#makes me gnash my teeth and chew on the walls

[whatisamildopinion]

I think at this point we simply must accept the truth, which is that no Percy Jackson adaptation or sequel will better understand the assignment than The Lightning Thief musical. solidly 70 percent of the plot happens in one (1) song and the entire rest of the musical is dedicated to The Themes and The Characters and The Relationships and, of course, The Cycles. plus it fucking slaps. 20/10, no notes, perfect understanding and interpretation of the source material

[itchytitss]

Summertime Night Terrors🌙

Ellie Williams x Reader

My first Ellie fic! This is actually a repurposed fic from my old blog that was originally a resident evil Cleon one shot. But I’ve since realised this could also make a good Ellie fic, so I’ve edited it to be wlw instead hehe. It’s also worth mentioning that this was originally written a while ago, and was the first fic I’ve ever written, so despite some minor edits, it’s still not as good as some of my other fics. So I apologise that this is a little bad.

This goes without saying but I am NOT a writer. This was written for fun and purely for me. Please be nice.

Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night to find your girlfriend struggling with a particularly bad night terror

CW: PTSD, nightmares, canon typical gore/violence, suicide in dream, anxiety, panic attacks, self doubt, guilt, angst then fluff, like lots of fluff, wholesome shit

Trapped in an unfamiliar building with hallways upon hallways, Ellie runs, gun in hand.

The rain is pouring down and pooling on the floor through the cracked windows. She tries to make herself quieter, but the stomping and sloshing of her boots against the puddles and creaky floors constantly alert the infected of her presence.

Cautiously, she continues down the winding labyrinth of this rundown building. Everywhere she turns, she’s swamped by infected, covered in ripped flesh, blood and gnashing teeth. Donning multiple open wounds and a freshly sprained ankle, Ellie realises she’s running out of ammo and needs a place to rest. Fast.

She eventually limps her way to a tall staircase. Looking back behind her shoulder, she knows the door she just blocked with a cabinet isn’t going to hold long, so she makes her way towards the staircase.

Limping up the stairs, she hears loud sobbing, cries begging for mercy, screams twisting in pain and anguish. It sounds horrifyingly familiar.

You.

Without thinking, Ellie immediately picks up her pace, skipping stairs as she climbs in desperation to put a stop to whatever was causing you to make those horrific sounds. It hurts her to no end just hearing you in pain.

The staircase seems never ending. Though she could see the top of the old wooden steps, they just never seemed to stop. Seemingly trapped in an endless cycle as if she was Sisyphus on the mountain.

Ellie looks back, only to see a dark void quickly swallowing the stairs behind her, causing them to break and crumble down into the bottomless pit. The falling stairs are catching up to her and if she doesn’t hurry the fuck up, she would fall too.

“FuckfuckfuckFUCK-“

Ellie immediately starts sprinting up the stairs, putting agonising pressure on her leg that was already in seering pain. She needs to reach you. Her injuries can wait. The only thing that matters right now is you.

After what seems like years, Ellie finally reaches the top of the staircase, stumbling and catching herself on a nearby wall. Panting and gasping for air, her chest heaves violently. Her lungs burn, begging for her to stop. Though she allows herself no break.

Your screaming and cries of agony continue, but with added noises. Ripping. Squelching. Dripping. Chewing. Clicking.

“No, no no no please-“ She begs under her breath to any god that can hear her.

On unsteady feet, Ellie runs to the door from which the noises are coming from. A soft yellow light leaks from underneath the crack, illuminating the floor in front of her.

“ELLIE!!” A muffled wail from behind the door.

Locked.

“Shit-HOLD ON!!” Ellie starts kicking the door with all of her remaining energy, eventually busting the door off its hinges, sending splinters flying through the air. Now no longer behind a barrier, the sickening noises and screams suddenly become louder. Ellie stumbles in the room, bile rising in her throat as she takes in the sight before her.

You’re pinned to the floor underneath two clickers, both ripping and gnawing at the flesh on your thigh and stomach. The tearing of skin and muscle, the clashing of teeth, the godawful coppery iron smell of your blood flooding Ellie’s senses all at once.

There’s so much blood. Can a person even have that much blood? Waterfalls of crimson spill from everywhere around you. Thick, dark blood pooling onto the hardwood floor and leaking into the cracks of the planks. Ellie freezes, unable to move- fuck why can’t she move?

Busy ripping flesh from bone and sucking on sinew, the infected don’t even notice her sudden entrance, too preoccupied with clawing and biting at your helpless, sobbing body on the floor.

Your clothes are tattered, your once neat hair now tangled and wet from the blood pooling around you. Your face covered in blood and dirt, save for the streams of tears rushing down your cheeks.

You’re being ripped apart, drowning on your own blood. You cough, spilling hot thick crimson all over your chin and chest.

“…Ell- Ellie.” You stare at her with unfocused eyes, desperately clinging on to what life is left.

Gurgling through the blood bubbling up your throat, you reach for your gun next to you on the floor, your hand shaking.

“Nonono, no!” Ellie screams your name. She can’t move. Why can’t she fucking move?!

Without looking away, your hand brings the revolver up to your temple. Clenching your eyes shut, you let out one last short whimper before you pull the trigger.

“NO!!”

—

It was right in the middle of summer and like most nights recently, it’s been unbearably hot. The AC is broken and to you and your girlfriend’s displeasure, Jackson’s repair man is coming the day after tomorrow.

Because of the sweltering heat, the sheets are off the bed, leaving your almost naked bodies sprawled out on the double mattress. Ellie in her sports bra and boxers and yourself in an old tank top and thin underwear. Your clothes stick uncomfortably to your skin.

In her feeble attempt to fight the heat, Ellie had dragged in old fan to sit at the end of the bed. It shakes and whirs air towards the bed, though isn’t even close to cooling you in the slightest.

You had also propped open the windows and the balcony door, which allowed some drafts of fresh air to flow into the stuffy room. The somewhat peaceful sound of crickets can be heard chirping in the still trees outside.

It’s 2:25 am when you wake up to the bed slightly shaking, hearing soft whimpering coming from beside you. Looking over, you see your girlfriend, Ellie, curled in a ball with her hands clutching her head, shaking and mumbling words you can’t understand.

Her white-knuckled hands grip her scalp, her hair slightly damp with sweat and messy from a restless sleep. You sit up, rubbing your eyes and turning on the lamp on your side of the bed.

“Ellie?” You whisper. No answer. You scoot closer. In the dim light, you can see the muscles in her jaw clenching, her eyebrows pinching together, her face twitching in fear. Or perhaps anger? Her entire body is shaking, breaths coming in quick, sweat dripping down her brow and back.

You sit there for a moment, hand hovering over her shoulder, debating on whether or not to wake her up. You don’t want to scare her awake, but the way she twitches and whimpers… It’s worse than usual.

Ellie has had her fair share of nightmares, but you’ve never seen her in this bad of a state before. You hate watching this. Whatever is going through your girlfriend’s mind is worse than usual, and you don’t want her to stay in this dream by herself any longer.

“Ellie, babe.” You whisper again, lightly nudging her shoulder.

“NO!!” Ellie jolts herself awake with a desperate scream, voice cracking, startling you as well.

Within a millisecond, she quickly grabs her switchblade from the bedside table and holds it out in front of her. Her eyes frantically scanning around the room for a threat.

“Heyheyhey, Ellie it’s okay!” You quickly grab her wrist and try to settle the shaking hand gripping the knife.

You know you’re not in danger. She would often wake up from a nightmare with the knife in her hands. A fight response powered by muscle memory. Determined to protect not only herself, but most importantly, you.

She’s shaking, beads of cold sweat falling down her brow, her chest and back. Her eyes are unfocused and searching for something, anything.

“Ellie, look at me, it’s just me. I’m here. You’re okay.” You whisper, attempting to gain her attention. Her wide blue eyes try so desperately hard to focus on the whatever is in front of her.

She’s panting, gasping for air like she had just been pulled from water. Her chest heaves violently with each inhale.

“Look at me, come back to me, babe.” You whisper softly, your free hand moving slowly and cautiously to cup her jaw, thumb rubbing back and forth on her cheek. “It was just a dream. You’re okay.” You repeat.

Ellie’s eyes slowly focus back on you. Her senses recognising the soft touch of your hand on her shivering body. The sudden realisation that it was all a dream comes as an exhausting wave of relief.

Tears swell up in her eyes as her lip begins to quiver. Just as quickly as the panting had stopped, it starts back up again with a small pained cry.

You shush her gently as you watch the thin sheen of sweat quickly being flushed away by fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Your thumb still smoothing over her cheek, catching streams of warm tears as they fall.

Her grip on the knife loosens as she lets it fall to the floor with a clatter.

“There we go, that’s it.” You coo, moving your other hand to cup her cheek on the other side of her face.

“Look at me, breathe with me, honey,” You start taking deep breaths, encouraging the hyperventilating woman in front of you to join you. “In…and out, that’s it, keep going.”

Ellie takes long shaking breaths, staring into your eyes, her hands now holding a vice grip on your arms.

“Y-you… I- I c-could-n’t-“

“Shhhh. I know, I know. Just breathe, baby, focus on me.” You whisper, as if you were a handler trying desperately to calm a spooked animal.

Her vision is blurry, this time from tears while she hiccups desperate breaths of air. You slowly bring your hand down to her’s, guiding it to your chest, allowing her to feel the steady beating of your heart. She lets out a few shaky breaths, more tears falling to the bedsheets.

“We’re in Jackson, baby. We’re in our house, in our room. You’re safe, Ellie.” You whisper. “You’re safe. I’m safe. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Ellie chokes out a broken sob at your reassuring smile. Her hand clenches, balling the thin fabric of your tank top into her fist.

Uncaring of the heat, she quickly wraps her tattooed arm around your waist, scooping you into her lap with a grunt, her face pressed into your neck, now wet with tears. The feeling of you in her arms, the smell of your body wash, your warm skin, your beating heart, it was all real. You’re really here.

You sit together for what seems like ages, Ellie clinging to you and slightly rocking in comfort while you tuck her head beneath your chin, carding you hand through her hair, soothing her with small hums and whispers.

“It’s all over, you’re okay. Shhh there we go.” You draw mindless soothing shapes on her back, tacky with a thin layer of sweat. She sobs quietly into your chest, hiccuping while she grasps at the thin fabric on your back. She listens to your heartbeat, holding you tightly as if you would disappear at any moment.

Logically, Ellie knows she’s safe. She knows that you’re alive, here in her arms. She knows you’re okay. But that doesn’t stop the deep feeling of dread her nightmares bring. It doesn’t stop the memories, the flashbacks and the night terrors. Those awful fucking dreams that happen multiple times a week. Stupid dreams that keep her up at night. It all feels too real. Of course she knows it’s not, but that’s what makes this all so frustrating.

This isn’t the first time she’s woken you up from one of her nightmares. And the guilt she feels from it is immeasurable.

She sobs into your chest, hiding her face in shame from you. You, who loves and understands her deeply. You’re patient and strong. You’re willing to put your needs on hold for the one you love. You’ve never judged Ellie for a second. Not once have you blamed her, or thought that she’s overreacting. Ellie knows this deep down too. She just can’t accept the fact that someone cares.

The rational part of her brain tells her that this is normal and she’s not being a burden. It tells her that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to take time to heal. But the rest of her doesn’t listen. The rest of her tells her that she’s a failure. That she’s better than this. She should’ve died from the bite like all the others.

After Ellie’s crying eventually slows and her breathing becomes steady, you cup her cheek again and gently move her to look at you, her chin resting on your chest.

“How about a shower, huh?” You ask. Her half lidded eyes red and irritated from the tears that are now drying on her cheeks and your neck and chest.

“Y-yeah… okay.” She hesitantly agrees. You shift out of bed. Now standing to both your natural heights, you cup her cheeks once more.

“Alright, you go take a nice, cool shower- as long as you need. I’ll be right out here. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?” She nods. You smile at her and smooth your hands slowly down her arms to entangle your fingers with hers. Your touch a gentle, calming caress, grounding Ellie in reality.

You look back over your shoulder to the bed. Suddenly noticing the damp spots on the front of your shirt, you think for a moment, watching the rickety old fan rotate slowly.

“Hmm, I’m already up,” You mumble to yourself. “I’ll put some new bedsheets on and change.” You announce to your girlfriend, letting go and turning to exit the room.

“You go take that showe-“ your movements are quickly stopped when Ellie grasps a hand around your wrist.

“Please don’t go…” She whispers. Ellie straightens her shoulders and clears her throat. “I uh- we should both take a shower. There’s no use in changing the sheets if we’re not both clean.” Her real plea goes without saying.

I need you with me.

You know it. Ellie knows you know it too, but she can’t help but try to hide any feelings of vulnerability. She drops her head and clenches her eyes shut at how pathetic and childish she sounds, clinging on to you when you would just be in the hallway for a moment.

“Alright,” You smile. “I’ll join you, but we need new sheets first.” You repeat softly, standing on your toes to kiss her forehead. Ellie lets go of your wrist, turning to slump against the wall to watch and wait for her girlfriend, like a lovesick puppy.

You walk to the linen closet in the hallway, taking out some fresh sheets and a small bottle of lavender oil. You go through the motions of changing the bedsheets, all under Ellie’s watchful eyes. When you stand back to admire your work, you grab the bottle of lavender oil and put two drops on Ellie’s pillow. You haven’t used it in a few months, so luckily there was enough left for Ellie.

Later in the shower, you stand behind your girlfriend, peppering kisses across her back and massaging shampoo into her scalp. Gently scrubbing away her worries as she leans her forehead on the cool tile wall, breathing deep and slow, trying not to fall asleep under your gentle touch. She lets you move her around and shape her like putty under your hands.

Your soft, gentle hands caress her and work out the knots in her tense shoulders. You chuckle at the occasional quiet groan or whisper of a swear under her breath whenever you hit a particularly sore spot.

You won’t let her move a muscle, you’re doing everything for her and you like it this way. You absolutely love taking care of the ones you love. In your eyes, it’s as rewarding as being looked after yourself. So often Ellie would spoil you, treat you and take care of you in more ways than you could imagine. But right now it’s your turn to shower her with love and affection.

When you finish your shower, you stand in the bathroom while slowly drying Ellie with a towel, pressing light kisses all over her dripping body, paying extra attention to her various scars.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispers, breaking the silence between you two. You look up, your girlfriend near falling asleep under the dim light of the bathroom.

“What for?”

“For… for waking you up. For being a shitty girlfriend. I let all the shit get to my head.” She gestures vaguely to her head. Her eyes, red and stinging from the strain of crying start to water up again.

“I’m supposed to be there for you. You’ve got your own nightmares, your own… trauma. And here I am being selfish and… fucking pathetic.” Her voice cracking as she avoids your gentle gaze.

“Hey, look at me, babe.” You whisper, cupping your hand on her cheek, your other hand resting on her shoulder.

“First of all, I’m glad you woke me up. I don’t want you to go through any of that alone. I’ll never be mad at you for waking me up when you’ve had a nightmare, okay?” You smile. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Sure, I’ve got my own issues, but that doesn’t negate yours. You need help too, as much as you like to deny it and act tough.” You tease, poking at her chest. Ellie lets out a genuine chuckle.

“You’re not weak, Ellie. You’re the strongest person I know. Seriously.” You start drawing small soothing circles on her bare chest, watching the way the stray water droplets fall down her neck onto her collarbone.

“We’ll get through this together, okay? We’ll sort it out.” You continue. “You don’t need to act tough around me. We’ve got each other, yeah?” You look up at her and smile. All your love for her displayed on your gentle expression.

“God, I love you so much.” She exhales in one quick breath, wrapping her arm around your waist to pull your into a slow, lazy kiss.

“I love you too.” You giggle. For the first time that night, you watch Ellie smile. Her teeth poking through the small sliver of a grin as she chuckles with you. God, you’re so happy to see hear her laugh, she barely does nowadays. The warm and velvety sound like music to your ears.

After you change into fresh clothes, Ellie lays on her back in bed, savouring the feeling of her clean skin against the cold, fresh bedsheets you had laid out. She inhales, deep and slow.

“Lavender…” She mumbles.

“Yeah, I used to use it when I can’t sleep. It helps the brain relax. At least, that’s what my mom always told me.”

“It’s nice. It… smells like you.” She sits up on her forearms and watches as you unplug and move the rickety floor fan.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m moving this to your side,” You explain as you plug the fan back in. “People get night terrors when they’re too hot.”

“But, your side- It’ll barely reach you from over here.” Ellie argues.

“I’ll live.” You assure her with a smile. She can’t deny that the feeling of the fan directly facing her now was heavenly. The air rustling her damp hair and cooling her body. She flops back onto the bed, relishing in the fresh air now concentrated on her side of the bed.

Once you had gotten two fresh glasses of cold water, you slowly climb into bed, leaning over Ellie and tucking her damp hair out of her face. “I love you.” You whisper, kissing her on her forehead.

Ellie reaches up and pulls you back down by the nape of your neck, kissing your soft lips. You rest your forehead on hers.

“I love you so, so much.” She mumbles. “Thank you…”

“Wake me up if there’s any other nightmares?” You ask. Ellie nods sheepishly.

With another peck to her lips, you roll over, giving her room to not overcrowd her body with extra heat. Without the fan facing the middle of the bed, you barely get any cool air, but you don’t mind, so long as Ellie gets it all and sleeps comfortably.

“I love you. Goodnight, baby.”

“G’night.”

The rest of the night is filled with soft, steady breathing and the white noise of wind and the crickets chirping outside. Ellie sleeps comfortably the rest of the night, and you catch drafts of fresh air from the open window.

—

Again, not proud of this but I wanted to post it anyway :)

[saschax]

metamorphosis

(n) a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one

TRIGGER WARNINGS: death (described in detail), violence (acts such as killing and torture), grief and loss (protagonist experiences), suicidal ideation (thinking suicide)

please keep in mind this is my first post, and english is not my native language, i speak German. feel free to correct me if any errors is made in the story.

P.S i try to make ghost canon as much as possible, but i dont really know the story so i put a lot of research.

ghost felt himself as if he died completely, his heart stopped working when he witnessed johnny, died. making his soul even heavier, being weighed down by grief.

he wasn't always like this, full of hatred, anger, regret, and remorse. he wasn't always baring his teeth like a cornered stray dog. he didn't always have bloodshot eyes looking for a way out, but never could find a way.

he wasn't always like this, he used to be happy, loving, kind, talkative.

until his family died.

until he was tortured, buried alive with his dead teammate.

until he learned how to kill.

until he lost two friends: roach, and johnny.

ghost hated roach, but at the same time, loved him.

ghost hated the fact that roach saw the wounded and scared animal behind his gnashing teeth, hated him for showing him what it feels like to be held again, to show him how love and companionship feels.

the concept of being held was so strange to him, a language he couldn't understand until roach showed him.

but ghost loved the feeling of companionship, he found warmth in it. he found joy in it, he felt.. seen, roach saw more in him than just a convenient tool for him to have.

ghost's heart fluttered when roach placed all of his trust in him, ghost felt held, and ghost had someone to run to.

it all came crashing down.

roach was shot, the bullet struck his heart directly, blood pouring out rapidly.

ghost, being there, tried his best to help- he cried tears, something he'd never do for a friend, panicked and did everything he can.

roach was dying, gasping mouthful of air, trying to stay alive.

he couldn't stop roach from bleeding or stop the cardiac arrest.

roach was dead, laid in his pool of blood and- and- ghost- he- he failed.

he failed miserably. broke his own promise to himself, a promise that was meant to save roach.

and no matters how many times he assaulted the walls, cried his heart out, no matter how many-

roach, is not coming back. and ghost, failed to save him.

what good is he if he fucking failed to save his friend?

no wonder he couldn't save his own family, he's useless. he's not good at protecting, he doesn't know how. only thing he knows like the back of his hand is to kill.

and when roach died, roach mercilessly chewed his walls, stole his hopes, his joy, and his happiness, with him before going to heaven or God-know where he is.

ghost screamed, and snarled like some sort of a feral dog, begging for roach to give him his other half back- his hopes, his joy back. clawing at the surface, just give it back..

all ghost has is just half of him, the half that is cruel, mean, full of darkness, its all he have.

roach gave him a lesson, a lesson that meant friends are not worth the pain. roach gave him eyes that seen too much, and made ghost hopeless, hardening his shell.

ghost cannot let the same thing happened to him- he can't go through hell and back again. ghost knows he deserved it but its hurt, its hurt so much.

if ghost could go back in time and change the clock, he would. he would let roach's friendship go unanswered. he should've never welcomed in the companionship, the happiness, the pain was too much.

it made ghost felt cornered, deaths, unhappiness, regret, and hatred surronding him. mocking him. he can't escape them.

every time he loves something, death come.

every time he found happiness, something terrible happens.

every time.. history kept repeating themselves over and over and over again, it have ghost's head reeling.

ghost keep running and running, but they always seem to catch up to him. ghost keep scratching the black surface in futile hopes of clawing his way out.

he always seems to be standing on the dark side, all alone. and he gets envious of people who is happy, having a good life, a life he never had.

roach never deserved the death, if anything, roach deserved to live and died of old age.

ghost should've been the one shot, it better anyway because it would've end ghost's misery, it would've break his unhappiness streak because dying seems to be the only happy option he have in his hands.

then soap came into his life, and again, he felt a flicker of hope.

he knows this all too well, history is about to repeat itself.

but as the time turned into weeks, then months- nothing happened. sure, there was chaos, deaths all around them, but soap didn't die yet, surprisingly.

roach and soap was so similar, but at the same time, so glaringly different.

ghost saw roach in soap, of course they were two different beings but still.

just when ghost started becoming closer with.. with johnny, his walls slowly crumbling, letting johnny in.

maybe johnny could change his destiny of being alone.

and ghost fell.

ghost tried his hardest to try and hold onto johnny's hands, but ghost felt his hands gotten sweaty, accidentally letting johnny's fall into another realm.

ghost shouted his name when he saw johnny dead on the ground, kneeling beside him. ghost's wounds reopened, he wanted to tear his heart out.

he failed.

again.

he seemingly can't shed a tear, it was like his mind already knew what was going to happen, but ghost was too busy staring at the light, admiring it before it faded, leaving him alone in the dark.

ghost's soul feels missing, like all of him is gone.

roach took half of him, and now johnny took the other, or well, what left. the two left ghost scrambling for his lost self, on the ground trying to pick himself together but he can't.

they stole it from him, hid it from him somewhere he will never find.

he returned to his room, seeing a gun on his desk.

oh, how easy it would to kill himself right now.

but he can't.

he tried before, could never pulled the trigger. every time he tried, it felt like his fingers went through it.

the death of johnny made price scrambling to find new blood into the team, trying to fill the void, a 3-man team won't work considering their sort of operations.

ghost laughed hollowing, no one could replace johnny or roach for that matter, even if the two stole his soul and his bleeding, wounded heart.

ghost still love them, and he's going to honor their memories the only way he knows how.

continue the fight they started, until he dies or win the war.

maybe..

maybe he was meant to be alone angry confused angry sad alone regret grief alone with no one to turn or run to.

maybe he's not supposed to have someone.

[rateatingraccoon]

Demon brothers as Sir Chloe songs

Sir Chloe has been my favorite music artist for a year now, but I've also been on more of a listening streak. So... the Obey Me! demons brothers as Sir Chloe songs!

(Warning: Spoilers in Belphie's explanation)

Lucifer

Leash - I Am The Dog album

I was a bit torn on this one, but I think Leash suits Lucifer quite well. Centered around feeling in control, with mentions of sinning, it definitely gives Lucifer towards MC vibes.

"Pretty shiny, newcomer In the corner shaking off the water"

"My home, a place above the sinkhole I know, my only love is control"

Sinner in a pool, it's a bitter blue I'm nobody's you"

Mammon

Center - I Am The Dog album

This one was a bit easier, since there are only so many songs from SC that aren't super angsty, lmao. Center is focused on, well, an obsession with someone, not being able to control your desire to be with them. Lots of themes of impulsiveness and attachment - both things that scream Mammon.

"Thought I was patient, but I bit right through I could never get enough of you"

"I like a challenge when the prize is you Try my hardest if you ask me to"

"Itching for a fix Habit I'll never kick"

Leviathan

Hooves - I Am The Dog album

Not as confident with this one, but with Hooves centering around themes of being different, I think it suits our introverted demon well.

"At the end of your pack, I know Can I offer a drag?"

"I don't want to hold hands, I don't want to hold hands You've been chewing my hair over and over again"

"Eyes like a goat Blinking sideways at the show"

Satan

Wrath - Party Favors EP

Daddy's Car - I Am The Dog album

I couldn't just choose one for this guy, partially because these two songs are what inspired me to make this post. Wrath is pretty self explanatory - centered around failing to suppress anger. Daddy's Car, however, is harder to explain but gives very strong Satan vibes. Basically trying to help someone with daddy issues. More MC -> Satan rather than vise versa.

"I, I took a bath Couldn't drown my wrath It's alright to be mad"

"Lock on the door, holes in the wall I wasn't there, but I know it's my fault So watch me come apart"

"It was haunted, I was asked to leave it Politely, a warning"

"See your glower through the rosy lighting I can see the numbers in the air"

"And I'll drive with no headlights this time You're my baby forever even when you're not mine"

Asmodeus

Company - single

This one was probably the easiest. Centered around a longing desire for someone - and their company. This desire can easily be interpreted as lust.

"Shadows in my room And they're all in the shape of you Give me a sign to Do what I wanna do"

"You gotta ask me for it 'Cause I don't know what I don't know I wanna hear you want it I wanna hear you ask for more"

"Shadows in my room But I don't take my eyes off you"

Beelzebub

Walk You Home - single

This one was by far the hardest, but I think Walk You Home takes after Beel's vibes of helping you no matter what. He's just a sweet guy, and I think this song reflects that.

He could also be good for Center, since that song has a lot of lollipop themes.

"Don't know your name yet But your head's still resting on my arm Subway, fly by On the green line, no one does you harm"

"Just a pretty girl with a shot glass In your Sunday dress and coat I found you in the bathroom like that Help you up and say hello"

"I've been around the block And I see you cry a lot Can I walk you home"

Belphegor

I Am The Dog - I Am The Dog album

This one was also pretty hard, but I decided on I Am The Dog mainly because of Belphie's trauma with Lillith and, obviously, the murder that lead to. While I'm not totally confident on this one, I think they do share some similar themes.

"Head underwater Stones on my back I didn't do well, but I still tried my best"

"I am the dog under your couch Gnashing teeth and open mouth"

"Head underwater Hand in a fist Hard to describe something I'll never miss"

And that's all! Thank you for reading, and maybe check out Sir Chloe's music if you haven't because it's amazing!!

[yellowocaballero]

Hey wouldn’t it be funny if I wrote a crossover between canon and the roleswap AU.

So I did <3. There’s no reason for this to exist, I was just bored and self-indulgent and amused myself by thinking about how fucking insane the Space Cadet team has to be in comparison to canon. This takes place at S4 Canon!Jon’s time, and basically between chapters 2 and 3 of solitaire. It is not canon. Do not think too hard about it. Enjoy. Story under the cut. 

“Yes, in almost every way.” Jon wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it up and dropping it on the table. “Jonathan Sims, thirty one years old, Aquarius. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. The Archivist.” He paused a beat, uncertain of how to broach this. “I think Helen may have deposited me in an alternate dimension? Best case scenario.”

Everybody stared at him blankly. 

“Well,” Basira said finally, “sounds like the kind of bullshit you get yourself wrapped up in, Jon.”

“I knew it!” Sasha cried, before deflating. “I mean, I didn’t, really, not at all, but that’s fascinating! Will you answer some questions? Who’s the Queen in your universe?”

“I’m back from the dead for a week and my life’s already stupid again,” Tim said blankly. 

