#much to learn much to practice. if all else fails i will have his skull and that will be enough

[groupwest]

just skinned something for the first time… wow… can’t believe i get to cross one of the oldest and most important things off my bucket list. that is, cutting somethings face off.

[thedeathdoctor]

Won’t Let You Get Away (1/?)

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x GN! Reader

Summary: Ghost falls hard for one of 141′s new recruits

Warnings: there’s no smut in this one it’s just fluff and exposition

A/N: Just sat down and wrote this because i need to get back into writing again. Gonna be a possessive Ghost x reader fic hopefully because that’s like crack to me rn. Will probably get pretty dark & into some trauma in later chapters so heads up now if you aren’t into that. May or not edit this later for coherency but I am not doing it now. :)

From the day Ghost first met you, he knew you were going to be his undoing. Happy, bright eyes looked directly at his own, unafraid to see the person underneath the skull mask and fearsome reputation. Ghost no longer kept up with the mythology surrounding himself as doing so would take entirely too much time away from him, time that he preferred to spend training instead. Even after working with him for some time, most soldiers still preferred to train their eyes to the bottom of his mask, unable to fully meet the cold gaze of their Lieutenant.

You had to have heard the stories. There was no way that you’d make it all the way to 141 without being told at least one about its shadowy Lt. Sometimes, during R&R at base, Ghost could hear some of the grunts whisper incredulously about him and still, when he turned to face them, hardly anyone would allow themselves to be caught staring at him.

Given the way that most tended to leave him alone as if he were an apex predator, your kindness surprised him. A high level of respect accompanied the title of Lieutenant, and you managed to inject a sense of warmth into your conversations with him. While he was used to being feared, he felt genuine admiration from you, something that he hardly received from anyone else in 141.

You had asked him to help you train, and your willingness to admit your own weaknesses impressed him. You were an excellent sharpshooter, but when the enemy was up close, you struggled at hand to hand combat. It especially didn’t help that you simply weren’t as big as many other soldiers. As huge as your spirit felt in your body, it just didn’t have the mass that you felt you had. So, in order to improve, you asked the largest guy in 141 to practice with you, the Lieutenant.

The two of you trained hard, sometimes at odd hours, but you wanted to feel competent in any situation. Defending yourself, even in the depths of fatigue was worth being awoken at 2 or 3 am for impromptu training. Despite feeling groggy and discombobulated, you put all the effort you could give into all of your sparring sessions. Slipping out of holds became easier, and you learned that with the right timing, you could use his mass to your own advantage in a fight. Even when you failed and ended up with a face full of dirt, you got up and brushed yourself off, sometimes even cracking a joke before trying to analyze where you could’ve done better.

He couldn’t help but grow fond of you, and this scared him deeply.

[daechwitatamic]

Of Ruin: Chapter 8 || KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

//

Section Warnings: injury and blood, angst wc: 4.8k

When you’d studied casting - in the framework of counter-curses, never much else - you’d learned like a human. You’d learned the methodology of pulling magic from the air around you, like one might pull water from a cloud. You never knew there was magic inside you, rising up to meet the rest. You never knew that you might possess something of your own, stronger and more readily available than what the world around you could offer.

Now, as you stand in your tiny bedroom in the palace practicing the same deflective spell over and over again, you wonder how you could possibly have been so oblivious. The magic that races through your system nearly makes you high.

You know that you should stop and sleep; you know that you need to rest, to recover. But every time you consider putting the book away, turning off the lamp, and laying in the dark, your heart begins to race again.

And then, instead of doing any of those things, you run the spell again. You imagine the Infracti who’d attacked you, and you push back with all your might.

You run the spell so many times that it becomes muscle memory - your tongue repeating mindless syllables, your hands pushing and pulling magic like you’re conducting the ocean tide. You’re barely thinking about what you’re doing. Your mind goes blank, a low buzzing like static settling at the base of your skull.

Say the words, do the motion. Knock down anything that comes close. Say the words, push the magic. Say the words, push the magic. Get them away, keep them away, get them away away away -

Your wardrobe explodes noisily, wooden splinters flying through the room followed by your shirts and slacks. You scream and drop to the floor, covering your head, just as one of your shoes crosses the room and takes out your lamp, leaving you in the darkness you’d been avoiding. You shake on the floor, still covering your head even though the danger has passed.

You hear Namjoon shout your name before he throws your door open, flooding your room with light from the corridor.

“What happened?” he asks, trying and failing to turn the light on with the switch on the wall. The lamp lies on the ground, shattered. You can see it because you’re still at eye-level with the floor.

Namjoon must spot you, cowering, and makes his way towards you.

“Careful,” you warn him, finally uncovering your head and trying to sit up. Your arms both sting, and you bet you have chunks of wardrobe in them, like giant splinters. Lovely. You don’t even want to look. “There’s pieces everywhere.” You’re not sure if you mean the wooden splinters or the shattered lamp. You feel delirious.

Namjoon freezes midstep, one foot raised in the air.

Satuel appears behind him and seems to understand what happened. She waves her hand and you watch as the wooden pieces of the wardrobe and the ceramic pieces of the lamp slide along the floor to a common spot, making a nice, neat little pile of debris.

“Come,” she says. “Out here where I can see you.”

Out in the common room, she looks you over, tutting when she looks at your arms. Your heart begins to slam in your chest as she examines you; you’re very aware, suddenly, that you must be bleeding.

Namjoon and Satuel look at each other, having a silent conversation that you are very much not a part of.

“Go back to bed,” she tells Namjoon, who is hovering a few feet away, unsure how to help. “I’ll take care of her.”

He does as he’s told, a bit robotically, and you’re sure he was half-asleep for the whole encounter. He might wake up in the morning and think he dreamed it.

Satuel procures a pair of tweezers - from where, you aren’t sure - and guides you to sit at the small table where you eat. She gingerly takes one of your arms and bends it so she can see better as she starts to work.

“Care to tell me what happened?” she asks evenly, her focused gaze only on what her hands are doing.

“Was practicing a defense spell,” you mutter. Your eyes suddenly feel heavy. “Must have messed up. My wardrobe exploded. It broke the lamp.”

“You should have been sleeping,” she remarks, putting down the arm she was working on and motioning for you to hand her the other.

You don’t answer this. You don’t want to admit that you were too scared. You don’t want to look weak and frightened. You don’t want to offend her by admitting you’re afraid of her kind. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing her kind can frighten you. These feelings contradict each other, yet somehow both manage to be true.

She seems to know anyway. She finishes working on your second arm and places it on the table, sitting back and looking at you with wet, black eyes. Your stomach turns, and the hairs on your arms raise.

You hide them under the table.

“Prince Taehyung can heal those when he… wakes,” she says. It occurs to you, as she stumbles over this wording, that at this moment Prince Taehyung is simply a monster. If you needed him, now, he would be no help at all. In fact, in his current state - wherever they have him tucked away - he’s the most dangerous one here.

Everyone else would need to use discretion if they fucked with you. Under the curse, Prince Taehyung would have no such qualms.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

She continues to watch you, then cocks her head slightly. “There is a tea I could bring,” she says. “It would calm your nerves. It would likely help you sleep. I’ll bring some.”

You want to object; you don’t know what it’s made of, what the effect will be. You want to stay clear-headed. You want to stay awake. You never want to close your eyes again.

But this is the first kindness Satuel has shown you. This is the most she has spoken to you at length. You don’t want to reject her, lest she never try again.

“Thank you,” you nod. “I’ll try it.”

Still, when she brings you a steaming mug, you sit on the couch in the main room and hold it between your hands. You inhale the steam deeply, noting what you can recognize: chamomile, definitely. Perhaps lavender. Something else that you can’t name.

You look up at her, nervous. “Will I be able to wake when Prince Taehyung is ready for the ritual?” you ask. “Or will I be -?”

Drugged, is what you want to say. You don’t.

She smiles, and it almost looks warm. “You’ll feel normal,” she assures you. “It won’t make you groggy.”

You nod in thanks and sip at it. When you’ve finished, you set the mug on the low table, and you bring the heaviest blanket from your bed back to the couch. You curl up in a ball, the blanket over your head, and breathe slowly, waiting for sleep.

You leave every light in the room on.

—

It is not Satuel who wakes you, but Namjoon, gently shaking your shoulder and pulling the blanket just enough that your eyes peek out. You squint up at him, the light almost painful in the wake of your dark little blanket cave.

“Sorry,” he says, grimacing. “I wanted to let you sleep more, but the prince has asked for us.”

You groan, closing your eyes again. You feel awful - your body aches, your head is pounding, and your arms throb in the places where Satuel had removed wooden splinters sometime early this morning.

Still, after a moment of wallowing, you push yourself to rise. “Do I have time to shower?” you ask, the blanket over your shoulders like a thick, winter cape.

Namjoon glances at the clock. “Maybe, like… a fast one?”

You do your best to hurry, though the water stings the open cuts you sport, which makes it tricky as you hop in and out of the water, hissing and wincing. When you’re ready, both Dansoo and Satuel lead you and Namjoon through the palace, up the steps to Prince Taehyung’s wing.

You’re greeted in the front room not by the beautiful, dark haired Infracti, but by a breakfast spread.

“Prince Taehyung will be with you in a moment,” one of his staff tells you. “Please help yourselves to breakfast.”

“God, coffee,” you manage, making a beeline for the table. Namjoon follows, and when Prince Taehyung comes through the door he finds the two of you sitting on opposite ends of the couch, each clutching a mug of dark liquid like they tether you to life.

He nods in greeting as he passes Namjoon, but slows his stride to pause by you. You look at him guiltily, already knowing where this is going.

“I heard there was an incident,” he says, voice low.

You shake your head as Namjoon nods. Traitor.

“Hardly,” you say. “I was practicing magic. I made a mistake. There was… uh, a problem.”

“An incident,” he repeats. Then, he sighs like he just doesn’t know what to do with you. “Can I heal you?”

You lower your gaze and hold up your arms.

He sighs again as he surveys the damage. Then, gently, he takes one arm and begins to run his spare hand over the cuts, and you feel the tingling sensation that lets you know the healing is working.

You swallow down how nice it feels to have his hands on you. It’s not productive, you remind yourself. Not only unprofessional, but unrealistic, too. Doubly foolish.

He’s dangerous, too. He’s one of them, too.

Triply foolish.

“I’d like you to stay out of trouble for maybe a day,” he scolds under his breath, barely audible.

“I’m finding that harder here than I ever did in the real - I mean, back home,” you joke.

The real world, you’d almost said. Like this one isn’t real, but truly just a dream you can’t seem to wake from.

It does feel that way.

If Prince Taehyung notices, he has the grace to ignore it.

He hovers as you work uneasily on your coffee, and then asks, “So, are we trying the ritual today?”

“That’s the plan,” you answer, and Namjoon shoots you a look like you aren’t being polite enough. But you feel like you and the prince have gotten, maybe, a little friendly on your visits to the stable, enough to give you the leeway to speak casually.

At any rate, he doesn’t object to your tone, instead leaning his arms on the back of the couch and asking, “Do you need anything for it?”

“Actually, yes,” you say, sitting up straighter. Now that the caffeine’s hit your system, you’re feeling more human - but definitely still sore from top to bottom. “Could you get us a metronome?”

“A metronome?” he parrots, brows furrowing.

“You know,” you say, flapping a hand. “The thing for music that keeps the beat for you? I saw your piano room, I’m sure you have one here somewhere.”

A smile grows on his face. “You saw my piano room?”

You don’t answer this, feeling your face flush; you’d found the piano room on the night you’d gone wandering, when Prince Taehyung had literally saved your life the first time.

Namjoon watches this exchange with raised brows, but says nothing. You try to ignore the look on his face.

Prince Taehyung’s smile grows, and he shakes his head a little. He looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He controls himself, mouth twitching back into something more neutral, and then he says, “Yes, I’ll send for it. Anything else?”

You consider this. “Somewhere quiet to work? We need a bit of space, and your staff can’t come too close or their energy will mix into the reading.”

He nods absently, already moving to ask one of his staff to fetch the metronome. “Don’t worry about that,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve already thought of the perfect place. Come on, I’ll show you.”

—

Taehyung picked his greenhouse for the ritual. It’s spacious, far from his main quarters, quiet… and soothing, with several water features that bubble quietly. He thinks, though it’s just projecture, that this will be good for rituals or magic.

It’s calm and safe, and Taehyung thinks that’s important.

The other curse-breaker, the man, stays by the door, making sure none of Taehyung’s staff accidentally enter, and keeping a safe distance himself.

You sit cross-legged on the ground, facing each other. Taehyung watches you carefully, listens - from his place opposite you - to your pulse beat through your body, quickened with nerves and excitement. He feels your magical signature like a caress, and it astounds him that you can’t feel it, can’t feel the magic brimming at your fingertips, ready to be directed. 

“This is supposed to be different than before,” you remind him. “I’m only going in with the intention to look.”

He nods. He hears what you’re telling him - it shouldn’t hurt this time, shouldn’t drain him, shouldn’t feel like his insides are being funneled backwards through his body.

Before the curse had tried to kick you out - before the pain had started - having your magic toy around with his… well, it hadn’t been unpleasant at all. It had felt good, if he was being honest. Like something was clicking into place, as it was meant to.

“You’re going to feel me poking around, just like before,” you repeat his earlier words. “You’ll also likely feel things that… belong to me.”

He feels his brow furrow. “What does that mean?”

You twist your mouth and eye the ceiling. Taehyung waits, lets you decide how to explain it. 

“It’s like…” you say slowly, still thinking as you talk, “we both open up and let our magic through. So the same as I can steer my magic to take a look at the curse, you could steer yours to investigate mine. It’s… available.

“If that happens,” you continue explaining, clearly intending to do a better job looping him into the whole process this time, “you might, without meaning to, interact with it. You might feel emotions that belong to me - that’s most likely.”

“You’ve done this before?” Taehyung asks, though he knows the answer. 

“Once,” you nod. “A long time ago, though.”

“What happened that time?” He leans back on flattened palms, putting a little more space between you.

“It went well,” you say, something energized coming over you. Like you perk up when you talk about your work, your successes. “I was breaking the curse for this woman - she was like, so old -”

“Older than me?” Taehyung asks, failing to hold back a teasing smile.

You laugh. Taehyung likes the sound of it. “Old for a human, okay? Anyway, we did the ritual and I was looking around at her curse and I could feel her magic kind of… pressing back? Not in a bad way, though, just… presence. And when we finished and ended it, she told me something…” You break off the story, letting out a laugh that’s maybe a bit bitter - Taehyung can’t tell. “She told me some things about myself, about what I was feeling, things I had gone through recently at that time - like while she was in there she just got a little film of my life, or something.”

“That sounds invasive,” Taehyung murmurs. 

You shrug. “I knew what I was agreeing to. It was sweet, and kind of funny. And I cracked her curse.” The pride in your voice is evident. 

“So,” Taehyung asks, back to playful, “what film am I scheduled to see today?”

You laugh again, and his smile widens. “Books, probably,” you tell him. “Hours and hours and hours of books.”

Taehyung waits patiently as you get ready. He places his hands palm-up on his knees, and you place yours palm-up on top of his, resting lightly. They’re small, he notices for the first time, fitting neatly inside his own. 

You lift one hand and reach to set the metronome at a slow pace. It’s so slow, in fact, that Taehyung thinks for a moment that it must be broken.

“This is to pace our breathing,” you tell him. “Inhale and exhale between the beats. We’re going to do that first - just breathe in time, together.”

“I don’t need to do anything else?” he clarifies. He wants this to go well, he wants this to work. 

He wants it to be done and over so you can look at him and tell him, I know exactly what’s missing, we’ll have the curse ended before midnight tonight. He wants you to tell him, it’s over - the curse is gone.

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, your voice becoming almost melodic as you step into your role as a magic-wielder. “For now, breathe. We’re inhaling - ready?”

He does as he’s told - inhales until he hears the device’s click, then begins a slow exhale. Click. Inhale - click. Exhale - your own breath mingling with the gurgling body of water behind you is the only other sound in the room. Click. Inhale.

“Good,” you say on the exhale. “You keep that rhythm - that’s your most important job.”

He nods, concentrating on the rhythm, the clicks, his breath in and out. 

“Next job,” you murmur. “Keep your eyes on my eyes. Don’t look away.”

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, and you hold him there, steady, as you breathe together in time. Your eyes dance as they take his in, and he thinks he can feel you already - your magic starting to touch its fingers to his, tentative. He’s not sure he’s ready for when your magic opens for him, when he’ll be able to press against it and feel what you’re feeling, not just see it reflected in your eyes.

“Good,” you say finally, lips barely moving. “Don’t do anything but what you’re doing right now. I’m going to start the incantations.”

You do, quietly, your voice calm and even. The chanting is musical, almost like you’re singing to him. Taehyung can feel everything as it happens - so strongly that it almost startles him out of his breathing, almost makes him lose focus and tear his gaze away from your eyes. 

As if you can sense him faltering, you press the backs of your hands more firmly into his palms, silently reminding him of his only tasks. 

He focuses, but he can still feel it - your magic rising up, strengthening, beginning to expand. He can feel it when it touches his, cautiously, like letting a dog sniff your hand before you stroke its head. It’s somewhere between a tingle and a warmth, your magic, and it slips seamlessly into his, filling up every empty space. Like water, like air, like every element he needs to keep existing. 

It feels good - just as it had last time your magics had mingled, and this on its own is distracting. 

Focus. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. 

Your magic begins to explore - he can feel that, too. He can feel it as it lifts and examines, feel it as it prods and dives within him. He could lose himself in this - in the way the controlled breathing lulls him into calm, into the warm and pleasant sensation of having his magic matched and complemented, into the cool press of your hands into his. 

He could - but he doesn’t want to. You’d said that he could - “without meaning to” - explore your side. You were forgetting: he may not have done this ritual before, but he is Taehyung of Rune. No one has better magical control than his family. It’s in his blood, just like yours, and he can steer his magic just as well.

He presses in, watching your face for any indication that you recognize the feeling. There’s none; your eyes are unfocused, muscles slack except for your mouth, which repeats the incantation hollowly, over and over. Emboldened, he presses further. 

The memories come without context in quick-moving bursts; they’re hard to follow. Some are still images, some play like a video clip on fast-forward, others are just dark but sound rings through Taehyung’s head, foreign and jolting. Each comes with a feeling - or more than one - that Taehyung feels so deeply they must be his own.

The faces of humans who might be your family, and the feelings of both love and disappointment. 

Books, as promised, and feelings of comfort, of pride.

Cities, waterways, more faces, more books, an old man, books again, another city, another pile of books -

Loneliness. Loneliness stitched into all of them. 

Images begin to ping in Taehyung’s mind as familiar -

Namjoon’s sharp eyes, and the feeling of gratitude. 

The throne room of the palace, his parents, the image of Infracti eyes - fear, fear so engulfing that Taehyung’s fingers flex against yours instinctively, and he fights to keep exhaling until he hears the click somewhere in the back of his mind. 

His own face, his own form approaching from the end of a hallway. Taehyung is swept with surprise to feel excitement attached to his image, something tinged with affection, and danger, and thrill, and something that Taehyung can’t - or won’t - put a name to.

Guilty, he pulls back, letting his magic simply simmer along with yours instead of steering it into your consciousness.  

He listens to the clicks, focuses on his breathing. Feels a stupid little smile sneak across his face, feels relief that your eyes are too unfocused to clock it. Feels a swell of affection for you, the human - no, witch - sent here to fix him. Feels a twin swell of protectiveness as his mind replays your fear. 

He’ll do better, he promises himself. He’ll do better at staying with you, at keeping everyone else away. 

He becomes aware that he no longer hears you chanting and watches your eyes carefully for the moment you come out of the trance.

You come back to yourself with a gasp, and Taehyung is startled to find you gaping at him, wide-eyed, struggling to get a word out.

“What?” he asks, stomach sinking. “What?”

You look around frantically like you’re trying to place yourself. “Maiesti,” you finally whisper, horrified, wild eyes coming back to find his. “I think someone tried to kill you.”

—

Prince Taehyung leads you - at a fast clip - to a small room that reminds you of a meeting room that an office building might have.

As you walk, you fill in Namjoon, talking almost faster than you can think.

“One of the threads,” you say breathlessly, “was definitely, absolutely intended for ending life.”

Namjoon stops walking; Prince Taehyung does not, carrying forward, causing you and Namjoon to scurry to catch him.

“You’re sure?” Namjoon asks.

You look at him evenly. “Entirely.”

“So, I was right,” he says quietly. “Remember? When I said I thought death magic might be involved?”

“I remember.”

He shakes his head. “I think my grandfather knew, or at least suspected.”

You look at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“That’s why he called me. I’ve been wondering. He had to suspect there would be an element of death magic - that’s my area of study. He knew you’d need me for that.”

You huff. “If he thought this was a murder attempt, that would have been nice to know ahead of time.”

Prince Taehyung acts like he hears none of this, simply leads you into the meeting room and asks a guard to fetch his parents.

The three of you wait in tense silence. You don’t know about the men, but your mind is racing with possibilities - the who, the why.

The Queen looks alarmed when she enters, and while the King doesn’t look as frantic, there’s definitely an air of concern.

“Thank you for coming,” you say, greeting them respectfully. “We wanted to speak to you right away. The Prince and I completed a ritual this morning -”

“You what?” The Queen asks sharply, but she seems to be directing this at her son, who ignores her with the polish of someone who has ignored their mother for over five hundred years. He motions for you to continue. 

You continue again, a little shakily. “We completed a ritual whose purpose was to feel out more of the curse, identify some threads of intention that we missed before.”

“Was it successful?” the King asks.

“It was,” you say carefully, “but I felt you should know about a major thread that I uncovered.”

Everyone looks at you, waiting - those who already know what you found, and those who are about to hear for the first time.

You take a breath and lay your palms flat on the table. “I found a thread whose intention was death.”

“How sure are you?” the Queen demands, standing up straighter, her brows furrowed.

“There’s no doubt,” you say calmly. “That’s what it was. Whoever cast this curse… they included the intention to kill Prince Taehyung.”

The King shouts someone’s name and an Infracti hurries into the room, leaning down to listen to the King’s request. He leaves again, and the King addresses the table.

“My cabinet members are being summoned,” he says. “We’ll address this at once.”

“Why would they bother with all the other threads,” the Queen asks, her eyes on you, “if they just wanted to kill him?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit. “It doesn’t make sense to me, either - but the intention was there.”

“I can speak to that,” Namjoon says calmly. The Queen snaps her attention to him. “Death magic is my specialty. A curse like that - just to end a life - it can’t be done. Magic… as I’m sure you know, magic is life. Magic wants life. It will not end a life unless it is twisted just right. It’s likely that whoever cast this curse had to… add padding to sneak this piece in. Perhaps they hoped that if they failed - which clearly, they did - then at least the prince would suffer.”

“Which he is,” you add, unhelpfully. 

“The Scores must be behind this,” the Queen says.

“There’s nothing that particularly indicates them,” the King points out.

“Except seven thousand years of war,” she shoots back. “Who else? Who else would benefit from killing our son?”

The King rubs at his temples. “I want to know where their little venefici was the night the curse began,” he muses. At that word, you feel blood rush to your face. You expect Namjoon to pat your arm, but it’s the prince who meets your gaze across the table, his face open and apologetic.

“Father,” he murmurs reproachfully, the first time he’s spoken since you all gathered.

You wonder what he thinks about all this.

You wonder if he’s frightened.

The King follows his gaze and frowns. “No disrespect intended,” he says, though his tone indicates that he’s displeased at being corrected. “We appreciate your skill here. But I need to find who cast on my son, and bring them to justice.”

“And cure him,” you say. This time, Namjoon does knock into your arm, trying to shut you up.

The King narrows his eyes at you but doesn’t address your insolence.

“And what about you?” The Queen asks, directing her attention at you and Namjoon. You try not to squirm. “What does this discovery mean for the counter-curse?”

You exchange a look with Namjoon, and you give him a nod. Death magic is his forte, not yours. 

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a good-news-bad-news situation,” he says, inclining his head respectfully. “The good news is we identified that element of the curse so we are able to begin finding how to counter it. The bad news… well… the thread of intention called for loss of life. In countering that… only life can pay for life.”

Prince Taehyung’s head snaps up. “Will someone have to die?” he asks, horrified, eye wide. 

“Not necessarily,” you hurry to soothe him. “It may take Namjoon and I some time, but I’m confident we can find a way that isn’t so… drastic.”

“You’re dismissed, then,” the Queen says, her voice still even and cold. “I don’t want you wasting a single minute until you have something worth trying.”

You nod in understanding and move to leave. Satuel and Dansoo are waiting in the corridor, ready to walk you and Namjoon back to your quarters. You glance over your shoulder as you go, trying to get one last look at Prince Taehyung.

To your surprise, you find him standing still, watching you walk away. From this distance, he looks more like you expected him to look the first time you’d met him - somehow both haunting and haunted.

<;- Prev || Next ->

thank you for reading! chapter 9 coming next friday!

[patukkaas]

do u think u could do platonic skullgirls headcannons of some of the characters as ur best friend? basically platonic hcs—maybe filia, ms. fortune, beowulf, eliza, or annie? :-)

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

Ofcourse! Thank you for the request.

