#long fuckin drabble holy shit my hands hurt

[buildmeafairytale]

Female Reader x Male Werewolf

SFW, just a smallish drabble about a big bad werewolf who is scared of fireworks from an anon request. I’m still working on the other ones, but this one was small and didn’t take too long. Hope you enjoy :)

It was the fourth of July, and your family had dragged you to a group of cabins on a lake your grandparents had rented for the occasion. Your uncles had gone out on a platform in the middle of the lake and had been lighting off fireworks for a few hours now, to the delight of your baby cousins. You had become sick of the constant booming though, and while you were grateful your firework loving family were not doing them in the suburbs and disturbing dogs and other neighbors this year, you still doubted that the local wildlife wasn’t affected. 

You were nearing the small cabin that was yours for the duration of the weekend when you heard the rustling of leaves and breaking tree branches up ahead. Whatever was making all the noise sounded large, and your breath caught in your throat. You tried to get your key out as quietly as possible to avoid being noticed by what could very easily be a bear when another round of fireworks went off and illuminated the sky and woods around you. 

The resounding boom made way to a yelp, coming from where the leaves were rustling. Your key was in your hand, but the yelp sounded so afraid. What if there is an animal stuck in a trap, or injured? As much as you feel like an idiot for walking towards what seems to be a large animal alone in the woods, the guilt you would feel trying to ignore it would be much worse. Signing in resignation, you put your key back and take out your phone, turning on the flashlight.

“Hello? Okay look, if you’re a fuckin’ bear or some shit I’ll piss my pants,” you mumble as you walk into the woods. You make no effort to be sneaky; maybe if it hears you coming it won’t lash out.

BOOM 

Another firework goes off, and you hear a yelp again, much closer this time. The poor thing must be scared of the loud noises. It sounded like a dog yelping, and your nerves calmed a bit. Best case scenario it was a lost dog, worst case it was a wolf of some sort, but hopefully it would be too frightened to lash out until you left again. 

Apparently these two scenarios were not the only options because as you shine the light ahead, it catches on something huge. The shape is crouching and looks curled into itself.  Dark hairy arms are wrapped around legs that seem to have too many joints. Hands that look more like claws are protruding. The eyes are red and darting around, and the beast is drooling and breathing quickly. 

You take all of this in, and now you’re the one yelping. The beast yelps back at you, and scoots back, uncurling enough that you can see how massive they must be. 

“Okay, okay big guy, no need to be scared. Jesus Christ you’re huge. Am I gonna die? Holy shit.” You’re hyperventilating too now, afraid that this creature will attack. 

There is a momentary reprieve in fireworks, you’re uncles likely loading more onto the platform, and he seems to settle. He lets out a low whine and tilts his wolf-like head at you. 

“I-I’m sorry, I won’t hurt you, I just don’t like the noises,” he speaks, his deep gravelly voice shaking in fear. 

You stand up straighter and widen your eyes in surprise. This is the strangest thing to ever happen to you. 

BOOM

Thus starts another round of fireworks, and you think quick as the apparently sentient creature starts to panic again.

“Okay big guy, uh I guess you can come to my cabin? You really won’t eat me?” You ask him, fishing out your keys once again.

“Please, I won’t.” He is shaking his head, and it’s good enough for you. 

He stands up on wobbly legs and stumbles in the direction of your cabin. You let him lead the way, better in front of you then behind, you suppose. When you get close to the door, he gives you some space but it doesn’t help you feel more safe. He is likely at least a foot taller than you, and much more muscular. Your shaky hands unlock the door, and you both hurry inside. 

He takes a deep breath and sits down, making himself right at home. You weren’t about to argue with him about it though. 

“Fucking full moon just HAD to be on the Fourth of July this year, figures,” he grumbles, and if you weren’t so struck by him you would have thought he seemed a bit cute all pouty. 

“So you’re a werewolf then? Huh.” You nod in an effort to convince yourself this is normal, and offer your guest something to eat.  He enthusiastically accepts. Inside, the fireworks are still loud, but much more muted. You feel as though you should be asking a lot of questions, but you don’t know where to start. Luckily your guest speaks up a bit. 

“It’s not like I have to change on a full moon, I can change whenever, it’s just like this pull, ya know? Like an itch I can’t ignore and I just really want to get rid of it.” He nods along with what he says, his mannerisms reminding you of an enthusiastic puppy rather than a hulking werewolf. 

“Uh, okay?” you know you might be being rude, but you have no idea how to respond to his babbling, nowhere near being able to digest this information he is giving you. 

“Sorry - I’m talking so much, just a nervous thing.” he explains, suddenly looking bashful. “It’s just a lot tonight, the fireworks, the moon, and meeting my mate all in - oh fuck.” his mouth shuts for the first time in minutes, and his eyes widen. His mate? Is he talking about you? From his reaction you can only guess this was a slip up and he didn’t want you to know. 

“Look, I don’t wanna get into whatever just slipped out of your mouth just yet, and if you want we can pretend you didn’t say that. My name’s Eve, let's just start with that,” for some reason you can’t stand to see this big ball of puppy enthusiasm look so sad, so you give him and out he greedily takes. You ask him about himself, and with a grateful smile the babbling starts again. 

Once you find him to be okay, you give him some blankets and get him set up to sleep on the couch, while you head to the bedroom. Sleep is coming and going, and you’re jolted awake on more than one occasion by a loud firework. You continue to toss and turn, wondering what he meant by his mate. 

Sleep eventually takes you, and when you wake up the next morning to rays of sun on your face, you are at peace. Momentarily, at least, until you remember your guest. You shoot up and open the door, unsure of what you will find. You are met with the sight of a tall man, not as tall as the werewolf was but still too long for the couch he is sleeping on. Your eyes rake down his new form. He had messy brown hair, plump lips, and the body of an adonis. His face was peppered with stubble, and when you looked up his eyes were now open, and a dimpled grin was on his face. 

“G’morning, Eve,” his voice was sleepy and sweet, and you decided that if you ended up being this mate he mentioned, you wouldn't be disappointed.

[ohpretty-baby]

Hiiii I hope you are doing well❤️ May I please request a fluff yoongi mafia(if you can’t write mafia that’s okay whatever you are comfortable with:)) drabble with 12,28,47? Thank you so much!❤️

mafia!yoongi: 12. “stay with me tonight.” + 28. “hey, don’t stress out your pretty little head.” + 47. “no one can hurt you here, ok?”

hi my sweet anon! i’m doing well, and i hope you are too! hope you enjoy dearie <333 much love!

(drabble game requests still open!)

862 words

“stay with me tonight.”

your voice from your call with him this morning rings in yoongi’s ears rather beautifully. he feels a smile slowly creep up onto his face as he walks to your house, one hand holding the bouquet of flowers he bought, while the other one is clutching onto his black blazer that’s slinged over his shoulders. he makes a mental note to starting wearing comfortable clothes more often, just in case you ever ask him to come over again (which he’s hoping you will).

when he reaches your front door, yoongi takes a deep breath before ringing your bell. he’s never been to your house before, and for you to ask him to come over for dinner, now that in itself was a blessing from the universe. he laughs at himself, noticing how his breath has become shallower. he’s been living as a boss for an organized crime ring. why is he so nervous?

then again, yoongi’s never been on a date, at least in a long time.

is this considered as a date? you never really specified whether or not the two of you were friends or something more. should he ask? no, that would be rude, right? did you even see him as more than a friend?

then again, if it wasn’t a date, then what was it?

yoongi shakes his head. whatever it is, he’s just happy that you asked him of all people to be your company on this fine evening. he rings your bell after shaking off some of his nerves.

the warm lighting from your house gleams on him, surrounding him with a soft aura. he can’t seem to keep the smile off of his face when he sees you clad in a loose t-shirt, paired with some shorts. it’s a funny contrast with his trousers and dress shirt. your hair is slightly messy, and it’s obvious from your dazed eyes that you’re tired. yoongi feels slightly guilty for showing up so late, but he’s too flustered at the fact that you look so adorable that he doesn’t really mind.

he concludes that if he’d be able to see you like this every single day, he’d be set for life.

what felt like a slow motion scene in a movie is interrupted when your eyes bulge at him and your hand flies to your mouth, covering the gasp falling from your lips. yoongi frowns. why did you look so unhappy to see him?

maybe yoongi should retreat? run away and never contact you again? did he really hear you asking him to come over tonight? or was that in his dreams? was he going crazy?

“yoongi?” you ask, waking him up from his thoughts, “what happened to you?”

“huh?” he’s stunned, and you’re pulling him in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and having him close to you.

yoongi, of course, hugs you back, his arms snaking around your waist while he rests his head on your shoulder. you smell faintly of lavender and cooked food, which makes his heart burst. he’s not entirely sure why, but he feels like he could stay like this forever, if you allowed him to.

“no one can hurt you here, ok?”

“...what?”

all of a sudden he’s being dragged by the arm and he’s in your bathroom. then you quickly leave to come back with a stool for him to sit on. you crouch down to open the cabinet under the sink, sifting through bottles of lysol and wipes to find a first aid kit. yoongi takes this chance to look himself in the mirror.

“holy shit.”

“holy shit is right.”

he’s got multiple cuts and bruises all over his face, and bloodstains on his white shirt that weren’t necessarily from him. then, everything clicks.

he got jumped today by a rival gang while he was at the florist buying flowers for you.

“i kinda forgot…” he mumbles sheepishly.

“you forgot that you have both the police and a buncha other assholes after you?” you shake your head at him as you apply ointment at his wounds. he hisses at the stinging sensation, clenching his jaw.

“to be fair, i fought ‘em off pretty good,” yoongi realizes how gravelly his voice is. must be another symptom of getting attacked.

“you fought them alone!?” you gawk at him in disbelief, “honestly, yoongi, i love you but you’re so fuckin’ stupid sometimes.”

his breath catches in his throat while you bandage some of the worser cuts. you’re too focused on attending to him that you don’t notice what you had just said.

“...you love me?”

you freeze.

“well, i mean, like- not in that- no, wait,” you sputter out, words flying from your mouth like a broken sprinkler, “i do, but- wait, no- not- ugh, wait-“

yoongi chuckles, grabbing your hand and placing sweet kisses on your knuckles. he beams at you endearingly.

“hey,” he quirks an eyebrow at you, playfulness in his tone, “don’t stress out your pretty little head.”

your face heats up, and now it’s you resting your head on yoongi’s shoulder while he holds you.

“i love you too,” he grins, “if that makes you feel any better.”

a/n: if yoongi was a mafia boss, he’d most definitely be the type to forget that he’s running the mafia and i just think abt that a lot now

[mordellestories]

The Babes with the Power

A Beetlejuice/Labirynth crossover.

Drabble on Ao3 by mordelle

Summary: All Jareth wants to do is mope in peace, but he is faced with an unwanted guest. A certain poltergeist finds himself in the Fae Realm and needs to find a way into the Goblin King's good graces if there is to be any hope of finding his way back to his bride he unintentionally left at the altar. Can Betelgeuse con his way out this pickle? Not without finding some common ground with his Royal Glitterness, that's for sure. (AN: Rated M for language and handsy-ness. Post both films and utterly ridiculous.)

He was moping. Again. He had every right to his melancholic melodrama, thank you very much, because who wouldn’t curse their very existence after having been scorned by the person you had offered the very world to? True, their meeting was not supposed to take place until much later in Sarah’s life. She was a child for goodness sake! So immature. So whiny and predictable and he could not understand how she’d ever mature enough to catch his interest. Mortals grew older, but not necessarily wiser. However, she had said the words and he had to oblige. Those were the rules. And then it had happened. Somehow, she had gotten under his skin and he could see why his precious crystals had shown him they were fated to be together. Why had the gods hurried their meeting? Jareth was unsure. Perhaps it was to open his heart to her. Or maybe it was to curb her less than attractive, naive qualities. It hardly mattered now, the Goblin King had pledged his heart and soul to an ungrateful, spoiled, infuriating, beautiful, witty, powerful—

“WHERE THE FUCK AM I NOW?!” A grating voice blared and echoed in the unusually empty throne room.

Jareth snapped his head up to find a solitary figure wearing a grimy striped suit, smack in the middle of the large room, back facing him. The intruder growled and gesticulated wildly at the air right before whirling around. The unwanted guest suddenly rooted in place when he realized he was not alone.