“Two Jons?” Martin asked, far too excitedly. 

“Can I leave you alone,” Melanie gritted out, between clenched teeth, “for five minutes?”

Jon woke up at his desk, which was so common that it was somewhat pathetic. 

Not that a lot of things weren’t pathetic about Jon, but seeing as he no longer technically had anywhere to live he’d give himself a pass. Or was it pathetic to be homeless too? Jon felt strongly as if it was, but he was working on the judgemental thing. Martin had always -

Martin. Jon blinked blearily at his empty desk, scrubbing a little at the sleep that had accumulated in the corner of his eyes. Right. Speaking of pathetic. Jon didn’t like admitting that Martin was the first thing he thought about when he woke up and the last thing he thought about before he went to bed, but he was working on being more honest with himself. Denial about the situation didn’t do anyone any favors. Denial was what made him start stalking and hunting people like - like some sort of awful predator. No more denial. Jon knew who he was, and he knew what he was, and he was going to try and be as good a person as he can be despite it. It was the least he could do. 

Wait. Why was his desk empty?

It wasn’t completely empty. There was a laptop on the center of it, and some assorted papers stuck haphazardly underneath. The usual recorder was tucked into the corner, clicked off. He swiped his hand over the trackpad of his laptop, quickly logging in, and instead of seeing his usual research or theory maps, he saw...a video game?

Jon squinted at the video game. What was The Sims?

He looked around his office, well-lit with the harsh fluorescent lights. It was his office, complete with the couch on the far wall that Daisy had taken to napping on and the two walls of metal shelving that held filling boxes and collections of tapes. Several filing cabinets were lined up behind Jon, holding his favorite statements. Organized by Entity. He was quite proud of it. 

But the Statements seemed to be gone. Some loose papers were always scattered around, slipping out of boxes or sitting in haphazard piles weighed down by tape recorders. None of them were there. Basira must have taken them. Jon stood up, moving around the desk to pull out a box and peer inside. Empty. 

Some part of Jon’s brain, growing louder every day, wailed and gnashed its teeth that someone had stolen his Statements, his knowledge. Most of Jon was just worried over what Basira could possibly be doing with them. 

Unconsciously, Jon’s hand drifted down to his stomach. It was purely a habit, of course - the hunger never gave him stomach pains. He was so hungry all the time, he could barely feel it anymore. 

The Statements were all gone.

Was Basira trying to starve him out…?

Jon shook himself. She wouldn’t - well, she wouldn’t go behind his back to do it. She knew that he’d just start preying on people -

His life had gotten so pathetic. 

A loud crash and a yell echoed from the other side of the door, and Jon recognized Melanie’s voice. He winced, and decided to stay in his office for the time being. Best to stay out of her way. She always reacted somewhat explosively to him -

Then the faint, muffled tones of Martin’s voice echoed through the door, and Jon forgot all hesitation as he burst out of his office. 

The bullpen was just slightly different from where Jon had seen it last - the desks arranged differently, different detritus scattered around, no sleeping bags or hair dryers - but he wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He was only paying attention to Martin, who was sitting at his desk as easy as you please. He was smiling. 

Jon hadn’t seen Martin smile in so long.

He also hadn’t seen Martin wear those adorable little sweatervests in so long, but that wasn’t important right now. Jon cried out softly, like he had been punched - he did feel as if he had been punched, it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation - and Martin turned slightly in his chair to look at him. He smiled when he saw Jon, so kind and happy and Martin, and Jon felt like he was dying at the sight of Martin just smiling, just looking at him. 

“Look, you don’t need to worry about me,” Martin was saying, to an unamused and remarkably composed Melanie. He held up a large combat knife, the metal glinting off the fluorescent lights. “Jon likes it.”

“See, it’s not you I’m worried about,” Melanie said, arms crossed. She was dressed - in her jeans and green flannel, like she used to. Her hair looked clean. The crop top, cut-off shorts, and fishnets, that Jon hadn’t seen her take off in the last month, where - “It’s poor Jon. He’s too desperate for affection to stand up for himself.”

“Jon, you okay?” Tim asked, sitting behind Martin and sipping a margarita. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

That was when Jon - hungry, tired, hallucinating - felt his legs give out. It was just in time, too. He collapsed to the ground just as Martin threw the knife, sending it whistling where his head had been half a second ago. 

Then he hit his head on the floor, and blissfully fainted. 

****

“ - she’s not his mother, it’s not Georgie’s job to make sure he eats.”

“It’s because Daisy isn’t here.” That was Basira’s voice, almost mournful. “Daisy always used to remind him to eat.”

“How did this guy make it to thirty again?” An unfamiliar voice asked. 

“If it wasn’t for this ragtag bunch of lesbians, I would have killed him months ago,” Tim said, then paused a beat. “What? I’m owning up to my mistakes.”

“Remind me to give you a sticker later,” Melanie said dryly. 

Jon opened his eyes, to see five faces crowded in front of him. They were all bending over him, identical expressions of mild intrigue on their faces as they bickered with each other. Martin looked very, very mildly concerned, as Melanie and Basira just looked exasperated. Tim - and the woman - who was the woman?

Instinctually, Jon reached out with his mind and sought the answer. But it was as if he was reaching with a limb that had been cut off. No, a limb that had never existed. Dazed, Jon lifted his real hand, if only to make sure that he could still move - and found himself staring at an unmarred, smooth, healthy hand. 

“Martin didn’t cut it off,” the woman said helpfully. She had a thick mane of curly brown hair, and brown skin a similar shade to his. She was holding a granola bar, and she easily stuffed it in his outstretched hand. “If that was a concern or anything. When’s the last time you ate, Jon?”

The question spent a spike of anxiety through him, Jon instantly interpreting it as an accusation. The granola bar wasn’t going to do anything. Of course he was hungry, he’s always hungry - 

Jon wasn’t hungry. 

Jon sat up, letting the assorted people, both alive and dead, step away. He mechanically unwrapped the granola bar and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing lethargically. It didn’t taste like sawdust and cement. It tasted like salt, and nuts. 

He swallowed the granola bar, forming a hypothesis. He looked at Basira, who at least was the most familiar here. It galled him even having to ask, not just knowing, but -  “What year is it?”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “If you hit your head we’re taking you to C&E. We can’t afford for you to get any stupider, Jon.”

“Your concern is noted,” Jon said, strained. 

“Don’t make fun of him, he’s a concussion victim,” Melanie scolded. She smiled at Jon - hideously novel. “It’s 2018. I’m calling Georgie and getting you home, you’re useless to us with a brain injury.”

He no longer had a hypothesis. Jon shook his head mutely. The last person Jon wanted to field questions from was Georgie. “I’m fine,” Jon said hoarsely. “I think I just need to - lie down a bit.” And not look at Tim. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and was still slurping his margarita obnoxiously. He was leaning against a desk, somewhat heavily. “I’ll be fine.”

Everybody looked at each other, then shrugged. Melanie reached down and helped him up, gently pushing him towards the couch set up in the corner of the bullpen, and he found himself stumbling towards it and lying down. Martin loudly offered to nurse him back to health, which incentivized Basira and Melanie to quickly push him inside the recording room and lock the door for...some reason. Jon wanted to go talk to Martin, figure everything out with him. But he didn’t - paralyzed, or maybe just frightened, or maybe just very tired. 

The knife he had thrown was still lying on the floor, somehow innocently. The woman picked it up, inspecting it closely, and sighed. 

“There is something off about that guy.”

“None of them are ever going to believe you, Sash,” Tim said dully, flipping through a brightly colored magazine on his desk. Jon’s breath caught in his throat. “Melanie thinks it’s freakier if you haven’t stabbed anyone.”

This was it. This was when Tim would say, ‘Everybody wants to stab Jon’, or something. It’d be fair. If this was a dream, a fantasy of dead friends, then that’s what he would say. But he didn’t. Tim - strangely small, strangely gaunt, with hollow cheeks that reminded Jon a little of Daisy - didn’t look up at Sasha, flipping through his magazine, and Sasha avoided eye contact with him. She looked at Jon instead, from where he was lying on the couch, and gave him a strained smile. 

Jon found the courage to speak to her. It should have felt familiar, like Sasha, but nothing about her was familiar. He had listened to her tapes a dozen times, any scrap of her voice he could find, but - well, everybody sounded different on the tapes. “Sasha. Can you get me my phone? And a...Statement?”

Sasha brightened enthusiastically. “You want a Statement? Say no more, Jon, I’ll hook you up. Nice to see somebody taking an interest. Let’s keep this between you and me, okay?”

“What…?”

But she had already disappeared into his office, and the faint sounds of banging echoed throughout the room. Melanie and Basira were standing in the kitchenette, chatting lowly, Basira occasionally laughing at something Melanie said. 

Jon wondered where Daisy was, and instinctively tried to reach again before hitting that wall. He gritted his teeth, head still swimming. 

The most important thing was figuring out if this place was dangerous or not. Wherever he was, whatever was going on, he had to discern if it was a danger. Could this have anything to do with an unknown ritual? No, how could it? Elias? He wouldn’t put any of this past Elias. 

With a twist in his gut Jon remembered the cannibal priest’s Statement. Any suspicion of unreality, any feeling as if things were not as they should be...or was this a pleasant, Lotus Eater’s dream instead? If that was true, would Martin be throwing knives at him?

“Here you go! First one I saw on your desk.”

Jon sat up, mutely taking the paper and phone Sasha held out to him. It wasn’t his mobile - it was much nicer and sleeker than his own battered thing - but he had to assume it was Jon’s. He took the Statement too, scanning it quickly. 

Of course, of course. It was Anya Villete’s. Jon thought about this one frequently, captured by the prospect of multiple realities. Not worth the danger of exploring, but there was an intoxicating element of danger. Maybe the Jon that these people thought they were talking to had been reading it, and accidentally triggered something - 

“What did I say!”

Before Jon could react, the paper was unceremoniously ripped from his hands. Jon cried out helplessly, only to see Melanie standing in front of him with an unamused expression and his lifeline in her uncaring fists. 

“We’ve been over this,” Melanie scolded - scolded? “No statements, they’re bad for your tummy.” She frowned at Sasha, who didn’t seem very guilty. “And I told you to stop enabling him. He’s already sick, and you know these things upset him.”

“I’m gathering data,” Sasha said cheerfully. “Something weird was happening in his eyes when he was reading that Statement. Give it back, I need to record it.”

“Can I have that back, please?” Jon asked planatively. “I need it.”

“You do not.” Melanie folded up the statement tightly, shoving it in her jeans and ignoring Jon’s cry of despair. “If you’re feeling under-stimulated, go play knife monopoly with Martin. Otherwise relax and make sure you aren’t going to faint again.”

“I’m not going to -”

“I will call Georgie,” Melanie threatened, and Jon clicked his mouth shut. Melanie nodded, satisfied in having won the argument. If it was even an argument. “Sasha, if you let Jon find another Statement I will be locking the library and giving the key to Martin.”

“Yes, boss,” Sasha said, depressed. 

“Tim, you’re with me, we need to design our plan of attack for chasing down Daisy,” Melanie barked, and Tim straightened in his seat. Jon saw for the first time that there was a folded up cane on his desk. “I need your dumb fear demon powers.”

“That’s not how they -” Tim started, but at Melanie’s look he quailed. “Yeah, boss.”

“Great.” Melanie folded her arms, frowning down at Jon, and at the receiving end of the look Jon found himself quailing too. “If you leave the Archives to do anything other than go to the bathroom the rest of the day, I will tell Georgie that you were exerting yourself while sick again. And she will call you a poor little dear and give you lots of hugs and lots of soup. You will hate it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, boss,” Jon said, depressed. 

“Good. I need to go psychologically torment more people, I’ll be in the library. Tim!” She snapped her fingers, and strode off to the library as Tim scrambled up and limped after her. 

Jon watched her go dazedly as the library door clicked shut behind her. Sasha sighed and went back to her desk, cracking open the thick books on the top and relaxing. They weren’t even research books, just nonfiction about the Mayflower. Basira was back at her desk too, this time with her chin resting on her arms folded on the desk as she watched a...movie. Was that a romcom? 

This was dangerous. The situation was dangerous, doubtless the plot of some force or another that hated Jon personally and wanted him to suffer. He had to do some research, find out what was going on, track down Elias and find his power and dig into that source of infinite knowledge lying dormant in his mind, uproot every terrifying thing that hated him and shake them down for answers.

But he was more scared of Melanie. Just because she didn’t seem to have any knives on her didn’t mean that it was the case. Unless Martin had them all. So Jon lay back on the couch, rotely pressed in the passcode to his phone, and idly opened up the internet browser in complete comfort and relaxation. 

The couch was so comfortable and soft, in fact, that Jon soon fell asleep. Easy and smooth, as if he really was still a human, who needed sleep at all.

And when Jon dreamed, he dreamed of blissful and restful nothing. 

******

He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder, and Jon screamed himself awake as his eyes flew open. 

But it wasn’t anybody dangerous, or anything willing to hurt him. It was just - Basira. Just Basira. Jon exhaled in relief, ignoring Basira’s incredulous expression. 

“It’s five, we’re heading out. You feeling well enough for pub night, mate?”

They were going home. The strangeness registered first, the fact that Sasha was shrugging on a jacket and Melanie was stuffing a laptop in a backpack, before Jon remembered where he was. Or where he wasn’t. He mustered a faint smile for Basira, but judging from her frown it came out closer to a grimace. 

Pub night. They were going out for drinks, then going to their own flats. Eating dinner. Sleeping. Waking up the next morning, then heading off to work. The mundanity boggled. 

Maybe it was a Lotus Eater, Jon thought, dazed. A world where there were no Entities, no fears or harm. Where everybody was human, and happy. 

Maybe. He hadn’t actually been allowed to look at any of the Statements, so he didn’t actually know. He couldn’t imagine that this group would be so casual if the Statements really were true. 

Part of him wanted to beg off, curl up and sleep in document storage so he wouldn’t have to interact with these people for any longer. He was out of practice: these days he rarely had long conversations with anybody who wasn’t Daisy, and he hadn’t seen Daisy all day. Basira exchanged a few curt sentences with him each day. Melanie...cried and screamed, a lot. Not exactly conducive to social skills. 

  Sasha’s face was buried in a book, not even looking up as she navigated the desks. Tim was talking a patient Melanie’s ear off about Nietzche. 

“I think I can make it,” Jon found himself saying. “Just a pint.”

Besides, he had the feeling that if he curled up in document storage Georgie would...be mad at him. Or something. They were flatmates? Or something?

They walked out the door in a herd, talking and laughing. Jon found himself hanging in the back of the group, next to Sasha. She wasn’t looking up from her book, so Jon felt safe in staring unabashedly at Tim. He was using a cane, just like Daisy had for two or so weeks right out of the coffin. He even used it in the same way: not favoring one leg or the other, using it for strength instead of balance. Muscle weakness. He was just as emancipated as Daisy had been too, in that particular corpse-like way that made him look like a zombie. His hair was long and lanky, brittle strands reaching to his chin instead of his normal lush and gelled look. 

The faces in the lobby were the same - Sabrina behind the desk, Roy playing security guard - even as the decorations were different. No portrait of Jonah Magnus, or of the other directors. They broke out into the London street, as smoggy and crowded as ever, and Jon found himself trailing behind the others in a direct route to their usual pub. The same one he, Basira, Melanie, and Daisy go drinking at sometimes. Only sometimes. They went without him more often, but Jon didn’t blame them, really -

“Something on my face, mate?”

Tim’s wry voice startled Jon out of his reverie, and he flushed. Tim smiled at him, thinly and without humor, and gestured him forward as he dropped behind Melanie. Jon stepped forward, tucking his hands into his jacket, fighting the rising swell in his throat. 

“You’ve been staring. I’m not that much uglier, am I?” Tim asked lightly, a parody of his old good humor. That, at least, was familiar - Tim’s fragile and brittle humor, tightly leashing rage. 

“You...you look good,” Jon said. He buried his hands deeper in his jacket pockets, fighting the lump in his throat. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “It’s good to see you again.”

It was probably a strange thing for Jon to say - but Tim just smiled, even more bitter than the last. “You’ve always been too nice for your own good, Sims.” First time that’s been said about him. “You forgive too easy.”

“Grudges...aren’t worth it, in my experience.” Jon exhaled slowly, watching Melanie’s red hair glint in the sunlight in front of him. “Life’s too short and all.”

“Really? Thought you people loved grudges.” Tim blinked a second, before clearly remembering something. “We love grudges, right. Still, Jon, I never really…” He trailed off awkwardly. “You know.”

He did not. “Right,” Jon said. 

“Apologized,” Tim said hurriedly, when it became clear that Jon wasn’t about to say anything committal. “For trying to kill you all those times. Uh, and trying to get you arrested. And helping frame you for murder. And that whole kidnapping incident -”

Something began to occur to Jon. A rational thought seeped into his brain. 

“In the woods,” Jon said slowly. “Because you thought I was a monster.”

Tim winced, confirming Jon’s suspicion. “Right. Trust me, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I know I was wrong. I’ve turned over a new leaf and everything.” He brightened. “Did you hear I’m bisexual now?”

“Everybody heard you were bisexual now,” Basira said, bored. “Ten times.”

“Good for you,” Jon said, as sincerely as he could. “That’s...great. Bi rights.”

Tim beamed. “Bi rights!” He clapped Jon’s shoulder supportively with his other hand as Melanie held open the door to the pub for them, ducking inside. “Man, I never thought I’d see the inside of a pub again. I only got to go a few times with you guys before everything. Can Martin still hustle the room at pool?”

“One way to find out,” Martin said serenely. 

“Please don’t start a pub brawl,” Melanie said, pained. “We’ve been kicked out of three places already, I don’t fancy making it a fourth.”

But when Jon looked backwards, he saw Sasha looking up from her book, staring directly at him, blinking owlishly. 

They crowded into a corner booth, squishing up against each other and all talking at once. Jon wanted to drift towards Martin, get him alone and ask what was going on, but after one look at him eyeing up the pool cues speculatively he changed his mind. Only Basira was acting even remotely normal, so he settled for sliding in between her and Sasha. He was dizzy with the noise and the clamor of the familiar pub, overwhelmed by the familiar-unfamiliar tide of voices, and it was taking all of his energy not to spend hours just staring at Sasha, memorizing every line and crease of her face.

The first thing he did was order every single crummy, greasy, soggy serving of pub food he found on the menu, ignoring the way his Assistants laughed at him, before settling in the corner of the booth and pulling out his phone. Jon wasn’t even hungry - he wasn’t hungry - but he was shoving every soggy chip into his mouth until he puked. A human body was a drastically underrated thing. 

Out of curiosity, Jon turned on the front camera of his phone and scrutinized his reflection. He had noticed that his hair was shorter, tied back in a puffed bun instead of his customary ragged ponytail, but beyond that he hadn’t checked. 

He looked...good. No longer gaunt and malnourished, he was a healthy weight. No bags under his eyes. Well kept fade and modest, well trimmed facial hair. No scar over his throat, no circular worm scars.  That was less of a surprise - Tim, Martin, and Sasha were all missing the worm scars. 

His eyes were brown. Just brown. No electrifying green, no spinning iris, no churning wheel of knowledge. Just his normal, boring brown. 

He hadn’t known how much he missed it. 

As the others started arguing passionately about...vlogs? Or something?...Jon pulled out his wallet. Money had the same old Queen on it, along with his old collection of take-out receipts that had all started disappearing when he stopped eating. A photocopy of a picture of his parents, heavily worn and creased. Still an orphan, then. Jon missed the days when that was his biggest problem. 

His driver’s license was the same as ever too. Same name - Jonathan Andrew Sims. Same birthday - February 14th, which he had always considered life’s practical joke on him. The United Kingdom still existed, which was either a good or a bad thing. 

He replaced his wallet, ignoring Sasha’s curious stare, and pulled out his phone. He had only gone so far as making sure that major world events were the same before passing out. This time, he pressed his text messages, and scrolled down his most recents. As usual, it was only a few people - almost all of which were at this table - but there were a few other people too. 

Georgie was the obvious one, and the most recent. He clicked on that conversation, unsurprised to see an immediate photograph of the Admiral looking angelic as he rolled around in some grass in a patch of sun. 

Georgie: Baby at the park soaking in some rays!!! <3 <3 <3. I caught him terrorizing a stray dog. Naughty baby!!

Jon blinked at the message. The Admiral did seem a little...more evil, than he once did. Why were his eyes green? Underneath was Jon’s own text, sent twenty minutes before he had woken up that afternoon. 

Jon: He’s committing atrocities and you’re laughing. You’re laughing. 

Jon couldn’t fight a smile. He missed Georgie. 

He switched over to the text conversation just underneath. He squinted at the contact name. That couldn’t be right. 

Gerry: can u pick up milk from aldis? and scented candles

Gerry: for necromancy reasons

Jon: Can you raise the dead tomorrow? Helen said she wants to talk to me so I may be home late. If you don’t hear from me in five hours she’s likely kidnapped me. As a heads up. 

Gerry: OH, SO LONG AS I HAVE THE HEADS UP?

Gerry: I’m making Georgie give Melanie the money to buy that toddler leash she’s always threatening to get for u. If u die im not resurrecting u. 

Jon: Have fun with one less person to share the rent

Gerry: we dont PAY RENT

Gerard Keay. Jon blinked at the phone. That conversation raised as many questions as it answered. Gerard Keay was alive? He was Jon’s flatmate? He practiced necromancy? None of it seemed very relevant right now, but it made Jon wonder who else was resurrected from the dead. Was necromancy common in this universe, like knitting?

Still, Helen explained quite a bit. It also suggested what Jon was already wondering: that the supernatural was far from foreign. If Helen was supernatural, and not just...a jerk. 

If Tim was an Avatar of the Hunt...if he had been in the coffin...and Daisy’s been hard to track down…

Jon was interrupted in his increasingly coherent train of thought by his food arriving, and all thoughts were thrown out the window. His basket of fish and chips slid in front of him, and he wasted absolutely no time in cramming the fries into his mouth three at a time, not wasting time salting or putting vinegar on them. They were dripping with crease, soggy and burning his tongue. 

They were perfect.

The waiter, looking somewhat intimidated, slid his bacon butty on the table too, and Jon took barely a moment to swallow before stuffing that in his face too. Bacon, butter, brown sauce - it exploded on his tongue, a cavalcade of salt and seasoning. Increasingly terrified, the waiter put his pie and mash on the table and quickly fled, as Jon finished cramming the sandwich into his mouth before moving back to the fish. It was hot, crackling on his tongue, strong and fishy and perfect.

Jon looked up from his food long enough to grab a glass of water and gulp half of it down. It wasn’t until he put his glass down that he saw the looks on the faces of his Assistants. All of whom ranged from frightened to terrified.

  Everybody except Martin, whose chin was propped on his hand and was sighing dreamily. “It’s really hot how you can pack it all away, Jon. Do you want to come over to my flat and let me cook for you? I’d make a lot of food. ”

Jon choked on his fish.

That was it for Sasha. She slammed her book down, expression intent, and jabbed a finger at a now wheezing Jon. “Jon would never choke at Martin’s creepy flirting! That isn’t Jonathan Sims!”

Jon stole Tim’s glass of water, ignoring his squawk, and downed that too. 

Now everybody really was staring at him, and Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. As the kids say, busted. He should probably stop eating and make his escape while he still could, before Tim decided to change his mind on his ‘murdering Jon’ stance. 

But outside did not have pub food. Inside had pub food. Jon made his decision with the knowledge that, if his Assistants reacted from a reasonable place of Imposter-based trauma and killed him for pretending to be Jonathan Sims, he’d deserve it. He was not moving from this spot until his food was gone or his Assistants killed him. 

Jon finished off Tim’s water, dropping it back on the lacquered table, and hoarsely said, “I’ve been having a very strange day.”

Nobody leaped for his throat or pointed a gun at him, which was always nice. It was more than Jon had been expecting. Instead, everybody looked at Melanie, who narrowed her eyes. Jon realized, a second too late, that they were waiting for her. Whatever happened to him, Melanie would decide. 

...why Melanie? 

Melanie rested her elbows on the table, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth. She locked eyes with Jon, breaking him down like a judge at a dog show, and Jon tried to shovel mash in his mouth as innocently as possible. 

“Sasha. What’s your evidence?”

“He’s been acting weird all day,” Sasha said promptly, as if she’d been expecting the question. She shifted her arm purposefully, and Jon realized with a start that she was concealed carrying. Was that legal? “Jon never asks me for Statements outright, he always just sneaks them behind Melanie’s back. If he really fainted because he was hungry, he would have eaten his lunch too, instead of just my granola bar. And he hasn’t talked to Martin since he fainted - he isn’t even sitting next to him.” Sasha drew herself up triumphantly. “And, he looked actually scared when Martin threw that knife at him. He’s never scared of Martin. He normally just role-plays the fear bit.”

“Which I appreciate,” Martin said supportively, making Jon blanch. That elicited more suspicious looks from everyone, which Jon couldn’t even begin to parse. “But he has been acting strange today, hasn’t he?”

“Tim?” Melanie asked sharply. 

Tim sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose a little. “Smells like him.” At Melanie’s intense look, he grudgingly added, “No sawdust or plastic. Flesh and blood, boss.”

Jon began stuffing forkfuls of pastry and meat crumb from the pie in his mouth as Melanie went back to squinting at Jon. Not glaring - just an intense, sidelong look, fingers steepled in front of her. “You aren’t denying it, Jon.”

Jon mumbled something. 

“Swallow your food.”

Jon carefully swallowed his mouthful of dough. “I have not eaten human food,” Jon said delicately, “in five months. I will answer your questions momentarily.”

And then Jon cleaned all three of his plates, to the dumbfounded looks of his Assistants. 

Finally, after everybody else’s drinks had arrived - including Jon’s pint, which he reached for so quickly that Martin stole it away from him and refused to give it back - and Jon had cleaned all three of his plates, he felt ready to talk. He thumped on his chest, burping a little, and leaned back in his plush seat. Melanie was nursing her pint, sipping from it slowly, as Basira gave him her usual ‘I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you’ look. 

“Okay,” Jon said finally. “I apologize for not - ah, clarifying before. I thought I was dreaming. To be honest, I worry that I’m still dreaming.” He looked down at his empty basket and plates. “I dearly hope that wasn’t human flesh or something horrid like that.”

Sasha perked up. “Like in the cannibal priest statement? That’s fascinating -”

“Shut up about cannibal priests,” Melanie groaned, and Sasha guiltily shut up. Oddly rude, but nobody seemed surprised. “You are Jon, right?”

“Yes, in almost every way.” Jon wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it up and dropping it on the table. “Jonathan Sims, thirty one years old, Aquarius. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. The Archivist.” He paused a beat, uncertain of how to broach this. “I think Helen may have deposited me in an alternate dimension? Best case scenario.”

Everybody stared at him blankly. 

“Well,” Basira said finally, “sounds like the kind of bullshit you get yourself wrapped up in, Jon.”

“I knew it!” Sasha cried, before deflating. “I mean, I didn’t, really, not at all, but that’s fascinating! Will you answer some questions? Who’s the Queen in your universe?”

“I’m back from the dead for a week and my life’s already stupid again,” Tim said blankly. 

“Two Jons?” Martin asked, far too excitedly. 

“Can I leave you alone,” Melanie gritted out, between clenched teeth, “for five minutes?”

Then everybody was talking over each other, arguing and exclaiming and yelling, and Jon frantically drank his pint. They were so loud. 

Finally, Melanie chopped a hand through the buzz, and everyone quieted. She pursed her lips, looking Jon up and down, and he anxiously let himself get looked at. “How did you know it was an alternate universe? What’s the difference?”

“Martin threw a knife at me and Tim and Sasha are alive,” Jon said instantly. 

