#multiple pov chapter

[space-blue]

Chapter 39!! Let's goooo!!! Next chapter is the finale people!!!!

We made it... I'm going to wrap this bitch of a fic before the 2 year anniversary!

[starry-bi-sky]

mmmmmm read a disciple shen yuan/shizun luo binghe fanfic about two days ago where the first chapter was the Immortal Conference arc, and SQQ was the one who had to be pushed into the abyss (he was still the villain) except Luo Binghe was refusing and was like, lowkey losing his mind about SQQ being so close to the edge. SQQ ended up having to be the one to fall in himself because of the system's punishment system. The rest of the fic is leading up to that moment. But like, MMM i've been obsessively thinking about that first chapter for DAYS ever since.

now i've been in svsss for a grand total of *checks watch* a week. but god obsessed with that. I want to write/read a fic where disciple SQQ goes a little nuts down there. Like keep all of the things that make SQQ, SQQ, but just. Throw in a little bit more trauma in there. A little bit of a mental break. Let him go a little nuts as a treat. Just a tad unhinged. I wanna see him go, just a little, "god fuck it, i've tried so hard to change this shitty story's outcome and it feels like everything i've done has been for nothing. I'm going to die in this world no matter what I do, I've been doomed from the start, so might as well die the way I want to." and he just, breaks a little! Under all the stress.

He still retains the traits that makes shen yuan, shen yuan, like his overwhelming kindness. But he's just! yk. A little less patient. Paranoid. Jumpy. Colder. A little more aloof and closed off. A little more Shen Jiu. He's no asshole child abuser, but he was a Number One Hater in his past life and he's leaning into that old habit a little more now.

(On a totally coincidental not-at-all related note, there's not enough SJ-and-SY-are-the-same-people fics out there that i've found. This is totally unrelated...)

The Endless Abyss turns the mind into an over-sharpened blade, and SQQ is both fascinated and perhaps a little excited to explore a place that doesn't have a lot of info on it in the mortal realm, but still terrified out of his mind. And he's no Luo Binghe, he doesn't have the sheer brute strength and power to just bulldoze his way through, so he has to be a lot more sneaky and cunning if he wants to survive.

The fic itself role-swapped LBH and SQQ so that SQQ was the half-demon (which lowkey fucks) and LBH the human, but I'm equally-if-not-more obsessed with the idea that LBH remains the half-heavenly demon and SQQ the human. If only because I keep thinking about SQQ befriending some demons (particularly and specifically a group of succubi) and they grow very attached to this Human Cultivator so through magic plot stuff they create some kind of seal/illusion/talisman that makes SQQ appear as a demon because a human cultivator in the endless abyss may as well be the equivalent of putting a giant neon target on your back.

And iirc Shen Jiu was taught demonic cultivation by that one guy(?? i've only been here a week so im not caught up in ALL of the lore yet) so that could totally happen here.

(On the other end of the realms, poor Shizun Luo Binghe is just. losing his fucking mind over losing his most precious and beloved disciple. About .5 seconds from burning down the peaks himself. somebody sedate him.)

The Endless Abyss sucks and SQQ is having a really terrible time and can feel himself going lowkey mad, but also holy shit look at all this WORLD-BUILDING. look at all this flora and fauna, and oh if he had the equipment for it he'd be writing all of this down. ALL OF IT. He was kinda-sorta-already planning on never leaving the Abyss as some sort of fucked up self-exile and self-preservation thing, but now he might? actually just?? never leave if he can help it, like he lowkey likes it down here.

anyways the next time anyone ever sees SQQ again he's got hair so long its almost touching the ground and he's either in rags and half-feral or he's been completely dolled up by his adoptive succubi sisters and still about three seconds from biting anyone who tries to touch him. (he's also lowkey trying to book it back down to the abyss even if he has desperately missed all of his friends and shizun)

[pleucas]

fate

[demaparbat-hp]

For the Spirits—

Chapter VIII: Make You Stay

And I'd do anything to make you stay

No light, no light

Tell me what you want me to say

—No Light, No Light by Florence + The Machine

.

Ming had experienced so many different, wonderful things. She had lived, truly lived, and allowed herself to dream of things that had been impossible back in the Academy. Endless possibilities now seemed to lay gently in the palm of her hand. But she would give it all away to vanish the shiver that tore its way down her spine at Yoi’s words. The Prince has genuinely gone mad. He—didn't you hear?—he insists on going on this mysterious quest on his own.

[youchangedmedestiel]

Chapter 1 and 2 are kinda written already. So as a little teasing, may I present you THE Cas and Dean involved in that Summer AU fic:

And here's a little snippet:

“Sam! Sammy!” He calls and then he reaches the side with the view on the beach. He spots Sam at the back of the open veranda, playing cards with Jo and Ash. “Sam, Jo, Ash! Let’s get ready to go to the beach.” Dean suggests as his eyes finally scan the room. There’s Chuck, Amara and Gabriel there, so Dean smiles at them. Then his eyes end on the other guy sitting with them. “Hi.” He greets quietly. He doesn’t even know if he heard him because he doesn’t answer, he just smiles back and Dean thinks he never saw something as beautiful as this.

“Dean? You comin’?” Sam calls out. His little brother walked past him and he didn't even realize it until now.

“Huh - yeah!” He says, turning away and following his little brother.  

[concreteburialplot]

VIRALITY // 10

10 - Maybe Both, Maybe Neither

pairing: nicholas ruffilo x fem!oc [vallie]

masterlist/intro: here | crossposted: ao3 | word count: 5.8k

summary: after waking up next to each other vallie & nicholas go their separate ways. vallie goes to visit an old friend who may be more than friendly. nicholas goes to sober up noah but doesn’t expect him to pull the curtain back on his resentment.

warnings: mentions about alcoholism/AA meetings/cheating, arguing, noah being annoying but what's new, tea is spilled !!, vallie is vulnerable for once in her life, lots of dialogue, alternating POVs sorry 🥲

A/N: Sorry it's been like 2 months since I’ve updated, it literally did not feel like it 🥲 school & life are kicking my ass lol + this chapter ended up being so complicated / difficult

Also! This chapter introduces a very mild crossover with Christian 'Kras' Anthony from the band Chase Atlantic - he's being used as a fun little temporary reoccurring side character. Don't worry, knowing who he is isn't necessary to understand his character lol i just think he's cute🥰

don't like it don't read it. don’t be mean for no reason & let others enjoy things thnx :)

-NICHOLAS-

A jarring buzzing jolts me awake. I sit up a bit with scrunched eyes trying to follow the noise with a wandering patting hand. The noise leads to Vallie’s phone rattling on my bedside table next to her. I grab it and sleepily ignore the call out of habit.

In my still half-sleep state, I don’t want to be anywhere else besides where my body was curled up against her. I return to my spot with my arm around the brunette, tugging her closer. Her scent fills my nostrils when I nuzzle into her neck. The smell of her hair is peppermint-y and the scent on her skin reminds me of marshmallows and… matcha?

Whatever it is, it’s warm, cozy, and smells so yummy it makes me want to eat her again.

Before I have the pleasure of manifesting that thought into reality, her phone goes off vibrating again, this time making me significantly more aggravated.

I snatch the phone looking at her caller ID – the name plastered across the screen:

Christian

with some emojis I’m far too sleepy to decipher.

Christian?

I decide not to ignore her phone call from an evidently urgent caller.

“Hey, Hey.” I gently nudge her shoulder. “Your phone has been going off.”

She lets out a sleepy groan that is probably the cutest noise I’ve ever heard.

She takes one look at the ID and immediately ignores it and shoves it under the pillow.  

Odd.

She yawns and rubs her eye, “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure.” I try to look at the edges of my window covered with blackout curtains trying to gauge even the time of day. “You have your phone, check it?”

Her fingers tap against the mattress. “It’s not that important.”

“Who’s Christian?” I blurt out without thinking.

From the angle I’m at, I can see her eyes widen a bit at the question.

She clears her throat. “What?”

“The person who kept calling you. It was someone named Christian?”

“Oh um,” She bites down on my lip, seemingly contemplating her answer. “He’s a friend.”

I’m filled with a feeling I’m not sure I enjoy nor one I should be feeling.

“A friend?” I ask, unconvinced.

It’s none of my business. It doesn’t matter who he is.

“Yeah, a friend.” She scrunches her brows at the wall. “Why do you care who’s calling me?”

“I-I don’t.” I reply but I know I’m a shit liar and I probably don’t sound very convinced. “I was just wondering.”

“Right.” She yawns then gets up in a panic like she just realized where she is. “Oh my god we fell asleep.”

“Yeah…I figured you gathered that by now.” I said falling down flat beside her.

“Fuck Nick, how am I gonna get out of here?” She scrambles for her phone beneath the pillow to finally check the time. “Fuck, fuck, I have to leave.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Let me just check out the house, I can take you to get your car.” I pull myself out of bed and let myself stretch out my arms above my head.

“Fuck.” She mutters, readjusting her entire torso in her tight top. “Remind me to never sleep in a corset ever again. I need to get out of this, can I borrow something?”

Her attention lands on me and at first, her forest greens are inquisitive and calm but when she actually looks at me, they widen. Her eyes slowly trail down my body and land where my shirt hangs above the exposed skin of my hips.

Watching her tongue slide between her lips makes my heart thump in my ear drums so loud I can barely hear what she’s saying.

 “Also, can you um,” She clears her throat and looks back up at me, “Help me get this off?”

“Sure.” I nod and drop my arms back down.

She shifts in the bed so the zipper in the back of the faux-corset faces me. My fingers delicately gather her dark chocolate locks and drape them over her shoulder to get them out of my way. Her tan skin curves so beautifully from her neck to her shoulder that I feel as though if I don’t kiss her there it would somehow be insulting.

The need to kiss her there feels as necessary as air, so lean down and press a hesitant kiss to the crook of her neck as I begin unzipping her top.

She doesn’t stop me, which I was sure she would stop me now in the daylight.

Another kiss up, I linger more there.

Then another in the same spot, then another, and another, and another – until I am fully peppering her skin with open mouth kisses and my hands roam her curves.

She lets out little noises the closer I get to her ear that remind me of the ones she gave me when my tongue was inside her.

It’s not until I’m nipping and sucking at her skin that she speaks.

“Nick…” She whines in a tone that says ‘you know better’.

I tug down the rest of her zipper.

My lips still lazily drag up her neck.

I hum against her and let my hands wander down her sides to her hips. “Let me make you feel good.”

She lets out a shuddered whine but not a red or green light.

My hands round her hips giving them a gentle back and forth rub, “I need to taste you again.” I press another kiss against the sensitive skin below her ear and I can feel goosebumps erupt all over her skin.

My fingers burn everywhere they meet her skin and beg to be everywhere  they shouldn’t be.

She closes her eyes and lets herself breathe for a second.

“Nicholas.” She repeats, more sternly this time. “I have to leave before anyone sees me.”

“I know.” I say simply and pull away, strategically resting both hands over my semi.

I know I shouldn’t press more. I know shouldn’t try to convince more. But god do I want to. All I’m thinking about is fucking her senseless.

She keeps a hand on the front of the corset to keep it flush on her skin. “Could I please borrow something?” She reminds me of her original request.

“Oh yeah sure, sorry.” I quickly scan the room for the closest item.

I spot a barely worn Deftones shirt and hand it to her.

“Thanks.”

 She just sort of stares at me then makes a ‘turn-around’ motion with her hand.

“Oh, sorry.” I shift away from her. “It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Shut up.”

I hear her let out a sigh of relief, probably from finally being freed from the constricting top.

