#my skin will burn and itch from exercise too

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love chapter three

♥ here you go lovies, it's series time | chapter one, chapter two, chapter four ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic to romance) ♥ word count: 2.4k ♥ pinterest board ♥ notes: chapter summary: alastor is a bit uncomfortable with how close he is with reader, which has never happened before since their friendship was private, but now that she is in the hotel he realizes that he has a potential weakness ♥ no tag list rn :3

Every now and then, in the room across from you, quiet jazz would play, rich only under the sound of your music, but it still reeks of exclamation uncharacteristic of the music's Earthly presence. It's a blistering noise that requires the knock on a door to stop. The sight of Alastor whenever he opens his bedroom door at the interruption of a knock strikes fear into the other residents. His smile is deadly, and his eyes burn into his peers. They get reminded of his power.

His charming mystery.

.

And he made the dress less than six inches from you when you slept. After a stirless sleep, you wake up to a dress draped on the mattress by your feet. The first thing you notice is the lace layers that are guaranteed to itch your skin. Tonight is your welcome party, a last-minute plan (due to your sudden appearance). There will be no dress code, no inch of modesty, but Alastor decides himself that you will be covered. Suffice it to say it is not a surprise, especially considering he isn't a fan of modern nudity, puffy skirts with breasts peeking out, heels too high to walk comfortably on dirt, and so forth, and would throw up if he saw you in such. Possessive or protected?

What you want to reveal is no business with him (as if you really would). But you are ready for your life to be led by his smiles and soft touches, as your new public appearance will need guidance; you are ignorant of current times. Or that's what you tell yourself.

Your old clothes, once your trusted companions, are now reclined over the lounge chairs by the fireplace. They have transformed like you (how did you end up at the Hazbin Hotel after being a fierce overlord?) into something different, something less familiar. But still, a better thought fuels you: this is a chance to renew.

After dressing, loosening your collar, and fidgeting with the length of your sleeves, you enter the hallway, not at all shy but not confident enough to assert your presence. The first good morning to Alastor is the hardest. You quickly discover that it flusters you to greet him so close to the time when you wake up. By his smile, you just know that your music is playing a symphony; curse that thing.

Your mind wanders into a world of memories, the fancy clothes you used to dress him in, the smile he would give you, and your music conjures the same smile; that's where you remember it from.

"See?" He motions up and down you. "The most exquisite lady I've seen in my death."

You almost finish an eye roll before he grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. The movement is not prolonged at all but so swift that you barely have a chance to process it. The way he swiftly turns around, his head going before his body, hints as to why. He must pull away before anybody spots the affection.

There could have been a better banner, but Angel spilled paint over one of the corners, and Charlie spent a few minutes crying in the limited time. You stare up at it with amazement anyway. Whose handwriting is that? It's better than most of the overlords.

"I don't think I've ever painted a banner before," you sign to Alastor. He nods, looking up at it, his smile growing. You continue, "I wonder if they would have let me help."

"Your own welcome sign? Not a chance, though Charlie loves a group activity, perhaps it was a bonding exercise."

Charlie hops over at the sight of her name sign, finally overcoming the awkwardness and not wanting to interrupt a conversation. Somehow, she thinks ASL feels more personal. Well, as do most hearing people.

"Do you like it? Do you like it?" She signs in only two motions, her eyes bright when she sees you understand her.

You give a small smile, placing your hands on hers to calm her down, her touch is extremely warm, before signing. "Thank you so much for this, I feel very welcomed. You're so kind."

"Yes," a simple word as her eyebrows furrow slightly with frustration at her small vocabulary. "I tried!"

Your eyes look around at the people, each patiently waiting for you to initiate a conversation by walking up. Since when did they get so awkward?

The moment you walk away, Charlie turns her attention to Alastor.

You give Nifty a small smile, looking at the cookies she impatiently holds. In contrast, Angel holds onto her waist, ensuring she doesn't rush over to you the moment she sees you. She drops the tray when you approach conversation stops, and they rattle on the metal. Angel lets her go with a slight look of hesitation. He doesn't even acknowledge you.

"A dress! A beautiful one!" She runs her fingers down her own dress as a classifier.

You nod. "That's due to Alastor, he—"

"Worked his magic? Your red matches his."

"Does it?"

You turn around, glancing for a second at the shade of his suit and then down at your dress. You suppose, but it is a bit darker, though that might be due to velvet. What you notice is your matching sleeves. While looking back at Nifty, she immediately starts signing again. Angel stands awkwardly, unsure if he should walk away, but he pays attention to the signing anyway. Would he be willing to learn? You hope.

"How full is your closet? What do the dresses look like? Are they naughty?"

You pick up a cookie awkwardly, giving it a small bite and signing with one hand only for the first sentence. "Well, Alastor is the one who needs to fill my closet and he hasn't yet. I doubt he'd let me wear something he would consider distasteful."

"How dare he..." she squints her eye at him.

"Right?" The slight smile on your face is contagious enough to lighten her face.

"How's the cookie? Do you like it? I didn't put any roaches in it this time." An invisible laugh leaves her lips.

You look down at it momentarily, a bit skeptical, lifting it again. No insect legs are visible, but you still put it back down, no longer taking bites. You started the day with the same soft classical music from your heart, but now it is a more jolly sound. Praying that you don't start making Angel uncomfortable, you give a small wave, which he returns. Then Husk comes to save the day with a freshly opened bottle in his hand while he signs with the other.

"Ain't seen a lick of sign language before."

"You hadn't either."

He smirks, the friendliness catching you a bit off guard. "First time for everything."

With the most neutral face you can muster in such a friendly environment, you begin to turn away. "Of course there is."

The air lightens as you turn back around, letting Husk and Angel have their conversation. Charlie is still excitedly talking to Alastor, copying his signs, and surprisingly so is Vaggie.

Once they notice you're watching, they stop. Charlie puts her hands behind her back and smiles awkwardly as if she had been caught in an act.

Less than ten minutes later, the event feels tiresome. Having Alastor interpret for you and dealing with hearing people attempting to sign becomes unbearable. Just like at the overlord meetings, you and Alastor side-eye each other constantly. The only positive you can think of is that Husk is not hiding away.

"Awfully tiring," says Alastor, crossing his legs from the couch where he sits next to you. "Why must I be subjected to these superficial conversations."

His claw circling around his knuckles is smooth enough to allure your interest. His hands are so careful, so lovely. Hiding your interest, you give him your usual small smile.

In your imagined scenarios, you can force a yawn and say you are going to bed, and Alastor would be there to tuck you in as he did years ago. Perhaps you'd wake up to a bouquet of dead roses. Foolish girl, you can almost imagine him telling you if he were a mind reader.

As you look around again, scanning to ensure no one has been trying to get your attention, Vaggie's eyes connect with yours. Her brow raises in recognition, understanding. Your shoulders stiffen, and the shame pulsating in your heart is the worst feeling in the world. But that is before Charlie captures your attention again, flashing her same old smile and hopping up and down.

And then she motions behind you. Angel brings out a cake, holding it steadily, looking down at it with a bit of jealousy. Instead of helping when the cake was baking, Angel stood at the kitchen doorway and watched how the residents came together. He was invited to help of course, but he hated what they were celebrating.

You can't help but let your eyes widen. The cookies and now this?

While you wait for Charlie to get ahold of herself and her squeals (as if the cake was made for her), you stand and hold your hands in front of you, not exactly understanding what to do at this moment. Nifty comes to distract you, climbing up your body and fiddling with the collar of your dress. You let her.

"I hope it's good," Charlie figures out how to say. "We cooked together, for you!"

Charlie believes in ending a day with something that can make somebody smile. And here you are, smiling at her, not caring to hide your facial expressions. Your music exposes your emotions enough.

The cake gets placed on the table in front of the couches, and you sit on the carpet, legs folding under you. Your soon-to-be friends huddle around. Will they trust you with a knife? Apparently so, and you make sure to hold it carefully. You're not going to let your status as an ex-overlord scare them enough to not trust you with something as simple as a knife. It slices perfectly, the cake having a perfect texture, looking so soft inside. Your hand twitches, your claws digging a bit into your palm, but not noticeable enough to worry anyone. Is this a trap? No, Charlie wouldn't allow that. But what if this is why Husk has been so friendly.

You finish slicing, managing to cut it evenly. It reminds you of the living world, the times you've watched people cut cakes, especially as a kid. Alastor doesn't mind your souring mood until he notices that your melodies are transitioning into a minor key. In an instance, unconsciously (well, regrettably subconsciously), he uses his shadows to form next to you, leaning in close while taking the knife from your hand and spinning it, making it disappear into flames. The overall mood hasn't changed, but the moment he moves to summon a plate, your eyes lock on his movements. Alastor has gotten so considerate towards you that he touched something so sweet, holding the plate in his hand with a fork.

It happens, something unpredictable.

Everybody watches as he lifts a bite and holds it to your lips. You blink before your eyes brighten. Just like that, you lean forward and wrap your lips around the fork, your focus sharpening; everybody is watching. It distracts you from basking in the enchanting taste.

"Excellent," he puts the plate down and puts all his effort into not grimacing at the sight of it. "Wasn't that nice?"

You hold your breath, determining whether that is rhetorical or sarcastic. You go along with it, shrugging and leaning a bit forward, tilting your head, something you used to do when you wanted him to touch his forehead with yours.

You pretend he does, closing your eyes to ignore his stiff posture, and you pull away.

Charlie mends you with a gaze as kind as an innocent child. Something passes between you two. Is your attraction to him that obvious? Curses.

That's the most sinister part of Hell.

He walks you to your bedroom just as you hoped he would, but he doesn't step inside. He does wrap his arms around you, though, his voice vibrating against your body. Stop speaking, you want to say, but you don't dare pull away. All you can do is drown in the gratefulness of the once-ordinary affection. His constant withdrawal is obvious, and of course you understand why. But you assumed behind closed doors he would revert back to the lovely language you two share. But no, he doesn't. He doesn't even try.

Pulling away involves letting go of the warmth of his body. You already miss the feeling of his breathing. He puts a hand behind your neck and does what you crave the most, rests his forehead against yours. His bangs brush your hairline, and you smile.

"Thank you," you sign. Alastor's smile grows, becoming soft, and his eyes flicker around, his shadow spinning down the hall before he takes your hand, just like in the morning. He presses his lips to your knuckles, closing his eyes and exhaling while he pulls away. With the moment of eye contact, his hand slips away from you, and without further words, he leaves into his room.

Your bedroom feels especially empty when you close the door in front of him. That's not the way it should be.