I'm sorry if this isn't what you wanted.

And I'm sorry they're a bit short, I wanted to get this out a little fast.

☆

Multiple SkullGirls characters + GN!Reader

Fanfic type:

Headcanons!

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Filia

- I think she'd be the type that can bend on being fun and just chill.

- She'd love hanging out with you.

- Samson making some comments every other second trying to join in.

- I literally know for a fact that she loves ice cream and will constantly ask if you want some.

- Would keep every secret all to herself....and Samson..

- Samson hears all of it even if Filia and you don't like it.

- She'd definitely wanna be with you like 24/7 since she loves a good ol' bestfriend.

- She'd wanna practice fighting with you.

- In general, she'd be one of the bestest of bestfriends.

MsFortune

- Be prepared for too many cat jokes and references.

- Would jokingly scratch you every once in a while.

- TRIES to teach you how to meow. Unless you're also some sort of cat, then you'll both try to learn how to bark.

- She'd ask you to play fight with her.

- Going around in casinos and streets cleaning them up one by one.

- She'd definitely make some sort of nickname for the two of you.

- She'd try to scare you with taking her head off and throwing it at you.

- If it fails, she'll definitely either whine about it or say "I meant to do that" while looking like a scrawny cat.

- If her scare is successful, she'll do a cheer and brag about how she managed to scare you for MONTHS after.

- In general, she's the most hyper cat you'll ever meet, and ofcourse the purrfect bestfriend.

Beowulf

- WOULD HYPE YOU UP SO MUCH.

- Tell him you'll do even the smallest thing and he'll literally shake you to try and motivate to do it the best you can.

- His character isn't called a hypeman for no reason.

- He's definitely a crossdresser and would ask if you wanna do it with him.

- It's really hard to get anything through his thick skull though.

- He'd sometimes just come to you like "Hey bestfriend" and then walk away.

Eliza

- Oh boy you'd have priviliges.

- Many of them infact.

- She'd talk to you pretty casually and wouldn't yk try to assert "dominance".

- If you wanna spend time with her, you just follow her around while she does stuff making some lil talks.

- Ofcourse she enjoys your company since, she keeps you around.

- It's pretty clear that she considers you a friend and not just an employee to her or an underling or anything of that sort.

- She wouldn't really believe in "bestfriends" but all she knows that she enjoys it when you're around and that's enough for her.

Annie

- She'd literally brag so much to you while almost FLYING.

- She'd want you to braid her hair.

- Also if her outfit breaks or something else does she takes you with her to fix it somewhere, just an excuse to spend time with you.

- Takes you out for ice cream.

- Would help you out with anything you need.

- If you wear another style than her and asked if you could switch with her just to see how it would work, she'd hesitate but would do it.

- She'd never ask to do it herself though.

- If you ask her to watch a show she'd say she won't at first but definitely will at some point. Won't let you know though.

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[shiroi---kumo]

@knightshonour asked:

It's clear from the way he's writhing in his sleep that all is not well. It seemed as though he was clearly fighting something within the confines of his mind.

A nightmare of which he cannot wake up from, until the mist breaks. A startling sign of the double edged sword that White Cloud's mist entails for Rowan.

(tfw abyss nightmare but can't wake up to Avoid it...)

It's his nightmares made real.

It's Black Wind all over again.

It's everything he's feared and why he calls himself a living weapon. It is the truth of the Demon Swordsman and the monster that lives deep within his lungs. Even his breath his poison. He never wanted to hurt him. He only wanted to help, but how could a monster ever help the living when the only melody he knew how to play was a daunting dirge for the damned.

No longer were his songs a soft sonata of salvation. No his chords have become much more sorrowful in sound. Carefully crafted to captivate while only truly ghastly in nature. This winter toned warrior appeared of the living plane but is actually nothing more than a war-wrought wraith sent to rectify the wrongs of one being that can only be described as a ruinous reaper of souls.

He was a monster and now he's hurt Rowan with his negligence. Thin metal slides over his features a quick as lightning cutting off any chance of more of the Mist seeping from his lungs to make it into the air. The first two fingers on his right hand raise and he's drawing a straight line with them to go far above his head. A burst of gentle wind follows pulling all of the remaining remnants of white from the air and sending it far above to be dispersed elsewhere.

The space around them becomes clear in only moments but that does not mean the spell his Mist casts would break so easily. The effects would not work to continue but it only takes so much for a soul to be down for several hours even if the prince fails to continue to empty his lungs after they fall to slumber.

Small hands are pressing down on a large shoulder. Icy cold skin pushing as the small Cloud shoves the larger man with a decent amount of his strength to shake him.

"Rowan!" He sounds, voice echoing from behind the metal that covers his features. "Rowan! Wake up! Rowan!"

But he would not wake.

Just like Black Wind for all those years.

"ROWAN!"

His voice raises to something much more urgent as his tone grows to something that sounds so unlike his usual chords.

He can only shove him a little harder. He can only try to shake him a little more but in his heart of hearts he knows what's happened. He knows what he's done.

It's Black Wind all over again.

Please don't let it be so long this time.

He would beg the Celestial Mother for her aid if he needed to. He can't bare to have done this to someone else. He's hurt him. He's hurt him and there's nothing he can do about it.

He's not safe. He's not safe. He's not safe.

He just wanted to help but he did not listen to his gut and he did not heed the warning Black Wind taught him for all those years. No matter how many times he begged his Other to wake with a voice full of tears, Black Wind never answered him. Not even once. No matter how much he begged and pleaded and attempted to barter with the man just to get him to open his eyes, Black Wind never ever answered him.... so in the end for all those years... those twelve long years - the prince had been left to fend for himself in Wonderland alone.

Oh he knows nothing about this place and he does not like it one bit. He knows nothing and something tells him that the more he learns the less he'll like it yet.

He can't be alone again. Not again. He can't do this again.

'Black Wind where are you when I need you?'

He mentally begs that man to just appear to him as if summoned by thought as he has so many times before. His hands are woven into snow colored locks while fingers brace down practically digging into his skull. He can't - he can't - he can't - he can't do this again. Rowan is not Unlimited. He will not survive.

He's a weapon and he never should have ever opened his mouth. The offer should have never even left his lips. The only thing that ever left his lips was a vile poison that tainted all around and damned to a slumber they never asked for. He was nothing but a pale death given flesh to be something a little more corporeal.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to do. He can send those around him to slumber but he does not have a magic spell to make them wake. The Mist's effects must wear off on their own or the source of said Mist must... die... and that's something - that's something he cannot do.

So the body is white is pulling himself away from the other, setting close to the dimming fire. Legs bend and fold to pull knees up to the prince's chest as tightly as they can manage. Arms wrap around them and a small face ducks down to press into white clothed knees.

He doesn't know what to do.

'Rowan I'm sorry.'

[purplesaline]

Don't forget Radical Acceptance! That ties into the letting go when someone dies aspect and is also a big reason why they seem so emotionless a lot of times. When you accept there's nothing that can be done about something and let it go, much of the anger and distress goes with it and that calm acceptance that's left can seem unnaturally numb to people who haven't accepted they're powerless yet.

It wasn't the Jedi teachings that failed Anakin, it was Obi-Wan's inexperience as a teacher. He told Anakin to let go of his anger but didn't give him the skills and support Anakin needed to be able to do that. Anakin needed his anger acknowledged and validated, he needed someone to co-regulate his emotions with him when they were too powerful for him to manage on his own.

He was told to practice the teachings but he wasn't given the skills he needed to do so, he was only given the skulls that worked for Obi-Wan.

A situation I'm sure a lot of people who have been through multiple therapists can relate to. Not all therapists are created equal and there's a lot out there that only seem able to follow one path, whether or not that path works for their client They're fine if what you need just so happens to align with what they can provide, and they're alright if your destination is the same and there are no obstacles on the path that are impassable for you even if it's not the most efficient or beneficial path you could have taken. The problem is that they'll often blame the client if the path is inaccessible to them and not realize they should have chosen a different route.

A good therapist, and a good Jedi teacher, know many paths and many destinations and can recognize when their charge is going the wrong way and can help them realize the destination they actually want to reach, and help them find the most suitable path for them to take to that destination. Or, most importantly, can recognize when they don't have the skills or knowledge to help guide their charge to thay destination or on that path and will help them find someone who can.

Anakin was failed, but not by the Jedi, directly at least. They never should have given in to Obi-Wan teaching Anakin. Their initial concerns were correct and they should have listened to their instincts. Obi-Wan was attached to Anakin, to use the definition indicated above, and because of that attachment he was too permissive and allowed Anakin to opt for comfort when he needed to face discomfort to grow. Obi-Wan couldn't tolerate his own distress at seeing Anakin in distress and so Anakin never developed the skills he needed to tolerate distress at all.

But the Jedi are, before anything else, simply people and thus are fallible. As people they tend toward over-intellectualizing and dissociation as maladaptive coping skills to tolerate distress/anger etc, which work really well right up until they don't. Many avoid relationships completely to prevent attachment because it's easier. And when you don't learn the skills you can't pass them on to your students, who can't pass them on to theirs, and so on until the Jedi Order collapses because because no one has the skills to correctly follow the teachings.

What we see in these movies time and time again though is that there is always another opportunity to make the right choice no matter how often you've made the wrong one.

An important thing to remember is that true Jedi Mastery is Enlightenment, which is unattainable. It's a moving goal post that we're never actually meant to reach because the point isn't reaching our destination. The point is traveling toward it. The point is the journey, we only choose a destination so we know what direction to start walking in.

I think too many Jedi forgot that part and saw the Dark Side as traveling down the wrong path when really they'd just stopped walking. All it would have taken to rejoin the light was to take another step but if you think you've traveled a long way in the wrong direction it's a lot harder to make the right choice.

"the jedi don't have therapists-"

jedi philosophy, and in particular the practices and teachings that jedi were expected to implement in their everyday lives, was therapy. dialectical behavior therapy (dbt), to be exact. anyone who's familiar with dbt knows where i'm already going with this, but like genuinely look up the basic tenets of dbt and it's identical with what the jedi were doing.

dbt, to put it simply, is a specific therapy technique that was designed for ptsd and past trauma. it's pretty different from traditional talk therapy. it combines a few different environments (individual, group, etc.), recognizing that no single format of treatment can stand alone.

the key focuses of dbt include:

emotional regulation- understanding, being more aware of, and having more control over your emotions

mindfulness- regulating attention and avoiding anxious fixation on the past or future

interpersonal effectiveness- navigating interpersonal situations

distress tolerance- tolerating distress and crises without spiraling and catastrophizing

i'm sure it's already clear from that list alone how much the jedi teachings correspond with the goals of dbt. the jedi value, teach, and practice the following:

identifying and understanding emotions

mindfulness and living in the present

compassion, diplomacy, and conflict resolution (on interpersonal scales, not just planetary or galactic)

accepting and tolerating certain levels of distress or discomfort (particularly mental, such as discomfort at the thought of losing a loved one to death)

idk man seems almost as if jedi mental health practices and dbt are two sides of a completely identical coin. (fun fact: both star wars and dbt are products of the 70s.)

and guess what? dbt was specifically designed as a treatment for borderline personality disorder. remember that one? or, if you don't, maybe you remember a specific character, the one who was literally used as an example by my professor in my undergrad psych class when she was teaching us about bpd?

tldr: simply existing within the jedi community, practicing jedi teachings, surrounded by a support network of other jedi of all life stages, was the therapy for anakin. even when viewed through a modern lens. it was even, more specifically, the precise type of therapy that has developed in modern times to treat the exact types of mental issues he was struggling with.

[dreamerstreamer]

A Terrible Tutor

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: [High School!AU] He’s cocky, annoying, a total tease, has a laugh loud enough to shake the stars, and you hate him. But as luck would have it, he’s also your tutor.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: minor cursing

A/N: this is based on a classmate i had way back! (we did not fall in love. he was awful.) i’ve also never taken physics, but i tried something a bit new for the reader’s personality. i hope you enjoy :) <3

You glared down at your physics textbook, the open pages staring back up at you with beady eyes made of diagrams and labels. Off to the side, your notebook was strewn across your desk, a list of questions scribbled across the top line in a hurried rush. The handwriting was messier than you would have liked, but the thought didn’t irritate you.

What did irritate you was that it was nearly half past four, and your so-called tutor still hadn’t shown up.

You could still envision the concerned look on Mr. Craftson’s face as he held you back a moment after class, watching as the rest of your classmates poured out of the door with an anxious look. He had offered you a kind smile before pulling out your test from the week before, and you winced at the numerous red marks scattered across the front page alone.

“I know you’ve been struggling in this class,” he said, gazing at you almost pitifully.

You tried not to glower at the sight of his apologetic eyes trained on you, instead nodding your head slowly. “It’s been… hard,” you said slowly.

He leaned an arm on his chair, pushing your test toward you. “You ask questions in class,” he hummed, “and from what I’ve seen, you complete your homework diligently.” His smile fell. “Yet here you are me, with the lowest mark in my class.”

You wanted to shrivel up into a ball. Maybe he didn’t have to say it like that, but he wasn’t wrong, either.

At your silence, he prodded at you. “Is there anything going on at home that might be hindering you, or…?”

You whipped your head up, your eyes wide. “No! Things are—things are great. It’s just…”

You swallowed, then sighed, fidgeting your fingers on your lap. “I guess,” you murmured, trying to quell the shame flaring up inside you, “I’ve just been really struggling with the material, and none of it’s really been clicking.”

Mr. Craftson’s face softened in an instant. “That’s alright. Thank you for being honest with me. If my teaching hasn’t been working out with you…”

He paused, rubbing at the blond stubble on his chin for a moment. Then, his face lit up and he leaned forward. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve got a great student who I think might be able to explain things to you in a way you might be able to grasp a little better. He’s got the best marks in this class.”

Your eyes widened. The best in the class? He had to be a genius.

“I have a good feeling he can meet you tomorrow at four after school to help you out,” he continued, leaning against the arm rest of his office chair. “What do you say?”

You blinked, a thoughtful look passing over your face. Lord knew you needed the help—you were practically failing the class—but an uneasy stone settled into the pit of your stomach. You’ve never needed tis much help to pass a class before. The thought made you want to gag. Slowly, you opened your mouth.

“Do I have to…” You gestured vaguely. “Pay him or something?”

His cerulean eyes blinked at you for a second, then he laughed—the kind of deep-belly laugh only teachers seemed to be able to have. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand at you, “not at all. He’s a good kid. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

You bobbed your head, your insides crumbling. You didn’t want to accept, you really didn’t. Part of you guys wanted to believe that you could just work harder, study by yourself even more. You were a dedicated student, and you were doing just fine in all your other classes. Surely the content couldn’t get that much harder, right?

But as your gaze lowered to the red ink staining your test once more, you felt yourself swallowing the lump in your throat. Straightening your back, you let your stubborn pride seep out of your shoulders and onto the floor.

It looked like this was a sacrifice you were simply going to have to make.

“Thank you so much for the offer,” you said, letting your lips curl up into a genuine, grateful smile. “It—it really means a lot.”

Mr. Craftson grinned at you, an easygoing flint shining in his eyes. “Of course. You’re a bright student. Sometimes we all just need a little push.”

You could still remember shaking his hand in thanks before bundling your stuff in your arms and shuffling into the hall, tucking your feet between the pages of your textbook. That had been yesterday, and now, the same one was sitting on your desk, open to a new page full of jumbled words you could hardly decipher.

The chair across from you was distinctly empty.

He—whoever he was—was late.

You distantly wondered to yourself who your tutor even was, your gaze drifting down to your textbook. Mr. Craftson had said he was the best student taking the class. Would it be George? He always seemed like he knew what was going on, and he never really asked questions. But sometimes, he looked like he was just zoning out. Maybe it was Technoblade. He was smart. You paused, then shook your head. No, everyone knew he was one of those English kids.

The thought made you furrow your brows, wracking your head even more. The words on the page grew muddled and fuzzy as you thought even more. Just who was it?

Just then, you heard the classroom door swing open with the same loud creak every door in the school seemed to have. The sound of heavy breaths and panting filled the air, then a haggard voice spoke up.

“Hey, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

You didn’t look up from your page, letting a sigh escape your lips as you lifted your head. Plastering a polite smile to your face, you let your gaze travel toward your tutor. “Hi, it’s nice to me—”

Suddenly, your voice died in your throat as your eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway. Towering over the desks with a duffel bag resting against his hip, his dirty blond locks were damp and matted against his forehead, his emerald eyes blinking at you. Something bitter and warm twisted in your gut at the sight, and the smile dropped off your face and into a scowl.

“Oh,” you said flatly. “It’s you.”

The smile he offered you was easygoing, but you didn’t miss the strain in his gaze. “It’s me.”

You bit on the inside of your cheek, your heart practically revolting against your rib cage with the way it was hammering. A million questions were darting around the inside of your skull, only making your blood boil even more with each passing second.

Of all the people you had expected to show up, Clay was easily the last.

The two of you had first met back in freshman year in your first science class—he had sat behind you and had the loudest laugh on the planet, or so you were convinced. You were quieter back then, but just as stubborn and snappish as now. Soon enough, one thing led to another, and you swore the two of you were suddenly enemies for life.

Although you couldn’t remember what had caused your little feud, you knew that he was the one who started it. He was loud and kicked your chair, he just loved to borrow your pens and never return them, and you could never figure out just why he loved to tease you so much. You don’t think you learned a single thing in that class, always distracted by the presence staring a hole into your back, and you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

Naturally, that meant your teacher assigned him to sit behind you for the rest of the year. To this day, you were convinced she hated you, and you still avoided her in the halls.

To say that science class was your least favourite would be an understatement, and soon enough, everybody was in on your hatred for each other. Clay never seemed to stop pestering you no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, and you would never forget the day you finally snapped at him, whipping around to glare at him with your cheeks on fire.

“Will you please shut up?”

The shocked look on his face was still burned into your memory as it melted into a wide, proud grin.

“Only if you make me.”

Even years later, he always seemed to find a way to worm himself back into your life, and you hated it. You hated him, simple as that.

So, seeing him standing in front of you like this, it took every ounce of your strength to keep your voice as neutral as possible.

“What took you so long?”

He patted his duffel bag before slipping it off his shoulder and setting it on the ground. “I just finished football practice. Coach ran a little long and I figured it would be polite to take a shower before so I didn’t smell all sweaty when I tutored you.”

You blinked, your mouth falling open. That explained his wet hair, you guessed. While you were vaguely flattered, you were distracted by something else. “You knew that you would be tutoring me?”

Clay nodded, pulling back the chair in front of you. “Yeah. Phil asked me.”

You gaped. “You call Mr. Craftson by his first name?”

His smile was a touch too smug for your liking, and you wanted to wipe it off his face. “Maybe. I was surprised when he asked, though.” He wrinkled his nose and shot you a teasing smirk as he sat down. “I didn’t think you would be failing this class.”

You glowered, that same bitter feeling bubbling up in your chest, again. “I’m not failing,” you snapped. “I’m just…” You paused, your cheeks growing hot. “…not passing.”

He gave you a deadpan look, then laughed. “That’s the same thing.”

You sent him a gesture that your teacher most certainly would have scolded you for if he was here, and he laughed even harder. You were suddenly reminded of just how damn loud his laugh was, sounding like fireworks in your ears. Slumping over, you hung your head in your hands.

“Ugh. I can’t believe you knew you were going to be tutoring me of all people.” You paused, then added, “I can’t believe you agreed.”

He tilted his head at you, brushing his damp hair out of his face. “Did you not know I was gonna be your tutor?”

“No.” You frowned. “If I did, I wouldn’t have shown up.”

His eyes flickered with mirth as a smile stretched across his face. “Aw, am I really that disagreeable?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, your gaze as sharp as a blade. “Without a doubt. A hundred percent. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

He whistled, feigning a wince. “Harsh.”

Wryly, you said, “You deserve it.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I wasn’t that bad as a freshman, was I?”

You gave him a hard, callous stare. “Do you really think I’m the one you should be asking that question?”

He thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, point taken.”

You dragged a hand over your face, then pointed at your textbook. “Are you going to teach me now or what? We’re already behind.”

He winced for real this time, and you almost felt bad for him. Almost. “Sorry, again.”

“Seriously,” you muttered under your breath, reaching into your back to grab your pencil case, “and to think that you have the highest grades in this class.”

“Hey,” he shot back, “I’m brains and brawn.”

You shot him a look that was nothing short of disgusted. He cringed a little at the sight.

“Okay, that was cheesy, but I’m not wrong. Besides, coach says I have to keep my grades up or else I’m off the team.” He leaned closer to you, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his hot breath fanning over your skin. “You know I can’t let everyone down like that.”

You looked unconvinced. “Uh huh. Totally.” Whipping out a pencil, you tapped at the bottom of the page you had open. “Can you explain this to me, now? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.”

He quietly chuckled, and you hated how soft it sounded. Leaning closer to the textbook to read, his lips mouthed the problem silently. You tried not to stare at his mouth as it moved, your gaze tracing over the soft dip of his lips as his viridian eyes flashed with recognition. A moment later, he sat back and cocked his head at you.

“So, what exactly do you not understand?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Everything.”

He blinked, disbelief colouring his features. “Everything? Like, the whole thing?”

You scowled. “I thought that was obvious. All that stuff about velocity and the funny diagrams—” You shook your head. “—none of it makes sense.”

He raised a brow at you. “I thought you were paying attention in class. You really don’t understand a single thing?”

You bit back the urge to scream. “It’s not like you’re much smarter.”

Clay snorted derisively. “I am. That’s kind of the whole point.”

You groaned, letting your voice ring out in the quiet of the empty classroom. You caught a glimpse of his amused smile in front of you, and it only made you groan louder.

“You’re the one who ruined science for me, you know? I hated going to that class, and look at me now.” You gestured to yourself, using your finger to draw a ring in the air. “It all comes full circle.”

There was a brief second of silence. “I’m the reason why you hate science?”

You didn’t budge. “I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy knowing I was going to be stuck in a class with someone who never gave me my stuff back and kicked my chair.”

Another wave of silence washed over the two of you, but this one was tense—heavy. He swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob.

“You…” His eyes swirled with something sad and honest. “You really hate me that much?”

He suddenly looked a lot like a kicked puppy, and a pang of guilt shot through your chest like a bullet. With a panicked gaze, your voice grew shaky as you spoke. “I—I don’t hate you. I just… I had a grudge, I guess.”

Your tone grew soft, and you lowered your gaze to your lap. “I… I really didn’t like you back then, but things have changed.” You offered him a small smile, but it felt shy. “We’re not exactly fourteen, anymore.”

He returned your smile with one of his own. Just like yours, it was small and tender, and it sent something stirring in the depths of your belly. “No,” he murmured, “we’re not.”

“I,” you breathed, gulping down the last dredges of your grudge, “was stubborn back then.” You raised a shoulder. “In a way, I still am. I have too much pride for my own good too, but I don’t hate you.” The look you sent him had a spark of mischief, and his breath hitched. “Strongly dislike, at best.”

Clay blinked at you, looking half-surprised and half-awed at you. You squirmed under his gaze before he snapped out of his stupor, almost bashfully ducking his head. “I’m… It’s definitely too late for me to say this now when I really should have said it all those years ago, but I’m sorry. Really. I was a dick.”

You snorted under your breath, fondly mumbling, “Yeah, you were.”

His face perked up at the sound of your bitten back laugh. “I really shouldn’t have teased you so much. My reasons were… dumb.”

You cocked a brow at him, almost as if to say, Oh? Do elaborate.

But instead, you watched as his ears burned crimson red and he flashed you a pair of bright, pleading eyes. “Forgive me? Please.”

Your heart leapt into your throat, something new and warm bursting along the seams of your lungs. You couldn’t possibly say no to a face like that. Even the toughest person on the planet would crack under a look as sincere as that, you tried to reason, ultimately letting out a sigh with a stammer.

“O-Only if you actually can get me to understand this unit.” Pushing down the heat creeping up your neck, you pointed at him with an accusatory look. “Until then, you’re on thin ice.”

The grin he sent you was beyond dazzling—you couldn’t have brought yourself to look away even if you wanted to.

(And you didn’t.)

“Gotcha.”

Clay finished scribbling a diagram onto the new page of your notebook, flicking his thumb back to reveal the hordes of previous pages you had filled with other practice problems. If you were being honest, you were a little envious of just how neat his drawings were. No one should be able to draw a line as straight as that without a ruler, yet here he was, doing exactly that.

What a show-off.

Feeling your eyes on him, Clay lifted his head to catch your gaze, turning the notebook to face you. You tried to pretend the stumbling of your heart wasn’t because of him—not at all. “Do you get it?” he breathed.

You glanced back and forth between him and your page, your grip on your pencil falling slack. “I think so,” you said slowly. “Mostly, at least.”

He hummed for a moment, then flipped your notebook around until it was facing him again and holding an expectant, open hand toward you. Without even thinking, you dropped your pencil into his palm, a spark running up your fingers at the slight brush of his skin against yours. Carefully, he wrote a string of words on a new line, circling the sentence when he was done.

“Here,” he said gently, pushing the pencil back between your fingers, “try this question. This was one of the harder ones from my test.”

Gingerly, you peered down at the page, and your mouth fell open at the sight. This question was far more complicated than anything you had been solving in the textbook before this. What was he thinking?