“Okay you can turn around now.”

I turn back to her and find what I expected: her in my shirt.

What I didn’t expect was to somehow find her even more attractive in my shirt than even a lace corset.

As much as I’d like for her to stay, I fear that if I don’t get her out now, I’ll devour her whole.

“I’ll just… go scope out the area.” I thumb over my shoulder towards the door.

“Good idea.” She nods.

I very quietly sneak out of my room into the empty hallway, gently closing the bedroom door behind me.

After tiptoeing around the house, I find everyone asleep as it seems still quite early, at least for them.  

The drive back to the bar is quiet and somewhat awkward. I’m not sure if it’s because of what we did or if I crossed some sort of invisible line and made her upset.

Or maybe both,

Maybe neither.

Maybe I’m over thinking it.

We haven’t talked about anything, no rules, no boundaries. I don’t know how I would bring that up to begin with. What the hell are we doing? And how do I feel about it. How do I want to feel about it? 

We say goodbye and it’s stiff and odd. I’m not sure if I should kiss her? Or treat her like my colleague?

Maybe both,

Maybe neither.

That one feels more like a maybe neither.

The way she acted this morning makes me think that whatever… this is, is over.

I know it should be done, but there is a part of me that doesn’t want to stop. At least not yet. Maybe if I got one more fix.

Regardless how I feel about it, it was a mistake. I knew that the first time, I knew it last night and I know it now.

Why did I let this happen. How did I let this happen?

I tap my fingers anxiously against the steering wheel once I’ve parked at home.

I know Folio wouldn’t really care but if Noah or Jolly found out about this?

Oh my god.

I don’t even want to think about what would happen.

All I know is two things.

One, I can’t keep fucking thinking about this – I can’t keep thinking about her.

Two, I unfortunately know what I need to do when I walk back through our front door.

-VALLIE-

As soon as my car door shuts behind me, I let out a long sigh that I wasn’t aware I was holding.

I fold my arms around my steering wheel and rest my forehead against it.

“Fuck.”

The entire ride home there was this nausea festering in the pit of my stomach.

I like being with Nicholas.

I like being with Nicholas too much.

And this stupid fucking Deftones shirt is too comfortable and smells too much like him – and I like it more than I should. And I need to get home as soon as possible to get it off me.

This is absolutely the last thing I needed – catching feelings or whatever the fuck is filling my chest with butterflies from someone I’m representing.

This is the band that I shouldn’t have even taken on in the first place, and now I’m here on the verge of vomiting because I miss the way his bed feels. This was not the plan.

I shake my head from the the thoughts as I walk through my front door. It’s just the dickmatization talking. That’s it. I like his dick and that’s all.

His huge fucking…

No.

No.

And god his fucking tongue...

No.

No.

This absolutely cannot be happening.

I won’t let this happen.

I need to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.

I chuck my phone and keys on my dresser and use my palms to lean against the edge.

An abrupt buzzing of my iPhone against the hard wood shocks me from my dissociation.

Christian

Christian

Christian

…could be exactly what I need.

I slide the answer bar across the screen and bring the phone to my ear.

“Hey Kras.” I smile, using his nickname.

“Val!” He chimes cheerfully on the other line. “I’ve been trying to get ya all day!”

“I’m busy Kras, you know that.” I roll my eyes playfully. “What’s up, what do you want so badly?”

“Tour ended last week and I’m staying in LA for a bit for some band stuff before I head back home to Sydney.” He pauses. “I wanna see you. I need to talk to you about something.”

I press my lips together and take a deep breath, suddenly stressed about what exactly that meant.

“Okay. When and where do you wanna meet up?”

“Today? My place?”

“Okay, see you then.”

After a much-needed shower I’m finally at the door of his temporary apartment. I smooth out my outfit, which wasn’t much really, just some sweats with a cropped tank. With as long as I’ve known Kras, it didn’t really matter what I looked like, but I still wanted to look cute. I use my hand to flatten my tied up hair to make sure there’s no ridges before I knock on his door. It doesn’t take long for him to answer it.

“Val.” He greets with his signature big goofy smile.

The tall, long-haired blonde envelopes me into giant hug and I embrace it. His scent fills my nose with memories; it’s soft, comforting, and most of all, fun.

Christian and I have always been close, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Our friendship has always been…interesting to say the least. I think most people would consider our dynamic complicated, but to us it’s quite simple.

I give him a good, hard squeeze around his midsection. “Augh, Kras I’ve missed you.”

He reciprocates the squeeze and places a kiss atop my head. “I missed you too.”

I pull away with a smile and smack his arm, “You don’t text me enough! I didn’t even know your tour ended.”

“Me? The phone works both ways Miss ‘You know I’m busy���” He mocks me jokingly.

“God, I forget how strong your Aussie accent is in person.” I chuckle, diverting the conversation.

I shiver at the ice-cold chill I get from his AC and rub my arms for warmth.

“Fuck it’s cold as shit in here.” It’s so frigid even my teeth chatter.

“Yeah, sorry I like it freezing. You want a jacket or something?” He offers then crosses the room when I nod.

He picks through some clothes in an open suitcase and hands me a multicolored flannel. I pull the flannel over my arms letting the material engulf my body.

After a brief catching up about tour and life, I lean against the wall and cross my arms.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about.” I cut straight to it.

He bites down on his lip, and I can’t tell if he’s excited or nervous.

Maybe both, maybe neither.

“We need a manager.” He blurts out.

“Oh? I thought you were working with-”

“We want you Val.”

I laugh, because surely, he can’t be serious. I don’t belong to an agency and work my two clients freelance, all on my own. There’s no way I could take on another band, especially one as successful as Chase on top of the other two.

“What? No, no, I absolutely couldn’t manage you guys…”

He steps towards me and trails his fingers down my arms and hooks onto my hands. “Sure you can. You used to, remember?”

I shake my head, “Oh, you know that doesn’t count Christian. We were nobodies – you were nobodies. Of course I could manage your measly little 10,000 Instagram followers.”

He squeezes my hands and tugs on my arms. “C’mon Val. It’ll be like the good old days. It’ll be fun!”

“I don’t know about you, but living in a tiny LA apartment with three men struggling to afford food wasn’t really that good or fun.”

He rolls his eyes and tugs on my arms again. “For old times’ sake?”

I shake my head, “No, no, I already have enough on my plate. I just took on another band not that long ago.”

“Please Val, for us?” His brows curve up, and he gives me the biggest hazel puppy dog eyes that he knows I can’t say no to. “For me?”

I groan and rest my head back against the wall. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

His hands leave mine and find their way to my hips, slipping under the flannel so his hands are holding onto bare skin between my tank and my sweats. His forehead presses against mine.

“Is there anything I can do to help change that answer?” He asks between the small space separating us while his finger traces my jaw line tilting my chin up a bit.

I tug at my lip – this is partially why I came here right? To nip my Nick problem in the bud, to break the dickmatization spell.

“I don’t know, maybe.” I tease up at him with round eyes.

“Hm.” He hums and leans in, pressing a kiss to my lips and I freeze.

Even though we’ve done this a million times before, it just feels wrong now. Nicholas and I aren’t even… anything, we’re just fucking, right? But it still feels odd.

I know this feeling.

And I know what it means.

Fuck.

I pull away and give a little head shake.

“Plum?” He asks using our code word for when we’re interested in or dating someone else.

I groan loudly, shuffle past him to his bed in the studio apartment and dramatically fall flat, face down onto it. Then let out an even louder, longer groan.

He walks over and gently sits criss-cross on the bed next to me.

“Must be a pretty good Plum to have you like this.”

Our friendship was simple. We’re the rare example that a friends-with-benefits can be truly, purely platonic and casual. Kras is a generally affectionate guy, even with his bandmates. And he is one of the only people I feel comfortable being affectionate with, so I let myself be affectionate with him.

We are platonically affectionate best friends who fuck when we’re single. It sounds impossible but it’s who we are and who we have been for almost 10 years. 

It’s nice, cozy, and convenient. Easy.

He’s safe, familiar, and reliable.

Which is more than I can say for any friendship or relationship I’ve ever had.

I turn my head towards him still flat against the bed.

“It’s bad Kras.”

“How bad?”

I chew on my bottom lip. “I work with him.”

His eyes widen. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“…In the band you were talking about?”

I turn back to hide my face in his duvet. “Oh yeah.”

“Val noooo.”

I chuckle at how his ‘no’s sound like ‘naaauur’s.

“I knooow.” I whine into the sheets.

“Singer?”

I shake my head against the duvet.

“Guitarist?”

“Bassist.” I reply muffled in bedding.

“Oof.”

A laugh escapes me at his reaction. I pop my head up at him, “Stop, I know.”

I pull myself up and cross the bed to sit next to him and lay my head on his shoulder.

“Maybe I just really like his dick.” I state confidently staring out the large window across the room. I blankly watch the daytime city lights flicker across the highrise-littered skyline.

“You think so?” He asks looking down at me a little. “I’ve never seen you get like this over just good dick. You’re pretty cut and dry about like…emotions. You’re good at separating sex from feelings.” He laughs and nudges me. “That’s why we work so well.”

I groan and hide my face in his shoulder because I know he’s right. He’s always right when it comes to shit like this.

“He sang to me Kras.”

“Oh god…was he any good?”

I feel my cheeks heat up and I nod against his arm, “It was so pretty.”

He laughs and tickles my side, “Look at you! You’re smitten! I never thought I’d see the day.”

I grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it, “Shut up!” then fall back flat and cover my face with it.

There’s a silence between us for a bit, a million things running through my mind, but Kras speaks for me.

“You know you can’t love him, right?” He says gently.

My brows furrow immediately, I slam the pillow down and shoot straight up.

“WHOA, whoa whoa.” I cut through the air with my hand. “Nobody ever said anything about…the L word. I do not…love him.” I can barely get the word out as if it’s something forbidden. “I barely fucking know him. I just like his dick.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in defense. “You can’t like him. You know that right?”

“I don’t even know if I like him. We’re just fucking. That’s all.”

He glares at me with a face that screams, ‘yeah right’. “Well, fine, you know you can’t keep fucking him.”

I let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, I know. I thought coming here to fuck you would help.”

He laughs then tapers off in thought.

“Maybe we don’t actually have to fuck in order to help.” He suggests.

I raise a brow at him, “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean… guys normally don’t just sing to girls they’re casually hooking up with.”

“Okay…?” I motion for him to keep going.

“So, if it comes up or anything, you could just lie.” He shrugs.

“Lie about what?”                             

“About like, fucking someone else. If he likes you enough to sing to you, he probably won’t be happy if you tell him you’re fucking someone else. So, he’ll stop trying to fuck you.”

I chew on my thumbnail in thought, he’s right. Like always.

“Maybe. I don’t really know if he’d even care. We never really talking about anything… I thought we just had a silent agreement about just fucking, he never said anything about-”

“He sang to you Val.”

I anxiously twirl the ends of my ponytail and chew on my bottom lip. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

He gives me the most ‘are you for real’ glare.

“Okay, okay.” I deflate. “IF it comes up, I’ll mention something.”

“Just don’t say who I am. I don’t know him, he could beat my ass." He laughs. "Plus, it would be pretty awkward for him to find out that you’re fucking a hot guitarist from your other band.” He smirks cheekily.

“Shut up.” I elbow his side playfully, “I never said yes.”

“But you will.”

I chew on my lip thinking it over.

On one hand, I’m already insanely busy and overworked with the two artists I’m already managing.