“Oh! Didn’t see ya there, pal!” The dead man - yes, definitely a dead man - called out apologetically.

Jareth did have not the strength to bother with the lowly ghost so, he sighed and continued his lounging, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling once more. He barely had the strength to talk to it but he wanted to be alone. “Begone, specter,” he muttered forlornly, “I do not have the patience to entertain the dead tonight.”

The striped ghoul frowned and looked at his surroundings once more. Furrowing his brow, he edged closer to the... man? “Hey, uh, I’d love nothin’ more than ta get outta that beautiful mane o’ yers, but uh... I don’t even know where I am.”

Jareth sighed and waved a hand before him, a crystal ball appeared at once. He peered deeply into its depths to gather information on the soul. “You’re in my castle. In the Goblin City beyond the Labyrinth... Betelgeuse.”

“Ah shit,” the poltergeist pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from imploding with rage. “I’m gonna kill ya, Juno. The fuckin’ fae plane?! Really?!” He shouted, knowing full well his former boss couldn’t hear him. Betelgeuse checked himself quickly and changed his tone. “ Your castle?” He asked with sudden hope. “So, you the... eh...” he wasn’t sure whether to say King or Queen so, he settled for the safest route, “ ruler of this joint?”

The King vanished his scrying tool, sat straighter on his throne, and looked the ghost in the eye. “Indeed. I don’t really care, mind you, but how is it that you’ve come to be here? I made no summons.”

Betelgeuse sighed with relief. A Fae Royal would have enough power to send him straight to Lydia’s side, pass go, collect two-hundred dollars, and shove it down the old bitch’s slit throat! Fairies were tricky little bastards, though. To make a deal with one could have dire consequences. His Fae lore might be a little rusty, but everyone knew they were tricksters by nature. Just plain old common knowledge. Good thing he was quite the con man, himself. However, this was a Royal, he had to be somewhat reasonable… right? Betelgeuse decided to be cautious and give him as few details as possible. The fairy had already divined his name. Hopefully, his Royal Glitter-ness didn’t know anything else about him. He sighed heavily and dramatically.

“Long story, buddy. Don’t really have time to tell it. I need to get back the mortal realm as soon as possible. I’ve been gone long enough already. Ya see,” he began as he placed a moldy hand to his heart and put his most pitiful face on, “I’ve been tragically separated from my beloved bride.” He dried an invisible tear and sniffed. “She’s probably worried sick about me, ya think, maybe ya can send me home? Get me outta here? I don’t got the juice to get me that far and—“

“How tragic ,” the King interrupted, playing along with the ghouls pathetic tale. “Well, my unfortunate friend, it appears you’ve dropped in at a most interesting time.” Jareth smiled most mischievously as he stood up and meandered past the ghost to a window. “You see, I too have been recently robbed of my future Bride.” Jareth glanced at his destroyed city below him while the Goblins went around in circles trying to make repairs. Of course, they were getting nowhere.

Betelgeuse inwardly screamed in victory. What were the chances that he had his own little sob story about a chick? This gave them common ground, which was perfect to help lower the King’s inhibitions. Swallowing his impulse to cackle, the poltergeist moseyed his way near the Fae King and peeked out the window. “What are the odds, huh?!” At the sight of the destruction below, he let out a loud whistle and clapped a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “What, uh, what happened here?”

Jareth sent a warning, sideways glance to the offending hand on his person. The ghost had the good sense to remove it. “ She happened.” He said with a mixture of annoyance and sadness.

Betelgeuse couldn’t help but snort with amusement. “She wrecked you too, huh? Women! Man, if I tell ya what my little lady put me through, ya wouldn’t believe it. There’s a reason they’re Eve’s progeny, know what I mean?”

Jareth raised an eyebrow and turned to the sexist ghoul. “Why do you seek her out, then? Do wish to punish her?” He didn’t care really, but his curiosity was piqued.

Betelgeuse was taken aback by the odd and ominous question. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably and scratched at his mossy, stubbled chin.

“Punish? Nah.”

He waved the thought away. Not that he wasn’t going to have more than a few words with her when he got back though. A deal was a deal. The little backstabber needed to understand a few things about loyalty to one's husband, but no, he had no intention of hurting Lydia. She was just a kid, after all. A fact he was unaware of until Juno gave him the lecture of a millennium. It didn’t really bother him. She was just a key to his freedom, but being a standup guy that he was, he had every intention of making sure his new wife got all the husbandly attention she would ever need... when she was ready, of course. Happy wife, happy afterlife and all that. He figured it’d take some years to get into her good graces anyway. He did leave quite a shit storm behind.

“I’m just a regular ol’ Joe in love,” he lied like a pro. Although, there was serious potential to fall head over heels for the sweet, little goth. She was pretty and loved the strange and unusual, and there was no one in life or death who was stranger or more unusual than the Ghost With the Most. “Plus,” he continued, again bringing a hand to his chest, “I take my vows pretty seriously. What’s a man worth if he can’t keep his word, huh?”

“Indeed.” Jareth nodded in agreement. Intrigued, the Goblin King turned around and made his way to the barrels of Fairy Wine. He conjured two goblets and tossed one to his guest. “Let us drink to our fair ladies then, spirit!” He poured himself some wine as Betelgeuse walked over to him.

“Ah, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but you’ll be wastin’ yer fine vintage on me. Can’t taste the stuff or get drunk. Part o’ the whole being dead thing.”

“Nonsense!” The King exuberated while he poured his guest a glass and held it out for him. “I insist.” There might have been a hint of warning in his tone. He did not like defiance.

Betelgeuse caught his drift and smirked. “Sure.” He took the goblet and waited for the guy’s next move.

Jareth smiled and held up his glass. “To love, however treacherous and ungrateful she may be.”

“Cheers ta that!” They clinked their goblets and drank. The moment the wine hit his lips, Betelgeuse’s eyes bugged out. “Holy Mother o’ Pearl!” He could taste its sickly, sweet bouquet, and not only that, he could feel it warming his essence. Betelgeuse started to chug.

Jareth’s genuine laugh rang out as he watched the ghoul finish the contents of his glass. Betelgeuse wiped his mouth with his sleeve and let out a belch that could rival a giant’s. “You’re welcome,” Jareth snickered and motioned for him to get a refill. “Have as much as your dead heart desires.”

“Don’t mind if I do, yer majesty!” It was a done deal, the tall weirdo was his new favorite person.

Jareth took his seat on his throne and eyed the ghost with interest. “So, Betelgeuse, your bride is mortal?”

After downing another glass with gusto, he hiccuped and poured himself another. “Oh, uh, yeah. Heh! I was hauntin’ her house, nothin’ personal, just business, ya know? And, uh, well, as soon as I saw her, I just knew she was special. Know what I mean?”

“I do, in fact.” He could tell the ghost was already feeling the effects of the wine when he wobbled for a moment and blinked in confusion. “Might want to slow down, old man.”

“Yeah.” He burped again and decided it might be best to sit. After all, he hadn’t gotten hammered since his living days and had no idea how this would affect him. He pulled up a chair near the King and sipped at his beverage. “Anyway, she asked me to do her a favor, huge favor by the way, and then…” he shook his head and suddenly burst into tears, “she hasn’t called! Not once!” He heaved and sobbed, then stopped suddenly, disgusted with himself. “Why th’ fuck amma cryin’?!”

“Because your drunk,” Jareth said simply with a tilt of his head.

“Damn! Thiz iz some shit!” He was chuckling again.

The King scowled. He could sympathize with the poor fool. “I too went out of my way to cater to my lady and she scorned me. I manipulated time, created a portal between our worlds--”

“Speakin’ o’ dat,” the drunk slurred and held up a finger, “wanna he-HIC-help a brother--”

“She left me for her mundane, mortal world.”

“Chicks.” Betelgeuse shook his head. “Kent unnerstand why anyone wou-would leave, uh…” He gave the fairy a once over and scrunched up his face in an attempt to come up with a compliment. “Sucha, uh, hair, like you, ya know?”

“A hair?” Jareth raised a brow questioningly.

“Heir! Ya know, heir of, like royalty n’ shit.” He thought it was a nice save considering his current inebriation.

“Ah, well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped.” Jareth sighed and stared into his goblet. “I pushed her away. Scared her off for her own good. Still hurts like hell though.” He took a swig.

“Wait. Whuuuut? Why’dya do that for?”

“Because she’s fifteen in mortal Earth years. Barely a woman yet.”

“What the hell ya doing messing with a kid?!” He conveniently forgot Lydia’s age at the moment.

Jareth’s eyes turned to daggers at the insinuation. “She and I are fated to mary in the future. I, however, did not seek her out. She came to me .”

It was like someone had slapped Betelgeuse in the face. What the fuck was this guy saying? Who the fuck was this fruitcake talking about? The stories were too similar from what he was hearing. Two powerful, supernatural beings both dumped by teenagers. Or… teenager? He pushed down his rage and tried to think logically, which was proving to be difficult. He needed to be careful, but he also needed answers.

“Heh, sorry there, your Highness. Don’t mind me… I guess I’m just… erm… projectin’. Yeah, that’s right. See..” he set his goblet down and hunched over, placing his forearms on his lap as if to tell him a secret. “I’m on the same boat.” He gave the King a wink.

Jareth narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “How so?”

“Well, I don’ wancha ta get the wrong idea or anythin’ but…” he paused for dramatic effect, “my mortal is fifteen too.”

All of Jareth’s former amusement vanished. “Is that so?” He took a casual sip from his glass.

Betelgeuse no longer kept up any pretenses. He could sense the tension rising between them as they stared each other down. It was time to get his answers. “Yeah. Poor kid. She wanted to be saved from her pitiful, boring life and come to the other side.”

Ever so slowly, the Goblin King set his goblet aside and sniffed loudly. “You remind me of the babe.” He said as he surmised the same thing Betelgeuse had thought.

There was no way in hell that he’d give up his freedom to Mister Buldge, yeah he saw it, no way he’d ever give up his babes. With a snarl, Betelgeuse shot to standing and jutted a finger in the fairy’s direction. “WHAT BABE?!”

Jareth stood quickly and braced himself for a fight. “The babe with the power!”

“What the…?” That threw him. “What power?”

“The power of voo--”

“What the fuck is her name ?!” The poltergeist had lost all patience.

“How do I know you won’t pretend she is another to save your hide?” He spat as he pointed his horse crop at the ghoul.

Betelgeuse threw his hands in the air in frustration, then came up with a solution. “Okay, how ‘bout this? We say her at the same time. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Alright, one, two, three--”

“LYDIA” “SARAH” They yelled in unison.

There was a pregnant pause before Jareth’s laughter bounced off the walls. The threat extinguished, Betelgeuse relaxed and chortled.

“Well, well,” Jareth smiled, “what a pair we make. You’re quite amusing, poltergeist.” He magically refilled their goblets and beckoned Betelgeuse closer. “I’m glad to have you as my guest for as long as you’re staying.”

“Yeesh,” the ghost looked at his watches and grimaced. “Yeah, about that. I was hopin’ you’d open a portal fer me? Now that were pals?”

“Not possible.” He replied resolutely.

“Aw, c’mon, help a guy out!”

“I can only open a portal when someone wishes aloud for me to take a baby away.”

Betelgeuse blinked twice. “So, yer sayin’ that you… can’t leave… without being… summoned.”

“That’s correct.”

He was trapped. Again. “And, uh, how often would you say that happens?” He asked dryly, knowing the answer.

Jareth smiled wickedly as he wrapped an arm around him. “Let’s just say we’re going to be the best of bosom companions.”

“Fuck me,” Betelgeuse breathed.

“I’d be delighted,” the King murmured into his mossy ear with a leer.

Betelgeuse slowly turned his guarded gaze to his host to see if he was serious. He was serious. “I’m sortuva... ladies man, ta tell ya the truth,” he gruffed quietly.

“I see,” he replied, his smile never faltering. “Well, we have plenty of goblin women who I’m sure would be interested.”

The specter shuddered. He had seen what those goblins looked like when he peered out the window into the city. “No, er, humans, female fairies?”