“If you get it right,” he said suddenly, casting you out of your thoughts, “you should be all set.” His lips curved up into a taunting, knowing grin. “But it’s okay if you don’t get it—it is difficult, after all.”

You stared for a second longer, then grumbled under your breath. How could he read your mind like that? You were going to prove him wrong, even if only to knock that smug look off his face.

Leaning down, you tackled the problem head on, your pencil flying across the page as you spelled out formulas and equations, doodling a diagram when you had to and pausing to think every other breath. Before you, you didn’t see Clay watching you with a soft, tender gaze, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted against your pencil when you stopped and how you chewed on your mouth when you got nervous.

You really were more endearing than you could ever know.

Suddenly, you let your pencil clatter against the table as you pushed your notebook toward him, eyeing your pencil scratches with a wary look. “Done.”

His viridian eyes gleamed with excitement. “Alright,” he said, plucking the paper from your desk with a practiced ease, “let’s take a look.”

His gaze scanned your work intently, his lips pressed together in focus. You folded your hands onto your lap, trying to focus on his analysis of you work. But the longer you looked, the more you felt your gaze trailing up to graze his cheeks. Did he always have so many freckles? You didn’t remember seeing him with this many as a freshman, but you also spent more time glaring at him than staring at him back then.

In a way, he was kind of... pretty. Handsome, even. Not that you would ever say it out loud.

You suddenly had a strong urge to reach up and trace feather-light lines between each of his freckles, but before you could even take another breath, Clay’s eyes were on yours again. Unlike earlier, the look on his face was grave, and a small grimace overtook his features.

“I have bad news,” he said dryly.

Your heart fell.

Of course you got something wrong. You were a fool to think that things would change just because Clay would be teaching you instead.

But then, his grimace curled up at the corners, and your jaw dropped.

“I have nothing left to teach you in this unit.”

Your eyes widened.

“I got it right?”

He turned the notebook back to face you. A large check mark had been scribbled in pencil along the side of the page, a tiny smiley face decorating the corner next to it.

“Perfectly.”

The gasp you let out sent you barrelling for your feet, and you nearly started jumping for joy in the middle of your seat. “Yes!” you cried, pumping a hand up in the air. Suddenly, you whirled to point at Clay, a pout forming on your lips. “Oh my god, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t do that.”

He chuckled, leaning back with his hands up defensively. “Sorry, sorry. I saw the opportunity and just had to take it.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re terrible.”

His eyes softened—sincere and sweet. “I know.”

Ignoring the sudden burst of warmth rushing through your veins, you huffed at him. “Well, at least I have two pieces of good news for you. First,” you said, sliding your notebook off your desk, “we can both go home, now.”

“And the second?” he prompted, looking at you inquisitively.

You folded your notebook shut, boring a hole into your backpack with the intensity of your stare. You couldn’t look at him right now, you just couldn’t.

“Second,” you nearly whispered, “I accept your apology.”

Slipping your textbook into your bag, you heard him take a sharp intake of breath. “Really?”

You reached for your pencil case, fumbling with the zipper. “Yes.”

There was another breath, but this one was gentler, less harsh. You peeked up at him from your bag, and your heart stuttered at the ecstatic look on his face.

“This,” he said, “is the greatest day of my life.”

You blinked wildly at him, zipping your backpack up all the way before slinging it onto the desk. “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, his smile never once faltering. “Are you kidding? I thought you were going to hate my guts forever!”

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I might have.” You paused. “Actually, I probably would have. But luckily for you—” You shot him a sincere look. “—not anymore.”

His grin grew impossibly wider, yet it somehow still looked natural on him. Deep down, a part of you wanted to bottle up his expression and remember it for as long as you lived.

“Like I said, greatest day of my life.”

You giggled, rolling your eyes. “Weirdo.”

Pushing in your chair and gesturing for him to stand, you jutted your head toward the door. Clay didn’t need to be queued twice before he was rising to his feet, pushing the chair back to its rightful spot before heaving his duffel bag off the floor and onto his side. As the two of you headed out towards the door, a bought suddenly flickered across your head, and your lips began moving before you could even begin to think.

“One of these days, you need to tell me why you liked to pick on me so much. Like, seriously, why me?” You gestured to yourself as the two of you stepped outside into the school hallway. “I’m not exactly special.”

You hadn’t been looking at him in that moment, focused on closing the door behind you, but when he didn’t respond for a moment, you looked up and felt your lungs tighten. You had never seen Clay look so bashful in his life, with his ears flaring crimson red and a faint rosy tint dusting the panes of his cheeks. His freckles were only more noticeable with the pink background, and you nearly blurted something you knew you would regret.

“Maybe I’ll—” He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Before you could even ask what he meant by that, he was firing off once more. “In the meantime, if you still need help, I don’t mind coming in again next week or something.”

You nearly took a double take. Next week? He wanted to help you, again?

“Don’t you have more important things to do?” you asked, scanning him with wide, curious eyes. “Like studying your own stuff.”

“You’re important,” he said abruptly.

You choked on your spit, and by the way he went absolutely stock still in front of you, you had a feeling he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh,” you whispered.

That warm, fuzzy feeling from earlier was rising between your lungs again, only this time it sent your heart racing around your chest. Sucking in a deep breath, you nodded your head once, twice.

“Sure,” you managed to say as calmly as you could. “The, um, the next unit looks a little confusing, so I might need some help.”

Clay’s face suddenly brightened at your soft request for assistance, and you caught his shoulders slumping with relief as he smiled. “Awesome.” He paused, then waved his hand. “Not the part about you needing help, I mean.”

You laughed a little at that, your nerves calming a bit more. “I would hope not.”

He smiled back at you. “So,” he said, drawing out the syllable, “I’ll be back same time next week?”

You couldn’t help but reach over to elbow him a little playfully. “Try to be on time though, yeah?”

He flushed a bit, but cracked a crooked grin nonetheless. “I’ll try my best.” He glanced over his shoulder down the hall, and you suddenly realized you would be heading in the opposite direction.

“I’ll see you around?” he murmured gently, brushing away his now dry hair from his forehead.

One of your hands tightened around the straps of your bag while the other waved back at him. “See you.”

With one last grin at you, you watched as he turned on his heel, striding down the hall with his duffel bag bouncing against the side of his hip. Just then, your eyes grew wide, and you cupped your hands around your mouth to call after him.

“One last thing, Clay!” you shouted, your voice echoing down the empty corridor.

At the sound of his name, he whipped around again, his brows knitted together. Breathing in deeply, you screwed your eyes shut and called out once more.

“Thank you!”

When you opened your eyes again, his emerald green eyes were blinking at you with wild abandon, his lips parted in what could only be described as a look of pure wonder. Your heart skipped a beat, and you wondered why he was looking at you of all people like that.

Swallowing, he sent you a lopsided, earnest smile and cupped his own hands around his mouth to shout back at you.

“Anytime!”

You kept waving at him even after he let his arms drop back to his sides and he vanished around the corner of the hall. Almost immediately, you bent over to bury your head into your knees, letting out a soft, muffled yell.

Why did your chest feel so warm when he looked at you like that? Why did you want to count his freckles so badly when he smiled? Was he always so nice, so helpful and kind? Why did he look so cute when his face flushed all pink like the way it did before? When did he become so endearing instead of annoying?

Did you like him?

You let out another muffled cry into your hands, feeling heat flood every part of your body like a tidal wave crashing into your system. You could hear your heart ringing in your ears like a bell that wouldn’t ever stop, and your toes curled into your shoes.

You had so, so many questions, none of which you knew how to solve.

Hopefully Clay could help you figure out the answers.

[hopeswriting]

i think it was @/susuna56 who made a post about skull being from the greek era, and it might be a bit dumb of me lol but it’s the first time i considered skull might be centuries years old in canon.

and it’s a super bonker fun take, because if i tend to go with angst whenever i talk/write about his immortality, it’s in the context he figured out he was one in that time of his life. that he’s actually a baby immortal and didn’t get to actually experience immortality in the sense of living years past what you should (apart from a twisted version of it with the curse). and i figured, you know, it’d be reasonable for him to get angsty about it.

but if he’s not and already went through that stage, it’s really fun to consider the other stages he might be in canon, and depending on it it’d change his dynamic with the other arco entirely (tho of course the fact he’s centuries years old would do that single-handedly alone lol).

there’s this post i reblogged a while ago that gives idea about immortal life stages (very fun and inspiring and has really strong skull vibes as far as i’m concerned), so let me take inspiration from this one “super laid back immortals who have lived through so much nothing phases them, and sometimes they have to be politely reminded that things do not always 'work themselves out' for mortals”.

so there’s skull, centuries years old, who lived and learned through it all, who had so much time to learn about his flames and how to control them that they couldn’t even imagine to ever have, who shows up to the chosen seven meeting in all his purple punk aesthetic glory.

and there’s the arco, in their twenty to thirty something prime, prideful assholes more or less full of themselves (which they earned it, don’t get me wrong), who rules out skull as someone lesser than them at first glance, before he can even utter a word.

and skull just goes “oh my god, babies. you’re babies, do your parents know you’re here?? did that checker face guy kidnapped you, should i call the police???” and he’s only half trying to mess with them.

and the arco go “what the fuck did he just say to us?” but skull only gets worse from there.

he learns they’re all there by their own will, and their first meeting is just them sitting there listening to skull going off because “excuse me, don’t you have better things to do? school for example? did no one ever tell you not to listen to old strange men, who raised you?? maybe i really should call the police.”

“we kill people” someone manages to cut him off and informs him, and as skull goes “sO??? can you do basic math? read? if not don’t you talk back to me, toddler 3″, in the background someone else goes “no the fuck i am?? you kill people???”

it only gets better (worse) from there.

toddler 1 to 6 learn their respective number, because skull just won’t call them by their names, so they might as well to avoid confusions. they’re not happy about it, and skull couldn’t care less. “maybe if you showed me some grown-up's behavior, i could see you as something else but toddlers.” of course the arco fail miserably at that.

after each mission skull asks for his babysitting fees, and as he’s the only one to laugh at their palpable annoyance/frustration, he tells them he’ll put it on their tab, and does in fact put it on their tab, and every time they talk and/or act shit he pulls the receipt and tells them to pay or shut the fuck up.

he puts in practice a time-out corner, because oh boy, these toddlers didn’t face nearly enough the consequences of their actions growing up. “did no one ever teach how to resolve conflict without killing the other party? who raised you??”

(skull says that a lot, and years later, as they’re about to be their asshole selves and make it everyone else problem, they hear his voice, whispering against their ear as if he was there, full of the foreboding promise of the time-out corner, going “who raised you??” and it saves a lot of people time/trouble/lives aqsdfggj.)

he makes it a time-out corner and not a time-out room, so the others can watch them and mock them until their time is up, because they’re clearly in dire need of some healthy shame to humble them.

of course the arco are vehemently against it, but then they black out and suddenly it’s the only thing keeping the mansion standing, and also, you know, that stops them to try to kill each other every other day.

skull coos and claps and compliments them whenever they show off their skills during missions, or on anyone else that isn’t each other, because as everyone knows positive encouragement is needed to grow healthily. he makes them sit down in the living room to listen to verde presenting and explaining his latest researches, or gathers them in the garden so viper can explain and show off their psychic power, because validation from your peers is important too.

one day per week (and by god, do they hate that day), he makes them sit at the kitchen’s table, looking each other in the eye, and no one is allowed to leave before 1) they give at least one compliment to everyone else, and 2) apologize for something wrong they did that week to everyone else.

this takes a while, but “you will learn to communicate with each other positively, or so god help you”.

eventually lal and luce learn more or less easily to swallow the mortifying embarrassment of the ordeal and go through with it, but fon and viper? verde and reborn?

they’d rather die, thank you very much. they’d rather the time-out corner for the rest of their lives. they do learn to compliment the others, but viper complimenting fon and vice versa? verde complimenting reborn and vice versa?

let’s call it a work in progress, but skull will be damned if he doesn’t have the last word on that matter.

the curse does not happen. no fucking way, these are his murderous toddlers, and checker face will just have to back the fuck off. what do you mean they have to be sacrificed to save the world? luce is literally pregnant???

he doesn’t fucking think so.

kawahira/fate/luce herself out of duty, love, guilt: you need to bear this pacifier that’ll ruin your life and the ones of your descendants to save the world.

luce: let me ask skull first.

kawahira/fate/luce herself out of duty, love, guilt: what? no, that’s not--

luce: sorry, but he said no.

skull: goddamn right i did, you just fucking try it.

they talk it out, and turns out, when kawahira gets off his high horse and gives humans the chance to figure out something he didn't manage to, that skull is buddy buddy with the vindice (because of course he is) and knows about night flames, and reborn heard about that talbot guy who knows quite a lot about how flames work, and what do you know! no one needs to be sacrificed anymore.

which does not mean skull just lets his toddlers to their own devices because he knows better than that.

he isn’t about to presume how important (or not) the military is to lal and how she feels about it, but he knows about wars, and whenever he feels his input will be heard if not welcomed, he tells her, very gently and softly “please don’t do that to yourself. anything you get out of the military i promise you’ll find it elsewhere that won’t ruin you beyond repairs. please consider not going back now that you’re already out of it.”

and it’s haunting so lal doesn’t go back. (which means colonnello leaves too, because she’s the love of his life and wherever she goes, he goes.)

reborn has the fancy to start teaching people, and oh. boy.

reborn: look--

skull: no.

reborn: i’m not teaching them math alright? this is mafia--

skull: no.

reborn: listen--

skull: toddler 3. (and this effectively tells reborn skull is very serious because by then he had earned to go by youngster 3 instead.) you will learn not to teach them out of fear of you, or you won’t teach at all.

and neither of them have it the way they want because reborn is reborn, and skull is skull, and they’re both stubborn, and they both begrudgingly agree the other has a point, so they meet in the middle.

which, you know, is one thing. and dino cavallone? skull can let it pass, he doesn’t like it, but at least he’s mafia-born and mafia-raised and has a loving famiglia to support him.

but sawada tsunayoshi?

he’s pissed.

“how dare you?” reborn sits in the time-out corner, skull looming over him, his arms crossed on his chest. the others eat popcorn behind them, sitting on the couch. “how dare you?” fon sits right next to reborn, and sitting beside aria on the couch, there’s i-pin. “i didn’t raise you like that.” they effectively both flinch, because it’s his most effective weapon and they’d rather when he was dissing their actual parents actually.

reborn and fon: i can explain.

skull, not impressed: how dare you assume there’s any explanation that’d make me stand for that?

reborn: he’s the only heir. do you think vongola will just let him go because i refused the job? you want me to be the one who introduces him to the mafia.

viper: about that.

skull, after learning about xanxus, and the coup, and how he apparently was cast out of the family and kept under strict surveillance, but viper themself sure didn’t find anything about that: go on.

skull, standing next to viper in front of the cage xanxus is in, after snooping around and learning the truth of the matter. he fucking did not.

cue vongola, especially nono, having a very interesting, eventful week. and xanxus ending up decimo despite being adopted, because they can all fuck right off about that “must have vongola blood” rule. or take it to skull himself, he’d love to see them try.

i also like to think they figure out he’s an actual, honest to god centuries old immortal, but way down the line. and in the most stupid manner possible. and they just shrug it off because it’s sure as hell not the weirdest thing they know about skull.

just. kindergarten teacher/babysitter skull type of dynamics with the other arco. oldest brother skull and his horrific, murdering, human disaster toddlers he’s very proud of and protective of.

yes they’re walking catastrophes by their own right, but if someone messes with them? he can and will be so much worse, and they do not want to find that out.

and the arco are actually more than fine with that, and will fuck people up right back if they come for their immortal infuriating old man, who still call them toddlers way too often for their liking.

edit: wrote the fic!

[totiredtowrite]

Hey can I pls request an Asahi x reader where We agree to go to our house as a casual hang out after practice but what he doesn’t expect to see in our room is this creepy looking plush(appearance up to interpretation) that’s turns out to be yn’s childhood toy that they adore very much.

So like the whole fic would be Asahi’s internal struggle to either leave his crush’s house or stay with the terrifyingly petrifying abomination that yn has no problem hugging and kissing.Hed try to stay strong and continue talking to us but at times he would take bathroom breaks so he could build up his courage again lmao.

Maybe our mom would notice the amount of bathroom breaks Asahi would take and idk make some assumptions 🤨(she could become important if you decide making her ask Asahi what’s wrong and the whole silly conflict would be resolved by her telling us to bring the toy to another room so poor Asahi doesn’t have to be petrified)

Anyways thank you!💕

Rico

Warnings - Asahi being afraid of your bear :(

Note: Sorry I didn't get this out yesterday oml. This was one of my favourite requests so there's no way I could let this sit in the ask box any longer. The gif has noya in it cause why not and I couldn't find any other ones that fit ig :'). Little thing about the bear, I tried to describe it in a way that makes it seem like it looked cute as some point in time, so let me know if that was good <3

Male Reader

'Oh my god, did it just move?'

There really wasn't a good way to describe Asahi's predicament right now. Seated curtly on the floor of your room, while you were talking about something and pulling a video up to show him on your laptop.

There shouldn't be a problem here. In fact, Asahi should be nervous for completely different reasons. He honestly wasn't even sure how he got here in the first place.

~~~

"Azumane!"

Asahi turns at the sound of your voice, his face heating up as he spots you sprinting towards him. He slows to a walk to allow you to catch up, growing increasingly more fidgety. Why were you you approaching him? You don't talk to him too much outside of practice or class, so why were you running towards him with such a bright smile?

Then a horrible thought struck him. Did you find out? Were you going to make fun of him? You, the most beautiful, handsome, gorgeous boy he'd ever met? No no no, that couldn't be the case right? Somehow the smile on your face looked more sinister to him.

He was still worrying when you took up a place at his side. "I was wondering," you huffed, "if you wanted to hang out?"

His eyes widened, nerves fading quickly. "Sure! I- sure." He stammered out. He really had a habit of making something out of nothing, didn't he.

~~~

Oh yeah, that's how.

On any note, he should be nervous because he's sitting in his crushes bedroom. Not because of the absolutely terrifying bear seated in your lap.

There really isn't any other way to describe it accurately.

It looked like a normal bear from the back, the matted patches of fur and occasional stitches being normal for any childhood toy. You had walked in after him and saw him staring at the bear, so you had picked it up and showed him the front, beaming.

"Meet Rico!"

What was he even supposed to think? The bear had a little animal skull where it's face should be. The matted fur was a reoccurring thing, but in the front there were little patches of leather that looked dangerously like human skin sewed in to keep the bear from falling apart at the seams. There were little red threads sticking up in random spots, and Asahi was 100% sure there was an all too realistic eye in one of the skull sockets.

When he asked you about it in the most non-threatening, meek voice ever, you said that his other eye fell out a while back, and the leather actually did very well with not ripping or tearing. You also explained that your uncle helped you patch Rico up before he passed away, as he was good with leather.

So, here he was in the present. You were talking happily about something that interested you, sitting cross-legged with Rico on your lap. It was everything he had hoped for, but for some reason Asahi just couldn't focus on your angelic voice. Well, he knew the reason full well. He seriously thinks Rico was watching him. It felt like his weirdly realistic eye was glancing at him no matter where he moved, and oh god did its leg just twitch?

"... ahi... asahi... Azumane?"

He jumped and tore his attention off of the bear, instead opting to meet your (e/c) eyes. "You were spacing out, are you okay?" You asked with a warm smile.

"I- uh- yes! ...Could I ask where the bathroom is?"

~~~

Really it's pathetic. This is the fourth time he's gone to the bathroom in an hour, and he was sure you were starting to notice. He can't even think of any reason to defend himself, aside from the fact that the longer he stayed by the bear, the heavier the tension fell on him.

Taking a deep breath and meeting his own eyes in the mirror, he steeled himself to head back to your room. What's the worst that could happen right? At the very least, the bear wouldn't decide to off him while you were in the room.

Asahi, now determined and ready, opened the door and prepared to head back down the hall to your room when he was stopped by a woman's voice.

"Oh! You're (y/n)'s friend, right?" He stopped, turning around slowly, only to relax when his eyes landed on a friendly looking woman. She held a smile clad with a bit of concern.

"Yes! I- yes, that's me," he quieted down, bringing a large hand up to scratch the back of his neck. There truly was nothing more awkward than meeting your crushes mother. Alone.

She smiled a closed eyed smile at him, before opening her mouth to speak once more. "I can't help but notice that you've been taking quite a few breaks?" She was clearly trying to ask him about it in the most non-confrontational way possible, like approaching a scared animal.

And she was starting to get a little suspicious. More often than not has she spotted Asahi making a run towards your bathroom with a red face, and she at least wants to know what his relationship with you is before assuming anything crude.

"Well- I- Can you keep a secret?" He blurts out in defeat. She nods. "His bear- Rico- kind of scares me." The deflated aura around him was almost funny. In Asahi's mind, that bear was definitely not normal. After all, you mentioned that your uncle patched it up before passing away. As stupid as it was, he swears that bear is haunted.

Before anyone else could say anything, you chuckled from Asahi's back. "That's all? I really thought you hated me!" You laughed, Rico under your arm. He turned bright red and your mother chuckled.

"Well," she said, "How about we move Rico to another room so that our guest doesn't get too scared." She smiled softly. You nodded with a grin, and took off to set Rico down somewhere else.

Once you were out of earshot, your mom turned to Asahi.

"I always thought that bear was creepy too."

~~~

In the end, Asahi supposes, that awkward little encounter was worth it. You had your head on his lap, going on about something that you learned about earlier in the day. Maybe he was still a bit afraid of your weird childhood toy, but it kind of did help him get a boyfriend.

While his adoring eyes were on you, he failed to notice Rico's arm shifting, his little sewn mouth turning up to smile just a bit wider.

[mashiraostail]

hello!! can i have miruko and midnight with a student intern (PLATONIC) who just defeated a really strong villian that a lot of other heroes failed to beat? and they’re like suuuuper proud of them and brag to everyone about how strong their apprentice is? thank you!!

i’ve never written for Mirko but i, like most midnight simps, love her as well so hopefully this does her justice!

Rumi Usagiyama/Mirko To be honest you had no idea what you did. You’d never admit that, of course. If you’d learned anything from your mentor it was just to fake it till you made it, even if you were totally lost. Puff out your chest and look in charge, as long as you look like you belong someplace no one will bother you. Maybe you’d taken the advice too far because now you were alone, and this villain was out of your league, but it looked like everyone trusted you. When you looked around for Rumi, desperate for her help she seemed wrapped up in her own fight.  “Hey, you’ve got it! Don’t look so scared! You can’t rely on others forever!”  It spurred you on just enough, the other thing you’d picked up from the rabbit hero was her incredibly hot head.  She fully intended to go in after you, sure she knew you couldn’t rely on her help forever, but you were just a kid, she’d have a tough time taking on that guy alone and she had no intention of making you do it by yourself either, she just wanted you to loosen him up so to speak. Once her own affairs are handled, 3 lower level villains tied to a telephone pole she turns to make way to you, but all she hears is a loud thud, and your opponent is on the ground.   “Holy shit!” She shouts, starting to jump. “Did you see that?!” You shout back, also starting to jump.  “NO but I’m gonna imagine it until the day I die!” She was as strong as she looked, the way she tackles you knocks the wind out of your probably terribly bruised chest. But you don’t mind, not really anyway.  “Tell me everything!” She’s shaking you, your brain feels like soup in your head, and you can practically feel it rattling around your skull. It’s not like it had been an easy win. You definitely had a concussion.  “How the hell did you do that?!” She’s starting to inspect you for any serious damage, twisting and tugging your hero costume, “look at you go! Outshining me!”  The camera crews were fast approaching as she continues her elated praise.  “You’re gonna be a total chart-topper when you graduate!” She spins you around to look at your back.  “And you’ve barely got a scratch!”  “I think I have a major concussion. And I think a rib is floating somewhere ribs shouldn’t float.” You rub the aching area and she laughs.  “Nothing Recovery Girl can’t fix. I’ll give her a call.” Rumi is massaging your shoulders, facing you again.  “How the hell’d you do that?”   “I..honestly don’t know.” You shake your head, “it just...I kept doing what felt right.”  “You are a serious powerhouse, kiddo. Keep your books closed, you’re gonna be my sidekick when you’re old enough. I’m calling dibs.” She’s saying it to you yet also seemingly announcing it to the surrounding newscasters.  “As much as I wanna take credit for this guy, it was all my star pupil.” She shakes you some more, you love Rumi, but she was like a big sister, a buff, heavy-hitting, rough and tumble big sister who didn’t feel pain or understand that other people felt it.  “We’d love to stick around but I’ve got some damaged goods here.” She slings an arm around your shoulder, roughly, you hiss at her.  “Usagiyama-se-OW stop!” You can’t help but laugh, even as the pain rattles down your stomach.  “Make way, make way. Come on, you saw the whole fight there’s nothing else we can tell you, just share the footage so bad guys know to watch out for this kid.” She thumps her foot and the camera crews practically part like the Red Sea for you, you aren’t sure how you ended up with such an impressive mentor.  “So I’ll give Recovery girl a ring, but until then what do you think about cake?” She meanders down the street, and arm still slung around you, “I was thinking-”  “Carrot. I know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Look at you catching on, you’ll be a pro in no time.”  “Can we get a cab?” You whine, “I think I broke my nose.”  “No, and now it’s time for your next lesson under the great and powerful Usagiyama-sensei; walking it off!”  “That’s so unfair!” 

