrill of getting blood all over his hands.

But seeing you become so soulless was starting to affect him. Indeed he felt somewhat saddened as he stared at your figure that was drenched in blood.

"We should probably clean you up." He suggested as he reached his hands out to cup your face. Before he could even touch you though, you quickly took a step back from him, hand outstretched cautioning him not to come closer towards you.

"I can do that myself..." You looked up when you yourself noticed how unnecessarily harsh your tone sounded, the demon's small and tugged eyes slightly widening at the sharpness of your voice.

"Thank you." You softened your tone before making your way inside the bathroom, practically ripping your damp and stained clothes onto the floor, kicking them away before stepping into the shower.

For a long time you just stood under the falling water, hand fiddling with the temperature of the water as a means to distract you from the wave of thoughts pouring into your brain. You tried hard but you were unable to control the intensity with which they flashed within you. Clenching your eyes shut, you let out a piercing scream as you fell onto the ground, hands coming up and blocking your ears as if trying not to listen to the sounds of past memories, memories of when you were captured, beaten, tortured, forced to watch others get dismembered. But the worst was when you remembered your clothes being teared off as filthy hands started groping at your body.

"Mingi!"

Hearing you call out frantically for him, Mingi immediately appeared and swooped you into his arms, quickly wrapping a towel to cover your soaking body. Taking you out of the bathroom, he sat down on your bed and continued to hold you, his hand occasionally petting your hair in a comforting manner as he let you cry as much as you needed into his neck. With a calm and soothing voice, he began to hush you tenderly.

"Calm down now my precious master. I'm here now. No one can hurt you."

❥𝓙𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝓦𝓸𝓸����𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰

Having made a lot more progress after telling off that obnoxious hell spawn, you smiled proudly at your assigned human who was officially getting discharged from the rehabilitation center after successfully completing his therapy. You let out a blissful sigh and watched him make his way towards his home, unaware of the lingering eyes that were coming close towards you.

"Missed me my sweet angel?"

Your mood immediately soured when you heard him behind you, half expecting him or some other demon to come out just as soon as you accomplished something extraordinary and attempt to ruin it all. Turning around, you opened your mouth to tell him to get lost, but Wooyoung held a hand up for you to let him speak first.

"I'm not here to mess with your precious human if that's what you're worried about. I've been around them far too long to know they don't need any of my kind around for them to return down a bad path."

You furrowed your eyebrows at his words, crossing your arms over your chest as you refused to listen to him, having always been taught to have faith and believe that there was good in everyone..... everyone that wasn't from hell.

"You lie." You boldly stated, to which the demon let out a hearty laugh.

"Indeed I do, but I assure you my dear that I'm only speaking facts right now. Maybe you aren't aware cause you only come down every so often to check on your human, try to guide him, whip out your halo and bless him with whatever you have...." He made it a point to roll his eyes and mimic gagging noises at his words.

"But my point is, we demons roam around here daily, 24/7, only occasionally going back home down there. We know human nature much more than you guys pretend to think you do, and I can safely guarantee that in 3 or 6 months time, that human of yours will be reverting back to his old ways, and this time..... he'll pay the ultimate price." The smirk with which he said that last part made you shudder inwardly.

"Is that a threat?" You were not about to allow a demon to harm your charge.

"No my dear, take it as a bet if you want. A gamble. I bet that in 6 months, your human is going to wake up in the pits of hell after inhaling something too strong for him." Wooyoung confidently stated.

"If we're doing this, you're not allowed to interfere whatsoever or meddle with him."

Wooyoung shrugged as if with no care.

"Fine by me, and to make sure the blow hits you harder, you can continue guiding him as you do. That'll certainly be more of a strike at your reputation as a guardian angel, to know that even without a demon interfering your charge still failed in keeping pure and clean."

Resisting the urge to slap the hell fiend, you took a deep breath and accepted everything.

"Oh! One more thing though. If I win at the end, you have to give me whatever I want." Too consumed with wanting to challenge him, you walked straight into his trap and accepted even that without fearing the consequences. Wooyoung let out an evil smile at hearing you accept.

"Great then...... get ready to be all mine my dear angel...cause I want you."

❥𝓒𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓙𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝓸

Taking hold of your hand, which you surprisingly found comfort in, Jongho smiled at you before opening an obsidian colored door that had an eerie row of staircases that delved deeper down into shadow. You weren't going to lie and pretend like knowing that you were about to dive into hell wasn't somewhat terrifying you.

"Hey it's ok. I got you. I promise."

Despite your better judgment reminding you never to trust a demon's words, you found assurance in Jongho's voice and allowed him to lead you deep down into the seemingly fathomless abyss. It seemed like forever until a glow started to be seen at what finally seemed to be the end to the staircase.

"Now you understand why most of us hardly come down here. It's tedious going up and down these stairs." Jongho chuckled as he led you through a corridor towards another door at the other side.

Pushing the door open, you were expecting to see chaos everywhere, a few souls tortured on fiery racks or hanging on poles that were set aflame. It was a big shock to you to see nothing more than a very large lounge room of some sorts, complete by a bar, billiards table and other accommodations that reminded her of the typical club bars back on earth.

"Suprised?" Jongho stifled a laugh at her incredulous reaction.

"Well.... yeah...." She kinda felt guilty for assuming something that was not completely true and that had been a misconception that had been taught to her all her life.

"Come on, I'll take you to my place. Hardly live in it so I can assure you it's not a mess."

You couldn't help but giggle when he said that. Taking you out of lounge room, you started to realize that hell was seemingly just like a really big and endlessly extensive hotel, albeit dark and macabre with very questionable behaviors here and there, but overall just a huge building with different levels to accommodate the different demons that inhabited the domain. Everytime they passed other demons, Y/N noticed the weird looks they threw her way.

"They can see your status as a fallen angel and are already thinking about how to completely turn you." Jongho kindly explained, but not before adding "Don't worry though. As long as you're with me they won't dare approach you."

"Why is that?" You curiously asked.

Coming up towards an elevator that was guarded by 2 mean and vicious looking demons, you coward behind Jongho while he just smiled and waved at them. He took out something from his pocket, which looked to be some kind of amulet, you couldn't really see, especially after hearing some weird commotion at your left. Looking over, you saw a male demon and a female demon in a not so innocent embrace, their mouths seeming to want to devour the other. You were somewhat fascinated by the sight that you didn't notice the guards had moved aside until Jongho took hold of your arm and brought you inside the elevator, pressing one of the buttons that led to the very upper floors. You stared at the floor in silence, the image of the two lovers still engraved in your head. You looked over at Jongho, trying to gather up the courage to ask him something.

"If you're wondering, that's called making out and that's a prelude to sex."

You let out a soft 'oh', getting the answer you wanted.

"What? Don't tell me you've never been kissed before." Although he was only joking, Jongho's laughter died when you responded that you had never, in fact, been kissed before. Feeling an urge take over him, he turned and pressed one arm against the wall next to your face, leaning in closer to you.

"Want to know what it's like?"

Gifs not mine. Credit goes to their respective owners

[yaku-soba]

iii. back

༶•┈┈ bright young things: i. ii. iii.

you’ve heard about how broad atsumu’s back is. it is, after all, one of the most discussed topics in the girls’ bathroom. you’ve heard about the squareness of his shoulders, the way they would be lovely to hang off of.

you listen in silence — it’s always atsumu this or osamu that within the tiled confines of the girls’ bathroom, and you’ve hung around the twins long enough to be used to comments like these. it doesn’t bother the twins, and anyway—

—they don’t know how small atsumu used to be. the girls who love to talk circles about the expanse of atsumu’s back and the flex of his shoulders in a game have never known atsumu when he was two years-old and already a loud-mouthed nuisance, have never had childish hands shove at them from behind to get to the onigiri first, have never witnessed that period in middle school when he’d fumed over osamu’s single centimetre in height over him.

the girls who wax poetry and blow dreamy smoke rings over high school, volleyball player atsumu were not there to witness his first set. they did not pretend not to see the tears at the first game he lost in middle school, they weren’t there when he’d collapsed from exhaustion and you and atsumu had had to lug him home like a sack of potatoes. they’ve never seen—

—atsumu’s shoulders, squared against your mother. the resolute set of his ten year-old back, the white-knuckled grip he’d had on your hand when he’d willingly put himself between you and everything you’ve ever been afraid of. when you look at atsumu on the court the vision of his small back when you were only ten surfaces in your mind like a lucid dream. at ten, he hadn’t reached your mother’s shoulders.

at ten, you remember thinking that he stood taller than you ever would. you remember thinking that it might be okay now, now that ‘tsumu is here.

[kayssweetdreams]

Maestro Hiccups 2 Nightmares Unleashed Part 26

Meanwhile in the Real World...