The large window attached to your room hardly offers a view of the beautiful city. This hill should be high enough to spot the different sections, but the huge buildings within the middle of the city shields a lot of the environment.

You only get three steps closer to the window when you worry he's just standing in front of your door. It's such a pointless thought, a momentary wish. Maybe he is waiting for you to realize his presence and offer him entrance. But when you open it, you're met with nothing, nobody. Unfortunate.

You need to stop fantasizing like a little girl.

You decide to distract yourself with the privilege of staying at such a prestigious building.

You cut through the sign on the roof toward the dark red lining of the end of the roof. Awestruck, your eyes widen, and you halt in place. You can see the entire Pentagram Circle from high above, and your music gets loud enough to hear from the ground. The different gradients of red you would have never been able to see until now reflect in your eyes, the same way moonlight would. A cool breeze messes with the lace on your sleeves and rubs against your skin as you knew it would when you put the dress on.

When the rare clouds begin to hide the lighting from the radiant Pentagram above, the breeze starts to freeze, and Heaven's clock becomes the brightest light. Back inside you go. As always.

[howtobecomeadragon]

mike gets sunburnt every summer. he tries to remember his sunblock, he really does, but sometimes it slips his mind. sometimes he does put it on but he then forgot to re-apply the sunblock after his first application washed off when he swam or when he was outside all afternoon.

either way, he inevitably always burns. he withstands the teasing from the others for a week, puts aloe vera on his burns with annoyance every day at his mom's insistence. and then his skin starts to get a little bit itchy and then suddenly, his sunburn is peeling.

will is his designated sunburn skin peeler. when lucas did it, he wasn't delicate enough and ended up peeling it to the unsunburnt edges of his skin, causing it to sting and pull. mike always ended up smacking lucas's hands away with a loud "ow, shit, stop!" lucas rolled his eyes at him and told him, "fine, you can keep looking nasty with all your peeling skin." when dustin peeled the sunburnt skin, he always got grossed out, making fake retching noises to make will and lucas laugh, and made distressed groans when faced with a back full of mike's peeling sunburnt skin. mike would call out "this means it's healing, okay! the skin underneath is healthy and not burnt. just do it!"

that left will. he was patient and gentle with his artist's fingers. when he peeled some sunburnt skin that stung, mike hissed in pain and will immediately stopped, whispering, "sorry, sorry. maybe i'll get that one in a few days." when will got a big peel, he showed it to mike with his nose scrunched up, looking a little grossed out but also delighted with sick fascination.

what his peeling sunburnt skin really was was a good exercise in trust. mike didn't love his body all the time. he took his shirt off to swim, got sunburnt on his back and shoulders, and then he couldn't reach the peeling skin as the sunburn faded. the peeling skin made him feel gross, entirely and overwhelmingly self-conscious by how disgusting it looked. and to get it off, he had to take his shirt off again to show it to someone and ask them to help.

will's fingers on his back always made him shiver a little bit. cooler fingers on burnt skin, perhaps. but he was often just red and flushed with the exposure of it all, and maybe that's why he shivered. his bare back being face up surrounded by his fully clothed friends, dustin making jokes about it all, lucas itching to meticulously get rid of all peeling skin with ruthless efficiency.

will helped. he made mike shiver but he helped. he was quiet in a way that mike knew probably just reflected his focus, similar to his focus while painting, but it also allowed time for mike to breathe through his anxiety and his discomfort at being shirtless like this. he wondered what will thought about his back, if his shoulders seemed broad enough, if he had too many moles, if he seemed too skinny or not skinny enough. maybe not muscular enough.

he always managed to breathe through it though, and on the other side, will would quietly say something funny or sweet or distracting, and mike could stop thinking for a moment about will seeing him half naked with gross, peeling skin.

when will was done, he laid a warm hand on mike's back, up between his shoulder blades. it was soft and fleeting but reassuring, and will announced, "all done! it looks a lot better." and he took his hand away.

mike sat up, reached around to feel his back feeling much smoother, and grinned gratefully at will. he shrugged his shirt back on and said, "oh my god, thank you so much. last sunburn of the summer, i promise."

will snorted and said, "sure."

but next time they went to the pool, once they all got out of the pool, will tossed him some sunblock and said, with a twinkle in his eyes, "put some on, okay? i can help if you can't reach your back." but then he averted his eyes quickly as mike flipped open the cap on the sunblock.

mike didn't need help applying it. but he thought about will's offer. he thought about it all afternoon and it hung in his mind for hours after he got home. he thankfully didn't get sunburnt after he put on a second application of sunblock.

he thought some more about will's offer and the way his eyes turned away as mike awkwardly put the sunblock on in front of all the people at the pool. maybe will knew he felt a little uncomfortable shirtless and being looked at too much. maybe mike wouldn't have minded if will had looked, though. will's eyes were always soft and gentle and held a feeling in them that helped mike relax in his skin.

he called will that night. mike thanked him for the extra sunblock and the reminder to put on a second coat, and reported that he was currently sunburn-free. will laughed and brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing. it was late so they both spoke quietly into their phones, mike cradling the handset close to his mouth.

"so maybe you can make it through the summer with no more sunburns, huh?" will asked. he laughed and added, "no more peeling skin to deal with."

mike's head was fuzzy because it had been a long, sun soaked day, and they were already well into the night. he thought of will offering to apply the sunblock again, and of the shiver mike felt at will looking at his back. it was anxiety of being looked at mixed with... something. something that felt like butterflies or the shiver you get from a fever, the flush of a sun kissed cheeks, the comfort of wanting to be soft and quiet on the phone with his best friend late into the night. it reminded him of how he felt watching will get tanner and tanner all summer long, while mike just got pink over and over again. it was how he felt when will took off his shirt to swim, when mike saw the tan line on his arm from wearing t-shirts in the sun all summer. it was the flutter he got from will's scrunched up nose, his big smile, his laugh.

mike's head was buzzing and his heart was pounding out of his chest. the words tumbled out of him, not responding to what will had said at all. "do you want to go to a movie with me tomorrow night?"

there was quiet on the other end of the phone, mike could just hear will's breathing for a few moments.

"like with lucas and dustin?"

mike rushed to answer, "no. no. just you and me. i want to take you to the movies."

quiet again, before will said, speaking quickly and fumbling a little, "yeah, that sounds really fun. let's do that."

mike held the phone handset even closer to his face, as if that would help him see will from across town and know exactly what he was feeling. "no risk of a sunburn at the movies," mike joked.

will laughed quietly and said, "no, it should be a safe place for you."

mike thought to himself, absently, as if floating, that right next to will was always a safe place for him. once he grabbed onto the thought, it hit him hard.

he whispered quietly into the dark, "i'll get us icee's and some candy tomorrow night. whatever you want"

will's voice floated back to him, a little breathless with a small laugh. "i don't need much, mike. i'll just be happy with some reece's pieces. it'll be fun even... even without any candy. it's always fun going to the movies with you."

mike grinned and resisted the urge to bury his face in his pillow. "yeah. yeah, it is. i'll get you some candy anyway though."

mike hoped, as they said goodnight and hung up their phones, that will knew. he hoped that will could tell what mike meant, what was just beneath his words. will always seemed to get him, so he probably did. if not, mike was going to hold his hand at the movies the next night anyway, and will would definitely figure it out then. will's hand in his would probably be just as soft and reassuring as it was when it rested on mike's shirtless back.

mike had a little shiver at the thought before falling asleep.

[the-blossica-fan]

Evil Phenomenon, but it takes a different approach; something something, those who love their partners feel literal pain bring separated from them and falls so hard they may as well have made a crater (. Love Phenomenon?)

With Windla, you would probably see Windsong even more anxious while away from Vila; with Mercuria, it's less obvious, but it's still noticeable.

With Mesmer, who feels at genuine peace with Vertin (and Jessica, with Blonney), they don't realise they're spending all that time together until they're separated for whatever reasons

Balloon Party also manages well, but that's because of how she handles her emotions.

Anyways, that's just my thoughts. Heavens knows what happens if they're away from their partner for a considerable amount of time... 😨

Oh my fucking God why are you evil

It's probably some sort of love dependence phenomenon. Comrade we do NOT want to talk about 37 and Sophia, okay?

With Windla happens a very interesting thing. Windsong feels at peace with Vila, she feels like she's her best self by her side. Her trembling hands finally relax, her tired body can rest, it's just some sort of healing for herself, mentally and physically.

They don't even realize they're going through this phenomenon until they separate, and since they're always together, it takes a moment.

Windsong collapses on the floor, her whole body trembling and she can feel a knot on her throat, it makes her want to cry, her skin feels so uncomfortable and it almost feels like she's going to faint at any second. She clings onto sanity but lord is it hard, her breathing is erratic and it hurts.

It hurts to even breathe.

Vila's symptoms, while not as obvious, are almost as painful. The itch in her skin, the burning sensation on her neck which prompts her to scratch it raw, the uncomfortable feeling of her skin is so painful it makes her want to rip it off like their kind would in the blink of an eye. It's unbearable. The loneliness in herself as well as the coming paranoia makes her isolate herself in order to calm down.

It only gets better when she sees Windsong casually when being taken to a medical room for support. There, they realize something is wrong when every symptom just... Disappears.

Here comes the notice of another unknown phenomenon occurring with the members of the foundation.

Mesmer Jr didn't even realize this phenomenon until it was pointed out. She's not as in-tune with her arcanist side as others, this sort of phenomenon would often play games with arcanum, but just because her mind rejects the arcanist side of herself doesn't mean her body does.

It feels itchy, her lungs feel like they're fighting to take in oxygen and she feels so stuck, as if she just can comprehend her surroundings. There's a feeling of loneliness that affects her mind and eventually drags her into that arcanist mindset, no logic.

I'm unsure over how Vertin would take this sort of phenomenon, it's more like a dependence and as we know, she's able to water down those feelings rather easily, but not forget. Maybe it would be light, something she can handle with slight struggles.

Of course, after discovering this phenomenon, Mesmer would have to be by Vertin's side (and the same goes for Vertin) in order to not cause any more accidents. Yes, Mesmer made a couple accidents during this as she couldn't even put her mind on it.

Balloon Party seems much like Vertin, and actually, Lorelei too. They're way too gone to be affected by a dependence phenomenon, a LOVE dependence phenomenon. They're in love, sure, but my God, their brain losing screws every second.

They're put together just in case, no one wants them to be separated for... Reasons (no one knows how they'd react). Semmelweis is taking care of them don't worry.