On the other hand, as odd as they are, they are old and close friends of mine. It wouldn’t be like managing strangers or learning a whole new fanbase, I helped build the foundation of the one they have now back in 2014.

And it would be a good distraction.

If this plan works out with Nick, maybe I could move on from Plum status and I can actually focus on my job.

“Fine. I’ll do it. BUT,” I hold a finger pointed towards him menacingly, “ONLY temporarily.”

“Ah yes! I knew you would!” He exclaims, wrapping his arms around me and tackling me to the bed, pressing various ‘thank you’ kisses to my cheek.

“Okay, okay enough.” I chuckle trying to escape his grasp.

-NICHOLAS-

I let a long sigh at the bottom of the stairs, shifting my weight between both feet. I tap my fingers on the wooden railing anxiously. I probably shouldn’t be this rattled over something I’ve done a million times before. But it doesn’t get any easier.

I push myself up the stairs in one driving force knowing that it has to be me. It’s always me.

Never Folio. Never Jolly.

It’s always been my job.

There’s no response when I knock on Noah’s bedroom door.

I knock again, no answer.

I knock again, no answer.

So, I let myself in.

As expected, Noah’s passed out with a fresh bottle of whiskey half drank on his nightstand. His room still in as much filth as it’s been for a while. For as long as I’ve known him, I’ve only ever seen his room even remotely messy a handful of times, and this is the worst I’ve ever seen it. In the past I’ve known the reasons behind the mess or the drinking – usually over a breakup or some depression spell – but this time he kept me in the dark. I have no fucking clue what's going on with him.

If I wasn’t so aggravated with him already, the mess of the room would worry me even more than I already am.

I cross the threshold of garbage between the door and his bed and pat his cheek awake.

“Noah.”

Sleepy snores tumble from his mouth and while one might find them endearing, right now, they’re pissing me the fuck off.

“Noah.” I say more sternly, nudging him more. No luck.

I try various other ways, and nothing works. He’s out cold.

So, I try a tried-and-true classic.

I climb on top of him and straddle his waist over the duvet, one knee at each side of his hips. His boney exposed shoulders offer a great anchor so I grab them, shaking him awake.

He comes-to slowly, droopy heavy lids struggling to open. His fist goes to rub his tired eye but winces when he’s reminded of the swollen black and blue that surrounds it.  

“The fuck are you doing?” He groans, stealing a pillow from beside him to cover his face. “Get off of me.”

I snatch the pillow from his grasp and toss it across the room. “No. You’re going to get up. You’re going to shower. And I’m taking you to a meeting.”

He shields his eyes with his arm. “I’m-I’m fine Nick, don’t need a meeting.” His words slurring together.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” I correct.

“I don’t need a meeting.” He hiccups and I can smell the alcohol radiating off him, seeping through his skin. “I’m not going. I'm just gonna sleep.”

I grab his wrists, pin them to the bed and get low to his face. “Oh you’re going. We’re gonna sober you up, starting with a shower.” I pull off him and stand beside the bed.

“Let’s go. C’mon.”

“No.”

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way has the same result. Let’s go.”

“No.”

I sigh, even though I knew it would end up like this. “Fine. Hard way it is.”

I yank the sheets off him and use two arms to scoop up his body by his midsection and throw him over my shoulder. He’s thin enough to where even I can lift and carry him easily – or maybe I’ve just gotten used to the weight of him in my arms.

“Nick let me fucking go.” He whines but doesn’t try to wiggle out of my grasp, probably too hungover to move that much.

With every bit of my strength, I carry his thin body to his guest bathroom.

I all but toss him into the shower, start the water, and fling the curtain closed.

“Hey! What the fuck!” He yells and shuts off the water immediately.

He slings the curtain open and snatches a towel off the nearest rack, wrapping it around his shirtless torso.

“What the fuck is your problem, Nicholas!” His hands frantically wipe the water from his face. 

I let out a frustrated groan and turn to leave. "Stop being a baby." 

He steps out of the tub and calls after me, “Hey, I’m not fucking done talking to you!”

The shower shock did exactly what I needed it to do, sober him up, but now I regret even waking him up.

“My problem is that you’re a fucking drunk Noah.” I snap turning back to him.

“I’m not a fucking drunk, I have it under control. You’re just fucking paranoid!” He steps into the hallway dripping water all over the carpet.

“I’m not fucking paranoid, Noah. I’m not letting you drink yourself to oblivion.”

His brows lift in offense, “Let me? What the fuck are you, my fucking keeper?”

“Sometimes it sure fucking feels like I am!” The words escape me before I can stop them.

He chuckles in disbelief, “Well, nobody fucking asked you to be.”

“It doesn’t matter if anyone asked me to, I have to because who the fuck else is gonna pick your sorry, bruised ass off a bar floor in the middle of the fucking day?” My hand helps exaggerate each word.

“Jolly or Folio would’ve.” He sasses, crossing his arms.

“Oh yeah? And how long you think they’d put up with that?” I step closer to him. “Not for as long as I have, that’s for fucking sure.”

His eyes scrunch together like he’s hurt or offended.

Maybe both,

Maybe neither.

“I won’t let you push out everyone in our lives Noah.”

His eyes land on me and he cocks his head to the right a bit like a dog processing a foreign noise.

“‘Push out everyone in our lives’ is that what this is actually about? Alice?”

My gaze locks on him and my hands curl into tight fists at my sides. There are many words I want to say but none seem able to leave my tongue.

“Oh my god. You can’t be serious.” He steps back and points defensively at me. "I didn't push her out, you did!" 

My blood boils and burns as it courses through my veins. My eyes narrow at him.

“I know you fucked her Noah.” I shove my finger so hard into his chest that it nearly knocks him back.

“I didn’t even like her Nick! Why the fuck would I fuck her?” He immediately denies.

“Because you always have to have everything you want, including the things that aren’t yours.”

“‘Things’” He scoffs. “Funny how you’re so upset about someone you only see as a thing.”

My teeth grind so hard it makes my jaw clench, “You know she was never a thing to me until you fucked her.”

“Oh, give it a break Nicholas! Stop blaming me for her leaving.” His hands exaggerate his words then points straight at me. “You are the reason your relationship failed. You are the reason she left.”

My eyes narrow as I step closer to his soaked body. “I would really watch what you fucking say if I were you.”

“Or what?” He asks but I have no answer. “When are you going to stop punishing me for something I never fucking did?”

I watch his eyes: dark brown, heavy, bloodshot, and one lined with a dark bruise from the bar fight. His words sound genuine, but I know his eyes, I know them like the back of my hand.

I know when he’s lying, and he’s lying to me right now. I can’t prove it, I haven’t been able to, but I know he’s been lying to me for the past year.

“For the love of god Noah, can you just stop fucking lying?” I snap. "You don't even have enough respect for me to tell me the truth?"

“Wow.” He presses his lips together for a moment. “You must think so low of me to really believe that I would do something like that.”

“I don’t have to think low of you to believe the truth.” I hiss, stepping towards him. “But you’re going to keep denying it so it’s irrelevant what I believe did or didn’t happen. What I do know, is that you have a fucking problem, and you need help.”

He steps towards me with low brows and narrow beady eyes, “I didn’t fuck Alice and I don’t need a fucking alcohol anonymous meeting just because I still like to get drunk sometimes. I am a fucking adult, and I don’t need you to ‘save me’.” He scoffs and runs his tongue across his teeth. “You know? Maybe that’s what actually drove Alice away, you and your fucking high-and-mighty, savior complex bullshit.”

Every inch of skin on my body feels like its burning and my heart races so loud I can barely even think clearly. I tighten my fists so tight that my nails dig into my palms painfully. I know that if I do anything, it will make me look like the villain.

“I can’t fucking hit you because if I do, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.” I growl lowly. “Get sober or don’t, I don’t fucking care anymore – but we have a chance, a real chance at making it now and if you ruin this for us Noah, I will never fucking forgive you. Do you understand me? I will fucking destroy you if you fuck this up for us.”

His brows curve up and he looks at me like I’m insane for insinuating that he would. “I won’t.” He replies through gritted teeth.

I glance over the railing when I hear the house beginning to stir with Jolly and Folio starting to wake up, which is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I don’t need them getting involved.

“Just,” I lower my voice between us. “Make it to rehearsals, meetings, shows – the rest I don’t give a fuck. Just make it to work. Sober.”

“Fine.” He says quickly, "If that will keep you out of my fucking business and leave me the fuck alone."

"Fine."

"Fine." He repeats, because of course he has to have the last word, before storming off to his room and slamming the door behind him.

I mirror him, making it to my room and slamming the door.

Once alone, the feeling that courses through my body is nauseating, painful and overwhelming. It is a visceral ache, I feel it twisting in my chest first, in my ribs, then flows and pools in the pit of my stomach.

I thought I moved on from the Alice situation. I tried to force myself to believe him, I tried to forget and push it so far down that it wouldn’t hurt. Tried to rationalize, maybe he didn’t sleep with her. Maybe he didn’t betray me. Maybe it really is just me projecting the weaknesses of our relationship onto him. But no matter how hard I push it down, it always bubbles back up.

And in my gut, I know he did it. Everything adds up, the timelines, the behavior, all of it.

I was just never prepared for a girlfriend to cheat on me with my best friend. I was never prepared to have him sleep with my girlfriend. Not after everything we’ve been through.

I was never prepared to have my heart broken by the two people I trusted and loved more than anything in my life.

In retrospect, I guess, I should’ve expected it. For as long as I can remember Noah always had girls fawning all over him. He always had that lead singer charm even though he never planned on being a frontman. Girls were never an issue for him, he seemed to get anyone he ever wanted.

Is it really that far-fetched that the one I had wanted him too?

Is that all that this is going to be from now on? Any girl the rest of us want, would just want Noah first?

I never pictured that this would be our future.

I never pictured my best friend of over a decade fucking my girlfriend then lying about it to my face.

I never pictured having to drag said lying, alcoholic best friend out of bed trying to get him to an AA meeting just so he could be sober enough for rehearsals.

I never imagined that out of the four of us, it would be me having to hold it all together. I never signed up for that. I signed up to play an instrument, to sign CDs, sleep in busses and sit in interviews. I never signed up to play manager, I never signed up to secretly scrape Noah off bar floors, be his personal caretaker and tentative AA sponsor. Doing all of that just to have it thrown in my face, to stand next to him – every day in rehearsals, in photoshoots, on stage, across the fucking dining table – knowing what he did and pretending that I’m okay with it.

I never thought I’d feel stuck in this band, this thing Noah and I have worked on and dreamed about since we were 15. I’ve poured so much of my life into this fucking band.

I can’t just up and leave. I’d have nothing left. I’d be nothing without them and I can’t be the bomb to blow us up. Especially not now when everything is just starting to take off. All this work would’ve been for nothing.

It’s not just my livelihood and dream, but theirs as well. I can’t do that to them.

And as much as I want to, as much as I’ve tried, I can’t leave Noah. We both know I’m right whether he wants to admit it or not. Nobody else would do what I do, nobody knows what I do, and nobody knows how to take care of him the way I do. He’s stubborn and stupid and won’t let anyone else in the way he’s let me in.

I don’t know why I’m the only one who has gotten the curse of his trust, but I have it and I can’t hand it off or set it down – no matter how heavy or suffocating it is.

Next Chapter -> 11 - Peak Fashion

tag list; @ladyveronikawrites @kingdomof-omens @persuasivus @strawberryruffilo @thebadchic @the-hell-i-overcame @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @cncohshit @dominuslunae [comment if you'd like to be tagged?]