Nemuri Kayama/Midnight You didn’t attend UA, actually, you didn’t even bother applying. So when Midnight took you on as a student you were surprised, to say the least. But you learned a lot from her and had grown...surprisingly close. She was level headed and confident, everything she did she did with clear purpose, you could sense her intention even as she walked. These were all traits you were picking up, at times you probably looked much more confident than you felt.  You aren’t sure if you should accredit that or terrible luck to your current situation, and Midnight was nowhere to be found.  You were backed into a corner, this villain was way too much for you, he’d been way too much for every hero that went against them, always getting away and always leaving the hero more than a little banged up. You couldn’t run there was nowhere to go, even if you used your quirk to flee you couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t be followed, and you weren’t sure you could outrun him.  “Stop trying to size everyone up!” You can hear her voice clear as day in your head, “you’ll know how strong they are when the fight starts, looks can be deceiving, and trying to figure out a million what-if scenarios will make you forget what is. Give it your all, you’d be surprised how often it works out in your favor.” You heed her advice, believing in yourself and your abilities.  Midnight cannot believe she lost you. She had a bad habit of losing kids, just misplacing them, it’s not like she could pick and choose who was immune to her quirk, usually, she told her allies to scatter before activating it, the last thing she wanted was you passed out on the street and prone.  She skids down every alley she passes, eyes casting up to awnings and low rooftops to search for you, she hears fighting, she follows the sound.  She turns the corner just in time to see him go down, You’re on his shoulders behind him, legs wrapped around his neck, you’re hitting the top of his head, his face, pulling his nose and mouth and threatening his eyes, you were fighting totally dirty until the minute the guy hit the ground. She was proud.  “Well.” You fall off him before he hits the ground, dusting off your tattered costume.  “Look at you go!!!” She shouts and you perk up considerably at her voice, glad to no longer be alone.  “Midnight!” You beam, “did you see??”  “See?” She scoffs, running toward you, “I recorded it in my mind!” She taps her temple, “I wish I could have seen the whole fight!” She swoops you up, crushing you into her chest, “but what I did see was incredibly impressive! You’re learning well!”  You brace yourself against her shoulders as she looks up at you, “we’ve been trying to take that guy out for weeks. Eraser isn’t gonna believe it when I tell him it was you who did it.”  You flush at that, embarrassment at the thought of her bragging to her colleagues about you warms up the tips of your ears.  “God! Where’d UA go wrong letting you fly under the radar??” She was squeezing you, shaking you. You didn’t mind, despite the throbbing all over body ache you had, it was nice to be praised and appreciated, especially by a mentor as strong a Nemuri. “You’re gonna be a great hero one day.” She sets you down, clasping your shoulders in her hands, “you’ve got the makings of a real wrecking ball, sprout.”  "Do you think so?”  “Uh, yeah. Duh.” She snorts, starting to pinch your cheeks, “you’re a bulldozer! You gave that guy a beating for every hero he banged up ten times over!” She glances at the passed out villain, he was sporting two tender looking black eyes.  “You’re probably hurt.” She wraps an arm tight around your shoulders, “where’s it hurt?”  “My head.” You let yourself lean into her side, “and my legs.”  “The school is nearby, you can rest up there.” She’s rubbing your arm, they’re quick affectionate strokes that make friction heat up your arm and squeeze you close to her side. “And I can show off my star, I can’t wait to brag to everyone about you.” “That’s unbecoming!” You blush at the thought of her showing you off to Present Mic and Eraser Head, gloating about your victory to pros like Vlad King and Hound Dog.  She laughs you off, “no it’s not, but everyone’s jealousy will be!” You groan and roll your eyes but happily let her squeeze you a little tighter, it feels nice to be appreciated and Nemuri, despite how she scoffed at you when you said it, had a sort of maternal air to her at times like this. You won’t say you’ve never called her ‘mom’ by accident. “I clearly have the best apprentice out of everyone! So of course I need to show you off and light a fire under everyone’s ass!”  

[vex-bittys]

In Your Dreams: A Horrortale Story

Raffle prize for @purplesangel. When your life is a living nightmare, is it any surprise that your dreams are just as bad? Thankfully a dream-walking human has arrived to help, but will she still want to help Axe when she finds out what he’s done to stay alive?

WARNING: character death mention, language, blood mention, some disturbing imagery including cannibalism (no details)

READ ON AO3

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Life in the Underground was an endless nightmare for Axe. During his waking hours, he checked his traps and hunted in the forest, often returning home empty-handed only to see the disappointment and desperation in his brother’s sockets. Supply trains became frantic riots as too many monsters competed for their share of too little food, and the sharp pain of hunger lingered even after the skeleton brothers’ meager meals.

Madness seeped in through the hole in his skull, distorting reality. He clawed at his skull, trying to release the pressure of the frenetic energy that consumed him. He could feel the darkness lurking, waiting for him to make a misstep, some seemingly trivial mistake; that’s when it would strike, shredding his thoughts and shattering his focus. There was no escaping it, and Axe knew that one day it would swallow him up.

Sleep provided no reprieve. In his dreams, Axe continued to suffer. He watched his brother fade away to nothing from starvation. He felt the gnawing emptiness of his own unsatisfied hunger. Feasts appeared before his single working eyelight only to transform into grains of sand that slipped through his fingers when he reached for it. He ran through the shadowed forest outside of Snowdin, fleeing an unknown terror in the night while thorny tendrils of a deeper darkness caught him, slowing his progress, dragging him down, and allowing his madness to suffocate him.

Days dragged on into months, and months melted together into years. Waking life remained bleak with monsters still struggling (and at times failing) to survive. Food sources dwindled, and the gathering of other resources fell by the wayside as every creature in the Underground focused on filling their stomachs as best they could. Everything stagnated in its state of destitution and decay… everything except Axe’s dreams.

Axe’s nightmares repeated themselves night after night until slowly, they began to change. It started with the appearance of a new character- a human that Axe didn’t recognize, though he thought it might be a female. At first the human only observed the horrors that lurked in the sleeping world of Axe’s mind. Gradually, though, she began to interact.

It all started during one of Axe’s nightmares about his brother. Crooks would turn a pleading gaze to his brother, mouthing a soundless plea for food. Axe would fall to his knees, sobbing and pounding his fists into the ground. Crooks slowly collapsed, and the gradual dissolution of his body sent his dust drifting towards his brother, filling Axe’s mouth and nasal cavity until he choked himself awake… usually. This time things turned out differently.

“I’M SO HUNGRY, BROTHER,” Crooks’ voice came from the air around them and not his mouth, the teeth there long since broken or knocked askew from gnawing away at non-edible items simply to assuage the need to chew.

The human appeared, but instead of observing the unfolding scene, this time she glanced around until her eyes fell upon Axe.

-

Since the very first time you’d stumbled across this heart-breaking nightmare scenario, you’d worked hard to return to it. Dream-walking involved focus, practice, and a bit of luck, and in this venture, the fates were on your side. You’d walked this collection of now-familiar nightmare images many times, slowly working out which participant it belonged to and why the skeleton with the broken skull kept replaying these torturous situations in his sleep.

Now, you were ready to interact and hopefully restore some peace to the sleeping world of the monster in front of you. You extended a tentative hand towards him, unsure if he would welcome your touch as a form of physical comfort. He just stared at your outstretched hand as if it would bring some new and unfathomable horror to his disturbingly familiar nightmare. You let your hand drop. Words would have to suffice then.

“It’s not real,” you told the stocky skeleton firmly.

His sockets narrowed suspiciously. “what do ya mean, ‘not real’?”

“This-” you gestured to the vague, nondescript surroundings and very crisp, well-defined figure of the tall, starving skeleton behind you, never breaking eye contact “- is not real.”

The skeleton with the broken skull laughed, a harsh and humorless sound that grated against your ear drums. You sighed, frustrated but determined. It rarely improved a situation to reveal yourself while dream-walking; most dreamers forgot their nightly travels when they returned to the waking world anyway. Those who didn’t merely discarded your presence, along with any advice you might give, as part of a nonexistent scenario that could not influence their waking lives and should thus be ignored.

Normally, you resigned yourself to this and walked through dreams as a silent observer, but this skeleton’s torment tore at your heart and brought forth a tenacity within you to help him in the only way you could: by walking through his nightmares and defeating them, one by one, until nothing remained but peaceful slumber.

The skeleton with the broken skull scoffed. “you don’t know nothin’,” he growled obstinately.

“I know that your most frequent nightmares involve food, madness, and losing this other skeleton-”

“my bro,” the skeptical skeleton clarified.

“Losing your brother,” you amended with an edge to your voice, “to starvation.”

“it’s not like you’re some expert investigator piecin’ together the clues, pal. we’re all starvin’ and dustin’ down here,” he said, dismissing your observations. You frowned. Was there some truth to these nightmares? Often dreams represented thoughts and fears in a metaphoric manner, but maybe this skeleton didn’t have room in his troubled mind for subtlety.

Regardless, you would do what you could for him in the only place that you could reach him.

“I don’t know what your life is like in the waking world,” you conceded softly, “but this? Everything around us now? It isn’t real.” You continued in a rush before the skeleton could interrupt you again. “You’re asleep, and your mind is processing your fears… and your reality… into nightmares.”

The skeleton inhaled, obviously ready to argue again, but you stopped him by making a sweeping gesture towards his brother. Had this nightmare been reality, the taller skeleton would be dust by now. Instead, the image was frozen in place thanks to the stocky skeleton’s change of focus. “Look,” you ordered boldly.

-

Axe begrudgingly allowed his single eyelight to stray from you to his brother. While it was true that nothing had changed in the scene since he had turned his attention to his unexpected visitor, the moment he looked back, the scenario resumed. Flakes of dust drifted loose from his brother’s body, floating away on an unfelt breeze to disappear as they dispersed until nothing remained except the unbearable weight of guilt and his brother’s ghost of a voice whispering “Why?” over and over again in his head.

Why didn’t you save me?

“It’s not real,” you whispered solemnly behind him, but honestly, that didn’t matter. Watching his brother die of starvation that he should have prevented sent jagged pains through his SOUL whether it existed solely inside of his mind or not. Your next words, however, carried a much greater impact: “I can teach you how to change it.”

-

The most frustrating part of dream-walking was the inability to change the contents of people’s dreams or nightmares yourself. While you could view the unfolding events, you possessed no real power over them. Only the dreamer could affect their dreams. Thankfully, unlike dream-walking, lucid dreaming is a skill that can be taught.

As with every teaching experience, some students learn more quickly than others. Axe, as he eventually introduced himself to you, was not one of those students. The most difficult aspect of lucid dreaming for him happened to be the very first step to lucid dreaming at all: accepting that what he experienced while he slept was a dream instead of a warped reality that lived inside of his cracked skull and broken mind.

“These images all come from your thoughts,” you explained again. “You can control them, but first you have to accept that you can control them.” 

You knew that the dreams involving his brother were far too emotionally charged to make good fodder for lucid dreaming practice, and you preferred to steer clear of the choking darkness since you had no idea what effects such a powerful and overwhelming negative force could potentially have on you, even as an observer within someone else’s troubled subconscious. This only left the dreams of an untouchable feast to practice on… and practice was not going well.

As with your many previous attempts to gently guide the stocky skeleton towards seizing control of his nightmares, the lesson had quickly devolved into a squabble. You insisted that Axe could learn to control his subconscious surroundings; Axe stubbornly insisted that he could not. You would point out that this was his dream, and his mind; he would attempt to discredit your existence as just another piece of the complicated web of nightmares that plagued him: a human offering him false hope in a bleak and hopeless world.

It did bother you a little bit that Axe considered you- a (mostly) patient and helpful human- to be nightmare fuel. Only monsters lived in the Underground since the long-forgotten war, so why would Axe’s guilt-riddled dreamscapes include humans?

You decided to save the questions for another time.

“Try again,” you told Axe, who only answered with a weary, frustrated sigh.

-

Irritation swirled through Axe’s excessive magic, though it was aimed more at himself than at you. Every night you tried to help him take control of his dreaming mind, and every night, despite your calm instructions, he failed. You made it sound so easy, so why couldn’t he just grab a stupid spider donut off of the stupid table and shove the stupid thing into his big, stupid mouth?

“Try again,” you told him patiently as he brushed the gritty sand from his finger joints. He uttered a weary, frustrated sigh.

“i am trying,” he grumbled, biting back a deluge of unhelpful comments and curses. He touched another piece of food, a french fry, still steaming though it had been sitting on a pile of its doppelgangers since the nightmare began. The entire fry stack crumbled to sand before he’d even lifted one free; Axe’s patience dissolved along with it.

“if this was as easy as you claim,” he shouted, letting his anger overflow into sharp words, “then i’d be able to pick up these plates and smash them on the floor like i want to!” Without any conscious thought, Axe lifted one of the plates in question and hurled it at the ground. It shattered, leaving silence in its wake as Axe and the dream-walking human stared down at the shards on the ground in awe.

Axe gave an entire stack of plates an experimental shove, sending them cascading over the edge of the table and onto the ground where they created an inharmonious symphony of destruction. You applauded the spontaneous mess and squealed with glee, and Axe swept you up into a quick celebratory hug, spinning you around once before setting you back on your feet. As soon as he set you down, he grabbed a donut and crammed it into his mouth. Chewing, his sockets narrowed in utter bliss, he picked up a second donut and offered it to you. 

Nothing tasted as sweet as victory… except for maybe a spider donut.

-

You didn’t want to dampen the skeleton’s joy by telling him that you wouldn’t be able to taste a donut in his dreams, so you took a bite, your head still spinning from his sudden show of physical affection. With a promise to see him the following night, you stepped out of his nightmares. You felt content that you’d taken the first big step on a journey to giving Axe the power to sleep peacefully without constant, horrific nightmares plaguing him.

The next lesson would be more difficult; you intended to guide Axe through banishing nightmares of his brother’s death. Out of consideration for Axe’s privacy, you had never asked him why he had such specific nightmares about his brother, but nightmares involving a sibling death as vivid as Axe’s hinted at some very dark and complex situations existing in the skeletons’ waking world. Those hints aside, Axe had outright stated that things were terrible in the Underground where he lived. Maybe working through his dream would give him some insight into fixing his real-life situation, at least the one he faced with his brother.

You hoped so. During the nights you’d spent helping Axe learn how to lucid dream, you had come to consider him a friend. You hated the thought of him suffering. You especially hated that you could only reach him during his nightmares. You wished you could do more, but how? Those were thoughts for your own waking world.

Tonight you wanted to focus on Axe’s progress, and once he’d gotten some practice at lucid dreaming, you’d work on changing the heart-breaking nightmare of his brother.

-

Sweat beaded on Axe’s skull as he waited for you to appear. He could feel himself slipping towards darker dreamscapes, and he fought to stay in the safe in-between place like you’d shown him. He told himself that the tremors in his bones were caused by his unstable magic and not by fear. What if his previous successes were a fluke? What if he failed when it mattered the most? 

Thoughts of failure sent him spiraling into the guilty nightmare of his starving brother. After all, his failures in reality led to this, and the dire consequences that he saw unfolding in his subconscious lurked only a step behind him in the waking world. Soon his real life would become this very same nightmare, and he would be left as powerless to stop it there as he felt to stop it here.

Thankfully, you appeared within seconds to chase away the grim meanderings of his mind and help him focus on the task at hand- Crooks.

Axe’s brother loomed in front of him, eyes pleading, begging for something that Axe could not give him. He watched the image of his brother twist and reshape itself, growing alarmingly large, the bones stretching from an influx of magic that still somehow managed to provide almost no nutrition. He whispered his brother’s name, frozen in place and unable to remember what he was supposed to do to stop the scene unfolding in front of him.

A small hand slipped into his; he had forgotten about you as his familiar fears swamped him. You looked up at him with a calm expression and nodded, encouraging him.

“You can do this.” Your words bolstered his courage. He dragged his panic back under control and turned to face Papyrus… or what had become of Papyrus under his inadequate care: the monster now known as Crooks. 

“You know what you need to do,” you whispered.

Axe stepped towards his brother, focusing on Crooks as he had seen him last: tucked into his bed, the blanket no longer quite long enough to cover his lanky frame, wishing Axe a good night and sweet dreams and promising to see him in the morning. Keeping that image locked in his mind, Axe let his lone eyelight travel over his brother’s altered frame. Sure enough, not a single mote of dust rose from the other skeleton. Crooks simply stood there, watching him through sunken sockets.

Though he’d brought his brother’s recurring death to a halt, the words that swirled and echoed around him continued, too faint at first to make out individual words or phrases. His brother’s voice whispered accusations like poisoned arrows that pierced his SOUL. A chorus of questions, all beginning with “Why…?” slowed, sharpened, and gained clarity. Crooks spoke, though his mouth never moved and the words seemed to thrum within his very bones, tangible beyond mere sound.

Normally Crooks’ omnipresent voice asked him why he would allow his brother to starve, but this time the question differed, though it still sent chills to the very marrow of Axe’s bones.

“WHY DID YOU MAKE ME EAT-”

Axe quickly hushed his brother, stealing a glance at you to gauge your reaction. You simply made an encouraging gesture as if to say “Go on, you’re doing great.” He wondered if you’d feel the same way if you knew what Crooks’ next words would have been.

“i couldn’t let ya starve,” Axe spoke softly, tilting his head to maintain eye contact with his much taller brother. “i’d do anything to keep you alive.”

“EVEN-”

Axe nodded, nearly choking on guilt. “yeah. even that.”

“BUT I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T EVER WANT-”

Remorse softened Axe’s expression, and his gravelly voice hitched. “i couldn’t let ya dust. i had no choice. i’m so sorry.”

-

Without warning, Crooks slumped, but he wasn’t collapsing into dust. Instead, he crushed his brother against his ribcage in a tight hug. You sensed a loosening of the guilt and remorse that gripped this particular nightmare so tightly. Things weren’t resolved yet. Nightmares could rarely be banished in a single lucid dreaming session, but you’d given Axe the tools he needed to seize control of his sleeping world. 

Only one challenge awaited you now: fighting the suffocating darkness of the final nightmare. You made plans to tackle that monumental task once Axe felt satisfied that he could manage this current nightmare on his own. Working through the tangle of emotions that his brother’s death awakened would take quite a bit longer than satisfying himself that he could eat his fill of dream donuts, but you were willing to go the distance to help Axe.

You actually wanted to do this, no matter how much the slithering darkness terrified you. Axe just meant that much to you.

-

“I think we’re ready for the final nightmare,” you declared after a dream session in which Axe showed off by summoning various items for his brother to eat.

In the lucid dreams about Crooks, his dream-brother mostly stood or sat nearby providing companionship and support as Axe practiced controlling his consciousness. Axe enjoyed the time with his brother, despite the knowledge that this version of Crooks existed only inside of his mind. It gave him a tentative sensation of hope that perhaps someday he could experience this type of peace with his brother in the waking world, free of the constant mad scramble for survival.

Your words shattered fragile, fleeting calm. Sweat beaded on Axe’s skull. The final nightmare contained his deep, dark fears, his madness, his guilt. Tendrils that reeked of his unspeakable crimes dragged him down into the cesspool that used to be his SOUL. He didn’t want you to see that part of him. He didn’t want you to know what he was truly capable of.

You’d never come back, and he’d be left alone with the echoing, blossoming psychosis that suffocated him. It would be worse now though. You’d shined a light into his life, and now he risked that glimmer of goodness being torn away… torn away because of what he’d done.

The punishment would fit the crime of his continuing survival.

-

You stepped into Axe’s dream world, excited and nervous at the prospect of facing the unknown horrors of this last nightmare that plagued him. The endless grey limbo that surrounded you came as quite a surprise when you expected inky vines of darkness encased in the thorns of Axe’s painful emotions and memories. Axe refused to meet your eyes when you approached him. Something was off about the whole situation.

“Is everything ok?” Maybe Axe wasn’t ready to face the darkness of the upcoming nightmare. You didn’t mind; you weren’t going to push him towards something that he didn’t want to do. You weren’t exactly eager to face it either, and besides, you thought you might enjoy just spending some time with Axe.

When he raised his head to meet your eyes, you couldn’t suppress a gasp of fright. Goosebumps erupted along your arms, and you shivered.

Axe’s single red eyelight… it glowed with an eerie flickering light, seeming to swell until the socket could barely contain the vortex of its power. Axe tilted his head at an unnatural angle and laughed at your reaction. You forced yourself to stand your ground despite your fear. This was not the monster you knew. Axe now embodied the darkness of his own inner turmoil, and it froze the blood in your veins.

“nothing is ok!” Axe’s snarl dissolved into sinister chuckles that made his broad shoulders shake. He lifted a hand, phalanges curved like claws to scrape at the hole in his skull. You lunged forward to pull his hand away before he caused more damage to himself, and he shoved you roughly away.

-

The hurt and confusion in your eyes filled Axe with dark satisfaction. You needed to know just what kind of monster he was. You needed to fear him, to run away and never come back. Instead, you offered him your compassion yet again.

“Let me help you.” Tears filled your eyes. His madness must be breaking your sweet, loving heart, but he drove home his depravity because if he let himself care, you’d find out the truth eventually anyway. Losing you would hurt more if he actually had you first.

This time when you reached out for him, he dodged, letting your momentum carry you to your hands and knees on the floor. He loomed over you, oozing menace like a thick fog.

“help me?” Axe’s scornful laughter echoed around the empty landscape. “and why,” he asked cruelly, “would you help a murderer?”

“Murderer?” You repeated the word as a question, as if you weren’t completely sure you knew what it meant. Your eyes widened in shock as tendrils of darkness climbed Axe’s arm, sliding over his bones like living tattoos until they pooled in his hand, taking on the shape of a huge meat cleaver.

“how do you think i’ve survived so long, little human? i hunt, and i kill.” He grinned, his mouth stretching into a disturbing parody of joy. “humans mostly. honestly, did you think the blood on my hoodie was mine?”

-

You admittedly hadn’t thought much about the blood stains on the hoodie. Maybe they were his. Maybe they were ketchup. Maybe in his dreams he wore the stains of his brother’s imagined death. Dreams and nightmares created their own reality with its own details pulled more from a dreamer’s mindset than accurate memories. It shocked you to think that Axe truly wore a hoodie that had once been soaked with fresh blood.

Human blood.

You trembled. Axe began to circle you like a hungry wolf, casually swinging his gigantic cleaver.

“Do you regret it?” you finally asked in a tiny voice.

-

Those four words penetrated the armor of madness that Axe was using to push you away, and they struck him like a well-timed attack. He reeled, reaching for some lie to keep you from seeing the truth and pitying him.

He found nothing.

The meat cleaver fell from his shaking hand. Axe sank to his haunches, covering his face with his hands, trying to hide from you and your perceptiveness. He wanted to scare you away before you could judge him and abandon him, but you shot your question straight to his SOUL, refusing to believe the worst of him.

“every fucking minute of my life.”

This time, when you tentatively reached for him, undaunted by his previous rejection, he leaned into your touch. He hated himself for his weakness, but every second that you stayed, even if you left eventually, was a second he would cherish until time wore away even the memory of his dust.

With his first admission, however poorly he���d delivered it, out of the way, Axe couldn’t stop himself from confessing even more of his transgressions and regrets. “i lied and told my brother it was meat from an animal in the forest. he didn’t want to eat humans, but i tricked him. i couldn’t let him starve” The words poured out of him; he feared that as soon as things went quiet, you would realize what an irredeemable abomination he was and flee. “i shouldn’t have done it, but i didn’t know what else to do. we were so hungry… and it messed up our magic. there’s no way to hide what we did. no way to undo it.” 

-

Axe’s words stumbled to a halt, and you sat for a moment in the heavy silence of the grey dreamscape, contemplating them. You hated what he had done, but you also understood that his only other option would be watching his brother starve to death. The circumstances didn’t allow for any winners, and Axe suffered with the knowledge of the things he’d done. 

“You were trying to survive.” Your voice nearly cracked on the final word. You could not fathom the desperation that drove Axe to his decision.

You remembered all of the heart-breaking stories that Axe told you about the Underground: the human who’d stolen the SOULs that the monsters had gathered and fled, taking the monsters’ hope with them, the death of their monarchs at the human’s hands, the Royal Guard Captain’s ascension to a throne that she didn’t possess the skills to manage, and the unbearable suffering of monsters starving to death or falling down because of an unshakable despair.

You raised your eyes to meet Axe’s eyelight, expecting to see softness there once more, but instead his horrified expression stared back at you. You didn’t need to puzzle out the cause because a moment later, barbed shadow vines lashed you, wrapping around your legs and dragging you towards a puddle of oozing darkness near your feet. You struggled against the thorny tendrils, and they tightened, driving each wickedly sharp thorn-tip into your flesh.

Pain seared your legs, real physical pain… in someone else’s dream. Panic washed over you, and you fought harder to escape, causing the barbs to rip deeper into you.

You screamed.