“Afraid not, old chap.” He tightened his grip on his new favorite toy and gave him a suggestive wink. “We need to wait for our young brides to grow up anyway, and who knows how long it’ll take for us to leave this realm. You know what they say,” he gave the specter another lecherous grin, “time flies when you’re having fun.

Betelgeuse took stock of the feminine-looking male next to him and scratched his head. The flowing blonde hair, the makeup, the glitter… he ignored looking past his belt. Maybe with a little more wine…? Throwing his head back, the Ghost with the Most swallowed the entire contents on his goblet. His vision blurred some when he finally looked to his shimmery host again.

“Well-ah, like my dear ol’ mom always said… ‘a hole, is a hole, is a hole.’” He shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck it.”

Before he could regret his decision, he turned into his host swiftly, grabbed a handful of bulge and sighed. “Yep-ah. Definitely a dick.”

THE END.

Hey there! If you read and enjoyed this drabble, please consider leaving a kudos and comment on Ao3! 

[voidwaren]

TW Anon back again~ Saw you posted that drabble! I have a proposal for more flowing juices: hurt Stiles. Just hurt him. Make it Sterek for bonus points.

welcome back! ♡ sorry this took a second, anon. I started writing hurt!Stiles and then… well, got really carried away. needless to say, I’ll be making a much longer fic out of this one at some point. there’s none in this particular bit, but Sterek will be happening (eventually), don’t worry. also, since I like Allison and co., it’ll be an AU of sorts. 

I’ll just drop this 6k starting point since it’s the only cohesive part so far (everything else is disjointed scenes, as usual).

sorry, Stiles!

[Scott]

Scott could hear Stiles from a mile away.

His voice is so distinct, echoing just the right amount of decibels above anything else Scott was familiar with in the relative area that even at the harsh mutter Stiles was projecting his frustration in, fed up with the venture they were currently on, Scott can easily pick out what he was saying. 

“Find the selkie, he said.”  

A too-quiet forest didn’t hurt (or help) anything, however, and Scott thinks this to himself as he slinks around a tree and hears the sound of Stiles’ sneakers from slightly southwest of the position he was actually supposed to be in. Stiles was breaking the uneasy silence without doing anything more than being, well, Stiles. 

“It’ll be easy, he said.”

“Deaton just wants us to check the area and make sure she didn’t encroach on possible hiking trails where people could find her,” Scott explains quietly, not for the first time, as he emerges from the underbrush and startles Stiles enough that he clutches his chest for a moment, eyes wide with panic. “Sorry,” Scott tacks on sheepishly. Stiles glares, clearly bitter about more than just the sudden mission they had been sent on. Scott feels the inkling want to press it, but knows now is seriously not the time, so he doesn’t.

“Since when do we have to be the forefront of investigation when it comes to these things?” Stiles asks. “Why can’t Deaton go looking himself? Isn’t that his job, to protect the werebabies in the area?”

“Hey!” Scott protests, stopping in his tracks just to rebuke this particular insult, because he is an Alpha, for God’s sake, and not even remotely a “werebaby”, regardless of what age he might have been brought to power at. He had a pack. He had a good pack, even if it wasn’t necessarily made of up werewolves. He took pride in his banshee, ex-Hale-Beta, and sometimes-hunter mishmash of a pack. Even Stiles, their token Ordinary Human, pulled way more than his own weight when it came to things. Exhibit A being now, hunting down this creature on Deaton’s orders while everyone else was busy studying for finals and second-guessing their decisions to go to college across the country. 

(Except Lydia, that is, but try dragging her through the woods on a possibly-fruitless search when there is prestige to be had in the research department instead. Yeah. Not going to happen.)

Point is, his pack was pretty fuckin’ spectacular considering what he had to work with. Stiles’ insult was totally uncalled for.

“I’m just saying!” Stiles retaliates, effectively punctuating his response with a particularly loud branch-snap. Scott cringes, but Stiles ignores it, too intent on riling himself up with the topic at hand. “I don’t recall this being our job. Yes, I know we’ve had to face a few freaky fucks over the past couple months when tensions got just a teeny bit too high and someone crushed that tender camel’s back,” Stiles says in a long, rushed breath when Scott opens his mouth to defend his boss and confidant in all things too supernatural for him, “but searching for something that might not be here? This isn’t our job, Scott! You should be home, studying for your finals! They still count!”

Scott has to admit Stiles has a point. He had been accepted into the nearby community college and hadn’t taken his chances elsewhere, deciding to further pursue his veterinary degree while he was getting everything settled in Beacon Hills and knock a few cheap credits out of the way in the same blow without losing Deaton, but it still wouldn’t look great if he showed up having bombed his finals. 

He shrugs, unable to muster up a good argument to counter his friend. “Deaton’s busy right now, and it can’t wait.”

“I never thought I’d miss having Derek around so much,” Stiles mumbles, and then effectively ends the conversation by barreling on ahead through the brush, taking the lives of a few saplings with him. Scott follows behind after a beat, brow furrowed with worry, the niggling feeling that something was completely off and it had nothing to do with the sudden memory of a warning his advisor had given him about surprise evaluations based on his final grades.

Well … not totally.

-

They find the selkie.

She’s resting in a stream a few miles north of the high school; her pale, sleek lower body submerged in the flowing water and her topless upper-half resting on the grass and rocks, head already cocked to look at them once they managed to locate her by failing to notice her presence until basically walking right into her. Mostly because Stiles was too busy not giving the mission proper attention and Scott was too busy focusing on Stiles not focusing to remember to focus on what he was supposed to actually be focusing on. 

Yeah, it wasn’t going the smoothest. Her giggle had been the thing to alert them both of her presence, her actual appearance not clicking until a beat later.

Upon laying eyes on her, Stiles looks as if he suddenly can’t remember his own name, his eyes zeroing in on the most improper body part they can find. Scott is only slightly more fortunate in both departments.

“Oh,” is all he says. Stiles echoes him with a choked-off “fuck”, mouth remaining open in a less-than-attractive gape. She flashes a smile at the two of them, and Stiles dissolves into a puddle of uselessness, nothing but a pale imitation of some reject Gumby, all jellied limbs and dopey smile. Something in the back of Scott’s mind tells him this is bad, very, very bad, but he can’t seem to focus in on it long enough to act. He grabs Stiles’ arm, but then forgets why he was so urgent a moment before. It takes him a long few seconds to gather his bearings, to force himself not to look at the beautiful creature too long once it clicks for longer than a partial second that she’s causing the fog in his mind. It takes a long time, honestly, but he manages to pull himself together, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she watches him. 

She seems almost … docile, despite the sharp, dagger-like teeth that she keeps showing off every time Stiles sinks lower and lower into a pit of repulsive love-drunk reactions. Realizing now was probably the best time to knock some sense into his best friend before something they’d both regret manages to take place, Scott grabs Stiles’ collar and yanks, sending him into the dirt below.

“Ow!” Stiles yelps, pulling his face from the moist earth and leveling a glare at Scott.

“Did that snap you out of it? Jeez, Stiles. Your tongue was becoming one with the ground with how long you had it dragging out of your mouth there.”

Stiles frowns at Scott, then glances at the selkie, snapping his eyes back a second later. “Oh, god. Scott,” he chokes, strained. His eyes water slightly with how wide he has them pried open. “Scott, I want to look at her. Holy shit, I want to look, but my mind, it just … It …”

“Goes blank, I know.” Scott gives her a tiny side-glance. “I saw it. It was incredible. You had the motor skills of a sock puppet.”

“Ahem.” A tiny, clear voice interrupts them, sounding like the trickle of a stream with the omen of a hurricane all at once. Scott and Stiles both stare at each other, suddenly a few shades paler. “I can hear you just fine, you know. I am right here.”

“Oh,” Stiles whispers, blown pupils boring into Scott’s, “fuck us.”

“Fuck us,” Scott agrees weakly, his heart sinking.

“What are we supposed to do?” Stiles croaks, his voice rising in pitch. He’s losing calm rapidly, splintering Scott’s ability to keep his eyes from wandering back to the soothing sight of the selkie. Scott resists the urge to press a hand to Stiles’ mouth, knowing that would only make it worse.

“I don’t … know. Something. Just—just give me a minute, okay?” Scott drops his head into a palm, thinking. They could leave the selkie there, yeah. Sure. They could leave, not look back. Not come back. Just leave.

They could definitely just leave.

They could …

Leave?

Why?

Why would they leave?

“Dude.” Stiles’ voice breaks into Scott’s thoughts. Scott looks to him, and only just notices the grip Stiles has on his upper arm. It’s so tight, it almost hurts. “Scott. Did you tell anyone we were out here? Right now?”

Scott looks at Stiles blankly. “Uh—Allison. Allison knows.”

Stiles looks a bit more relieved at this, but it’s not by much at all. “Allison will save us if we can’t get away.”

“You feel it, too?”

“Scott,” Stiles starts, but is cut off once again by the laugh of the selkie. The realization of how screwed they are hits Scott all over again, and he struggles to think of why exactly they’re in so much danger from a creature so beautiful and soothing to be around. Why exactly his instincts are screaming so loudly in his head to get away get away grab Stiles and get away get the fuck away now now now.

Despite their sudden coherence at the severity of the situation, Scott would later recall that, no, neither Stiles nor Scott had been fully aware of their surroundings thanks to the hold the creature kept on them. If they had, they would have noticed something off about the ground, such as the way the color was slowly fading from it. Or how the torso of the selkie was lengthening, her hair growing into ropes and her teeth losing their shine. Or how the selkie wasn’t really a selkie at all.

It would be far too late by the time someone would notice, and later still when the creature would shoot from the stream, barreling directly into Scott and knocking him yards away into the solid trunk of a tree, leaving him to reach the floor of the woods by gravity’s will alone.

Wheezing, Scott tries to reach for his throat once he can grasp any oxygen at all, but can’t feel his arms. He tries to do something, anything at all, but the paralysis is too great. His whole body is numb, stunned, frozen. His mind is wavering, his conscious splintering

Scott is slowly slipping away, the blood leaking from the back of his head slicking the bark behind him in a metallic tang of scent that he only just barely manages to register at all.

The last thing Scott is aware of before blackness engulfs him is a shattering scream accompanied by the distinct cracking sound of snapping bone.

He only has a moment to register the horror of realization that his best friend is being killed before he slips uselessly away into unconsciousness.

This, Scott knows, is something he’ll blame himself for, for the rest of his life, no matter what anyone would tell him.

He would never forgive himself for any of it.

-

[Stiles]

When they took him from Scott, he’d been whole. Maybe not in the clearest sense of the word, but a few snapped bones hadn’t really been that bad. The whole “being dragged away by a swampy black horse” thing was way more traumatizing, but he’d been in one piece until he’d reached the intended destination.

When he left the clearing that day, he was whole, in as much of a way as he could have been given who he was. 

He comes back broken.

Shattered, splintered, fractured. Cracked. Devastated. 

Pick a synonym; they all fit.

The fun part was it was all literal. The brain game had taken a hiatus this time; laid its cards down and left the building for another monster to take its place. Stiles had been broken. His bones had separated in various places; his skin had torn and rolled and split, unable to accommodate what was happening to him. 

Stiles was broken.

A body to match his mind? To fit what the demon had left behind? 

Hah, no. 

No, this was worse. He was pretty fucked up in the head after all that had happened to him, sure. The Nogitsune had left no prisoners. But this—this was more. His mind crawled in a way his skin now couldn’t with the knowledge of what had been done to him. His heart tried to stop dead in his chest when he thought too hard about it, the memory of the pain slamming into him only long enough to incite a reaction before fading away behind the wall his mind immediately built up to protect him.

“That bastard,” Scott had snarled once Stiles had been coherent enough to recount what had happened to him, wolfing out more than just a little, much to his mother’s frantic dismay. She had tried to shepherd out everyone who had rushed in the moment Stiles could form a proper sentence (it being a proud, if heavily slurred, “The fuck?”), all trying to get his attention first and hear all the details they were in the dark about—which, of course, ended up being almost everything. 

Unfortunately for Stiles, only a handful were dismayed and rebutted from the scene; the rest stubbornly refused to budge. He loved Scott and Lydia more than he had words to express, but he wasn’t sure he could handle what telling them would do to their expressions, to their emotions. It hurt more than the wounds, their guilt, and he knew they still felt it, weeks later, even when he didn’t think they needed to anymore.