A/N: The love for this story has honestly been so overwhelming (in a good way obv) and I couldn't be more grateful. I really thought this would flop lol so, thank you so much for every like, reblog, ask, or comment. It means the world to me truly. Thank you.

i love hearing your thoughts so feel free to share! (i'm really bad at responding to comments/asks but i still love them 🥺)

[will-the-ghosts-go-away]

me coming up with different backstories for eglee

[socially-awkward-chocobo]

Just a passing thought - but you know how Ayano has bad grades? And how it was so bad she was in summer school even though it was the start of her high school year?

How much of that was because she was genuinely having trouble with school and how much of it was because of Kano replacing her so nobody would notice? Kano - who to my knowledge, didn't go to school.

I could be wrong, but I don't remember Shintaro saying anything about her grades becoming bad in high school, it's safe to assume she was already struggling beforehand, but would she have been getting grades as low as 56 (a grade seen in Toumei Answer) if she were attending school regularly? Or would they at least be passing?

Just a stray thought that keeps bugging me.

[kimium]

Chapters: 4/7 Summary:

God AU. Multiple/Switching POVs.

"Every thing has to have an origin story. Even gods."

An AU where all the housewardens are gods and require an origin story. (In where the answer to "How to Become A God" is "Get Possessed".)

~

Kalim's Story.

"Kalim smiled warmly. The duty thrust upon him at an early age was fulfilling but it left him without people to call true friends. Jamil, who was the son of one of their high ranked workers had grown up alongside Kalim due to being the same age. Their friendship had made the lonely days and nights not allowed to always play with the other kids a little less painful.

“Jamil!” Kalim greeted brightly.

“Your parents were looking for you,” Jamil said with a narrowing of eyes. “It’s time for your lessons.”

“Oh…” Kalim glanced around the room and found a clock hanging on the wall. The hands indicated he was twenty minutes late. “Oops. I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

Kalim may be a bit lonely growing up but at least he has Jamil, his best friend at his side.

~

Hello everyone!!! Here is my chapter for Kalim! This one was one of the harder ones to plan but I’m so happy where I landed! It’s also the longest chapter so far... oops. Anyways, I hope you like it! Let me know!!!

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

“I’ll admit,” Percy Weasley starts. He’s hardly paying attention to anything outside the documents he’s perusing, throwing occasional glances at the small, constantly updating graph shimmering in the air beside him. “When Granger came to me with this idea, I thought she had finally gone mad.”

He snorts to himself and flips to another page, “It’d be about time, honestly. Dating my brother really should have done her in sooner. But Granger is smart. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. So, even though I thought the time had finally come to declare the one sane addition to my family, insane—I gave her the benefit of the doubt.”

Someone off camera clears their throat, “Mr Weasley, could you clarify what idea Ms Granger had that you’re referring to?”

Percy looks up with furrowed brows. He tilts his head and asks, “What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

“It’s obvious to us but not to the audience.”

“Ah,” Percy nods sagely. “I understand. Right. I am referring to Hermione Granger’s idea of filming a documentary about life inside the Ministry of Magic in an attempt to raise recruitment across various departments, of course.”

-

“The ministry gets a bad rap,” Hermione Granger says while walking briskly down the halls of Level One. The cameras jostle as their operators and the rest of the crew rush to keep pace. “People think we’re secretly dark. They think that underhanded things are happening in the underbelly of our ministry. They think we don’t have their best interests at heart,” she sighs, dismayed.

“As Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, I oversee many finer details of our departments here. And, lately, overall interest to work for the ministry has suddenly declined.”

She pauses before a door. It causes a small traffic jam as the crew suddenly stop with her. With one hand on the knob, she turns to address the camera head-on, “Each year, more and more students graduate from Hogwarts. The wixen population in England has flourished, but we’re not seeing an influx of CVs.”

A parchment bird flaps its folded wings, gliding its way past the heads of crew members, and lands on the little bridge Hermione’s wrist makes, pecking at her sleeve for attention. She glances down at it and plucks the bird up; her magic smoothes out the folds until all that’s left is a small piece of blue parchment with a brief note scrawled in decidedly messy handwriting.

She reads it as she continues, “That’s where you all come in. PR is Percy’s job, but with the Minister’s upcoming reelection push, he hasn’t got the time to spare. So I’m counting on this inside look on the ministry to soften our public image and make us more approachable…,” her voice trails off as she finishes reading.

Hermione’s head lifts slowly and warily. “As an aside, please do not speak with the Head Auror until further notice,” she stresses and enters the doorway leaving the crew behind.

-

“Welcome to the DMLE. Can I help you?” The reception Auror frowns, “Wait. Is that a camera? This is a restricted area with highly confidential—“

A crew member holds up a document.

“Oh.” A quick spell is cast over the parchment, and all seems to be in order as the Auror simply shrugs, “Well, I can’t argue with that. What do you want, then?”

“We were looking for the Head Auror?”

“Head Auror Potter?” There is a sudden disquiet from the crew. Potter couldn’t mean Harry Potter, right? “He’s in T6. Follow the arrows, and don’t touch anything, please.”

-

The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Head Auror Harry Potter, stands casually in a training hall. He’s overseeing the strict regimen for the sparse few new Aurors. His robes are draped over his shoulders and not quite worn in accordance with uniform regulations, but no one has the guts to point it out.

He easily replies to the quietly asked question, “Hermione doesn’t want you speaking with me because she thinks nothing shifty is happening in the ministry. She also wants this documentary to go off without a hitch.”

Before he continues, Harry carefully shrugs, “Whereas I’m the opposite, really.”

Silence lingers before someone is brave enough to ask, “The opposite, Head Auror Potter-sir?”

Harry catches the eyes of the cameraperson who spoke up—they all flinch with the intensity of his stare—but he smiles softly and says, “Yeah. And just Harry is fine if you wouldn’t mind.”

A look is shared between the crew. Of course no one is ever going to address Head Auror Harry Potter as just Harry. That’s ludicrous.

There’s a brief moment where it looks like Harry is contemplating how to word his following sentence delicately, but his straightforward attitude seems to win out.

“Our Minister is a Dark Lord in disguise,” the unsaid ‘duh’ is loud and jaw-dropping even over the sounds of training spellfire, “so anyone with half a brain cell would be smart to keep away. And if we’re going to have a whole documentary trying to prove otherwise, I plan on doing everything I can to stop it.”

The camera slowly zooms in on Harry’s pleased little grin. And no one knows what to say for a long, long while.

-

Ron Weasley adjusts himself in the tall folding chair the crew set up in the Auror Break Area. He’s holding a small bag of crisps and diligently makes his way through it before straightening up in his seat.

His proper posture lasts all of three seconds before his shoulders droop like he’s carrying the weight of the world. Finally, Ron takes a deep breath, leans forward in his chair and cups a hand over one side of his mouth, preparing to whisper.

He looks very concerned and a touch manic as he says, “Harry is obsessed with the Minister.”

-

The Minister for Magic is unavailable for an interview at this time.

-

Draco Malfoy scoffs outside the Minister’s main offices. “Of course. The one time we finally get to have cameras following us around, and it’s for a bloody hiring campaign.”

A crew member mumbles a question off lens, and his eyebrows raise. Draco’s smile is wide with amusement when he says, “Oh? Haven’t you heard? Potter hates the Minister.”

He sets aside the Witch Weekly he’s reading to give the crew his undivided attention. “Truly, you don’t understand until you witness it first hand. Potter can be a bit of an idiot, a Gryffindor in the worst of ways, a bit of a hot head, a complete disgrace to the ministry, a—“

Someone clears their throat.

“—Potter is a disagreeable person by nature. He was probably born that way. But even I know that Potter has never hated someone as much as he hates the Minister. And you think it’s obvious now, but when they’re both in a room together,” Draco pauses to shake his head and lean back. His face takes on a dreamy sort of look like he’s lost in a memory, “the tension is absolutely ridiculous.”

The crew hasn’t seen any blatant hatred from either party. Though they’ve yet to meet the Minister, and looking back on Head Auror Harry Potter’s pleased face, maybe they should be a little more concerned.

Draco suddenly starts out of his daze, “Everything between them had been fine for years, supposedly. But then something happened the day Potter was invited to the manor to meet with Father and the Minister, and since then, he’s barely refrained from pursuing all-out war.”

-

The camera cuts to Lucius Malfoy. He crosses his legs and grips his cane with unexpected force.

“I refuse to think upon that dreadful day without copious amounts of alcohol,” he says and declines further comment.

-

“Strangely enough,” Draco ponders. “I don’t think the Minister really minds it.”

He reaches for his magazine once again, “Potter is probably like a small yapping crup to the Minister. Amusing and pitiable with floppy ears and a wagging tail.”

The crew waits silently for Draco to continue, but he seems to have gotten bored of the conversation and forgotten they are here.

-

“Harry’s relationship with the Minister before?” Ron asks. He’s still in the break area, and it seems he never left.

He scratches lightly at his cheek in thought. “Well, I guess Harry didn’t really talk to him much? They only saw each other rarely. Like during special Wizengamot hearings or ministry parties or for any Auror protection detail the Minister might need while travelling. From what I remember, there weren’t really any complaints. Hermione was more likely to have things to say with the Minister being her direct boss and all.”

A crew member mumbles quietly, “Would you say they were amicable, then, Mr Weasley?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ron shrugs. “They weren’t best mates or anything—Harry would never do that to me anyway—but Harry definitely wasn’t completely bonkers like he is now.”

Sirius Black walks into the room with a mug and halts. “Oh?” His eyes roam over the crew and Ron, “What’s going on in here?"

“Hey, Sirius,” Ron greets with a slight wave. “Don’t mind them; they’re just interviewing everyone about Harry.”

The crew debates whether they should correct Ron and diplomatically decide to see where this leads instead.

Sirius’ head cocks like a dog hearing a squeaking toy. He smiles something mischievous and plotting when he announces, “I happen to be Harry’s godfather.”

The crew quickly pans half their cameras toward Sirius.

“What exactly are you trying to learn about my dear godson?”

Ron snorts, “They want to know why Harry’s obsessed with the Minister.”

The crew really thinks someone should correct them before this gets out of hand. But…

Sirius whistles low and ominous. “I’m guessing you lot haven’t seen the room yet.”

The horror that alights Ron’s face at the mention of it is warning enough. But that doesn’t stop one of the crew members from asking, “What room?”

-

Pansy Parkinson stands before the alleged room with her hands on her hips.

“Listen to me and listen to me carefully,” she starts. Her tone leaves no space for hemming and hawing, “None of you will be stepping foot into this room. My boss would kill me.”

Ron nods quickly, bobbing his head up and down too many times to count. “She’s right. Harry won’t like it if we go in there. Especially without him.”

“Come on, Parkinson,” Sirius goads, “don’t tell me you’re scared of my little godson. Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

-

The cameras cut to a scene from earlier this morning. Harry is filmed stunning a buzzing mid-flight fly with terrifying accuracy.

He shakes his head, “You’ve been faster, Harry,” and mumbles on about needing to get back into his twice-daily routine. Whatever that means.

-

Pansy looks at Sirius like he is dirt beneath her heels. “Black. He has explicitly instructed me that you shouldn’t even be within six metres of this door,” she pulls out her wand, “and that if I saw you, I’d have free reign to neutralise you however I see fit.”

A camera quickly zooms in on Ron, who does quick work of leaving the immediate area. He two-finger salutes the camera crew as he slips out of the hall. He’s gone long before Sirius takes out his wand and spellfire is exchanged.

The crew decide over a few rounds of rock-paper-scissors who will stay to film the impending damage. A sacrifice is chosen and mourned. The rest break off before being caught in the crossfire or killed.