Kuro had been trying to calm Aria down for hours, but found that she was still sobbing. After Balan had gotten Marina down, she had asked the maestro about what was going on. Balan only pointed outside at the chaos that was occurring. Marina was shocked at the complete chaos, and was thinking that it was all just some elaborate prank...until one of Lance's hiccups had affected her as well.

When she blinked, she found herself outside of Harajuku Isle...that was now abandoned and decrepit. "No! NO!!" She shouted, running to the window and trying to pry a board from the window. She looked inside to see most of her stuff was torn apart, covered in dust, or stolen.

The poor woman felt tears well up in her eyes, before she wiped them away. "Well...If I can start it once... I can do it again" she said with détermination, walking to the door to open it once more, and the run down store had dissappeared in a puff of smoke. "W-What happened?" She asked, Looking down at Kuro who was looking awestruck at her. She looked around for Balan, but he was still busy looking at the strange ball like prison.

Marina decided to try and help Aria, and when she placed a hand on her shoulder, she found herself in a strange looking graveyard, the rain pouring down heavily. Marina found the sobbing woman, who was in the middle of a bunch of gravestones. "Aria! I know that this feels real, but it's not! It's all a bad dream!" She shouted, causing her to turn to her in shock.

"Please! This is all not real! But the real world is in danger! And I need your help to fix it!" She yelled. Aria slowly walked over to her "Are...are you real?" She asked, slowly walking over to Marina "Yes! And I know that this may be your worst fear, but fears can be conquered!" She reasoned. Aria looked around, but her fear sunk in again

"But...What'll happen if I can't?" She asked. Marina grabbed her hand "Then we'll face it together!" She said. Aria comptenplated her words before she wiped the tears from her face and a look of determination appears on her face "You're right...Even if I had lost the one I love...there are others around me who can help ease the pain..." she said.

The rain around them stopped, and graveyard melted back into the theater, to reveal Balan looking at them in amazement "Well done you two! I didn't think it was possible to do!" He said. "Erm...what exactly did we do Balan?" Aria asked "You were able to face your worst fear, the thing that Lance's hiccups caused to appear. Now maybe that you're back, you can help me. And give me a hand setting the Bruno child free." He said, holding the ball in front of them

"You couldn't get her out?" Marina asked "I'm afraid not, there's an outside force, she needs to be released from the inside of course." Balan explains. "Kuro, Lance needs help I think, Go get the Lucid Liquid, and a warm drink." He told the KosoKoso. Kuro saluted and ran towards the kitchen to grab some warm milk.

"What do you mean Lance might need help?" Aria asked. "After he went to help the others, he fell fast asleep, and now he's not making any movement, with his hiccups being the only peep." Balan explains. "So...you want us to go and see what's going on?" Marina asked. Balan nodded "I want to see what's the delay, What happened to Lance, and is his cure on the way."

Both women nodded as Kuro ran back with three glasses of Warm milk, and the bottle of Lucid Liquid. Balan kneeled down to Kuro's height "Thank You Kuro, Now listen very well. I need to try and find some kind of spell, You on the other hand, are going to sleep, Try to find Lance, and the inhabitants so to speak." He said. The little KosoKoso nodded before he grabbed a glass of the warm milk.

Aria and Marina grabbed their glasses as well as Balan poured three drops of the liquid into the milk. "Now be careful, I suspect foul play, if you see any Nightmaren, hide or run away. Keep an eye out for the humans, adult, children and in between, and try and help your friend, if you know what I mean." He said.

All three of them nodded before they drank from their glasses, after a few moments, they started to feel drowsy, and tired...before they finally dropped into the land of dreams themselves...

Aria belongs to @shadowqueen402

Marina belongs to @sundove88

[lord-explosion-baku]

Sorrow

Yandere Siren/Fae!Hawks x Reader

Warnings: Yandere content, survivalism, pain, slight blood, suggestive adult content

A/N: This is one of the fics I was gonna post in October, but didn’t finish it on time, but I guess that means I can be a spooky dude all year round.

Tears may be cheap, but you keep them sacred.

Your captor has taken almost everything away from you: your body, your mind, your freedom, but you will not be giving him your sorrow. That will stay buried, locked away inside your chest, where the key lies somewhere he will never get to. You know he wants it. He’d told you as much.

“I’ve committed all of your expressions to memory,” he’d said one night after you nearly bit his tongue off. He’d used his song to ease you into a half-lucid state, where he kept you in his lap, wrapped tightly in his arms, shrouded in his wings. “The scorch in your hateful eyes when you wish you could fight me. The tremble in your delicious pout when you wish you could resist me. The furrow in those beautiful brows when I have you forfeited to the pleasure I give you after a battle you wish you could have won.”

Air-light fingers brushed down your cheek. He’d grabbed you by the chin, and tilted your head so that your gaze was locked in with his.

“Do I really gotta sing every time I want you to surrender, little dove?”

His fingers tip-toed down your chest, past your opened blouse. His thumb encircled your nipple until it puckered for him. He’d given it a teasing pinch. You’d stifled a moan lodged in your throat. He’d noticed.

“Aren’t you sorry for hurting me?”

You remember how good it felt to have him kneading at your chest. How his breath was nothing short of intoxicating. How you wanted nothing more than to lean into him—to kiss him—to put your hands all over him. You also remember that the only reason you wanted any of that was due to his song—his sweet siren lullaby.

“Tell me you’re sorry, angel,” he’d said, cupping your face with his free hand. His thumb slid across your cheek, under your eye. You’d known he wanted to see you cry so badly. You would not.

You’d shaken your head, and took note of the twitch in his feathered eyebrows.

His hands had moved through your hair then, lightly pulling through your roots. That was when he’d parted his lips, and began to sing.

Kiego has three songs committed to memory: one to lull you to sleep, one to make you more suggestable in the bedroom, and one to beckon you to him. The song he’d sang for you that night was the suggestable one—the mesmeric tune that made you turn around so that your knees were on either side of his thighs, the one that made you melt into his embrace, the one that made you his.

You’ve always wondered why? Why you? Out of anybody in the world, the siren had grown to have an obsessive infatuation with you. At times, you have thought that if it hadn’t been you, it would be another unfortunate soul in your place—somebody else that might not be able to withstand him, or somebody else who would actively enjoy his company. But during the times he sings for you, you don’t think. You don’t have to.

When he sang to you that night, all you could think about was giving him everything he wanted; however, the stubborn sore in your heart still clung on to the idea that he would not have you in tears.

“Say you’re sorry,” he’d commanded again between slow, sensuous kisses.

And you’d responded with: “never.”

Since then, you’ve been good. You’ve been obedient. You’ve given him everything except your tears. If you don’t stick to your ideals, then you really do have nothing.

However, when one only has so little to lose, and so much more to gain, one becomes reckless. First, your recklessness comes in mere thoughts—creeping visions of harming your winged abuser, which proves as dangerous, seeing as he’s stronger than you, faster than you, and has that pesky siren song. Then, you’ve begun thinking about running. The closer, more agreeable you become, the more he lets his guard down. Unbeknownst to him, you’ve begun learning his schedule: when he eats, when he hunts, when he sleeps, and what wakes him.

Comfort and praise seems to be the ticket to getting him to trust you more. Each night, you stroke his wings, you kiss his neck, you tell him his voice is gorgeous, fathomless, and irresistible. He thinks he has you under his spell—maybe he does, a little bit—but you’re not completely lost to him. You know that you have to leave. You know that you will leave. You’ve just got to figure out when.

It happens early in the morning.

The night before, he’d brought home spirits for you and him to drink. The two of you toasted to each other, danced together, and drank together. But he hadn’t seen that most of what had been in your glass went discarded in one of the potted plants full of herbs and berries he has allowed you to tend to. He hadn’t seen when you spiked his glass with a concoction you’d been working on for weeks with the herbs and berries he’d allowed you to tend to. He hadn’t noticed when his eyes grew drowsy, and he fell into bed with you in tow, you eased away from him, waiting for his breathing to slow.

The sun’s not up yet, but you know you have to leave. When you’re ready, you tie your boots, stock some food and water, and despite everything he’s put you through, you kiss him. Once. A sort of farewell, thanks for the memories, I won’t be missing you, you piece of chicken shit.

The departure is soundless—something you’re not used to due to Kiego’s constant singing, crooning, and happy little chirps. His guard had been down the night before, so there aren't as many safety precautions to heed as you silently maneuver your way to escape his loft.

When you’re out, you’re out. Free. Running. The most you can do to not shriek with glee and alert him of your escape is to keep your goal in mind: Find civilization. Find help. Hide. Keep running. Whatever you need to do to keep your safe stead.

At least, that’s always been the plan. You hadn’t accounted for the landscape. In fact, you’ve only ever seen a fraction of the surrounding parameters of his loft. You don’t know about the drop-off point by the outer edge of the woods. The whispering oranges of dawn have only just cracked through the trees, so you don’t see the danger when you slip on some foliage and are sent spiraling. Falling, rolling, screaming, until you catch yourself on a tree. Rather, your body wraps around a tree, which nearly knocks the wind out of you.