“I’m not actually dead in your universe,” Tim said quickly, “just trapped in an infernal demon hell coffin. If you can get me out, I’d be really thankful -”

“No, you’re quite dead,” Jon said apologetically. “That happened to Daisy in my universe, though. A - a lot of what you did here, I think, Daisy did.” He looked at Basira, frowning. “Where is Daisy? She’s not…”

“She’s fine,” Basira said curtly, folding her arms and leaning back. “Having lots of fun ditching us and having fun at her little secretary desk. It’s fine. I don’t care. She can do what she wants, she’s an adult.”

“Basira’s been pining tragically ever since Daisy ran off to go work for Peter Lukas,” Melanie said sympathetically. 

Jon felt a little called out. “Ah. That’s - that’s very unfortunate.” He slowly turned to Martin, who still seemed caught up in the ‘two Jons’ aspect of this. “And you’re...you would define yourself as full of rage?”

“At all times, all the time, without cessation,” Martin agreed affably. “Why? That’s not weird to you, is it?”

“Uh huh.” Jon slowly turned to Sasha. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult you, but...did you happen to once work as a Constable for the Met?”

Everybody winced. Sasha sighed. “I regret all of my actions and I’m very sorry that I was once a pig and I’ll never do it again because I value due process now.”

“Word, sister,” Tim said, raising his pint. 

“Hm,” Jon said, far too much coming together.  But that left a big question, one thing that didn’t make sense. “What about me? Do I - eat trauma?”

Basira stared at him blankly. “You try, sometimes, but we usually just spray water at you until you stop.”

“That explains it,” said Jon, despite the fact that it didn’t explain anything. 

“Your questions are pointless, and this is a waste of time.” Melanie clapped her hands sharply, making everyone straighten to attention. She stood up from her seat, everybody scrambling to protect their glasses as Melanie clambered on top of the table. “Helen! Get out here!”

“She’s not - she’s not Beetlejuice, you can’t just call her name and make her appear,” Jon said blankly. “How’s she even supposed to hear -”

“She can hear me just fine,” Melanie called, “because she’s been sitting at the bar this whole time.”

Everybody’s heads craned around to look at the bar. Through the stream of people, carrying drinks and laughing, Jon could faintly make out a tall, willowy figure with a large afro sitting on a barstool at the bar, tapping the rim of one elegant martini with a long, manicured fingernail. 

Then she swiveled around, and Helen grinned broadly at all of them. She waved cheekily with one hand, fingers waving and rippling strangely in the dim pub lights. “Hello! You rang?”

Melanie jabbed a finger at the table pointedly. “Michael’s too young to be here too, Helen!”

“They’re eighteen, they’re a big non-Euclidean concept!” Helen tittered, as she hopped of the stool. Jon’s draw dropped as a much smaller, slight figure next to her hopped off too. They were a teenager, with a curly mop of blonde hair and big, watery blue eyes that seemed just a little strange. Everything about them was on the edge of familiar, and not in the usual way of the Spiral. 

“She was waiting for us to figure it out,” Basira murmured, catching Jon’s attention. “It’s definitely funny to her.”

“Helen defined schadenfreude, I’m afraid,” Jon said, depressed, as Helen and her tagalong popped up at the edge of their table. Melanie had said Michael - and the kid did look like Michael, younger and alive and wide-eyed. Their watery eyes caught on Jon, and they tilted their head curiously. The sight of them hurt Jon’s head more than the Spiral usually did - a testament to the human body he was borrowing. 

Human. That was no defense. He was vulnerable, and judging from the angle of Helen’s smile she knew it. 

“Enjoying your vacation, Archivist?” Helen tittered, folding her hands girlishly as Melanie hopped off the table and back in her seat. “I’ve been having so much fun in this universe I thought I ought to bring a friend! Buy one plane ticket get one free, you know. I have this coupon for a great spa around here -”

“Helen,” Melanie intoned dangerously.

Helen tittered a nervous laugh. Was she...scared of Melanie? “Don’t worry! Your darling little Jon���s perfectly safe. He’s having a great time in one of my favorite dimensions, this wonderful post-apocalyptic adventure with a werewolf -

“Helen,” Melanie said slowly, danger building with every word, “we talked about what happens when you remove Jons from their native ecosystems.”

“They get sick,” Michael said somberly, nodding their head. “An’ wilt.”

“It is very stressful for the Jon, Helen. You know what we don’t like?”

“A stressed Jon?” Michael volunteered. 

“Yes, Michael.” Melanie smiled pleasantly at Helen, who blanched. “A stressed Jon. Because when Jon gets stressed, my girlfriend gets stressed. And when my girlfriend gets stressed, I get stressed. And when I get stressed, everybody is about to have a very bad time. Get it? Helen?”

“Completely understood, very sympathetic, I see your point completely,” Helen said hurriedly. “Really, you can say that I did my dear Archivist a favor! He hasn’t had a human body in almost half a year, the poor dear was so sad about it. It’s a break, really!”

Tim squinted at Jon. “You’re really full on fear demon, then?”

Jon squirmed guiltily, ashamed.  “I prefer the term Avatar. But...yes, I’m an amoral monster distant from humanity, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melanie said impatiently. “You’re about as far from humanity as I am. Having stupid superpowers or cramming shitty food into your mouth doesn’t make you inhuman, it just means you hang out with the wrong crowd. Go back to your own universe and get some rest, I bet you’re stressing out all your friends.”

“I’m really not,” Jon said weakly. “I - I really only have one friend.”

“No wonder you look so tragic all the time,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “Jon gets all mopey without affection. Like an unwatered plant.”

“I eat trauma,” Jon said, bewildered at the perception of harmlessness. 

“You and half of the YouTube vlogging community.” Melanie clapped her hands again sharply, pulling everyone to attention. “Helen. Put Jon back where he came from or so help me.”

“Ruining all my fun,” Helen pouted, but at Melanie’s glare she sighed. She held up one hand, and static rippled through the air. The hand elongated, twisted, and turned into Helen’s signature lengthy claw. Michael eyed it with interest, before holding up their own hand and doing the same. “Fun while it lasted, Archivist! Now hold still. I wouldn’t want to lobotomize the wrong lobe.”

“Nice meeting you,” Sasha said politely, to a very freaked out Jon. “Don’t come back, though.”

“Come back if you want,” Basira yawned. “My life’s boring, spice it up a little.”

“Sorry I’m dead in your universe or whatever,” Tim said, waving a hand. “Life and death is meaningless anyway, so I’m sure it’s for the best.”

“I want my Jon back,” Martin complained. “Go on and get out, then.”

“Tell your friends what we told you,” Melanie said. “Don’t they know that you get all tragic when you’re lonely?”

And Jon didn’t know how to say it - that they didn’t know, or if they did then they didn’t care, because they had so many bigger problems than if Jon was sad or not. With Elias’ strange plans, with Jon’s encroaching monsterhood and his slow and steady starvation, with Martin’s loneliness and Basira’s desperation and Melanie’s instability, Jon’s feelings were the least important thing in the world. 

Did it matter, to anybody but Jon, that he thought of Martin first thing in the morning and last thing as he went to bed at night? 

“Hold still and look straight at me!” Helen said, and Jon had to be thankful - because that let him look at Sasha and Tim, eyes wide and intrigued, as Helen speared her finger through Jon’s forehead. 

Jon blacked out, but the images of Sasha and Tim stayed burned behind his eyelids. He dreamed calm dreams, of him and Martin and Sasha and Tim, laughing together, as the world faded away.

****

When Jon woke up, it was with a crick in his neck, and he knew immediately he had fallen asleep on the battered old couch in his office again. 

There was a heavy weight on his chest, and when he pried his eyes open he saw the top of Daisy’s head in front of him. Dusty blonde hair pooled on his chest as Daisy snored, deep asleep, arm stretched over his torso. 

The taste of salt and grease was on his tongue, and Jon let himself go back to sleep. The dreams would be terrifying and desolate, but at least in them he was never hungry. 

[softkuna]

𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃-𝙰-𝙱𝙾𝚈𝙵𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙳 | Hinata

𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃-𝙰-𝙱𝙾𝚈𝙵𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙳! 𝙴𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑... 𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙰 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚈𝙾.

Anxiety was a fun thing to deal with sometimes. You know - like when you triple checked the details of the test date you had scheduled today. You pressed a hand to your chest as you woke your phone. Eyes were glued to the pin on the map that your date, Hinata Shoyo: Rental Boyfriend, put on it. You thought maybe, just maybe, he canceled last minute or after seeing your face IRL. A chill ran through you and you muttered to no one in particular, “God, how embarrassing would that be…”

  As you swiped through the app, you pat all around your neck, your cheek, your collarbone in a few nervous motions. Sure, you knew the area. Sure, you went out a few times to sketch the roads for a comic or two. But as you stood, cool fingers drumming nervously along your skin, it all felt unfamiliar.

  A voice cried your name out, jolting your attention away from insecurity for a moment. You squinted, thinking you misheard. The wind! That’s all it was. Just as you were about to check your phone for the nth time, you caught a glimpse of tangerine. Through the hoard of 9-5ers, five fingers raised in a wave until a broad shoulder shimmied its way through the crowd.

“H-Hinata?” His name came out a lot more hushed than you intended and you could feel the heat of your cheeks. Oh no. He’s cute. Duh. You knew he was. He had a profile picture and some extra pics that you and your friend scrolled through the night prior. One caught your eye in particular; it was with a dog that wasn’t his according to the caption (and the added note of ‘but imma get a big boi some day’’). There was another with a guy with short black hair. They all radiated a type of warmth and welcome to them even if those around him seemed ready to punch a wall - a trait not missed out on in person.

  He beamed, taking your hand in his as though it were as natural as the sun shining, “Hey babe!”

  The words put a bar in the cogs of your mind, stopping all rational thought.  Babe. Babe?! Oh fuck. I’m babe! Oh wait. Yeah that’s right. You rented him to be your boyfriend. It’s supposed to be natural. You scolded yourself for forgetting that simple fact. 

Hinata laced his fingers through yours and you could feel the slight dampness of his palm. The thought that he may be as nervous as you put you slightly at ease. It would make sense as he didn’t have any reviews or ratings or anything. He was new! A beta-boyfriend babe!

  It took a moment or two for you to realize that not only was he guiding you down the sidewalk, but you had been staring at nothing but your shoes the entire way there. Shyly, you apologized. 

  “For what, babe? Oh! Wait! I didn’t get to mention yet,” Bright eyes burned with excitement as they tilted over his shoulder, “That’s a cute dress!” He genuinely thought so, too. Trying to act all coupl-y with a stranger was definitely weird, but, like anything he tried, he wanted to put his best effort in. Hinata wasn’t sure on what to expect, truthfully. When looking at your profile after the booking was made, he was caught off guard by how cute you were. In person seemed even worse. Better? Hell if he knew.

  As a lanky waiter shuffled you both into a booth, you were off put by your boyfriend slipping in next to you. Right smack dab next to you. Thigh touching thigh and the heat of his sent a shiver up your spine. You placed a hand on your chest again and spent more time reading a menu than you thought you ever had before.

  Hinata’s expression fell thoughtfully as he saw the slight shake in your slender digits and the way your teeth gnashed at your lower lip. He tilted his head with a small laugh and a nudge to your ribs with his elbow. The corners of his mouth piquing to such a point you could practically feel the mischievousness from it, “Play along, ‘kay? Kay?”

  Suspiciously, you peaked over the top of the menu roof you made with a nod. As the waiter returned, a strong muscled arm wrapped around your shoulder and snuggled you close. Mouth falling into an ajar ‘o’, your confusion was as palpable as his joy, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday today! You guys got some cake, maybe a candle or OOOH a song?”

  “Hinata!” You smacked his head with the menu, “It’s n-“

  He brought a finger to his lips to silent-shush you, lashes dipping in a wink. You smiled pleasantly, yet awkwardly at the waiter and in the least convincing tone, chimed,  “It’s my birthday. Yaaay.”

  “See! How could you deny that!” His sheer and pointed enthusiasm made up for your lack thereof.

  The waiter, not buying any of it but needing the tips to pay his rent, congratulated you before excusing himself. Ten minutes later, two others trailed behind him singing a specialty birthday tune. In their hands rested the most delicious looking chocolate cake. To say you inhaled that thing would be an understatement. It was creamy, rich, everything you could’ve wanted in a cake.

  “Take a bite!” You offered a forkful to your date, one hand below to catch the droppings. Obliging gleefully, he did.

  “‘m pwetty bad wif dates but I saw you like fweets!” The words came between chews, and he gestured here and there as he swallowed, “Glad you liked it cause we got five more restaurants to try!”

  “Excuse me?!”

  And just like that, Hinata whisked you from one restaurant to another. Each one was slightly ritzier than the last and with each one, he could see the tense scrunch of your shoulders melt away. 

He made you feel safe and you started to joke with him more openly, smile more frequently, and sarcastically quip at him. He liked the way you smacked his arm every time he called the waiters over too dramatically. He liked the way you acted surprised they’d come around the corner with cakes and songs. You managed to melt his heart with the cutest ‘Oh! Babe!’ whenever he tried to genuinely surprise you. He adored watching your eyes light up whenever you got a taste of each decadent sweet. It would be an outright lie to deny that you feeding him made his heart flutter, too.

  You clung to Hinata’s arm, cheek resting heavily on bicep as your stomach decided to churn all the sugar you ate like it was a tilt-a-whirl. He patted your hand, thinking you were just trying to be cute, “So, what made you want to rent someone?” 

  The night sky took over the afternoon sun. Tiredly, you gazed up to your ‘boyfriend’, letting a moment of silence occupy the time it took to get over the small wave of nausea, “This is… embarrassing.” You chuckled softly, letting your fingers fall onto your neck, “I uh… never dated someone before. I have a date set up and got so anxious I almost canceled three times. I really want to put myself out there though and be more comfortable.“

  “Is that why you were so red?! I thought I was meeting a cherry when I saw you! All like –“ His hands flew to his cheeks in a damn near perfect imitation of you and your voice, “-i-i-it’s n-n-ot m-my-“ before he could stutter the rest out, you interrupted with a loud and embarrassed groan. His laugh hissed passed teeth, “It was cute! You’re adorable, ya know?” The words slipped out so naturally and with such warmth that you wondered where the act was put down and where it was picked back up.

  “As I was saying,” you jested with a light hearted eye roll, “My friend was really worried about me. I mean, it’s not often you’re a date-virgin in your twenties.”

  Hinata pursed his lips, thinking about it, “Ya know, maybe it is weird - ” You felt your heart stop and your comfort crack just slightly. You probably would have laughed had it not been for the wave of heat then ice that swept over you, “- that someone as… as…” His lips pursed as he tried to find a word. Your anxiety built with each delayed second. In a grand gesture, his arms swang back, “WH’BAM as you never got asked out before!” Despite your death grip on him, the ginger still managed to hop on cue, “’sides! You got a pretty good friend looking after you!”

  “Heh,” You laughed, “Guess you’re right, but wh’bam?”

  “It just makes sense!” He slapped your hand a few times with the soft palm of his, “Okay okay! Now, we’re going to that one!” A finger pointed to a fancy black double door. 

  “Hinata I-“ You began to protest, feeling your palms dampen and your stomach curdle. 

  “Don’t worry about price! I got it!” He tugged at your arm.

  “N-no, We need to-“

  “You’ve been having such a good time! We can do one more!”

  “Just come over h-here-“

  “This one has the best cake from what I read! It’s not too expensiiiiiiive.”

  The end of his sentence tumbled out of his mouth like the night’s worth of cake and frosting tumbled out of your gut. Directly onto the ground. And on the expensive nude heels your friend leant you. And on Hinata’s own pricy looking sneakers.

  There was a moment of silence as you lit the coffin of your pride and watched it sail away into the ocean. (Goodbye sweet trait, it was nice while it lasted. Rest in Pieces.)

  Hinata blinked. The event registered in his squirrel brain like a dial up modem. She just threw up. It’s on my shoe. It’s on her shoe. OH NO I MADE HER THROW UP! Red alerts blared as he whipped his head around, making the biggest display of ‘nothing to see here’ that could’ve been humanly possible. All too easily, he slid an arm under your knees and scurried around for a place to sit. It took about ten minutes for him to find a bench on an empty walkway. He sat you down and patted your head with long, sweet strokes. Each pat, while good natured, went unnoticed as your intestines tried to murder you in cold blood.

  Hinata sprinted for the convenience store and bought the first couple of antacids he could find, along with some anti-nausea medication and water. A small bit of sweat broke out along his brow as he dashed back to you. Agile as a leaf in the wind, he squatted right in front of you, hurriedly dumped everything out of the double-bagged plastic bags to give to you. He stuttered out his menu of medications and you down some of them with water.

  “Hey, heeey,” his gentle voice cooed to you, both hands rubbing your arms in soothing motions (a little roughly, but he’s trying), “It’s okay, you’re okay, you don’t need to cry!” You waved a hand, lips parted as you waited for another wave to hit which never came. You thought he’d make fun of you, laugh in your face about how pathetic this was, but it never came. For some reason that made you even more emotional. He was just a rental boyfriend. He didn’t need to deal with this. Instead of quitting then and there, Hinata took a seat right next to you and pulled you to his chest. Your back flinched reflexively as a calloused hand rubbed calming circles along it. He started talking about a time he was at a volleyball game and had the nervous-shits so bad he nearly had to sit out.

  “That’s… disgusting,” The words came out as a half-laugh, half-cry. You wiped your eyes, ignoring the makeup now dripping down your face from sweat and tears.

  “You’re telling me! Tanaka called me ‘little-shits’ for two months after that!” His laugh was contagious, spreading warmth through your fingertips and toes. It was rare to meet someone who had such a natural talent to make you feel so wholly accepted.

  After about 10 minutes, the medication began to fully settle your stomach. The bag was tossed into a stray trash can. Hinata had barely even realized that his chin was perched on the crown of your head as he talked about other embarrassing stories (including the time he got pegged in the nuts during training camp). The warmth of you in his hold simply belonged and he didn’t want to let go just yet.

  “Thank you,” you peered up at him with eyes so pretty and a smile so kind he wanted to kiss it then and there.

  “For what?” His head tilted again. If he were a puppy, his ears would flop with each tilt.

  “Being so sweet to me for my first trial date. Even if it’s your job, you really went above and beyond. And uh…you know-” You kicked your shoe to his.

  The athlete ruffled his hair, feeling a blush creep to his cheeks and ears at the thought of being your first date, “Don’t need to thank me for it! I had a blast! You’re pretty warm too!”

  “Thanks?” You sputtered a small laugh before checking your phone and the time. It was nearly up. As per request, a text of your location was sent to the friend who started it all.

  For a while, you rested in Hinata’s hold, savoring the rich batter of comfort and calm it baked you in. He chattered on about this and that, exchanging a remark here and there when you poked fun. 

Once you pulled away from him, he couldn’t help but miss the feel of your mold on the palm of his hand like a volleyball right at the precipice – right in his reach. You checked your violently buzzing phone, confirming the spot where you were sitting to your friend. 

“Who was that?” Hinata asked, a boyish hint of pouting sad laced underneath his natural curiosity.

“My friend,” you answered, popping another antacid in your mouth, “our time is up, so she’ll be here soon.”

 Those words were a bitter sound, one that reminded Hinata that this wasn’t real. This was a bet that he wanted to win. One that he secretly cursed. In all reality, he wanted to have fun and when he saw that you booked him, he didn’t know what to think. Dating wasn’t really his thing. He rarely had time to when it came to practice and had it not been for the bet, he probably wouldn’t have sought someone out at all, let alone someone as out of his league as you.

  The headlights of your friend's car came into view. Just as you went to take a step forward, a strong hand circled around your wrist. In a swift movement, you turned to look at the culprit. 

  “Just make sure to rent me again if you have some time, yeah?” Hinata’s smile held a hint of something you couldn’t identify. 

 Nevertheless, you returned the sentiment, “Of course!”

You parted with a long hug.

As the car pulled away, Hinata flicked through his phone. Once the dates were done, each point of contact would be deleted automatically. A reasonable company policy that felt like a sour punch to the gut.. A small twinge of sadness came over him, but he knew that if it was meant to be, you’d find your way to each other again. In the mean time…

   𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃-𝙰-𝙱𝙾𝚈𝙵𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎.... 𝟷 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝙱𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐!

  He was going to kick Atsumu’s pancake ass!

 “Sooooo~ How was the ‘date’? Looks like you two got along!” Your friend’s voice rang as she shimmied in her seat in excitement, brows wiggling in expectation.

  “Oh shut it!” You cried in false annoyance, “I threw up, can you believe that?!” Dramatically, she gasped, listening as you recounted the events of the boy who was the sun itself. Finalizing your long winded tale of cake-filled adventure, that same warmth spread across your chest, lapping small butterfly wings at your stomach, “I had a good time. I… definitely feel more comfortable with the idea of putting myself out there now.”

Introduction | Navigation

[romiithebirdie]

From the Furthest Tether: Part Three

Harsh rainfall pelted down from the black sky above, fast droplets hitting Tomura Shigaraki's bare chest that exposed the faint scars littering across his body from the battle at Jaku. Narrowing a hardened scarlet eyes down at the decaying wreckage as he stood high and mighty in mid-air, courtesy of the Nomu who had transported him to Tartarus.

Bullets screeched through the air, some connecting with his skin and blasting his arm into a mangled, bloody mess as crimson liquid spilled over the smouldering brickwork. He barely flinched, immediately activating his Regeneration power that had saved his life on multiple occasions when he was facing the recently disgraced Pro Hero Endeavor.

Behind Father, he spread his chapped lips into a gleeful grin. Oh, how he hoped Endeavor was suffering both physically and mentally in the aftermath. He honestly couldn't wait for Round Two where he'd succeed in reducing the Flame Hero to nothing more than dust in the air.

Jumping from his Nomu's back, he casually strolled past the destruction while rejoicing under the loud blare of the prison alarms that howled out in a melancholic chorus. To the Guards and staff inside, they cowered in fear. But to Tomura Shigaraki? The unbearable sound marked the beginning of his deathgrip on the hero society.

Criminals poured from every entrance and window below his spot above them all, the tattered clothes covering the lower-half of his body billowed in between the whistling air and thick black smoke, like a flag flying high in the night sky.

Tomura's eyes wandered over the stampede, recognising Muscular and other villains crowding together as they beat back a futile stand by a few foolish Prison Guards. A cold shiver ran up his spine which seemed to spike his fury further as he slowly turned around, his senses overwhelming him under the image of All for One standing across the platform.

"Master…" the student rasped, suddenly feeling the urge to scratch at his neck. He glanced down at the body held in All for One's grip with little emotion, noting the small line of blood running from the guard's head.

His teacher began speaking to him, though Tomura could barely understand the words coming out of the villain's mouth as his ears filled with the sound of loud static. A possible reaction to their twin Quirks, perhaps?

"I told you…" Tomura's voice was rough, almost as if it was physically hurting him to speak, "That this is my body, my will, Master…"

"Hmm?" Japan's most feared man glanced down at Shigaraki like he was a small toddler. "You need rest, Tomura," his voice cooed, dripping with faux-warmth as he bared his teeth in a wide grin, "that regeneration Quirk will not work unless your body is at full health."

Don't talk down to me like I'm some weak little child!

Shigaraki's eyes flashed in rage, gnashing his teeth together at the large mocking smirk adjourning his teacher's face.

"I...I am not going to be your pawn," he growled out. Not anymore. He had his own goals, his own desires now.

"Oh?" All for One's grip on the eerily-unmoving guard's jacket tightened. "Now why would you think such a thing? No. To me, Tomura Shigaraki, you are an important successor."

The breathing apparatus floated in the air, held up by an invisible force as Japan's most feared man took another couple of steps towards his protege. "See how those below us desire to submit?" he asked, unfazed by the Tomura snarling at him like a feral animal that had been backed up into a corner. "This will be the story of how I become the greatest demon lord in existence."

His large hands then slowly reached out, akin to a puppetmaster controlling the strings of his lifeless, wooden marionettes…

Until Izuku's eyes shot open, cutting off a gasp which caught in his already-aching throat that felt as if somebody had their hands gripped around it with the intent to strangle him in his sleep.

His blurry vision registered the sickly white-coloured walls and scratchy sheets covering his body…

Ah, right.

He was in the hospital. Recovering from injuries that could- should have killed him back in Jaku. He leaned back against the singular pillow supporting the twinge in his neck.

Tick, tock.

Izuku glanced up at the clock across the room as it clicked back and forth in a monotonous motion. The window blinds of Izuku's ward had been put down, blocking out the strips of orange and red rays of sunlight that left the ward remaining a dark and sombre surround.

He reached forward and slowly picked up his phone that had been left on one of the plastic visitor chairs at his beside. Blinking tiredly with eyes that were heavy from lack of sleep, Izuku found himself slowly scanning over the screen of his mobile device. His thumb was brushing repeatedly over the cracked screen while it continued to illuminate his freckled face with a dull, bluish hue.

He swallowed thickly, still feeling the dizzying wave of nausea hit him every couple of minutes. The teen had been given a large amount of strong medication to minimize his body aches and the sharp throb of surgical stitches littered over his broken body. Izuku moaned to himself softly, muscles protesting the small movements as he slid his phone back on his bedside cabinet.

Since the previous night, he had barely heard from All Might. After his outburst in the middle of the hospital waiting area, he couldn't really blame the retired Pro from steering clear. Deep down, Izuku mused that the hospital staff possibly had more to do with the lack of visitation as it had taken a couple of nurses to return him to his ward the night prior. His mother had followed quietly behind the medical staff as they wheeled her son back towards his ward while trying to conceal her flowing tears.

She'd held his hand while Izuku was hooked back up to his IV, where another nurse had then quickly provided morphine. Whether it was just to help with the pain of his recovering injuries or played a part in settling him down, Izuku had no clue.

He glanced down at the cannula attached to his drip with a small whine, regardless of the hospital's reasoning, it had worked a treat last night and still had Izuku feeling like his head was full of cotton wool.

Izuku's phone buzzed atop the cabinet, the volume completely muted to prevent his head from pounding more than it was. Thankfully, his plump pillows gave him enough height to squint over at the name trying to reach him.

All Might.

Complete with a picture of the grinning Symbol of Peace that Izuku had screenshot from an interview stream several years ago. A bandaged hand gripped the phone and swiped across the screen to answer;

"Hello?"

"Ah, good morning, Young Midoriya!" even though Izuku couldn't see All Might's face, he could hear the smile that his mentor was forcing himself to wear. "How are you feeling?"

"Mm," Izuku shifted his legs through the thin bed sheets, legs tangled slightly as he flopped them down in defeat. He'd been way better but; "I'm getting there, thanks."

This response seemed to be enough to satisfy Toshinori from the other side of the phone line as he bobbed his head in a nodding motion before letting out a soft hum of agreement.

Izuku's eyes returned to his bedsheets, thin pupils scanning over the scratchy patterns running across the thin fabric while the retired Pro breathed heavily over the phone, the silence between them soon growing awkward as they both waited for the other to speak up again.

"So," Toshinori let his voice drag along the 'o' sound for a few moments before swallowing thickly, "any updates with the doctors?"

"Mhm, not really," Izuku switched hands, pushing the receiver against his other ear, "I think they're getting Recovery Girl in today."

Izuku hadn't been told that, he'd listened in on a conversation between hospital staff from outside his door. Not that All Might needed to know about his sudden interest in eavesdropping…

"So I think I'll be able to return to the dorms soon."

"Ah, good," Toshinori paused for a second. "Good…"

Izuku frowned, he recognised that tone.

"Is everything okay?"

He heard the hero splutter from the other end of the call, "E-Everything's fine, why wouldn't it be?"

Izuku's bandaged knuckles tightened around the phone, the plastic making small little cracking sounds of protest. Even without using his Quirk, Izuku's physical strength was more amplified due to his daily workout routine to maintain his Quirk-control.