Mercuria is an interesting case because she doesn't know it mentally, but her whole body hurts and she doesn't know why. Like after exercising for too long, your muscles feel heavy and you feel weakened. Mercuria doesn't often feel this way, not in a long time anyway, so it's quite confusing.

She doesn't pay much mind to it, and if she puts her mind to it, it's barely noticeable... Except for the fact that it is very noticeable to literally everyone else. She's trembling slightly, her movements are slow and clumsy and she almost seems like she's about to collapse.

J got so worried he ended up carrying her like a sack of potatoes to the infirmary in case it was the Evil Phenomenon again. It's worse.

I left the worst at last. Jessica and Blonney... My Lord 😞

Jessica is definitely back to that pre 1.2 mindset. A wild animal, a lonely girl searching for her beloved, whatever the cost may be. It took everything from the foundation members and whoever was by her side to restrain her, she kept crying and begging for Jennifer to come back by her side. It was quite painful to watch.

The poor deer's mental stability was completely stolen from her and everything she wanted was to be in Blonney's arms. She did bite a couple people on the way though, not a pretty bite that hurt.

Blonney was probably doing just as bad but without the physical aggression part... Mostly. She definitely went back to those years after leaving Green Lake, the emptiness, loneliness and crude desire to be held was back, which she thought she had already gotten over a long, long time ago.

They're good together I promise just never, ever, try to separate them when they're like this, someone might die.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Box Boy Universe Story: A Girl Called Spider Timeline: A ways into Rayce’s training

Biting, pt2 [Prev | Next]

He turns the questions round in his head for a long, long time before he dares to ask. It has to be as respectful as possible, if he wants any chance at an answer.

When am I going to be wiped, please, Handler Sharan? What’s my designation, please? Do I have a number, Handler, please? What’s going to happen to me?

He waits until she’s in a good mood, as much as he can read her moods. He waits for a time when there’s more praise than punishment.

He also waits until he’s just been fed, so he doesn’t ruin a shot at getting food.

She has him cleaning floors. He can’t see a spot of dirt anywhere, the maintenance Pets probably did it all already, but he knows it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he does as he’s told.

She’s barely correcting him, it’s probably only to keep him busy, only to make sure he can’t rest.

“Handler Sharan, ma’am?” he asks. He doesn’t take his eyes off the floor, or let the sponge pause in its circles. “What is it?” “May I speak, please, Handler?” “No,” she says. “You may not.”

And that’s the end of it. 

It’s a punch to the gut, but he’s had a lot of those now.

There’s no use trying to ask anyway. She might easily have shocked him just for trying the first time. If he pushes his luck, she’ll definitely use the collar.

Swish-snap – another bright flare of pain across his ass. The shorts don’t dull the sting as much as he hoped they would.

What did he do? Oh – he’s been scrubbing the same circle for – too long. He shuffles on his knees to the next patch. Not that it matters.

He should have just asked rather than asking permission first. He should have known it was a long shot. She hasn’t told him anything because she has no intention of telling him.

The bitterness still curdles in his empty gut all through the exercise, and the next one, and it fades a little but it stays with him. It even niggles like a loose tooth when he’s alone in his cell trying to get some desperately needed sleep before they wake him again. 

If he was a tougher guy, maybe anger would have outpaced fear from the start. If he was smarter, maybe he’d know how to stifle it before it burns him. 

But he can feel it growing day on day, a rising tide that says no to everything they ask of him, no more, fuck this, fuck that, fuck all of it.

The second time he bites is not an accident.

He knows full well how bad the consequences will be. He knows that if he does this he’ll probably never get another chance. He knows it won’t achieve anything.

He’s just so, so sick of the endless, painful, invasive, relentless touch. 

He’s up against the wall again, knees shoulder width apart, palms flat against the wall. Handler Sharan isn’t giving orders, she’s just touching him. Stroking his skin all over, prodding and squeezing until it’s a struggle not to hiss and flinch from the sharp points of her fingers.

He knows it’s about eroding boundaries. He doesn’t know how she knows that he hasn’t let go of this one yet. He tries so hard not to recoil or complain.

He’s just not any good at it, he supposes.

Especially when her hand dips down the front of his shorts to grab at his junk. He knows it’s no different from everything else she can do to him, there’s no use in fighting it – but he can’t stop his body going rigid against her, can’t stop his breath catching and his skin crawling.

She tweaks the end of his cock and gets a gasp, then her hand moves on, fondling the lines of his stomach, nails scratching lightly at the skin and making him squirm with how badly it itches.

Helpless anger wells up. 

It’s not even anything new. It’s not exhaustion to the limit of what his body can handle. It’s barely painful. 

All he has to do is hold still and tolerate it.

That’s all.

“Alright, break time’s over.” She slaps his ass – sharp over the welts – and he yelps. “You’re losing condition, can’t have that. Up on your feet and give me squats.”

Of course he’s fucking losing condition, she’s starving him. He doesn’t know if he can do one squat. 

He’s going to find out.

It turns out he can do twenty-three, although the last thirteen are pathetic and get him switched across the shoulders. After that, he falls on his smarting, aching ass.

She hasn’t told him to stop, so he knows he should get up, he knows the shock’s coming when he refuses, he just – he hates this. He hates her. 

He chokes through the shock. He still doesn't get back up. 

"What happened there, trainee?" Sharan asks. "You were doing so well." He knows an opening when he sees one. "I'm sorry, Handler," he snivels, "I - I can't, I'm sorry." "Try," she tells him testily.

He does, because he isn't brave enough to keep refusing. But maybe he doesn't try very hard, maybe he gives in to cramps that he probably could have pushed through if he weren't so fucking done with all of this. 

The switch snaps across his ribs, and the back of his thighs, and he makes another show of straining his shaking limbs trying to push up from the floor.

There are tears in his eyes, and that's not faked.

She crouches, and pulls his head back by the hair to get a good look at his face, and he's so scared that she's going to see the hate and anger written all over him that he must end up looking sufficiently wretched after all because she merely wrinkles her nose and sighs.

Then she drags him up by the hair, and that makes him really try to get his feet under him. He’s clumsy from exhaustion and he falls against her and she staggers. Her arms wrap round his chest to catch him and they dig in sharply to all the bruises over his ribs.

He squirms, and she pushes him off her. He sprawls across the tiles.

“Bad Pet,” she hisses. He gets another shock from the collar. 

He doesn’t know what she expects from him next but staying where he fell is not it. Another shock.

For the first time in – god knows how long – his hands go instinctively to the collar to try and prise it away from his throat. More shocks, a higher setting, held for longer. He screeches and spasms on the floor.

He doesn’t quite black out, but he loses track of the Handler, right up until her hands on his shoulders signal him to roll onto his back. He pants raggedly for air, voice catching in the back of his throat, and looks up at her.

“Shhh,” she soothes, petting his face. As if she didn’t do this. As if he’s supposed to be grateful for the burning, itching hand on his skin.

When he bites her, it’s not an accident. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated spite.

For just a few seconds, the fear of consequences doesn’t get a look in. He just wants – all he wants – is to make her hurt.

He waits until her hand is steady on his cheek, and then he turns his head as if to nuzzle into the touch like one of his girls would – and then he sinks his teeth in as hard as he can, and he shakes his head like a dog, and he doesn’t let go.

[Next]

[thedelilah75xl]

03/03/2024

My Saturday was ok, but I had an allergic reaction to my meds. My whole body was itching....so took allergex and that helped. My wound was uncomfortable today.... my girlfriend visited me and brought some grapes and flowers....she knows I love my fruit. But I shouldn't because it makes me gain weight. But I ate it anyway....I made us chicken salad again. Red meat is giving Me inflammation.

This will be my go to meal and it's healthy. My collagen is finished and I ordered some on line, hopefully it won't take too long to get here hopefully it will help with lightening my scars ..it's good for skin and hair. So my friend visited me is 8 years younger than me...but I actually are jealous of her life. She's divorced from her husband, she told Me she just married him for his money. But they got divorced and she moved out when her baby was 3months old. He gave her a House, until her son is 18.

She's pretty, have a to die for body and she's engaged to a new man...spoiling her rotten.

Paying for Botox every 3rd month. Doing her nails at the most expensive nail salon. Because she's so high maintenance I'm her only girlfriend...she a threat to other woman.....it was with her birthday I opened a video of my master and she saw it and asked me about it ....

I'm feeling so guilty eating all the grapes plus my chicken salad ... especially when I'm not allowed to exercise I want to eat as little as possible.

So my master are better with me. Just the feeling of him on my side makes Me extremely happy . I mastrubated but I did not cum easily...I did not enjoy it .I think it's because I did not feel well ......my face is still burning today from the allergic reaction. And I did not drink enough water, I feel my kidneys is suffering with the pain meds....

I hope today will be a better day

[oldsyphiliticseadog]

Being allergic to heat is absolute bullshit and absolutely horrendous. I went outside for less than a minute to go throw out my trash, and not even ten seconds in, my skin started to burn and itch as if I was standing in a fire ant mound. 

[leiawritesstories]

i was reading about people whose very cheap aliexpress smart watches exploded or caught on fire and i thought it’d be a good prompt? burned wrist and rowan was a hot doctor or maybe it turned into a serious fire?? idk i just thought you’d be amazing at writing an avoidable explosion leading to romance lol if you feel like it?

OMG THIS IS HILARIOUS AND IT'S SO THEM THANK U SO MUCH MARIA

word count: 1,895

warning: language, non-severe injuries 

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

It was a completely normal day, the morning sun warm but not uncomfortable against Aelin’s skin as she jogged along the familiar trail with Fleetfoot’s leash clipped to her waist, getting in her morning exercise and letting the excitable golden retriever expend her boundless energy. She glanced at her smart watch, an imitation Apple watch she’d impulsively bought off Aliexpress because the price was too damn good to resist. 

No matter Lys’s warnings. Bitch, you better be ready for the thing to be worth the five dollars you paid. Goddamn, girl, you trying to hurt yourself? You know about all those people whose Aliexpress shit exploded! And finally, just her best friend’s famous eyeroll when Aelin got the package, opened it, and promptly started wearing the watch everywhere. Because it looked like the real deal. And, if she was being honest, it worked like one too. She’d barely noticed the difference, and Aelin Galathynius wasn’t one to not recognize when something was a fake. 

She spared a quick glance at the watch as she jogged around the trail’s loop, half-propelled by her energetic pup. 2 miles. Time to loop back. Whistling to her enthusiastic dog, she circled all the way around the loop, pulling Fleetfoot back into course as they headed home. 