Groaning, you lay there for a while and breathe. The air filling up your lungs is frigid. Deadly. A part of you wants to fall asleep, find warmth in your dreams. A part of you knows that if you do that, you might catch hypothermia and die.

So you stand.

The world is dizzying. Trees tilt, while shrubs and rocks spin around you. Your first few steps are a sideways hustle. You’re like a toddler first learning to walk. There’s a sharp pain in your leg, and it takes everything out of you not to look down. If you think you’re seriously injured, you’ll give up. You hadn’t packed anything for first aid, and even if you had, you’ve lost your water and food during the fall.

You’re not sure which way to walk for a few minutes. You’re dawdling, finding your footing. The destination should be away from the drop-off, so you slowly make your way down the hill, sitting and scooting when you’re unsure if you’ll fall again.

It’s only when you find solid ground again that you hear him. His song. Some new hypnotic tune, miles away, reverberating throughout the forest. It’s nothing short of haunting and you don’t spare another second to listen. He’s awake. He knows you’re gone.

The next mile is clumsier than before. Though you’re sure not to fall, your balance is off, and your body slams into a dozen trees. Sometimes it’s because you can’t help it, while you often just need one to hold you up so you can breathe. Your palms cover your ears the entire time, and even still, his song gets louder. Invasive. He’s growing nearer. If you don’t hide, he will find you.

By nothing short of a miracle, you find a large tree where the trunk is hollowed out. You crawl in, allowing your hands to touch the ground, away from your ears for only a moment, but a moment is all the song needs.

Suddenly, you’re struck with an aching. It’s anguish. Mourning. Sorrowful remembrance. Your chest constricts with a dire need to release, but you don’t go so far to ponder exactly what it is trying to crawl its way up your esophagus. You hold back your emotions with what’s left of your strength, while you try to keep your breathing steady.

Through the cracks in the trunk, you see a flash of brilliant crimson. The ground thuds with his landing. It’s silent for a moment, until his song starts up again. You keep your palms clamped over your ears while you bury your head between your knees. You’ll stay like that for however long is needed. You will not allow yourself to be seduced or lulled or beckoned. You will not be found.

There’s no telling how much time has passed. Seconds crawl to minutes, and minutes crawl to excruciating tension. You’re not aware of the end of his song until you use your hand to wipe at your leg. It’s sticky, probably from blood, but you won’t think about it until you’re safe.

It has to have been awhile since he’s scoured the area. You army crawl out of the tree, chest scraping away at the frosty, dirt floor. The sun is barely peeking up through the trees, and you allow its warmth to touch your mud-caked skin.

In the distance, there’s smoke. With a bit of walking, you see a fire pit, and someone in a black, wool cloak sitting by it.

Picking up your pace, you call out to him, but your voice cracks to only a squeak. Still, the hooded man looks up at you. You hope he can see that you’re hurt, recognize that you’re in need of first aid. He can shelter you, take you back to civilization, and save you.

But while you half-hazardly bound towards him, you’re pushed to the side. Rather, you’re zooming through the air, unable to utter a scream, until your back slams into a tree.

Despite the pain, the loss of energy, you writhe and howl under Keigo’s harsh scrutiny. His wings spread out, taking a predatory stance, while desperate amber eyes search your body. Though his face doesn’t show a hint of malice, you know the trouble you’re in. His lips part, and an unfamiliar melody begins.

“No!!!!!” Your hands fly up to your ears, but he catches them in a vice grip, pinning them back against the giant tree’s trunk. He begins to sing and you know you’ve lost.

Loss. That’s what this is—his song. Unbridled, unrelenting grief. The tune sweeps across your feet, slowly creeping up your body. It hugs your waist as it wraps around you, squeezing as it coils. You choke as the substantial heartache clogs your throat with the emotions you’ve been repressing for months.

Tears burn your lower lashes and your vision blurs. You blink, and a hot stream runs down your cheek. Though Keigo continues to sing, you see a subtle tilt to his mouth. While your body slackens, too tired to fight him off any longer, he cups your face and pulls you into him before you can crumple. He pets your beat up, bruised back, and coos.

“Sneaky little bird.” There are two octaves in Keigo’s voice as he speaks to you, as if two people were speaking at once. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

A part of his statement is true. You can feel it. His songs reflect his emotions and desires, and he wouldn’t be able to create this relentless melody unless he, too, felt the way it made you feel. But you also hear the triumph on his tenor. He has obtained what he’s always wanted: the key to that sacred place in your heart you wouldn’t allow him to venture to. There’s no saying that he doesn’t now own you completely.

“My sweet angel, what am I going to do with you?” As he speaks, you cling to him, knitting your nails into his shirt.

“I’m s-sorry.” It’s a faint croak, but it’s all you have to offer him. It’s all you can do to stop more renegade tears from staining his shirt. His chest shakes as he chuckles.

A twig snaps in the near distance. Keigo sharply turns towards the noise, and wraps an arm around your waist, one of his wings shrouding you slightly. Through his puffed out feathers, you see the man from the fire pit standing near a tree. He eyes the both of you with intrigue, but not concern. You cast him a pleading look, and you know he sees you, but all he does is sigh.

There’s a low, sort of echoing growl coming from deep within your captor’s chest. It’s menacingly territorial, but the cloaked man doesn’t react. Instead, he steps back and into the tree. Not like he stepped into the tree, rather, at one point he was a man, and now he is the tree. Two separate objects becoming one.

Keigo lets out an annoyed grunt, and in one swift movement, hoists you into his arms, carrying you in bridal style. He looks down at your leg, which you can now see has a giant scarlet puddled gash in it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says while his wings begin to flap. The gusts blow foliage around you as you lift off the ground, and Keigo offers you a sort of sweet, conjugal smile. “After that, we can discuss your...punishment.”

A sob tears out from your throat. Keigo tuts, cradling you closer to his chest.

“You don’t have to worry, little dove. Though, I do promise to be gentle, don’t expect me to act like a gentleman. You’ve put us through the ringer today, and once you’re healed and healthy, we’ll work on all the ways you’ll be apologizing. Until then, let’s go home.”

Home. The place where Keigo will have you locked away in his birdcage of a loft. The place where you give him your body, your mind, your freedom, and now, even your sorrow.

While the two of you take flight, you think to cry some more--to let it all out of your system before you have your captor’s undivided attention. But as he flies, he hums a tune, and soon your eyelids fall, and you slacken in his embrace.

[apiratewhopines]

Thanks to @teamhook for the artwork and for helping me pick a movie that wasn’t already done!

Midnight

Chapter 6 — The Mice

Summary: In which our heroine wins the battle but loses the war

Chapter 6 of 7 on AO3

“The way you changed my life

No, no, they can’t take that away from me”

-They Can’t Take That Away from Me, Fred Astaire

After the excitement of the morning passed, Sidney grumbled until they returned to the table. Still shaken by whatever Arthur said on their brief phone call, Killian declined to join them and returned to their room. No doubt to dream up a make-believe pregnancy for her. Most probably twins this time.

“I thought you told me we would have smoked salmon for our bagels,” the man complained to Guin, face upset as if the plentiful choices offered on their breakfast buffet were insufficient.

“I’m sorry, dear. I know it’s your favorite, so I made sure it was on the menu I gave to our chef,” she murmured coaxingly. Looking at the butler who was filling Arthur’s coffee cup, she asked, “What happened to the salmon?”

“There was a mistake, ma’am. It was left out of the last delivery, and since the phones have been out all morning, we couldn’t contact the market. I’ve sent one of the girls into town to buy some, so we will have it tomorrow morning. If the gentleman prefers, we can prepare a plate for him this afternoon.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “The phones are in perfect working order. We just made a call to Europe to check on the Baron’s daughter.”

“No, ma’am, only the internal phone system is working. An accident took out the lines last night.”

Emma reached over and grabbed Arthur’s hand under the table as they shared an uneasy look when the other three people at the table all glanced at her with questions in their eyes. Lance broke the silence. “I don’t understand…”

“I’m afraid he’s right. I wasn’t on the phone with my mother-in-law. In fact, I don’t— No, I don’t want to burden you with my problems,” she said haltingly, her mind racing with ways to get out of this mess. The words tumbled from her mouth so quickly she didn’t have a chance to think through the consequences, which seemed to be the way she operated these days.

“Oh, please, you can’t stop now. This little mystery is the only thing distracting me from my lack of fish,” Sidney countered. He was studying the wide variety of fruit compotes and toppings for his pancakes and sounded desolate. “Please.”