"Well I-" Izuku's claw clicked shut. Could he bring up what he'd seen while he'd been asleep? Shigaraki and All for One...The villains breaking out of Tartarus… Was that even possible?

"Young Midoriya?"

"I saw more of the First User of One for All," Izuku belted out before he could stop himself. He wondered whether or not he should mention Nana Shimura being there too… Maybe it was better to tell All Might in person than over the phone?

"You did?" there was a small rustle in the background.

"But Shigaraki was there," Izuku chewed his lip before continuing; "And All for One."

"Oh?" Izuku cracked a dry smile at All Might's attempt to mask the concern in his voice. "How very...interesting."

"He could see me, All Might," both of Izuku's hands gripped the phone. "All for One."

"I see," there was a brief silence, the only sound coming from a soft buzz of phone static. "Do you recall anything that could have been said?"

Izuku winced, his chest tightening once again as All for One's cruel taunts forcefully entered back into his thoughts.

"No."

"Midoriya…" there was a slight edge to his mentor's voice and Izuku slumped his shoulders, sighing softly while still holding the phone in both hands. All Might knew he wasn't being truthful so what was the point in trying to hide it, aside from his own pride?

"He, uh," Izuku pushed his head against the wall that his bed lined up against, "mainly spoke to the First User but he saw me there and probably figured it'd be fun to mess with my head too."

Which could possibly explain the cause of his outburst last night and waking up from that weird haze-fuelled dream this morning. From everything that All Might had told him and the things he'd witnessed in the past, All for One was an extremely petty individual. For some reason, that scared the teen even more.

"What did he say?" All Might dreaded the answer, while Izuku dreaded reminding himself of All for One's hysterical tirade.

"Could we do this face to face?" Izuku whispered, bringing his knees up towards his chin and shrinking into himself. "Please?"

All Might was silent on the other end, biting his lip due to the fact that he had upcoming meetings with Tsukauchi and the Hero Commission over the recent events in Jaku. Endeavor was still unconscious but an investigation was already underway…

"Young Midor-"

"It's fine. I understand," Izuku swallowed thickly, understanding his mentor's silence. "It's just…"

"Hard?"

Izuku blinked, taking in air sharply from his nostrils, "Mhm," he shrugged, not caring that All Might wasn't able to see him do it, "his words...Struck a nerve, I guess?"

"Young Midoriya, whatever that monster said to you, do not let it deter you from the path you wish to take," All Might suddenly sounded furious. It made sense. All Might was the villain's nemesis, of course he'd know how Izuku was feeling. "He uses his words and power to emotionally shatter people, either to hurt them or to bend them to his own will. Do not let him succeed in doing that to you."

"I won't," Izuku answered, far too quickly for All Might's taste. The blond had a rough idea that he knew exactly what that bastard had said to his successor. After all, he himself had fallen victim to All for One's influence back in Kamino when he had dropped the bombshell that was Nana Shimura's legacy;

"Oh, surely you remember Tomura Shigaraki? My student?" the masked villain had goaded casually, as if he were simply discussing the weather to the Symbol of Peace. "He's Nana Shimura's grandson."

Toshinori had to admit that after hearing those words, he'd almost shattered upon impact, losing momentary composure in front of the demon opposite him. Thankfully, his mentor and father-figure had been there to keep him grounded and that was what Toshinori intended to do with Midoriya. Despairing was what that creature wanted and he wasn't sinking his claws into his student.

"Izuku, listen to me."

Izuku said nothing, prompting Toshinori to continue;

"You are my successor and the rightful owner of One for All. He wants you to feel this way, so that you'll be more likely to attempt to give up your Quirk willingly. Please remember that."

That...actually made sense, in a way.

Izuku knew the cruel taunts wouldn't leave his thoughts right away, but All Might had offered the teen comforting words that he'd needed to hear, as much as he was currently unaware of it.

"I will, All Might," the teen swallowed thickly, eyes prickling as he tried to force his tears back. "I promise."

"That's my boy," Izuku's heart squeezed hearing those words and this time, he allowed his tears to spill down his freckled cheeks. "I'll come and see you as soon as I can, deal?"

Gulping back a small shudder, Izuku's lips pressed into a wobbly smile, "Deal."

"I'll try and make time either this evening or tomorrow at the latest. You take care until then."

"Same to you too," Izuku breathed out shakily, "hey, All Might?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

Izuku swore he heard a soft chuckle before the phone was put down and his phone screen shut off. Setting it back on the cabinet, Izuku picked up the remote control to the television inside his ward. Perhaps some daytime television could lift his spirits?

Flicking through channels, he almost dropped the controller in surprise at the sight of a reporter clinging to the wide-open door of what Izuku assumed was a news helicopter that was hovering over a massive smoking island.

A smoking island that felt vaguely familiar to the teenager…

"-Seems to be a surveillance breach at this supposed maximum security prison!" the female reporter yelled over the loud chopping sound of helicopter rotors slicing through the rough sea wind. "Footage shows various villains fleeing the island, including Tomura Shigaraki, the young man who was the ringleader for the devastating attack in Jaku City!"

The remote slipped from his hands and clattered to the tiled floor, pieces of plastic scuttling across the ground along with the batteries that had flung out in opposite directions. One ending up rolling under a medical cabinet while the other hit one of the ward wall's skirting boards.

Tight knots began to curl tightly inside his own stomach as Izuku's pale face stared at the television in utter horror.

He hadn't been dreaming.

They were out. The villains. Probably including the ones Izuku had a hand in defeating.

Overhaul, Muscular, Stain...All for One.

"No, no, no," he whimpered. He couldn't take them on now, for God's sake he could barely move! His eyes moved back towards the cabinet and his hand reached back in the direction of where he had set his phone...

[countessofbiscuit]

Suppressive Fire

(Sev/Scorch, E, 3.9k words)

Two bros, chillin' on a top bunk no feet apart 'cause they're vode. . . .

Fleet Support, Ord Mantell, barrack block 7 Alpha, six standard weeks after Geonosis

She’d be built like a tank. That was Requirement the First.

She’d be humanoid, or near enough. Her arms would number ... four. Yes, four arms, each of them doing something clever. Two to open my ass, two to pinch my nipples, her long tongue going to crazy town on my cock, burning off my pubes with her caustic breath—

Sergeant Draka. The near-human-tank was Sergeant Draka, sure as day.

Scorch grabbed this realization with one firm hand and tugged.

Her species was shab-if-I-know: some unhappy hybrid who’d washed up on the far edge of the Outer Rim and been scraped into one of those fringe clans that never removed their helmets. Her folks developed a reputation for ritualized kidnapping that didn’t sit right with Jango. He’d ripped Draka’s helmet off in a duel, apparently, and spending ten years training the spawn of her enemy was the price she’d agreed to pay to regain her honor. All those kids and nowhere to run: a bitter form of torture for both parties. Her trainees were an insular, silent bunch with a tendency to tactically acquire your shit when you weren’t looking, but they got the job done.

Scorch had first seen Draka at a parade for the prime minister when he was three. He’d never forgotten it: she had fangs and yellow eyes and ears that twitched at the tips like they were catching your current of fear. No wonder they’d encouraged her to keep a lid on.

Then Scorch was six and change and he’d stumbled upon her in a hallway. She’d had a cadet upside down, smoking him good for something. “What are you gawping at, Six-Two?” she’d snarled, her generous chest heaving, three spare arms tensing in his direction. “Shift it. Unless you want your balls torn off next.”

Scorch had been a little scared and a lot turned on.

Sergeant Vau didn’t have to use many words to put the fear of Fett under your skin. He was a conservative man. Sergeant Draka regarded a shebs-chewing as the highest form of oratory and her calling in life. Whenever Scorch stood downwind of her in the combat hall, he could feel his eyebrows being singed off a second time.

Sweating a little, Scorch’s core tensed as this fantasy tightened vividly in his holographic mind.

She puts two hands around my cock, one hand on my nipple, one hand clawing under my balls—

Scorch flipped her on her back.

She uses all four arms to spread her trunky legs, hairy as a man’s, wide in invitation—

“Knock it off,” barked Sev.

She was gone. In her place was the knowledge that his brother was clued in to what Scorch was doing on the bottom bunk and determined to make it stop.

But the pressure under Scorch’s balls held firm and his erection stood fast. Sev was an oaf with shit timing. There was a reason they gave Scorch the fiddly wires and det controls. He stretched his fingers and reset his grip. “Not happening, vod.”

“Do you have to be so loud about it?”

“Loud?” Had he said something? Lost control of his breathing?

“Yes. Loud. Like you’re slugging a hamm sandwich.”

Scorch frowned. “Have you ever had a hamm sandwich?”

“I don’t want one now.”

There was some improvement to technique needed there: Scorch was always open to feedback—to the challenge of reducing the marginal noise of a wank. “You embarrassed?” he found himself asking, strokes resuming. Less hamm-fistedly. His orgasm had slumped a little and he'd have to tenderly call it back up.

“I’m embarrassed for you,” Sev said.

Scorch closed his eyes, picturing something ...

Sergeant Draka was back, and now she was holding him and Sev upside down. The arrival of RC-1207 into the sim wasn’t throwing Scorch off. In fact, it was encouraging. Exciting. He even leaked a little at the idea. What was a commando without his squad? Chafed, apparently. He should’ve brought Sev into the game two nights ago, after they’d been rudely pulled from stasis in preparation for some op known only to Boss.

Scorch didn’t remember decant. But Sergeant Vau, who'd wasted no time rocking up to his watery exile when Jango had put out the word, said they’d been ugly, annoyed, and ornery. The nursery techs had given them mock, miniature Deeces to keep their fussy hands and mouths occupied.

Coming out of stasis had to be worse—they were issued Deeces again, but they weren’t left alone to soothe themselves to sleep with weapons. Now their waking moments belonged entirely to some Jedi named Zey. They’d been forced to run a gamut of proprioception and endurance tests, cleaned their spanking new Katarn and cleaned it once more for luck on Boss’s orders, and told to familiarize themselves with their upgraded HUD systems.

Scorch had and he'd found it wanting: no pre-loaded heavy-isotope bangers or high-definition tailhead reference holos. Did he have to do everything himself in this shabla army?

After submitting to all this with only mild complaint—Fixer had sworn in full sentences—the op order was still not forthcoming. Classic hurry up and fekkin' wait. Wait for instructions they didn’t even need. Coordinates, intel support, and a broad objective would have sufficed for a commando tasking: top brass still had a lot to learn. It had left Delta with more downtime than they liked and had left Scorch wanting nothing more than to take care of that perennial need in his groin. And each time, he had to get a little more creative.

“What’re you thinking ‘bout, Sev?” he teased, poking the boundaries of this sim. Longnecks hated that: it’s why they let the commandos have off-world field trips to forsaken places where they couldn’t peel back the corners without dying. “Something profane? Something a little non-regulation?”

“The shab is wrong with you.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking ... ” The opportunity for candor—without Fixer on the opposite bunk telling him to pipe down or Boss around to make it happen—was interesting. And as far as Scorch knew, this slap-dash prefab of a support base didn’t have surveillance bugs like their dorms on Kamino. The range and assault course here weren't even specced for lasers; they had to waste live rounds on discs and be honest about getting locked onto. Not likely.

With nothing left to hide, Scorch rolled away from the wall and relaxed onto his back, his cock stiff and spry. He pulled his hood up and over his wet glans and back down again, as far as he could take it, skin smarting nicely at the stretch. He went on, “I’m thinking about Sergeant Draka.”

“Stop,” Sev said.

“Her thick thighs in my face—”

“Stop.”

Scorch spat in his hand and throttled his shaft. “Biting our balls … ” Okay, maybe that was a little weird. But if Fixer’s quick work of the base pyrowall in the anxious hours before chill-down was anything to go by, weird could be good. Better than good.

“Don’t make me come down there,” Sev growled. Not unlike Sergeant Draka, actually.

Scorch couldn’t help himself. “Oh yeah, do come down here ... ” He bucked into his fist, as if to jerk out that ball of bliss from behind his sack. The mass of him tensed rigid under one fixed goal. His fumbled around for something in the sheets with his free hand. “Come down her thick legs ... ”

If anything could singe Draka’s hairs, it’d be Sev’s spunk. Scorch loved a blast, but Sev would sprinkle baradium on his Oaties every morning if he could. Sev would spill like a gutted aiwha, animalistic and uncontrolled, and Draka would hiss and gnash her teeth and—

And suddenly, Scorch was over the line. His base clenched hard, choking his groan of release. He convulsed and came thickly into one of yesterday’s socks.

“Shab,” he croaked, his vision returning, his limbs pooling with pituitary pleasure. “Blew up real good.”

Somewhere above him, Sev huffed. “Three nights in a row. You’re disgusting—you know that, right?”

“Stasis, my shebs. I’ve never had such busy balls in my short life.” Scorch twisted languidly to the edge of the mattress and sat up, squeezing his cock clean. “Cooking blanks like they might get lucky.” The knotted sock got buried in tomorrow’s laundry and Scorch borrowed some of Boss’s wet wipes for the cleanup. Sarge wouldn’t miss them.

“The rest of us are fine,” Sev countered.

Scorch glanced at Sev over his shoulder. His brother looked like a corpse who’d taken up reading in the afterlife. Base bunks weren’t much cosier than a stasis pod, but something else was keeping Sev’s spine stiff. Something that might affect squad performance if it wasn’t addressed: a bad case of self-inflicted blue balls.

Scorch pulled up his pants and ambled over. “You know ... you say that. But this says something else.” He grabbed Sev’s perky junk.

Happily for his brother, Scorch’s grip was light. So when Sev knocked Scorch backwards at the throat, he didn’t take Sev’s sack with him. A scuffle ensued, half-hearted on Scorch’s side, though Sev was obviously in one of his fuck-off moods. He always was crankiest after a nap; it’d take him days to shake off stasis. And he was still pissed about Procurement’s theft of his helmet, with its authentic Gamma blood enshrined in red paint. That di’kutla squad had been shipped to Triple Zero, and until Sev butted heads with them again, he’d be as scratchy as a flea-bitten akk.

Using the shallow bunkrail, Scorch flung himself up and collapsed onto his brother, asking the cantilevered cot to bear the weight of two commandos. He was a trusting soul. The tussle continued until Scorch allowed Sev to secure a headlock, rather than drag them both onto the floor. They’d just gotten out of one unnatural bath and he didn’t fancy a dunk in bacta.

Scorch tapped Sev’s thigh. “Alright, alright,” he said hoarsely. Sev’s hold loosened a fraction and Scorch scooted out from it. Sitting up, he grabbed the holozine that had gotten pinned against the wall: some monthly edition of erudition that called itself Lasers & Blasters. “Didn’t know you could, Oh-Seven.”

Sev snatched the ‘zine to stuff it under his pillow. “It’s above your cadet-grade.”

“I think everyone knows you’re the knuckle-dragger around here, not me.”

“I think everyone knows I’m the hero of Geonosis, Killer of Sun Fac.”

Scorch made a theatrical noise that sounded like a broken, wet bes’bev. “Woo-hoo! You hit the broad side of a bantha!”

Now Sev really tried to catapult him onto the floor. But Scorch’s close-combat situational awareness noticed that his brother’s cockstand was holding strong.

“Sev,” he said, panting a little when they’d reached another stalemate, “the only people who know Sun Fac’s name are us, some spooks, and that random forward air controller.”

“Shove off.” Sev kicked him with his boot. He wore them to bed like an animal.

Scorch shook his head. “Not until you take care of yourself.”

“You have some shabla nerve, vod.”

“Rule 45: there should be no happier union than that between a commando and his weapon. But you’ve neglected yours.” He cast a judgemental eye at Sev’s tented pants. They’d been sleeping, shooting, and shitting cheek-by-jowl for their entire lives: Scorch didn’t know why one more bodily function would be that much worse. In that moment, he had more sympathy for his brother’s dick than his brother’s karked-up dignity. Or his own.

He glanced at the chrono. Boss and Fixer still had half an hour at the range and they’d probably hit the mess on the way back. Time enough for a little more equipment maintenance; Scorch believed he was being supremely generous offering what remained of his. He flopped over into a plank above his brother, who was still lying deathly prone. “If you’re not gonna help yourself ...”

“What?” Sev sneered. “You’ll do the honors?”

“Maybe I will. I am better than you, after all,” Scorch grinned. Suddenly, he sensed a game that he wanted to win. They were all like that. Competitive. Not so much against each other, but with each other. Getting screwy Sev off would be the ultimate victory: no one would lose and everyone would leave happy.

“You can’t.” Sev’s disinterest was as threadbare as his pillowcase.

“Alright, vod. I’ll take that bet.” Scorch dug the heel of his hand into his brother’s persistent erection. Sev’s eyelids fluttered. No greater tell in the book. “I bet I can get you off before Boss and Fixer get back. Just this once.”

Sev circled his hands around Scorch’s throat, hissing through perfect teeth bared tight, “You—can’t—Sergeant—Vau—would—”

Scorch scoffed. “You see Sarge here? He’s fucked off to his castle with his kaminii retirement fund.”

Vau had never promised he’d be there on the other side, but ... did he know they’d done a good job? That they’d been singled out for the assassination of the bugs’ chief lieutenant? That they’d survived—no, that they'd excelled, when hundreds of other squads hadn’t? Did he even care? Scorch had to wonder.

He shoved those thoughts aside with conscious effort; they wouldn’t do him any good. Better that Vau wasn't here anyway: he would sniff mightily at this interpretation of no brother left behind. “Hells, he’s probably rubbing one out to a portrait of the dead missus right now,” Scorch continued.

Sev’s grip tightened for their sergeant’s honor. “He wouldn’t—”

“He would. Stars love the old chakaar, Sev, but he’s only flesh and blood.” Actually, that’s all Vau was: cragged skin and blue blood twisted ‘round a frame that seemed to boast a few more bones than average. There must have been a heart in there, too—see: Mird—but Delta had spent their entire cadethood seeking it out to little good. Especially Sev, though he’d slot you for saying so.

Oh, Sev’ika: flesh and blood, plus a lot of bile and bad humor. He stank out the backend when he’d scarfed down too many ration packs, but what would splatter out the front? Scorch was beyond curious now, as he palmed his brother’s package through his clothes.

Sev’s hands held firm, but it was half-hearted, his thumbs only tickling his brother’s trachea. His nostrils flared. He was afraid. No, even better—he was desperate.

It was all the vindication Scorch needed. “That’s right—breathe. Relax. Six-Two’s got you.” He tugged Sev’s fatigues down, hitching the elasticene band behind his balls. Sev grimaced. Yeah, it might not be comfortable yet, but just wait; a little pressure there goes a long way.

“That hurts,” growled Sev.

“Gonna hand me the game?” If Sev had lost sight of his mission objective, he really was gummed up. “Jerking off through a fly feels like doing it in formation,” Scorch said.

Sev turned his head to the wall. If he’d done it at all, that was clearly how.

Scorch took his theoretically-identical brother in hand and felt the heft and heat of a dick that was still an inch left of familiar, however many times he'd seen it. Sev was throbbing. His hands fell away, as deliberately limp as the rest of him, like he was trying to absent himself from his body.

“So ... Sergeant Draka—” Scorch began, realizing he’d just been staring at his brother’s kad for longer than was right. He mentally constructed the fantasy again, deliberately this time, while he warmed up to the idea of working someone else’s shaft. Sev’s shaft. He imagined what Sev might like to hear, because Scorch sure as shab wasn’t keen on hardening up between his brother’s legs himself. That would just be strange. “She’s got you under two hands and a squawking bug under the other, honkin' great tits ready to smother the both of you ...”

Up until he’d found his brother’s cock in his hand, Scorch had fancied himself an honest commando. He really did. Then he had to close the dissonance between his not-insignificant-interest in Sev’s pink tip and, well, Sev: that awkward grump-a-lump who couldn’t look at a sapient or sentient, droid or organic, without scaring them away.

Scorch did it by telling himself this was just his own his cock in a mirror. A learning experience, if nothing else. And his tongue loosened to remember the bet. He began rubbing with intent. “She snaps its neck. Crunch. And isn’t that just your favoritest sound, Sev, ol’ boy?”

“Not her,” Sev said hoarsely.

Manda, he really was giving this to Scorch in the bag. “Who?”

“—don’t know—I don’t shabla know.”

“Easy, vod. You got a lifetime to find out. Well, half of one.”

“Shut. Up.”

Scorch changed the program and flicked a thumbnail right under Sev’s hood. Scratched out whatever dream Sev had building behind his scrunched eyes. It was irrelevant, whatever cleaned the pipes. If his brother didn’t want to say, who was Scorch to ask? The silky give of his hard-on and his nasally gasps vouched that Sev was having an a-okay time. Scorch wouldn’t have a hand, otherwise.

Sev bubbled from his tip. Scorch felt himself flush, but he was more intrigued than anything. It really was like watching a holo of himself. Obviously, Scorch was more handsome, mostly because he wasn’t a fucking psycho ... but a cock was a cock. He lengthened his movement with the slick aid of precome, fisting all the way down to Sev’s slightly lighter curls.

Suddenly, Sev’s fingers wrapped around his. For an alarming half-second, Scorch feared his wrist was about to be snapped. Goodbye dominant hand and superhuman reaction times.

But Sev just held on, eyes pinched shut, arm as unyielding as a barrel.

The situation became more straightforward. Emboldened by the team effort, Scorch stroked faster. Harder. He read the lines in Sev’s fierce face like a manual for a weapon he’d been handed five years ago. A clone lifetime. A batcher’s intuition. He shucked Sev’s sheath down as hard as he could. Twisted his wrist at the top further than Sev’s delicate skin wanted to go. Scorch figured his brother liked the bite of pain. “You feelin’ the heat? You gonna spill all over my fingers, Sev’ika?” he teased.

Sev heaved like he might throw up, and he coughed out only two words. “Do. Not.”

Yeah, he hates that kind of chummy osik and yakking. It was almost sad how much Sev knew what he didn’t want, but couldn’t voice what he did. Even Fixer grunted in approval when something wriggled across the ‘pad’s screen; at least he had some idea what kind of parts he fancied. It was a very broad pool.

Sev just looked embarrassed to be asked.

“Someone’s gonna love your shit, Sev,” Scorch encouraged, coming at it again from a different vector. If he didn’t show his wacky brother some love, who would?

Vau hadn’t been there to bestow that curt nod. They didn’t want to be spoiled. Scorch and his brothers weren’t Skirata’s pups: they’d survived Geonosis because they weren’t. But ... Delta was here and Theta wasn’t and Vau had no karkin’ clue what a close-run thing it’d been. Didn’t know how the knife-edge of his training had probably made all the difference and how chuffed they all were about it.

Or how Sev had made that one-in-a-million shot to Sun Fac’s fighter with half his visor splattered in bug spray. Scorch would remember that for the rest of his short life: angry tendrils of smoke rising behind Sev as he turned contemptuously away from his kill, his helmet gooey with Geonosian.

There were brothers, and there were your brothers: the ones who’d made you better just by being there beside you. Sev was one of those.

Scorch didn’t have to improv osik, now. The words came as easy as his muscle memory as he pistoned his palm along Sev’s angry cock. “Fuckin’ proud of you, Sev: bane of bugs and sniper extraordinaire. Wish Vau could’ve seen it, I really do. I’ll have CLONINT’s guts for rappelling lines for wiping Boss’s cache.”

Sev’s free hand had bunched into the sheet, his knuckles whitening. He stilled suddenly, tense as the second before the opening salvo. Here it comes.

“Ooh, so that’s how Sev breaks. Result!” Scorch had imagined Sev’s orgasm would be like squeezing blood from a stone. Not at all: it came as surely and naturally as his own. Scorch watched intently. Who knew their balls became one in the moment of triumph like that? As Sev’s practically disappeared into his taut body, Scorch had to think on his feet to save his brother’s freshly-laundered fatigues—or, on his knees and elbows, as the case was.

Thunking his other arm across his face, Sev lost the bet with a violent shudder—and without a sound, probably so he couldn’t say he’d enjoyed it. He squirted fully but cleanly onto the open spread of the ‘zine, thanks to Scorch’s management and direction. A long, messy line of cloudy white right across the cross-sectioned barrel of a Magna-Caster-100. Thank fuck for flimsi.

Shaking off Sev's hand, Scorch dropped the wilting cock. It was not attractive, and he prayed the ladies wouldn't think the same, warring with himself about whether he could succumb to the mortification of going limp in someone’s mouth. Maybe it was better to pull out and stripe them? It merited further research on Fixer’s ‘pad, just in case.

“Target softened. Should make things easier for you. Hope you took notes,” Scorch said, oddly transfixed by the description of the ‘Caster’s invisible quarrels he’d spotted on the page. He was growing itchy for a time-sensitive rummage—Scorch would wager his lower left nut that Delta could now go toe-to-toe with any of Draka’s squads for acquisition. With any luck, this mysterious upcoming op would net them some exotic toys.

He shifted his weight, feeling the need to move before that idea made him stiff again and everyone got the wrong impression.

“‘m not soft, di’kut,” Sev mumbled from underneath his arm.

Scorch patted his thigh. “Sure you’re not.”

“Getting soft will get us popped.”

Scorch was halfway off the bunk, but he stopped to squeeze Sev’s fucked-up head. “Hey, ner vod. Look at me—look at me,” he demanded. Sev let his arm fall behind his curls but he kept his gaze elsewhere. “No need to quote Sarge to me. Or go grey over stupid stuff like him.”

Stuff like distraction—a dirty word in Vau’s lexicon. What did they have to get distracted by, anyhow? Grainy holovids? They had enough room in their over-engineered skulls for a few of those, and if they ever got to touch the real thing, Scorch figured they wouldn’t lose their heads. Right? Civvies were so unexceptional, after all. Probably couldn’t tell a maranium blast from a benign xenon light sculpture. Brothers, especially your fellow commandos, were the only company worth keeping—even Vau said so, and Skirata had said Vau had wined and dined New Mando aristos and had bedded a fekkin’ princess in a past life.

Eventually, Sev’s sour mug puckered in something like thought. “If you fucked up my range scores, I’m going to piss in your pack.”

Scorch laughed, dumping his feet onto the floor and wandering in the direction of Boss’s ration bars. Mess was a whole two hours away and Scorch had a month’s eating to make up for. “Sev’ika, no one could fuck up your range scores. You just pregamed with Lasers & Blasters.”

The ‘zine smacked the back of Scorch’s head, wet side flat.

Yeah, we're still good, Scorch thought, as he finally manhandled his stroppy brother onto the floor. And we always will be.

(also on Ao3)

[cognitivefunk]

Yuma’s Possession

Lol, I’m terrible with titles. Anyway, here is the requested yandere Yuma x Yui fic with a scenario involving a transfer student. Since this is a school request, let’s just assume that Yui is 18, Yuma for the sake of stating it is also over 18. I made up a transfer student and had a little fun with it, lol. To be continued?

Fandom: Diabolik Lovers Pairing: Yuma Mukami x Yui Komori  Rating: E - Explicit 18+ Warnings: Blood, crying, light choking, spanking, naughty words, slapping, humiliation Word Count: 4,819

Yui’s smile was bright and unguarded as she walked side by side next to the new transfer student of Ryoutei Academy. She had taken it upon herself to show him around since she knew what it was like to change schools, especially so late in the year. Akio was a quiet type, average build but slender and taller than she was. They stopped at the rooftop to have lunch since it was usually deserted at this time of day, just to give him some space from meeting so many new people. The stars illuminated the sky rather brightly that night, giving the roof a peaceful ambiance along with the soft lighting from the lanterns.