He gave the recount, skipping as many of the gory details as he could simply because these were the people he cared about, he didn’t need them worrying about things that had passed. He had survived and now had scars to tell his tale for him, he could spare his father and Scott and Lydia a few things here and there. He knew from the looks on Scott’s mother’s face that she knew he was holding back, but, bless her, she didn’t do more than frown deeply. 

Stiles appreciated Mrs. McCall more than he could put into words in that moment. He made a mental note to pick her up some flowers and lunch once he was able to walk normally. 

Or, you know. Move. At all.

… Whenever that’d be.

He’d been in a coma for nine days, he’d been told. When the information had first hit his ears, he’d done nothing but stare at Mrs. McCall, like he hadn’t quite heard her right.

Nine days. A week and two days. Two-hundred and sixteen hours. 

Holy shit.

Scott had broken him out of his thoughts by calling Stiles’ name then, and he had given his head a little shake to further clear it and then tried his best to be blasé about it. It didn’t quite work, but Scott and Mrs. McCall—and Stiles’ father, who had been sitting quietly in the chair ever since he had been brought in, looking like he was watching a ghost and had already made his amends, and was now too scared to go back … which did things to Stiles’ heart that he refused to linger on too long, lest they consume him—politely ignored it and let Stiles have his charade. Mrs. McCall stuck him with something, then added something to his IV before grabbing Scott and making a quick abscond to leave Stiles with his dad and have that conversation that needed to be had.

Which … could have definitely gone better. Stiles’ dad had continued to stare at him, pale and clearly showing signs of sleeplessness, lost and broken in his own way. That was Stiles’ fault, he knew, and he felt the weight of it immediately. 

Insert sharp knife straight to the heart. Ow.

Stiles had cleared his throat, opened his mouth to say something, anything, just something to clear the air and maybe make it all okay without having to go through the long process and the motions and all the things he didn’t want to amend for after getting himself fucked over and hurting his dad every damn step of the way—and instead let out a choking, wordless sob. It caught the both of them so off guard that neither of them had moved for a moment, Stiles trying desperately to blink away the tears that were now streaming down his face like they’d been there from the start and his dad watching with that blank, frightened look someone has when they’re not sure if they’re still asleep and dreaming. Then, something floods his dad’s gaze and he shoots from the chair, scraping his hand into Stile’s hair and curling into him in a way that kept them from really touching anything that could hurt while Stiles lets out noises he had thought for sure he’d be able to hold back until he got home and back in his room.

It wasn’t okay after that, but it was better. And better was good.

Not great, but they were getting there. They were getting there.

Slowly.

It had been a step in the process.

The next step was getting healed enough to take a real, physical step.

Flash forward to the current moment, the moment of self-assessment. Where Stiles has to realize yet again that those fuckers had given him so many different breaks in his body, most of them being ribs and arms and legs, with multiple lines in close proximity to one another, that there wasn’t a general consensus between the doctors who had cared for him to really go by. It was a miracle he hadn’t punctured a lung or had some form of internal bleeding, he had been told. Surgery, to stick a metal bar into his leg and realign his kneecap properly, had been the most he’d been put through, and he’d been unconscious for the beginning of it. 

He’d been so lucky, they’d told him. And Stiles had listened at the time, but he doesn’t feel lucky right now, lungs intact and bleeding only coming from the outside.

He just feels guilty. 

-

Stiles grimaces not for the first time that night, taking in the sight of himself yet again in the bathroom mirror of his hospital room. He might as well have been shut into a full-body cast with the amount of bandages and plaster that already adorned his person. Two leg braces, a metal rod shoved between the flesh within one and a recovering kneecap held in the other, one arm cast and one splint that went right up to his armpit—he was looking much worse for wear. Not to mention the layers and layers of gauze and medical tape that wound around almost every inch of exposed skin.

Stiles had, quite literally, been chewed up and spit out. Torn to shreds. Ripped up and thrown away.

But he was alive. Somehow, he was alive. He couldn’t have asked for more.

(Okay, not true. He could seriously go for a burger worthy of a heart attack right now. If only because he’s strictly not allowed to have one.)

He’s on so many medications he couldn’t name them all if he tried, and each one comes with its own restrictions and rules. Stiles hates it—suddenly, desperately misses his Adderall and the simplicity of its construct.

The thing he hates the most about the whole ordeal, though, is the fact everyone has suddenly turned into a reincarnation of his mother on some sort of maternal steroid. It’s like they were pumped with the shit and knew full well it would bother the absolute hell out of him at a time when he can’t run away from all the hugs and the hair combing and the attempts at feeding him his own damn dinner, complete with airplane noises on Allison’s end.

Hell, he can’t even move his fucking pinky toe, forget sudden ninja removal from his hospital bed, complete with a fairly decent smokescreen he had been concocting right before being put in this position.

It sucks. Stiles just wants to go home.

He’s forced to stay for as long as it takes for him to learn to walk again, and that’s a process he doesn’t even want to think about, let alone mention to anyone who questions him once he’s free from the restraints and palpable boredom the hospital had given him. It takes a long time, and, as if it’s not bad enough that he has to learn how to move his feet properly all over again despite having learned all this back when he was a toddler, the entire process hurts. Even while he’s pumped up on some of the finest painkillers the hospital has to offer, he can feel the way it aches. 

Some of it are small aches and slightly numbing throbs that he feels resonating from within his recently-fractured bones, and other times it’s sharp and stifling and the only thing he can think of right in the moment it exists—but it’s never too much. He never lets it be too much, even when he almost starts to cry after biting his tongue in shock at the knife of pain in his knee the first time he tries to put weight on it.  He can’t. 

There was no room for pain, not in the world he’d made himself become a part of.

He pushes through it all, like he pushes through everything else; because, to him, there’s only forward. He learned that from the pack, and he’d be fucked sideways by a butt ugly Satan-spawn if he’d let them think he wasn’t strong enough for this.

He was one of them, and even after he’s out of the hospital and still using crutches to get around, he makes sure they never forget that.

 - 

Stiles can’t help the small groan escaping his lips as he pulls himself to his feet, breath huffing from his chest involuntarily at the sharp lick of pain that races along more than one limb. It was more shock than anything, in reaction to feeling something more than the dull ache he’d become accustomed to thanks to his beautiful cocktail of drugs. He’d been given enough to help him along the recovery route from the safety of his own bedroom, in the form of pills big enough to make him feel like a horse, but it wasn’t the same as the steady stream of the shit that had been plugged snugly into a vein at the crook of his arm. He’d have to get used to these breaks between doses.

If he’s being honest with himself, though, he has to admit it made him feel more alive than he’d felt since the moment before he’d been admitted to the hospital.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his head and clutches the side of his nightstand with the other as he waits for the worst of the jabs of pain to ease off, wishing he’d been allowed a haircut upon getting home as his fingers snag in tangles he didn’t have the equipment to eliminate. He didn’t like having long hair—it was just something else to get a grab on, something else to paralyze him at a moment when movement was crucial. Plus, it was more work than a buzzcut, and Stiles was all about efficiency. It’s why he never bothered to match his socks. 

A soft knock at his door brings his attention to it before he’s ready to move, and Scott pokes his head in through the already-cracked entrance, wide-eyed and half-grimacing. Stiles holds up a finger the moment Scott opens his mouth to say something, cutting him off just as he’s pronouncing the first syllable of what could either be a greeting or an apology, and Stiles doesn’t dwell on which it might have been. 

“Hey, man,” he greets Scott instead once he’s able to let go of the end table, the hand blindly searching for his other crutch while his eyes stay on the sad sight Scott is making in the doorway. The boy wilts instantly at the recognition, and Stiles readies himself for what he knows is going to come. 

But Scott surprises him by keeping his mouth shut, instead moving forward to grab the crutch Stiles had been searching for and slipping it under Stiles’ armpit for him, gentle enough that Stiles barely feels the tic of pain that comes with the full-body bruise he’s become. “Hey,” Scott greets back softly once Stiles has his hand on the crutch and is standing on his own again. “Your dad let me in.”

Stiles frowns at him. “Did you lose your house key again?”

“Misplaced is a better word,” Scott says sheepishly. Stiles groans. 

“I can’t believe you. At this rate, I might as well just make you use Derek’s emergency entrance and forget the whole key deal.” Stiles doesn’t care if Derek had only done that, like, twice—he was absolutely never letting that die, because it had scared the shit out of him both times it had happened, and Derek’s reputation was too much fun to poke at.

“No, that’s not fair. I know I left it somewhere. In my room, probably. Or maybe Mom’s car. It’s somewhere!” Scott protests in a whine when Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You’d better find it, or you’re condemned to the life of stalker-level creeper who doesn’t know how to knock.”

Scott mumbles something along the lines of “I know how to knock” in a sulky tone, but Stiles is already hobbling around him on his crutches, trying to keep his breathing under control to hide how much even moving is hurting him. It’s such bullshit.

He must not be very good at it, though, because a few moments after he’s passed Scott, the pain abruptly eases and then vanishes, and Stiles turns to give the sudden hand on his shoulder a sharp look. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles argues sourly, watching the black veins pulse and disappear under Scott’s sleeve. “I have drugs to take care of that for me.”

Scott, if possible, manages to look guiltier. He doesn’t remove his hand, though. “Yeah, but I can help until those kick in.”

Stiles wants to argue with him, but the sweet relief of Scott’s touch prevents him from opening his mouth and doing so. Instead, he sighs, and Scott perks up a little as he’s allowed to continue with what he’s doing. They stay like that for a minute or two, Stiles with his back to Scott and his eyes closed against the sweet relief of his weird pain-sucking power and Scott steadily inching his way closer and closer to Stiles, the tic to his eye the only indication that he feels any of what he’s taking from Stiles.

He feels when Scott stops taking his pain away—but not by the sharp bite that existing now brings him without his drugs. Instead, a dull ache blooms, and Scott’s palm slides down the center of Stiles’ back before removing itself completely.

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles quietly, and Scott only returns it with a grin before reaching up and flicking a lock of hair that covers Stiles’ ear. He flinches away from the movement, but it’s not from fear (thankfully—he didn’t want to see Scott’s reaction to that), it’s just from plain annoyance.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with such long hair,” Scott tells him, his expression amused. “I don’t think you could even gel this into anything, it’s so long.”

Stiles huffs and swats at him with the nub of his cane end. Scott doesn’t even wince. “I’m not going to be doing anything to my hair while I’m like this. I have enough shit to do in the daytime without having to worry about making my hair socially acceptable. I’m so far behind on studying that it’ll be a miracle if I can pass any of my finals when they let me take them. Haircare can wait.”

Scott wrinkles his nose. “Are you going to stop showering?”

“What? No, ew. That applied to my hair only, I’m just not going to bother with styling. I’m not turning into a hobo.”

“You’ve got the look down already, I thought you might go all the way.”

“Gee,” Stiles quips sarcastically, starting up his hobbling again, “that sure makes a guy feel like he wants to go back out in the world. Thanks, Scott.”

“Anytime,” Scott replies cheerfully, following Stiles slowly out of the room. When they pass the bathroom, Scott stops at its entrance and peers inside, his face falling into his thinking expression. Stiles notices and waits, knowing that pushing Scott usually doesn’t lead anywhere fast.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, and Stiles looks up to find Scott smiling at him with his dopey, lopsided half-grin. “Let’s just cut it off.”

It takes Stiles a moment to process what Scott is getting at, what with his drugs kicking in and the previous conversation lost the moment they had crossed the threshold out of Stiles’ room. “Oh, my hair?”

“Yeah. I can buzz it off for you with the clippers, like you used to wear it.” Scott glances back at the bathroom, excitement building in his shoulders. Over cutting hair. Or maybe it was just because he thought he had a really good idea, Stiles couldn’t be sure. “You still have the clippers around, right? That’ll make it easier.”

Stiles has to admit Scott is right, and he had only just thought of it himself just before, when he had mentally been complaining about his hair. Actually buzzing it hadn’t crossed his mind, and he blamed that on fatigue and minute withdrawal he’d been experiencing since leaving the confines of his hospital bed. 