A few minutes later, Aelin’s wrist started to itch beneath her watch. She shifted the little screen, thinking it would relieve the itch. To her mild surprise, the screen felt...hot? Shrugging, she dismissed it as the sunlight heating up the black glass and kept running. 

Her wrist got hotter beneath the watch. She glanced down again. And did a double take. Was that...steam curling off the screen? 

Right as she reached to take it off, there was a crack and a pop of smoke, and the cheap-ass watch belched out a handful of sparks and a whole lot of steam and heat and cracked into pieces. 

“Shit!” Aelin shrieked, tossing the shattered pieces of her discount watch onto the ground. At her feet, Fleetfoot whined, sensing something wrong. “It’s okay, pup, I’ve only been proven wrong. Again.” She sighed. “Ugh, Lys is gonna have a fucking field day.” She moved her hand, testing. “Shit!” she exclaimed again, seeing the bright red burn on the back of her wrist and a couple of cuts from the watch breaking apart. 

She’d better take care of that. 

Mentally calculating the distance home, Aelin swore, realizing that her wrist was beginning to drip blood and she should really go into urgent care and make sure there wasn’t anything very wrong with it. Luckily for her, the urgent care was only about a quarter-mile from where she was, not far from her apartment complex. To keep her injury from getting worse, she took off her headband and wrapped the fabric gingerly around her wrist, keeping it covered. 

It wasn’t long before she’d arrived at the urgent care building, fastening Fleetfoot’s leash to the bike rack before entering the building. After a quick exchange with the receptionist, showing the kind older lady her wrist and filling out an intake form, Aelin waited a little anxiously on an ugly green chair, forcing herself to take deep breaths. 

“Miss Galathynius?” 

Aelin rose and followed the young woman in navy blue scrubs into one of the exam rooms. The woman gently unwrapped her wrist and examined it, her brows scrunching as she tried to determine if there was anything seriously wrong with it. 

“I’m gonna go ask the doctor to come in,” she told Aelin. “See, I’m only a med student and it’s my first urgent care rotation and I’m not sure if I should call for a scan or anything.” She was almost babbling. 

“Hey,” Aelin said softly, unable to help the part of her that wanted to soothe the clearly nervous student. “It’s okay, go ahead and get the doctor. Nobody’s going to blame you for wanting to be certain.” She grinned. “And I think you’re doing amazing, I would never have been able to tell it’s your first rotation.” 

“Thanks.” The girl blushed. “Okay, we’ll be back in a minute.” Less than five minutes later, the student was back. 

With one hell of a handsome doctor behind her. 

Aelin covertly pinched herself with her good hand in a vain effort to keep her gaze from sweeping over the doctor. Tall, muscular, eyes the precise shade of the Oakwald Forest, tanned, and with silvery hair that either meant he was as old as Emrys and she was a creep or he was a silver fox. And she still looked like a creep, checking out the doctor at urgent care. 

“Miss Galathynius?” the doctor asked. 

Aelin snapped herself back into reality. “Yes?” 

He settled himself on the wheeled stool. “Doctor Rowan Whitethorn.” 

“I can read your nametag, you know,” she joked before she could think better of it. Dammit, Galathynius, do you have to be so stupid? 

Surprisingly, Dr. Whitethorn chuckled. “Yeah, force of habit. I spend too much time at the hospital introducing myself to patients that I forget my name’s literally embroidered on my coat.” He tugged on a pair of blue latex gloves. “Evangeline here says you’ve injured your wrist?” 

All business, then. “Yeah,” Aelin sighed, holding out her arm. Rowan’s touch was firm but gentle as he examined the burn, the cuts, his gloved hand expertly feeling for any serious damage. 

She wouldn’t mind those hands feeling other parts of her. 

Mentally, Aelin slapped herself. Pull yourself together! This is a professional interaction, not a bar! “So?” she asked, unable to keep a faint edge of worry out of her voice. 

Rowan--no, Dr. Whitethorn--flashed her a charming little grin. “No major damage,” he reassured her. “Eva, grab me gauze, aloe, and antibiotic cream.” He turned back to Aelin. “I’ll clean you up and get you bandaged, and you’ll be all set to go.” 

“Thanks,” Aelin murmured as he wiped her wrist with a warm washcloth, cleaning away any dirt that might have slipped into the injury. He took the ointments from Evangeline and dabbed some onto her wrist, covering it up with gauze and wrapping a stretchy bandage around it. 

“Change the dressing before you go to bed,” he instructed. “Keep it covered for a couple of days, then you can leave off the bandage. You should be all healed in a week or so.” 

“Thanks again,” Aelin grinned. “It’s a relief to know it’s not serious.” 

Dr. Whitethorn chuckled. “Well, these kinds of injuries usually aren’t.” 

“What?” She blinked. “You’ve seen people with this exact kind of injury?” 

He just winked at her as he disposed of his gloves and stood up to leave. “The next time you want a smart watch, Miss Galathynius, you might want to buy the real thing.” 

Well, shit. 

~

A week and a half later, Aelin’s wrist had healed nicely, just like Dr. Whitethorn had said, and she, Lys, and Elide were out for drinks. She’d worn one of her favorite dresses, a form-fitting gold piece that made her ass and her tits look absolutely spectacular, and she was giggly from the shots they’d taken. 

“Psst.” Lys elbowed her in the side. “Don’t look, but there’s a fuckin’ hot piece of ass staring at you.” 

“What?” Aelin’s head whipped around, scanning the dimly lit bar, the place buzzing with conversation. 

To find a pair of pine-green eyes locked on her. 

A wicked little smirk curled the corner of her mouth. “If he’s so hot, Lys, why aren’t you going over to meet him?” she inquired, turning back to her friend as she dropped a tiny little wink in Whitethorn’s direction. 

“Because he’s looking at you like he wants to rip that dress off, that’s why,” Lys snickered, sipping at her drink. 

“Lys!” If the lights were brighter, Lys would have seen her blushing. 

“What?” The brunette winked at her. “You don’t want to get laid?” 

Aelin snorted, taking a long draw of her drink and sliding off the stool, her purse in her hand. “I’ll venmo you for drinks,” she chirped, heading onto the small dancefloor, Lys’s rather rude comment following her. 

It took all of three minutes before she felt hands slide around her waist, a pine-scented cologne drifting into her nostrils. “Miss Galathynius,” Rowan Whitethorn purred. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“Same to you, Dr. Whitethorn,” she returned, keeping her hips swaying to the music. 

“Rowan, please,” he murmured. “Doctor is my working name, and sometimes it’s good to get away from that.” 

“Rowan,” she agreed, turning to face him, her hands looping around his neck. “Then I’m Aelin.” 

“How’s the wrist, Aelin?” he asked. 

“Almost totally healed.” 

“Good.” His voice took on a hint of a drawl. “I like seeing my patients well taken care of.” 

“Then you’ll be glad to know you took very good care of me,” Aelin smirked. Two could play this game, oh yes they could. 

Rowan’s hand flexed against her waist. “Your friends are staring at me,” he murmured into her ear. “It’s throwing me off.” 

Aelin couldn’t contain her snicker. “Lys and Elide are extremely protective, as well as extremely meddlesome.” She grinned at him. “They’re probably just making sure you’re not as old as your hair suggests.” 

“I’m thirty-one,” he sighed, “not ancient.” 

“And I’m twenty-six,” she replied. 

He grinned at her. “Want to go somewhere without protective friends?” 

“And here I thought protection was everyone’s friend,” she mumbled. 

Rowan snorted, clamping his lips together to contain the laugh that threatened to erupt. “Gods, Aelin.” 

She just winked. “Yes, I’d love to.” 

He linked his hand with hers, pulling her out the doors and down the street to another bar, this one a little less crowded, and led her to a booth as he waved to the bartender. “Vaughan’s an old friend, he’ll bring us whatever we need.” 

“Okay.” Aelin slid into the worn, comfortable booth. “So tell me, Rowan Whitethorn, how much do you like this dress?” 

~

They stayed at that bar until almost one in the morning, sharing stories and jokes and a couple of drinks, talking and laughing until Rowan glanced at the clock and swore. Time to get home. Like the gentleman he was, he drove her home, since she’d carpooled with Lys, stopping at her apartment building to let her out. 

“Thanks for the night, Rowan,” she murmured, impulsively kissing his cheek as she reached for the door. 

He caught her before she could step out, cupping one hand around the side of her face and pressing a slightly hesitant kiss to her lips. She melted into his kiss, bracing one hand on his broad shoulder for balance. When they parted, both of them were grinning. 

“When can I take you out again?” Rowan asked, his soft voice stuffed full of boyish hope. 

“I’ll text you,” Aelin promised. “My schedule gets awful at this time of year, what with so many publishings and launches scheduled. But I’ll make time.” 

“Okay,” Rowan grinned, kissing her again. 

She blew him a kiss as she walked into her building, that golden dress clinging to every curve and line of her body. In the elevator to her floor, her phone pinged with a text from Rowan. 

>Can’t wait.

>And Aelin? 

<Yeah?

>Wear that dress again.

Her lips curled into a sly smirk. Wear that dress again. 