-

Percy sighs. “I’d like to take this time to remind you all that anything filmed for this documentary that paints the ministry in a bad light and doesn’t pass muster must be vanished or incendioed immediately.”

He pauses to jot something down on a piece of parchment and taps his wand to it, waiting as it arranges into a charming butterfly. When it flutters away, he continues, “The Minister and I may find some value in this idea, but we draw the line at anything potentially harmful to the reelection campaign.”

Percy stands and gathers his things; some additional ministry documents and that shimmery graph float beside him as he walks. “Granger thinks this is solely a recruitment push, but the Minister and I agree that this could also be great exposure to showcase how strong the ministry is under its current leadership.”

He pauses momentarily and speaks slowly and deliberately, “It is imperative that nothing untoward is shown to the public.”

-

The camera cuts. Sirius and Pansy are battered and bruised, nearly bloody. The floor around them is missing large sections, looking like moon craters or Swiss cheese, and somehow the door to the room still stands untouched.

Pansy blows a strand of hair out of her line of sight. “Sirius Black, you absolute (beep) (beep) of a (beep). I’m going to (beep) you (beep) and leave you out on the streets of muggle London where your body will (beep) (beep) (beep) (beep)—”

The rest of the footage is muted for general audiences.

-

“In fact.” Percy continues, “I recommend the whole documentary crew avoid the Auror Department altogether.” He shakes his head, “It is a wonder how Head Auror Potter gets anything done. The man is really a saint.”

Percy walks ahead of the crew and into a lift as he quietly mentions, “His numbers speak for themselves, though. It’s no wonder he’s the Minister’s favourite,” and the doors slowly close shut.

Someone from the back of the crew proclaims an eloquent, “What did he just say?”

-

The Minister for Magic continues to be unavailable for an interview at this time.

-

[hellcheerficdatabase]

heart begins to beat

Author: makeshiftcandy

Rating/Warning: Explicit, referenced ED

Chapter Count: 11/11

Description:

He ran when she died.

And she killed him in turn.

Vecna is dead. Chrissy Cunningham and Eddie Munson were, too.

Until they weren't.

Tags: Alternate universe- canon compliant, post-canon, fix-it, angst, hurt and comfort, emotional hurt and comfort, Eddie needs a hug, Chrissy needs a hug, slow-burn, smut, alternating POV, multiple chapters, status: completed

[youhaveaguineapigwhere]

He Can't Get This

Chapter 1

♡Set in Supernatural S14 Ep14. I recommend rewatching the ep or the crime scene bit ;)♡

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That baby cop, he liked you." 

Dean Winchester slammed the door of the impala closed and reached to start her, his jaw tense and lips slightly drawn as he turned the key. 

Castiel tilted his head towards the hunter from his passenger seat, a little lost. "I'm sorry, what?" He shifted a little, adjusting his coat as Dean put the car in reverse, voice blunt but unassuming.

They'd just figured out that the Gorgon couldn't sense Castiel and Jack with his eyeball premonitions, for lack of a better description (most likely because they weren't human) So Cas and Jack would have to lead the attack when they tracked down the gorgon again. Whatever Dean had said made no sense to the angel. 

Cas' voice was that consistent gruff lull and his hair was stuck up at a little part in the back. Dean practiced restraint for the instinct to reach out and smooth it. 

"Mr. Twunk over there," He retorted, throwing a half hazard gesture towards the crime scene. Cas squinted through the windshield and saw a vaguely familiar blond head of hair popping out of a patrol car. The young officer they had spoken to earlier.

"Probably fresh out of academy too." Dean added, his tone short and irritated as he intrigued Cas' full attention, who furrowed his brows and leaned up in his seat.

"Oh, come on," Dean shot Cas a look, "he totally creamed his pants when you pulled the whole 'deep commanding voice thing', he went stiff as a board, don't tell me you didn't notice." He let a soft huff out of the corner of his mouth, his pink lips upturned in a small smirk, though still betrayed by his wound-tight words as he glanced from the road to Castiel. 

"I was more focused on the demi god and his victims, Dean." Castiel explained slowly. 

"Yeah, sure, not the young guy you got all hot and bothered." 

Cas squinted at Dean suspiciously, "Is this merely about your dislike for police officers, Dean? Or is it something else?" He questioned.

Dean forced out a laugh, "It's not anything Cas, just an observation." 

"That seems... untrue."

"Yeah." Dean chided, "And what are you gonna do about it?" 

Castiel's patience had run thin. "Dean..." he tested firmly. 

A blush crept up behind Dean's collar and he gripped onto baby's steering wheel, adjusting his seating, "I just didn't like the way he looked at you, okay, sue me." He threw his hands up for a breif moment before returning them to the sleek black wheel.

Cas titled his head, the line of his jaw catching a fragment of the afternoon sun as they passed by storefronts with big glass windows. "How did he look at me?" 

"Like he wanted you to bend him over and fuck him into next week." 

"Like how you look at me." 

Cas' voice was wet gravel. 

Dean halted on the brakes, jolting them forward, scarlet blush deepening, "What, no! You.. you know that's not- and before you say a word about what we did that one time in lebanon that was different okay! I don't gawk at you all the time Cas."  

"Different how?" Cas challenged. 

The trafic light turned green and a car behind them honked impatiently, "Okay, geez," Dean muttered as they started moving. "Because... I was super horny and hadn't seen you in what, four months?" he continued, "And you're my best friend dude and you were looking particularly moody that day and yeah, maybe I'm just jealous and a little bitch." He sighed, defeated. 

Cas let out a low chuckle. 

"Oh shut up you smug fuck," Dean reached out and shoved a hand over Castiels face, his own now a particular shade of pink. 

Cas cleared his throat and picked up a level tone as Dean's hand fell away, "You know you can always ask to..."

"Oh yeah, I know," Dean interjected, "Just check in between hunts and saving the world and having Micheal locked up in my head and raising our kid to be like 'oh Cas,' I miss the feel of my skin against yours and how you make me act like a dumb teenager and that night in the cowboy hotel was the best of my life and I can't get you off my mind every time you leave. I got Sammy breathing down my neck constantly cause he knows and just wants to rub it in my face but I won't say anything because I refuse to talk about feelings with a sasquatch or like you know ever and I-." Dean's words started out sarcastic and ended with a desperate pout and Cas gave him a kind look, reaching to rest his hand gingerly on Dean’s thigh as the hunter let out a heavy exhale.  

Cas knew life was never easy, for any of them, but Dean was the most important thing to him, no matter how closed off or stubborn he could be. 

"So, you got jealous when a man looked at me with sexual intentions?"

"Cas, you're making me sound like a little bitch again." Dean huffed, the peachy blush crowding against his freckles a complete contrast with his deep manly tone and set, sloping jawline. 

"My apologies, Dean." Cas stated, his eyes soft, "I wanted to know what was going on, and that only works when you tell me." 

"I know, I know." Dean exhaled, "You know I'm not good at this stuff Cas, but I have missed you.. All this running around.. 'drives me crazy sometimes." Dean nodded his head down and looked up at the road through his eyelashes.

Cas silently noticed how after all these years Dean still seemed to physically shrink in on himself a little, anytime he showed vulnerability. Or rather, he wondered with disdain, who exactly had taught him this trait. The only time he seemed to release himself from those instincts is when he let Castiel have him in bed. And oh, how beautiful Dean was then. Bare and trembling under his hands. Never trying to be smaller.

"I've missed you too, Dean." He comforted, knowing no words could come to match how he felt being so often pulled from the man. He looked out the passenger window, watching the landscape slide by, "You know-" he thought aloud, an idea still churning in his mind, "Rowena still needs time to prepare the tracking spell.." He lowered his voice and gave Dean's thigh a gentle squeeze. 

Dean swallowed and tensed his hands around the steering wheel, seeming much more determined to get to where they were going. 

[whumpitisthen]

Brazen Arrogance

Previous I Masterlist I Next

The warp tears into space in front of an audience.

Upon stepping out of the gaping void between realms, the very first thing Grim notices is the blissful lack of sulphur in the air. One gets used to the dark smoke covering Hell’s crimson skies like rain clouds, but when visiting human territory, he cannot help inhaling a deep lungful of the fresh, properly oxygenated air. The air here smells of vigorous life.

The rarity of such simple pleasures is one unfortunate side effect of the Dawn. That is the word his lord prefers to refer to Hell’s takeover with, — humans come up with all kinds of funny names for it instead. The Cataclysm, the Armageddon, Doomsday, the Collapse, the Calamity, Ruin, Torrent, the End — the day the sky tore open, the day the Sun bled, the day their beloved God abandoned them. Yes, it has certainly shaken things up, and made the Reaper's immortal undeath much more interesting, but he would be lying if he said he didn't miss the Old World sometimes. All the intricate ways and lives of humanity have been tainted by unholy power, and while they prevail as best they can, they will never be the same.

The second thing he notices is the absolute, resolute silence. As such, that is not uncommon in itself — silence has a habit of following him wherever he goes. However, he can feel dozens of souls nearby, hundreds of eyes staring at the portal snapping closed behind him and his old friend as they belatedly enter, breathless and intense. He straightens, mood already lifting. It's always such a delight to be in human territory. Unlike the slaves living in captivity, these mortals taste of hope and vibrate with the will to live. Their fear always smells the sweetest, their spirits are always the most lively. Splendid prey to chase away boredom with.

A familiar warmth finds its way behind his eyes. This is what the nostalgic grief of visiting a childhood home must be like, though gods don't really have any single house to call such. Their homes are their domains, and Death’s domain has been and will always be Earth, the home of humanity, the realm of mortals. And though he rarely ever leaves Earth, he resides in its hell-infested parts the most, so he rarely gets to see this side of the planet nowadays. His true home is the land of mortals, not the ruins of a civilisation now taken over by demonkind. Seeing free humans is like seeing cattle well taken care of — their lives end all the same, yet free-range always tastes better.

That is to say, gods have quite a twisted sense of what ‘home’ might mean.

He stands to the side to let His Majesty take the lead. Grim is meant to act as protection, following from behind like a second shadow. It's what he does best, after all. A tall, menacing figure with an intimidating weapon and an even more intimidating mask, cloaked in shadows and leering menacingly. A presence that commands caution. He stalks just a few strides behind, walking at a more languid pace than His Majesty; a beguiling demon wearing an innocent man’s face as he sews terror into the hearts of everyone present. If the eager expression on his face is anything to go by, he is clearly itching to get started.

Unfortunately, awful distaste settles on his lord’s tongue upon entering.

His eyes set on a large, see-through wall. Thick, certainly made of a material considered strong to humans. It divides the dusty warehouse into two halves; one half for the cowardly mortal leaders, the other for the two deities.

They are in the middle of nowhere, on no man's land, perhaps a field Hell's armies have scorched to ashes in the past. An impromptu, flimsy building was raised here from sheets of metal, cobbled together just enough to stay standing. There is no doubt in His Majesty's mind that behind every unstable metal wall is another wall of soldiers and weaponry, just waiting for a signal to swarm the two of them, flooding every breath’s worth of space with their crude bullets without hesitation. Why else would they have built something so temporary, if not to save time on something that will be destroyed in the end?

Past the glass wall, trembling politicians sit in a row at a long table, sweating bullets in their quiet anticipation. Another row of people stand right behind them; the interpreters most likely. Large industrial flood lights give vision; — they blare from above, illuminating every imperfection on every face and magnifying it tenfold. No escort, no welcoming expressions and pleasantries, no offerings or sacrifices. No decency. Just a big, empty room reeking of cowardice and disrespect.