“Thanks for being my tour guide today,” he laughed, tucking a lustrous black lock of hair behind his ear. His hair was messy and layered, but fashionable. It did well to frame his face, accentuating his features. What had started out as an awkward exchange of information had melted into a relaxed atmosphere of sociability. The two of them set their bags down onto the rooftop and proceeded to set up their lunches. Unbeknownst to the pair, someone had been watching their encounter for a better half of the day they had spent together. Caramel eyes narrowed from a distance, watching the two of them getting along, with a fire that was growing like a deadly crescendo. Yuma gnashed his teeth together, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

Had he not been a vampire, he may have had lasting marks from the action. The crescent moon shapes slowly faded from his skin as he lessened the tension in his fists. The sting of the cut took some of the edge off of his rage temporarily, only for it to come roiling back to the surface. ‘Who does that sow think she is? I should go over there right now and teach her a lesson of whose property she is…’ The itch to move over to the pair was building inside of him, but he kept it at bay. Instead, he continued to watch in silence, simmering when he saw a faint blush cross the other man’s features as their conversation carried on. The transfer student’s hand had brushed against hers as they exchanged food from their lunches and it took all of Yuma’s self-control not to beat the man to a bloody pulp on the spot. ‘No. I’ll nip this in the bud early. This needs a more permanent solution.’ A smile tugged at the vampire’s handsome features, but it was not one of mirth. Rather, it was a sickly smile of an infatuated man on the verge of a violent rampage. He had seen enough, and his plan was already in motion as he retreated from the scene before him so that he wouldn’t ruin the surprise earlier than he intended.

“I made it myself this morning!” she beamed, as the other male tried her home cooking. He had brought leftovers from the night before that his sister had made, but it was nice to try something different than he would usually eat. The clafoutis was fluffy and decorated with dark cherries, and even though it wasn’t reheated it still had its sweet and airy taste. Yui had made sure to pack an extra serving for Yuma, topped with powdered sugar, that morning because she knew that he liked sweets and thought that it would make him happy.

“Thank you, I wouldn’t usually eat something sweet so early in the day. It’s really good! Your family must be very proud of you,” he shared her cheery demeanor as he showered her in compliments. His amethyst eyes were focused on the young woman’s face as she ducked her head forward, her platinum tresses cascading forward, hiding her face slightly. Perhaps he had misspoken.

“I live with some of the other students here right now,” she paused, clearly thinking about how to word her situation, “as part of an exchange program of sorts.” He listened intently, a glimmer of interest flashing over his features before he replaced it with another cheery smile. “Even more reason to be proud then, you must be very important.” The words stung a little bit, given the reality of her situation, but she was still thankful for his praise. There was something about it that gave her a sense of normalcy. She lifted her head again, tucking her hair back. When her hand brushed against her collar it briefly flashed a puncture wound that did not go unnoticed. “Yui? Are you ok?” Akio started to ask but the sound of the bell caught her attention and she started to gather her belongings, laughing halfheartedly. “I guess we stayed out here longer than I thought, we’d better get to class before we’re late!”

After the clock struck 2 a.m. it was time to go home for the day. It was difficult acclimating to being awake primarily during the nighttime hours, but for the most part Yui was accustomed to it. However, it still didn’t stop her body’s internal clock from crying out. When she arrived home, she trotted off to find Yuma to see if he liked the dessert that she had packed for him earlier. Perhaps she could also see if she should make something else for him before she got ready for bed. She found it strange that she hadn’t seen him at all during the day, even stranger that he hadn’t been there to accompany her home. A small amount of worry settled in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if something had happened to him or if he was avoiding her. “Yuma?” she knocked against his door.

There was no answer. She tried again, louder this time, but to no avail. Kou rounded the corner and waved his hand brightly at the young woman. “M-Nekochan~” he called out, walking toward her with one hand tucked away in his pocket. His posture was relaxed and she subconsciously relaxed around him. “Oh, hi Kou…I was just looking for Yuma, have you seen him?” she picked at the fabric of her sleeves absentmindedly, peeking around the corner of the hall to see if he was on his way. A pout crossed Kou’s face and he let out an exaggerated whine, “Awh, why weren’t you looking for me instead? You know, I’m much more interesting than Yuma-kun…” He flashed one of his modelesque smiles and Yui couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his antics.

“Sorry Kou, it’s just I haven’t seen him all day and I was kind of hoping to talk to him before bed.” She was picking her sleeve slightly more aggressively, taking out her frustration on the cuff of her sweater. The blonde narrowed his eyes with a frown, but decided not to push the matter. After all, he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his brother’s rage for marking up his woman. “Hmm,” he leaned his head against the wall in thought before his eyes lit up in realization, “Oh! I saw him briefly after lunch and he didn’t look too happy… That’s right, M-neko, you must have really upset him!” he looked a touch too gleeful at that statement, a darkness lingering over his eyes as he watched her face grow with concern.

Yui’s eyebrows furrowed and she chewed the inside of her cheek in discomfort. She decided it would be best to busy herself in the kitchen after all, as she wouldn’t be able to sleep until Yuma came back home.

--

Akio had felt a presence following him for a good portion of the day, and it was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. As he walked the deserted path back toward his house he clutched his bag, readying himself for an ambush. As if on cue, Yuma took the chance to reveal himself by dashing out of his hiding place and pressing the other boy against a tree by the neck. The darker haired male winced at the sensation, but was sturdier than Yuma would have assumed given his frame. “Oy, I’m here to teach you a lesson about messing with someone else’s property,” Yuma’s voice was rough and filled with hatred and he buried his nails into the soft flesh of his victim.

The transfer student was unable to speak a retort back at the vampire due to his hand pressing into his windpipe. However, the taller male was quite obviously underestimating his ability to fight back even from this position. Akio curled his fingers toward his right wrist, unleashing a blade that he used to slash at the offending hand, falling down to one knee when the pressure was released suddenly and gathering his bearings as the oxygen flowed back into his burning lungs. Yuma jumped back, startled, clutching at the wound on his hand, staring in disbelief when it wasn’t immediately closing. “Heh? What the fuck is this!?”

“Is this how Ryoutei Academy’s students treat their new guests? I know we’re off campus but I’m sure they’d be very disappointed in you attacking a new student on their first day,” the sudden confidence in his voice was different than the way he had been conducting himself around Yui earlier. Yuma glared at the other man, shaking the spilled blood off of his hand and ripping off the bottom of his dress shirt to wrap the wound with. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” His eyes were nearly alight with the fury that was raging through him. He took on a fighting stance, sizing up his opponent differently this time, striking out quickly and swiping his fist against the side of Akio’s cheek as the other male dodged most of his attack. At the speed he was going, a human shouldn’t have been able to stand a chance, let alone nearly dodge a full frontal attack.

The taller male sniffed the air tentatively; he could have sworn he smelled human blood. But it was muddled. Now that he was focusing, he could tell there was definitely a trace of vampiric blood flowing through the other man’s veins. Unlike Yuma, who had once been human and then turned vampire, Akio had been born, a product of a human mother and a father who was a vampire. He was not as strong as a full-fledged vampire, but he did possess a similar skillset to Yuma, along with weak magical capabilities. It was enough to hold his own one-on-one with the enraged male.

“What is this property you’re going on about? Is it that girl?” Akio asked, taking on a protective quality in his voice. He wasn’t sure what the status of the relationship was between the two of them, but it was the only conclusion he could think of that would have gotten the vampire so riled up. It would seem he struck a nerve as Yuma spun around with a flying kick aimed right for his head. Akio ducked and grabbed Yuma’s steady leg from beneath him, rolling out of the way before the vampire could grab him down to the ground with him. The younger male leaned against a tree for support, having used a lot of his strength to drag Yuma down.

“Oy, oy, OY! Listen here you bastard,” Yuma picked himself up quickly, towering over Akio before he picked him up by the scruff of his shirt. “You’re really pissing me off.” He shoved him against the tree again, mindful of the hidden knife up the other man’s sleeve. “I ought to kill you right here,” he used his own head to crush into Akio’s disorienting the dhampir before throwing him to the ground and stomping his foot into his stomach. The darker haired man groaned in pain at the impact and scrambled to reach for his backpack, hands shakily ripping the bag open to throw the equivalent of a flash bomb at the vampire so he could make a quick retreat.

A scream of frustration ripped from Yuma’s throat as he realized that he had let him slip out of his sight and something about the device messed with his sense of smell temporarily. There was a ringing in his head and he clutched his hair with his good hand, kicking the dirt where Akio had been in irritation. He sighed, admitting defeat for the time being. The next time he saw the other male he would make sure to finish what he started. He made his way back toward home, figuring he could let out his frustration on the girl who he determined to be at fault for this entire situation.

--

In the kitchen, Yui had busied herself making a version of pavlova, a dessert made of sugar and egg whites with lemon curd she had prepared the day before and an arrangement of fresh fruits. The sound of the door slamming shut startled the young woman, but she wiped her hands on her apron, and tentatively peered her head out of the kitchen to see Yuma bee lining toward her.  “Yuma, you’re home!” she offered, trying to sound cheery despite the nervousness that was settling over her body like a blanket. Yuma stopped when he was right in front of her, eyeing the dessert that she had been preparing.

“Is that for him too?” he spat, reaching over to smack the dessert off the counter but Yui jumped in front of his arm, “No!!” before she could tell him that she made it for him he pushed her to the ground and shoved the dessert and the delicate plate it was displayed on shattering to the ground beside her. Tears welled at her eyes and came spilling over, all her hard work was in a pile on the floor over a misunderstanding. “Yuma..” she opened her mouth to speak but he shoved her back against the kitchen floor, straddling her body as he ripped open the top of her shirt.

“Do I need to re-train your body to remember that you belong to me and only me??” his words rang out in the room, and he grabbed a piece of broken glass from the serving plate, still coated in the dessert she had made, and sliced into her collarbone. At first there was no pain at all, only a shocked sensation that racked her body, but then the air began to sting the cut and fresh tears welled in her eyes. Yuma didn’t give her time to speak yet again, forcing his tongue into the cut, widening it rather than soothing it, causing her to grunt and writhe beneath him. The pain was searing, but she felt as if her spirit was being sliced open. Her heart was bleeding for him and he didn’t even see it. That or he didn’t care.

Yuma moaned against the cut, tasting the sugary confection mixed with her blood. It was a shame he had scattered it across the floor, because it really did taste wonderful. For a moment, he let himself indulge in the sweetness of her, drinking her blood hungrily, his right hand throbbing from the cut he had received earlier. The thought of even a fraction of it being made with the other male in mind came sparking back to the surface and he tugged his fangs down, ripping open a wound on Yui’s pale chest.

Her blood flowed thickly, slowly blossoming across her chest and soaking her shirt. She sobbed out, her hands reaching out to hold onto Yuma’s arms. She noticed the makeshift bandage on his hand and turned her attention to him in concern, burying her own pain down. “What happened?” she asked softly, ghosting her fingers over the fabric that he wound tight around his hand. He lifted his head from her chest to glare down at her with concerning intensity.

“You’re an absolute fuckin’ idiot, you know that?” Yui attempted to look away as he insulted her, but he grabbed her chin firmly with his wounded hand, the coppery smell of both his blood and her own overwhelming her senses. “You were out there seducing a vampire hunter today weren’t you?” He smacked the side of her face, hard. She cried out in pain and could feel the sting heating up as the mark on her face turned a bright pink. He chuckled, bringing his hand down to strike her other cheek while the girl shuddered beneath him, eyes widening in confusion and terror.

“I was just helping him—“ he cut her off, raising his voice to a yell. “Just helping him my ass. I saw you share your lunch with him, saw the way the two of you blushed, or did you think you could whore yourself around the school without me taking notice? HUH?” He grabbed onto her sweater and shook her for emphasis, dropping her and letting her head knock against the ground. He sighed, looking at the mess in the kitchen and got off of her, kicking her in the side to encourage her to get up quickly. “Oy, clean this shit up. This is punishment for causing me trouble.”

Yui started to get to her feet but was pushed over again, eliciting a humorless chuckle from the man above her. “Did I say you could stand up? Crawl like the sow you are,” a shadow seemed to cast over his gaze and he crossed his arms, waiting for her to do as he asked. The girl trembled, her lip quivering, but she crawled on all fours, picking up the broken glass and scooping the ruined dessert into the trash with her hands. She reached for a towel but Yuma stopped her again, leaning over to lick the sugary mix off of her hands. A light blush crossed over her face as her body reacted to his touch. A smirk formed over Yuma’s lips as he pulled a finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit before biting down, mixing her blood with the taste of sugar once more.

He groaned, the overindulgent taste comforting a piece of him. He sucked a little more harshly and a squeak left Yui’s mouth, causing her to panic and scramble an apology before Yuma chuckled again. “It seems your body does know who it belongs to, hm?” He used his nails to rip the apron off of her body, signaling her to use that instead of a towel to clean the remainder of the mess. She did so and once completed with the task she folded the fabric and placed it in the hamper she had placed in the kitchen next to the trash. She was nervous to do anything to set Yuma off, so she waited to see if he was pleased enough to let her stand back up.

He grabbed something off the counter that she couldn’t quite see and beckoned her to stand. “Come on, up!” he patronized her as though he were talking to a pet. Once she stood before him, he placed a sour dried lemon into her mouth and closed her mouth around it, cupping his hand over her lips to keep it there. “Mmn!!” her mouth puckered instantly and she screwed her eyes shut. It was a particularly sour lemon and it was almost painful in the way it pulled the saliva to her mouth. “There, there. Keep it there, we’re not done. Not by a long shot…”

She was led back to his room, where the door was locked behind them as soon as they entered. Not that it mattered anyway, but it was more of a subtle warning. He stood her in the middle of the room, circling around her before stopping in front of her again, moving to rip off the remainder of her clothing, leaving her completely naked and vulnerable before him. He leaned forward to lap up the blood that was cooling on her skin from the wound he had made earlier. He dug his fingers into the cut, re-opening the slit enough to let fresh blood ooze over the old blood. He led her backward as he attached his lips to the wound, the bed shaking when they fell back onto it.

“Aaah, I can’t get used to it. Haah, you’re sweeter than sugar…I just want to drink, and drink, and drink until there’s nothing left,” he gasped, continuing his ministrations on her searing laceration. The pain had just started to dull before he dug his fingers in to re-open it, and the new wave of pain made Yui feel dizzy. Yuma moaned against her collarbone, the sensation vibrating against her chest. He reached up to smack her across the face when he noticed she was slipping and he pulled away from her tempting blood. He didn’t want her to lose consciousness quite yet. Not until he’d had his full of her. She chewed the lemon slice in her mouth, the sourness of it pulling her consciousness from its foggy haze before she finally swallowed it, freeing her mouth.

“I’ll remind you tonight that you belong to me,” he moved to stand next to the bed, grabbing her by the hair to drag onto the floor. “On your knees, sow.” He was still speaking coldly toward her, the pent up anger still coursing through his body. He undid his belt, but did not drop it, instead he left it bunched in his left hand, and he stared down at her submissive position. Another smirk crossed his lips as he undid his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers in one swift motion. He kicked out of the lower garment and gingerly pumped himself with his injured hand.

“I’ll give you a chance to say you’re sorry,” he breathed, guiding her mouth to his aching member. Her blood and crying face had gotten him excited. As she wrapped her lips around his member, he leant down to wrap the belt around her throat. “Go on, be a good girl, ok?” his words were a warning for her not to do anything to displease him, and he gave the belt a tug for good measure. The constriction around her throat was strange as she took his length into her mouth.

She bobbed her head along his cock, the tears on her face were dried to her cheeks and there were bits of blood smeared and caked across her chest and some patchy areas of her throat. Her saliva was thick from sucking on the lemon slice moments before, and she relaxed the back of her throat, taking him all the way to the base as best she could. The action of servicing the vampire was starting to excite Yui, and she felt a warm sensation starting to grow in her own body as Yuma bucked his hips against her mouth, using her body to pleasure himself.

He pulled her off of him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think you’ve had enough punishment yet,” he murmured, guiding her to lie over his lap, her head draped down toward the floor with her ass nestled right over his knees. He took the belt into his right hand and folded it over before he brought it down on her smooth skin with a crack.

“Aah, Yuma!” Yui cried out in surprise. Although she had an inkling of what he was up to when he draped her over his knee. It was humiliating and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. He struck down again, alternating the location of the strike to an uncovered area of flesh each time until her entire bottom felt raw and on fire. Little welts from where he let the buckle strike her flesh decorated her rear end and she knew that it was going to be uncomfortable to sit for a few days.

Yuma didn’t stop until another wave of tears fell from those pink eyes of hers. He soothed the irritated skin with his hand, massaging his hands into the fat of her ass. “That’s better, isn’t it? Know your place, and I’ll be gentle with you, hm?” his voice was softer than it had been earlier, but another part of him was hard and pressing against Yui’s lower belly in the position she was in.

He suddenly hoisted the young woman back onto the bed, settling her near the headboard. He removed his shirt before crawling over her body, already positioning himself to enter her. She was going to voice a protest but feared he may be rougher with her if she tried to dissuade him from going at his pace for now. She bit down on her lip as he rocked forward, stretching her insides around him. “This is still a punishment,” he breathed, watching her face contort in pain as he pushed into her slowly, not wanting to hurt her too badly but wanting her to feel discomfort.

Yui took in a shaky breath and nodded compliantly, a wave of pleasure shooting through her as she saw his face relax as the warmth of her pussy enveloped him. Even though he said it was a punishment, he was moving very slowly, and she felt a pang tug at her heartstrings. She lifted a leg cautiously, still adjusting to his thick length that was pulsating inside her with desire. She moaned softly at the spark of pleasure that jolted through her at the change in angle. Yuma let out a rumbling chuckle, “You’re already so wet…Oy, did you get excited from your punishment?”

He shifted and lifted her legs up, resting them against his shoulders as he watched his cock glide in and out of her wet heat. The sound of the two of them joining together was embarrassing, and Yui wanted to bury her face in her hands but she stayed put, a bright flush covering her face. Yuma’s strong hands were holding her legs in place and he was enjoying himself, watching the act of fucking her.

The erotic nature of the sight was exciting him further and he leaned forward, pressing her legs toward her chest as he took her arms and pinned them above her head with one hand. He pressed his weight against the hands beneath him and used his free hand to fondle her breast before he picked up the pace of his ravishing. Yui turned her head to the side, writhing beneath him and chanting his name like a prayer, over and over. It was as though she had forgotten all words aside from his name. Aside from Yuma. “Yeah? Does it feel good? Yuma, it’s Yuma who makes you feel like this, hm?” he moaned breathily, watching her with a lecherous gaze, “I’ll make sure your body never forgets just who you belong to. You’re going to give everything to me, do you understand?”

He latched onto her neck again, sinking his fangs into her flesh once more as he started to pound her into the mattress. If any of his brothers were awake they could most likely hear the banging of his bed against the wall and Yui’s cries as he took her. He didn’t care, and in fact, it only made him want to do it rougher. He leaned back once more, digging his nails into her hips and lifting her onto his cock, angling himself deep inside of her. Yui’s hands scrambled to grab onto the wall above her head as she pressed the back of her head into the mattress, arching up into the man above her. As soon as she felt his seed shoot inside of her, searing her insides, she climaxed around him. The overall sensation driving her over the edge with him.

Yuma caught his breath, and leaned back down to latch onto her neck once again. “Yuma! I’m gonna pass out,” Yui protested weakly, her vision already becoming hazy around the edges after her orgasm had ripped through her body. She was already anemic due to his never-ending thirst and she wasn’t sure if she could handle much more.

“Then pass out,” he murmured against her throat, gulping more of her down. He paused, looking down at her with serious eyes, “You’re not going anywhere tomorrow anyway. You’re not leaving this house again.” Those were the last words she heard before the world became muddy and thick like molasses. Her body became limp in his arms as he slowly finished drinking from her, rolling over to lie beside her. His body felt surprisingly sore after fighting with Akio and he wondered if it had to do with the blade that he used. It was something he would have to figure out later, however, one thought remained as the tendrils of sleep began to pull him to sleep: I’m going to kill him.

[tunnelscreamer]

Here’s my secret santa gift for azzy_j!!  I hope you like it!

This short story happens sometime between the end of AoR and the beginning of the move. The Emperor is starting to show signs of decay and skekSil sees an opportunity ...

Eternal Reign 

Single file and robed in black, a procession of podlings walked through the halls of the Castle of the Crystal. The first held a lantern followed by another carrying a tray of chalices. Not far behind came more, carrying massive platters of food. They walked an unbent path as if all pulled by an invisible rope. But the pull was inside their own being, their spirits bound by the will of their captors, the Skeksis.

With pale heads bowed and unblinking eyes, they turned through an archway and into the grand banquet hall. The room was dark with no windows, only lantern light. It cast shadows on the faces of their overlords and glistened on the food. Echoing off the black stone walls was the shouting of jubilant Skeksis.

“Music!” one of them yelled over the others.

Hollow eyed musicians in a balcony began to play. The droning rhythm mixed with Skeksis voices. It did not sound like podling music but like slow thunder trapped in tin horns and drum skins. 

The low rumble pleased the diners who cheered the sound from their seats at the feast table. 

Then they added their own percussion. Their meals were the instrument with shells and tiny bones cracking and snapping in gnashing teeth. Long spiraling sinews of meat twisted round clanking forks, disappearing into slurping jaws. A groan of delight came from the Gourmand as he pushed his nose into a bowl of worming morsels. Defensively they released a spray of venom. The tang of their desperation was pleasing to the pallet and with a cupped claw he led them into his open mouth, finishing with a burp. 

The decadent feast held the attention of the other Skeksis, but skekSil had his eyes on the Emperor. He grinned, glad to be seated by his side.

A charred tentacle sat on a plate before the great ruler. He struggled to sink a knife into the meat. The dead thing remained defiant, not yielding to the all powerful Emperor’s blade.  

“Ahh, please,” skekSil said, “let me.” And reached over to offer assistance with cutting skekSo’s food. 

“Arghrrr, No!” the Emperor growled, shoving away the Chamberlain’s crimson sleeve. 

Slamming the knife to the table, skekSo grabbed up the meat and began tearing at it with his beak. 

Unbothered, skekSil leaned back and tilted his head. It was a weak display of rage. Lately some mysterious ailment had enfeebled skekSo. It was strange seeing the Emperor in such a state. SkekSil watched him struggle as he chewed. Then turned his head to view others at the table. 

What would they do if skekSo continued to decline? 

There were few worthy rivals and many pieces on the board. For a wise Skeksis like the Chamberlain each could be easily moved. Cleared away to make a path to power.

The Skeksis who were new to the castle had their roles. Any aspirations they might have could be quickly dashed. The Garthim Master and Slave Master may rule their charges but, in a way, were also ruled by them, and ever occupied with inferior creatures. The Emperor would not put trust in those who spent their days with filthy slaves and monsters. 

SkekSil remained the most civilized of their kind, a Skeksis cunning and worthy. Should the claw that holds the scepter weaken, its grip fade and fail, none would be better to take it up than loyal skekSil.

Mmmmmmmm, a giddy whine escaped his beak.

Then a dirty podling hand placed a chalice before him. The servant moved on, placing one before each of the Skeksis. Claws all around eagerly grasped at the cups. 

And, as if he had willed it, an opportunity presented itself.

“Waiit!!”

All raised their beaks at the Chamberlain’s outburst.

“This is special meal, yes? Must say a few words,”  he looked to his side as he rose from his seat. “I’m sure Emperor agrees.” 

“Hm?” skekSo replied, having not yet swallowed his first bite of meat.

“This day, and so many days before, Garthim have captured no gelfling. Is clear, quite clear, none remain! These most vile creatures have been eradicated from our world. Today we drink podling essence and celebrate gelfling annihilation!” 

SkekSil raised the chalice. He posed belly puffed forward, chin jutting out proudly. The posture of a leader. 

“Our reign will be unending! Our power unmatched! We drink to magnificent victory, to our brilliance and our Emperor!”

“Are you finished?!” skekUng snorted.

“Mmmmmm,” the Chamberlain sneered.

“To the Emperor’s eternal reign!” the Ritual Master shouted, raising his cup as he stood, neck outstretched to emphasize his height. 

The other Skeksis raised their chalices for barely a moment, then gulped down the essence. SkekSil never took his eyes off his rivals as he drank it down. 

The Ritual Master was a fool - so bitter, so desperate for power, sad. SkekSil had to be sure he would never have the Emperor’s trust. And skekUng, deceitful and foul, most ugly of Skeksis. He would pay for his interruption.  

Soon there were snickers and laughter as the essence kicked in. It was not crisp and clarifying like gelfling essence but mind muddling, more like a spirit. Still it gave them strength. 

For a moment, SkekSil had stood with power. Moments like these would build over time and plant ideas in minds which would grow into truth. Each show of strength was a step on his path to future glory. 

Then he heard the Emperor gasp and cough. Excitement cut through essence induced haze. Skeksil turned to face the sound.

“Drink slowly sire,” he said. 

The sound had been music to his ears. A plan was coming together. Later alone he would toast to himself, and his impending reign. The feast was such a fine night. He could nearly feel the weight of the scepter in his hand. 

[jksangelic]

defanged (m)

↳ rating: M

↳ genre: smut, fluff, werewolf!au, a/b/o au, pwp

↳ pairing: mates werewolf!reader x werewolf/alpha!hoseok

↳ warnings: explicit sexual content, dom themes, breathplay, knotting, rough play, impregnation kink, overall general ”werewolf” smut themes, personality change, probably an uncomfortable amount of squishy mate talk

↳ summary:  hoseok is an easy mate—as such that there are moments you question if he’s just human. so when his sudden spike of aggression emerges, you do your best to keep this unknown man at bay. or, alternatively: young alpha hoseok has started teething and he’s being a bratty puppy about it.

↳ note: ok so if you were with me a few months ago you would know that this is actually a collab fic with a couple other writers but life happens and here we are now *cowboy emoji*. this is really important to me bc they’re such *clench fist* great people and i’m happy i received such an opportunity to collab with them (’: pls make sure to rb/like/visit our collab masterlist if you want to be in-the-know of when they post their parts!

also i wanted to play around with the humorous sides of what werewolves might go thru (-: so, like, short attention spans and hating loud noises and typical big dog stuff. with the teething, just imagine that their growth stages are prolonged because they’re, idk, maybe immortal or something lol

(i…… i’m not used to writing fantasy can u tell)

((gif isn’t mine + his side profile ;-;))

↳ words: 9k+

You could hear every miniscule thread snap and unwind from themselves, a simple task such as painting your nails becoming less relaxing than it should be.

“Hobi,” you mumble once. You swipe down your thumb again, carmine red smoothing over brightly and with utmost delicacy. He doesn’t listen, another squeaking grind of his teeth against the material of his sweatshirt followed by a snapsnap.

“Hobi,” you say a little louder, flinching from annoyance and staining your cuticle with the polish. You curse your discontents, waiting for him to look at you but only meeting a turned neck and eyes still glued to his phone, an I’m listening portrayed by his demeanor but not really meaning it.

He chews hard on the neckline, a solid rip completely tearing several inches down his chest, eyes widening and attention finally caught when his chest is exposed hilariously.

“Hoseok!” you yell, slamming the closed bottle onto the coffee table and meeting his startled eyes, “I just bought that for you!”

He hopes to play it off and shrugs as you swipe it from his teeth, untwined fibers poking out sadly. You smooth your thumbs over the poor fabric, the third victim of his recent gnashing problem.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you ask sadly, a little more bummed about the beautiful sweatshirt than you should be.

He responds simply, “My gums itch.”

You roll your eyes at his childlike excuse, the full-sized man sitting cross-legged and distractedly in his corner of the couch with his phone paused on some game with horrendously annoying music. Was he really your alpha?

“Why don’t you do us some good and go hunting.” You offer, a lame excuse to get Hoseok out of your hair for a bit. It’s what you deserve. He rolls over with a harrumph, shoulder now bare from the growing tear in his clothing. It made you giggle slightly.