Oh, she would.

~~~~

TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added/removed!

@charlizeed

@cretaceous-therapod

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@flora-shadowshine

@nerdperson524

@claralady

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@backtobl4ck

[luveline]

in the morning, afternoon and night [Fred Weasley x Reader]

tags: reader-insert, hurt/comfort, self esteem issues, low self esteem, reader has acne, sad reader, insecure reader

pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

word count: 1.8k

You glared at your reflection.

You'd think with such amazing magical medicine available, some witch or wizard would've invented a cure for acne, or at least a spell that covered it up.

You'd struggled with it since your third year. The muggle doctor you'd seen with your mother had suggested it was hormonal, and would calm down as you got older.

That was years ago.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. It wasn't, really. It wasn't usually very painful, though it was itchy as a stinging nettle and twice as unsightly. A large part of you knew it wasn't your fault, that acne was something that simply affected people at different times in their lives. You'd tried topicals and changing your diet, you'd tried losing weight and exercising and dermaplaning and everything they suggested in your mams fashion magazines.

Nothing worked.

Tears welled in your eyes and you sniffed them back, blinking rapidly.

It might've been silly, but it honestly made you want to hide away. You'd skipped dinner without really thinking, finding your way into the girls bathroom you inhabited now. You straightened your tie and robes, dusting down the sides. You leaned forward again, dabbing under your eyes with your sleeve.

The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know you'd been crying, because then someone might ask why. You didn't want to talk about it, ever.

If Fred saw you like this...

You and Fred Weasley had been almost dating for a few weeks now. Almost, because you hadn't talked about the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing yet.

It had been years of thinking he was the fittest boy in Gryffindor (besides George) and months of meeting his gaze in the corridors and catching his eye over dinner. Gradually it had become something more; he started carrying your books between classes and opening doors, touching your arms and your hair and your face.

You cringed at the memory. He had been so caring, moving to wipe an eyelash from the skin under your eye. You'd violently flinched from his hand, afraid he might feel the bumpy texture of your skin, feel the acne beneath your makeup. He'd been apologetic and a little confused, filling you with guilt. You hadn't been able to find a way to tell him it wasn't him, it was you. Of course you wanted him to touch you, the thought of him cradling your face had been the subject of many dizzy daydreams, but you just couldn't tell him this one thing.

It was your deepest insecurity.

The stress had only made it worse. Redness was easy to cover with muggle make up and even some wizarding tricks you'd learned over the years, but there wasn't a way to smooth your skin, and the acne was textured.

It was depressing. You didn't want to use that word, it felt ungrateful to compare your skin issues to something so severe, but it made you miserable.

You but down on your quivering lip, pushing away from the mirror unhappily and opening the bathroom door, a frown on your face.

"Y/N!" a familiar voice said.

You jumped, startled but unsurprised. Fred had a talent of always knowing where you were. You'd find it creepy if he wasn't so endearing.

"Fred," you said, plastering a smile over your frown. "I was just coming to find you."

"What a coincidence, ma chérie, I was doing the same."

"Well," you began, easily sidling into his space, "you found me."

"Yes, I did," Fred hummed, wrapping his arms behind your neck, grinning.

He took a long look at your face, his forehead creased. "What's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong, Fred."

He moved his hands to your shoulders, looking down into your face searchingly. "Have you been crying?" he asked.

You shook your head, lying without thinking. "Something in my eye,"

"Both of them?"

You stepped backwards. He let go of your shoulders accordingly.

"Y/N?"

"It's really nothing," you said through a forced laugh.

He frowned at you for a few seconds more and his face cleared. "Alright," he said slowly, rolling the words in his mouth, "if you say so, doll."

You opened like a blooming flower at the pet name, your whole face softening. You smiled, hoping he understood that the smile meant, oh I just so adore you, Fred Weasley.

He threaded his fingers through yours, dragging you down the corridor beside him and waxing poetic about their newest lot of Peruvian darkness powder as you went.

-

It got so bad you couldn't go to class.

Okay, so you definitely could've gone to class, but the thought of leaving your curtained bed was enough to make you sick with anxiety, so worried that everyone would see you - see your face.

NEWTs were coming fast and hard. Everyone who wanted to be anyone was working hard studying their asses of, on top of Professor Umbridge's million new rules you had to abide by, including her newest life-ruining rule: Boys and girl are not to be within 5 inches of each other.

What a joke. You struggled through classes, wrote essays so long your hand burned at night and now you weren't allowed to sit next to your almost boyfriend at lunch? It was miserable. It was making you miserable, and now you may as well have sharpied on your forehead how equipped your body was to deal with it.

Fucking badly.

You groaned to yourself, rolling on your side to face the wall. You were at your wits end. It felt endlessly unfair that the thing that was stressing you out most was getting worse from stress.

Your stomach growled hungrily.

You threw your arm over your eyes in defeat, eyes finally filling with tears. You felt so hopeless. There was nothing to be done except keep up your routine until the flare up was over, or until your mothers next 'miracle cure' popped into existence.

The tears felt too hot against your sore skin. You couldn't help but sob quietly to yourself in self-pity.

A knock sounded at the door. You gasped, wiping the tears away in panic.

"Y/N?" It was Alicia. "Are you alright? Can I come in?"

"Yes," you managed. "Yes, of course. It's your room too, after all."

The door clicked open. Alicia appeared, tanned skin completely clear and glowing, though each perfect feature was marred with empathy. "Fred's been begging every girl in the common room to come fetch you, but I told him to leave you be."

"Thank you," you said.

You cleared your throat. Alicia moved her weight from foot to foot, twisting her hands.

"I- Y/N. I won't pretend to know how it feels, but I promise you, Fred won't care. He's beside himself worrying that you're bedridden and dying or-" she laughed to herself, "or that you're still mad at him for the itching powder. What I mean is... he's a good guy, and you're upset. Maybe you should tell him what's wrong. He won't care."

You sniffed. "I know," you admitted, feeling the weight of her shifting the bed. "I know he's a great guy. I just wouldn't blame him if he, if he didn't like me anymore. If he found it ugly. I would understand it, and I think that makes it worse," you choked on your words, heat building behind your eyes.

"Oh, Y/N," Alicia said, placing a tentative but comforting hand on your shoulder.

You lay in quiet, listening to your own ragged breathing.

"I'll go talk to him," Alicia said.

"No! I mean, no. Thank you, but no. I... I'll speak to him myself."

Alicia nodded, rubbing your arm kindly.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind her finally spurred you into sitting up. You dressed in a hurry, chucking a wool jumper over last nights pyjamas.

He wouldn't care, would he? You cringed. Yes, he definitely would. Whatever was between you would stop. He'd have the grace to let you down slowly, drawing away his affections. He was a polite guy, he'd probably even say the whole spiel of "it's not you, it's me". But he would, eventually.

Well, you figured. Let it be quick. Like ripping off a bandaid.

You tread lightly down the steps, hoping to see him before he saw you.

Of course, when the slightest groan on the bottom step sounded, his lovely face whipped to meet yours. He smiled in relief, but it was mixed with something else. Disgust, your brain supplied nastily. He was disgusted. He rose to his feet, smiling smiling smiling. But something in his eyes was different, now.

"Y/N," he said.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi yourself, beautiful. Where've you been all day?"

"I'm... sick. Bad cold," you settled on.

He raised an eyebrow. "You sound okay," he said, not unkindly.

"I..." you looked down at your hands.

A siren was sounding in your head. You didn't think Fred had seen you without make up for the last 3 years. Fight or flight was leaning heavily towards flight.

"Well, are you hungry?"

You shook your head.

"Are you sure? You haven't eaten all day. You need something in your system if you're gonna fight this cold."

"I'm not actually sick, Fred," you admitted under your breath.

"I know."

You looked up. He was still smiling kindly. It was infuriating.

"Look," you said finally, rushed and all at once, "if you don't want to- if you're grossed out. Then it's fine, I'll understand if you don't want to see me anymore."

Fred was stricken.

"I know it's - ugly."

"Ugly? Nothing about you is ugly."

"Fred, my face-"

"No, listen to me, Y/N. It's not ugly. It's not gross. You're not any of those things, are you kidding?" he said, grabbing your hands. "You're beautiful. All the time, in the morning, afternoon and night. You're beautiful in charms and transfiguration and care of magical creatures. You were beautiful yesterday and you're beautiful today and you'll be even more so tomorrow." He stopped suddenly, looking down at your joined hands. His cheeks had turned bright red.

"Smooth, Freddie," came George's voice, from the sofa behind them.

"Shove OFF," exclaimed Fred, growing more red by the second. Heat filled your own cheeks.

"It's skin, Y/N. That's all it is."

"Okay," you said tightly, trying not to cry.

Fred breathed out, his hair shifting in response. His corded arms pulled you tight to his chest. You breathed him in. He smelled sweet and rough, like burning caramel.

He thought you were beautiful.

You smiled into his shirt.

<3<3<3

tag list: @msmimimerton

if you’d like to be added to a tag list, please ask ! for in general or for specific characters, i don’t mind

[fruitcoops]

I loved your fic about Logan having a panic attack and I’ve seen a lot of fics about Sirius having a panic attack, so I was wondering if you could write about Remus having one?

Oof, yes. This fic is near and dear to my heart. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove !

TW for panic attacks, past medical trauma, and past injury

Remus licked his lips for the third time in as many minutes. A faint ringing had started in his ears, and he took a shaky breath through his nose as his throat began to tighten.

Fingers brushed against his wrist. “Mon loup? You okay?”

“We need to go,” Remus said, much quieter than he intended. The lights were burning his eyes; they were too bright, too blue, too close. “Sirius, we need to leave.”

Sirius stood in a smooth motion and wrapped an arm around his waist, casual to anyone else but solid as a bar of iron. Remus fought the urge to let his knees give out as phantom pain lanced through his shoulder and made his heart slam against his bones.

“We need to leave,” he said again.

“Deep breaths, you’ll be alright.”

“I can’t be here. Sirius, please, I can’t.”

“I know.” Sirius’ voice was soothing, but laced with tension. The world blurred and Remus trained his gaze on the speckled floor; another human-shaped blur came into his periphery and let them aside after a quick murmur from Sirius. The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and the tacky tang of medical tape seeped into his nose, dulling every other sense as Sirius practically carried him down the hallway.

A door swung shut behind them, and Remus was on the ground.

A hand wrapped around his upper arm and he smacked it away, crushing himself into the corner between two cold tile walls. He didn’t like hands. Hands poked, prodded, trapped. They connected to voices that brought only bad news and more exercises that hurt. They were always cold.

A panicked wheeze escaped his chest as he wrapped his arms around his knees and let the first tears roll down his face. He never cried in the hospital, not around other people. He could taste the cleaning solution; it burned his eyes, or maybe that was just the salt he couldn’t stop.