-

Shaking off his shock at the sound of your scream, Axe lunged forward. He wrapped both of his arms tightly around you and wrenched you away from the grasping vines. A writhing mass of them rose up behind him, swarming over him like living things. Staggering a few steps forward, Axe set you on an empty bit of space, but the vines quickly pulled him off of his feet and into a kneeling position. More tendrils rose to wrap around him, and the inky darkness of the puddle rose up to meet them, slithering up his body and swallowing him up in the darkness.

“i can’t protect you here… i can’t keep you safe from me, from my mind.” Axe choked out the words through the darkness consuming him. He couldn’t let you come back. He wouldn’t allow you to be in danger because of him.

This had to be good-bye.

He focused his mind.

“don’t come back.”

-

You jolted awake, that one last glimpse of Axe’s red eyelight, brimming with pain and regret burning in your mind. He had kicked you out of his dreams and told you not to come back. You couldn’t dream-walk in a mind that wasn’t open to your presence. Your throat constricted, and you felt tears sting your eyes. What if you never saw Axe again?

When you tossed back your blankets, you half expected to see scratches on your legs where Axe’s negative thoughts and emotions had touched you, but your skin was unbroken. You’d never experienced a nightmare so vivid and intense, but you breathed a sigh of relief that it couldn’t reach you in the waking world. If only Axe would let you come back, you could tell him that despite your panicked reactions, his dreams had no power to harm you.

Instead, he would continue to face the torment of his past mistakes all alone… for now.

Because while you had been helping Axe deal with his nightmares, you hadn’t neglected the appalling circumstances of his reality. If you could make your waking project work, you would be able to truly save the skeleton that you cared for so deeply.

I won’t let you push me away, you vowed.

-

Axe settled himself on the bench of his sentry station, taking a break from prowling the forest for potential meals. The barren snowscape left him all alone with his thoughts, and he hated it. In one bout of unhinged boredom, he’d created a sign for the outpost: “Head dogs, 5G.” It made as much sense as anything else in the Underground. Besides, there was no such thing as a hot dog in this frigid wasteland.

The narrow lines of dead tree trunks shifted if he stared at them too long, and the wind that howled through them carried voices whose words he could not quite arrange into coherency. The windblown whispers rose in volume until the roaring of innumerable voices filled his skull. The blazing white of the snow surrounding him only added to the sensory overload. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. 

“shut up, shut up!” Axe chanted, clawing at the hole in his skull. Reality warped, the passage of time quickened and slowed, and nothing made sense anymore…

… and you were standing in front of him.

Axe recoiled in disbelief. How could this be happening? He hadn’t fallen asleep… or had he? Maybe you were a cruel hallucination conjured by his loneliness. He refused to accept the vision of you even when you reached out in that oh-so-familiar way to calm the scrabbling of his phalanges against the jagged edges of the hole in his skull.

Axe’s hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake and grabbed your wrist. He yanked you forward until you were partially bent over the sill of the sentry station. He raised his massive knife high above his head; his eyes held no recognition, no clarity, no sanity.

You held completely still, unflinching. The meat cleaver hovered threateningly above you, but it did not fall. You and Axe were frozen in the moment, but despite the madness that absolutely radiated from him, you trusted him not to hurt you.

“you’re not real,” Axe accused you in a gravelly whisper. You weren’t even sure if he meant to speak aloud at all.

“Are you going to kill me?” Your voice didn’t waver, and you kept your eyes locked with his single eyelight, calm yet firm.

Axe lowered the knife. Real or imagined, starving or not, he would never hurt you. You knew him too well. He released your wrist, hoping he hadn’t hurt you by grabbing you like that. He wanted to ask how you’d gotten here, but other matters demanded a higher priority.

“you aren’t safe here,” the skeleton scolded gruffly. “didn’t you listen? monsters here kill and eat humans!”

“Good thing I found you first then.” You tried to diffuse the tension with bravado, but you had to admit that your choice to come to the Underground was a risky one. Axe’s eyelight travelled over your body, searching for injuries while surreptitiously taking in the sight of you. His obvious concern for your safety filled you with warmth and determination.

“there’s nothing good about this,” Axe growled though he had to admit that seeing you again definitely felt like a good thing to him. That little bit of goodness could be snuffed out in a hurry though if another monster saw you and attacked. “i’ve got to get you out of here.”

Axe lumbered out of his sentry station, glancing furtively around the barren landscape, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether he expected to spot an enemy or an escape route. The skeleton stopped right next to you, attempting to block you from prying eyes. You found his protective stance rather charming, but you weren’t here to be charmed. You were on a mission.

You slipped your backpack from your shoulders, swinging it around into Axe’s line of sight and opening it. Seven clear canisters sat inside, each with a brightly-colored heart shape inside of it. Axe’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“are those…?” Axe sounded almost reverent, and with good reason.

“Human SOULs? Yes. I gathered these from willing donors who wanted to help set the monsters free.” It had taken dedication and time, but you’d meticulously interviewed potential donors until you tracked down all seven SOUL types that you needed. Now, only the path to the Barrier stood in your way.

Without warning, Axe swept you into a crushing hug, then proceeded to spin you around. Your feet actually left the ground, and you laughed softly at the thrill of it.

“you’ve got to meet my brother, then we’ll smuggle you into the Capitol.” For once you heard excitement and hope in Axe’s voice. His eyelight gleamed with resolution as he reached for your hand. You placed your hand in his without hesitation. Axe’s declaration that he knew a shortcut still rang in your ears as the world spun beneath you and everything went dark.

Disoriented, you tried to take in the scene around you. You’d been outside, standing in a forest choked with dead trees and carpeted in snow, but suddenly you found yourself in a house. The loud colors of the bowling alley style carpeting had long since faded, and the couch had obviously seen better days. Everything in the house was touched with the same look of elegant decay: faded colors, worn fabrics, the yellowing of book pages, and the subtle musk of disuse. 

A fine film of the dust of time spoke volumes about the life of two monsters who devoted so much of their lives to simply surviving that they were forced to neglect the basic upkeep of their home. The house looked so long abandoned that the presence of life within it seemed almost surreal. You couldn’t find words to break the silence that permeated the house, soundless echoes of what it had once been.

Movement caught your eye; a lanky figure detached itself from the shadows and stepped in the dust-mote-filled light. Your eyes travelled up and up, an impossible height despite the figure’s hunched posture, until you found facial features that you recognized from Axe’s dream. The vivid colors of Axe’s subconscious bore the same washed-out appearance here that characterized their home, but you knew this must be Papyrus, now known as Crooks due to the effects of his recent tragic diet.

Crooks wrung his hands shyly, awaiting your reaction to his somewhat terrifying appearance. His teeth were crooked and broken, caked with something red that you tried not to think about too much. His nervous actions tugged at your heart, and you offered him a gentle smile which he responded to with a smile of his own.

“I’D OFFER YOU SOME OF MY SIGNATURE SPAGHETTI AND EYEBALLS, BUT WE’RE ALL OUT OF PASTA.” His apologetic tone did little to distract you from the fact that the skeleton brothers were short of pasta but not eyeballs. 

“That’s alright. Really.” You didn’t hold out much hope that Crooks had misspoken considering Axe’s earlier admission. The sooner you got these monsters out of their Underground prison, the sooner they could return to normal healthy eating habits.

“my friend here wants to help us get to the Surface. they’ve got plenty of pasta up there. we just need to talk to ol’ Queen Undyne first,” Axe interjected, using a light tone to dispel the awkwardness of his brother’s offer. 

Crooks perked up at the mention of Undyne. “UNDYNE WILL BE SO RELIEVED. I DON’T THINK SHE LIKES BEING QUEEN VERY MUCH…” You clutched your backpack and its precious cargo of SOULs, unzipping it slightly to show the mingled glow of seven vibrant colors. Crooks peered at them with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

Axe shifted uncomfortably. “yeah, relieved,” he mumbled, refusing to meet your eyes. You didn’t have much time to wonder about the skeletons’ very different reactions to Undyne because Axe extended a hand to you and Crooks. As soon as your fingertips brushed his smooth, warm bones, everything went dark again.

In the few seconds it took your eyes to communicate the view of a once-opulent throne room to your poor confused brain, a glowing blue spear appeared and slammed into the ground so close to you that you felt the force of the impact thrumming up the shaft of the weapon. If Axe hadn’t yanked you backwards, you would’ve been impaled. Where had it even come from?

“UNDYNE WAIT! THIS HUMAN IS A FRIEND!” You followed the direction of Crooks’ voice to see an armor-clad monster with a wild mane of crimson hair. She held another glowing blue spear, and her single yellow eye focused on you with murderous malice. You staggered backwards from the force of her glare. 

“No human is a friend to monsters,” Queen Undyne roared, launching a volley of her spears at you. You resigned yourself to your doom, regretting that your rescue attempt had been such a short-lived failure.

A wall of bones erupted from the tiles of the floor, blocking the attack. Crooks and Axe both stood next to you, arms outstretched to summon the defensive maneuver. More spears struck the bones, causing them to shudder, but they remained standing. You turned wide, panicked eyes to Axe, searching for some explanation or reassurance.

“can you hold her off?” Axe asked Crooks, who nodded somberly. The stocky skeleton grabbed your arm and dragged you down a hallway of soaring pillars coated thickly in cobwebs and floor to ceiling windows of cloudy, cracked glass. Away from the immediate danger, you began to tremble. Tears welled up in your eyes.

Axe pulled you close, wrapping you in the safety of his arms and gently rubbing your back. He made soft shushing sounds, and you realized that your tears had turned into terrified sobs. Your body shook, and you hiccuped, trying to catch your breath. Axe held you until the overwhelming wave of emotion subsided.

“i’m so sorry. i thought maybe we could talk some sense into Undyne. she and my brother used to be really close, but the last human who came through here… well, that human killed a lot of monsters and stole the SOULs that we had collected towards breaking the barrier. they left us with nothing but despair and dust, and Undyne blamed herself for not stopping them. it… affected her.” Once again, Axe looked guilty.

“How can we convince her that I’m trying to help?” You gripped your backpack with determined hands. You didn’t gather these SOULs for nothing, and you didn’t plan to leave the starving monsters in the Underground without at least making an effort to save them.

“you aren’t going to convince her of anything.” You opened your mouth to protest, but Axe laid a phalange against your lips to silence you. “i want you to get out of here. it’s not safe, and i would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“What about breaking the Barrier?”

Loud crashes sounded from the Throne Room. Axe shot a quick glance over his shoulder before pushing you further down the hallway. “i need to go help my brother. if we can convince Undyne to trust you, i’ll meet you at the Barrier to break it and free the monsters.”

“What if you can’t?” More sounds of destruction threatened to drown out your whispered words, but Axe was close enough to hear you over the cacophony. Sorrow filled his single eyelight.

“i won’t put you in danger.”

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Actually, it did answer your question, and the implications left you frantic with worry for him. You wanted to explain how you felt about him, why his plan tore your heart to pieces, that you couldn’t just leave him behind, but the sounds of battle were approaching quickly. 

Crooks slid backwards into the pillar-lined hallway, kicking up dirt. He held bone attacks in his gloved hands, and he used them to deflect wave after wave of spear attacks. The barrage of attacks drove him backwards again, closer to you and his brother. Axe stepped between you and the sound of Undyne’s war cries.

Turning, he cupped your cheek in one large, bony hand. His eyelight drank you in as if to memorize every feature of your tear-streaked face. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “go,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

Then he was gone, teleporting to the entrance of the hallway to join Crooks with bone attacks flying. 

If you stayed, it would only distract him. He wanted you to go, to be safe. It took every bit of willpower in your body to walk away, to step through the Barrier without him, knowing that he never would’ve fought Undyne if it wasn’t for your meddling.

You waited.

And waited.

The seconds stretched out, each one lasting a thousand excruciating years.

You waited.

-

Axe curled up on the couch, full to bursting from a delicious dinner prepared by his brother. Yawning, he rested his skull in your lap, and you gently stroked his scapulae, smiling as he began to doze. He no longer feared nightmares. In fact, he rarely dreamed at all anymore. After all, what would be the point in dreaming?

Life on the Surface far surpassed anything that his subconscious could fabricate, and he already lived that dream every single day, with you.

INDEX

[writing-in-april]

Star Wars vs. Star Trek

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

This is my entry for the secret fic swap that was organized by the ever amazing @imagining-in-the-margins 

The person I got was-  @sunlight-moonrise  who is an amazing little bunny that I love

Thankies all around to my lovely helpers @definitelynotkatesblog , @clean-bands-dirty-stories​ and @httpnxtt  Plus I was inspired by all the asks that @reidscardigan​ gets, it fuels my smutty thoughts!

Warnings: Jealous!Spencer, Rough sex, Impact play (on the heavy side), Face fucking, Light degradation, Choking, Bruising/Marking, Hair Pulling, Unprotected sex, and Orgasm Denial

A/N: I had a great time writing this I think its one of my best works! Feel free to drop a request in my inbox if you have a request (No duplicate requests please)

Word count: 3.6K

Masterlist   

  Spencer and I finally have some vacation time, and my god it feels like it’s been forever. We both worked ridiculously hard at the BAU, so Hotch had finally determined that it was time for the team’s mandatory two-week break this year.  

As soon as we got home the both of us stripped of our work clothes and cuddled up on the couch to watch some movies. Spencer had the remote in his hand scrolling through to find a movie, the cursor landed on Star Trek. I could feel his puppy dog eyes looking up at me through his glasses that he only wore at home trying to convince me into letting him choose it. “Noooo Spencer, we watched it last week” I groaned. Sometimes it felt like your relationship was Spencer and Spock, and you as the delightful third wheel. “Ok what about a different one? We don’t have to watch any of the vintage ones, the new movies aren’t my favorite but they’re still extraordinary pieces of film art!” he ranted enthusiastically. “No, why don’t we watch Star Wars?” I begged, he knew it was my favorite but still insisted that Star Trek was better. “No, because I know you’ll ask to watch the sequels and I don’t like them, the story is just a repeat of the originals.” his eyes rolled and I was surprised they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. Spencer and I have had this argument many times. The back and forth on which series was better was exhausting but so exhilarating. “Star Wars looks better, has better music, and better plot lines overall!” My voice slightly raised, I hated it when he tried to prove me wrong about this. Star Wars was my cemented favorite just as his was Star Trek. “Star Wars has straight up inaccuracies while Star Trek has improbabilities, not outright errors.” Spencer snarked back. I could tell neither of us were going to win this debate anytime soon. We always ended up in a shouting match about  why we thought our favorite series was better. “Fuck you! I’m right, Star Wars is so much better! I mean look at Kylo Ren, he’s so much better then Kirk or Spock!” Spencer’s face turned into an expression mixed with jealousy and rage. “And look how good he looks during that interrogation scene!” I continued. “You think he’s hot?!” He accused profiling the look I had on my face as I was talking about Kylo “What are you jealous of a fictional character?” I asked mockingly, a knowing smirk adorning my face. Maybe I could get him riled up enough to get something else out of tonight. “N-no of course not that’s absurd!” He squeaked out, giving away how he truly felt. A coquettish smirk grew on my face as I got an evil idea. I deftly snuck my hands into my sleep shorts, slipping under my cotton panties and started to rub soft circles on my clit, not fully giving myself the stimulation that I desired. Spencer’s eyes bugged out of his head getting whiplash from the conversation switch. “Kylo” I moaned out with a simper, gathering my slick arousal I slid down my folds, pushing a finger inside, immediately crooking the digit to locate my g spot. I wanted to push Spencer to the edge of jealousy till he snapped. He got practically feral if I worked him up enough. I continued my descent into a selfish climax- adding another finger, as I picked up the speed of my thrusts into my dripping heat. My mind was so lost in the pleasure I forgot Spencer was there- until my hand was violently jerked from my pussy by a tight clasp on my forearm, just before I was about to fall into bliss. “What do you think you're doing?” Spencer spat.

That voice was usually reserved for unsubs, which served to further dampen my panties, his mind had switched into his dominant persona that was prevalent in the bedroom. “Just indulging myself, Spencer, since you won’t.” I bit back, irritated I’d been brought back from the edge of toe-curling bliss. He shot me a harsh look and tightened his grip on my arm, a warning if you will. I could tell I had just gotten myself into deep trouble, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to rile him up further. “Get in the bedroom and strip. You’ve earned yourself a punishment, brat.” His tone had gotten down right deadly at this point, but I didn’t let that deter me. I was on a mission. I decided to further dig myself in a hole by ignoring his order, simply crossing my arms and turning my head away. I could feel his bitter gaze boring into the back of my skull as I continued to defy his order, my excitement pooling in anticipation for the brutal punishment I’d surely earned. We sat like that for a while- refusing to break out of my sass, and him making sure that I was really ready for what he had in store for me. My legs started to squirm, the tension was almost unbearable. Just before I was about to give him another smart remark his other hand shot out to my leg, holding it firmly so I was no longer moving. A surprised squeak escaped my lips as Spencer  flipped me onto my stomach, my knees coming to rest on the floor and my chest pressed into the couch. I tried to regain my balance in an attempt to crawl away from him but he quickly moved to hover over my form, boxing me in with his arms. “Are you trying to get in more trouble, Dolly?” he asked, his tone dark and condescending. A pathetic little whimper escaped my throat. When I failed to reply quick enough by his standards, a large palm came down on my backside, forcing an answer out of me.

“Yes! I’m sorry Sir, I was trying to get in t-trouble.” “Tsk tsk. Only bad girls like punishment, Doll.” He sounded disappointed. I dug my nails into the plush and hid my face into the cushion, trying to escape from under his heavy gaze. He pulled my hands to rest behind my back, tying my hands with what felt like a drawstring from sweatpants. He’d learned to improvise during our time together; had he left to find more appropriate rope, there was no guarantee I’d be in the same position he left me in by the time he got back. He snaked his hands through my hair, yanking hard to pull my body flush against his own. “Color?” He asked quickly, checking in with me, which only made the situation hotter-what can I say? Consent is sexy. “Green” I replied with a grin. Being disciplined was always exhilarating. “What’s my punishment, Sir?” He let go of the grip on my hair, his hands swiftly moving to remove my shorts and now soaked cotton thong, revealing my bare bottom to him. I rubbed my legs together trying to get some sort of friction but was interrupted by Spencer wrenching my legs apart. “You do that again I’ll add 20 more and you’ve already earned yourself 40- plus a little extra something.” His words hummed against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver trickling down my spine. I groaned in protest and tried to wiggle myself away from him, his hand coming down onto my left cheek in response. “Doll-“ He warned sharply. “If you keep this up I won't let you cum for a week.” His words shook me to my sassy core; I was greedy and there was no way I was going to get myself in more trouble. “I’m sorry...” I muttered into the couch cushion. “Say it louder, Dolly.” The sing song tone/cadence of his voice felt like a trap- contrasted to his previously dark tone and warning smack brought down on my backside. “I’m really sorry, Sir!” I shouted. With my cry, I gave up control to Spencer entirely.  He loved when I acted like this, no matter how angry he pretended to be. “Do you mean it this time?” I could hear the devilish smile on his lips. “Yes!” I confirmed on a shaky breath. I was done fighting him. “You’re so good to me a-and I shouldn’t have tried to make you jealous.”

Although he couldn’t see my eyes, I put on my biggest, sweetest set of puppy dog eyes to really drive my point home.

“So you’re going to sit pretty and take your spankings like a good girl, right?”

I nodded sheepishly, secretly hoping that maybe, just maybe if I was good enough that I might get to come tonight. He let me stew in my thoughts for a minute before resuming his assault on my behind. His hand gripped both cheeks into his palms, kneading the tender flesh that was about to be covered in black and blue handprints. As the first strikes landed on my right side, he grabbed a blanket for me to cuddle into as he landed each smack, his full strength being used in each one, exhibiting just how much I pissed him off. My nerves were prickling, my ass had already started to sting and he hadn’t even reached the 10th strike. I’d definitely be able to feel the pain for the next week- maybe longer. Teardrops started to coat from my lashes onto my cheeks as he switched to the left cheek. By the time he’d reached the halfway mark, the blanket had become soaked by my uncontrolled muffled sobs. His rhythm never faltered as he continued to pepper the now-raw skin of my bottom with more punishing blows. “What are you?” He finally spoke as he was nearing the end of his count, my fingers digging into my palms to help me get through the last few. “I’m a bad girl, Sir” I pathetically whimpered into the blanket.

A brutal THWACK landed against my backside, letting me know he was looking for me to use my big girl voice.  A sob raked through my chest, sending more tears down the blushed apples of my cheeks. “I’M A BAD GIRL, SIR!” My bruised bottom felt like it had been burned by hot coals with welts forming as evidence, as Spencer drew out the last few at a languid pace. When he finally finished, he dropped his head down to plant kisses on each injured cheek, a sign of appreciation for behaving. “You dirty girl, you're getting off to this ” He said matter of factly, moving to run his finger through my drenched folds, his fingers probed my entrance trying to get me more worked up. Surging forward, he replaced his fingertips with his tongue stirring a fire deep in my belly, placing delicate kitten licks along my folds. My body writhed against his touch and for a moment, I thought I might get off easy. Until, again, he pulled away just as I was about to shatter into a million pieces. “Sirrrrr, please?” I begged, my clit was throbbing in tandem with the blood pounding under the skin of my raw and tender bottom. His threat from earlier became evident- he wasn’t going to let me cum easily. “No, Doll, you still haven’t proven that you’re sorry enough.” He roughly yanked me off the sofa, positioning me on my knees in front of him, his clothed cock sitting right in my eye-line. The sweatpants that he had dawned were taken off quickly, I drank in the sight of his hard cock through tear-stained eyes. “Color?” He asked while cradling my jaw. The realization hit me, and I became blissfully aware of one thing: he was about to fuck my face. “Green.” I was always happy to give Spencer pleasure, and to see all the power just my mouth had over him was insanely erotic to me. He gripped his cock in one hand, pulling my chin down to open my mouth with the other. I stuck out my tongue for him and leaned forward, wrapping my lips around the head of his erection to begin gently sucking. Precum filled my mouth as I started to bob my head, working my way farther down his length each time until I reached the base of his cock. I choked slightly, my nose nuzzling against the hairs of his waistline. He gripped my hair on both sides with each of his hands and did a shallow experimental thrust forward, giving me a taste of what was coming. My eyes screwed shut as he set a fast pace, his tip hitting the back of my throat, tears starting to prick at the corners of my eyes again. The hardwood grinding against my knees sourced a new pain, but all I was focused on was the cock  being shoved down my throat and pleasuring the man it was attached to. “Open your eyes, Doll. I want you to see what you do to me.” I glanced up with my glassy red rimmed eyes to gaze at the beautiful sight of Spencer, his head was tilted back, sweat coating his ruffled curls, with his mouth hung open in a silent gasp. Even through my tears I could see this man was an angel.  I groaned, somehow I was even more turned on, so much so that I could feel a pool forming on the floor from my arousal. He rutted harder into my mouth signaling that he was close to his release, drool was now dripping from the sides of my mouth, wetting the thin material of my pajama top. Hot spurts shot down my throat with a strangled cry from him. Tasting his salty release on my tongue, I drank him in, savoring every last drop he had to give me. As he pulled himself out of my mouth, the string of spit connecting my lips to the head of his cock snapped, falling down my chin. Saltwater still cascading down my cheeks met with the mess on my chin, creating  a messy mixture. Spencer pressed a thumb to my cheek, pushing the few drops of cum that escaped along with some spit into my mouth. “You being a cry baby, Dolly?” he cooed condescendingly, wiping away the drops that accumulated onto my cheek bones as I sent him a little pout. “You should’ve thought about the consequences before you broke the rules, Doll.” Turning me around, he pressed my chest into the coffee table across from the couch. Though I still had on my shirt, the cold surfaces rubbed against my sensitive nipples making them harden to a peak. He hadn’t done anything for a minute, so I tried to turn my head to see what he was doing. I was met with a harsh tug at my jaw forcing it to prop up facing the tv. The television flicked to life flooding the screen with the Disney+ logo I tried to glance back again to shoot him an incredulous look, but again I was repositioned roughly to stare at the screen. He clicked through until landing on the Force Awakens. My brows furrowed, but I decided not to push my luck by asking any questions. He pressed play and started fast forwarding until he landed on the scene I had been referencing that got in me trouble in the first place. Kylo Ren graced the screen, starting his interrogation with Rey. Was he going to sit here and make me watch it? Was he going to let me cum? Or was he going to edge me the whole night and hang me out to dry? I was snapped out of my thoughts by a tug at my neck, his palms wrapping around like a necklace, pulling my torso up so that my eyes locked perfectly to the moving figures on the screen. “You think he could fuck you better then I can, Doll?” he ground out. “That pathetic boy compensates with his saber, yet you have the whole package right here sweetheart.” I gasped and wriggled at his words, becoming down right desperate to have him do anything to me. He finally relented, dragging his free hand up my folds, still just barely touching me- ghosting around my clit. He sucked dark bruises into my neck, and as his teasing touches continued, I impatiently whined. “Please, Sir I need you.” “Why should I? You have Kylo don’t you?” “I already said I’m sorry, Sir! And I mean it really!” My begs filled our apartment, loud enough to completely mask the sound of the movie. I had been completely ignoring the film, focusing solely on trying to gain some sort of pleasure from the man endlessly denying it. “Ok, Dolly but only if you promise to never do it again.” I tried my best to nod against  his vise grip on the column of my throat. He deftly snuck two fingers into my pussy, fitting snugly inside of me causing my body to unconsciously move my lower half against him. He started to pump and curl them, expertly hitting the perfect spot each time making stars appear behind my eyes. Suddenly he removed his fingers, quickly replacing it with something far more satisfying before I could complain. His cock bottomed out, filling me to the hilt eliciting a surprised squeak from me. He always made me feel so full-it felt like heaven. His hips propelled forward starting a rough rhythm that left almost no room to breathe, the movie had been completely muffled by our moans and sounds of slapping skin, a heavy dose of sex lingering in the air. His thrusts were irritating the already brutalized flesh off my ass, but the stinging sensation just aided in ecstasy that flowed through my veins. “You look so much prettier with these bruises.” He grunted as I tried to arch my back to a steeper angle so I could take him as deep as possible. “It shows everyone who’s mine, even if they are a fictional character.” Spencer was repeatedly hitting my g spot sending me closer and closer to the edge, but I knew I had to ask permission before I came. “Please, Sir, Please! I’m so close! Can I cum?” “Why do you think you deserve to cum Doll?” He asked, I should’ve known he was still going to throw one last tease in before letting me orgasm. “Because- I - I don’t know I just need it!” I let out a frustrated sob as he continued to thrust with reckless abandon. “Ok. Doll. Let. Go.” he said, accentuating each word with a sharp rock with his hips. My eyes rolled far into the back of my head as I was sent careening into pleasure, the coil that sat deep in my belly snapped, sending me into violent waves of pleasure. As I rode out my delicious high, Spencer’s hips stuttered and the grip on my neck was tightened as he shot ropes into me, stuffing me to the brim. He let go of my neck letting me relax my head onto the table. I’m sure I had a messy, freshly-fucked look on my face but I couldn’t be bothered to care.“Have you learned your lesson?” He asked once he had caught his breath. I nodded meekly, knowing full well I’d be back on my brattiest behavior as soon as these bruises faded. We both groaned as he slipped his softening cock from out of my folds. He slowly padded away to grab his items for aftercare-my favorite part. I had never had a partner show so much care for me like Spencer had. He came back with everything he needed and got to work, starting by cleaning my folds with a washcloth, then switching to a fresh one wiping the tears and spit away from my face. Aloe that he had made sure to warm up was then squirted onto my cheeks, he rubbed the liquid in softly massaging the abused flesh with gentle care. My limbs still felt like jello when it was time to stand, so Spencer helped guide me into new clean pajamas, he even made sure to pick out the velvet ones I liked, they always felt like little soft caresses were being peppered against my skin when I wore them. “You ok, Doll? You haven’t said anything.” He whispered gently, as if afraid he’d startle me. “Yeah” I croaked.My voice had been thoroughly abused throughout the night making rasp harder than normal. “Just feel a little woozier than normal.” He quickly enveloped my form into a hug, drawing me in close so I could smell the cologne that made itself a part of everything he owned. Sitting us both down on the couch, he found as many blankets and as possible making a little fort of warmth around us.