“I’m in pain and you’re laughing at me,” he deadpans, body static-still and stubborn more than ever.

Your breath fans his skin as you slither next to him, “I’m sorry, baby. Are you really hurting? Why don’t you go to the dentist?”

Hoseok pouts, taptaptapping away at his screen instead of looking at you, “I don’t want to go to the dentist. They just itch.” Even now, he licks over the burning sensation of his gums, clenching and grinding his teeth to ease the feeling in any way. You can hear the collisions of his canines, your own tingling uncomfortably from the sound.

You shake your head. “Maybe you’re teething,” you suggest in all seriousness. It wasn’t impossible; your kind’s lifespan certainly placing such life stages at seemingly unusual times. In any case, it would simply mean his canines were most likely growing longer and stronger.

He scoffs as if you’ve insulted him, “I’m well over my teething days, Y/N. They just itc—"

“Say that one more time and I’ll neuter you,” you huff. When he lacks a kinder response, you push yourself off the couch to tidy your bedroom instead. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to have a serious conversation with you at the moment, and despite its rarity, you could use your space.

Your mate was in no way irritable; in fact, Hoseok was one of the sunniest alpha’s you’ve ever encountered. His kindness differentiated him from others, bearing his mark (and one day, hopefully, his pups) certainly deeming you quite lucky. He was a soft lover above all, never making you feel as a subordinate or anything of the like.

Perhaps it’s why you two were clashing heads recently, his personality completely contradictory from his true self. Never does he ignore you, let alone snap at you.

Folding your clothes (and purposefully leaving his items in a pile on his side of the bed in spite), you exhale heavily and leave for the living room once again, disregarding your now smeared manicure.

Hoseok beams at the shoe aisle, producing more light than whatever was already lit in the store. Due to his “issue”, stopping by the mall was a given. Two more of his shirts and even one of your necklaces mangled and chewed up like he was the Tasmanian Devil.

Petting his hair fondly, you give him a nuzzle to his cheek, “I’ll be in the next store over, puppy. Come meet me when you’re done.” He nods happily, wide-frame glasses bobbing atop his pretty nose.

You beeline for the department store in hopes of purchasing a few extra things for yourself before Hoseok sniffs you out. It’s immediate heaven when you sift through the dresses, picking a few out and dangling them happily on your fingers before bouncing from rack to rack. By the time you reach the dressing rooms, your arm aches from the pile you’ve accumulated.

“Hey there, you can go ahead and take that first stall right there,” a man directs, tall and intimidating and rather fucking handsome, you think. “My name’s Jaebum. Let me know if you need anything and I’ll go grab it for you.”

You bat your lashes and mouth a Thanks before waltzing into your room, appreciating his kindness perhaps a little too much. Despite your complex and absolute relationship status, it didn’t hurt to peek at what’s on display. It was only right!

You try on more than what you even remembered picking out, velvets and satins and the softest of cottons all hugging you warmly with every piece, a bittersweet happiness when everything seemed to fit you perfectly. The last dress, though, is your only hiccup. Material skin-tight and ending just a little above your ankles; you harrumph. Almost a perfect streak.

Dress still on (at least it zipped), you peek through the door and spot handsome Bum at the front. “Psst, um, do you mind getting me a couple more sizes in this? I think it was near the wall to the right.”

He grins and nods, almost grateful of the fact that you asked him to do so. Why was he even in this section? Should it concern you?

You watch as he leaves, back muscles showcased quite lavishly in his pristinely pressed suit.

Should it be more concerning that it didn’t?

You take a moment to look at the dress once more, smoothing over the velvet that bunched snugly at your waist and checking out your own ass. The fabric might rip if you sneeze too hard but you look pretty damn splendid.

“Found a few more and got you another color as well,” Jaebum says upon return. You almost snap your neck away from the mirror, hoping he didn’t see you ogling your bum. What a speedy fellow.

You politely open the door wider and reach for the hangers, “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Jaebum doesn’t fully hand it to you though, briefly but noticeably skimming over your body, “I think that size is cute on you too. You have a really beautiful figure.”

Maybe it should concern you. You chuckle awkwardly and look elsewhere. Please just give me my dresses, you almost say, now self-conscious in your skin.

“It’s even better when she’s naked. I would know,” Hoseok near growls, appearing out of thin air. He swipes the hangers from behind Jaebum, who is surprised beyond all comprehension of the word, and pushes you back into the room. You’ve never seen him look so enraged, face serious and twitching as if he would shift at any given moment.

“Th-There aren’t allowed to be more than one person in a—,” Jaebum nervously starts from the other side before the door is slammed on his nose.

You didn’t even see Jaebum’s reaction, nor do you ponder it when Hoseok drops your beautiful dresses and thrusts your back against the mirror with his hand to your neck, deliberately making you yelp loud enough for others to hear. You recoil as he bares his fangs, sharp and taunting, threatening to devour you whole and you know this isn’t your Hobi.

He doesn’t get the chance for whatever else he had in store when pure vehemence engulfs you, daring to stand your ground with a low guttural snarl and shoving him off. Your strength is nothing to snicker at, his shoulders nearly hitting the other wall despite his stature.

“What’s wrong with you?” you didn’t even care if everyone in the damn store could hear you, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Regret instantly arises in his eyes, his hands reaching out to comfort you in any way but hesitant in the warning. He would rather die than hurt you, he was sorry, he was so sorry.

Your body can feel his sorrow and want, itching to touch him in any way but you push it down. The little she-wolf in you whimpers as you struggle out of the dress and leave him alone in the stall, begging for you to go back and forgive him.

Jaebum stands, bewildered, outside of the rooms. He sure did rue the moment he ever made advances on you. Not a word is spoken as you pass by and exit the store.

It doesn’t make it any easier when Hoseok follows you closely. “Baby, I’m sorry. Please.”

“You were going to shift because of some stupid sales clerk! You could’ve gotten us in some deep shit with the order,” you scold, “We’re going home. Right now.” This was a double-edged sword, you didn’t even get to purchase anything. Though your mood is far too foul to continue.

“But I didn’t! No one saw anything. I just lost my cool for a second, I promise. I know better.” Even Hoseok strains to keep up your pace, car already in view and goddamn you walk fast.

“Do you? Are you seriously justifying your actions? You need to uphold your responsibilities, Hoseok. You’re not new to this.” He finds that he despises when you lecture him this way, gums and skin and everything prickly and he wish he could gnaw on something right about now.

It was odd to tell him these things, taking into consideration that his role is considerably higher than yours and that he hardly ever faults as an alpha. If there wasn’t something going on biologically, what else could it be?

He’s obviously straining to keep his composure now, jaw slacked and knuckles cracking in his fist, “How am I supposed to do that now? It won’t happen again. It’s over.”

“Then what about your shitty mood swings? We don’t argue, Hoseok. You’re not mean, you’re not easily agitated, and you’re not a fucking paper  shredder. Neither are you aggressive to your own mate,” you throw in his face, unsurprised when he cowers again at the thought. It’s like the man was on his period.

Now that you recall, the last time you’ve ever seen him so angry at you is when you watched Endgame without him, and that should say enough. This was just all so new and unbecoming of someone with his level of reputation.

“You know I didn’t mean to do that. I never want to hurt you…” he leads as you beat him to the driver’s side of the car, watching him over the hood for him to finish his sentence, “I’m just—”

“You what, Hoseok?”

He jostles the door handle a few times, a rep of unsettling clacks making him uneasy.  

“Can you unlock the car?”

“You what?” you say a little louder, entirely avoiding his question.

“Goddammit,” he hisses, “Just let me in and we can talk about it when we get home.” You scan his face in search of anything. For the truth. For him to own up to what it is. What you get is nothing.

So you smile, “No.”

He stands cluelessly as you unlock your door and hop in, starting the car with a satisfying roll and opening his window just enough to see his addled facial expression.

“What are you doing?” he deadpans.

“If you won’t admit it then you obviously don’t take me seriously, and if you won’t take me seriously then I’ll take my car home by myself. So, toodles!”

He smirks nervously, slender fingers sifting through his hair, “Y/N, c’mon. Just let me in.” He’s even more staggered when you start reversing out of your spot. Eyes widening hilariously, he cusses under his breath as he walks cautiously towards the door.

“Have a fun run, baby. Better get home soon,” you feign pity, “looks like it’s going to start raining pretty soon.”

“We live an hour away!”

You drive down the row, turning on your signal just in case someone needed to know. Shucks, you were such a good driver, even in the parking lot.

Hoseok thinks otherwise, anger and panic so vivid that you can feel it from this distance. Walking Time Bomb even begins to jog, not willing to risk your bluff.

“Okay! Okay, I admit it. I may be going through something…” his wavering voice trickles into your head. “You’re right.’

You let him catch up to you, eyes shifty and fingers fiddling. “Hi, darling. Can you say that one more time? In person?” His chest puffs.

“I already said it once,” he begs.

Was his pride this important? Did the strangled mutt deep down change your Hoseok for the worst? An impatient car behind you honks and you shrug.

“You’re making people wait. I’m going to leave.”

“Jesus fucking—okay. I think I’m teething. Or something involving my dental state. It’s making me fucking grumpy and it’s painful and I want to punch a fucking wall because it’s stupid that this phase is so late.” You unlock his door mid-sentence, his body falling into his seat before he continues to blabber on.

“Oh, little puppy,” you slide your sunglasses from atop your head down to the bridge of your nose, “Don’t be so sensitive. ‘S like a human adult getting braces.”

The week passes by agonizingly slow. And that wasn't necessarily because Hoseok bitched and complained, throwing temper tantrums when the remote had fallen between the couch cushions or throwing his pants stormily when they would catch on his ankles and make him hobble about like a disabled chicken.

Or maybe it was because of that.

You dare to creak the door to his den (pun intended), having locked himself in such confinement to work through the paperwork that's been piling on his mahogany desk for days. He looks worn around the eyes, long brown hair pushed back with his fake reading glasses. You knock three times as if he couldn't already sense your presence. When he looks at you through his lashes, he nods for you to proceed.

"Hi, baby. How's the work going?" you ask with a honey-dipped edge.

He shrugs, "A lot of affairs from other packs that I have to go over. I should be done soon."

You slink behind his office chair and wrap your arms around his shoulders, "Mm, why don't you take a break and have a nice little bath with me?" He doesn't budge one inch, straightening out a stack of papers before stapling them neatly and tucking them into one of his drawers.

"I need to finish this. I've been pushing it back until the last minute."

Rolling him out a bit, you slide onto his lap and rest on his chest. Your touch always lulls a serene sensitivity from his skin, a natural effect that only you are capable of. But his muscles remain taut. Bones stiff and budging none whatsoever. Stuttering, you try again, "You've been working for hours. I'm lonely. Just an hour--,"

"Y/N. I'm warning you. Get off."

She-wolf unconsciously warns you to stand down upon this statement. Was he being serious? He's warning you? You search his blank face, waiting for him to crack a smile or lift you up and attack you with kisses. When he doesn't, you test the waters.

Your nails scratch the bare skin under his shirt, "H-Hoseokie, we haven't had sex in so long," you whine. Invading his space, however, only sets him off more.

He growls, deep and meant to be menacing. It takes brutal force to push yourself to move, a weight halting your ministrations. His word, no matter how rare it be, was your law. Do you dare defy that?

You unbutton his pants the same time he threatens, "Continue any further and see what happens." He's breathier than normal and that gives you some satisfaction. He was your mate, after all. Eternal fulfillment was your duty.

The feeling of his heavy and growing bulge, nestling in the crook of his thigh, is a success all in its own. You purr and rub your legs together, licking at Hoseok's neck lovingly and waiting for him to give in. "Hobi, you're already--ah!"

Your view spins as Hoseok scruffs you to his desk, cold wood pressed to your cheek and wrists somehow pinned behind you. Yiping in fear, you struggle in his harsh imprisonment.

"You don't fucking listen," he complains, voice balancing on the line between speaking and yelling.

"Hoseok! L-Let me g-go--," you start before he grinds himself into your ass, boner prominent and angry as it prods. He replaces the hand to your neck with his mouth, laving and suckling all the way down your shoulder.

"Can't do that. I warned you and you disobeyed me. You disobey your alpha, Y/N?"

"No, I'm sorry--," you squeak before your dress is thrown over your back and a sharp slap comes down onto your ass.

You don’t believe the sound that comes out of your throat, pressing your thighs together and wiggling the pain away. “J-Jung Hoseok! What is—” Another slap, harder than the first.

The nerves tingle all the way down to your toes as your eyes roll back. You moan once more, unsolicited and without restraint. Hoseok is content with your reaction, not expecting you to squirm so nicely because of your punishment.

"You like this, don't you? I can smell you leaking like some submissive whore," he snarls with an edge of disappointment. You're beyond mortified of how he speaks to you, although not inclined to deny his words. Not when he spanks you once more, with such force that a scream is rewarded and your back arches in euphoric pain.

"Hoseok, no more, please. I'll--I'll cum if you keep, ugh," you blabber over yourself. He thinks you look prettily pathetic drooling on his desk, so close to spilling over the edge from being physically humiliated.

"Tch, so weak," he comments before releasing your wrist and letting you collapse to the floor. "Are you done?" The question both turns you on and pisses you off, emotions swirling into something self-destructive.

Crawling on the carpet and up his leg, you nuzzle into his bulge, "But I still didn't get what I want." You don’t even ponder where this behavior is coming from; slinking out of you like a dog with its tail between its legs. Perhaps his own change of manner influenced one in you.

He could laugh at how easy you were being, wondering when he ever mated with someone who acts like such a sexually-obsessed brat. "Oh?" he prompts, "So you think you get to make the calls here?"

Licking the hem of his boxers in response, he doesn't feel pleased with your lack of words. You perk up when he shuffles his cock out from the confines of his layers. It’s almost instinctual, not wasting any time to pepper kisses and kitten licks to his tip. God, he even smells amazing. You don't care if you look ridiculous, feverish with your actions like he'd take away your precious treat if you weren't cautious.

He snickers at you, petting your hair with an unexpectedly soft touch. Your heart-shaped irises peer up, knowing he loves your eye contact when you suck him off. Watching the blush spread on his face means that you must be doing your job correctly. Besides, not even the Big Bad Wolf can deny when he feels his pleasure.

He almost can’t stand the self-righteousness that oozes off you. If you thought you were in control, you were dead-wrong. "You want my cock that bad, huh, baby?" your love bunches as much of your hair as he can with his fist, "Then fucking take it."

Then his girthy dick shoves to the back of your throat without warning, hips to your nose and thrustingthrustingthrusting as far as he can.

You'd sputter if your mouth wasn't so full, eyes overflowing with tears and throat constricting in hopes that he'll let you go. When he doesn't and continues to grind himself down your mouth, you dig your nails into his thighs and whine on his persistent cock. It doesn’t matter, the digging crescents in his thighs rousing him even further and even hoping those pretty nails of yours leave marks for him. He’d accept no less.

Hoseok thrusts twice more before pulling you off and watching you cough maniacally. The tears that gathered were now running down your face, accompanied with your saliva that leaks from your chin and onto the floor.

You couldn't breathe, you couldn't ask him to stop, and you loved it.

He cocks a brow as you struggle to catch up, "We'll stop here. You're obviously not made for this."

Pitiful is the only word he can use to describe how quickly you paw and beg for him, desperately wrapping your fingers around the base of his member and pumping him just the way he likes it, "No! I can take it, please use me." Your unstable hand massages the cum-saliva mix as well as it can, a small victory celebrated when he bucks into you.

"Mm," his thumb wipes a stray tear from your lip, "You're so beautiful when you cry. Will you sit on the desk for me?"

You don't hesitate to obey, being careful to hop up when your bum is so sore but otherwise eager for him to touch you again. When he places himself between your legs, your body hums.

"I'm... I'm not well, Y/N. I don't want to hurt you," he says, voicing his first concern after what's already happened. With his brows knit in concern and his slender fingers rubbing calmly at your sides, it's almost as if the Hoseok you know has returned. The Hobi that makes your pancakes just a little overcooked like you prefer. Who makes you a blanket nest when you’re feeling down. And will gladly give up his last bite of anything to watch you munch happily even after you’ve finished your own portion.

In some way, this was your same Hobi. Maybe not so sweet and innocent but more on the receiving end. Spending his days tending to you out of pure love and pleasure to see you bloom; it was just your turn to return the favor.

So you kiss him with fervor and mold your chest to his, feeling the scorching heat that emanates from him. He must seriously be straining himself, you think. His canines graze your lips and you know he's trying his best to hold back; to not completely obliterate you.

"I want to help you," you whisper against his mouth. You implore him and he doesn’t hesitate to take your offer.

You extend your legs as he rushes to pull down your thong, throwing it to the side, and embracing you with another kiss, all tongue and pants. Some of his documents get ruffled under your steadying hands and he shoves them off altogether, a rain of really important paper littering the room. He comes in a little too excitedly, slamming a drawer closed with his thigh and even scooting his desk across the floor.

“God fucking dammit,” he swears, your chuckles covering his wet lips. “I’m… a mess… not thinking straight. Need to cum inside you.”

You purr when his head rubs against your sex, an electric sensation tearing through you. “Want you to knot me,” you whisper. A mistake in its own because he’s practically moaning into your mouth when you say such things.

“Yeah, baby? Want your cunt pumped full? Hm?” he asks into your jaw, all the while spreading your legs as far as they can split with his strong hands. His hips begin to circle like he’s stalling as long as possible and that rouses you up in a way.

You nod with sultry eyes and chant, “Yes. Yes, yes.” By the second yes does he all but slam into you, your final confirmation his endgame.

Hoseok was truly blessed in size, something no mere human could ever match. His length alone would make you double over in ecstasy if he allowed you the space to. Squeezing around him only makes him fuck you deeper, both wanting and needing more of each other than you already have. You were made for him, and him you.

You whimper as he pulls out, his head tantalizing your g-spot before ramming back inside and forcing an angelic cry. “H-Hoseokie… Please, your pups. I want to have your pups”

The sounds of his hips against your skin with your moans and the subtle creak of his desk is almost humorous, you were fucking like dogs. Even more so when he pushes you flat against the wood by the front of your throat, his thumb tucked gently on an airway as your tongue flops out in simple bliss.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” he snarls with a particularly evil drill to your core that curls your toes. “Nothing to me would be more satisfying than to breed you.”

Your throat constricts and you cough, your tiny hands tugging at his fingers while barely being able to pry his grip. You can’t resist moaning through clenched teeth still, even when the prettiest wine red pours into his irises. Hoseok holds back incredibly well, despite having shifting eyes, his total control never fails to astonish you. It was years worth of training and you thank the stars that it was useful in a time where you were literally stuffed with his cock.

“And you’re so willing; so obedient now. You like when I fuck you like this. Just want that beautiful pussy bred until you’re spilling, right?” he chuckles with means to humiliate when your eyes flutter and drool spills from your swollen lips, “What a mate.”

You tighten, an embarrassing amount of arousal spilling and sticking to your love. He doesn’t mind one bit, rather, losing composure for a brief moment, “Ugh, so good.”

His hand suddenly withdraws from your tender neck and you sputter an attempt to catch your breath, a fleeting moment before he wraps his arms under your knees and prompts you to hang onto him when he stands. How quickly he’s able to switch positions is hot in itself, but the thought is also lost when you sink down even further on his dick.

“Oh, oh my god,” you wail pathetically, wrapping yourself around him and trying to lift your trembling body to ease how full you feel, even for just a moment.

“Hm? I thought you wanted this, baby. Wanted my complete, unforgiving love for you. Isn’t that why you walked into my office?” he smirks similarly to how you imagine the devil would. His hands find leverage against the closest wall, also shoving you against it and resuming his pace into you.

This, to whichever persona was hiding deep down in Hoseok, was divine. Incredible. You would die for this man even without the bond. He was literally screwing you braindead.

He pants, warm and sweaty and shirt somehow unbuttoned halfway down (when did you do that?), “I thought you wanted my knot? Not anymore?”

Your pupils blow out as you shake your head, you were so close.

“Ah, then I’ll knot you. I’ll knot you but you have to beg,” he says with a wink. Bastard.

“Please, please knot me, baby. Breed me and let me have your pups,” you sob, “Fill me up until I can’t take it anymore, Alpha, please—”

He jabs incessantly until you’re entirely maxed out, sloppy smacks echoing out further than the den and his growls emanating when you drag your sharp nails down his back, the fabric tearing under your fingers. Hoseok grinds his full length into you, reaching beyond the end of your walls.

“S-Stay,” he orders. He slows as the base of his cock swells and even though you asked for it, it’s always a little uncomfortable. You can’t even fathom how it feels for your mate, his sudden groans and the absolute necessity to lave at your neck only scraping at the surface of any real indication.

Hoseok told you once that it was similar to both being overstimulated and having a sudden spike of energy, which could explain his touchiness. It was cute though, and kinda hot.

Nestled deep inside, you can subtly feel the ropes of semen beginning to pool. You rest your head over his shoulder, buzzing from the intensity of it all and watching as the walls move and shift into the ones of your bedroom.

Hoseok’s hoarse voice surprises you, “Fuck, I’m so dizzy.”

The bed is a heavenly difference from the den’s desk and wall, your heart pounding a little too hardly when he places one of his pillows lengthwise under your back for extra squish. He was so cute.

But then he collapses on you.

“Oof—I’ve never seen you like that before. My ass hurts,” you state dreamily.

“Oh, love. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asks seriously, lifting his head to study your face in case you lie. The red dissipated long before, his deep brown eyes twinkling down at you like they always do.

“You were a little rough,” you feign, pouting and pushing around his face with paw-folded fists. He thinks you look like an idiot, a cute idiot.

“I’m sorryyyy,” he whines, burying his face into your chest and wiggling around like a fish. His knot moves with him and you wince.

“Hoseok, stay still.”

Being showered in a sudden attack of kisses is what he responds with, not even aware of the task at hand and fake crying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t ever want to hurt you—I—oh no.”

You yipe as semen sloshes down your leg, shoving your palm into Hobi’s (who is undoubtedly back to his usual self) cheek and trying your best to not panic.

“Goddammit, Jung Hoseok! Stay still!”

beep boop hope you liked, leave some feedback if you did!

[lavenderhyrdrangea]

Moon River 2.0

If you prefer to read on ao3 the link is here

Butch had undoubtedly sprained his ankle; the mild caution in his step had given it away.  Dedicated to making matters worse, he  kept his usually flippant mouth shut about  the pulled joint even with Grayditch, by then, miles behind them.Viola deferred his much needed chiding in favor  of hammering her fist on the door to her  happy place, a dream land where she didn’t have to deal with his screw ups.

Frustrated was too gentle a word to describe her feelings about their predicament.  Sure, no one wanted to admit that the first thing they did when they saw a fire ant was shriek then ragdoll fling themselves in the opposite direction—But that was the most common reaction. Those incendiary pests made even the most skilled Wastelanders wet their pants, so a trembling valutie was no surprise. Most people understood that.  But Butch? No, not him. Of course not. Most blowhards had a problem admitting to their shortcomings and he was no exception. He was a dummy and thought that his wounded pride mattered in the Waste.

Instead of pressing him for a confession, she opted for the sit back and watch method.  If he wanted to suffer in silence like an obstinate little turd, then far be it for her to break her back trying to lend a hand.

With the way his nostrils were flared his breaking point had to be soon.

“Whys the crapshoot settlement got to be so far?”

“Yeah, got to admit—I don’t remember the walk being this long.”

“Map’s probably all wrong. Makes stuff appear to be where it ain’t.”

Viola stopped. Not hearing her steps behind him, Butch followed suit and glanced over his shoulder.

“ If the directions and the destination don’t match then maybe you’re on to something.”

He raised a brow, urging her to go on.

“Maybe Megaton got so sick of hearing you whine about it that it got up and ran.”

Butch gave a hard roll of his eyes and went back to walking, no, shuffling ahead.

“I ain’t got no time for games, girl.”

“Girl, Nosebleed, Poindexter, Wet rag. I love the  variety, but I’m sure you know I’ve got a name,” She started walking again and met his pace, “and a gun.”

She’d been threatening him with a bullet ever since she was old enough to traipse the lower parts of the Vault with Sister Beebee. Much like her single barreled friend’s Bbs, the constant shots she and Butch fired at each other could pierce through skin;often times it did. Arguments ended with balled fist and gnashed teeth. He tried to steal her sweet roll so she spat on it. He yanked her hair and called her ugly, so she got a hold of some hair removal product, walked right up to him and poured it all over his head. He ran a rumor about her and Freddie, so she told Wally about all the trips he and Susie took to closets when they thought no one was looking.  

The only reason why she hadn’t tried to kill  him was because he would try to do her in the moment he saw her coming.  Of the little pre-war history she had been taught, she remembered that something called the Nuclear Deterrence Theory followed the same  notion. One nation  would hold off on blasting another to bits for fear of a full and equal retaliation. Given the fact that they were trekking through radiated rubble, a couple of somebodies screamed “screw that” while pounding on their respective shiny red button.  Regardless, her and Butch’s civility with one another had always come down to survival, and that sentiment doubled once they no longer had the Vault’s fortified walls to protect them.  

Butch looked as if he was going to say something smart but it came out as a grunt instead.

“I think that thing back there bit my ankle.” He croaked.

“If that were the case you wouldn’t have a leg and I would’ve had no choice but to leave you to die.”

Before he could spit his usual venom, Viola offered him her shoulder to lean on. He seemed startled by it. This wasn’t the first time he’d been injured but it was definitely the first time she’d voluntarily offered to allow him to use her as balance as oppose to him just pressing his weight on her after getting fed up with the tough guy act.

He eventually gave in after she reminded him of the type of mutants that stalked around once the sun set. They made some advancements. And by some that meant none at all. She considered finding a raider camp and telling Butch to hang back while she took care of them.  The shot gun was empty so it wouldn't be an easy task. She rarely used her sniper rifle though it would be useless in close quarter combat, plus there was a reason why she didn't use it much.

She had a bat and rusty pipe. Using them in each hand would…

“Hey, Nosebleed?”

“ Whatever it is,  shorten it. Trying to figure out where we’re sleeping tonight. ”

“How long did you know about my ankle?”

“You’re an open book, Deloria.” She snorted. “Wide open.”

“Did your old man teach you how to spot stuff like that?”

Viola chewed the inside of her cheek as she eyed the dilapidated overpass ahead of them. No respite.

“Sorry.” He said sheepishly.

"No, you're good."

It wasn't like she hadn't done something similar. During her first day of her little vault rescue mission, she'd asked him about Paul.

The next few minutes of silence was unnerving. She'd rather hear Butch's mouth than to go down the rabbit hole that was her father and the pain he had inadvertently caused those in the vault.

“Why do you ask? You’re not one one to care about my home life unless it’s for ammunition.”

“Just thinking.”

“Quit that will you?  The Wastes are as  hellish enough as it is without the universe folding in on itself.”

“ Oh ho ho! You’re a real  walking stand up show ain’t you? You’ve really missed your calling. Maybe you should drop the guns and plant yourself in the Rudder. That place is rough, they could use a clown.”

If anyone was a clown it was the guy limping the way home.

She peered across the large expense to the left of her. Maybe they would be more likely to find a camp if they veered off the main path.

"I get it. Scarecrow has a  brain now and wants to think and be serious."

"What do you think our lives would be like right like if the door never opened?"

Huh.

" The GOAT  sorted that out  didn’t it? You'd be a hairdresser and I'd be in Vault Management.”

"Barber."

“That’s not what the GOAT said.” She playfully sang.

"Forget that stupid test. If I say I'm a barber then I'm barber." He sounded like he would've shouted that if he had any energy to do so.

"Looks like you’ve got an answer to your half of the question."

"No, wait. I'm not a barber."