“I can’t breathe,” he blubbered. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not going to die.” The voice was gentle and low, and so, so sad. “Remus, can you open your eyes?”

“Don’t wanna look.” Looking meant he would see everything around him. It would break the illusion that he was home in his bed, safe and sound. That it was all a nightmare. “I wanna go home.”

“We can go home, but you need to breathe first.”

“I can’t.” He sounded pathetic. More than anything, he wanted his mom. She would sit next to him and hum under her breath, no matter how quiet or covered in fear sweat he was. His dad would soothe Jules whenever he tried climbing onto Remus’ hospital bed and let him squeeze his hand when the pain meds wore off. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Sweetheart, can I touch you?”

He nodded. A warm, callused hand slid into his and gave it a light squeeze, drawing out a fresh wave of tears that soaked into the knees of his jeans. “Thank you,” he managed in a thick voice. “Thank you, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, shh.” Steady weight settled against his side and he curled into it, blocking out the screeching in his ears. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Hurts.” The dull ache had spread to his elbow and into his chest.

“What hurts?”

“I can’t move my arm.”

“Yes, you can.” A kiss pressed against the top of his head and a broad palm rubbed warmth back into his bicep. “You’re all healed up, love.”

“We’re in a hospital.” Remus sniffled and nuzzled closer to the soft t-shirt under his cheek. His blinding panic was fading into exhaustion.

“We came here with our friends to read to some of the patients,” Sirius said. His heartbeat was calm next to Remus’ hammering pulse. “The kids in long-term care.”

“Why did I do this?” he whispered.

Sirius sighed. “You said you wanted them to feel better.”

Remus took a slow breath, letting the air fill his lungs for the first time in a while. “Did I lose it in front of them?”

“No, they had just left.”

“That’s good.” He scooted impossibly closer and wrapped a shaky arm around Sirius’ mid back. “That’s good.”

“How can I help?”

Remus stifled a yawn as the ringing finally subsided, leaving them in a silent bathroom. “I need a minute, but then I want to go home. I don’t think I’m up to lunch with everyone.”

“Okay.”

“And I need a shower.” He knew he smelled fine in real life, but his skin itched with the clinging memories.

“Okay.”

“And—and I need you to stay,” he finally said, choking the words out. “I need you.”

Sirius’ chest rose and fell with a slow breath. “Okay.”

[duskandstarlight]

POSSESSIVE PROTECTIVE CASSIAN PLEASE

This is possessive, jealous Cassian and Helion’s flirting is the culprit! I wrote this ages ago on my phone and is incomplete. The gist is that Nesta and Cassian are visiting the court so Nesta can learn more about their education system. They are not together, but sleep together with no funny business… I wrote this ages ago and it was going to go in E&L. Now it doesn’t fit, so here’s a very long bit of it…

Cassian had drank himself into a stupor and by the time he’d stumbled back to his room, it was well past midnight.

What he found surprised him: Nesta, curled up on her side of the bed beneath the covers. He heard her even breathing turn lighter. She couldn’t have been out long but her expression was riddled with sleep as she rubbed face against the pillow.

He turned away from her before she opened her eyes, the anger from earlier still clinging its sharp teeth into his gut. But he could feel her stare burning into his skin and he suddenly flushed hot with it.

He pulled off his shirt, glad of his brother’s lifelong enchantment which meant that the buttons around his wings automatically unbuttoned themselves, and started to tug off his pants.

Usually he wore loose pants and a tunic to bed but he was too drunk to care. There was also a part of him that wanted to make Nesta uneasy, just so she knew how fucking terrible he’d felt all day watching Helion flirt with her.

A fresh swell of anger burst through him and he found himself speaking before he could check himself. “Why are you here?”

He dared to turn to her then. He expected her fury and it was there, but underneath it was hurt. It made him feel like a prize prick.

Nesta sat up and his eyes automatically flicked to her cleavage that was on show in her low neck nightgown - he couldn’t help it - and she hissed at him through the long, golden hair that hung down her face in waves before she tucked it behind an ear.

She studied him for a moment. “You left.”

“Yes,” he said, but the way he said it he may as well have said, and what?

“You didn’t say goodbye,” she embellished.

Cassian made his shrug loose but he knew he wasn’t fooling her. “You were busy with Helion.”

Nesta snorted. “When has that ever stopped you from interrupting before?”

“You looked like you we’re enjoying the attention.”

Even in the darkness, Cassian saw Nesta’s eyes flash bright with anger, but she only said, “Yet here I am.”

Cassian clenched his jaw. He knew she hadn’t bedded Helion - he’d have scented it on her the moment he had stepped into his room. Hell, he’d have probably known prior to that. He’d seen flashes of roiling flesh and the sounds of panted moans from her before, even if it was over a year ago. He couldn’t go through that again. His heart couldn’t take it.

His eyes hardened at the thought and he stared her down. She looked right back, unflinching, as he told her with bite, “I don’t care. Fuck who you want.”

Lies, lies, lies. And Nesta - his unflappable hellcat - flinched. Her answering snarl was soft and menacing. He could tell he wasn’t far off from being blasted with that power of hers. He could feel the pressure building.

“You’re being a territorial bat,” she hissed, a finger stabbing through the air between them. Silver sparked like stars before fading into nothing.

Tossing his clothes onto the armchair beside the bed, Cassian made his voice distant and uncaring, even as it dropped an octave, “I left you with Helion to do what you wished. You have no idea how territorial I could have been.”

“You growled multiple times,” Nesta pointed out coldly.

“I can’t help it,” he snapped.

Closing his eyes, he willed the red hot blood in his veins to cool, but Nesta had already fought right back.

“I’d have thought the General of the Night Court Armies would have a little more self-control,” she bit out with equal fervour.

But that’s where she was wrong. Cassian had never exercised such restraint, apart from when he had bedded her himself and stopped her from touching him. Even though he had never wanted anybody more. He still didn’t.

The thought sobered him and Cassian looked away, his jaw working again.

“I did the least amount of damage, considering,” he gritted out.

Nesta snorted. “Considering what? Helion’s a shameless flirt who thinks he can bed whoever he likes. He’s just moved on to me now he can’t have you, Mor and Azriel. You should know better.”

It was a loaded comment that Cassian ignored. It was the next statement that hurt more than anything.

“I’m not yours.”

The truthful agony of it swept over him and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

“I know that, trust me,” he said hoarsely.

But now Nesta had started she seemed to have no intention of stopping. “You’re jealous.”

Cassian made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and fisted his hands at his sides. He strode towards the dresser - anything to not look at her - and pulled out some loose pants.

“Of course I’m jealous. Everyone knows I’m jealous. I’m fucking transparent when it comes to you.

“He showed me the library. Not his bedroom.”

“He may as well have,” Cassian muttered, pulling his hair out of its tie. He ran his fingers through his knotted hair, not wincing as they snagged on the tangles. “I could tell what he wanted from you.”

“You are being insufferable,” Nesta hissed.

Cassian threw the tie at the armoire. It missed and landed on the floor. Somehow his inability to do something so simple had his temper breaking completely.

He didn’t dare look at her as he snapped, “Then go away. I didn’t ask you to come here. I’ve drunk too much and I want to go to bed.”

Her answer was defiant. “No.”

Cassian’s nostrils flared at her refusal but he just disappeared into the bathroom to wash up. When he came back she was still there, already curled up towards the middle of the mattress.

He turned the bathroom light out so he didn’t have to look at her, even though his heart leapt that she was still here with him.

They lay in the dark for a long while, neither of them sleeping. Usually just having Nesta beside him, her heartbeat wrapped around his, was enough for him to surrender to sleep, but today it didn’t help - not with their disagreement still hanging thickly in the air around them.

An hour must have passed until Nesta’s hand brushed his. Refusing to react, Cassian clenched his jaw but then Nesta wound her fingers through his own and he felt his resolve melt slightly at the touch.

“I don’t want Helion,” Nesta said, her voice close to his ear.

“Fine.”

“Stop being angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“You seem it.”

“I’m not,” he assured her, even though he struggled to quell the green-eyed monster that was raging inside of him.

“Helion is showing me the education system. I can’t be rude.”

Cassian snort was rude. “That’s never stopped you before, sweetheart.”

“This is important to me. I want to learn and improve the camp schools. I thought you out of everyone would understand that.”

His fingers itched to pull her flush against him but he didn’t. He couldn’t speak or form words because he felt selfish and horrible for caring about Helion’s flirting when Nesta was trying to do good. But his love for her was too fierce now to hide. Just the thought of her even being interested in another male had him wanting to rend apart the sky.

And if Cassian was being honest, he was terrified that she would reject him and everything good that had ever happened to him would come to an end.

So he didn’t say anything.

It took him a long time to get to sleep.

[teklarn]

𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓸𝔂𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾 (𝓹𝓽. 2)

 character(s): katsuki bakugou x gn!reader 

a/n: ok so i just started writing on tumblr and honestly in my opinion for my first time posting smth on this the first part did really well thank u for all the likes :) (told from second pov; e.g you, your) reblogs are greatly appreciated :))

summary: bakugou x gn!reader. they have feelings for one another but have no idea how to express them, however y/n has someone pining for their attention. 

genre: a lil bit angsty 

warnings: cursing, jealousy, mutual pining, slow burn romance, aged-up to third year, love triangle (square?), physical injuries, kirishima gets a little toxic, also shirtless bakugou (awooga), a crap ton of time skips bc i can’t write action scenes for shit, bakugou is a flirt (lowkey but yeah), mentions of blood 

word count: 2112

pt 1 , pt 3

- - - 

kirishima had broken the skin on his lower lip with how hard he was biting it. he stood in the bathroom, rinsing his mouth, ignoring the slight sting the water brought. 

y/n was currently being blasted by bakugou, and they were fighting back. 

jealousy panged in his chest. 

bakugou had never let him know about how he felt about you, however kirishima was sure he felt something for them. you and bakugou were both a jumble of prideful and longing stares towards each other from across every room. the tension was thick enough to slice through. and while kirishima would never make a move in fear of ruining the friendship between him and bakugou, as well as him and y/n, gosh it didn’t stop him from wanting to. 

he’d stood on the side, cheering you on to no end. the sports festival last year, the year before that, training exercises, he was always there. kirishima was always there. 

whenever you needed him, whenever you wanted his company. so what did bakugou have over him? sure, the blond was strong and had bigger goals than kirishima, but why should that matter? 

what did bakugou have? why would you want him more when he was never near you? never made an effort to see you to be there when you asked for help. 

it was popular belief that bakugou was a noisy idiot, but he was actually quite a quiet boy. he didn’t bother to raise his hand in class, however he always knew the answer. he spoke rarely and only made conversation with those he was close with if they were the ones to make the effort to converse with him first. 

jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. kirishima despised it. 

whenever did he begin wanting to beat bakugou at something? 

the cloud of guilt welling up in his chest was going to become unbearable, and soon everything he ever wanted to say was going to come up like word vomit at the worst possible time. 