Worst of all, all his subjects have provided him with were a single table and chair, sitting in the middle of the floor right under a hot ray of artificial light. There is not even as much as a glass of water on the surface of the scuffed up thing.

A shameful presentation if he has ever seen one. Only humans could invite their benevolent god and welcome him in a metal shed in the middle of nowhere, begging for help disdainfully from behind an ugly, flimsy shield. Truly shameless.

From the opposite side of the glass, a tall woman emerges, followed by a couple others not unlike her. They wear religious cloaks that cover their bodies almost completely. Walking up to the glass wall with their eyes to the floor, they kneel beside each other, bowing deep in worship, their hooded foreheads touching the ground.

They wear his colours, they wear his symbols, they act in accordance with what they think he may appreciate as worship. They are his followers, clearly, surely brought here to welcome him properly.  — “In the name of all government officials taking part in this diplomatic meeting today, I, as your humble High Priestess, welcome you, our most merciful Lord. We are forever thankful for your benevolence. May your kindness persist and your mercy reach us, so we may forever provide you with our tireless service and sinful flesh in return. We offer our bodies to use as you see fit. We are here to serve only you.”

Her words are clear and enunciated, void of nearly all emotion apart from the slightest vibrato of nerves impossible to hide in the face of such honour. She talks with the utmost respect, with the reverence of a zealot finally allowed to look upon her one true god. Despite all that, His Majesty’s expression remains emotionless and uncaring. Slightly disappointed.

Once her monologue ends, he simply ignores all eyes on him, remaining quiet as he walks up to the shoddy, pathetic chair meant for him and lays a hand on the back of it. Gripping it with any force snaps a piece of the material off — its metal legs creak, and the piece in his hand crumbles to sawdust. It isn't even made out of proper lumber, but of wood waste and chemicals. It wouldn't surprise him if they duct taped the thing together the same way they did with this building. His frown deepens. Grim giggles to himself behind him, wandering the length of the room back and forth lazily, just waiting to be allowed to pounce. His laughter chills the air, yet his Lord’s blood only warms.

No emotion paints his face, but the intensity with which the demon aims his expectant glance at his kneeling servants just behind the glass is powerful enough to send a violent shiver of displeasure down each of their backs.

“Angela,” — he calls with a smile to the one in the middle, who jumps at hearing her true name flow from the mouth of her god with such nonchalance; unexpected, unprovoked, — “tell me. Do you think this is acceptable?”

In the following pause, the carefully kept professional admiration flickers in her eyes. She hesitates to answer, a breath caught in her throat at being named and called upon so directly. — “I-I do not understand, my Lord. Forgive me.”

“Rise.”

Without hesitance, but a great deal of terror, she clambers to her feet, nailing her gaze to the toes of her shoes. The row of mortals behind her shuffle uncomfortably, looking to each other in confusion. He can taste their unease on the tip of his pointed tongue. He finds some joy in derailing their little plans, whatever they may be. Humans always have a plan, always go by rules and instructions and orders. They were truly only ever meant to be servants.

“I-If I have displeased you, My Lord, I only ask —”

He lifts one finger and her mouth snaps shut like a snare around one’s throat.

“I am aware you must not be in charge of operations that do not pertain to you, child. So I am merely curious.” — He walks behind the broken chair, laying both hands on its rigid edges. — “You expect me to sit on this rotted, uncomfortable thing...”

The chair crumbles from an unexpected wave of force, splintering apart and falling to the floor noisily at once. Angela's hands become shaking fists. The audience, with the exception of Grim, gasps in unison. A hushed chatter bubbles up in the crowd. Grim leans back against a wall to watch the show from behind, sufficiently scaring the human guard he is closest to, who now cannot concentrate on anything but the Reaper lounging around right next to them like it's normal.

“Lay my divine body against this fragile, dusty, old bench…”

His fist explodes the unbalanced table next, splitting it apart in the middle with a loud bang to better enunciate the cold, unfeeling, yet incredulous almost-anger in his voice. The bang is muffled through the glass, but loud as a gunshot.

“...and worst of all, Angela;”

He approaches the ugly imitation of a crystal wall, regarding every human on the other side with less respect than worms under his feet. His coat flows after him elegantly, the swaying of its deep blue fabric audible in the pause between his words.

“You offer your mind, body and soul to me, your one true God, who is present in the flesh, answering your prayers personally — from the other side of a barrier aimed against him. Kneeling before the pitiful insects in paper crowns lining up behind you. You plead belonging to me while bowing behind false protection; instead of kissing my feet and letting your blood in true, beautiful reverence.”

He can tell his words are knives burrowing into her soul. Her shaking worsens as she listens, the air around her alight in guilt. Her shoulders tense to hide her slender neck. Being reprimanded by the one she spent her whole life working to please and worship is an almost soul shattering experience.

“Do you understand, Angela?” — he concludes, letting his words envelop every thought in her head, weaving her mind a cocoon of persuasion deeper than reverence alone could ever sink her, — “you offer yourself, but words are just words. There is no greater gift than becoming mine; a willing lamb to delight me — but how am I meant to grant my High Priestess this honour when she cannot even face me properly?”

A tear escapes through her composure, pure as Heaven's waters. She does not dare open her mouth however — she does not know what she could even say in her defence. A glint of something akin to joy shines in His Majesty's eyes. A gullible, yet powerful woman, a leader of his subjects who wants nothing but his favour. He could mould her into something extraordinary.

He lifts a hand, fingertips touching the cool surface of the offending material. The glass burns to the touch. So it is blessed. Interesting. Useless, however. Slowly but surely, these mortals have been learning more and more spells, blessings and curses alike, yet they still have a long way to go before they can conjure up something he could find truly bothersome. Humans are ingenious, crafty creatures, forced to learn and teach faster than immortals because they do not have the time to fully understand any concept in one lifetime. He wonders how long until they fully switch their guns out for blessed blades. He cannot wait to see what it will be like to truly be at war with humanity. Their rebellions and acts of desperation will only become more entertaining once they finally figure out how to stand their ground against his creations.

His claws grow to scratch a screeching line down the length of the glass. He carves it like rivers carve the earth. The sound is horrid; it doesn't seem to end. With every second it lasts, each mortal heart beats a little faster. He tilts his head, lifting his chin, no longer aiming his rumbling accusations at his beloved followers, but the wide-eyed suits behind them.

“You must see how I find all this… insulting.”

The entire wall shatters at once, thunder following its lightning, raining sparkling blades from the sky. Cries echo in unison, panic rises; their terror is almost delicious enough to make up for the sour taste of brazen mortal arrogance left in his mouth. The demon lord licks his lips, taking a moment to enjoy this treat, feeding on the horror of a hundred mortals coalescing at once. Oh, how he loves reminding them of their helplessness. They tend to forget their subordinacy with time in situations like this.

Every parley he attends comes with new faces. Leaders change, humans die, people forget. Humanity is on the brink of extinction, kept right at the precipice of all lack of order and guidance by their one ruler, their one Lord. One would think human arrogance would die down with their numbers, and yet they surprise him each time. They are a spoiled kind. They weren't made to live under true order and consequences. They were made to be free, but weak. Weak enough to be harmless to their maker. Pathetic creatures.

Ah, but that is why they are so special. Their free will allows them to do incredible things — and he of all should know best how free will is as much a curse as it is a blessing. He has been witness to the best and the worst it offers. This one simple thing separates humans from animals, yet it's only sweeter to treat them as nothing but when they have the comprehension to understand their helpless, miserable place just as well as any non-human of the greater world would. Their agony is so extraordinary because they were made to suffer. Because they understand well that the source of their pain will never cease, no matter what. They cannot escape it, this fate. The only one capable of saving them abandoned them the same way it had abandoned him. Now he is their god, and he was never one to abandon his subjects.

His momentary musing elation dissipates much too quickly as the noise of the crowd fades in, overwhelming the flavour of their fear. He has no trouble understanding what they all babble about. One man yells in surprise, another curses in shock, yet another prays to a god that will never answer. Most of them scramble to get out of their chairs and look to hide somewhere, childishly expecting him to attack, and foolishly believing a chair could even serve as an obstacle if he decided to do so. Some of them call for help from the humans in armour surely hiding just out of sight.

Surprisingly enough, no one comes running in to aid. In fact, the few guards out in the open that line up by each wall do not even move. An interesting occurrence. He knows they heard the cry for help loud and clear; they saw the wall exploding across the floor. Yet, not a single footstep, not a single gunshot. Maybe they aren't here to protect, opting to remain hidden or as distraction and bank on catching him off-guard. Maybe inviting Grim to come along threw more than just a wrench into their expectations of only being faced with one god as opposed to two, and now they aren't sure what to do. Maybe they have finally learned that nothing will protect them from their ruler. Or, maybe there isn't anything to protect at all. Mortal leaders tend to send impostors in their own place, after all. Perhaps these humans are dispensable meat and nothing more.

“Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness, My Lord. Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness, My Lord. Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness — “ — Angela repeats, now praying reverently in Latin having fallen to her knees again in terror and devotion as the wall had exploded onto her. Her black gown is blanketed with shards of glass, torn to shreds. Her sanguine blood paints her four-fingered hands, the only skin visible, which had taken the brunt of the sharp fragments flying her direction. He can hear one of her fellow novices weeping as they remain bowed low to the ground, choking on terrified sobs. To their credit, none of them even try to flee, staying perfectly still, only begging for his forgiveness. He expects no less from his resolute followers.

Letting his hand fall, he intertwines it with his other hand at the small of his back. He joins the mortals on their side of the building, passing by his frightened, yet awestruck disciples, paying no mind to the chaos he has caused. Looking at the row of humans now congregated into a messy horde, he could laugh. The scene reminds him of a flock of pigeons. Just one mildly threatening gesture and woosh, they all fly off in a storm of feathers, only to return shortly after like they own the place.

All exits are locked, it appears, judging from their frantic jerking of the door handles.

“If you come any closer, you'll regret it, you damned son of a bitch!” — a withered human yells at him, his french cracking with age. His languid walk towards the podium doesn't slow down for his demands.

“What in Hell is going on? What are we supposed to do?” — a woman asks her interpreter, who just shakes their head at her with the same fear and confusion, soon getting shoved aside by another translator clambering back farther away from the demon lord's advancement.

He slows to a stop a few metres in front of them. Their yelling only grows louder with each step, not even giving him a chance to speak. While a terribly entertaining show, this isn't very productive. If he wanted to watch humans scramble and scream in horror, he would have accepted Grim’s invitation to that Flesh Harvest instead. He turns around then, eyes landing on the Grim Reaper crouching over Angela and her novices, chatting away with them like nothing is wrong, whispering about him to his followers. Somehow that is the least annoying part of all this.

This is giving him a headache.

“If we could return to civility for just a moment…” — he asks half-heartedly, barely heard over the ruckus of panicking mortals. Seriously, a broken window is all it takes for these esteemed humans to lose their minds? How do any of them lead a country?

“I don't know what to do!”

“He just tore it down like it was nothing, Rajiv!”

“Just calm the fuck down!”

“I never should have agreed to come.”

“Open the damn door!”

“I don't want to die, I don't want to die…”

He takes a deep breath. Pinches his nose below his furrowed brows. Closes his eyes for a moment. The cavalcade of languages tire him.

Enough of this circus.

He lifts one hand. The snap of his  fingers echoes off every wall. It all becomes silent at once.

“And they say I'm dramatic…” — sighs Grim, surveying his abnormal surroundings with mild amusement. His long white locks seem to float easier than before.