"You sound very confused. I’m guessing the great Oz put that brain in backwards or something."

" Forget everything. Act like the door never opened and the GOAT never existed. Where would you be?"

Viola fell into silence again, in search of an answer to his question. With putting nearly all she had into surviving the Wasteland, she only ever had time to think about lost friendships and broken bonds not the normal, ground level what could have beens. Where would she be? Not helping Butch for starters. Also, working with her father as receptionist for his medical office. After that she might have taken a part-time job helping around at the diner. There wasn't much variety in the Vault, and with certain jobs being limited to only one or two people what little options she had dwindled even further.

Butch had taken the reigns of the conversation after she had assigned herself back to searching duty. He gave a response she didn't think she'd hear: An officer.

"Don't go shooting me funny looks," He said, eyeing her as she gave him a sidelong glance.

She decided to leave that as it was, looking for a resting place and holding a serious conversation as he called it proved to be harder than she thought.

Their trek eventually led them to an abandoned campsite. There was blackened wood and a smoky aroma that indicated there was a fire not too long ago, a backpack with some sugar bombs, and canned pork and beans inside, and a note with barely legible scrawl stating to a Ben that a Ricardo, she learned from the closing statement, was going to go ahead to the old scrapyard without him, and that he should eat something before meeting up with him later and that if someone had taken the food before he got there it was his fault for not hurrying. She wouldn't touch the food left for Ben, however, the  junkyard peaked her interest. Most of the items would be picked over but Viola discovered a while ago that few Wastelanders knew that if you accumulated enough junk you could earn a decent amount of Caps.

She’d been deciding whether or she should drop Butch off at Megaton and get Dogmeat first, or try to make the quick stop to the Scrapyard before Megaton when Butch started taking dinner out from his backpack. The rotten smell of Yum Yum Deviled Eggs was enough to keep her present.

She picked up the conversation where she left it. “You rebel without a cause  types wouldn’t even waste the spit it would take to put a fire out if the thing burning happened to be some type of authority or institution. I doubt you’ve experienced any type of growth since you’ve stumbled out of the Vault.”Her gaze trailed over the length of his frame,taking in the relative newness of the jeans and white Tee he procured from Seagrave, shocked that they weren’t filthy yet.   “Imagining you willingly wearing another uniform is enough to induce  a fever dream.”

“Says you. I’ve grown plenty,”

“In the ego department, maybe.” She muttered at first then brought her voice back to a level tone.” Is this  some type of kink in your psyche? You hate what you secretly desire?”

“You calling me a boot muncher?”

“I’m saying that your sudden  judicial interests are suspect.”

“ They’re untouchable. People don’t mess with them. If someone’s stupid enough to push their luck they’ve got  three other officers there to back them up.” He managed through half chewed up deviled egg chunks.

She added her own items to their little spread: Muttfriut, Peaches,and Pinto Beans.  With his eggs and Sugar bombs they  almost had the four basic food groups, albeit the poor man’s version.

“So,” She paused, thinking, “you wanted to be a big man with legal backing, huh?  Gives credence to that one saying.”

Notwithstanding the obvious dig, He asked easily, “Yeah? What saying?”

“Bullies seek out positions of authority. Typically, the guys try to be officers and the girls go for nursing jobs. I’m a little surprised you didn’t get that as a result on the GOAT.”

Butch’s lips quirked into a stupid grin. “What’s all that make you miss Vault Managament?”

“ I’m only a partial bully and that’s thanks to you.”

“ Everything’s my fault. Right. I forgot.”

She shrugged. "You said it. Not me."

The conversation lulled as they fell to the rest of their meal. Gingerly holding a piece of Muttfruit under the fading sunlight, Butch shifted from his lazy supine  position to a full on crouch and put his nose to it. With that litmus test out the way, he nibbled on it like a molerat, sampling bite after bite, until the  full flavor zinged on his tongue. He spat the chewed mush  past his puckered lips.  Viola had gobbled down her cheekful of sugar bombs to free up space so she could tease but went for a subtle side eye last minute. Leave it to Butch to turn his nose up at something good for him.

“People move for them, you know?” He  admitted, jumping back into their intial conversation. More so to not have to take another bite than eager a need to continue their chat.

Narrowing her eyes, she said, “So you fantasize about the badge because  you have a naive fantasy about power and control.  Is that it?  You’re idea of  law  enforcement  and people in leadership explains your past behaviors a bit too well. ”

“Christ, way to miss a point. That ain’t it at all. Security has guns and stuff.”

“Weapons intimidate.  Intimation  can lead to power or control. Use your head for something besides hair gel for once.

“No, no,no-You brought up the badge, right?  That’s it.  That’s all it is.”

“I’m still not sure about what ‘it’ is.”

Butch huffed.

“Say I draw pretty picture.  Cogs in a circle. A winged sword jabbing through. You’d think..?

“Oh, an inkblot test almost.”

“A what? Quit stalling, Nosebleed.”

“The Brotherhood of Steel.  Resourceful. Altruistic. Tech-savvy. A bit frigid when it comes down to the more human side of things. Order, Structure, Chain of command—That’s them. Forming an order  and plotting ahead is smart of them. I don’t like their...well, steel but I respe--”

Butches eyes went wide and he pointed. “There.”

Viola chewed on that for a bit.   " I think I get you." She said, nodding.

Butch’s expression grew soft for split second but smoothed out and eventually went back to it’s normal wise guy grin.  

" How come I'm the only one sharing?"

" I honestly don't know what my answer would be."

" You never wanted nothing?"

She rolled the deviled egg she pilfered before Butch demolished the rest of them between her fingers.

"I remember wanting to do things that would make my father say that my mom would happy."

"And being a receptionist would have done that?"

"It did. He would tell me all the time that she would be happy that I'd taken to the working around the office. I think my mom and my dad valued my safety. That's what made them both happy. But out here safety’s luxury."

"Well, you’re not dead, stiff as a board, but not dead. I’d say you’re doing a good job of keeping yourself safe."

"Not for long. Not with all these curve balls."

They each took their turn taking watch as night fell and passed. Viola made Butch promise to wake her in case something happened and either through guilt or some form of pride he asked her to wake him if she ever got too tired.

A blinding sunlight woke Butch up.  Since she’d been out of the vault longer than he had she’d already adjusted to the wastelands rays, and simply took her pair of shades from her backpack and tolerated it on her skin.

"Wish we had something to drink." He said with sleep thick in his voice.

"I brought some purified water from home."

"Something stronger."

"That's not a good idea outside of any settlements," She shot him a withering glare," for you, I personally don’t think that's a good idea at all."

Butch grumbled, "Gimme the water then."

Butch took a three huge, loud gulps.

"I thought of something Mr. Brotch said."

Butch's crumpled his face up like she just told him she spat in his water. "Why?"

"I talked to him after the GOAT. I wasn't happy with my results—“

"—He never told me nothing like that."

"That's because he didn't like you. Look.  He told me the whole thing was a joke. And if  it is actually is joke, and we we could forgo those results then why not here?"

"What?"

"No one really knows who we are out here. As long as we're not blowing towns up, we can do anything. And if we get bored we can do something else."

"Something tells me the Officer thing is a pipe dream."

“You don’t have to be an Officer. That’s not what you want. Just make some noise and people will associate you with it. I know I do.”

"Yeah, I like that. And you can make your folks happy then."

“Yeah.”

Viola decided to take Butch to Megaton first. They gathered their belongings from around the camp and continued their journey. This time Butch leaned on Viola from the start.

“Hey.” He said a little too quietly.

“Is your ankle bothering you?”

“Nope.”

“What is it then?”

“Would you really have left me behind if I lost a leg?”

She let silence past so he would sweat some.

“No, but I would’ve given you one heck of a nickname.”

For the first time she made him rumble out in that snorting laughter only his friends back in the vault could.

“Nerd.”

*                                                  *                                                         *

A bit sentimental are ya? You might like my Young Justice(animated) fic, Game Plan, starring Wally West, long roads and glaring insecurity.

[oatsn-honey]

cornflowers and caramel cubes

chapter one - aches and anxiety

masterlist

ao3

summary: Kageyama was always observant of his boyfriend, small and beautiful, vibrant and loud. Drinking in each feature, every word that fell from his lips, he could never get his fill. He was utterly enamored. And yet, how could he have missed something as blatantly obvious as this?

Or:Hinata gets extremely ill -- it’s appendicitis.

notes: i'm back writing fics i'm not supposed to beeeeeee help haikyuu and kagehina is absorbing my life-force and commanding me to create content this was a little hurt/comfort idea (when is it not hurt/comfort with me) that just popped in my head! pls enjoy!! <333 thank u sm for reading!

btw, just some warnings!! this does involve vomiting and vomiting blood, as well as other mentions of illness. there are hints to anxiety, but purely situational anxiety!

He looked beautiful that day, Kageyama thought. But, he looked beautiful every day. That didn’t stop his eyes from sneaking glances at him -- his milk skin; tangerine-pink lips, soft and supple (he would know, after all); those freckles that were lovelier than the stars painted in the sky; and, of course, that smile that never ceased to make his heart skip a beat (or ten) and immediately send heat straight to the tips of his ears.

“Tobio?” His voice, the sound like the morning sun, broke the setter from the stupor he had unknowingly found himself in. (Though, if he were to be honest, this was becoming a daily occurrence.) “You good?” The boy in front of him waved a small hand -- everything about him was small, except for maybe his heart. And eyes. And tenacity. And . . . -- in his face. Wait, when had he started staring?

“Uh, yeah. All good, Hinata.” He could feel his cheeks burning, the back of his neck feeling uncomfortably warm. The sun beating down at them wasn’t helpful in the slightest. Briefly, Kageyama found himself groaning internally -- When did I become so sappy? It’s gross. He’s gross. But cute.

He slumped against the brick wall, poking absently at the lunch placed in his lap. With a sigh, he switched his chopsticks for a box of milk. His brows pressed together, and he willed the warmth from his face away, as he sucked through the straw. His eyes slid over to Hinata, his partner aimlessly gazing at his food. Oddly, a murmur of distress fell from his lips, and he abruptly closed the lid to his bento, pushing it aside.

Kageyama curiously curled his lips to the side. Cocking an eyebrow, he prodded at his boyfriend, “Are you good?” Cornflower met caramel as they shared a look. A small hum from Hinata told him that he was alright, but Kageyama believed otherwise. That look in his eyes; it was pleading.

Practice was more-or-less a bust. At least, that’s what thought was at the forefront of the small decoy’s mind. Hunched over, a sharp and nagging pain coursing through his abdomen, Hinata counted the minutes until practice ended. 98, to be exact.

It didn’t help that Coach Ukai clearly had a personal vendetta against them (at least in the redhead’s mind), each player in nearly the same position as Hinata -- if not, their hands were atop their heads and heaving chests faced the ceiling. As the others regained their vigor enough to joke and laugh, though, Hinata’s breaths continued to come in short, laborious gasps that left his innards feeling as though they were contorting and twisting about within his body.

A single shout is an executive order for Hinata’s head. “12 laps around the gym, sprint!” A simple task, really. But with his intestines so jumbled, breaths simple puffs of air, and head pounding against his eyes, blood pumping in his ears, Hinata didn’t know if he could take even a single step more. He starts anyway, mindful to blend in with the others -- don’t fall behind; don’t push ahead. Just inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale through that knife stabbing at your stomach.

Next, receives. He supposed it went fine, considering he already tended to do poorly in that area. He swallowed harshly when a sardonic laugh made its way to his ear; “It’s almost like it’s the beginning of the year again!” He didn’t question who said it, only focused on not collapsing on the hardwood floor. His stomach should be a gymnast, he thought, with all of its tumbles and flips. An involuntary shiver ran through him as a tsunami of pain made its way to shore.

“5 minutes!” A chorus of relieved sighs and exclamations echoed in the gym, and the boys made their way towards the bench. Unsteadily, Hinata followed suit, his legs quivering and body tense. It’ll pass with a swig of water, he told himself. But when his trembling hands brought the water bottle up to his mouth, the opening knocking lightly against his teeth, he came to regret that thought.

It was all too much.

The shouts of Nishinoya and Tanaka.

The choir of heavy breathing and the squeal of shoes against the polished floor.

The sweat dripping down his back, the migraine threatening at his temples.

That awful twisting in his gut.

Hinata found himself on the floor propped on his hands and knees, his entire body burning and aching. The whole team had encircled him. His arms shook, but he was soon held protectively in someone’s arms. He grasped at their shirt, a wet sob broke past his lips, and he turned his face into them as strong hands rubbed circles into his quivering back. Kageyama.

He was covered in his own vomit. The floor was. The equipment was. Everything.

A hand, slightly cold to the touch, tenderly pushed his soaked bangs back from his forehead. As the black dots, piercing at his eyes, fade away, he sees the blurry face of Suga, gentle brows furrowed and his face pale with worry. “Hey,” he cooed, voice as lilting and soothing as ever. As the ringing in his ears quieted, but never truly disappeared, he could hear someone on the phone. His eyes flitted around the room anxiously, and his heart rate spiked.

“Hey, now, Hinata, look at me, okay?” That hand, still holding back his sweaty hair, gently scraped at his scalp, and he surrendered to the touch. “What’s wrong?” So the interrogation began.

A pained groan was as suitable a response as Sugawara had expected “Understandable,” Daichi’s booming voice, disquieted, pitched in from behind the setter. “Here,” he whispered, handing something to Suga that Hinata couldn’t make out.  He twitched nervously in Kageyama’s -- whom he was relying completely on to sit up -- arms. “Don’t worry,” Sugawara reassured, his presence relaxing Hinata’s frantic pulse, “I’m just going to check your temperature.”

His senses returned to him slowly, but he could feel the thermometer underneath his tongue as the thermometer read his temperature. His eyes, dazed and misty-eyed, settled on Suga, his soft features quelling his panic. A small beep-beep-beep reached his ears, and the thermometer was taken back. His eyes shifted up to his captain, who hissed as he read the temperature. “38.5.” A groan rang throughout the gym and only then did Hinata fully comprehend just how close everyone was. It was suddenly too hot, too stuffy, too close.

“Okay, kiddo. Give him some space, guys!” Daichi ordered. Had he said that last bit out loud? He didn’t care, Hinata decided, simply needing to end the agony riddling his stomach. His exhale was trembling as he weakly pressed closer to Kageyama.

“Is it your stomach?” the raven-haired setter spoke softly in his ear. He nodded minutely, hands snaking around his own midsection. He hissed as Kageyama adjusted his grip on his feverish body, the movement jostling his tender pains far too greatly. He couldn’t help the whimper from escaping, his eyes screwed shut, as Kageyama rose to his feet, carrying him with the grace that could only belong to a setter towards the bench.

Hinata could feel hot tears stinging his eyes, angry with himself (for his weakness, he supposed), ashamed, and unable to stop the small whines of pain that slipped past his parted lips. He fell asleep to Kageyama’s soft whispers of, “It’s okay, Shou, you’re alright. I’m here.”

30 minutes later, he awoke to the stabbing in his gut, but he was somehow in his bed, blankets tossed about from his tossing. Downstairs, he could hear, and smell, his mother cooking. But the thought of food simply made him blanch.

As he shuffled into the gym Hinata steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation with his team; their demands as to why he was there. Their eyes turned to him and he was already prepared to shrug off their questions and answer half-heartedly. But what he had expected to be simple turned out to be more difficult than the arduous bike ride across the mountains (he would be sure to keep to himself the fact that he had to take several breaks, and had once found himself collapsed on the side of the road, trying to keep from spewing on the asphalt).

Hinata received a massive chewing-out from the entire team, Suga’s own reprimands surprisingly harsh. Seated on the bench, he observed the other boys’ practice, watching but not entirely seeing, gaze distant and hazy. There were painful goosebumps tickling at his skin and a shiver coursed through his back.

Rubbing his tense neck, the muscles knotted and hot, Kageyama glanced over at his boyfriend, doubled over at the bench. A curse was hissed through gnashed teeth as he made his way over to him in long, agitated strides.

Knocking the redhead’s shoulder lightly with his clenched fist, the setter asked pointedly, “Hey, shrimp, when was the last time you ate?” Doe-eyes sluggishly turned towards him, and Kageyama found himself gulping back in apprehension, the heat leaving his body. He gnawed at his lip tentatively. “Hey,” he pressed.

A storm of violent tremors ran through Hinata’s small body, quivering and haggard, leaving behind the damage of a natural disaster. As he answers, “I think I had a banana yesterday?” Kageyama’s calculating eyes are glued to the decoy’s face -- the lines and contours gaunt, the dark circles (he had been kept up by pain all night) beneath those normally vibrant eyes unsettling.

The taller boy cursed, color draining from his face, “Hinata!” His face scrunched in what he wished was fury -- Kageyama wanted to be angry, he really did. He knew how to deal with anger. But this concern, all-consuming and disastrous, left his heart in disarray and his mind jumbled. He could feel his nails digging into his palms, carving small crescents into the skin.

“I swear, I’m not hungry!” Hinata defended, his voice weak and breaking. His hands, clumsy and shaking, reached out to grab at Kageyama’s sleeve -- what for, he didn’t know. He worried at the inside of his lip, a drop of frigid sweat trickling down his back. He leaned forward, just missing Kageyama’s arm as the player turned away.

Shouting, his voice reverberated throughout the room, the drills slowing so each teenager could peek at the situation, “Coach!” He threw on his jacket, quickly zipping it up to his chest. “I’m taking Hinata home!” In a huff, he switches his shoes with mastered precision and throws his bag over his broad shoulder.

“W-wha-! No, Kageyama, you can’t do that!” Hinata stammered, his arms crossing over his body as he firmly planted himself on the bench. “I have scho-” A sputtering gasp pushed its way through his lips. That pain that he had nearly become accustomed to had morphed into something loathsomely sharper; something localized. His stomach, set ablaze, convulsed excruciatingly, and his hand shot up to clamp over his mouth. The corners of his vision tunneled inwards, that obnoxious, drowning ringing returning to consume all sound.

“Shou?” When had Kageyama kneeled in front of him? His hand, comforting with its strength, yet tenderness, was braced upon his knee. The team stole glances from behind the setter, frozen mid-motion. They inch closer and closer still.

A look at his boyfriend, lip caught between his teeth, worry etched into that already pressed face, led Hinata to unsteadily clamber to his feet. “I-I’m fi-fine,” he jumbled out, swaying and lurching, his face green. He slipped, plummeting into Kageyama’s arms, safe, a haven. “S-sorry.” He quaked, willing the wave to pass as Kageyama eased him back down onto the metal bench.

His hand, sturdy and reassuring, rubbed shapes into his knee. “It’s okay, Shouyou, take your time.” Even with his arms wrapped constrictingly around his turning stomach, the redhead peeked through his curly bangs -- which were needing a trim -- to stare lovingly at his boyfriend, his powder blue eyes like the dusk sky, swirling with stars. “But,” Kageyama hesitated a moment to nibble at his bottom lip, “You really should get home and try to rest, you know.”

“R-right.”

Suddenly, a weight settles on Tobio’s shoulder -- Takeda’s voice filtered into their little bubble, “I’ll take him home, Kageyama.” The setter whirled around to look up at his teacher, a set of keys jangled in his extended hand. He smiled gently, “You should stay and practice instead, okay?”

Despite his better-intuition asking-- no, begging-- him to say otherwise, he sputtered out, “O-Okay. Thanks.” His eyes, wavering and uncertain, flicked to Hinata’s. The apprehension and panic he sensed made every fiber of his body scream, “Stay with him!”

But, 5 minutes later, Hinata was being guided from the gym, Takeda’s hand braced on his elbow, and Kageyama was twirling a ball in his hands, his teammates calling for sets.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright alone? Do you need me to walk you in?” Takeda broached gently, shifting the vehicle into park. He unlocked the car and turned to gaze at Hinata, slumped against the cold window, moving to rest his bent arm on the center console.

Twitching uncomfortably, the redhead clutched onto the small handle, pushing the car door ajar. “Mmhmm, I’ll be okay,” he laughed weakly, the look in his eyes entirely contradictory. As his feet hit the pavement of his driveway he stifled the urge to cry out, trapping the sound behind his teeth. When he turned around to retrieve his school bag, an attempt at a smile, which appeared closer to a pained grimace, lined his features. “Thank you.”

Hinata didn’t care to announce his entrance as he dragged himself into the house, bothering only to slip his shoes off while entering. His bags clattered to the floor, and he couldn’t bring himself to worry whether he had disturbed the others in the house. His vision faded as he trudged up the stairs, his knuckles bone-white as he gripped the stair-rail.

He crawled into his bed, clad into a soft shirt Tobio had left at his house, the smell and reminder of him helping to calm the churning and biting of his stomach. It was nice, but it never quite substituted for the real thing. He settled into his covers, burrowing underneath their warmth, and faded into a fitful sleep, arms snaking around his abdomen.

He didn’t wake up for several hours.

Later that evening, in the Karasuno gym, Kageyama wrung his hands, slick with sweat, nervously. “He’ll be okay,” He heard Sugawara call from behind him, his tone consoling. But, the first-year couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about the whole situation. Shouyou had honestly looked horrendous. And he was so scared, Kageyama could tell.

Attempting to shake the thoughts out of his head, the setter rolled his shoulders and took a swig from his uncapped water. It was stale and room temperature -- unsatisfying. He set it down again, screwing the lid on again. Toying with his lip, he watched as the other players stretched and joked, but couldn’t bring himself to join. He just wanted to see Hinata.

An obnoxious song blasted throughout the gym suddenly, snapping Kageyama from his stupor. Gasping, he frantically lunged for his bag, digging for his cell. It was Hinata’s ringtone -- his favorite song. A shiver ran up Kageyama’s spine when Nishinoya and Tanaka creeped over his shoulder, lurking. His hand clamped around the small device, vibrating and singing still. He slid his finger across the screen frantically, “Hello?”

He took a moment to worry about how rushed and jumbled his words were, breathless and too-eager. But all thoughts were fully erased when a sound was carried through the line.

“Tobio,” A heart wrenching sob echoed through Kageyama’s head as his eyes widened and his stomach dropped. “Tobio, help. I-” Shrill, choked cries cut him off, filling all of the vacant space created by Kageyama’s silence.

He bristled at the sounds, and the team took immediate notice, practice halting in its entirety. Many joined Tanaka and Nishinoya, all encircling Kageyama as he crouched on the floor, his breath spiking in anxiety. He swallowed. “Shou, what’s wrong? Shou?”

He only briefly thought about how he hardly used nicknames around the rest of his team.

Through wails and frenzied huffs of air Kageyama heard, “To-Tobio, please, my stomach--I-” He was interrupted again by his own wails.

Kageyama hissed a curse through his teeth, and each and every person present knew what it meant -- the situation was bad. No questions arose as he moved towards his bags and began slipping his jacket over his sweat-soaked practice jersey. “I’ll be there soon, Shouyou; just hang on for me.”

The other was nearly suffocating on his breaths, the agonized gasps sending spikes through Kageyama’s chest and launching his mind into a spiraling panic of what-ifs. The redhead on the other end, muffled by something, managed to answer yet, “H-hurry, please, Tobio.”

“Hinata,” his tone hardened: firm, terribly distressed, and endeared all at the same time, “Listen, I need you to breathe.” He was close to hyperventilation. “Breathe,” he reiterated, “In, out, in, out.” He ignored the alarmed looks he received, like spears thrust into his back. The unsteady breaths, still shuttering with each inhale, slowed, thank Kageyama’s stars.

Takeda is standing just where Kageyama had prayed he would be: by the door with keys clutched in his trembling hands. Never before had Kageyama been so thankful for his teacher’s talents for observing -- he knew he needed to get there quickly.

“I’m gonna stay on the line, okay, Shou?” The words tumbled from his lips as he stepped from the gym and towards Takeda’s vehicle, each stride long and rushed. “Talk to me, and breathe. Can you stand? There’s medicine in your cabinet.” He knew because Hinata had gotten a fairly nasty headache the other day, and Tobio was fortunate enough to find himself in the role of personal nurse. He would’ve taken care of him anyway, though.

“N-no… I-I,” Another whine resonated in his ears, the noise muddled -- a definite no. He only resisted the urge to bark vulgar obscenities for the sake of his ailing boyfriend and teacher as he clambered into the car.

“Just... Just hang on, Shouyou,” he murmured, mostly to calm his own hectically pulsing heart. He flashed a look towards Takeda, eyes swimming with tears, and the teacher grit his teeth, pressing his foot firmer onto the pedal.

At some-point during their frenzied drive, the entire event a blur and yet lasting a million years to Kageyama, the connection had been lost between the call. He cursed the mountains and cell towers, fully knowing that it made no difference what he thought or what situation was occuring.

When they finally pull into Hinata’s drive-through, Kageyama itching to launch from the car, the setter flung his door open and barreled into the house (he praised whatever deity had been so blessed as to tempt Hinata to slip him an extra key).

“Shou!” he bellowed, storming into the domestic home, unfit for the chaos raging through him. “Shou!” He teared through each room, careless for the state they were left in.

The whimpers filtering from upstairs queued him, and immediately he was bounding up the staircase, each step an insignificant obstacle as he pummeled through. Barging into the dark room, Kageyama took not a single breath before he dove for the small crumpled figure on the unmade bed.

“Hey, hey.” He kneeled, his hands instinctively flying to run through Hinata’s curly locks, untamely and wet with sweat. “I’m here now.”

His lips, vacant of all color, trembled. Fat tears rolled down his ghastly cheeks, path skewed as he curled in on his side, arms wrapped protectively, and yet tentatively, around his midsection, his hands pale and cold. “T-Tobi-” he tried, only for another torrential wave of pain to flow through him.

The panic wedging itself into Kageyama’s mind, he rushed out, “Hey, talk to me Hinata.” But as the boy before him blanched, green tinting his pallor, his heart sank to his feet.

“B-bathroo-” There wasn’t enough time for him to finish -- it seemed there never was -- before a harsh hiccup ripped itself from his throat, his hand slapping over his own mouth. Without thinking, and with brilliant speed, Kageyama scooped him into his arms, body feeling unnervingly small and fragile, he surged towards the restroom down the hall.

By the time they had crossed the threshold, it was far too late -- it had already begun.

It was all over Kageyama’s shirt, Hinata’s pants, his lap, his entire body.

However, it continued as Hinata scrambled towards the toilet, throwing himself over it, retching over and over and over again. Futilely, Kageyama took to rubbing his partner’s back, convulsing with each heave, and smoothing the sweaty bangs away from Hinata’s burning forehead.

At the time, Kageyama had thought the noises from over the phone were the most wretched things ever conceived, but as he was forced to listen to the unbearable gags he wished to go back. These were sobs stopped only by the terrible choking that came with the upheaval of one’s own stomach contents. He clenched his eyes closed, sick to his own stomach.

Only after Hinata had finally finished, panting breaths raw from innumerable rounds of dry-heaving, did Kageyama finally take notice. He stared, pupils shrunk, at Hinata, slumped limply against his chest.

Those lips -- stained red.

The toilet brimming with blood swirled bile.

Their clothes soaked with a deep crimson.