“Well, let’s just say the Baron’s family has a touch of eccentricity,” she continued with a grimace. She had their rapt attention; even Sidney abandoned his food and gawked at her. “My first hint was at the wedding. I was opening the gifts, and his grandfather gave us a broken compass covered in Thousand Island dressing.”

“Yes,” Arthur broke in, determined to help. “Now I remember hearing there was a streak of madness in the family. His father was known as the Mad Baron of Cambridge. He liked to give people roller skates with missing laces instead of flowers.”

“The truth is…we don’t have a daughter.”

“Oh, this is much more delicious than breakfast,” Sidney gushed, pushing his plate away and moving to the seat across from her. “Tell us more.”

“I don’t want you to think bad of him. Most of the time, he’s lucid and the sweetest man in the world. That’s the man I fell in love with. But when he’s having one of his episodes, like this morning, he can get quite aggressive if confronted. It’s best to go along with whatever he’s saying. It always starts when he first wakes as if he can’t shake some odd dream in his mind,” she grabbed her napkin and dabbed at fake tears. “There was one time about six months ago he woke up convinced he was Captain Hook. He wore eyeliner for weeks and refused to use his left hand. When I tried to make him see reason, he insisted I call him Captain and tried to have me arrested as a mutineer.”

“You poor thing,” Guin said, genuine sympathy in her expression. “I wondered why you called him that. I thought perhaps he served in the Navy.”

“And you’ve stayed with him all these years?” Lance’s gaze, which was always admiring, held a new respect for her now. It didn’t make her feel any better. “You’re wonderful.”

“Hmm, yes, absolutely amazing,” Arthur murmured under his breath. The smirk was back, and she could tell he was enjoying her web of lies. At least someone was. “Is there some medication he can take? Perhaps you should have him committed.”

“No, I would never. I promised to stay with Killian in good times and bad. It will pass eventually. It always does,” she bit out, kicking him under the table. Before anything else could be said, she heard the Captain whistling as he practically skipped out of the house toward them dressed in the sky blue scrubs of a surgeon. The color made his eyes even more beautiful, and the tiniest smattering of hair visible above the v-neck of the shirt did things to her heart.

“Arthur, Guinevere, thank you for the hospitality, but we really must be going. I have to get back for my shift at the hospital.” Everyone jumped at the pronouncement, exchanging loaded glances and trying to figure out what to say or do next.

Guin smiled at him shakily and in a calm voice asked, “The hospital, Baron?”

“Not a baron, I’m afraid. And this woman isn’t a baroness. You notice I didn’t say my wife because she isn’t that either,” Killian informed them as he stopped by her chair and reached down to place a hand on her shoulder.

“Killian, you don’t mean that,” Emma responded. She would have laughed at his look of confusion at the lack of reaction to his revelation if she wasn’t so sure it would come back to bite her in the ass.

With an admonishing look, Lance said, “See here, Baron, there’s no need to insult the woman who has stayed by you through thick and thin.”

“Thick and thin? We met five nights ago, and she couldn’t wait to be rid of me. She’s an imposter. And I’m a doctor who has real things to do in the real world. Come on, Swan, let’s leave these lovely people to their breakfast.”

“Oh, I get it. You think she’s Elizabeth Swan from Pirates of the Caribbean.” Sidney snapped his fingers as if all the pieces had fallen into place.

“What? No, I think she’s a bounty hunter and the most impossible woman I’ve ever met,” Killian argued, determined to make them see the truth. The more he spoke, the more their faces cleared of all emotion like they were afraid a smile or frown would push him further into his delusions. He pulled her from the chair gently, and since she felt like pond scum for the lies she told, she let his arms circle her waist. As an added benefit she didn’t deserve, the position allowed her nose to be tickled by the chest hair so temptingly on display.

“Maybe she’s a mutineer,” Arthur offered.

Looking at the group, Killian shook his head in disbelief. “I think you’re all crazy.”

“Yes, that must be it,” Guin said soothingly. “Why don’t you have some breakfast, Baron?”

“I’m not sure how I can be more clear. I’m not a baron. We’re not married. We met in the middle of the road a few nights ago, and I pretended to be her Uber driver so I could give her a ride to a strip club. It turned into the best night of my life.”

Undeterred, Guin patted his arm, which was still wrapped tightly around her. “What a lovely courtship you’ve had. Now, let’s get you something to eat. Do you prefer coffee or tea to drink?”

“Are you not listening to a word I’m saying? We’re fakes! We haven’t known each other for more than a week. She twisted me around her little finger in two minutes. As infuriating as she is, I fell in love with her smile. The sound of her laugh makes my blood pump faster, and when she talks about not believing in love, it makes me want to prove to her that it exists every day for the rest of our lives.”

She was fading, her will to stick it out with Arthur and give him a happy ending melting in the heat of Killian’s honeyed words. His genuine concern at how nonchalantly they were accepting his confession should have been funny, but all she could think about was how he said ‘the rest of our lives.’

Like he meant it.

“Well, fakes or not, I’m still hungry,” Sidney answered, trying his best in the face of impossible odds. “Maybe your patients could wait a few hours until the salmon arrives. It’s quite good.”

“Bloody hell, this is a madhouse. Come on, Emma, enough is enough. Let’s go,” he urged her again. Taking the napkin from her hand, he threw it on the table and switched his grip to gently hold her upper arm and guide her away from the group.

They were immediately halted by Lance, thunder in his expression and lightning in his eyes. “She’s not going anywhere with you, Baron. We know all about your illness. She won’t be safe.”

“My illness?” Understanding dawned on his face and his head tilted back like he was searching the morning sky for answers. With a wry chuckle, he sighed. “Bravo, Swan. You told them I’m crazy. And I played right into it, didn’t I? Because I’ve been acting crazy, a man driven out of his mind at the sight of his most cherished dream waltzing away from him like he was nothing. Like everything he felt was nothing as far as she was concerned.”

She choked up at the bitter twist of his mouth. He was so brave, declaring his feelings in front of everyone, even convinced she would reject him again. Was it any wonder she had fallen head over heels for him?

And what did she do? She lied. She tricked. She ran. Then she rinsed and repeated.

“Captain,” she whispered, her hand moving to cradle his face when a sickening crack was heard and he crumpled at her feet.

Behind him, looking proud of himself, Sidney was still holding a pan aloft like he thought Killian might jump to his feet and demand a second round. Fear flooded her and she dropped to her knees to cradle his head in her lap. Helplessness, her hands fluttered over his body, her mind trying to sort out the impossible situation that was entirely her fault. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“He looked homicidal.”

Shaking him gently, she begged, “Killian…Killian, come back to me. Don’t leave me here alone.”

“You aren’t alone, sweetheart,” Lance promised, trying to move her away.

She swatted at his hands and refused to leave. The movement caused Killian’s head to lull to the side, and she saw a smear of red dripping from his hairline. “Someone call 911. He’s bleeding!”

Sidney glanced down at them with a mildly alarmed look and then at the weapon he still held. He ran his finger across the bottom and, with some relief, announced, “That’s not blood. It’s raspberry compote.”

—

Arthur’s personal physician made a house call to attend to the victim. Of course, the woman knew Killian Jones, MD, who was apparently the Director of Pediatric Oncology at Storybrooke General and one of the foremost experts in his field.

He was a saint in addition to being her Captain.

He deserved so much more than a lost girl who was too scared to know a good thing when it stopped on the side of the road to save her.

“This couldn’t have worked out better, my dear,” Arthur commented with an eyebrow wiggle. “Lance is beside himself. He just announced he plans to hire a divorce attorney this very afternoon. Run along. I’ll make sure the good doctor makes it back to town safely. I’ll even throw a couple thousand his way for his performance.”

“Shut up, Arthur. This is terrible. An innocent man got hurt, and it’s all our fault. My fault,” she corrected with a whisper, running her hand softly through Killian’s hair. He regained consciousness as the doctor checked him out but fell asleep while she assured them no permanent damage was done. Replacing the ice pack against the goose egg forming on the side of his head, she silently pleaded with him to wake up so she could grovel properly and beg for forgiveness.

“He seems quite taken with you.”

“Maybe he’s crazy after all,” she joked, but her heart wasn’t really in it. She doubted she would find anything funny until she saw his electric blue eyes again. “Can you leave us alone? I want to be able to explain when he comes to.”

“Of course, just call if you need anything.” He gave her a probing stare as if trying to decide whether to say something else before he left.

When she heard the door click shut, she leaned over and brushed a soft kiss across his lips. “I’m sorry. For running. For lying. For putting you in a situation where you got knocked out. I know that’s not nearly enough, but I am.”

“It’s a start,” he groaned as her hushed tone drew him from sleep, one hand moving to cover hers where it held the ice to his head and the other reaching out to play with the ends of her hair. “What happened?”

“I happened. This is why we don’t work, Captain. I’ve brought you nothing but pain and suffering since the moment we met.”