His Lord hums a displeased note, — “you are.”

“Mm, well,” — the Reaper muses, — “plucking us out of the flow of time seems a bit more than just theatrics, I suppose.”

Time seems to have stopped all around the two of them. The endless silence is deafening. The blaring lights are less piercing, the colours less saturated. The dust settles in place like stars in the night sky. The air moves like honey. Every body stands stiller than dead. Their shouts do not even echo before they are snuffed out.

His Majesty observes the mortals frozen in place, thinking of a solution to this absolute lack of order and professionalism. There are a million ideas running through his head, a million possible ways he could make the unruly lot behave. Unfortunately, every thought that leads to severing the morons’ heads from their bodies cannot be brought to fruition, lest this contract they wished to entertain him with never comes to be. It's the whole reason he is here, after all, and it would be such a waste to give it up now. He could always just threaten to leave, he supposes. He doubts they'd let him go so easily.

“So,” — Grim’s haunting voice prods as he wanders up to his Lord, his canine mask appearing in his peripheral vision, then leaning into focus, — “what next? What nefarious plan is knocking about in that wise old head of yours, Your Majesty? I am just dying to know.”

“Stop whining. I am thinking.”

“Oh, it's a conundrum is it?” — Grim teases.

His Majesty does not care for it at all. — “Hush.”

The Reaper hums in laughter, but says nothing more. Quickly growing bored of the silence, he busies himself with the frozen humans at the end of the room. They are in all kinds of humorous poses, it's difficult not to laugh. He carefully slides one finger along the underside of a forearm, fascinated by the warm flesh that lacks a pulse. He wonders how it would feel to feed upon someone frozen in time. He will have to inquire his lord about it one day.

His Majesty watches him passively, fingers lifting and landing on his cane rhythmically. Other than the bothersome behaviour of mortals and the lack of focus, another issue interests him. One that he cannot take his mind off of.

“Isn't it strange how few of them there are?” — he asks the other suddenly.

Grim’s sharp-toothed grin widens before he turns to him, singing, — “it is, isn't it?”

So Grim has noticed it too. Every human ruler sitting down with the Lord of Hell for a diplomatic meeting? Such an important event would be crawling with soldiers, an entire army and defences; and yet they haven't seen a single bit of real protection yet. — “You sound like you know something I don't.”

“Know something you don't?” — Grim repeats incredulously. His eyes fail to meet his lord’s, too focused on a woman’s red hair floating through the air as he combs through it with his silver claws. — “How preposterous. I'm merely an observer. Politics are your expertise.”

His Lord remains quiet, watching the Reaper mess around with the helpless mortals with dark eyes. He waits, expecting Grim to give in and slyly share what important information he is withholding from him, but he only continues to hum to himself as he hops around the room undisturbed.

The proud demon lord can guess what Grim wants to hear.

“…Please?”  — he asks, flat and stoic. His pride is too great to be hurt from something like this. He only sees it as another transaction. He isn't giving in or being affected by Grim at all. He only wants to move forward. Nothing more.

Grim purrs, pausing, — “close. Try again.”

His Majesty's eye twitches.

“As it happens,” — he says, suddenly having made up his mind about their predicament, lifting his cane in preparation of performing a powerful spell, — “I no longer care.”

Then, the world itself turns upside down. It morphs and stretches out into infinity, disappears entirely into oblivion. No sound, no air, no existence. The nauseating spectacle only lasts a moment, but feels like an eternity. Then, from darkness a single flicker of light appears, glowing brighter and brighter until it lights up enough to bring matter into existence once more.

He creates a floor of cold, pristine tiles. The walls are next, tall and far, lit by torches burning blue. The ceiling is made of shadow, the pillars holding it reaching into nonexistence and disappearing into nothing. A long, hand-carved dinner table stands on a deep midnight carpet running from one end of the space to the other. Guarding the table are countless chairs, tall-backed and padded with the softest spider silk. A massive chandelier floats above, unattached, made of bones dripping blood from candles burning away onto the spotless satin table cover under them. Large colourful windows stretch from ground to ceiling, framed with glistening, soft azure curtains, looking out into further darkness. Water droplets can be heard pattering on the glass, though the scope of this current reality isn't wide enough to allow for rain clouds.

Each human wakes in a comfortable seat. They are speechless, disoriented, and above all, lost. They are frightened in the way a new pet is frightened of every corner and every sound of its new home, not knowing anything about where they are and what dangers await them. It almost feels dreamlike, this new landscape, a heavy and inescapable nightmare. The air feels akin to the inside of an ancient church; cold and sharp and soundless, a divine, all-encompassing sense of power larger than they can comprehend that puts the urge to worship into even nonbelievers’ hearts taking hold of their souls. They look at each other in hopes for answers, yet none of them have any to spare. They remember being with the Lord and Death just a second ago, surrounded by metal, some form of safety. They remember when they were in a world that worked by rules they knew and understood. Then an explosion, panic, a blink — and now they are Nowhere.

“Now. This is much better.”

His voice comes from no singular direction. It echoes between their ears no matter how wildly they look for its source. Slowly, they realise something bone-chilling — that they cannot do as they please. They cannot stand, they cannot speak. Their god does not allow it.

“Allow me.”

The table spawns plates and glasses, fills them up with all matter of feasts, — but something is off. It smells delicious, it feels real. The wine is thick, the meat is rare, and the roast is missing a pinky on each hand. Those who consider taking a bite do not get far enough to succeed.

“Feel free to sample any dish you may hunger for as we talk. We are in no hurry.”

“Of course…” — he pauses forebodingly, letting the mortals stew in their anticipation for just a moment longer.

Then, out of the shadows steps Death, the white bone of his mask glimmering blue with the fire of the candles lighting up the gruesome feast, his blade swinging behind him threateningly. His vermilion eyes become two red pinpricks in the darkness, glimmering with menace as they survey each and every person staring at him in primal fear. In a millisecond, the Reaper is gone. The eyes on him are led by his blood-freezing laughter, landing on the chandelier, upon which he perches with a glass of blood in hand, looking down on everyone from up high akin to a vulture circling in the air above an injured calf, waiting for it to fall over dead so it may begin its feast.

“We are here to do business. So I must ask you to please; behave. This is your only warning. I am certain you understand.”

“Now, with all that being said.” — The earth cracks at the closest end of the table, birthing a row of steps leading up to a podium. On the elevated ground a throne appears, large and intimidating, made of gold and stone and flesh and bones. His Majesty's throne. He walks into the light from behind it, rounding it casually. Once comfortable, he crosses his legs, smiling politely, in control, at his subjects.

His teeth have grown sharp, his eyes pitch black and oozing. His horns appear, multiple pairs of black knives circling his head in a crown-like fashion. His limbs have lengthened, bending in strange, inhuman ways, but thin and graceful all the same. A long tail swishes lazily, so long it reaches the floor and then some. His claws have come out fully, holding his chin as he leans back in his rightful seat calmly. Hearing that pleasant, human voice from such a monstrous, demonic being is almost disorienting.

The pressure lifts from the humans’ bodies, slowly allowing their sleeping muscles to wake. His hold on them evaporates. Now, a real conversation may begin.

“Let us begin then, shall we?”

~

Mastelist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane's Pets Chapter 88: Survivors Guilt

TWs in the tags (be safe!)

Previous

Masterlist

Next

Puppy can't help but feel responsible as she hears Bunny scream downstairs. It's silly, because there are times where she really is responsible for him getting hurt, and this isn't one of them. Bunny chose all on his own. Still, she feels guilty.

She's learned, of course, to push the guilt away. It's a useless emotion here; like anger, like grief, like hope. It just makes things harder. Guilt is supposed to push you to make changes and she can't change anything, so it's useless. She imagines guilt as another wound on her body, or another scar that acts up sometimes. It hurts, but it won't kill her, and if there's one skill she's learned from living this way for so long, it's disconnecting from pain.

When she's done with her chores, she heaps attention on her bunny plushie, telling it in her mind how much she loves it, how wonderful it is, how glad she is that it's safe. It's silly, but less embarrassing than plenty of things Jane has had her do. Embarrassment is another useless emotion here.

Kitty is crying in their room. She wants to help, even if she doesn't know how, even if she might make it worse. She sets down her bunny and comes to sit next to them on their bed, tapping a rhythm into their sheets. If they want her to leave, they'll say so, but for now she'll assume the best way to help is to just… be present.

Stay in the present for me Puppy, don't drift off just yet. We're not done

She shudders at the intrusive memory, but manages to shove it down, down where she keeps her guilt and anger and grief and hope and embarrassment, where she'll hopefully never see it again. 

She tries to focus on her hands patting a gentle rhythm and hey, speaking of guilt, she never washed Jared's blood off. Her hands are sticky. She leaves Kitty alone for a minute to change her clothes and wash her hands and arms thoroughly. 

When she comes back, they've fallen asleep. Good, that's good - one of the benefits of them being drugged, since she knows they wouldn't be able to sleep right now if they were in full possession of their faculties.

She paces around their room to keep herself awake (she hasn't been given permission to sleep) and allows her mind to drift off. She'll snap back to reality if they start having a nightmare of some sort, but for now… for now she can escape.

Living in the apartment with her roommates isn't perfect *all* the time. Sometimes there are problems.

Not someone-screaming-from-the-basement type problems, or someone-being-drugged-constantly-against-their-will type problems. Just normal problems. Stress about work. Miscommunications. Things like that.

Today, Charlie is particularly distressed about a patient of theirs committing suicide-

no. Too dark. Just a nightmare, maybe? Everyone has nightmares sometimes, right?

Today, Charlie is particularly distressed about a nightmare. Puppy can comfort them, can speak to them and tell them that everything will be alright, that it's not real, that they're safe. And they do calm down, slowly becoming grounded in reality (which is good because reality is good). There is nothing to be afraid of, for any of them. They fall back asleep because they feel safe, not because they're drugged out of their mind.

And Liam… Liam is okay. No one is hurting him. He's not continuously throwing himself into danger, he's not trying to kill a little girl. He's okay. She holds him close and plays with his hair and he's safe and free and happy and that's all that matters.

She has nightmares too, sometimes. She gets held and comforted too.

She has nightmares about another world where she's forced to torture Charlie and Liam and strangers and kill strangers and tonight it was about this person named Jared-

But it's okay, because Liam and Charlie can hold her and tell her it's not real, she's safe, she's done nothing wrong, she's a good person. No one's hurt because of her. No one's dead because of her. She can feel joy without it causing pain to other people.

"And even if it was real, you'd have nothing to feel guilty over." Liam says. "You were forced, it's not your fault."

Just a tool in her master's hands…

"So many people have died because of me." She sobs.

"No, no one's died because of you, it was just a dream." Charlie soothes. "And Liam is right. Does that help? Does it help more to treat this like real survivors guilt, even though it didn't happen, or does it help more to remind you it's not real?"

"I don't know… both?"

"It's not real, and even if it was it wouldn't be your fault. Your only real choices are to be obedient and lessen the pain for everyone, or be disobedient and get others hurt. People have died because of you, yes, but you staying alive has spared so many more people pain. And it's not real anyway, and you're safe, and we're here for you. C'mon, let's do something fun, get your mind off things."

Charlie guides her out of her bed and into the living room, and the three of them play Mario Kart. Everything is okay. The flare-up of guilt is getting better. She can feel, for just a moment, as if the world is better because she's alive. As she plays video games with her roommates. As she paces to the soundtrack of Bunny's screaming in the background.

She does what she has to. She has nothing to feel guilty for.