- 

you swiped at your cheek, brushing off the crumbling dirt. your timing had been off, and their flip backwards had landed you in an awkward position. a vulnerable one. 

honestly, though, it wasn’t like it really mattered. bakugou was a bit transparent himself. he wore a smug look like a golden medal, and held back his power just enough to keep you on your feet. 

his cocky attitude was irritating and it drew you in like a moth drawn to a lamp. 

sweat was beading down your temple. the day was exceptionally hot, the sun beaming down on your back like a proud child. 

you and bakugou had been at it for a while. with anyone else, you would have quit by now. it’s not that you gave up easily. no, not ever. but fights could get boring, especially if you were just smashing away at them with your quirk and they were acting like they could take it. 

perhaps you were being cocky. 

this fight, though. this was interesting. not only because it was bakugou; also because you knew so little about him. 

it was likely he never shared anything important to anyone. he was quite introverted. 

it was interesting for another reason. 

it was hot, bakugou sweats a lot. gosh, he looked delicious without a shirt on. he had a built figure accompanied by strong arms and a broad chest. 

he’d filled out quite nicely the past few years. you hadn’t noticed until now how much he’d grown. 

“don’t get distracted.” 

your eyes snapped up from his chest to his eyes. bakugou became a blur, shooting himself off the ground and flipping once in the air before propelling himself back down. 

before you could do anything, bakugou had you pinned, one leg pinning yours, both his hands wrapped around your wrists. he’d ditched his gauntlets, leaving the metal assistants in the sweltering heat, claiming he wanted to give you an equal fight. 

he panted atop you, hands tightening. 

tokage didn’t bother to leave her dorm today, thank goodness. it had just been the three of you. you, bakugou, and kirishima. 

the red head had suspiciously vanished halfway through the fight, though.

bakugou’s crimson eyes bored into yours. neither of you blinked for a moment. perhaps just a small eternity each of you silently reveled in. 

his erratic breaths slowed, and so did yours, although you stayed the same. unmoving, faces neutral but eyes giving away long-held secrets. 

your ears flushed, and butterflies came rising up uncontrollably. you should have pushed him off. instead you gave him a wicked grin, which earned a look from him and you couldn’t tell if he was confused or annoyed. 

“your big ass forehead is blocking the bright-as-hell sun. stay like this,” you mocked, wrenching your wrists from his grasp and snaking your arms around his neck. 

his cheeks burned red. “w-what?” 

“you heard me.” 

he scoffed, tugging you off his neck and standing. “shut up, shitface. we aren’t even done yet.” he readied himself in a fighting stance once more. 

“i thought you said you wanted to stop when you won?” you brushed yourself off as you stood. 

“i know what i said. you probably weren’t even giving it your all.” 

“’course i was.” you cocked your head. “why wouldn’t i?” 

“you’re strong, damn idiot.” 

you feigned surprise, pressed a hand to your fluttering chest. ���the bakugou, dynamight himself, complimenting a humble soul like me? oh, i really must be good, then.” 

“not as good as me.” his face dropped from a smile. bakugou never got enough training no matter how early or late he stayed up, or how many hours on the weekends were spent kicking a bag or sparring with friends. hard workers did all of the work there was a still wondered if they were doing enough. the number one spot wasn’t empty, but it was still reserved for dynamight. 

- 

y/n had collapsed on their bed. kirishima was itching to tell them how he felt, however he was stuck at the doorway. 

they weren’t even dressed for bed, nor were they showered. 

he settled with leaving his friend alone, and shut the door softly to find bakugou standing right behind him. 

kirishima jumped back, closing his eyes in relief. “bakugou. what the heck man?” 

“you’re creepy as shit.” 

“i- what? you were the one staring at me while i-” 

“while you peeped in on y/n?” 

“i wasn’t peeping. i walked them back after the fight and they just collapsed. you were off doing something else and you worked them too hard.” 

it wasn’t a shock that bakugou was still riled up from the duel. this boy had the energy of a mad man. 

when bakugou didn’t say anything, kirishima said once again, “you overworked them.” 

bakugou swat away the comment. “only because they’re not working hard enough.” 

kirishima raised an eyebrow. “they work hard. they’re perfectly fine.” 

“fine?” 

“they’re amazing.”

“i know that, shitty hair. you think i’m blind?” 

“everyone can make improvements at their own pace.” kirishima’s voice dropped. 

“you train with me.” 

“it’s an hour before curfew.” 

bakugou jut a thumb in the direction of the door. “so? maybe you need some more practice, too,” he joked. 

“you’re an ass, bakugou,” kirishima released a breathy chuckle. 

the two wandered off to one of the training grounds. it was open, a wide court where they’d both kicked someone else’s ass. 

the sun was just setting, a new cool breeze coming to fill the spot of the violent sun rays. 

it was routine to fight each other out of nowhere. kirishima was usually quite playful, spewing jokes once in a while and taunting his friend. 

this fight was different. his face was stone-cold. kirishima often took the defensive role, as his quirk didn’t allow him to project any direct attacks to bakugou.

it wasn’t like kirishima was angry at bakugou, but as soon as they started charging towards one another, he couldn’t hold back. his chest tightened, arms hardening and joints becoming strong and stiff. 

with one clean sweep of his arm, bakugou was backing away from kirishima, propelling himself to the edge of the arena with a small blast. he’d always been up for a challenge. kirishima was willing to give him one. 

his sudden competitive demeanor seemed to be egging on bakugou’s. the blond tongued the inside of his cheek, grunting as he shot forth, hair flying wildly. 

swiftly, kirishima dodged, just barely missing a blast. his torso wasn’t hardened, so if he’d dodged any later, his stomach would have been scorched. 

bakugou always took their fights seriously. he knew better than to underestimate the boy who had put together his very own rescue mission. 

kirishima’s opponent stumbled from the momentum. he took his chance and brought a hardened elbow down on bakugou’s back, hearing a satisfying crack. 

bakugou was crushed to the ground with the hit. his face smashed into the sandy ground. he coughed, turning over and spitting dirt to the side. 

it took a moment for him to register what he did, but kirishima was at bakugou’s side within seconds. the sun was nearly gone, a pale blue sky flickering with the first sights of stars. 

it was hard to make it out at first, but not impossible. kirishima saw the blood dripping and smeared just above bakugou’s lip. he groaned, cupping his face in both hands as he sat upright. 

“argh” bakugou gasped. “shit, kirishima. what the hell?” 

“i...i’m sorry dude, i didn’t mean to.” i wanted to, but i didn’t mean to. 

bakugou raised an eyebrow and let a smile seep through his pain. “you’re improving, though.” 

“are you alright?” kirishima traced the small cut on his lip from earlier with the tip of his tongue. 

“i’m fine, i’m fine.” bakugou swatted his hand away. he struggled to get up, refusing kirishima’s help. 

“we should head back before this gets any worse.” 

bakugou kept his large hands hovering under his chin to catch the dripping and occasional chunks of blood.  

although he wanted the duel to continue (it was finally interesting) bakugou wasn’t stubborn enough to keep going. so he nodded, once again denying kirishima’s efforts to help him out. 

- 

you were in the common area, fiddling with a rubik’s cube. it was just you, as everyone else was spending the night among each other. ashido had invited you to her dorm a while ago, but you’d denied, wanting to spend a few more giddy moments to yourself. 

the door rattled, and in came your two friends, one with furrowed brows and the other with blood drenching the front of his shirt. 

bakugou’s head was tilted up in an attempt to stop the blood from flowing down. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the blood trailing down the back of his throat. 

“oh my gosh,” you gasped out, racing to the bathroom. you came back with sanitary wipes in one hand and tissue in the other. “what happened?” 

“we were training,” kirishima started, taking a few tissues from the box and handing them to his friend, “and i accidentally hit him too hard.” 

“you didn’t hit me that hard. you barely did any damage!” bakugou objected. you approached him, and through his fingers, bakugou peered down at you. 

you asked him with your eyes, and he gave you silent permission to pry his arms away from his face. “are you okay?” 

“i’m just dandy,” he scoffed. 

“dude, i’m really sorry—” 

“shut the hell up kirishima. i don’t want your pity. i swear this is the only time i’ll surrender to you, you asswipe.”

you didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle. “bakugou, you need to see recovery girl.” 

“what the hell? no way. all she’s gonna do is give me one of those shitty slobbery kisses and scold me for being careless.” 

“your nose is broken,” you said gently. 

“so? can’t you fix it?” 

you raised a questioning brow. “you want me to help you?” 

“can you or can you not?” 

“i can try to set it but you’re better off going to recovery girl instead of settling with―” 

“all i need is possible. i don’t want to deal with that old lady’s shit right now.” using the tissues kirishima had stuffed into his hand, he caught the remaining blood dripping down his nose. “let’s go.” 

you were more than unsure. he would end up with a crooked nose if you made any small mistake, but he didn’t think twice as he grabbed your shoulder and led you in the direction of your dorm. 

- 

kirishima wished he hadn’t broken bakugou’s nose. not because he felt bad, though. 

[ag3ntl3vi]

Hoodie X GN! Reader X Masky | “Rock Paper Sisscors” |☁️

This struck me at like, 3AM while listening to Devil in Diguise. I’ll probably write more parts to this tonight if im being honest. 

!Gender-Neutral reader!

Trigger Warnings: Sexual mentions. 

Word Count: 2,317

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Can you go any slower?" You laughed, stopping to allow your friend to catch up. Sweat dotted her chocolatey forehead as she panted. 

"Yes! I can." She wheezed. "You're just too fast!" Taylor whined loudly, bending herself in half to try and catch her breath. You rolled your eyes and pulled her up, raising her arms over her head. 

"You'll breathe better this way," You told her, taking a step back and taking a long sip of your icy water. Taylor nodded her thanks and slowed her breathing gradually. 

        "Wanna keep going?" You asked as you wiped your mouth on your wrist. Taylor feriously shook her head. "I'll pass, (Y/n)." She whimpered. You put yout arms behind your head as you began to walk down the worn dirt bath. 

"That sucks," You murmered. "We were only 1/4th of the way done."

Taylor gaped at your cocky smirk. "And you do this everyday?"

You nodded. "Twice a day if I'm feelin' lucky," You winked and giggled. Taylor shook her head in disbelief. 

"You're a machine," She grumbled, jogging to your side. You could tell she was tired, but she was the one who asked to join you in your near-night run. She said she needed the exercise to get the perfect "summer body", even though it was fall. 

You hummed. "I didn't know they made sexy machines now." Taylor pushed away the urge to roll her eyes, though she desperately wanted to. She chose not to answer your stupid comment. You both started to walk back to your dorm and planned a junk food movie night. You had the feeling she wouldn't last, but you couldn't say no to her puppy face. You had to admit, you were a sucker for your best friend.          Taylor ended up chugging the rest of her and your water bottles greedily, but you didn't blame her. She was pretty out of shape. The darker skinned girl took a large gasp of fresh oxygen after finishing off your beverage. 

"Learn to breathe, my God," You snorted. She glared.

"I just ran a mile, you can shut your mouth, you fucking monster," She hissed playfully. 

School campus soon came into view after your bickering. Taylor grumbled about how badly her feet ached and how she was never running ever again. You parted ways at the dorm. Taylor wanted to get the living room set up for the movie and sent you out for snacks and drinks. You easily migrated to the everything store. That wasn't its actual name, you couldn't care to remember what it was, but the everything store seemed to suit the run down shop better. 