“I didn’t figure you for the melodramatic type, Swan. We had some good times before this farce began,” he reminded her as he shifted into more of a sitting position. “Are you ready to admit there’s something between us, or do I need to jump back into the fray and take a punch bowl to the face?”

“I never denied there was something between us, just that it was a good idea. I believe a raspberry-flavored concussion proves my point perfectly.”

His hand drifted to her cheek, calloused fingers glancing over soft skin. She wanted to look away from his intense gaze, but he tenderly grabbed her chin and held her in place. “Love, come away with me. It doesn’t have to be forever; we can sort that part out later. I’m simply asking for your company now, to give us a chance before you decide against it.”

“I want to, Captain. I want the carrot and everything else behind Door Number One,” she murmured with a watery chuckle. His gentle caresses grew hotter and more insistent. Finally he pulled her to him, her body half-covering his, as he claimed her mouth in the kind of scorching kiss that would burn through her memory forever.

She had nothing to offer him, and she had a long way to go before she would be worthy of this kind of love. Unconditional. All-encompassing. The kind she didn’t even know existed until he rescued her.

“I sense a but coming…”

“But—“

With a sad smile, he interrupted her. “On second thought, don’t. Please. I can’t bear to hear you say the words. To watch you run one more time. Let’s call it a day now so we can remember it fondly in the years to come.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.” He tapped her nose lightly with his fingertip, observing the tears in her eyes as she fought to keep them from falling. Giving her a bittersweet grimace, he added, “Just promise you’ll take care of yourself, Swan. No more skipping meals. No more pretending to be anyone other than the amazing woman you are.”

The tears that were a threat until then slipped past her defenses, leaving trails down her face. He swiped at them and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Then he was gone.

Arthur found her later in the exact same place, not having the energy to move. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “This is the last time you’ll ever have to live this day, my dear.”

She knew he was trying to make her feel better, but the knowledge he was wrong caused her to feel light-headed as she turned into his embrace. She would never have to say goodbye to Killian again, but she knew she would relive it over and over until the day she died.

—

He approached her on the shoreline as she watched the blue waters of the Atlantic crash against the rocky beach forming one side of Arthur’s estate. Heat lightning flashed in the distance; the far-off storm robbed of its noise and violence when viewed from the calm of land. Emma knew it was only a matter of time until he sought her out. He was a smart man, a gambler and a rogue, so why not press his advantage?

“You disappeared on me after the baron left.” Lance never referred to him as her husband, always ‘the baron.’ She wasn’t sure if it was his way of skirting the immorality of his pursuit or simply to rob the other man of any claim on her, but it was starting to piss her off. Which was silly considering he wasn’t really her husband. Or a baron.

“He told me he was filing for divorce on his way out. That he hoped you found happiness but had come to realize it wasn’t going to be with him.”

She had yet to look at Lance, but she felt her heart break a little at the scene he painted. It was just like the Captain to try to help her all the way to the bitter end. She supposed he simply couldn’t stop himself. Breathing in the warm salty air, she wanted to let it fill her lungs and sweep out the misery that had taken hold in the core of her.

She was an idiot. She had let someone who had never loved her, never really even cared about her, twist her into someone who would do the same thing to a man who was perfect in every way. If she hadn’t already sworn to get even with Neal Cassidy, this would have driven her to it.

She was damaged now, unfit for human company, clinging to a sham because it was easier than facing the fact she made the biggest mistake of her life. Only this time, there was no boogeyman in the form of a cheating, lying ex to blame. She did this to herself.

But she didn’t have to double down on it.

With a deep sigh, Lance dropped on the sand next to her. He was more casual than she had ever seen him, and somehow it made him more approachable. Barefoot and with his pants legs were rolled up to mid-calf in a nod to the tide, he observed, “He was wrong, wasn’t he? You still love him.”

“Yes,” she admitted, staring at the horizon.

“And you aren’t a baroness…”

“No,” she confirmed, this time chancing a sidelong glance at him. “Everything he said was true. I’ve been here under false pretenses.”

“To come between Guin and me. It has the smell of an Arthur scheme all over it,” he explained with a wry grin. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t deserve it. I never intended for it to go this far, but once it started, we kept getting deeper and deeper until I couldn’t see a way out. And then I didn’t want to. I love her, I probably always will, but she’s not mine. You helped me realize that. A gorgeous wake-up call designed to turn my head and steal my heart. Losing you is my penance. One I can’t regret because I have a feeling you saved several lives by playing along.”

“You’ll be back in the saddle again soon, I’m sure, and the women of the world will be better for it. Do yourself a favor next time, though. Choose an available woman, and once you find her, don’t let her go. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Pick up where I left off, I suppose. I have some debts that still need to be paid and a fugitive to bring to justice. Maybe if I keep busy enough, keep moving, this will all fade and seem like some fever-induced dream.”

“I meant, what are you going to do about Jones?”

“I think I’ve done enough already. The best thing I can do for Killian now is to stay away.”

“For someone so smart about other people, you have a rather glaring blind spot when it comes to your own life. A mistake is only a mistake if you keep making it. You know where to find him, you know he wants you to, the only thing stopping you is fear.”

“Fear is enough, Lance.”

“You know what fear has gotten me: Absolutely nothing. I was afraid to put myself out there, so I only got involved with women who I knew would leave me before the whole thing even started. It’s hard to mourn the loss of a relationship that never stood a chance to begin with. It cost me my best friend and two women I care about. You’re better than that, Emma, and doesn’t he deserve the best version of you? But more importantly, don’t you?”

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @stahlop @motherkatereloyshipper @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @klynn-stormz

[rosy-cheekx]

Aesthetic prompt- song: "in hell i'll be in good company" by the dead south; vibe: steam off a warm drink, heavy rain on windows; color: cool gray, bronze, red :)

Took me long enough! This fic is months in the making, but I am so excited to finally be able to answer this prompt. This is chapter 1 of probably 3!

A Phoenix Razed

Chapter 1- Rebirth

---

3 days since Great Yarmouth

Tim’s hands encircled the paper cup in his lap. The cup was small, he noted; he could clasp his fingers together easily. Or maybe his hands were just big. The tea was dark, way over-steeped, and the herbal scent bloomed out in waves alongside the rising steam. There was no sugar, no milk, none of the usual accoutrement Tim used to take tea. Just harsh, bitter, black.

It’s what you deserve.

Tim rolled his eyes at his internal monologue, drama queen, and sipped the beverage. Agh, still hot? He sucked in air through his teeth, startling Martin, who he’d forgotten was beside him.

“Tim?” He snapped his eyes up from where they had been resting on the book, lips moving to form words Tim hadn’t been listening to. “You alright?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, burnt my tongue.” Tim’s words sounded like a shrug, slumped and uninterested, now out of his reverie.

Silence stretched between him and Martin. Or, Tim wished it was silence. The only sound was the low static of the EEG, a rainbow of wires between the machine and Jonathan Sims’ scalp, shaved to accommodate the electrodes. What Tim wouldn’t give for any level of sound other than what they experienced right now. Any less, and there would be an answer to the question, “Will Jon ever wake up?”, and more would mean his heart was working, or lungs, or any other number of body parts to which machines were attached, waiting for any sign of response.

It’s your fault he’s like this.

It should have been you.

Tim exhaled and sipped the tea again, more careful this time. It was still hot—he was pretty sure the burn on his tongue made it feel even hotter—but he tempered his expectations and swallowed a sip of the bitter liquid, letting the raw flavor coat his throat.

“-there’s not much point to this, huh?” Martin asked, slipping a tattered bookmark between the pages of the book he had been reading—he was hoping to annoy Jon with poetry into waking up with Tennyson’s Ulysses—and letting it slip from his lap to the bed, green cover stark against the yellowish-white of the thin blanket.

“I don’t know, Marto, doctors said he might be able to hear us. Maybe dear Alfie will bore Jon back to life,” but Tim’s words lacked the bite and humor that was meant to be there.

“Don’t-” Martin warned softly, shaking his head and pushing his reading glasses through his fringe of curls. “He’s not…he’s still alive. He’s just lost.”

“You’re right,” Tim nodded, placing a hand on Martin’s shoulder lightly before pulling it away as he felt the round of Martin’s shoulder twinge under his touch. “You know what I mean.” He rubbed at the bandages that wound around his abdomen, letting himself indulge in the ache of raw skin and muscle and fat, the hiss of pain atonement for his sins.

Martin sighed, a slow, burdensome sound. “Yeah, I do.” At his words, Martin’s phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID before shoving the phone deep in his pocket, ignoring the call as he did so. “Listen, Tim, you know I’d stay longer if I could-”

“No, I get it, Martin.” Tim stood as Martin did, grabbing the IV bag by his chair for support. “Duty calls. I must away, my love.”