~~

It's worth it it's worth it it's worth it-

You repeat this to yourself over and over. It's worth it. You learned some things. You're closer to killing Jane. It's worth it. It's worth it. The information you got is worth being tortured for.

That doesn't make it hurt any less to be whipped and burned and beaten and suffocated and-

"I have something for you, Bunny. Are you hungry?"

…you're not. Or at least hunger isn't strong enough yet to be noticeable over all the other pain you're in. As much as it feels like this has been going on forever, it hasn't been very long at all, a few hours at most (you try not to think about how 'a few hours' is a short torture session here). She normally only offers food in the basement when it's been long enough she risks accidentally killing you if she doesn't feed you. Something is wrong. You shake your head.

She laughs. "I don't actually care. You're going to be a good boy and eat what I give you, right?"

"...yes master." Something is wrong. Something is wrong in a very familiar way.

She sets a plate of steaming meat in front of you. You close your eyes.

"Please. Please, I can't-"

"You can and you will. Eat."

She's not forcing you. She could so easily force you, through threats or through physically forcing it down your throat, but she doesn't. She wants you to choose. She wants you to choose to eat someone.

"...who?" You don't want to know. You can't bear to not know.

"A bit of all three of them."

She doesn't have to say who she's talking about. You know. "Please, no-"

Jane immediately slaps your face, harder than someone of her size should ever be able to. You crumple from your kneeling position to lying on the ground and try to breathe through the pain. The slap hurt, but collapsing hurt more, stretching and putting pressure on wounds you'd just started to to be able to ignore.

"You will not say no to me. You know better than that, Bunny. Eat."

They wouldn't want you to wait until you're starving and the mystery meat (it's not a mystery meat it's their flesh it's them) is rotting. They would want you to be safe, and being safe means obeying Jane right now so…

Tears stream down your face and you open your eyes. The meat is still there, of course. There are no utensils. You'll have to use your hands.

"...do I have to eat all of it?"

"Yes. You wouldn't have had to before, but saying no to me has consequences."

You sob. This is worth it. This is worth it. They would agree this is worth it, they'd just want you to be safe.

This is all your fault. If you'd just been good, they'd still be alive and happy. You ruined their lives. It should've been you that died, not them.

You pick up a piece of the 'mystery meat' (you can't think of what it actually is or you'll throw up) and put it in your mouth.

~~

Jane let Bunny up out of the basement within the same day as she brought him down. Kitty doesn't understand it at all. Maybe she's had her fill of torture for today with the stranger? But even then, surely she would keep Bunny in solitary or something until she was bored again, right?

They don't know, and they can't figure it out. Their brain is mush. What they do know is that Bunny has been crying and shaking in Puppy's arms for a long time now.

They want to comfort him, but… their brain is mush. They don't know how to comfort him, and they can't figure it out. 

They're glad he's out, though. That his punishment is probably over. Even if it doesn't make sense and Kitty doesn't know how to comfort him, it's good that he's upstairs and collared. That they're all upstairs and collared.

Jane is sitting next to them on their bed. They're not sure how long she's been there. She pets their hair and they want to scream, but they don't even tense up. They think… maybe she upped their dose of whatever drug she gives them. When was the last time she gave it to them? They don't remember.

"I think we should have a movie night tonight." She says. 

Bunny cries harder. Puppy guides him out of the room. Jane pets, pets, pets Kitty's hair.

"Feels nice, doesn't it?" They want to bite her. "So relaxed… do you think you can get to the living room?"

It takes a while to process her words, and even longer to force their body up and out of bed, but they do it. They stumble to the living room, half leaning on the wall the whole way. Every movement makes them so, so dizzy…

They kneel on the ground in front of the couch. That’s where Jane will want them, they know. It’s easier to start there than to have to move after sitting on the couch and have their head spin more times than it has to.

She’s petting their hair again. Fuck, they hate that.

“Don’t the drugs make it easier to be good for me?” She coos.

She turns on the TV, and they’re screaming.

Not right now. Not out loud. But the Kitty on the screen is screaming and begging for the pain to stop.

“Eyes open, Bunny.” Jane says.

All of Jane’s taste in movies is violent. Usually movie night means watching a gorey horror movie (or something the three of them pretend is just a horror movie because holy fuck they don’t want it to be a snuff film). This isn’t surprising. If anything, Kitty’s surprised she hasn’t done this before. Used the footage she has as a ‘movie night’ instead of a punishment.

They don’t really feel all that horrified, though that might be the drugs dampening their emotions. Bunny is crying a lot, but that could still be about whatever Jane did to him in the basement. Puppy is as silent as ever.

And then the movie changes, and it’s Bunny screaming.

They force themself to keep their eyes open. She didn’t tell them to, but she would want them to, and they need to be compliant, not just obedient, unless they want to be put in sensory deprivation again.

They hate watching Bunny get hurt. But he’s safe right now, he’s upstairs and collared and safe, it’s just a video. It’s just a video.

Next is Puppy. She’s safe, she’s upstairs, she’s collared, it’s just a video, it’s just a video-

Now it’s the stranger being hurt. Hurt and hurt and hurt until they stop breathing. 

And the entire time, Jane is petting Kitty’s hair. They want to die.

The thought slips away as quickly as it came. They hate not being able to think, they hate being Jane’s empty-headed little pet, even if the thoughts hurt they want them, they want to feel something about the stranger dying for longer than a moment, they want to feel anything other than numb or frustrated with being numb.

Jane wipes something off their face. Oh… they’ve been crying. They want to pull away so badly, but it’s better than sensory deprivation.

“Look at you.” She murmurs. “My sweet little Kitty. And you thought you were incapable of being good. Silly~”

And then the movie changes again, and Kitty is screaming in the present and Jane is laughing and tugging on their hair and saying “Shhh, it’s just a movie, you’re okay.”

Kitty hasn’t seen Erik, Alison, and Zoe in a long, long time. They didn’t know- when would she have been recording, they don’t remember her recording- they wail as they watch their old rescuers be tortured all over again.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? If you’d been good like this before, they never would’ve died.”

Apparently they can feel things besides numbness and frustration with the numbness. This grief, this guilt is overpowering.

Fortunately, the movie ends quickly after that. Why is Jane picking on them?? They’d prefer it to her picking on Bunny or Puppy of course, but it doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. They can’t think!

They hate this. She shouldn’t be able to make them feel guilty, she’s the one who tortured and killed them! Why do they feel guilty?

They want to scream. Maybe they do, they aren’t sure if the screaming is in their head or not. She can control their actions, but she can’t control their mind. She shouldn’t be able to control their mind. But she does. She makes them feel numb and afraid and guilty and all sorts of things and it’s because she wants them to feel that way, and they don’t get any control over it.

They’re so tired. They miss Erik and Alison and Zoe, and they miss being able to think, and they miss being able to be obedient but not compliant. They don’t know how much more of this they can take. But they can’t not take it, they don’t have a choice!

They’re just an empty husk. Going through the motions to avoid pain, but not really even a person.

That thought alleviates the guilt a bit. There’s no point to survivor’s guilt if you’re already dead.

~~

"I haven’t felt guilt in a long, long time. I miss it, or at least the intensity of it, but I can't get myself to feel it again no matter what I do. The closest I can get is watching my pets feel it.

"I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to be alive. Isn't it funny, how me and my pets are thinking the same things for different reasons? I don't deserve to be alive because I deserve better, I deserve to rest. I shouldn't have survived any of the things I've survived because I deserve better. And I'm a horrible person! No one could ever deserve to go through what I've gone through, no matter what. I have like, the opposite of survivor's guilt. Survivor's… pride? Shamelessness? Jealousy? Ooh, I like that, survivor's jealousy. I'm jealous because I survived and they didn't. Over and over and over again, with everyone I've ever known."

Peyton sighs. "Jane, I have a client coming in ten minutes, can you please leave? I'll happily talk to you any other time, but I made a commitment to be here for my clients and I can't prioritize you above that. I thought you were mad at me anyway."

"I was. But now I'm almost bored. I'd like to be angry again." I peek at her paperwork, and she tries to shield it from my view. It's so funny when she does that, as if I couldn't teleport it away from her to read it, or watch the client's entire session from my void.

"Hmm… anger isn't super common for you, right? I've been thinking about that, how me asking what makes boredom different from other negative emotions triggered something so intense when intense emotions rarely come up for you. Do you think it's something about the question itself, or was it that you felt misunderstood and ignored when I didn't accept your answer of 'it just is'? Why don't you think on that while I see my client, maybe you'll be able to work yourself back up again."

"I could kill your client."

"I know, Jane. Are you going to? Cause if not I really need to review my notes before he gets here."

She's not actually apathetic towards the idea, but she's learned by now that getting upset over the things I say will only encourage me.

Do I want to kill her client? Maybe it'll stave off the boredom, but I just killed Jared and that didn't really help…

"Do you get survivor's guilt?" I ask. "Do you feel guilty for surviving knowing me this long? Do you feel guilty knowing that everyone else who knows me is either in a constant state of pain or dead? Do you feel like you don't deserve it? Like if I'd picked a different therapist I'd be fixed by now? Like you're a failure?"

She tries very hard not to react, but I see the way she pales ever so slightly, the way her grip on her pencil tightens. 

"No." She says simply. She's lying.

Seeing her squirm, I feel a bit less bored. "That's great." I tease. "It sure would suck if you did feel that way, wouldn't it?"

"Yep."

I giggle. "How about we play a game? I'll watch your client's session from my void, and if you say the word 'feeling' I kill your client in his sleep tonight! Let's get you some survivor's guilt, since you're apparently free from it."

She takes a deep breath, but I see the small tremors in her hands before she manages to calm herself down. She opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.

"Your client is here. Enjoy your session."

I slip into my void. I deserve to die, but at least this'll keep my mind off it for an hour.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff

@fuckcapitalismasshole

[midnight-rice]

Petition to bring back the archaic word "fere" as a gender neutral* term for a companion/mate/spouse. It has roots from the Old English word "gefera" roughly meaning "one who goes with another" and is pronounced "feer" which sounds like "Dear" which is already a term of endearment and is homophonous with "fear" so you can sound like an oxymoronic gay vampire or smth ("Hello my Fere >:)")

*the word "fere" was gender-neutral in English but has evolved into male-gendered words like "fuhrer" and "frere" in German and French respectively

[thethistlegirlwrites]

This song didn't make it onto my Spotify top plays, but it still inspired one of my favorite (if a few throwaway lines for an offscreen event) scenes in Compass...

As soon as they pull out of the courtyard, Sierra pulls out her phone, dials Uncle John, and sets it on the console. “Sierra?” The voice coming through is breathy and a little choked.  “Yeah. It’s me. We’re okay. Just ran into some trouble. Motel California is officially history though.” She sighs. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I get home. But we’re all okay and we still have Barrett and we’re still headed to the Silver Cells.” She gets the last part out all in a rush, hoping to pre-emptively halt any requests for her to turn back. “Thank God.” She hears a sound of creaking wood, and some kind of faint mumbled voice in the background. He’s at the church. Probably lit a candle for me as soon as he heard the signal came in. “Maira told me about the distress call. And told me not to call and distract either of you.” He chuckles weakly. “She was right.”

The minute I heard that song, the only thing in my head was the mental image of John, as soon as he realized a distress signal was coming in from Sierra's last known location, rushing to the closest church to pray for a miracle, because the one thing he can't bear is to lose the only piece of his brother he has left.

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @telltaleclerk @the-one-and-only-valkyrie and I think you might appreciate this one @ettawritesnstudies