This was bad.

big thank u to @Tmalasia on the izuocha temple server for editing this!! ilysm! pls go check out mal's stuff, it's amazing!! <3

so i actually finished this last night but i couldn't post it cuz i only had my school laptop and um when i went to ao3,,, it turned out that i was flagged and reported to my school board for,,,,,, umm, y'know. and now i am terrified for my life.

anywho!! second chapter of this is in the planning stage, so pls stay tuned!!! i rlly hope u enjoyed this first part, hopefully it wasn't too OOC and jarring aha,,,

also, i have *another* kagehina fic that i'm planning rn that should just be a short one-shot, only maybe 2K, so expect that soon!!

now,,,,!! just a word about the crisis happening rn (if u don't care or think this could trigger you, pls skip!) with all of the chaos happening rn, i'd like to just advice everyone to stay safe and calm -- pls practice good hygiene and do all you can to protect yourself (do elbow bumps instead of high fives, cough into ur elbows, wash ur hands frequently, disinfect surfaces, etc.) without going to excess. that's what's making everyone freak out, so do your best to know your own situation and stay rational! i'm sending good thoughts to everyone and their health rn, pls stay safe and healthy!! <333

thank you for reading!!! much love~! <3

[babbushka]

Last Straw (7/12)

Newly married to your high school sweetheart Kylo Ren, the two of you move into Skywalker Ranch, a farm recently passed down after the death of Kylo’s grandfather. The place is charming, and the people seem friendly…but are they?

Content Warnings:  Violence, gore, blood mentions, mentions of cannibalism

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

No, you decide ultimately, you have such a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach, that you can’t allow them inside your home, inside your farm. You wonder if they jumped your fence, or if they broke the lock, because you were sure Kylo had locked the gate behind you when you returned from the store, you were sure of it.

They’re standing there, expectantly, eerily still. Their eyes are wide and cold, dead like sharks. Except for William’s, who’s are too bright, too sad. You can’t look at him for too long, otherwise your stomach will twist, twist and churn with sadness. His hair is lank and greasy, and it looks like he has some kind of stains on his clothing that you aren’t really sure what they are.

“I’m really very sorry, but I don’t feel right having you sleep in our barn as if you’re animals.” You say, trying to pass it off like you’re being caring, and not that you’re so anxious that you could throw up. “I’m going to call the operator and have them send over a tow truck, I’m sure someone must be awake and working somewhere.”

“What, call right now?” Armitage asks, and his voice is so clipped and sharp that you almost feel the razors of his teeth against your ears.

Kylo hears it too, and he takes a protective step towards the boy. Armitage is dressed a little more put-together than his twin, his hair kept cropped close and short, his clothes buttoned up all the way, everything, the collar, the cuffs. He looks meticulous, where his brother looks unkempt. In fact, both he and Brendol look far more taken care of than William, and you cannot help but feel like something awful is going to happen to this boy, that something awful already has.

“Why is that a problem?” Kylo doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, you have to grab his shoulder to prevent him from stalking further anymore.

You didn’t know if he would be able to get off the hook a second time.

“No, there’s – there’s no problem, it’s just that – ” William stammers out, eyes too wide and clear, hands fidgeting in the hem of his shirt.

“Just what?” Kylo challenges, but you squeeze his shoulder, an attempt to get him to stop, to just back down for two minutes.

“I’ll be right back, I’m just going to call the tow.” You announce loudly, before leaving Kylo’s side.

The phone is on the wall of the main hallway, an old-fashioned corded thing that if the circumstances were better, you might walk all around the living room with. But the circumstances being what they were, you waste no time punching in 9-1-1, holding your breath for the phone to ring.

“Sweetwater County P.D., what’s your emergency?” A woman picks up, and you let out a sigh of relief, lungs burning from having holding it in for so so so long.

“A strange man and his sons have shown up at our house, asking to sleep on our property. They claim their car is broken down, and I believe them, but I don’t want them here. Is there anyway someone could come down here? I’m frightened.” You rush, your eyes starting to well with panic.

“Ma’am what is your exact location?” The woman on the other line asks, and you’re quick to answer.

“The farmhouse at Skywalker Ranch, off i-Four.” You tell her, and you can hear her calling out officers to send. You and the police have a nasty track record, what with the whole thing with Kylo, but you’re grateful for literally anyone showing up, at this point.

“Does this family have ginger hair by any chance?” The operator asks, and your blood runs cold.

“Yes.” You whisper, clutching the phone in your now trembling hands. “Yes, all three of them.”

“You have to listen to me. Stay where you are, we have dispatched units on the way. These men are armed and dangerous – do not allow them into your home. I repeat they are armed and dangerous.” The woman says and you want to cry, want to scream, want to warn Kylo – but you know that’s stupid, so you just grit your teeth and suppress every urge in your body to punch something.

You don’t know if they’re listening, if they’re watching, from the front door. Your back is to them, so you don’t know. You don’t want to give anything away.

“Fuck, fuck! What do I do? What do we do?” You whisper frantically into the phone.

“Stay on the line with me ma’am, is there anyone else in the home?” She asks, and you nod, even though she can’t see.

“Yes, my husband, oh my god he’s out there talking with them right now!” You start to hyperventilate, just from the sheer absurdity, the sheer terror.

Armed and dangerous.

Armed and dangerous.

They looked like the sick kind of dangerous, the twisted kind.

“Please remain calm, he’ll be alright as long as he can stall, the police are on their way.” The woman assures you, but you spare a glance to the door, and see them growing more and more heated.

“How long? How long do we have to keep them occupied?” You demand, hands fully shaking now, terrified, holding your breath again.

“Five minutes tops, we know exactly where you are. You did the right thing to call us.” The woman says and you chew your lip, chew it, worry it enough that you can taste copper in your mouth.

“I can’t – I can’t stay on the line, it’s going to get suspicious, they’ll know something is wrong.” You explain.

“Ma’am it’s not wise for you to hang up until the police arrive.” The woman says quickly, and you frown, weren’t they supposed to remain calm themselves? Why does she sound like she’s got an edge to her voice?

“I know, I know but my husband is – if he’s there alone he’ll kill them, oh my god he’ll kill them if they try anything.” You realize, knowing exactly where the weapons he kept in the house are, knowing exactly where the axe, the rifle, the revolver were.

And you knew he knew exactly how to use them.

“Are you calling on a cellphone?” The operator asks.

“No, on a landline. I have one but the signal is shit out here, we don’t have a tower anywhere.” You explain, and you can hear her shuffling some things around, clicking on her keyboard.

“Call the station on your cell phone right now, and keep it in your pocket, then hang up this phone and get your husband away from those people you do not want to fuck with them.” She says, voice hard.

“Okay, okay, okay.” You don’t bother to ask any more questions, you fish out your cell phone from the pocket of your robe and with shaking fingers, tap in 9-1-1. When the ringing stops and someone has picked up, you ask, “Are you there?”

“I’m here, now go, keep the phone on. The police will be there any minute.” The woman says, and you do as you’re told.

When you re-join Kylo and Hux at the front door, it seems to be in the nick of time. Kylo’s hands are balled into fists, and his stance is planted, as if he’s ready to attack. Someone a long time ago had once called him a guard dog, an attack dog. They hadn’t been wrong.

Something screams in the distance, some animal, some poor creature with a high pitched gnashing and whine, a mangled, deranged scream.

“What is that?” You ask, but Kylo doesn’t reply, he doesn’t dare look away from Hux. “Where’s Brendol and William?”

The screaming stops.

“Is someone coming?” Brendol asks, emerging from the depths of night, stepping into the light on the porch, seemingly as if summoned. He looks ruffled, and you want to be sick.

“Great news, the operator was able to direct me to a tow company, they’re on their way with some spares.” You lie. It’s not a good lie, not a good lie at all, but how can it be when the gnashing and thrashing starts up again? Like some tortured thing just beyond in the shadows where you can’t see.

“We don’t know how we could ever repay you for your kindness.” Brendol says, although he’s tense, too tense. He doesn’t mean it.

“Oh please don’t worry, it’s no trouble at all, anything to help.” You say. You don’t mean it either.

“May we come inside your lovely home? At least until the tow arrives.” Brendol asks, teeth sharp when he smiles, gums too red, teeth pink. Why were they pink?

“No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid our house is under extreme renovations right now. It wouldn’t be safe, especially not for your boys. I wouldn’t want them getting hurt.” You say, because Kylo is apparently incapable of speech, too angry, doing everything in his power to restrain himself.

“You know it’s really very rude of you, to deny us like this.” Brendol explodes, face red, spit flying from when his temper snaps. “It’s just the barn!”

That is enough for Kylo, that is the last straw. He lunges and tackles the man to the ground, wrestles with him until he has Brendol flat on his back, and begins to pummel the shit out of his face with those hardened calloused knuckles of his.

“Do not!” He begins to scream, to spit at Brendol, “Shout at my fucking wife! Do you understand me?”

“Kylo, it’s alright.” You panic, you shout, you yell, you plead, “Kylo, please.”

Armed and dangerous.

Just then, the sirens and lights come into full effect.

A helicopter hovers over the farm, and you rip Kylo off of this man who bleeds old blood, tarnished blood, blood from his nose and face and you don’t know where else, that soaks and seeps into the wood of the porch.

“Sweetwater Police! Hands where I can see them!” There are all of a sudden too many lights in your face, too many.

“You called the fucking cops?!” Armitage shouts at you, incredulously.

“Hands where I can see them!” The cops say again, and there’s – fuck there’s ten of them, ten officers to wrangle a man and two teenagers.

But Brendol has no desire to comply, and instead of making things easy, he takes advantage of you being so far away from Kylo, and he races towards you, the bright glint of a silver knife shining, blinding you.

He has you pinned against the door, has a blade pressed to your throat, the sharp teeth of the knife slicing your skin, drawing blood, blood that Brendol leans in to lap up with his tongue, barbed like a cat’s.

“Get off of me!” You jerk your knee up, hard in the balls, again and again while his knife cuts deeper and deeper. The pain is completely eclipsed by your panic, completely consumed by terror.

“Papa get off it’s not worth it!” You hear a sobbing voice, a screaming voice, coming from just over there, just outside the ring of the porch-light. With the helicopter’s huge flood-light, now you can see, can see how poor William’s face is carved up, how his cheek is torn open, a gaping hole where you can see into his mouth even as his lips are closed. “Papa please – !”

“Kylo!” You beg, beg for your husband, and he is aided by the police is getting this man off of you.

They drag him away, wrestle him into handcuffs, and you throw yourself into Kylo’s arms.

“Come here, come here.” Kylo says, soothing, shaking, two seconds away from committing a murder himself. He turns to the cops and spits on the floor, “Get these sick fucks off our property.” He says, regarding the men.

“Oh you don’t know just how sick they are.” One of the cops says, in a way that has your eyes falling to William.

He’s been dragged up off the ground, blood gushing from his face.

“Papa please I don’t want to go to jail.” William sobs, snot and spit dripping from his nose and lips, “(Y/N), please, don’t let them take me, don’t let them – ”

You freeze.

“How do you know my name?” You ask, voice low.

“Huh?” He asks, hiccups, eyes so sad, so blue.

“How do you know my name?!” You want to crawl into Kylo’s skin, into his robe, want to be wrapped up and never let go, because how how how did he know your name?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” William doesn’t answer, doesn’t answer that, and you don’t know if that’s worse, worse than knowing.

“Don’t you say a fucking word, boy.” Brendol snarls from where they’re trying to shove him into a straight jacket, into the backseat of the cop car.

There’s so much, so many lights, sirens, cars, cops.

“We were going to kill you,” William wails, “Eat your heart. I told them not to, I told them I didn’t want to but they made me, they made me.” He cries and cries, and your stomach lurches.

“I’m going to kill you!” Brendol lunges suddenly, nearly toppling over the cops who are reaching for guns, reaching for something, you don’t know.

“Sedate him!” One of them shouts, and you realize it’s not a gun at all, but a needle, one that gets stuck right in the meat of Brendol’s thigh.

In only a few moments, the night goes from chaos to calm, with the beast knocked out.

You are still clinging to Kylo, who is clinging to you. His jaw is set, and his eyes are hard, but he is safe, and you are safe.

They load the boys into the back of a car. Armitage is silent the entire time. William can’t stop crying and shaking.

A paramedic comes over, attends to the wound on your neck, cleans it. Kylo refuses to let you out of his arms, but you are able to turn in his embrace to face the woman who tapes up gauze bandages against your throat.

“What happens now?” You ask her, not wanting to talk to the cops, “What’s going to happen to them?”

You really mean William, you’re not sure if she should be tending to you, when the kid is missing half a cheek, just a few feet away.  

“They’re all going to go away for a long time.” The paramedic says, voice soft. “SWPD’s been trying to catch these psychopaths for months, they’ve pulled this stunt three times so far and have been successful every time.” She says, and you find you don’t feel so sorry for them anymore.

A cop comes over as the cars are driven away, as the sirens grow more and more distant.

“We’re going to keep watch here all night, in case anything else happens, but for now, go inside. Get some sleep if you can.” He says, and you almost want to laugh at that, at the notion of a good night’s sleep, after what just happened, what you just saw. “We’re going to need you to fill out paperwork in the morning.”

You feel better knowing that they’ll be there all night, feel better knowing they’re locked away and being taken even farther.

Kylo wraps his arms tight around you once more, hugs your back against his chest, as you watch the helicopter follow the cop cars.

“Fuck, and I thought I was the scariest thing living here.” Kylo says finally, low in your ear.

“Could you imagine what might have happened? If we invited them to stay?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

As the wheat fields sway back and forth, back and forth in the wind, as the sirens now disappear, as the sounds of night replace the screaming, the squelching, the gnashing, he sighs.

“No.” Kylo says, “I honestly, really can’t.”

But you can find out.

Go back to the beginning and make new choices, see where the night will take you.

Will you survive? Or suffer a fate more gruesome than you could possibly imagine?

[vuulpecula]

@jaigcaptain​ inquired: " that's too predictable "

bonus content for more pain :’)

      Yes, it was. Predictable AND expected. “Abal has never been one for originality,” Fox answered quietly, her back to the Captain. He was hard to look at. Not because of the bruises or the split skin healing back together, but because every time she looked at him she saw the night he almost DIED. Bloody and broken and ALL HER FAULT. Guilt gnawed at her, swallowing up hunger and exhaustion with it’s unforgiving maw. Leaving her an open wound of silence and bruises beneath her eyes. Constantly replaying every mistake over and over again to pinpoint where it had all gone wrong. Nights were spent awake, head in her hands to stifle to tears that threatened to drown her during the day. A shameful amount of time was given to wishing she could go back, make a different choice, and watch the whole picture change. Starting in an alley when the snow had only begun to fall. Ah, but there was no changing the past, there was only planning for the future.

      Looking out over the city, her city, to the palace beyond where the once glittering walls were lost beneath ash and snow, she breathed deeply. Abal’s request had been mulled over for days. Fox chewed on it, gnashing each word between her teeth until it turned to crumbs in the pit of her stomach, tasting far too much like DREAD. Like SHAME. Like REGRET. Even though his plan had not gone quite according to plan, Abal’s method had worked. He got to her.

      “This planet was peaceful for eons, despite the refuges and fugitives that came to call it home. The elders used to say it was something in the thaw that changed people, melting away the bad in favor of the good. Though people will still not without their faults, mind you. Still, I almost hated it growing up. I wanted adventure, I wanted danger and intrigue. I used to imagine myself stowing away on one of the foreign freighters, becoming a pirate or a smuggler or a bounty hunter, seeing the worlds I’d heard so much about. I ACHED too greatly for the galaxy, now I suppose, in a way, I got what I wished for. The galaxy came to me.” What was it people said? Be careful what you wish for. The sentiment might’ve once brought a small smile to her face, but there was none. There had been none since their return.

      “Sometimes the right choice is the hardest to make,” the words came out hardly above a whisper, shaky and uncertain. “I cannot fight this war on two fronts, let alone win it. The people are losing HOPE, each day we grow further and further from freedom.” Her heart could not bear to think of them any more than it could bear to think of those Rex had lost. Willowy arms came to hug around herself, a small creature comfort in a time of such awful need. Tears clawed up the back of her throat. “What happened to you was my fault, you never should’ve been there, Rex. I was foolish and reckless and thought --” Thought together they were safer than alone. “I am sorry for it all, for every ounce of blood lost to you, for the jests and the teasing and...all of it. If I could go back and CHANGE it, I would, Rex. If I could go back to the night we met I would’ve never agreed to come with you. If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been harmed, he would’ve never had the opportunity to lay a hand on you. I wish I could take it back.” The city she looked upon blurred as tears filled her eyes. For those that fell she wiped away roughly on the back of her hand. Members of the Royal family were not meant to cry in front of the people, they were not meant to show such emotion publicly, but she was never very good at following the rules. Had she been capable of pulling her gaze from the blurred shapes, she would’ve knelt before him and begged for his forgiveness. Not for what had happened, for she did not feel she was deserving of that, but for saying yes to the beginning of their journey together. For choosing the wrong choice he had given her. “I wish I could take it all back.” Fox knew she could not spare or save everyone, yet it did not stop her from trying. Each mistake only added weight to her already heavy shoulders and she had made them all.

      “I’m going to take the deal, Rex, I am going to consign my title as leader of the rebellion to Abal, in exchange for the safety of both my people and yours.”

[kilyra]

You Were Alone

Chief Jim Hopper (Stranger Things) One-Shot 

A/N: After re-watching Seasons 1 and 2, this popped in my head and wouldn’t leave til I wrote it out. And I don’t call it by name, but it’s absolutely about a demodog that tore the place (and to a lesser extent, the reader) to shreds before the story starts. Literally no one asked for it except my imagination, but thank you so much for @suitsofwo3 for proofreading, I sincerely appreciate it! 

A horrific dog like creature couldn’t have just destroyed your apartment, and you are in the middle of convincing yourself you’re crazy when Hopper shows up.

Warnings: Somewhat graphic descriptions? Spoiler free though other than the demodog description! (I have opened up requests to take Jim Hopper and other ST characters, but I won’t have S3 until the end of this July 4th weekend, so please no spoilers in my inbox!)

If you want to be on my tag list for this or any character just let me know!

The wall. It was all that existed.

Or rather, the hole in the wall was all that existed.

As you sat on your dining room chair, guarding the hole with the still-bloodied carving knife in your hand, it was all you could focus on. The rest of your apartment, hell the rest of the world, fell away into a meaningless blur behind you.

Not that it mattered. If what you thought happened, did actually happen, the world wasn't what you thought it was anyhow. Or you weren't. Either way, it was better off a blur.

You were so drawn into your own looping thoughts that you didn't hear the police pounding on your door. You didn't notice the building super letting them in and gasping at the state of your suite. You didn't even realize three cops were standing over you, trying to get your attention as two of them palmed the guns still in their holsters.

Fingers snapped by your face causing your eye to twitch but you refused to look away.

“Y/n. Hey, Y/n.” The firm voice floated over your head and it wasn't until a face blocked your stare that it all started to register. People were in your home. People you knew.

Jim Hopper.

His steely blue eyes searched your face, looking for a flicker of recognition as his lips pursed into a slight frown. Blinking rapidly, you stared past him. Through him. A small part of your mind called out to acknowledge him, to say something, anything. But there was a blanket of numbness over you. You were there but removed, like you were watching everything through the eyes of someone else.

“Okay, Y/n. I need you to put down the knife now,” he said as he cautiously reached towards you.

As his strong, thick fingers slowly clasped around your hand, you finally broke free. Jolting from the contact, you jumped in the chair as your heart started thudding against your chest.

Startled, the officers drew their guns, but Hopper's hand held tight. Slowly, your eyes dropped to the knife as Hopper pried it out of your grasp.

You felt naked. As your eyebrows drew together, it was all you could do to stop yourself from lunging for it.

Keeping his eyes on you, a disgusted look briefly crossed his face as he addressed Powell and Callahan. “Guys, seriously, you think you're going to need those? Just...go check the rest of the apartment and bring back a clean towel.”

Both men hesitated, sharing a quick, unsure look between themselves.

Finally, Hopper looked up. “Go!”

In an awkward scatter, they left the main room to search the rest of your home. But they wouldn't find anything. You were alone.

Once they faded into the blur with the rest of the world, Hopper turned his attention back to you. His eyes flickered towards the knife before he nodded to the large pool of blood in the kitchen entrance that turned into a dragging trail leading towards the wall. “Wanna tell me whose blood this is?”

Flashes came back to you. Small dog creature blocking the door, chasing you down. Splitting head, gnashing teeth, tearing flesh. Pain. Blindly stabbing, slicing through its neck. Pain. Blood. So much blood.

But it couldn't be real. Because you were alone.

After a minute of silence, he nodded to your arm. “Okay. How about telling me who did that?”

Your arm was still burning but you couldn't bring yourself to look at it. The creature had you pinned and when you blocked it, it bit down, wrapping its...face petals...around your arm. Face petals?

It couldn't be real. Whatever you were remembering, had to be wrong.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you finally followed his stare to your arm. The bleeding had slowed, but your skin was torn, almost shredded in spots with small puncture wounds dotting around the worst of it.

Your stomach flipped and you looked away.

“I'm alone.” The words came out quiet and shaky. Even to your own ears, it didn't sound like you.

Hopper's eyebrows lifted as you spoke for the first time, but it was quickly smoothed away by a faint squint. “So what are you saying?”

Taking in a deep breath, you straddled the line between panic and control. Speaking up, you tried again.  "I'm saying, I'm the only one here. The door is locked, the windows are closed, and there is no other exit. So I...It was me. Just me...just me...just me...just...”

It felt like your lungs collapsed, forcing all of your air out and strangling the last of your words with it. Clamping your mouth shut, you took a shuddering breath in through your nose, breaking the soft mumble of your repetition.

“Chief, we're clear. There's no one else here,” Officer Powell said quietly as he came to stand behind you.

“Yeeah and nothing was out of place either. Well, except for here and...well and the kitchen," Officer Callahan added, his nasally tone drawing out the words.

“That so?” Hopper's voice quieted your continued murmur. Pacing the room, he didn't let his focus linger long on any one spot, giving no indication if he noticed anything of importance.

“See? I did this. I cut up the wall, I cut up myself ...That makes sense...” Tears sprung to your eyes, and you swallowed heavily as you fought to keep yourself in check. Slowly, you started rocking in the chair, growing uncomfortable under everyone's scrutiny.

Hopper's shoulder sagged as he forced out a hard exhale and roughly grabbed the towel from Callahan's outstretched reach. Crouching in front of you, his eyebrows drew together just enough to soften his hard expression.  Sharp waves of pain shot through you as he gently wrapped your arm, but you were too weak to fight it. The pain didn't even make you cry out. It was the least of your worries.

“How about you just tell me what happened. The version that doesn't make sense." It was so casual like he was asking for a recipe and not an explanation for the bloody, battle-torn scene in your living room.

But you couldn't bring yourself to answer. That version...the one that didn't make sense...started out with your wall pulsating and stretching towards you like it was a slick membrane and not solid wood. And slowly, before your stunned eyes, the white paint turned to a translucent purple, letting you see the horrifying, faceless dog creature that was tearing at the thin barrier. From inside the wall. That version had the creature bursting through in a spray of slime and splinters as you scrambled towards the kitchen, running purely on fear and instinct.

That version was the shit in movies, not reality. It's the version your mind came up with after you snapped and went on a self-harming rampage. It just had to be.

“No. Because it doesn't matter what I saw. Because it can't be what happened and you'll just think I'm crazy.”

Narrowing his eyes, Hopper stayed focused on his make-shift bandage. “Try me.”

“No, Hop. Look at this place. It's clear, I-I'm crazy. I'm cr-”

Keeping his hands around the towel to hold it in place, Hopper's face was impossible to read as he looked up at you. “I never said that.”

“No. I-” Your breath hitched and the tears blurring your vision finally rolled down your cheeks. Everything seemed to freeze as all three men quietly stared. Their eyes weighed you down, making it so hard to breathe...

“I said that. I-I'm because...because it's the only thing that makes sense. It's been a bad year and this...this was just me.”

Lightly chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes trailed to the side before he sighed. Tucking your arm into your lap, he stood up and nodded towards the door. “Why don't you guys give us the room and, uh, go take the super's statement. Find out what all he heard.”

Callahan's face pinched tight with confusion. “Chief? I...don't know if-”

“Give us the room.”

Powell was already at the door, even before he was dismissed again with a bark. Shooting Callahan an annoyed look, he followed him outside and secured the door behind him.

Looking back at you, his low, gravelly voice quickly lost its sudden bite. “What did you see, Y/n?”

On some level, you wanted to tell him. You wanted to blurt out every last confusing and horrifying detail. But the mere thought of saying it out loud started a tremble deep in your gut. Soon, every part of you was shaking and a cold sweat broke out over your skin.

Running his hand along the scruff of his chin, he watched you quietly come unglued. Squeezing his eyes closed, he nodded as his tongue darted out over his lips. “Fine. How about I tell you what I see?”

Silently, you hugged your arm against your chest.

Jerking his thumb towards the towel, he calmly started. “First off, those wounds aren't clean cuts from a knife, they're tears from clawing or biting. So, unless you had time to floss and get your nails done before we got here, it's not self-inflicted.”

The logic wasn't comforting. But it did force a pause in your slow rock against the chair.

As he stepped towards the dark pool of blood, your pulse started to pick up. “And, I see blood. Such a significant amount of blood in fact, that if it had actually come from you, we wouldn't be talking right now.”

“Blood that then trails through the living room and stops at the wall like something was dragging itself across the carpet before disappearing in the hole. The hole which, by the way, you couldn't have made. Because even if the knife didn’t break off in the drywall…hell, even if you had yourself a sledgehammer...this, right here, see that? It's all splintered outward. That hole wasn't made from this side.”

Making his way back to the damaged wall, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket, flicking it open with a loud snap.

You flinched.

But he had your full attention as he ran the cloth along the rough edge of the hole. When he pulled it back, you could see the slime glistening from where you sat, even before it started to drip in long strands to the floor.

“And, unless you ate buckets of rotted fish and threw it all up, this wasn't you either. So let me be clear here, Y/n...you are not crazy. And I need you to tell me what happened."

It was real. Your mouth ran dry as the realization set in like a pair of icy hands wrapping around your heart. Colours pulsated around the edge of your vision and you distantly realized you'd welcome fainting about now. The rocking started again and all you could hear was the rushing in your ears.

“Two legs, or four?” Hopper threw the question out suddenly.

“Four.” The answer popped out of your mouth before you even realized he asked anything. Freezing, your eyes snapped to his and you caught his slight nod.

“About waist height or...?”

“No. It was smaller. Not even to my knees,” you said, your voice growing quiet.

Letting the handkerchief hang on the splinters, Hopper stood in front of you and lowered himself to one knee. Resting his forearms over his propped leg he stayed close but made no move to touch you. "This is important, Y/n. You're doing good but I need you to describe it to me, colours, fur...what did it look like?"

You could see it so clearly it chilled you to your core. “I...no fur. It was grey skin. I think? It was dark in here I don't...I don't know. But its face. It...it didn't...”

“It didn't have a face.” His tone was flat – he wasn't asking, he was stating a fact.

“Until it did. But then it was...all teeth. All...” Slowly you brought your free hand up by your face, fanning your fingers away from your cheek, trying to mimic what you saw.

Hopper's jaw set as he watched your gesture. Standing suddenly, his voice was gruff. “I have to go.”

Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. “No...Hop, please.”

For a moment, his face seemed to fall as he saw the panic streak across your features. Reaching down, he clasped his hand over yours and gave a reassuring squeeze. “It's going to be okay...Powell.”

Within seconds, the door opened as the officer popped his head in. “Yeah, Chief?”

“Powell, I need you to get Y/n to the hospital. But don't tell them anything other than it's a sensitive, ongoing investigation.”

“Well, that's easy since I don't know anything,” he muttered under his breath.

“Don't go.”

With a sigh, Hopper knelt in front of you again, as he carefully freed his wrist. Putting your hand on your knee, he lifted his eyebrows and gave your fingers a final squeeze. "You're going to be fine. Powell is going to take you and I'll meet you at the hospital, I promise. But listen to me...don't say anything, you hear? You're not crazy, so don't go and get yourself in trouble, okay?”

Patting your shoulder as he got to his feet, Hopper took long strides out of the room. Somehow, you felt even more alone in a world that wasn't what you thought it was.

But, for what it was worth, you weren't crazy.

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