Martin scoffed, the pale sound muffled and diminished by the emptiness of the room. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to go on without me.” His voice dropped the light in it as he placed a hand on Tim’s. His hands were freezing, Jesus. “Seriously, Tim, if you need me…”

“I’ll call.” Tim waggled the phone in the pockets of the linen pants the hospital had provided. “Promise.”

--

“I hear the Great Grimaldi’s in town.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

He wished the moments after were fuzzy. He wished he could chalk his memories up to delirium or carbon monoxide poisoning. There was the detonator, small and squat in his hands. There was Grimaldi, or Nikola, or whatever that thing was. And there was Jon, kneeling, eyes piercing him in a way he had never experienced before. A moment of true lucidity amongst the madness of the Unknowing.

Tim had pressed the button, resigning this to be his final image, his final memory. The things in the world he hated most, all splayed out in front of him, with the promise of all the things he loved waiting for him. A win-win, really. Go out with a bang, leave a mark on the Stranger, cause some errant destruction, and finally see Danny again. The Stranger would never forget the Stoker brothers, that would have been for sure.

But the combustion and the flames had swept over him like a hot wind. He felt the flames lick the sides of his face, felt smoke choke his lungs, felt impossibly hot ash and air swirl around him in a tango. The building had crumbled around him and Tim had been unable to move, forced to witness every last nanosecond of the chaos he had caused.

And he reveled in it. He had won; he had beaten the Stranger. To know he had avenged the deaths of Danny and Sasha was prize enough.

None of it made any sense. He shouldn’t have survived.

How had he survived?

-

5 Days After Great Yarmouth

“Tim.”

Basira was in Tim’s room, wheelchair parked in the corner and sitting in a visitor’s chair. Her body was tense and still, reminiscent of a panther in some documentary he had watched with Jon. Ready to strike? Or run?

“Basira.” Tim’s voice was careful. “Martin said you weren’t up for visitors today. Glad to see you’re okay.”

“Save it.” Basira’s hands were fisted in her robe, the white and yellow one matching Tim’s, declaring them both as patients under observation. Tim frowned, pulling his IV behind him to sit on his bed, wincing as he bent and adjusted himself. “Daisy’s gone, Jon is…whatever he is. I survived because I was smart.”

Her voice was low and sharp, accusing him of…something. Tim felt blood boiling under his skin, as he waffled somewhere between furious and confused. “Excuse me?” He said pointedly, voice measured, squeezing tight the paper cup of tea in his hand.

“Tim, how are you not dead?” Basira gestured with her hand. “Your burns were all superficial. You broke your arm in the collapse, but you managed to survive the fire.” She shook her head and smoothed the fabric that lay there with her hand. “You and I both know you shouldn’t be alive right now.”

Tim took a steadying breath, though it did little to conceal his frustration. “So what, you think I’m fucking magical or something?” He could feel the heat and pitch rise in his voice. “You think I’m like...like those freaks we read about in the statements? Like-like Jon or Elias or like fucking Nikola?”

Basira opened her mouth to speak but Tim cut her off. “You know why I was there, Basira. For Danny. For Sasha. You bloody well know none of this was supposed to happen.” He gestured in the general direction of where Jon lay, dead to the world. “The audacity to assume I-”

“Tim!” Basira cut in, interrupting his increasingly desperate tone. “Look!” She pointed down. Following her gaze, Tim saw the paper cup he was holding. The cup of tea was steaming. No, it was boiling. He could hear the roil of the water, see the bubbles blossoming on the surface. On instinct, he yelped, tossing the cup of bitter black tea across the room, hitting the sink on the far side of the wall squarely. He winced as the liquid splashed across the mirror, the cup rolling to a stop in the basin.

“What the fuck?” He wiped his hands on his robe. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Did it burn you?” Basira asked, eyes passing over him studiously.

“Ah…” Tim turned his right hand over, checking for any splash marks or blisters on his palm. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Basira asked, raising her eyebrow. At Tim’s irritated roll of his eyes, she folded her fingers together.

“You know that’s not normal, right?” It wasn’t a question.

Tim nodded, voice stolen from him as he processed her words. “Are you trying to say I’m fireproof or something?”

Basira shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds weird enough to be right. I’d say ask Jon about it, but obviously…that’s not happening quite yet.”

“This is so fucked,” Tim mumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. “I hate this job.”

--

Tim was walking in a black room. Kind of. It wasn’t black, really, nor a room—just the concept of space, devoid of color or light.

Tim was somewhere and it was dark.

He picked a direction and walked. The space he was in was hot, a dry stale heat pressing in on him from all sides. It was like that prickling heat from being too close to a campfire, where the heat should singe your leg hairs. It should have been painful. He should have been sweating. But he felt…good. Great, even. He felt alive and awake and ready.

He walked for what felt like hours in this dreamscape, not knowing where he was going. He had realized he was dreaming around the point where he noticed he was more floating than walking, being guided like a character in a low-res video game. There was something in the back of his mind nudging him forward, coaxing him along some predetermined route.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was something in front of him, maybe four meters away. He couldn’t see it, but he could sense it. This spot in space was the source of all the heat in this room, the warmth surrounding him that was more accosting than comforting. The feeling surrounding him was all-consuming and it made him feel…all sorts of things. Righteousness, anger, betrayal, pain. They were all the emotions he had been feeling at Great Yarmouth, built up upon each other, each idolized in their own way. They were the feelings he had chosen to worship when Jon had stopped being his friend and started being his enemy, when Sasha had been discovered to have never been, when he had looked Nikola in its eyeless face and pressed the detonator. It all felt good to feel.

All of a sudden Tim was struck with a sudden knowledge. If he accepted this heat, this painful destruction, he would never need to worry about being hurt again. He could protect himself, the loved ones he had left (if he still had any), and burn the hearts out of anyone who dared hurt him or his ilk. No one would ever leave him again except on his terms. He understood what the Lightless Flame meant, what it promised, what it could give him in return. He would be able to live on the destruction of those he deemed unworthy of the love of the pyre, those who had so much to lose. Like he had had, once. Like Danny had had. Like Sasha. They had had the world before them, and it was stripped away. The Stranger had the potential to take over the world and he had destroyed every last bit of success it had. And it felt good. He could chase that feeling again and again and again with a family that knew what it was like to love and lose and destroy.

All he had to do was take it in.

-

7 Days After Great Yarmouth

Tim woke up gasping for air. He could feel an icy hand on the back of his neck, colder than anything he knew, dragging him back into reality. He opened his eyes, wincing at the harsh light of his hospital room and yes, he was in his hospital room, not a great expanse of nothing nothing nothing, searching for answers. He reached a hand to the back of his head and felt a frozen rag, dripping icy water down the back of his neck, down his spine.

A nurse was at his bedside, a thin woman with dark blonde hair, checking his vitals with a delicate hand. “Welcome back, Mr. Stoker. You gave us a scare, there.”

“Wha-”

“Your monitor was beeping like mad last night. Said you had a fever of 42, but the machine was probably broken. Thermometer put you more at 40, but still, concerningly high. Gave you some fever reducers and a cool rag, kept an eye on you. Are you feeling any better?”

Tim rolled his neck, hearing his joints crack as he did so. “Uh-” He took stock of his faculties. He felt great, actually. No pain, no stiffness, just a tingling warmth spread throughout his body. Something about that felt...right. But he wasn’t sure why. “Yeah, fine.” He pulled the rag out from under his neck and noticed, for the first time, he was naked.

“Sorry,” she smiled apologetically at the flush that spread across his face and neck. “First rule of fevers: tight clothing comes off. It seemed to have done its job though. You were out for a whole day. According to our thermometers, your temperature’s gone back to normal, but we’d like to keep an eye on you a bit longer, especially with your injuries. They don't seem to be infected, so the fever might have been a latent trauma response to the explosion.” The woman shrugged, her smile light. “Our bodies do crazy things to keep us safe. Even when it hurts.”

“A-apparently so,” Tim nodded softly, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the nails dig into his palms. At least this wasn’t a dream. He rested his head against the pillows propped behind him and sighed heavily.

The nurse left eventually, when there were no more monitors to check and Tim had promised eight ways to Sunday to press his call button if he needed anything. He settled back into his pillow, listening to the steady beep of his heart amplified on the monitor. The TV droned low in the background, newscasters revisiting today’s tragedies. Had they been on the news when it happened? Tim huffed and shook his head. Not if Elias had a say in it. Probably chalked it up to a gas main.

He grabbed the remote strapped to his bed, and flipped through the channels aimlessly, looking for something interesting…or at least to lull him back to sleep. Kids programming, soap operas, more news, interior design—wait. Tim flipped back to the news channel. Demolition of an old primary school. The reporter spoke to a heated young woman, round cheeks framed by wild curls, who spoke to the camera about the memories and traditions the school represented, how unfair it was to lose such an important monument to the history of her town.

“A shame, isn’t it?”