Stiles mimes a shrug in response, then nods his head in a way that shows he’s proud of Scott’s line of thinking. Scott’s grin widens at the reaction, and he hops into the bathroom excitedly. Stiles can hear him rummaging around while he makes his slow way back, and finds Scott shoulders-deep in the cabinet beside the sink when he makes it there.

He whacks Scott gently with one of his crutches when he passes him to sit on the toilet, but, aside from a muffled yelp of “Hey!”, Scott doesn’t slow in his search. 

Five minutes later, and Stiles is sitting sideways on the toilet; his back is against Scott’s torso while he leans to keep from getting too tired trying to stay upright, and Scott holds him in place with a hand at his shoulder, the other hand slowly stripping lengths of hair from Stiles’ scalp as the clippers buzz their path of destruction.

It’s a quiet process. Soothing, really. The warmth of Scott’s werewolf-heated hand firmly curled over Stiles’ shoulder and the smooth stroke of the clippers as they sheared off god knows how many week’s worth of hair growth. 

(Stiles had stopped counting—he’d lost all the time he’d had when the Kelpie had taken him, and no one would be up front with him when he tried to pry the details out, so he decided, at least for now, that it didn’t matter. Someone would slip up eventually. They always did.)

The rhythmic buzz fills the bathroom, and it’s the only noise up until Scott’s phone dings not once, but twice, in quick succession, and immediately everything about Scott tenses up. Stiles feels the way his fingers are suddenly, but still gently, digging into the sinew of his shoulder, and he takes that immediately to know something is up, and it has nothing to do with his hair.

“You gonna answer that, big boy?” Stiles taunts once the clippers don’t start up their path of destruction again. Scott starts slightly, like he’d somehow forgotten what it was he was doing in, uh, Stiles’ bathroom. Stiles knows Scott well enough to understand that’s how Scott handled secrets, and then, from there, realize that Scott was hiding something from Stiles, and those texts had something to do with it. Whatever it was Scott was doing at Stiles’ house (because Stiles has a feeling it has nothing to do with just checking up—and he should have known better, since Scott had fallen back to mostly texting the moment Stiles had been discharged, and showing up unannounced was strange, even for Scott), it was something Stiles wasn’t going to like.

God dammit, Scott.

“All right,” Stiles starts with a sigh, reaching up and smacking Scott’s hand with his opposite one. Scott’s fingers relax. “Just spit it out. Tell me while I’m nice and blissed out from drugs, don’t make me suffer more.”

It’s a slightly low blow. Stiles understands this. He also doesn’t really give a shit.

He can feel the way Scott wilts, and then the subsequent cool scrape of the clippers again as Scott starts back up.

Scott doesn’t say anything right away—biding his time and mulling over his word choice, Stiles thinks, taking long enough that Stiles starts to feel the exhaustion of simply being alive while healing to the extent he was—but eventually he heaves a surprisingly sad sigh and speaks.

“You’ve gotta leave,” Scott finally says quietly as he cuts another stripe of hair away. He’s so quiet that Stiles barely hears him over the sound of the clippers, and immediately thinks he’s heard Scott wrong. It’s his saving grace from losing an ear, because he would have certainly jerked his head away had he heard Scott correctly.

“Say what?” he asks instead, half-mumbled, the back of his head inches away from pressing into Scott’s chest where his neck was giving out from the exhaustion.

“You’re going away from Beacon Hills.” Scott doesn’t raise his voice, but Stiles can understand him easily now that he’s listening. He severely wishes he couldn’t.

He reaches up slowly and grasps Scott’s wrist, easing the buzzing clippers, which had already been pulled away from his scalp the minute Stiles started moving, further away. Stiles turns and looks up at Scott, and is startled to realize Scott’s eyes were tearing up.

“It could come back, Stiles. Kelpie track their prey, and we don’t—” Scott chokes, nearly drops the clippers. It’s only when Stiles’ grip tightens around his wrist that Scott even bothers to turn them off. Scott takes a deep breath, a bright flush blooming across the high points of his cheeks as a tear threatens to spill, and Stiles nearly loses it right then and there. “We don’t know why it gave you back.” Scott’s free hand reaches up and scrapes the trail of wetness away. Stiles still can’t move. “What if I lose you again?”

Not we, Stiles realizes with a jolt. I.

What if I lose you again, Scott had just said, and immediately Stiles understands so much more than he wishes he did.

“Dad—” he chokes in a whisper and then stops, the shock that he was being sent away burning a path back and forth across the forefront of his mind. “Dad would never agree to that.”

Scott doesn’t answer immediately. He’s set the clippers down on the edge of the sink at some point, though Stiles had apparently blacked out at some point, because he hadn’t seen him do it. 

“It was your dad’s idea,” Scott mutters, like a scolded child.

Another blow. If Stiles weren’t already sitting, he’d be on the floor. As it is, he sways on the toilet seat, and Scott’s hands fly out and steady him.

Stiles realizes with some sort of numb realization that he can’t seem to breathe. After a few moments of hesitation, Scott surprises Stiles out of some of his shock by cradling Stiles’ head against his chest in a move Stiles would expect more of a competent parent and not an eighteen-year-old who sometimes forgets how to cook pasta correctly.

“Where?” Stiles finally chokes. He can’t look at Scott right then, fearful he’ll either scream or break down crying if he does. “Where am I going?”

“Alaska,” Scott whispers, and Stiles does look at him then, too startled by the information to stop himself. “Derek has connections up there.”

Stiles’ mouth works, but all he can manage to say, in a tone far too high for someone who had already gone through puberty, is, “Derek?”

“He’s renting a house. It’s isolated up there enough that any disturbances should be picked up faster than somewhere like here. Derek would be able to notice.”

“Derek?!” Stiles parrots again, sounding manic, his voice somehow managing to crack over the short name. Scott looks at him, looking every bit the forlorn puppy Stiles always refrained from calling him for the sake of cringe after the whole “sourwolf” fiasco, but Stiles can’t find a single fuck for that expression right now.

“It’s only for a little while,” Scott tries, but Stiles is too far lost to care what Scott’s trying to do.

He was being shipped to Alaska, for fuck actually knows how long, with Derek Hale.

Derek Hale.

And his dad had approved of this?

Stiles thinks he’s officially lost his goddamn mind.

[purplepersnicketywrites]

Hi! I absolutely love your fic Purple Kiribaku Drabbles so I wanted to send in a prompt! I'd love to see Bakugou taking care of a very sick Kirishima I know there are many sickfics in this fandom, but to me they are never enough ;)

God yes,, , I love sickfics, , , and i love,, feverish Kirishima. let’s see…

Oops i think i just wrote a whole oneshot fic? this is not just a drabble and i don’t know… what happened… this is like 2.5k… tfw ur muse holds a gun to your head....

there’s a lot of Science here at the beginning too, lemme know if any of it’s too obtuse!!! I think i could write so much more on the science behind the effects of quirks but i caught myself before i rambled too much, I hope!

One aspect of Katsuki’s quirk that no one ever really thought about was what it did to his body temperature. Katsuki was a full two degrees warmer than average, something that had caused great alarm to his parents when he was younger.

It wasn’t something that weird - bodily temperature changes caused by quirks were hardly unheard of - but it was different enough that doctors had been interested in him. It turned out that temperature was important. He’d had all sorts of blood tests, and samples of his digestive juices taken (he did not want to fucking think about that, thanks).

His enzymes were different, apparently, suited to working at 39.5C at their optimum. It didn’t sound like much of a difference, but enzymes were special proteins with specific shapes set by a specific order of molecules that was what DNA itself coded for. They had to be in certain shapes to do what they needed to do. It wasn’t just digestion - enzymes did everything. They built all the body’s structures, or built the things that needed to build them. They moved things between the body’s cells. And Katsuki’s were different because they worked at a higher temperature, one that might cause other enzymes to denature - for the heat to warp their shapes and render them useless.

So his DNA was weird - a little different to either of his parents. Samples of his own specific enzymes were stored in a lab somewhere, with little white labels stuck to each tube.

Protease-Var.47334758-BK

Lipase-Var.47334758-BK 

Amylase-Var.47334758-BK

And so on. They also had samples of, ugh, his fucking gut and skin flora. Apparently, the fact that all the beneficial bacteria in his gut or on his skin could incubate at a much higher temperature than normal was interesting. Katsuki wondered if bacteria could get quirks at all, and if his counted.

Thanks to all of that, Katsuki’s immune system was extremely robust. Hardly anything he caught lasted long enough to cause him any trouble. His body reacted to everything with a mild fever, and as he was already so warm, he hardly noticed it.

It was kinda satisfying. Fuck off, pathogens, unless you wanna be burned. Yeah, so, that was kinda cool.

Unfortunately, Kirishima was currently way too out of it in his own fever to really take in a word of what Katsuki was trying to explain to him about his quirk.

“No Baku-man,” Kirishima slurred. “You can’t be here, you’ll die.”

“I fuckin’ doubt that,” Katsuki muttered. Part of him cursed the rest of their friends, who had volunteered him for Taking Care Of Kirishima Duty Because Dude You Almost Never Get Sick It’s Like Magic. Part of him was planning to cook them all a meal as thanks, because holy shit Kirishima was weirdly adorable while suffering from feverish delusions and Katsuki was heartily enjoying himself.

“I can’t let you die, Bakubro,” Kirishima said, trying to sit up. “You’re my best friend and it wouldn’t be manly.”

“I’m not gonna die, dumbass,” Bakugou rolled his eyes and pushed the other boy bak down, again. He retrieved the cloth from where he had had it soaking and laid it over Kirishima’s forehead.

“Feels good,” Kirishima murmured at the cool cloth. “But- But dude you gotta leave. I’m full of viruses and they’re gonna get you too.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Katsuki declared.

Kirishima’s brow furrowed. “You can’t see viruses, Buddy-gou! They’re invisible.”

“They’re not invisible, they’re just really small,” Katsuki snorted.

“Yeah, yeah, they’re sneaking- Sneaky,” Kirishima said. “They’re not manly, Brokugo, I have so much not-manly in me and it’s going to spread.”

“Not to me,” Katsuki said. He’d flick Kirishima’s forehead, but the other boy probably had a killer headache and he wasn’t that much of a dick. “You hungry?”

Kirishima blinked. “Am I what?”

“Hungry,” Katsuki said. Kirishima’s eyes widened. What? “Hungry, Kirishima? Like, do you want food?”

“Oh hungry,” Kirishima said. Katsuki wasn’t sure what Kirishima had heard and he didn’t want to know. “You should eat so you don’t die more.”

“I’m not going to die, holy fuck,” Katsuki snickered. “What ab-”

“But everyone dies,” Kirishima said in a small voice. What the fuck. “No one lives forever. And that’s sad. I’m sad, Bak-you’ll-be-gone.”

“Oi,” Katsuki said, moving the cloth on Kirishima’s forehead a little. “Don’t go getting all depressed and existential while you’re fucking feverish. You should be telling me there are lizards on the wall, not lamenting about the mortality of man.”

Kirishima looked at the wall and spoke with keen interest. “Where are the lizards?”

“Keep looking,” Katsuki said. “Do you want food or not, Kirishima?”

Kirishima gazed at him with hazy eyes. “Hungry? Yeah, yeah, I’m hungry! Food me.”

Katsuki snorted. “Gotcha. I’ll be back soon, you idiot.”

“Hey’m not an idiot,” Kirishima stuck his tongue out and then clamped his hands over his face. “Oh no! The virus!”

Katsuki snorted again and made for the door.

When Katsuki got back to Kirishima’s room with food for the both of them, Kirishima was crying.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Katsuki said under his breath, setting the food on Kirishima’s desk for the time being. “Oi!”

Kirishima looked up at him, tears dripping down his cheeks. “There is water coming out of my face.”

Katsuki sighed and sat back on the bed. He pulled the cloth off Kirishima’s forehead - it was already drying - and used it to wipe at Kirishima’s face before he dumped it back in the water bowl.”That’s ‘cause you’re crying.”

“I’m crying?” Kirishima asked. He sounded horrified. “Why?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Katsuki said. He gave Kirishima’s leg a pat and then put the cloth back on his forehead. “I left the room to make food.”

“Oh,” Kirishima said. He frowned. “Wait, you shouldn’t have come back! What if you catch this thing off me?”

“I’m not gonna catch it, Kirishima,” Katsuki said, rolling his eyes.