“I’m sorry I was harsh, Doll.” “No no, I liked it, it was just intense.” My scratchy voice obviously made him cringe. “So you are jealous of a fictional character?” I cheekily quipped to try and cheer him up. He let out a chuckle in response and started to ghost little butterfly kisses all across my face.

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses. “Sing to me?” I asked softly. I cherished his horrible singing with all my heart, it made me  soft and mushy on the inside. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear how much I love you, please don’t take my dolly away.” I started to drift to sleep even though I was fighting to giggle at Spencer’s croaky singing. Despite his god awful singing in my ear, sleep found me, whisking me away to the land of sweet dreams. I drifted off in his arms, knowing I was his good girl- knowing he would love and cherish me until the ends of the Earth.

[datawyrms]

Ectober Day 3: Mutant

heads up for some mild body horror today. And AO3 crosspostin!

Phantom was a constant, frustrating presence. Sam could feel the demon when it chose to lurk closer to her instead of keeping after Tucker, a low whining sound that settled at the back of her jaw and refused to leave. It made it hard to focus on schoolwork, let alone figuring out how to deal with the monster that literally stole half of her soul. She might have enjoyed strange tomes and tales of demons, but she never really thought they actually existed. Half remembered facts and possibilities could make things worse, and the awful hum had her doubting a large portion of what she remembered.

It might be less annoying if Tucker had to suffer this toothache in her brain too, but apparently he didn’t hear the creature that had wrapped itself around them- to them, really. Not unless it spoke. Well, it was more her fault than his. Maybe it was just punishing her for trying a silly prank on her friend that ended up being more real than it should have.

“Hey. You really don’t like that blonde guy in the jacket, huh.”

Great. Think of the devil and it pipes up. “I thought I told you not to talk to me”

“You might have. You don’t like em though, right? How he shoves the smaller kids around and no one cares. Or is it the girl you don’t like, since he’s showing off for her? While she doesn’t even tell him off for picking on weaklings?” The demon’s words invaded her skull, effectively drowning out anything her teacher was saying, barely able to keep a grip on her own train of thought.

Just ignore the thing talking right in your head. Was the class over yet? Tucker being around felt like it helped, a little. Distracted the presence that she couldn’t completely ignore. Her notebook remains completely blank, unable to even distractedly doodle in the margins with the combined forces of the headache and demonic chattering.

“I could give him that telling off, you know. Just a little thing. They’ll never know it was you. It wouldn’t even hurt him.”

The only upside was no matter how quietly she muttered, she had a feeling Phantom could hear just fine. “I’m not setting a demon on Dash. Just give up already.”

“So letting him keep hurting others is better? It could just be an illusion, a temporary little chastising! It’s what I’m good at.”

Sam did not appreciate the fact Phantom apparently was getting better at the whole goading thing, even if it had not even been a full day. She had seen how her and Tucker’s shadow would sometimes linger, but she hadn’t really considered why the demon had been doing that. To watch people? To learn about targets it wanted to attack? She might not be a huge fan of Paulina and her clique, but she didn’t want some monster devouring them. Or whatever Phantom wanted to do to them, it was frustratingly vague about what it even did. All she knew is it could look like a shadow, make things cold, and mimic a human before pulling out too long claws. She just needed time to actually look at the book they used, learn what a demon actually was, seeing as Phantom would keep existing no matter how much she used to believe they didn’t. Was messing with her head something it could do to other people too? Or was that just a special ‘gift’ for herself and Tucker?

“Or maybe you do like watching the others suffer, at least you aren’t the target anymore, right?”

Clutching at her hair did nothing but wrinkle her brow at the slight pain, the voice as loud and insidious as ever. “I don’t care, just be quiet.”

“I can do quiet.” It was snickering again as the pain in her jaw eased, her shadow looking less ominous when caught out of the corner of her eye.

Shit. A demon would be all over word semantics, wouldn’t it. Was that close enough to a ‘yes’ for it to go after Dash? Lousy cheating demon-cat-thing. She didn’t care that it looked strange to sprint out of class the moment the bell rang, she had to find Tucker and track down the demon before it did something.

Phantom moved quickly. Too quickly. Intentionally getting clear before she could call him off. Stupid of her to say anything, she warned Tucker and then just did it herself.

“Sam? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Tucker stopped looking at his PDA as his friend ran up, adjusting his glasses to look over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Opposite problem, I don’t know where it’s gotten off to.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? He’s decided to just go back where he came from for a bit?”

“Not if I might have accidentally set it on Dash.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still not seeing the problem here.”

“Tucker!”

“What? He’s a jerk! Phantom was entertained by erasers, I don’t think he’s gonna do much to Dash.”

“Or it’s just been playing you and might kill him? It’s a demon Tucker!”

“Still kinda think he’s a cat.”

The goth groaned, grabbing her friend by the wrist as she set off down the fall. “Well then we’re herding cats.”

“Okay, okay um. If he’s after Dash I think they have practice today” he struggled to navigate his PDA with only his thumb, eyes darting to the clock and back. “They’re probably on the field by now?”

Sam picked up speed, ignoring Tucker’s cry to slow down. He could have time to collapse after there wasn’t a demon problem.

The football team was scattered on the grassy field, loud discussions just a reminder of how much the sports teams could get away with thanks to earning awards for the school. She wouldn’t dream of going near such a cringe worthy testosterone zone, certainly not without gagging, but gleaming green eyes lurking under bleachers forced her to ignore her preferences.

“See. A cat.” Tucker commented with a wheeze, pointing out the same eyes Sam had noticed. “Just get him a box or something. Probably...behave…”

Maybe they’d been fast enough? Dash didn’t look too bothered, running down the pitch. The buzzing wasn’t back, and much as she hated it, the fact it wasn’t gave her the unpleasant suspicion the demon was still busy imposing on someone else. “Try calling it back or something if you think that’ll work.”

“Don’t have to bite my head off.” Tucker rolled his eyes, trying to edge closer without attracting too much attention, apparently more wary of jocks than actual hellspawn.

Then Dash failed a catch, earning jeers and other comments. Normal, everyday macho bull. The stumbling after a heavy shoulder check was not.

“Woah! I get you too hard there Dash?” Kwan had his head half down in apology, reaching out to steady their star quarterback.

“Just tripped over a stupid rock or something, forget it.” Dash seemed to shrug it off, unaware of how his shadow twisted, ankles at a horrid misshapen angle. He went down hard after taking a step, yelping from apparently nothing but his own careless step.

“He didn’t actually break his ankles, did he?” Tucker said with a dry swallow, caution thrown to the wind.

“He looks okay?” Not that it meant much. “Phantom’s just a shadow right now, isn’t he?”

“W-What’s going on?” Dash sounded wrong, sputtering and afraid instead of the cocky confidence he normally had.

Kwan was already bending down to help him out, but jerked back. “Dash, what happened to your hand?”

“I don’t know!”

He took another step back, half covering his face. “It looks contagious man- hey coach!”

Sam couldn’t blame him- Dash’s hand looked twisted and grey even from this distance, and it only seemed to get worse, more withered and ashen every time he moved, a foul pallor crawling up his skin in a grotesque creeping advance. He was just wasting away while his friends watched, as he teared up in panic but seemed unable to get back to his feet- not that he would be able to get away from his own body weakening and fading.

“Phantom, get over here and stop that, now.” The words felt heavy in her mouth, admitting that any of this was her fault triggered an awful pain in her heart. “Stop tormenting him.”

“Holy shit.” Tucker moved closer to Sam, looking away from the mess of terror unfolding. Not that it could keep the terrified cries from reaching his ears.

“He’s not even bone yet, such a baby.” His voice came from behind them, the teenager-looking monster taking half a step back as Sam tried to slug him. “Hey, I just did what you wanted!” His green eyes were almost as mocking as the hint of fangs showing in his grin. “Thanks for letting me have my own body though.”

“Nuh uh, Sam wouldn’t want you to kill someone! Not even Dash.” Tucker tried to come to her defense. “You did that on your own.”

“I didn’t kill him. It’s illusion. A fake. Just an hour feeling like his helpless victims.” Phantom snorted, pushing some of his white hair clear of his face. “It’s like that ‘karma’ stuff you guys like so much, but actually effective. Mutate his worldview a little.”

It took a moment to realize the demon was speaking out loud, and not in her head now that he was masquerading as an incredibly weird looking human again. “I don’t care, stop it now.”

“Okay, okay. You’re such a killjoy Sam.” He cracked his knuckles. “One boring big guy back to seeing reality. Happy?”

The panicked chatter had fewer screams, but still plenty of confusion. She only lingered a moment to make sure Dash wasn’t a mockery of a slowly decaying corpse before dragging Tucker and the monster away before there could be any new trouble.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Don’t Look! [Part 4]

<- Part 3 | Part 5 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

@we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy’s lovecraftian horror AU, with a bit of my own twist on the origin story. Emotional hurt/comfort. Body horror. Hugging your body-horror monster boyfriend. 

3,386 words

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had everything: great wealth (built on the backs of exploited workers), a grand estate, a beautiful wife, and many mistresses waiting in the wings. Yet after years of trying, he failed to produce an heir. Determined that his money could buy anything, the man scoured the world, searching for a solution. One day, his extensive resources brought him to an ancient castle in Lithuania, where the last descendants of a noble bloodline offered him a devil’s bargain—a book, a summoning ritual. He did not ask questions. His wife was finally with child.

The Chilton legacy was secure.

The moment Frederick was born, the life was sucked from his mother—a human sacrifice for his soul crossing into this world. That was what his father told him, at least. Frederick had no memory of clawing his way through the veil between worlds, of being anything other than an ordinary child with a distant father, a young, blonde stepmother, and nannies instead of friends. Until the changes began. Allison (or was it Kayla at the time?) fainted in the living room when he staggered in, screaming as smoke boiled from his skin, begging for help. His father only wrinkled his nose with disgust and calmly explained what he was.

“You must learn to hide this, Frederick. Never let anyone see you this way, or it will destroy the family name.”

And so, he learned the transformation’s schedule. Prepared for it. Knew how to hide it away and never let anyone get close enough to see the real him. But it wasn’t good enough. Try as he might, nothing Frederick ever did met his father’s expectations for the perfect son he had gone through so much trouble to produce.

Frederick grew into a bitter and lonely man with no one to care about, or who cared about him. He kept the world at a distance, hiding his shame behind expensive suits and lavish decoration.

Never once did he consider that he was not alone in this world at all.

 ***

I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals. They feed it, keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But he doesn’t die. He looks normal. Nobody can tell what he is.

This is how Will Graham describes the Chesapeake Ripper.

Every therapy session with Graham, every conversation overhead, the puzzle became clearer. At first, Chilton merely believed that Dr. Lecter was guilty of unethical practices—manipulating Mr. Graham in the same way he had manipulated Gideon. He felt such kinship with Hannibal. Learning a bit of dirt on him brought the ever-so-superior doctor down to his level, gave him something to lord over him—a little implied blackmail to strengthen their friendship.

They both had secrets to hide.

Dr. Chilton never would have guessed the final puzzle piece to convince him fully that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper would be the one everyone else laughed at.

“I brought you here to bear witness,” Graham said to Gideon through their adjoining cells.

“To tell Jack Crawford that I sat in Hannibal Lecter’s cobalt blue dining room? An ostentatious herb garden, Leda and the Swan over the fireplace. And you, having a fit in the corner.”

Chilton perked up and quickly shared the audio feed to one of the junior therapists assisting him. You were reliable at editing his audio files, clipping and exporting segments he wanted to keep, but he was avoiding you at the moment. This was proof—irrefutable proof that Gideon had met Hannibal Lecter the night he went searching for the Ripper.

After his conversation with Graham concluded, an assistant was sent down to coax more information from him while Chilton’s research team listened in, keenly taking notes.

Gideon was not finished dropping bombshells.

With a casual lilt to his voice as if talking to a friend over dinner, he began to describe the Chesapeake Ripper. Skin like volcanic ash, reflecting no light. A red glow to his eyes. Black claws as long as steak knives. Antlers breaking through the inside of his skull, punching through the skin. All black as night—a form that shifted in the shadows, ever tricking the eye, unwilling to be known.

He’s the Devil, Mr. Graham. He’s smoke.

“Great. Gideon is delusional,” one therapist snorted. “On the bright side, this completely undercuts his malpractice case against you.” She patted Chilton’s shoulder. Chilton flinched.

“We should start him on antipsychotics. What do you think? Doctor?”

Chilton’s face turned ashen white. “Y-yes, certainly,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

He moved for the door, but crumbled halfway there, pain ripping through his leg as sharp thorns grew beneath the skin. It was daylight. No. No! The transformation should not be starting for hours—he had plenty of time! He gasped out as another shock tore through him, barely containing a cry. His body convulsed.

“Doctor!” A therapist and a guard rushed in to help him to his feet. “Where does it hurt? If this is a complication from your surgery, we need to get you into intensive care right away.”

“No,” he brushed them off. “Only… psychosomatic. I need to— ah!” He gritted his teeth, mind racing to the one person he did not want to turn to, but the only one he could, and barked, “Get my secretary!”

 ***

Smoke was rising off of his burning skin by the time you rushed into Chilton’s vacated office. His eyes were wide with panic, but greeted you when you entered with—not relief, perhaps, because he was every bit as terrified as before, but with the anticipation of being rescued. His eyes pleaded.

“H-help. I cannot make it stop.”

You managed to get him into your car. The sun’s orange rays seemed to chase the beast away, clearing his skin and stopping his wracking convulsions long enough to cross the employee parking lot without drawing stares. He insisted on taking the back seat so he could hide—and to put more distance between you in case he lost control.

His chest rose and fell like a rabbit in a cat’s mouth.

“The way he described Dr. Lecter—anyone would think it was a metaphor! That he was crazy!” Chilton’s breath was raspy as you drove, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. He kept trembling, small patches of scaly skin appearing at random then swirling back inside. One pupil was a pinprick. His tongue occasionally became serpentine and got in the way as he frantically spoke. “But it was too specific, the details. Familiar. I always knew there was a connection between Dr. Lecter and me—a reason we were friends. It all makes sense now!”

“Hey, it’s OK,” you said, trying to sound soothing, though you had no idea what he was talking about.

“Don’t you understand? Lecter is like me!”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That means you’re not alone.”

“Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!” he shouted, and a spine tore through a seat cushion. “A cannibal, if Will Graham is to be believed, and loathe as I am to admit it, Graham is an excellent profiler. If the Ripper and I are the same… then that means I—”

“You are nothing like that!” Forgetting the damage his demonic tantrum was doing to your faux-leather interior, you had faith in him. He was a little withdrawn and more than a little vain, and it had garnered him an icy reputation around the hospital, but now you understood why. He wasn’t evil or malicious. He was frightened.

“God help me,” he murmured.

 ***

As soon as the garage door closed behind you, he scrambled from the car (scratching the handle), and retreated inside. He didn’t invite you to follow him home. But he didn’t forbid it, either, and you wanted to be there. All you had were panic-scrambled memories from the first time that made his transformation worse in hindsight than it was. Or maybe better. You didn’t know, and you wouldn’t know until you saw it again with clear eyes.

The electric kettle rumbled on its stand, hissing steam as you searched through Frederick Chilton’s surprisingly extensive tea collection for something herbal and soothing. Chamomile, you thought. With honey. Surely that must be good for demon-monster-werewolf things?

The sun was about to set and he was still reeling over Hannibal, and just as much from the premature transformation the revelation had triggered. And every time he cried, “This is not possible. How can this be possible?” the next convulsion was more intense.

He would probably just burn himself on tea.

A painful whimper came from somewhere in the house, and you followed it to a tiny panic room that opened behind a bookshelf. It was only about seven by nine feet with concrete walls and floors, bare except for deep scratches of varying age, like an animal trying to escape. The few chairs inside were metal. Difficult to break. Frederick faced away from you, staring at a hand that was too large for the rest of his body, capped with long black claws.

“Oh no, this will not do at all,” you tutted, shaking your head at the barren space. “How about I bring in some blankets? Let’s get you comfortable.”

His whole body shook. “You should go.”

“No. No way, not after seeing this prison cell. I am not leaving you like this.”

“I do not want to hurt you.” His shoulder jerked. A spike tore through his shirt.

“You won’t.”

“Seeing it again… will not be therapeutic for you,” he hissed, another spike breaking through. “Go before it is too late.”

“No!”

“Damn it! I am a monster—there is proof of that now! The FBI has no idea what it is dealing with!” Chilton began to pace the small cell, thoughts racing, features morphing into something grotesque and alien. “Does Hannibal know about me? Can he sense it? Is that why he confided in me? I always thought it was professional respect—hah! God, what if he…” A painful convulsion halted his pacing and brought him to one knee, gripping his side. His attention snapped back to you. “This is… dangerous,” he warned, then hacked violently. Fleshy, snake-like projections spewed from his mouth, and he quickly turned away again, hiding his face. “You should… you should be nowhere near all of this! You should not be here! Why did I let you inside?!”

A roar of anguish ripped through the air with enough force to push you back through the panic room door, just in time to avoid being impaled on half a dozen spines as they shot from Chilton’s body like lances. Chips of concrete clattered to the ground as they penetrated the walls. He screamed again, writhing to get free, but found himself trapped by his own violent transformation. Like an animal, he struggled and clawed at himself as if his rational mind had been overtaken by raw, volatile emotion.

“Take it easy. You’re going to hurt yourself,” you tried to calm him, but you couldn’t stop your voice from shaking.

This was worse than last time. You were sure his spines weren’t half as long when you saw him in his office—even Chilton seemed surprised to be pinned.

You lifted your hands, palms toward him in a steadying gesture, and took a step back into the concrete room.

“Stay back!” he howled, thrashing. “Get away!”

It was tempting. Every muscle in your body wanted to follow his advice and run far away from the indescribable horror before you. But his eyes were still green. Were still terrified. And you had an inkling of why it was worse this time. Maybe he would hate you later for imposing, but it seemed more important right now not to leave him feeling… like a monster.

“It’s OK.” You took another step closer.

“No!”

“You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you. Shh, shh… I’m not afraid, see?”

Rigid spines sprayed from his back and shoulders in a 180-degree arc, leaving only his front accessible. You ducked under one and followed its trajectory to where it met the wall. It wasn’t just pinned by pressure—it had struck the wall with enough force to dig into it like an iron rod. Sawing through might be the only option for getting him unstuck. You wondered if that would hurt. Were there nerves in his spines? You stepped over the next one as you drew nearer.

“You should be afraid! I am just like him!” Chilton tried to turn his head away as you traversed his network of thorns and stood in front of him.

His face was almost entirely inhuman. Tentacles cascaded down from where a nose should have been, and when he opened his mouth in a snarl, they parted like wriggling eels—each with a life of its own—to reveal a jaw that split his face open vertically, crowded with rows of sharp white teeth. The more agitated Chilton became, the more dramatic the effect. Each time he spoke, you caught a flash of teeth that sent shivers racing down your spine. But you continued to move closer anyway, within snapping range.

“Hannibal and I… we are the same. Please—I do not want to become him. Do not let me hurt you!”

“You are not the same. You’re not a killer.”

Chilton let out a choking cry that was all too human. “I killed that nurse,” he said. Concrete groaned as his spines grew longer. A crooked horn sprouted from his head. “I killed Elizabeth Shell.”

“You… you didn’t kill her.”

His breath quickened again. Tentacles sprouted and died and resprouted from his face in a constant fevered motion. “I knew Gideon would kill! I lowered security! I knew what would happen—what I needed to happen to prove that he was the Ripper! I may as well have plucked her eyes out with my own hands and… and feasted on her organs. God… I am the Ripper,” he wailed.

“No…” It never occurred to you that Dr. Chilton would have done such a thing knowingly. Maybe there was something dark inside him that this creature was reflecting. It hurt to acknowledge, and yet maybe you both needed to. “You made a mistake. You did a bad thing, but… Gideon was already a killer. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I drove him to it, manipulated him… I am just as responsible as he is. I am a monster.”

“A monster wouldn’t feel this guilty! You made a mistake, but you won’t make it again, will you?”

Tentacles and spines stopped sprouting. His form stabilized as his wet eyes looked off thoughtfully. He seemed so pathetic… so innocent, almost. Despite the intimating spines and claws that added danger and height to his appearance, his body had the same mass—leaving his frame gaunt and frail, with ribs sticking out prominently. Hollow.

You wanted to protect him.

You knew that was your job at BSHCI. You knew that was why Dr. Chilton suddenly needed a personal secretary when he never had before. Someone to sit outside his door, take his calls, and warn him when visitors wanted to see him. You’d never met the doctor before he was attacked by one of his patients, but you recognized the signs of trauma—the way he flinched easily, avoided contact at first, then the way he clung to you when you earned his trust. The awkward little smiles. The way his cheeks turned bright red when his fingers brushed yours as you delivered his coffee. You couldn’t help feeling protective. Falling in love, even.

Though it was closed for the moment, his mouth was a dangerous black hole with alien arms ready to pull prey inside. It seemed impossible to get close without being dragged into its teeth by instinct. You couldn’t imagine putting your face anywhere near it.

Another step, and your forehead touched his.

“I... I do not want to hurt you,” he pleaded.

“You won’t.”

You leaned into his arms, a hand reaching up to stroke the side of his face. It was covered in fine scales that glistened as if they should be slimy, but were smooth to the touch, like a snake. Sharper thorns sprouting from his skin seemed to retreat before your caress.

He trembled with inner turmoil, hot breath puffing against your chin. Your eyes darted toward the motion of one of his claws rising behind you, and all you could focus on were the way each sharp talon caught the light. You couldn’t be sure what he was thinking—if he was going to return your embrace, or prove to you that he was a monster. Would he slash you just to drive you away?

“I smell your fear,” his voice hissed accusingly.

For some reason, of all the reactions you could have had, you started to laugh. It was nervous and tight at first, but then building in confidence at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“You’ve got giant claws! Of course I’m afraid! But I’m not running, am I?”

You slid your hand from his cheek and trailed it over his bony neck and the ridges and spines of his shoulders, finding a path for your arms to twine around him. Cuddling closer, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hardly bothered by the writhing tentacles that draped down over you.