Tim started at the voice, whipping his head to the door, gripping the remote tight in his hand. The woman standing in the doorway of his room was short and wide, hair cropped close. She wore a grey tank top and black shorts, revealing tattoos of flames licking up the backs and sides of her calves. Something about her face was odd. A little too smooth? The grin on her face seemed wider than normal smiles were meant to be, drooping a little too low.

“Pardon?” Tim managed, grip on the call button tight, even if there was…something keeping him from pressing it.

“About the school.” She pointed to the television as she crossed the threshold, crossing her legs as she sat in the cushy visitor’s chair next to his bed. “So many childhood memories, so many job opportunities, so many opportunities for self-improvement-” She spat the word with malice. “Truly some of my favorite forms of destruction.”

Tim stared at her dumbly. “Do…am I supposed to know who you are?” Her returned chuckle burned him from the inside.

“Oh,” she crooned, more to herself than to Tim. “For keepers of the Eye, you are all so stupid. I am Jude Perry and I serve the Lightless Flame. And, if I’m right, you do too.”

[from-a-reckless-writer]

wrote a thing.

She is sitting behind you; back propped up against the harsh cement wall the double-deck is pushed against. She isn’t wearing her shirt, merely draped it over her frame. She is like this with you. Always partially naked, almost always bare but never completely. A sleeping short but no bra, there; grinding on your thigh with only a tank top and no underwear, here; and now, chest bare with only a shirt draped over.

You hear rustling and you know she is reaching for the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the head of the bed.

You are proven right.

You hear the flicker of the flames and the string of cigarette smoke climbs into your nostrils. You lace your shoes first before even wearing a bra. The first time you did this in front of her she laughed at you.

Shoes first before a bra? If you hadn’t just fucked my brains out I’d have half a mind to call you a psychopath.

She always smokes the same brand of cigarette. The ones whose sticks are black, as if a premonition of the blackening of her lungs if she keeps at it. It is always the one with the menthol aftertaste.

“Do you always have to have cigarettes after sex?”

“They're called stimulants for good reason you know? And besides…”

She trails off and it irritates you, because her trailing off means that she knows you’re thinking the same thing; implies that with you, she doesn’t feel the need to finish her words out loud because she is all too aware that you have already finished the sentence in your head.

It is most irksome.

“Besides what?” You spit out, even though you already know the answer; even though you know that she knows you know.

“Besides,” she drawls, and even with your back to her, you know there is a puff of smoke around that one word.

“You like the taste.”

You feel liquid fire running in your veins. Of course, that’s what she would say. That’s what you were thinking of, wasn’t it?

“They’re bad for you.”

You hook the clasps of your bra together.

“Mm. Like how I’m bad for you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You just did, baby.”

******

There is no love there, you think as you wait for a cab below her apartment.

Above, you know she is listening to the trashy music you know she doesn’t really like but always listens to. You hate that you don’t know the reason why she does this. You hate that she always seems to know more about you, than you about her.

You imagine what she does when she’s alone in her apartment.

In that cramped space of a studio apartment, where the kitchen faces the door of the bathroom and the bedroom is three steps away from said kitchen. The one place you’re sure would always be burned to the back of your lids till the day you die.

It’s yellow walls eternally living in the gray matter of your brain. It has embedded itself there, along with the image of her spread open for you each time and every time.

You raise your hand to hail a cab. A car stops in front of you, you look up one last time.

There’s the silhouette of a woman behind the curtains.

You leave.

******

The city rolls past your windows. Manila in the middle of the night feels like a neon lucid dream. Well, it is, if you look past the homeless children in the streets and the rows of carton boxes inhabited by cold bodies on the sidewalk.

You think about her and how cold the metal frame of a double-deck feels at night. You never ask about the person who used to occupy the top part of the deck. You don’t ask about how there is a whole drawer of clothes that she doesn’t touch.

You don’t ask and she doesn’t answer.

It’s always been like that between you, hasn’t it? An eye for an eye. A tit for tat. What you give is what you get.

The entire taxi smells like orange Lysol and you suppress a gag reflex. It gives you a headache. But the pain of it is nothing compared to the chasm inside your chest.

It’s been getting bigger and bigger, wider and wider, you notice. The gap always increases whenever you decide to lace your shoes and hail a cab.

You ignore it.

******

She doesn’t call you, the next Friday.

It’s not the first time she failed to call. Often, it’s a work thing or a university thing...or both.

She’ll call the next evening; always eager to fuck off the stress the prior day has inevitably brought.

She wouldn’t even bother with foreplay on days like those. It’s fine by you. You’re more than happy to get down and get to work.

You’ve always been an efficient employee after all.

Because that’s it, isn’t it? This is just a contract between the two of you. If you need an itch scratched, you'll dial the familiar number and she'll show up on your doorstep and the next minute her hands would be down your pants and vice versa.

It works. It’s fine.

But then, she doesn’t call.

Not during that Friday night and not during the next evening and before you know it, a whole weekend passes by.

You find your hand on her doorknob on Monday morning.

******

She slams the door in your face the moment she realizes you’re behind it.

You pound your fist on the locked door three times, twist the knob roughly for good measure.

“Tangina, just let me in.”

You hate how fucking needy you sound.

******

You wake up falling backwards, the back of your head hitting the bone of her legs painfully.

“Aw. Pucha, what the-”

You look up and there she is, looking down on you and then she is muttering under her breath.

“Idiot. Who fucking waits outside somebody’s door?”

You scramble to your feet.

You embrace her. Tightly. It surprises you both. You hear the breath get whooshed out of her lungs.

You feel her stop fighting against the hug. She turns soft. She sobs.

You let your shirt get soaked.

******

You don’t fuck that night.

You hold her instead.

******

You feel nauseous on the ride home again but this time you know it isn’t because of some cheap air freshener.

There is something different churning in your gut. It makes you want to throw up. It’s got to do with the ever widening chasm in your chest and the woman in the studio flat, you think.

No, you don’t think. You know.

You elect to ignore it again.

******

There is a man with his arm around you when you run into each other in the LRT. In the distance you can hear the whistle of a security guard. You can feel the rumble of the oncoming train underneath your feet. Somebody says, Please observe the following for your safety and protection while inside the station...Thank you for patronizing the LRT.

You watch in real time how a nebula dies.

The light bursting, exploding and then blinking out of existence all in the same breath.

“Nice to meet you.”

She extends a hand to the man beside you.

You try not to think about the fact that that same hand had trailed up and down your body not only two nights ago, how those fingers had mapped out every single scar down the back of your thighs, how that hand had cradled your face so softly before even softer lips descended on your own.

“Well, I should probably get going. I’ll let you go now.”

The five words grate against your veins like broken glass atop cement walls grazing trespassing robbers.

You try to crane your neck to follow her disappearing figure.

His arm gets in the way.

******

She doesn’t answer your Friday night call.

And the Saturday morning call.

And the Saturday afternoon call and the evening call.

And the Sunday morning call and the afternoon call and the evening call.

Once again, you find your back against her door on a Monday.

******

She finds you there; sitting stupidly, head thumping repeatedly against the wood.

You scramble to stand up so quickly you almost trip over your own feet.

“Hi.“

—is the most stupid thing to say in the history of stupid things to say.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” you’re quick to add.

“No answer is an answer.”

She jams her keys into the door.

“Yeah, I figured.”

You twiddle your thumbs, eyes cast to the floor.

She opens the door. You follow, naturally.

She takes off her shirt.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Well, isn’t this what you came for? Let’s get it done and over with. The sooner the better, I have an essay deadline tonight.”

“No, I-”

“You what?”

You stare stupidly, mouth closing and opening like a fish, with no words coming out.

“Ano?” She demands, “Wala? Well, if you’re not gonna fuck me I suggest you get out and stop wasting my time. Like I said, I have a deadline tonight.”

You can take the dismissal for what it is.

Or...

You can fight back.

You can call her out on her bullshit.

You can apologize for your stupidity.

You can-

You rush towards her and smash your mouths together harshly.

You make her cum three times that night, her letting out your name in breathy whimpers.

It doesn’t feel satisfying. It just leaves you feeling empty.

She doesn’t smoke after, this time. She just gets out of your arms, pulls out a chair, a charger and her laptop.

She gets to work.

You dress yourself. Shoes first, then bra.

“I’m sorry.”

******

You stop hearing from her.

You know better than to call her non-stop.

No answer is an answer.

******

The apartment is empty when you get there.

The landlord says it’s been empty for two weeks now.

She didn’t leave her future destination nor her new address nor her new number.

She didn’t leave anything behind.

Well, except maybe for…you.

[seiya234]

thunder only happens when it’s raining

 for @feferipeixes, even if they’re a big jerk who calls me out on my tropes.

Prompt: “Dipper, pre-2012, has intermittent visions of the far, far future. He doesn't understand them and he's scared.”