“But what if you do? You might die,” Kirishima said. Back to this for the millionth time? Honestly. Katsuki didn’t reply, instead going to the desk to grab their food.

“Here,” Katsuki said, giving Kirishima one of the bowls.

Kirishima’s eyes sparkled. “Food! You’re so nice.”

Katsuki shook his head, and watched to make sure Kirishima was eating before he started on his own. He didn’t seem to be doing all that well with his chopsticks. Katsuki set his own bowl aside and plucked Kirishima’s chopsticks from him. “I’ll do it, dumbass.”

Kirishima blinked when Katsuki shoved the first piece of chicken into his mouth. He caught on quickly, though, and they got about halfway through the dish until Kirishima held up one hand. “Not hungry any more.”

Katsuki frowned. He hadn’t made huge portions. Still, better not push the sick person into eating too much.

“You feeling any better, Kirishima?” Katsuki asked.

Kirishima considered. Then his eyes began to water and he shook his head. Ah, fuck, what?

“My head hurts and the room is spinning and I don’t want you to die,” Kirishima choked out in a half-sob. Augh. “And I’m sick and I don’t want to die either.”

Katsuki shuffled up the bed so he was sitting next to Kirishima to pull him into a slightly awkward one-armed hug. Kirishima was way better at doing this stuff. “You’re not gonna die, Kirishima.”

“I will one day,” Kirishima said, leaning heavily into Katsuki. He frowned. “I have- There are words I can’t get ‘cause my brain is melting. Bakuguy you make my brain melt.”

Katsuki squeezed Kirishima’s shoulders. “Pretty sure that’s the viruses.”

“Bas’ards,” Kirishima muttered. “But I get the brain-melties around you even without all the viruses.”

“What?” Katsuki stared at Kirishima. Nope, no way was he receiving a fever-addled confession from his best friend right now, right?

“Ooh, I shouldn’t have said that,” Kirishima shut his eyes. “You’re gonna be mad at me when I’m better.”

“Why the fuck would I be mad?” Katsuki asked. Why on earth would Kirishima think that? Kirishima squirmed.

“Gonna be,” he said. He looked at the wall. “I don’t like lizards.”

Katsuki squinted. “You’re deflecting. That’s not a real fever-dream.”

Kirishima pouted at him. Fuck, he was cute.

“We’re gonna talk about it when you’re better,” Katsuki said. “But I’m not mad, alright?”

“Hm,” Kirishima said, head lolling onto Katsuki’s shoulder. “I hope not. You’re my best friend, Katsuki.”

And with that, Kirishima fell asleep.

Katsuki didn’t pounce with questions the second that Kirishima was back to being lucid. No, he waited until the evening after he’d been declared healthy enough to return to classes.

“Man,” Kirishima said, when Katsuki walked into the redhead’s room to find him setting down a pair of dumbells and sitting heavily on the floor. “I think I lost a few pounds being sick. I need to build myself up again, you think?”

Katsuki took a few moments to admire Kirishima’s physique. “You look fuckin’ fine.”

“Hm,” Kirishima hummed. “Still, wouldn’t mind someone to spot me in the gym some time.”

Kirishima grinned at Katsuki. Ah, the perfect moment had been presented.

“You sure about that?” Katsuki asked, tilting his head and arching one eyebrow. “Didn’t you say I make your brain melt?”

Kirishima stiffened, and a bright red blush bloomed over his face and down his neck. “I said what?”

Katsuki grinned, and went to flop over onto Kirishima’s bed. “‘Oh Bakugou, I get the brain-melties around you!’”

“Oh my god,” Kirishima groaned and covered his face. “I’m going to go back in time and kill fever-me.”

Katsuki snorted. “No, for two reasons.”

Kirishima peeked at Katsuki between his fingers.

“One: you were pretty damn concerned about dying the whole damn time, and I put a lot of effort into assuring you that you’d be fine,” Katsuki said. “Don’t make me a liar. Second: it was cute as fuck.”

Kirishima went a few shades darker behind his hand. “Wh- What?”

“What was all that about anyway?” Katsuki asked, intending to prolong this as long as he could, sitting up and crossing his legs. “You got all weepy and morbid. You really didn’t want me to die.”

Kirishima looked away. “Fuck. Uh.”

Katsuki waited.

“Ah, I, um,” Kirishima continued. Pinnacle of eloquence, this one. “That’s something I’ve been- Since the raid- We’re all heroes, y’know, man? Or, well, we will be.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki said. Where was Kirishima going with this?

“Well, it’s… It’s not the safest profession we’ve chosen. Especially if you make it big. The better you do, the more dangerous it becomes, which, well, it makes sense,” Kirishima said. His hands had moved from his face to hug his knees. “It’s something- Of course no one wants it to happen, but it’s something we accept for ourselves. Dying on the job. ‘Cause it does happen. And sometimes it happens to people you know.”

Katsuki swallowed. He was beginning to regret asking about this now. “Right.”

“That’s, uh, sort of the part I haven’t made peace with, yet,” Kirishima said. “That if someone has to die, it might not be me? So I guess, the idea of you dying is. It’s the worst thing I can think of.”

“Me?” Katsuki asked. Kirishima looked back at him then.

“Yeah,” Kirishima said. He bit his lip for a moment, and then continued. “I know that’s- I know it’s kinda stupid.”

“It’s not,” Katsuki said.

There were a few moments of silence between them.

“Even if we get to grow old,” Kirishima said. “One of us is gonna die before the other. From, from a heart attack, or something. There’s gonna be a time where only one of us exists. That’s scary.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki said, running a hand over his face. “That’s fuckin’ heavy. I came here to flirt with you and you go and drop an existential bomb like that?”

“Ah, sorry, Ba-” Kirishima paused. “You came to what? But you-”

“You’re not the only one who gets the brain-melties, Kirishima.”

“That-” Kirishima shook his head. “Dude, mood whiplash. What the hell.”

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You’re in the mood?”

“Hhhaah?” Kirishima spluttered. “You can’t just- You’re sitting on my bed!”

“And, weirdly, you’re not,” Katsuki said. He grinned at Kirishima’s reddened face. “Come up here and let me ask you out properly.”

“Oh my god,” Kirishima said, scrambling up. “I’m gonna kiss your annoying mouth off.”

“I don’t kiss until after a date,” Katsuki said, as Kirishima sat down beside him. “So hold that thought.”

Kirishima pulled him into a hug. “You’ve never been on a date, Bakugou.”

“Never kissed anyone, either,” he said.

Kirishima moved back to squint at him. “You’re serious, oh my god.”

“You know I’m not fuckin’ into people,” Katsuki shoved at him, but lightly. “Or into f-”

Kirishima covered Katsuki’s mouth with a hand. “But… you are apparently into me?”

Katsuki grabbed Kirishima’s hand from his mouth and held onto it.

“Yeah, so go on a date with me and we’ll see how the kissing thing works out,” Katsuki said.

“God, I thought you were just gonna make fun of me for liking you,” Kirishima said. What?

“I’d never fuckin’ make fun of you for that!” he shouted, outraged. That was just fuckin’ rude. He took his hand back. “I’m not that much of an asshole!”

“No, no, no, no! I know that! Not in like, a mean way,” Kirishima said, taking Katsuki’s hand again. “More in a ‘haha I’m flattered but my barn door doesn’t swing that way, it doesn’t swing any way, my barn door is locked and you already know that’ sort of making fun.”

Katsuki snorted. “Now that’s a fuckin’ metaphor. Guess you have the key, or whatever.”

“Aww, the key to your heart?” Kirishima sparkled at him.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ mushy,” Katsuki growled. Kirishima sparkled harder. “Yes, okay? Fuck you.”

“Which date does that come after?” Kirishima asked. Katsuki felt himself turning red now. Great.

“Shut up,” Katsuki mumbled. “Where d’you wanna go for the first one? Meal? Movie? Both? Neither?”

“Anything would be good, dude! Oh... Are we even allowed to go out?” Kirishima mused. His thinking face was so cute that Katsuki should maybe have thought a little harder about imposing kissing restrictions on himself like a goddamn moron. “I mean like, physically. I don’t think anyone can stop us from dating.”

“I would kill anyone who tried.”

“That’s so sweet,” Kirishima said, and squeezed Katsuki’s fingers. “Oh my god we’re dating. Or maybe I’m still having a fever-dream.”

Katsuki pinched him, hard enough to make him yelp. “Nope. You gotta deal with me in the real world forever, now.”

“Sure sounds like a dream,” Kirishima said. He smacked away Katsuki’s hand going in for a second pinch. “Hey, hey, I get it! I’m just trying to call you dreamy.”

Fuck. “Fuck.”

“Oh no, what am I supposed to say to the others when they ask about how you asked me out?” Kirishima asked, eyes widening with horror. “Because I told you I had ‘the brain-melties’ while in a feverish delirium? They’re gonna laugh at that forever.”

“I’m gonna laugh at that forever,” Katsuki said, smirking. “Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“Simple, but a little crass,” Kirishima said. “And no match for their nosiness.”

“Change the story every time they ask,” Katsuki suggested.

Eijirou groaned. “And when they ask you?”

Katsuki just grinned.

[brilliantpride]

LOSTBELT 4: SAMSARA OF GENESIS AND TERMINUS (YUGAKSHETRA) FINAL COMMENTS: YAKO KOIZUMI. 

Pepe had asked her at one point, sitting beside her as they ate grilled bananas: “What are you thinking about?” It was probably meant to be lighthearted. They didn’t actually want to know, it’s a pleasantry, just meant to get her talking. She watched the flames, absent-minded, her mind quiet for once. 

“My parents.”

They didn’t ask more questions after that. She didn’t expand on it. 

...Can she remember their faces?

Their hands. The sound of their voices. Their laughter. Their eyes. Their wrinkles. The way her father practiced his handwriting. The way her mother loved to make artwork. The smell of her mother’s cooking. The smell of her father’s pancakes. Their angry voices. Their sad voices. Their happy voices. The family photographs decorating the fridge. The evenings, when Yako was done her homework, and there was nowhere to go, and they sat in quiet, her father reading a fantasy book and Yako and her mother watching some drama her mother was really into (and, to be fair, so was Yako, but she was too cool to say so.)

Yako sits in the warmth of the flames. It’s a relief. Even if she might struggle to remember things, at least she hasn’t lost the memories most important to her.

...How cruel, to take these things away from people.

Her parents will die someday. It’s an inevitable fact of life, unless she wants to get into some real sketchy Magecraft. She will be left alone, with only their memories to comfort her. Maybe her father will go first, and the house will be empty without his gentle spark; maybe her mother will go first, and the house will feel bare without her decorative touches in rebellion of the austerity enforced by Yako’s grandparents. Maybe, in a terrible accident, they’ll both leave this world at once, and she’ll be left by herself once again. 

But she’ll have their memories. She’ll have the parts of herself made of their successes and mistakes. The quirks she picked up from them. The way her mother taught her how to write, the way her father taught her how to whistle, the way she twirls her pencil because she saw her father do it, the way she folds her laundry to save space in a drawer like her mother showed her.

It’s the same with everyone else. Servants will disappear when their job is done, but she’ll still have her memories of them to carry her forward. Ritsu and Mash might move on without her, but she’ll still have the memories of the trials and friendship she shared with them. 

To erase those things...

...she just can’t accept that. 

“It’s always someone deciding for other people,” she mumbles, “what’s good for them, instead of letting them decide for themselves. It makes me sick."

“I’d say you’re doing the same thing,” Pepe replies sharply. It’s cutting. It’s every bit accusatory, even if their tone doesn’t seem to indicate it, and even if they still smile at her, friendly and easygoing.

That’s right. “Yeah. Guess so.” Just because she wouldn’t want to live here... there’s plenty of people who would. People who already do. They have their own culture, here, their own lives, their own experiences. And she, without the input of every single person on this planet, has chosen to end their existences so that she can save the people she loves most. 

Why is it wrong for her to want to do everything she can to see her home again? It’s not like she was the one who put everyone in this position---if anyone, it’s Kirschtaria Wodime who should take the blame! She’s just fighting for her home! It’s not like she raised the Trees of Emptiness that killed off her world and planted new ones in its place! She’s just trying to take back what was taken from her! 