“I know you would never hurt me. You’re just going to have to keep showing me there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Shuddering, he breathed in your scent. All his senses were heightened by this form, and he was surrounded by you—your pheromones, your electric field, the radiant heat of your skin. It was like sinking into a warm bath with a glass of fine wine in his hand. He opened his palm and let his predator’s hand sweep harmlessly down your back, holding you close. He could sense the fluttering of your heart in his embrace. It was slower than a creature in terror—slowing the longer he held you. You were not afraid. And he could not imagine hurting you. Whatever he had been worried might happen, whatever awful things he might be capable of, he could never imagine hurting you. You were right. You didn’t have anything to fear.

He exhaled a long, steady breath of surrender. The long spines retracted, pulling out of the walls as they returned to their usual size. He could move again, but didn’t. Not for a long time.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” you sighed. The scent of your hair was intoxicating.

Eventually, you had to part. Chilton’s eyes darted away as you did—the inky scales on his face emitted a soft bluish starlight, which you were certain was blushing. You could not coax him to leave his concrete prison cell, but he told you where to find some blankets he could live with damaging—linen closet, second floor, third door on the right—and let you make a cozy nest on the bare floors. You made tea, and only cringed a little at his attempts to drink it. It was late, then. You were sleepy, and he was exhausted. Emotionally drained. His mind still raced over everything, still not certain of your presence and inexplicable kindness. You sat in the pile of blankets and had him rest his head in your lap.

“Give me your hand,” you asked, extending yours.

A clawed, scaly hand slid tentatively along the floor. You took it. Held it gently, first observing the long talons protruding like daggers from each finger before slotting yours between them—nothing sharp there. You let out a long sigh and leaned back against the concrete wall. His breath hitched.

He’d never had his hand held in this form, you assumed.

He’d never had his hand held at all, in fact. Not in many years.

It had to be a trap, he thought. No one had ever loved him before. No one could—not like this. Yet, as he fell asleep to your fingers massaging his temple and the soft murmuring of your voice, he let himself believe it. You were always there, protecting him. Smiling at him in the morning.

When you woke up, Frederick was human again, still fast asleep in your arms.

[valdomarx]

Number Theory

On another version of Atlantis, John is a mathematician who is better with numbers than with people. But he's going to have to learn to get on with his team and their bossy leader, Rod, if he wants to survive here.

Stargate Atlantis, McShep, mensa!verse, 9k, rated E.

Also on AO3.

Dr. John Sheppard straightens his glasses, pulls his lab coat around himself, and makes one final, futile attempt to tame his hair.

He takes a last look around the SGC, bustling with scientists and marines and boxes of supplies, and wonders how everybody seems to know their place and what to do already.

Then he steps through a wormhole and into another galaxy.

-

Atlantis is stunning. Terrifying, and dangerous, and liable to kill them all, but stunning all the same.

-

He protests that there’s no need for a mathematician on an offworld team, but the head of science insists. John sourly suspects this Rod guy enjoys watching him wheeze and stumble every time they have to run for their damn lives.

But it turns out it’s useful for a field team to have someone around who can crack codes and work computers. And John hates field work less than he expected to, despite the unpredictability and the peril and all that awful running.

Sometimes, like when he breaks the encryption on a Wraith code in the nick of time and diverts an enemy ship away from its path toward Atlantis, he even feels a tiny bit like a hero.

-

Other than his team duties, though, Atlantis isn’t that much different from Caltech or MIT or the Air Force base at Wright-Patterson, or any of the other places he’s worked.

Everyone knows each other, except for him. Everyone bands together to look out for each other, and he stares in from the outside. Eating in the mess hall is like being catapulted back to high school.

So he makes himself at home in his lab. It’s quiet there, and there’s a plentiful supply of coffee, and there are only a couple of other mathematicians who occasionally pass through and largely leave him alone.

They’re next door to the noisy, boisterous science labs, where all the cool civilians hang out. But that’s fine. He gets used to ignoring them the same way he ignores the marines.

It’s just him and his numbers.

And sometimes, inexplicably, Rod or Teyla or Ronon, who will come by and sit at his desk and drink his coffee. He never understands what they’re hoping to achieve, but he doesn’t mind as long as they don’t touch anything.

-

Teyla appears in the doorway, staring at his whiteboard. It’s covered top to bottom with equations, and he’s had to stick up bits of paper around the walls to fit more on.

“Rod requested that I see how your work is going,” she says, voice giving nothing away.

He grits his teeth against the annoyance of the interruption. “It would be going faster if I could work unimpeded.”

She ignores the petulant note in his voice, squinting closer at the whiteboard. “What is this?”

“This is number theory. It’s the underlying basis for mathematics.”

Teyla raises an eyebrow. “And this is different from what Rod does?”

He sneers. “Very different. That’s just theoretical physics.”

“You do not respect Rod’s chosen field?” She seems genuinely curious.

“It’s fine, for, you know,” his lip curls, “an applied science.”

“I see. So this work can help us locate Wraith hive ships?”

He shifts his weight. “Well. I might need to, uhh, collaborate with Rod on that. I provide the conceptual models and he does the,” he waves dismissively, “practical calculations.”

“It seems that you two accomplish more when you work together.”

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t go that far. But he’s useful as an assistant, I suppose.”

-

When they learn there are three Wraith hive ships on their way to destroy the city, there isn’t much time for personal conflicts. They have a long-shot strategy: They’ve sent an emergency distress message in the vague hopes of rescue from Earth. But the Wraith ships are almost here and they need a plan now.

“Use the jumpers,” John suggests, because it’s obvious.

Rod snaps his fingers. “Yes! Put a nuclear warhead on board, fly the jumper right down the hives’ throats, and detonate.”

Elizabeth blanches. “That’s a suicide run.”

“No, no.” John thinks out loud. “Not if we can remote pilot the jumper.”

“Using the control chair!” Rod chimes in. “Sheppard, you’re a genius.”

John is so focused on the threat he forgets to preen over that.

It doesn’t take long for them to hook up the jumper to the chair and start running tests. Just as well, because death from above is coming imminently.

He knows something is wrong the moment Rod’s face falls while he’s poking at the cables running to the chair.

“McKay...” he says, voice low but insistent.

“I know! I know. Just give me a minute.” Rod disappears back into a bundle of cables. “I can fix this.”

Everything is suddenly, startlingly clear. The remote control won’t work, at least not in time. Someone will have to fly the jumper personally.

He and Rod both have the ATA gene, and both the same dubious piloting skills. But there’s not much skill required in flying directly into a hive, is there?

One of them has to do this.

“So long, Rod.” He turns and runs from the chair room to the jumper bay, not bothering to notify anyone of his plans.

“Sheppard! Sheppard!”

He hears Rod yell after him but he can’t think about that now. He has a job to do.

-

He gets beamed out by the Daedalus at the last moment. The battle is ugly, but the city and the expedition makes it out mostly intact.

Afterwards, Rod drags him into a conference room and yells at him for an hour about his reckless behavior.

John couldn’t give a shit. He has no regrets about his actions.

He gives an insouciant shrug. “Why the earful? It worked, didn’t it?”

“Because I am your team leader, and you didn’t even ask me for permission before nominating yourself for a suicide run!”

“That’s what this is about? Your precious chain of command? Grow up.”

Rod rounds on him and gets up on the balls of his feet. “There are people here who care about you, you dick!”

John blinks at the non sequitur. The idea that anyone would care more about him than about the city and everyone else in it is laughable. “Then they’re idiots,” he snaps and walks out.

Rod can write him up for that in one of the reports he so enjoys filing.

-

It would be nice if he could say that he learns and grows. That he makes friends. That he gets accepted by his peers and makes a home in the Pegasus galaxy.

But that’s not how this story goes. Not yet, anyway.

-

He does manage to make himself useful. He invents a new cryptographic algorithm to keep their computers and communications secure from Wraith interference. Elizabeth even gives him a grateful nod when he presents it to her, and says thank you.

He makes some progress on a quantum chaos approach to the Riemann hypothesis, not that anyone here understands that or how profoundly ingenious his work is.

And it turns out that many of the Ancient systems here are based on binary, just like computers on Earth, so he’s able to help Rod parse some of the more complex code. The two of them spend hours poking through the Ancient operating system, Rod fluttering around and theorizing aloud while John sits quietly in the corner, chewing on a pen and thinking.

It’s more fun than he would have expected.

-

And then, inevitably, he fucks up to a new and truly epic degree. He and Rod find the Ancient’s Project Arcturus, their great hope for extracting vacuum energy from subspace, and he convinces himself he can get it to work.

He’s self-aware enough to know he’s making poor choices, but not mentally strong enough to do otherwise. Because yes, of course virtually unlimited power is tempting, and of course discovering the last great experiment of the Ancients is thrilling. But he's a cautious person. He's not one to take unnecessary risks.

And yet the moment Rod turns to him with that look of delight, saying he's impressed, clapping him on the shoulder like he's done something wonderful, John is just gone. He ignores safety limits and all common sense, and he pushes and pushes and pushes for them to power up the generator, as if his wishes for it to work could make it so.

He wipes out most of a solar system with his hubris, not to mention nearly killing them both, and he's furious down to his bones because he can't figure out why he would have done something so stupid.

-

Bad enough to fail so spectacularly at your work that you devastate an entire star system, worse to have burned whatever credibility you may have built with your team, but worst of all to have to walk every day among people who know all about your inadequacy.

He's in the queue for the mess and a couple of the marines behind him are sniggering, one of them making a not-very-quiet crack about Sheppard’s ego being a weapon of mass destruction. John is staring straight ahead and pretending to ignore them, but the blood is pumping furiously in his ears and he's gripping his tray so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

“You got something to say?” Suddenly Ronon is there, all six-foot-three-million-pounds of him, glaring down at the sniggering marine like he might crush his skull with his bare hands. “If you’ve got something to say to Sheppard, you can say it to me as well.”

The marine backs away, hands held high and spluttering apologies.

Ronon throws an arm around John’s shoulder and walks him to a table so they can sit and eat.

John stares down at his food and wills the panic to subside. “Thanks,” he mutters once his breathing has settled.

“No worries, bud,” Ronon says and steals a piece of carrot off John’s plate. “So, how’s that bomb design you were working on coming along? You know I love a big boom.”

John tells him how his models have predicted the highly energetic variety of naquadah they’ve discovered could be harnessed into more efficient field explosives, and Ronon nods along as if this is all fascinating.

In that moment, John knows he would die for this man without hesitation.

-

Perhaps the worst part about the Arcturus incident is how unbearably nice Rod is about the whole thing. He tells John that it was both of their decision, that he doesn't blame him, that sometimes these things happen when dealing with advanced technology.

But John can see the disappointment in his eyes and hear the judgement in his voice. He gets a sick, twisting feeling in his stomach when he thinks about it, and that must be Rod's fault.

Rod picks a bad time to come visit the lab.

"Sheppard," Rod leans against the door frame. "I need your report on the Arcturus mission."

The sick feeling in his gut deepens. He hasn't written the report yet. "Bet you’re enjoying making me catalogue my failures."

"What? No. I just need you to submit a report so I can turn it over to Elizabeth."

"I see. You're looking for someone to blame, right? Going to write about how I pushed you and it's all my fault?"

"Of course not," Rod steps closer and there isn't enough air in the room. "I wouldn't do that. What's going on with you?"

He can't bear the look of concern on Rod's face, which he surely doesn't deserve and will surely evaporate soon enough. "Maybe I've had enough of you reminding me of my screw ups via the excuse of paperwork."

Rod's voice sharpens. "Don't blame me because you're feeling guilty. I can't deal with that for you."

The reminder of his lacking emotional skills stings and he lashes out. "Don't try to therapize me. You're hardly in the position to be doling out life advice." It's a mean, petty thing to say, but he's feeling vindictive.

Rod's eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John's pulse is notching up and his face is getting hot, the last of his short temper fraying away.

“You’re a people pleaser, Rod!” He realizes he’s yelling. He doesn’t care. “Everything you do is to make other people like you.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Rod puffs up. “I try to be a decent human being. I try to think about others and support them. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s fake! It’s all bullshit. Do you even have a personality of your own, or do you just reflect whatever the last person who smiled at you wants?”

Finally, the cracks in the facade of nice begin to show. “Making an effort to treat those around you with consideration isn’t demeaning!” He gets up in John’s face, waving a finger at him. “Not that you’d know, because you never consider anyone other than yourself.”

“At least I’m honest,” he spits, and it’s venomous. “At least I know who I am. Do you? Do you have any idea who you’d be if you weren’t so absorbed in distracting everyone from your flaws?”

He sees the barb hit its mark. Rod stumbles back like he’s been physically shoved, his face crumpling.

“God, you’re an asshole.” It’s not even angry. It’s small, and quiet, and John is suddenly acutely aware of how much taller he is than Rod, how much he towers over him.

Rod turns on his heel and walks away, and John knows that means he’s won. But he doesn’t feel the usual curl of smug satisfaction he gets when he puts someone in their place.

Instead, he just feels empty.

-

Whatever. It’s not his problem that Rod is having some kind of breakdown. Why should he care that Rod is skulking around the base looking small and miserable? He only said what they both know to be true.

If Rod wants to be a dick about it, that’s on him. If he’s going to remove John from the team, that’s fine. There’s nothing that John can do about it anyway.

He gets back to work, running simulations of ZPM power levels and how long they can expect to sustain the city under different circumstances, given that they won’t be enjoying unlimited power any time soon. He likes modelling, and he knows this work is important.

But for some reason he can’t focus. His gut keeps churning and his temples ache and he’s haunted by the word worthless, worthless, worthless.

-

When his lab door chimes at well past midnight, he’s ready to tell whoever it is to fuck right off. In fact, the excuse to yell at someone sounds great right now.

But when he opens the door to find Rod standing there, twisting his hands anxiously, he’s too shocked to even be snitty. He’d assumed that Rod and he were done, that it was only a matter of time before he was kicked off the team.

But here Rod is, mouth downturned and saying, “You were right, okay?”

John notes the sad wobble of Rod’s chin and bites back the urge to say something dismissive. “About what?”

“About me. I do try to please everyone. I do want everyone to like me.”

It sounds pathetic, said out loud like that, John thinks but doesn’t say.

Rod is still going. “But it’s not what you think. It’s not some ego trip. When I was younger, I used to be -” He lets out a huff of air. “- very different. I said whatever I wanted to whoever I wanted, and I didn’t care if everyone hated me for it.”

John tries to imagine an angry, mean Rod. His brain can’t picture it.

“I pushed people away because I was afraid they’d reject me. I was always alone and I got very good at telling myself I liked it that way.”

An uncomfortable feeling of familiarity crawls up the back of John’s spine, and he ruthlessly quashes it.

“That changed when I went to the SGC. The people there… They believed in me. They wanted my help, and they wanted to help me. I learned that if I was going to work there, to do important work, then I was going to need connections. And to make connections, I had to think about others, and try to be what they needed. It wasn’t only about me any more.”

Something in the preachy tone of Rod’s voice sets John on the defensive, and his shoulders begin to rise, counterarguments springing to his lips.

“Wait, stop -” Rod lays a hand on his shoulder, and all the aggression leeches out of him. “I don’t want to fight with you. I’m just trying to explain.”

The earnest look Rod is giving him makes his skin itch.

“I care about everyone here. Including you, John. Perhaps I try too hard sometimes, but that’s only because you all matter to me. I don’t want to let you down.”

Rod is talking in plurals, but John gets the impression he’s speaking to him personally. It’s too weighty, to be handed that kind of sincerity without warning.

“I do...” He coughs and looks at his feet, “I do care about the people here as well. I might not be demonstrative about it but I’m not…” he searches for the right word, “... indifferent.”

He doesn’t say the other words he’s thinking, which are cold, callous, heartless, the things people always call him.

Rod’s hand is still on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and he squeezes gently. “I know you do. I just wish that sometimes you’d let other people see that too.”

-

John tries. He really does. Ronon tells him that he needs to get out of the lab more, so he resolves to make time to socialize. He doesn’t really know how to do that, but Teyla quietly slides him a copy of the city’s social activity schedule and suggests he goes through the list.

Painting with Major Lorne - no.

Choir with the medical staff - sounds awful.

Extra combat training - absolutely not.

Mensa club - now there’s a possibility.

“Join us for FUN and FRIENDS,” the tiny advert reads. “All welcome (as long as your IQ is over 150).”

That he can do. He joins the club.

It's him and Kusanagi from R&D and Parrish from botany, plus a couple of the gate techs and one of the nurses from medical. Every Thursday night, they get together to solve puzzles and play chess. It's dorky and awkward but it's kind of nice, actually, and the people there don't seem to dislike him.

He thinks maybe he's getting better at this whole people thing.

-

And then Rod leaves, and everything goes to shit.

It starts off with a crisis, like there always is around here, exotic particles exploding out of a containment chamber which isn’t containing anything. There’s chaos, but there’s also data, so it doesn’t take long before he and Rod are turning to each other as the explanation clicks for both of them at the same time: An experiment to generate vacuum energy being conducted in a parallel universe.

“We can’t do anything from this side,” John reasons. “The bridge is one-way.”

“The inhabitants of the other universe might not even know what the effects here are. We need to go there directly and get them to shut it down,” Rod says, firm and sure. “It’s the only way.”

“But how could we-”

Rod snaps his fingers. “The Ancient shield. That’ll protect whoever travels there.”

“Right. Let me run some calculations.”

His head is buried in his computer when Rod comes running back in with the shield in his hand.

“Fire it up whenever you’re ready,” Rod orders. “I’ve got the shield to protect me.”

John’s head whips up. “You? You’re going?”

“Of course me! Come on, the chance to visit an alternate reality? Who could resist that?”

Icy cold water settles at the pit of John’s stomach. “That’s a one-way trip.”

Rod shrugs, like that’s nothing. “If that’s the cost to save our universe, it’ll be worth it.”

Something like rage explodes inside John’s head. “Absolutely not! I should be the one to go.” He searches desperately for a reason. “You’re needed here.”

Rod gives him a small, sad smile and says, “So are you.”

“That’s bullshit, McKay, and you know it. I’m not letting you do this.”

“Tell you what, let’s flip a coin for it.”

And that’s about as reasonable as he can hope for, so he turns his back to dig a coin out of his lab coat pocket.

That turns out to be a mistake.

“Be safe, John,” Rod says, then he activates the shield and steps into the containment chamber.

That bastard.

-

He spends three days thinking that Rod is gone for good.

He can’t… He can’t think, and he can’t sleep, and he’s angry all the time. When Zelenka asks for his help running calculations on the spacetime tear above the city John bellows at him, calls him incompetent, and says they might as well just accept that the city is going to be torn apart. Then he stays up all night doing the calculations anyway, because it’s better than lying in bed and staring at the ceiling for another interminable evening.

He doesn’t bother eating, or showering, because what’s the point if they’re all going to die within a week? There’s a restless, raging scratching under his skin and it’s not like he hasn’t faced the possibility of death before, but this feels bleak and empty and insurmountable in a way he simply can’t deal with.

And then the rift mends itself, and Rod returns on a beam of light, and everyone acts as if they’re back to normal now and that brush with annihilation was just one of those quirky things that happen in the Pegasus galaxy.

But it eats at John, that feeling of powerlessness, that rippling anger of a problem he couldn’t solve.

Rod slides back into life in the city like it was nothing but another mission, and everyone rushes to say how brave he was, what a hero, how selfless he is, and John’s blood boils.

Rod swings by John’s lab with his usual breezy demeanor.

“Hey Sheppard! Wanna grab some dinner?”

The incongruity of Rod in his doorway, smiling casually like this is just another Tuesday, sends something hot and sharp spiking through his brain. “No,” John snarls. “Busy.”

“Okay. How about tomorrow?”

“Busy then too.”

Rod gives a self-deprecating little smile, and John wants to wipe it off his face. “Too busy to make an hour for your team?”

“A team?” he spits. “Is that what we are?”

Rod pales, finally taking in how furious John is. “Of course we are. I thought, since I’m back now, we could -”

“Oh, so you stride back in and decide to grace us with your presence, and we’re supposed to be thankful for that?”

“John, what -”

“You left!” he explodes. He’s shocked by his own vehemence. “You left us all. You weren’t planning to come back and you just left.”

Rod takes half a step forward, his face doing something complicated. “John, listen. I never wanted to-”

“Go fuck yourself!” He shoves at Rod’s shoulders, hard enough to keep him at a distance. He needs space; he needs quiet; this is all too much. “We don’t want you here anyway. You should have stayed in that other dimension. I’m sure it was great there.”

“That’s not-”

“Shut up, McKay.” He tunes his voice to the iciest, most dismissive tone he has. “You should have stayed gone.”

He enjoys a mean spark of satisfaction at the way Rod’s face falls, then he storms out of the lab.

Fuck that guy anyway.

-

Everyone on the base keeps looking at John like he’s volatile, as if he’s about to blow at any minute. Even his team starts handling him with kid gloves, like he’s fragile, and he hates it so much he could scream.

He meticulously constructs the bubble of hostility which has long been his go-to when he needs people to leave him alone. He snaps and snarls, and perfects a glare so hostile that no one dares approach him.

It’s restrictive inside that bubble, but at least it’s stable. At least he gets to decide the reason why people are going to hate him.

-

A few days later, Teyla strides into his lab wearing her patented “take no shit” expression.

“John,” she says, and the false cheery brightness of her tone has him scared already. “You will join me for tea.”

This is not, he recognizes, a request. He begins to mumble excuses but she cuts him off without hesitation. “You will come to my quarters, and we will drink a mug of tea together.” She crosses her arms. “Now.”

There are battles you can win, and ones you cannot. This is most certainly the latter, so he meekly follows her as she sweeps out of the lab and back to her quarters.

Once inside, Teyla forces him into a chair with an excessively firm hand.

“Sit,” she orders.

It’s easier to do as she says.

She carefully prepares the tea and warms the earthenware mugs, strong hands making practiced, confident movements. John watches the motions as she pours the tea and slides a mug over to him.

“Drink,” she orders, and again it’s easier to obey.

The tea is soapy and bland, but he fears her retribution enough not to mention that. He sips as they sit in silence. She regards him heavily over her mug.

Eventually she reaches some kind of conclusion.

“You are a valued member of our team, John.” Her face is impassive but her words are warm. “We would not see harm come to you.”

“That’s. Uhh. Good.”

“But your behavior of late has been,” she narrows her eyes, “ill-advised.”

John opens his mouth to defend himself, because it’s not as if Teyla could understand what’s been going on. But she holds up a hand which stops him short.

“I do not care to listen to your justifications. But you should know that if you continue on the path you have been on, it will be to the detriment of us all.”

John feels like he’s been pulled into the principal’s office to be scolded like a schoolboy. He didn’t care for that shit when he was ten, and he certainly doesn’t care for it now.

“If that was all,” he pushes the mug away and gets to his feet, “I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait.” Teyla’s hand shoots out with a warrior’s accuracy and closes around his wrist. “I am concerned for the team, yes. But I am also concerned for you. I would like to think that we are…” she tilts her head, “friends. And I should like for you to be happy.”

John is embarrassed to find a lump forming in his throat. He’s never truly had a friend before, and that someone of Teyla’s stature and courage would consider him as such has him flabbergasted. He suddenly wants, very badly, for her to think well of him.

“I’ll try harder,” he says. “I’ll try to be better.”

She releases his wrist and gives him a generous smile.

“That is all any of us can do.”

-

He starts small.

He saves up a few of the precious Earth-imported cookies they get for dessert in the mess sometimes and brings them to the next Mensa club night. Kusanagi beams and says that was very thoughtful of him, and Parrish splits a chocolate chip cookie with him while they speed-solve sudokus.

The next day he types up a report about the team’s most recent mission with as much detail as he can remember, and he makes special note of how brave Rod and Teyla and Ronon were.

He saves it to a flash drive and takes it to Elizabeth himself.

“What’s this?” she asks as he hands it over.

“Mission report,” John says, eyes fixed on a tapestry hanging behind her desk.

“Submitting a report without having to be asked five times first? Who are you and what have you done with Dr. Sheppard?”

Anger flashes for a moment, because he’s trying here and she doesn’t need to remind him of his past failings. But he looks down and sees she’s smiling. It’s a joke. She’s joking around with him.

Huh. Okay. That’s unfamiliar, but he doesn’t hate it.

“Maybe I’ve slipped in from an alternate dimension,” he says, and even though that’s not very funny Elizabeth laughs anyway, and that makes something glow inside him.

-

He grudgingly admits to himself that there does seem to be a pattern developing: when he makes an effort to connect with people here and, god help him, be nice to them, then they are happy and so is he. When he yells and pushes people away, they are sad and he is angry.

It’s sort of obvious, really, and he would be embarrassed that it’s taken him so long to figure that out, but humans are bizarre and complicated and not at all like numbers.

He has a hypothesis and now he needs to test it. He should try being more considerate to those closest to him and see if that improves everyone’s moods. If only he could figure out how to do that without the entire experience being mortifying.

He’ll work on Ronon first, he determines. Ronon has always looked out for him and they have a sort of unspoken bond. Finding something nice to do for him should be simple enough.

He decides on a data-driven approach. He takes to following Ronon around, looking for inspiration, trotting after him with a small notebook in hand to record his observations. Ronon finds the whole thing hilarious.