To be honest, by the time the twins were two, Anna slept through any noises that she heard from their baby monitors.

Not that she thought that they really needed them any more but it had taken them such a long time to get the kids on a decent sleep schedule, and they were still having to give a bottle to Mabel to get her to sleep and shit her teeth were going to come out all fucked up and it made Mark feel better and...

Well. Anyway. Being the mother of twins meant as a defense mechanism Anna Pines had trained herself to sleep through any weird bed noises she heard the kids doing at this point in order that she could get some sleep. 

The bloodcurdling scream that came from Dipper’s monitor at two am however? That not only had her awake, but tripping over the blanket in her hurry to get out of bed and into his room, her heart thumping painfully in her chest because what was wrong with him, what was wrong with him?

(this wasn’t I woke up and I don’t like it. this wasn’t even I had a nightmare. this was adult fear. Anna couldn’t tell you how she knew that until it was far too late.)

She ran into his room and turned on the light, not even caring about keeping the light low to help ease him back to sleep, she needed to see him, she needed to make sure he was okay.

Outwardly, he was fine, though he all but leapt out of the crib in his attempt to get at her, soft baby fat cheeks glistening with tears. She picked him up, and he nuzzled into her chest. Anna laid her face on Dipper in turn, smelling the sweat of the playground in his hair, the spit on his pajama collar, the playdoh under his nails...everything that made him him.

“Baby, did you have a bad dream?”

“Reh!”

Anna’s brow furrowed. “Are you saying... red?”

“Reh! Reh! Red! Reh!”

That was definitely what Dipper was saying. But what could he have dreamt of that was red that scared him so? A fire truck? Strawberries? Blood?

Wait. Blood? No. No that was ridiculous. He had barely ever seen blood, how would Dipper know what that was?

Anna sighed as she sat down in the rocker with her still crying son. “I told your daddy that Clifford the Big Red Dog was going to scare you. It’s okay. Momma’s got you now.” 

(if Dipper was twelve instead of two, he could have told his mother that he had a dream where he was covered in blood. swimming in blood. drinking blood. drinking and laughing and crying blood and everything, everything was fucking blood. 

But Dipper was two and all he knew was he didn’t know what he just dreamt about, just that he didn’t like it.)

----

"Fuck, kid, you look like Ford at this age.” 

Dipper looked up from the blocks that he was stacking impossibly tall. “Bad word,” he said primly.

The woman in the long purple dress started and looked at him. She looked different than anyone Dipper knew in his life. She had big chunky gold earrings and smelt weird and had a short stick in her hand that gave off smoke like one of the candles Daddy would occasionally light. 

“Kid, you shouldn’t be able to see me.”

“Why not?” Dipper knew that dreams were a time where he could do whatever he wanted.

(”ah, lucid dreaming my boy! a valuable skill,” a grand uncle told him years later, before the world ended)

“Because you don’t have the right eyes,” she said. “Look, I’m going to go and figure this out, you be a good boy now you hear?”

----

“WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL IF IT ISN’T PINE TREE.”

“You’re a triangle,” Dipper pointed out, slightly disgruntled. He had been having a very good dream, one where he was allowed to eat a second and third slice of cake, and he wanted very much to return back to that.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER? CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE?”

Dipper knew without knowing how that as soon as the weird triangle snapped his fingers something bad and owwy would happen to his mouth. Dipper did not want that to happen. So he looked at the mountain in the distance and pulled stepped back before the triangle got near him. 

The triangle snapped. Then he snapped again. Then his eye got angry looking when Dipper just started eating cake while watching him. 

“SO! YOU THINK YOU’RE CLEVER DON’T YOU?”

Dipper didn’t answer. He wanted to take advantage of eating as much red cake as he could before he had to wake up.

“WELL, I GOT PLANS FOR YOU DIPPER PINES! B͟I͙G̱̖̭̞̩̗̙ ̴͚̹̘͚̝̥P̩̝̞LA̕Ņ͍͇̤̮̘͔̳S͈̜. A STORM IS CO-”

“Are you going to keep shouting or do you want some cake?”

The triangle stopped talking for a second, twirling his cane in thought, and then said, “SURE. I’LL HAVE SOME CAKE. EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BURN SOON ANYWAY.”

“You make no sense.”

“I MAKE PLENTY OF SENSE! YOU JUST DON’T KNOW IT YET!”

----

At the end of every month Dipper and Mabel’s teacher would pack up all the drawings they did in their pre-k class and send it home with them.

Mark was of mixed feelings about this. On one hand he enjoyed his children’s drawings and seeing what was going on in their heads. On the other hand, they insisted on having all of their drawings either pinned on all the walls or saved.

(anna threw a few away once, mabel found them in the trash, and there was no living with the twins for a week after.)

And then there was the subject matter....

For Mabel, everything was on fire. Everything. Every thing. She drew an apple tree... but on fire. She drew their visit to their grandparents... on fire. Their kitchen... on fire. Mabel and Dipper playing... with a fire in the background.

The teacher assured them that was normal, a lecture on fire safety having stuck in Mabel’s mind....

He couldn’t explain Dipper’s drawings to Mark however.

There was blood (it was very definitively not just coloring with only the red crayon.) There were rudimentary organs (and how did Dipper know what the liver looked like? Mark asked and Dipper was uncomfortable and then started to cry and Mark felt like a dick.) There were knives and candles and shapes that made Mark’s head hurt.

Mark knew what the problem was.

He resolved to ask his Dad to stop letting the kids watch Unsolved Mysteries.

(but he knew deep inside that that wasn’t really the reason why.)

----

“Dipper there’s a lady here.”

Dipper looked up to see the lady in the purple dress again.

“Hello,” he said politely, before going back to building a sand castle with his sister.

“That’s... that’s really your sister.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Mabel murmured, filling a bucket with wet sand. 

“Huh.” The lady tapped out her weird smoking thing, and brought it to her lips before speaking again. “I should have guessed there would be some bleed over. Any way kid- look, what’s your name?”

“He’s Dipper and I’m MABEL!” Mabel said, pulling Dipper around the neck for a big hug. 

“Huh. And you two are-” her eyes unfocused for a second- “Shermie’s kid’s kids.”

“You know Grandma?!”

Dipper didn’t know until now that a smile could be sad. “Yeah, I sure do. Look, I came here to say that I figured out your-” she pointed at Dipper, “deal.”

Dipper didn’t say anything, because he didn’t understand and he knew Mabel would do it for him.

“What do you mean?”

“Yeah, so, your shit’s fucked darling. Totally ass over teakettle bad. Sorry lovey but, that’s just how it’s going to be. That’s how you can even see me.”

None of this made any sense to Dipper, though he saw Mabel mouthing along to what the lady in purple was saying and saving the Bad words for later. 

There was a moment of silence and then Mabel asked “So.. Things bad?”

“Yes.”

“Why you tell us then?” 

The lady in purple looked at them for a solid minute without saying anything. The stick in her mouth dropped on the ground and she ground her foot over it. 

“I...Fuck, I’m sorry kids. Look, do you want a candy cigarette?” She proffered two sticks to them and they took them.

(yes she was a stranger. But this was Dipper’s dream and they would always be safe in here, and also...Dipper had the feeling she was and wasn’t a stranger. Not really.)

The weird lady ran her fingers through her hair. 

“Look kids... Christ, I was never good with talking to kids. Barely managed talking to my own, and look how-”

She saw their blank looks, and said “Never you mind that. I guess just... look, not gonna lie Mason-”

“Dipper.”

“-Dipper, things look really, really rough for you going ahead. But-” And now she kneeled down until she was eye level with him, and her hands were on his shoulders, and her nails were digging into his skin and it was uncomfortable but he didn’t let it bother him because he knew, somehow, that this was Important.

“The bad? And trust me, there’s a whole lot of that, but....It’s outweighed by the good, I promise.”

She turned to look at Mabel, who was currently eating sand because she could get away with that in dreamland. 

“She’s a lot of your good. But remember to not only rely on her for your good. That’s not fair to her. And that’s not fair to you. Promise... Can you promise me to remember that?”

“I promise.”

The woman in purple looked into his eyes, then grimaced. “No. No. No, you’re going to forget that, you won’t remember, you won’t listen-”

Her hands began to hurt.

“I’m- I’m sorry-”

She paused. Her hands released from his shoulders, and instead she grabbed him into a hug.

“Bubbeleh. My love. You never, never have to apologize to me, okay? There’s.... there’s so much that will happen to you but here and now, don’t apologize, okay? It will be okay, okay?”

She was crying and Dipper didn’t understand, and he looked at Mabel and he could tell that she didn’t understand either so all he said was, “Okay,” and let the weird lady who was weird yet kind of like Grandma Shermie hug and cry on him.

---

By the time Dipper was in kindergarten, the dreams had ended.

That was probably for the best.