...But if she’s doing the right thing, why does she still feel a weight in her chest?

-

“In your world, the powerful decide the fates of the weak,” Pepe says later, standing in a field of white flowers. “It’s cruel and unforgiving, and so many things slip through the cracks. At least here, it’s peaceful. There’s hope for the future, and love to be had just by being alive. You could live a full life here. It’s never been troubled by war or revolt. Life is simple here. People are happy.” 

Ritsu is sturdy. Yako isn’t. Her guilt, that never quite sunk in before, sits heavily in her stomach now---maybe because she’d never thought of it as her doing it. ...No, it was Ritsu and Mash this whole time absorbing the fault, wasn’t it? The Master of Chaldea, their Shielder-class partner, and some punk who plays with magic and thinks it makes her a hero. She’d been standing by their side, but never quite saw herself as important enough to be seen. 

But Pepe sees her for what she is: not just an accomplice, but an agent of devastation to the Lostbelt they’re trying to protect. In fact... this is kind of her story, too, isn’t it? She’s the one Pepe journeyed with, as she tried to right a sinking ship. She’s the one they entrusted themself to (as a prisoner, but more than that, as a temporary ally), not Ritsu. And now, even though it’s Ritsu standing against them as a Master, they’re not blind to her, like Akuta, Kadoc, and Ophelia had been. They see her, they judge her, and the weight of that judgment presses down on her.

“You people fighting for humanity always say you want peace, but then you go and reject a world like this---a truly peaceful place. It’s like you can’t conceive of a world not dominated by pain and suffering. So I don’t ever want to hear you say that Proper Human History is more peaceful than any of these worlds.” 

With an easygoing grin, they say, 

“Trust me---your world is a crueler, more disgusting hell than any world you’ll find in a Lostbelt.”

...Pain and suffering, huh. 

Yeah, it’s not like she hasn’t felt that. 

War. Revolt. Rebellion. Death. Disease. Plague. Lack. Starvation. Thirst. Exposure. Machines and crimes of society that grind humans into pulp and then expect them to put themselves back together or be cast out completely. It’s not like Yako doesn’t understand their disillusionment; it’s something she’s felt keenly, as a person who never seemed to fit in with a normal life, who wondered what the point of living was when all that waited for her at the end was to be forgotten, who spent all her time wishing for a fiction to whisk her away because normality was so unbelievably painful and numbing. 

It would be wrong not to call it a cruel, disgusting hell. 

“But at least we have a future,” she says, stepping forward. She stares at Peperoncino with the full weight of her guilt, and her decision. “Hoping you wake up tomorrow isn’t hope for the future. Just wanting to live isn’t enough.” 

She takes another step forward. Karna stares down at her. 

They don’t dream of tomorrow. They don’t wish for anything from their future. Somebody’s gotta show them what it means to hope! To wish! Not just someone---

It’s gotta be ME!

"Making something happen when it all seems lost is what it means to be human!”

Our struggles and our suffering aren’t for nothing! It’s because we struggle now that we can dream of a better tomorrow! But when everything’s perfect, what do we have left to dream about?! When you rip away the people we love the most, and don’t even leave their memories behind, who do we have left to fight for, and carry on the dreams of?!

“I know I’m fighting selfishly... I know I’m not always fighting for good reasons. But I can’t accept this kind of world where heroes don’t exist and life is always easy! Because a world without heroes... Without stories or memories or hardships... Where your loved ones just disappear, and you don’t even know it, because they aren’t perfect enough... I can’t accept that! I refuse it, with everything inside of me! And if that means I have to take down everyone else with me, then so be it!”

Her chest heaves. Her throat hurts. But this is her honest declaration of war: she will make her stand here, one way or the other.

“...You’re right, Mx. Peperoncino. I agree with you,” Holmes pipes up, as Yako gets more tongue-tied the more she talks. Has he always been so eager to pipe up? “I doubt that any Lostbelt is as awful as the modern world Mr. Ritsu and Ms. Yako hail from. But that’s all the more reason for us to be proud of it! Any history daring to call itself Proper Human History should aspire to overcome all manner of hells!” He sounds resolute---a kind of determination she’s never seen from him before. (Maybe it’s his protagonist-ish side coming through? He’s a hero, in some respects, too.) “If anything, this journey has only made me more certain that mankind has chosen the most difficult route possible, and these two have spent their whole lives on the forefront of that route. If they wish to continue down this path, we will be there with them every step of the way!”

...So that’s what it is. That’s what keeps her fighting. Because it’s a world where things are hard, she can dream, and feel accomplishment, and look back on legends of people who did amazing things for inspiration. It’s because of that that Heroic Spirits can be born from humanity’s wishes! Memories, stories, and heroics... Those are the things she’s fighting for! 

Pepe smiles the same as always: perfect, beautiful, and strong. The Karna beside him disappears, and Ashvatthama takes his place. ...Truly, it’s a battle between Masters once more. They’re not about to get at that Tree without breaking past these two. 

“You’ve fought hard and bravely to get this far, right? And not just here in India, but everywhere you’ve been. So now’s the time to take responsibility for making it all this way.”

Yako swallows, and lifts her head. Flames crackle around her body; the flowers under her feet catch fire, but don’t burn. She won’t run away. No way. She’s more fired up than ever! 

Scandinavia Peperoncino, enemy to Humanity, Crypter and iconoclast, declares,

“I want you to thrill me one last time, just like you’ve been doing all along.”

-

"...And that’s the end of my report.” 

Yako shuts off the audio recorder. That about wraps it up, she thinks... She taps Ody’s notification in the corner of her tablet; a pleasant chime comes out of the speakers. A bubble reading [ Glad you’re safe. ] pops up. ...Hehe, but you were there the whole time, weren’t you? Right beside her, like everyone else. 

“Ody...” she says, tapping on the voice-assistant icon, “do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

A buffering icon pops up. [ What do you mean? ] they say, after a moment. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Yako flops over in bed, her tablet beside her. “I’m just... tired, I think.”

The silence stretches on, until the tablet chimes again. [ I don’t know, Yako. ] Their voice sounds... indistinct? [ I am the Chaldea Simulator Observation Delegation Unit, Odysseus. I can’t dream of a better future. I have no attachment to the past. I can see all of Proper Human History in a text file. But I do not exist inside of it like you do. ]

‘So what do you think, as a human from Proper Human History?’ is the unsaid follow-up. 

“I’m worried,” she sighs. ...It’s her own room. She’s talking to a machine like it’s a therapist. But... Ody is basically her friend now, too, right? It’s not the first time she’s rambled aimlessly at them. “...Sometimes I get dreams where I’m standing in front of the Enma-Tei, but I know I’m not allowed to go in. Or if I do go in, it’s like... I’ll have to answer for everything I’ve done. Can I do that yet? ...Do I even know what I’ve done?”

[ Would you like me to go through Chaldea’s database of dream symbolism? ]

“Nnnno thanks. Just. Thinking. I guess it weighs me down more than I thought.”

Another quiet beep. 

[ I am glad you survived, ] they say, finally. [ I know without the advancements of Proper Human History, I would never have been created. We would not have met. I would never have gotten to meet Chiemi. Or Ritsu. Or Mash. Or Leonardo da Vinci. Or Meuniere. Or Kawata. Or Octavia. Or Tomarin. Or--- ]

"You can stop there.” No need to go through the entire roster. ...Haha. Is that really enough to make it all worthwhile? ...For Yako, it just might be. Selfish, loving, possessive, and above all, striving for her own future. If she’s going to be selfish, she’d better not be conflicted about it. 

Do what you want to do because you want to do it. Pursue the things you want to obtain because you want to have them. Clasp your future in your hands, because it’s yours.

That’s how she’s always lived her life. And that’s how she’ll answer for it, when it’s reached its end. ‘I did what I thought I should do, and I have no regrets.’

Even if it’s a lie, she’ll make herself believe it.

[ Would you like to go sailing, Yako? ]

Know what? Yeah! She sure the hell does! “Alright, fuck it. Let’s go together. I’ll take you on a thrill ride around the ice floes, how’s that sound?”

[ Cold. ]

“You’d better get used to it! A sailor’s gotta be ready for all kinds of weather!”

[concussed-to-pieces]

Finally; Part Two

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: N/A

Rating: Holy shit Violent.

AN: A companion piece to the drabble I wrote for Extreme Rules 2017, typed out between Heroics and Crucible matches. Enjoy!

Part One

“This is for what you did to us!”

Whether Seth had earned it or not (deny that deny that) the chair fell all the same. Striking across his ribs with the dull echo of betrayal, bringing back the hot, sick combination of triumph and self-loathing in his gut when he had watched Roman crumple and Dean just stared at him like he couldn’t believe it, mouth slightly agape and eyes pleading, begging.

“This is for what you did to me!”

The shoe was unfortunately on the other foot now. He should have known better than to trifle with Roman. Seth of all people knew what he was capable of and yet he’d practically gift-wrapped him an opportunity to kick his ass. Why, why hadn’t he grabbed the chair faster?

Because I didn’t want to.

Because I deserve this.

Seth tried to curl himself a little tighter but Roman’s fingers dug fiercely into his hair and dragged his head up. The chair slid beneath Seth’s chin and oh God, he was in for it now. Roman’s knee crushed down into the back of Seth’s bad one and that was it, that was it, he was immobilized and about to be pummeled and all he could think was I deserve this I deserve this as he screamed in pain.

It wasn’t enough that he’d abandoned his so-called mentor, it wasn’t enough that he’d struck out on his own. He had never apologized, confident that this was the way of the business. Climb over everyone else to get to the top of that ladder. When Triple H offered him nothing else, Rollins sent the old man packing.

Roman still called him little brother when he came back. Even when they threw themselves at each other Roman protected his knee, often at the cost of his own body via Buckle Bomb. Dean, the opposite end of the spectrum, raged and yelled and punched with everything he had but he also refused to touch Seth’s knee, refused to use that to his advantage.

Little brother little brother.

That was obviously forgotten now, though, Roman’s weight centered on pinning his leg to the canvas. The strain on his ligaments made Rollins want to scream again but he was barely able to draw breath with how vigorously Roman was reminding him of his betrayal. Seth was a little surprised it had taken this long for Reigns to give in, he’d always figured Ambrose would be the first one to break. Then again, he couldn’t really break what he had already shattered, now could he?

Deny that deny that I don’t deserve this not my fault I did what I had to--

Roman slammed his head down against the chair and Seth felt like the impact reverberated back through the years. Every time he’d given one of his brothers a curbstomp came rushing back, memories flooding to the surface. The way his boot skidded sometimes on the dampness of Roman’s hair before the other man collapsed to the ground. The way Ambrose would try to fight it, to the point where Rollins would be terrified (deny that deny that) he’d broken his brother’s neck when he finally caved in.

Roman hadn’t stopped shouting yet, the larger man obviously shoved far past his breaking point. “This is for what you took from me!” Blood spattered across the chair and Seth wondered dimly whether it was his own or Roman’s. He was aware that he was saying something. Might have been goading Roman on, but he also might have been begging for mercy. He couldn’t hear himself think over the other man’s tirade, the words digging into his spine like knives.

For what you did to us. For what you took from us. For what you did to me. For what you did to him.

The world grayed out with each solid crack of his jaw against the chair and Rollins finally took the plunge, closing his eyes and feeling the sensation of his body falling, falling…

He came back around to medics surrounding him and he grabbed one of them by their polo. “Where is he?” Seth asked blearily, his knee screaming in the background. Everything ached, he just wanted to be unconscious again. “Where did Roman go?”

Nobody would answer him and he pulled himself upright, limped from the ring with a medic under his arm to keep him moving. He ignored the cheers, shell-shocked from the beating he’d taken.

Ambrose came to him then behind the curtain, Ambrose came to him, limping with his own leg all wrapped and he just stared at the other man.

“Had to whack that hornet’s nest, huh Rollins?” The ‘Lunatic’ needled. But that was how Ambrose had always been. Dealing with a pile of his own troubles and he had to find Rollins, act like he didn’t care while making sure he was still pulling breath into his lungs.

Rollins didn’t expect the usual not-care care to wound him. It hurt, it hurt so much worse than his knee or his face, pinging off his spine and sticking in his ribs to ache where his heart should be.

Little brother little brother.

He’d always been so emotional.