Ronon spends approximately 40% of his free time in the gym, which certainly is a lot, and a further 30% in the mess. Another 10% of the time he goes running around the city, and the remainder of his time is spent visiting with Teyla, stopping by the science labs to tease Rod, or visiting John.

“You like people,” John observes one day, when Ronon is warming up for a combat session with some of the marines. He’s added up the figures and plotted the data into neat hand-drawn scatter plots and histograms. “You spend almost all of your time around other people.”

Ronon’s lips tighten for a second, and then he relaxes. “Yeah, I do. For a long time it wasn’t safe for me to be around anyone, and I hated it.” He looks around the bustling gym and nods. “Now I don’t have to be alone any more. I’ll never fail to appreciate that.”

John squints and scribbles that down in his notebook too. “You like spending time with people even if they’re -” He glances over at the marines, loud and bossy and distastefully laddish, “- strange? Or mean?”

Ronon grins at him. “Even then, yeah.”

“But you go running on your own. Is that what you prefer?”

Ronon stiffens slightly. “No. It reminds me of running from the Wraith. But it’s important to stay fit, and no one here likes running with me.”

Ahah! The perfect opportunity. John bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

“What, seriously?”

“Sure. It sounds fun.”

-

It is not fun. Running is brutal, and he is terrible at it, but Ronon smiles the whole time and he keeps telling John what a great job he’s doing.

By the time they’ve completed one lap of the route, sweat is pouring off John and his lungs are fit to burst.

“Go get some rest,” Ronon says, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “I’m going to do another couple of laps.”

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks between heaving breaths.

“You really want to do this again?”

“You run every day, right? So I will too.”

Ronon stops for a moment, then hauls John into a giant bear hug, apparently not caring that he’s sweaty and gross, and says, “Thanks, man.”

John is a little awed by how easily he expresses his approval, and how much it means to be on the receiving end of it.

-

He’s noticed on trade missions that the Athosians greatly value textiles, which they weave from plant fibers and dye bright colors. On his next trip to the mainland he slips away to ask the village elder Charin about the rugs which are spread throughout her tent.

She seems surprised by his interest but happy to show off her collection. She tells him how Athosians give rugs as gifts to celebrate relationships and achievements, and then she shows him how they're made.

He trades a whole month's worth of credits for supplies, and when he returns to Atlantis he spends hours each evening delicately weaving yarn through a wooden frame, building up a soft, textured rug. When it's done it's a little lumpy, but it has four clear bands of bright color running through it to represent their team.

He carries the rug to Teyla's quarters and fidgets outside her door.

"John." Teyla squints at him as she opens the door. "You appear nervous."

"I made this for you," he says and thrusts the rug at her. "Charin told me you're supposed to make them for family. This one has stripes for the four of us on the team. Sorry if it's not very good."

Tesla takes the rug and presses a hand to her chest as she examines it. A slow, warm smile spreads across her face.

"It is beautiful. You have my thanks, John. This means more to me than you know."

He has an uncomfortable flutter of emotion and he can't quite meet her eye. He focuses on the wall behind her instead.

"You are as family to me as well," she says, and steps forward to press their foreheads together in the Athosian way.

The frank sentimentality of her manner makes him squirm, but he sort of likes it.

-

Rod is trickier. He is not a person who cares much for stuff, and he always waves off supply runs from Earth, saying he has everything he needs.

But he has been complaining lately that the unstable nature of Lantea's sun has been interfering with some of his measurements. John has an idea that can help with that, even if it does involve working with grubby experimental data.

Once he's ready he invites Rod to join him in the control chair room.

"I did some modeling," he says quickly when Rod arrives. He doesn't bother with a greeting. "To predict solar influence on the Lantea system and help with your experimental readings."

Rod's eyes light up. "You modeled a star for me?"

"I thought it might be," he shrugs one shoulder, trying not to look too anxious about whether Rod will find it weird, "useful."

He plugs a flash drive into a socket on the chair platform and guides Rod into the chair.

"How does it work?" Rod is bouncing with excitement, the same look of delight on his face as when he finds a new piece of technology.

John indulges in a small, proud smile, and says, "Think about where we are in the solar system."

Rod leans back in the chair and its power hums on. Overhead, the holographic display bursts into life showing Lantea and its star, along with all the other planets and comets and asteroids filling the system, with notations on their size and mass and trajectory.

Rod whips the model around, running it backward and forward through time, watching the orbits of the planets dance.

Then Rod zooms in to see the sun up close and gasps. John has linked the model to the city's long range sensors so the display can simulate the star's fluctuations in real time, and as they watch its surface bubbles and releases a tendril of plasma which reaches out into space.

The display follows the plasma as it propagates out through the system, moving first through the asteroid field and then meeting the planet, interacting with the magnetosphere and lighting up the planet's atmosphere with an aurora of dancing colors.

The soft lights of the display are reflected in Rod's eyes, wide and joyful and curious, and the sight makes something like pain but not twist in John's chest.

"This is incredible." Rod pokes further through the interface, looking at zipping comets and distant moons. He sits up and the chair's power fades off. "Thank you."

Heat creeps across John's cheeks, and he busies himself unplugging the drive. "I wanted to do something… nice."

Rod stands and walks over to him, taking the drive from his fingers. But he doesn't let go, keeping hold of his hand. "This is very nice," he says, startlingly close.

And then something very strange happens, and Rod is leaning in and kissing him. John is distracted from the soft press of his lips by absolute bafflement at this turn of events and he freezes up.

Rod steps away and John stares at him, desperately trying to figure out how to respond. "You kissed me," he ends up on, which does have the merit of being true.

Rod rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry. I thought that's what you were going for. Was it not?"

John's brow wrinkles. His thoughts are whipping past at a million miles an hour.

That hadn't been his intention - he'd assumed that Rod was straight, not that he'd given it much thought - not that someone like Rod would be interested in him even if he wasn't - but there's something compelling about the concept, something intangible sitting on the edges of his perception. He can't quite see the shape of it.

"I need more data," he decides. "Kiss me again."

Rod breaks into a charmed smile. "I can do that."

This time when Rod leans in he's ready for it. Their mouths meet carefully, tentatively, and he angles his head so they line up better.

Oh. Interesting. The data is looking positive.

"Hmm." John draws back to breathe and consider. "Yes. That's good. Let's do that some more."

“An excellent plan," Rod says, putting his arms around John's waist to pull him closer and kiss him deeper.

Rod tastes incredible. Or maybe he just tastes of stale coffee and power bars, but John’s senses are so heightened that every sensation feels earth shattering, and he's starving for more. His hands scrabble at Rod’s collar, at his arms, at the hem of his shirt, trying to touch everything in a mad dash. He’s determined to get as much of whatever this is as he can before it comes to a crashing halt.

“Hey. Hey,” Rod’s hands are on top of his own, and he’s pulling away like John knew he would. John folds into himself, ready to turn his back as he listens to this is a mistake or we both know this isn’t going to work out or I’d never feel that way about you.

“If we’re going to do this…” Rod is giving him one of those lopsided smiles, soft and genuine. “I’d like to do it properly.”

John, still braced for rejection, has no idea what that means.

“Let me take you to bed,” Rod says, wobbly and uncertain and hopeful, of all things.

“Oh.” He could do that. They could do that. An ocean of unexpected possibilities opens up, glittering and unfamiliar and enticing. “Okay.”

Rod takes his hand and leads him back to his quarters. John’s palm is sweaty but his steps feel light as air.

-

Kissing Rod is excellent. Doing so while lying on Rod's bed is even better, and at some point they both lose their shirts and then there’s even more skin to explore and the comforting scent of Rod all around him.

It's what's next that's stressing him out, because while he's aware of the theoretical steps involved in sex, he doesn't exactly have practical experience to draw on.

There's the ever-present worry that he's missing something, that there's something he ought to know, like there's a handbook for this which everyone got a copy of except for him.

"You good?" Rod is looking at him with those very, very blue eyes. "You went away there for a minute."

His cheeks are blazing, but it seems important to set expectations. "I've never done this before," he admits.

"You mean with a man?"

He squirms. "With anyone."

He waits for Rod to laugh at him, but he merely looks contemplative. "Were you not interested, or…?"

"It never seemed that important, you know? Just another of those things that everyone else did except for me, like going to parties, or having friends, or spending Christmas with family."

Rod's face softens with sympathy.

"And even if I wanted to sometimes, it didn't matter, because who would want this?" He indicates himself with a disparaging hand. He knows what he looks like: too thin, too lanky, messy hair that will never keep a style. He's no one's ideal. "I'm not even sure why you’d be interested."

"God." Rod reaches for him and takes his face in his hands. "You really have no idea, do you?" Rod carefully removes his glasses, sets them aside, and says, "You're gorgeous," like he really means it.

Taking off his glasses makes John feel more vulnerable than taking off his clothes. Suddenly his shield is gone and there's the world, and Rod, and it's all very close and immediate and a little disorienting.

"Hey." Rod pets his face, soft and gentle, "It's okay. We can go slow."

He makes an effort to pull himself together. "I won't be very good at this."

"You don't have to be good." Rod traces his lips with a finger. "You just have to be you."

And that’s mystifying, frankly. But he’ll give it a go for Rod.

They kiss some more, and he relaxes into it, lets Rod take the lead, lets him explore his mouth until he’s boneless and breathless. He breaks for air and is lightheaded, the room almost spinning, but he wants more.

Then Rod is kissing along his jawline, and down his neck, and oh, when Rod’s lips brush against a spot near his throat his entire body tenses and twitches, and Rod makes a curious, happy noise and does it again. It’s a hair away from overwhelming but he likes it, he likes it a lot, and then Rod gently runs his teeth over that spot and John’s hips twitch off the bed entirely of their own volition.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, but Rod doesn’t look put off. In fact, he just grins, says, “Don’t be, I like it,” then pushes John back onto the bed and mouths at that spot some more.

His skin is hot all over and he’s shaking, and god, this is all going to be over embarrassingly fast and they haven’t even gotten all of their clothes off yet.

“Rod,” he says, and it comes out as a whine. “Will you -” He gestures vaguely at the bulge in the front of his jeans and hides his face in the pillow, too bashful to let Rod see him.

Rod pauses from his engrossment in John’s neck to breathe hot words into his ear instead. “Is that what you want?” he asks, and John is fit to burst already. How is Rod so good at this?

“Please,” he says, mumbling into the pillow. Everything is too much and not enough, and he wants, he wants, he wants. “Please, Rod, please -”

“Okay, of course I will, it’s okay.” Rod strokes his flank, petting him like a skittish horse, and that should be mortifying but it’s exactly what he needs. “I’d like to see you though,” he says, and reaches over to touch John’s chin.

John lets himself be turned, lets Rod roll him over so they’re facing each other and their eyes meet. That’s almost overwhelming too, but Rod looks so pleased he thinks he might be able to manage it, and then Rod is kissing him and unzipping his pants and oh, oh, oh.

Rod wraps a hand around his cock and John just melts, like every brain cell he possesses has decided to pack up for the night. He can't even bring himself to blush because Rod is touching him right there and it’s so good, it’s so good, and all he wants is more.

Rod handles him confidently, exploring what he likes: a bit faster, a bit slower, a bit more pressure, a bit less. If John could speak he’d tell him that it doesn’t matter, right now he likes everything, anything, whatever Rod wants to do to him he’d take it happily.

But Rod is a scientist, and he loves his data just as much as John does, so he does some experimentation and finds the ideal speed John likes, and the angle, and then he squeezes gently around the head and John’s orgasm explodes behind his eyes like bright, white light.

He floats for a while, like a spring that’s been twisted and twisted and finally bursts free, and he’s vaguely aware of Rod stroking his face. It’s nice, every muscle in his body slack and comfortable for once instead of clenched down tight.

“You good?” Rod asks, and John can’t help but smile.

“Very,” he mumbles, mouth lax and lazy.

Rod drops a kiss on his temple, and there’s something so casual and caring about that it makes John’s heart squeeze.

“You mind if I get myself off?” Rod asks and heat races up the back of John’s neck. He does not mind that one bit.

“Should I. Um.” He ought to offer, right? That was the polite thing. But, “I don’t really know what to do,” he admits.

Rod smiles softly at him and says, “How about you kiss me?”

And yes, John is definitely on board with that, he can do that. He puts an arm around Rod’s shoulders and pulls him closer, then kisses him: carefully at first, peppering soft pecks to his lips, and then deeper, lips sliding over each other as they grow more heated, and then finally wild and messy, slipping his tongue into Rod’s mouth while Rod pushes his pants down and works himself over.

He feels Rod’s fist bumping up against his thigh, faster and faster as he speeds up his hand, and John can’t help but glance down. He watches in fascination at the way the head of Rod’s cock peeks through his hand on each stroke, red and hard and leaking from the tip. Reflexively, he licks his lips.

Rod is making these soft groaning noises which have John entranced, like he wants to spend every spare minute he has learning how to coax them out of him. And then Rod is biting his lip, and twitching, and staring at him open-mouthed and breathing hard.

“Can I come on you?” he asks, and something in John’s brain short-circuits.

“Yes,” his mouth says for him. “Rod, god, yes.”

He can’t stop staring at the movement of Rod’s hand and, emboldened by a force he didn’t know he had in him, he reaches down to wrap his hand around Rod’s. He lets Rod guide their movements, adding a soft pressure from his fingers so they can bring him off together.

“John,” Rod sighs, full of warmth and contentment, and then he’s relaxing and coming. Fluid splatters across John’s thighs and he did that, he made Rod feel good, and that feels like the best gift of all.

Rod is soft around the edges now, smudgy like a charcoal painting, and when John asks, “Was that okay?” he pulls him closer and nuzzles into his neck, covering both of their bodies and their clothes hopelessly in come, and says, “That was perfect.”

-

John wakes up sticky, rather too hot, and filled with a roiling, anxious feeling. The bed is too small and Rod is too close, and his heart rate picks up as he looks fuzzily around the room.

He should go. He should just go, right now, before Rod wakes up and they have to talk about this and he says something wrong and ruins everything.

He’s squinting and patting at the bedside table, looking for his glasses, when he feels movement behind him.

“Morning.” Rod drops a soft kiss on his shoulder. Then he rolls over, John’s glasses in his hand, and opens them up and pops them onto his face. He slides them up John’s nose, smiles, and says, “There you are.”

And oh. All that panic seems further away once he has the armor of his glasses back, and now he can see the pillow crinkles imprinted into Rod’s cheek. He seems less like an agent of impending judgement and more like Rod, just Rod, Rod who knows him and has seen him at his worst and still, for whatever baffling reason, seems to like him.

“Hi,” he manages, and Rod beams like that was exactly the right thing to say.

“Coffee?” Rod offers. “Or shower first?”

As rare as it is for John to turn down coffee, he really is unpleasantly sticky. Deal with that problem first, he decides. “Shower,” he says, grateful that he’s not required to string together more than single words.

“Sure.” Rod gives his ass a cheeky pat as he rises, then throws him a towel.

He showers quickly and efficiently, but as he steps out and wraps a towel around himself he spots a purpling bruise on the side of his neck in the mirror. He stops to trace it with his fingers, remembering the feeling of Rod’s mouth there, hot and demanding.

“Ahh.” Rod stands in the doorway to the bathroom. “Sorry about that. I got a bit carried away.” There’s a flush on his cheeks, and he looks nervous.

John tilts his head, looks at the mark from another angle. There it is: incontrovertible evidence that he's wanted. What a fascinating concept. “Don’t be. I like it.”

“Oh.” Rod’s eyes go very round and the blush deepens. “That’s good. That’s. Ahh. Very good. I’ll just -”

Rod drops the towel from around his waist and makes for the shower, and John gets an eyeful of his half-hard cock, and then, as he walks past, an ass he has the sudden urge to sink his fingers into. A heat that’s beginning to feel familiar creeps up his neck, and he wants -

What the hell, he thinks, and he tosses his own towel aside to follow Rod back into the shower, delighting in his yelp of surprise when he slides up behind him.

-

“Shep! Think fast!”

John manages to get his hands up just in time to prevent the power bar from hitting him in the face.

“Thought you might want a snack before the mission,” Ronon says with a wink. “Just in case we have to run anywhere.”

“Hey, I’m getting better at that! I’ll catch up with you one day.”

“Sure you will.” Ronon checks the straps on John's tac vest like he always does, then says, "Looking good, buddy," and ruffles his hair.

John used to hate that, but he's given up trying to tame his hair and now he lets it stick up in whatever direction it wants. It's weird but it works.

Teyla bumps her shoulder against his as they walk toward the gate room. "What do you have for us today, John?"

“Remember that strange energy signal Major Lorne’s team picked up last week? I was able to map its topography through space and pinpoint its likely origin, and Rod took a look at the electromagnetic readings and he thinks it might be a power source -”

“So we are going to investigate the signal on P2X-884?”

“Bingo.”

Rod is standing in front of the gate like he belongs there. He claps his hands. "Ready for another thrilling adventure in the Pegasus galaxy?"

"Maybe we'll get to hunt some Wraith," Ronon says, entirely too cheerfully.

"Or discover some hideous alien parasite," Teyla joins in with a gruesome smirk.

"Or accidentally blow something up," John supplies, because that's usually how their luck goes.

"Sounds delightful." Rod grins and yells up to the gate techs, "Dial her up."

As the gate engages with a whoosh and a glow of blue light, Rod reaches out to graze his fingers against John's: a reminder, and a promise. Out of the corner of his eye, John catches his smile.

He stands a little taller, knowing his team has his back, and steps through the wormhole.

[actress4him]

In Irons 2 - The Dark Storm

(Prompt #6 for Summer of Whump)

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Taglist: @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @darthsutrich

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Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumpers, brief (unrealized) fear of noncon, capture, mild blood, forced labor

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The smell of the ocean and the sun on her face is exactly like she had always imagined it. Adelaide leans onto the rail of the deck of The Golden Rose and breathes it all in, a smile playing on her lips.

She’d purchased passage on the ship using part of her own dowry. It seemed appropriate. The dowry came with her, after all, so why not leave with her? She didn’t take all of it, of course. Some of it had already been spent, and some she left as consolation for Charles.

Now they’re three days into a week long journey that will take her down the coast to a new port, hopefully far enough away that no one she knows will ever find her. She’ll start her life over there. It’s an intimidating thought, living as a single woman with no parents, but it will be far better than married life had been. It has to be.

Suddenly the ship bursts into a flurry of sound and activity. Adelaide whirls around, watching as the captain barks out orders and rushes to take the wheel for himself. Sailors practically fly around the ship, untying ropes and letting out sails and scurrying up and down stairs.

She looks out to sea again, searching the water for any sign of what’s happening. There’s nothing but choppy, deep blue as far as the eye can see.

The captain shouts another order and Adelaide darts across the deck, unable to fully appreciate her newfound range of motion past the pounding of her heart in her chest. Practically slamming into the rail, she grips it with both hands until her knuckles turn white, staring back behind them.

There’s a ship there. A large ship, easily twice the size of The Golden Rose, with a hull and sails that haven’t seen nearly as much care and attention. A black flag flies from the mast, its crest hard to make out in the harsh wind.

And it’s gaining on them, fast.

“Captain! What is that ship?” She barely remembers to drop her voice into a deeper register. But no one is paying her any mind, anyway, and her question goes unanswered.

A horrible scraping sound fills the air, and Adelaide is nearly knocked off her feet by the jolt that shakes the deck. Did they just...run into us? The expressions on the faces of the sailors are growing more frantic, sending her heart racing even faster.

Then the ship is pulling up beside them, huge and looming above her head, still bumping up against the side as it goes, and she stumbles backwards away from the railing. Just in time, too, because people are beginning to swing down onto The Rose’s deck, and they have weapons.

Adelaide scrambles further away until her back hits the railing on the other side, eyes wide as she stares at first the rough-looking men landing one by one, then the flag whose crest she can finally see.

It’s a skull over crossed swords.

Pirates.

They spread out quickly, some disappearing below deck to do who knows what while others immediately set upon the sailors. The men are strong, but they’re not fighters, not like the pirates. Thankfully there’s no bloodshed, but it’s not long before each sailor is either knocked down or pinned.

And another pirate is headed straight for her.

Part of her wants to cower, but she steels herself, clenches her fists, and stares him down. No fear. She can’t show fear. Fear is to these men like blood to a shark.

A hand hooks into her cravat and yanks her forward, and she tries her best not to flinch. He’s dirty, beard unkempt, missing teeth as he sneers at her. Everything she would expect a pirate to be.

“You look young and fit enough.” He looks her up and down as if to confirm it, and her skin crawls. For a moment she forgets she’s not a girl, and suddenly it’s Charles hovering over her again, and her heart lodges somewhere in her throat.

“‘Ey Marshall! You wanna keep this one? He looks like a good enough worker.”

He. Worker. Her throat feels slightly less constricted at the realization, but she still doesn’t want to be kept. Her eyes dart up to the dark-haired pirate that hangs over the rail of the upper deck.

“Sure. Take him back.”

Suddenly she’s being dragged by the neck across the ship, toward the pirate ship. “No, no, I don’t -” She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, or why she thinks it might do any good, but there’s no chance to complete the thought before the man wraps a strong arm around her waist and they’re being ripped upward, feet leaving the deck without warning. A yelp escapes her involuntarily, and it’s far from masculine. The pirate only guffaws at her.

Once they’ve safely landed on the second ship and the rope they were hanging from is put away, she’s mostly ignored for the next several minutes. She even wonders if she could make an escape, but there are so many men everywhere. Crates are being tossed from hand to hand, barrels rolled up planks from one ship to the other. The Golden Rose is being swiftly stripped of all the goods that she was carrying.

Three more men are brought onboard, members of The Rose’s crew. It seems in addition to taking her cargo, they plan to leave the ship with hardly enough men to sail it. The only other passengers besides Adelaide are an older man and his wife, and thankfully, they seem to have been left alone.

As the last of the crates is loaded on and the pirates unmoor from the cargo ship, moving much too quickly away from safety and freedom, Adelaide and the three sailors are lined up side by side. A man with a black and grey beard who - based on the relative finery of his burgundy coat - must be the captain approaches, looking them over one by one.

“Welcome aboard The Dark Storm,” he sneers. “The name’s Payne, but you lot can call me Captain.”

One of the sailors, a young man who can’t be much older than Adelaide, raises his voice. “What makes you think that we’ll work for the likes of you?”

In a flash, the gold-tipped cane in Captain Payne’s hand flies up and slams into the side of the sailor’s head. Adelaide gasps, hand flying to her mouth. The sailor is sent sprawling onto the deck, a bright red stream of blood trickling down onto its surface.

“Anyone else have any...objections?” The Captain smiles, gold teeth flashing in the sun. “No? Good.” Turning, he beckons with the cane to the same dark-haired man that she had seen earlier. “Marshall, get this man a bucket so that he can clean up his mess before it stains the wood.”

Moving on to the other two men, he asks their names and gives them an approving grunt, before finally coming to her. “And what is this?”

It isn’t the same way that he asked for names before, but she answers, anyway, too frightened not to. “Gray, sir. John Gray.”

His upper lip curls. “And whose idea was it to bring Mr. Gray onto my ship?”

Marshall steps up beside him. “I approved him, Captain. He probably doesn’t know a weaver’s knot from a bowline, but he can swab decks. And maybe if he does that for long enough, he’ll actually build enough muscles to be able to pull a line.”

The Captain stares her down for what seems like an eternity more. She isn’t sure whether she wants his approval or not, but has a feeling that failing to gain it will mean something much worse than swabbing decks.

Finally he cocks his head slightly to one side, face relaxing. “Fine, then. You heard the man. Our defiant friend here seems to be done with his bucket, so get busy.”

It isn’t until he walks away that she realizes she was barely breathing. She sucks in a shaky breath now, trying hard not to make eye contact with anyone around her as she collects the bucket and brush and finds an unoccupied corner to start in.

There’s a lot to think about while she scrubs. Her life has been turned upside down twice within a week, first by her own doing, and now by pirates. This isn’t just a bad dream. This isn’t something that’s going to last for a few more days until she arrives at the new life she’s been looking forward to. Unless she can somehow escape whenever they make port, she’s stuck here. As a...well, basically a slave. Certainly not the way she was hoping to start things over.

She can’t let them find out her secret.

If they find out that she’s actually a woman, there’s no telling how they will react. Badly. That’s all she knows for sure.

So she keeps to herself. Doesn’t speak to anyone unless required, tries to stay unnoticed as much as possible. Scrubs the deck. Hauls crates around. Occasionally helps pull a line. Her hands are constantly shriveled, the ends of her sleeves always wet, and there are permanent bruises on her knees. Blisters quickly form on her palms, then burst, then form all over again until they’ve turned into her first ever callouses.

But she keeps scrubbing, and she watches.

For the first week or two, she was determined not to be one of them. She may be working on a pirate ship, but she’s not a pirate. Eventually, though, she started thinking harder about what it might take to survive this whole ordeal, not just until the next port, but possibly for a very long time.

What if the Captain decides she’s not useful enough? What if he decides to get rid of her while they’re out in the middle of the open sea?

So she watches. She shadows Marshall, the first mate, whenever she can, and tries to learn knots and terms and the way things work. She doesn’t push to be included in the process, not yet, not until she’s certain that she’ll make a good impression.

Like it or not, Mr. John Gray is going to be a pirate.