Seth felt tears well up in his eyes and to his utter shame he started crying, sobbing right there in front of Dean. Everything hurt and he was just so damn tired, so tired of being alone in hotel rooms looking in the mirror and wondering what it was like to see someone he could be proud of staring back at him. The whole time his brain whispered not my fault but it was, oh God it was, he had done this. He wanted to just wail out his pain like when he was small, lay down and cry himself empty.

He was so tired of being on his own.

And then Ambrose’s arms were around him, the ‘Lunatic’ hugging him as tight as he could. A hand roughly worked over his tangled hair, making a half-assed attempt at smoothing it back into some semblance of order. “Why’d you do it, man? You shoulda’ thought a little more on that. Weren't you the brains of the group?”

Dean held him and let him sob and Seth hadn’t known how much he’d missed the contact; he dug his fingers into Dean’s back as he finally realized everything that he’d ruined. Apologies bled sluggishly from him, the words sticking in his throat but he shoved them out anyway because he owed it to Ambrose, owed it to Reigns, because big brother big brother I pushed you too far.

Once upon a time they had been a veritable Cerberus, the Shield, the Hounds of Justice, a three-headed beast that struck fear into the hearts of the whole establishment. Recognized and respected as the threat that they were. Rollins would forever hold the knowledge that he had been the weakest link in their group. While on a quest to be the strongest he had fallen victim to poisonous words, to doubts and what ifs and promises dangled in front of his nose.

He would always regret letting Triple H get into his head. Because now there was that fear that he hadn’t closed the door all the way, the worry that he was easier to persuade than his brothers. The fact that he was capable of betrayal to that level still ruined his sleep some nights. The crack of the chair, the look on Ambrose’s face, the way Roman had dropped. Triple H’s arm like a dead weight around his shoulders, pulling Seth into his side and calling him son.

How could he ever apologize for that? How the hell could anyone trust him again? He didn’t even trust himself.

“It’s alright, you little fuck-up.” Ambrose’s voice was much gentler than his words. “You broke him, you know that. You can’t take him on by yourself. You can bluster all you want but we both know Ro is the definition of strong fuckin’ medicine. So what are you gonna’ do?”

“I don’t know.” Seth started wiping his eyes, tried to shake himself off a little.

“Well maybe you ought to start considerin’ some things.” Ambrose swatted his shoulder and Rollins grunted. “An apology has potential.”

“Christ, where the hell would I even start?” Seth asked bleakly.

“How about answerin’ the ‘why’ question?” Ambrose paused for a minute. “Trips came to me and Reigns too. Different times. The same offer he made you, I'll bet.”

Seth’s stomach dropped out.

“He came to me first. Probably figured since I got a few screws loose I’d sell my brothers out for a wish and a fuckin’ chance at a shiny belt. Promised me a championship run longer than my U.S. one. Roman and I both had a few different reasons for tellin’ him to fuck off, but one we had in common was the Shield. We said we would never turn our backs on one another.” Ambrose looked sad, worn. “We didn’t wanna’ tell you. Didn’t want you to worry or have to think about either of us goin’ rogue. See how well that shit worked out.”

“I couldn’t keep mediating you two.” The excuse was one he’d told himself a million times; Ambrose was nodding before the words were fully out of his mouth.

“Look, we were all meant for more important things. We weren’t gonna’ be a team forever. I think we’d all just hoped we would part on better terms than the stunt you pulled permitted.”

Dean lazily picked at his shirt for a second, not meeting Seth’s eyes.

“Like I said Rollins, an apology has…potential.”

[drawn-to-space]

Purple Bones: Event END

ANOTHER DRABBLE! 

This is the meeting between G and Yumi, the END of this event!

I was gonna do this like before (separate replies), at first, but it would take WAY too long! And don’t worry about my chapters, I'll do them next week like I said before! However, I'm warning you, there are spoilers for my chapters!

Anyway, enjoy!

Yumi kept having to push away the meeting for G, things kept coming up and she was really busy, same for him. Summer meant A LOT of people are more and more coming to the Planetarium. Same goes for G, he was especially busy at his restaurant jobs, working even more than usual, which was already pretty hellish. Yes, he restarted working not too long after Yumi had called him. 

Neither of them strangely looked forward to the meeting, despite both agreeing, and were both very nervous about it. I mean, who could blame them? Leaving off on such a sour note to expect to be able to fix things seemed impossible for them. Not because they didn’t want to fix things, but they didn’t know if they could.

Yumi waited almost an hour for G to finally come over. She thought he wouldn’t come, either being suddenly unavailable or he just wasn’t ready. To be honest, it was both. It’s true that one of his bosses asked him to work for a bit, last minute, but he also wasn’t sure if he really wanted to go. However, he knew that, if he wasn’t going to go today, he would never go,  he needs to go. He couldn’t just leave her like that, not again. He was enough of an asshole for a lifetime and she didn't deserve that.

“U-um... hi.” she said, opening the door for him. *... Hi.

As expected, it was awkward as hell. Yumi couldn’t look at him in the eye, but even with the few glimpse she took, by his voice and his facial expression, she could tell that he didn’t want to be here. It made her even more nervous, she felt like crying, but she can’t cry, not now. That would be kinda bad. Maybe she should’ve waited a bit longer and put it for another day. But it was too late to think about this. She needs to calm down.

*Uh... are you gonna let me in? “Oh-um... y-yeah, sorry.” she says nervously.

She didn’t realize that she was standing deep in her thoughts for that long but it seemed like she was. It was almost funny, but he didn’t want to laugh.

“Uuumm... make yourself comfortable...? I guess?” *Yeah, sure.

Jesus Christ.

They stayed silent after that, sitting on opposite sofas. The sound of the grandfather clock somehow made the atmosphere even tenser than it should.

Neither of them knew what to do, neither of them knew what to say. Yumi tried to apply the advice Rony gave her, but she was so nervous that it was like she forgot everything and was stuck there. G, on the other hand, didn’t really come prepared, he thought that she would start the conversation and he would help continue from there, but it seemed like this wasn’t going to work. How is this supposed to work if they can’t even bring themselves to even talk?

Tic toc. Tic Toc. Tic toc. Tic toc.

“D-do you... um... do you want something to drink? I... I-I made some tea.” 

She finally had the courage to say something, however, she knows very well how lame and unnecessary it was. That’s not how she wanted to start, but it was the only thing she could think of. 

*... Sure. he finally responded, taking a moment before answering.

She quickly got up and headed towards the kitchen, removed some mugs from the kitchen counter and slowly poured some tea for the both of them. She used this time to think for a bit. She was completely lost and didn’t know what to do. Fuck. She wished she was better at this.

She suddenly remembered something like this happening before. Strangely enough,  it was like the exact recreation of how they first met, when she invited him inside to stay. It was weird, almost in a creepy way. However, it somehow made a bit of sense that it was like this. She places the mugs on a tray, heading back into the living room. In the end, she couldn’t think of anything to talk about, her mind was only running with memories about them. 

“Here you go.” *... Thanks.

When she gave one of the mugs to G, though, it also hit him, how familiar this scene was. They stayed silent for a while after that.

Tic Toc. Tic Toc. Tic Toc-ding dong. Ding dong. It was 4 o’clock.

*This is going nowhere. he suddenly started talking, a bit frustrated. “Sorry... I-I just-” *I'm not blaming you for this... I don’t- I haven’t talked this entire time either. I dunno why... why can’t we talk? Fuckin’ hell. he reassured her. “I-I dunno...” she admitted, looking down. *Look... I know I’ve been an ass this entire time but- “N-no! You’re not-” she denied. *Yes I am... just- let me talk for a sec. he cut her, a bit impatiently. “... Okay.” *Like I was sayin’... I know I’ve been an ass this entire time, but... it looks like I’m gonna have to be even more of an ass right now. he explained “Um... why?” she asked, confused and worried. *Because I think we should get straight to the point in the most brutal way possible. “I-I’m...not sure what you mean, G.”

He sighed, he doesn’t want to ask this question, part of him was slightly embarrassed. The other part knows very well it very possibly could hurt her but, he was hurt too.

*Why did you let me kiss you on Valentine’s Day? And why did you... make out with me... even though you didn’t like me that way? “............. I-I... I dunno...” she took forever before answering. *I won’t take that for an answer, Yumi. That shit fucking sucked. “I-I know... I... I-I’m sorry, I was just-... I-I dunno.” *What do you mean, ‘I dunno’ you were about to say something. Why can’t you explain yourself? he asked, impatiently.

Despite his calm voice, it was clear that he was starting to get a little frustrated. She didn’t really expect him to say that she was at a complete loss for words. To be honest, she knows why but, she just didn’t know how to say it without sounding even more like a selfish asshole. But he needed an answer, so she decided to just say it anyway, despite not finding a nicer way to say it.

“I just-... I didn’t know how to react and... I’ve never kissed someone before. I guess I-... I-I wanted to try.” *’Try’!? And my fucking feelings, Yumi? I-... I fucking LOVED you! he aggressively said, a bit loudly. “I dunno why I did, I didn’t really think about your feelings and the consequences and... I-I really sorry... I-I’m s-so sorry. I’m sorry, G.”

Her voice started to crack more the more she apologized to him. She started tearing up and ended up too full on sobbing. She didn’t want to cry, she tried not to, but she suddenly got emotional and it escalated to this. It was soul-breaking to see for G. He didn’t expect her to suddenly cry like that, he never does. He didn’t mean to hurt her that badly, it made him feel like the scum of the earth.

Fuck.

Since she didn’t seem like she was going to stop crying, so he hesitantly got up from the sofa and walked towards where she was sitting. He sat next to her and awkwardly hugged her tightly. She didn’t really expect him to, it took her a moment before hugging back.

*I-I’m sorry, Yumi. I’m such an asshole... “No, I-I’m the asshole. I was being selfish a-and completely disregarded your feelings, e-even though I knew or... had an idea about how you felt...” she admitted. *But I knew you didn’t mean for it to hurt me. And just fucking left like a fucking ass instead of talking or... a-anything less dickish than just leaving you like that without saying anything! And the worst of it all is that I always fucking do this! Every time I get upset, I don’t confront it, I just run away like a fucking piece of shit, never even caring about how the other feels! Why do I always fucking do this!? he shouted, angry at himself.

She was worried and confused about what he was talking about, but she could assume that this wasn’t the first time that something similar happened. She thought about asking him but, she wasn’t sure if she should. He was already getting pretty emotional. She thinks he might be crying, considering he dug his face on her shoulder, tightening his grip on her shirt which was starting to get a little wet. She felt horrible, despite not really being her fault. In the end, she decided to ask him about it, maybe it would help to talk about it.

“Did... d-did something like this happened before?” *And after... I... y’know I-I did that to my ‘brother’ and-... fuck. “Who was the other one? Was it recent?” she asked. *Yeah but... I-I dunno...

She suddenly remembered someone mentioning something similar. Could it be a coincidence? It had to be... right? She didn’t want to scold him after all of this. He already seems broken bout it. But, she had to ask.

“Was it-.. w-was it, Rony?” she hesitated to ask. *... How did you...? “I-I know her... we’ve been friends a little while. Before this.” she explained. *W-what did she tell you? “E-everything... I think.” *... “G, she's... she’s not mad at you... she told me that-... t-that she forgave you a while ago...” she reassured him. *But, why? I didn't... I didn’t even apologize to her... I didn’t even TALK to her. I don’t... deserve that. I don’t understand.  “I-I dunno... but, why did you get so angry? I mean... I was a bit upset too but... you were... I-I don’t know how to put it.” *An asshole? Yeah... I know... “I mean... kinda, but that’s not what I mean. It didn’t make sense. You were very... contradictive.” she explained more clearly.

He had an idea for a little while. I mean, he had to, he was just as confused as she was after the events, he needed answers too. But, now, maybe he had an answer for all of this nonsense. He sighed, after taking forever before answering.

*I-I think... I love her. he shyly admitted. “... W-wait seriously!?” she shouted, surprised. *I dunno why I would joke about that... “Holy shit... G, you need to call her or something to apologize.” *Yeah... I know.

There was a short awkward silence. They were still hugging.

“S-so... can I let go?” she asked awkwardly. *Just... let me stay like this a little longer, okay? “... O-okay.”