        You pushed thr glass double doors open, a cute bell ringing to announce your presence to the cashire, Michael. 

"(Y/n)!" He greeted with a smile. You returned the facial gester with a small wave of your own.          "What're you here for this time?" He leaned his head on his open palm, his eyes trained on your figure. You had your back turned to him as you read the movie names on the rack. 

"What does it look like?" You chuckles, plucking a familar title from the shelf. 'Kiki's Delivery Service', a childhood favorite of yours. Michael didn't verbally answer, he was too busy allowing his eyes to roam your every curve. 

His eyes snapped to the side when you turned around to wonder down the candy isle. You shoved a KitKat , snickers, and (f/c) into your arm (allowing an extra of your favored one into your pocket, shh) before you turned the corner, finding the energy drinks. With a childish grin you grabbed a few of the better Monster flavors. You knew you had popcorn at the dorm so you didn't bother trying to find a box here. 

        You decided to check out as quickly as possible, avoiding as much conversation with Michael as you could. He gave you the creeps. He always tended to make sexual remarks regarding your running outfit, like how your shorts made your ass look plump or how cute you looked with a flushed, tired expression. In general, he didn't seem like a good guy or influence, though Taylor took an odd interest in him. She always had shitty tastes in men. 

It was getting late, you noticed. The sun started to darken as students scrambled to their respected dorms or apartments off campus. You made your way to your room. The illuminated cobblestone path gave you the worst horror movie vibes, so to say you booked it was an understatement. As soon as you were inside the safe confindments of your dorms living area, you released a loud sigh of relief. You thought about taking the elevator up, but decided on the stairs to the third story. You were very grateful you were on a higher floor, to you it served as a lesser chance of being robbed or murdered. 

"I brought a movie, candy and monsters, come on, you filthy goblin." you called into the freakishly neat room. Taylor was a very, very messy person so you tended to pick up after her more than you'd happily admit. It didn't take long for you to set positions for certain objects in specific places. Example, your shoes stayed in a small, plastic, blue bin by the door. They didn't ever make it to the carpeted floor of the living room. You had a key rack by the door so your keys were never lost or misplaced and Taylor had insisted you needed a coat rack, so your bookbags and Taylor's purses hung there. Any extra blankets, pillows, and sheets were placed neatly in the spare closet. 

        "Monsters..?" Her brown head popped out from around the corner. 

-----------------------------------------------

Taylor had passed out halfway through the movie, not that you were surprised. You pouted. You were very well use to it, but it wasn't any less disappointing when it happened. You carefully laid her on the couch, not bothering to wake her. She was a literal demon when she was woken up. You covered her body in a large, fluffy blanket before standing, pacing for a moment. 

You wondered back to your organized room and grabbed your large spray bottle you kept on your dresser. You stared down your mass of plants in your window seal and the few on your night stand and hanging from the ceiling before watering the ones that needed it, leaving your Rainbow Bush succulent alone. Satisfied, you grabbed your school jacket and your earbuds and phone before slipping your shoes on at the door. 

It was almost 1 before Taylor and you had finally settled enough to sit and watch the movie, so it was fairly late now. But, regretfully, your body was still pumped from the sugary drinks you consumed not long ago. You made a quick choice to go on a short run to tire yourself out a bit before retiring for the night. Sure, wasn't the best idea to go out at night, alone and defenceless, but you prided yourself in your speed if needed. Besides, you've done it before and you were obviously still alive!

You made your way to the dirt path you ran earlier in the day, struggling to remember a stupid songs name. You grinned when you figured it out and hurriedly played it. The opening played through your earbuds as you gently bobbed your head to the beat.

"There are boulders on my shoulders, collar bones begin to crack, there is very little left of me and it's never coming back," You sung softly along with 'Be nice to me'. An old, but greatly loved song from your middle school years. You began to run.

Your lips parted in a content smile as a phrase slipped past your teeth.

"You're a killer, and i'm your best friend. I think it's unfair, your situation," 

You began to bounce on the balls of your feet excitedly. "You say i'm changing! I'm sorry I didn't know I had to stay the same!" You jumped as your legs moved, your voice growing louder and bolder with every word thoughtlessly spilling out your mouth. You became unaware of the eyes watching your movements, head tilted in confusion. 

"Your voice is driving me insane!" You shouted, hopping more as you swished your head side to side, getting louder everytime the phrase was repeated. The last note rang through your ears and you let out a joyful that was quickly cut off. The overbearing feeling of being watched dawned on you. 

You jerked around and scanned the treeline, your eyes falling on a tall male facing you with a tilted head. You stared at him, confused before your gaze fell on the bloodied pipe dangling by his side. You fearfully and turned around, bolting in the direction the path led you to. You didn't have much time to understand why he was watching you, but you could hear his heavy footsteps crushing dead leaves as he raced after you. 

'Molly' blasted into your ears loudly, making you jerk in surprise. If you were going to die tonight, you were glad this was the song you'd die to. 

You could hear him distantly still chasing after you. Not to brag, but you could run a mile amd keep going onto the next without breaking too much of a sweat, though you'd be fairly tired.          Speaking of tired, you could feel the drousiness spreading to your head and deep down you knew that you couldn't keep the pace up for much longer. 

Sucking in a deep breath, you turned into the woods, lifting your feet high so you wouldn't be the stupid one to trip on a root and be killed first. That would be an embarrassing way to die and not even Molly could make it better, you concluded. 

So you did the most logical thing your sleepy brain could think of.

You climbed a fucking tree.

The man was a far enough distance for you to get a good amount of height between the two of you. You panted, your palms itching with needle-like pain from the rough and merciless bark, but pulled yourself up another branch and looked down. The man was panting heavily, bent over as he struggled to force air into his most likely burning lungs.  He stood up after a quick second, glaring up the tree at you.

Childishly, but overcome with a sense of acomplishment, you stuck your tongue out at him. 

Bad idea, you concluded when the guy's gloved fists clenched by his sides and he started to climb. 

You squealed. "No! Fuck off!" You shouted. "Pick another goddamn tree, you humanoid orange!" A growl ripped through your teeth as you glared fearfully at him.          To your surprise, he got down. He moved his head to stare at you before sitting indian style, his face pointed to you.

For the first time you had a proper look at him, and you weren't surprised. He looked like he came from a shitty horror movie. He wore an orange hoodie with a ski mask hiding his facial features, a red frowny face sitched into it. He had dark blue, wore out jeans and black boots that looked to be kept as clean as Taylor would keep her living space. 

'Best friend' Began to play quietly through your (f/c) earbuds and you forced down a snort at the timing. You were hoddled up in a tree while a guy who most likely wanted you dead watched from below. You shook your head and glanced at the dark sky.

'The stars are out' You thought as you spotted the little dipper, the big one wasn't far away from it's child. 

It only took about ten minutes for your easily distracted mind to get bored. You stared down at the hooded man as he drew in the dirt with his pipe. An idea struck you, a bad one, but an idea nevertheless. And it wasn't going to kill you, with a lot of hope, it may allow you to live another day. 

"Yo, tangerine!" He flinched at your loud voice, moving his head to stare at you. 

You held up a fist with your dominate hand, your opposite going under it, palm up and open.

"Wanna play rock, paper, sisscors before I die?" 

The man stilled before very, and I mean very slowly nodded. You allowed yourself to snort. Now you were going to play a childs game with a murderer. 

"Do you know how to play?" You called down. He nodded again and held up his hands. "Cool," You said.

The orange-clad killer was absolute shit at rock, paper, sisscors. He was even worse than your nephew, who was six and had the attention span of a squirell. Sometime in your game playing, you had moved yourself a few branches down to see him better in the dark woods. You now sat a branch above his head.          He didn't move much, but his shoulders seemed to slump.

You threw rock, again, and he threw sisscors. You gave an evil victory crackle whiele he glared gloomily at his open fingers.          "That was fun," You stretched your arms over your head, yawning. "Can I go now?" You calmly asked. 

He didn't move for a long while, looking between you and his gloved hands, the, back to you. Finally, he nodded. You hopped down, smiling widely. 

"Thanks," You said nervously. He was trying to kill you earlier, so you wouldn't be completely off guard around him. You started to shuffle around him cautiously. His arm shot out, grabbing your upper arm roughly. You flinched hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

This is it, You thought He changed his mind and wants to eat me!

Instead, you heard a deep voice whisper.

"You can leave if we can play again soon."

[bubblegumbeech]

Time Just out of Reach

Prompt fill for @sailor-toni and @ghostlyhabato

Pssst hey, hey you. Ship this with me.

He didn’t have his crown when he awoke. It was the first thing he noticed, and it had confused him as he blinked back flashes of fighting, desperate and vicious as cloaked figures, all too familiar yet made strange and unknown, locked him away. Relying on ancient magics and powerful spells, the traitors had been unable to defeat him properly, as warriors, and Pariah curled his lip at the memory.

But he’d still had his crown then and it took him a moment, having stormed away from the accursed coffin and it’s nauseating sleep, before he remembered the first time he’d awoken. There had been a child, incredibly powerful and with the kind of support Pariah hadn’t had since the peak of his reign’s popularity. He’d been the one to defeat him in the end, alone, in a battle that no ghost could say was anything but fair.

It settled something in him, almost. It was frustrating, naturally, to be defeated by a child. But in the Infinite Realms such things were rarely as they seemed, and it was unlikely that despite everything the one who had defeated him was truly as young as he looked. And he had defeated Pariah, unlike those before, in a proper fight.

The loss of his crown was only a natural progression of such, and while Pariah knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he would have reacted differently had he awoken earlier in his sleep, or even with the crown still atop his head, it was clear there was little to do either way. His ring was gone as well and there would be no commanding of armies this or any day. 

Instead, he decided to work on himself. To stretch out half formed and aching muscles from their prolonged and unnatural sleep and to walk once more throughout his own keep. 

There was much to be done, frankly, the castle itself had fallen into a horrible state of disrepair, and the grounds had become entirely overrun with all kinds of ghostly and dangerous plants. 

Once, just to see what would happen, Pariah had tried calling upon his skeletal army, but no matter how much power he pulled into the spell or how much he strained his core to its limits, the ground slept beneath him. It was almost freeing, knowing there was nothing to be done but to work and ready himself.

He spent the mornings getting reacquainted with his form and its abilities. The ectoplasm of the zone felt cleaner than he remembered it, and it helped energize him. It wasn’t long before he slipped easily back into his previous exercise routines and the strain was pleasant after so long sealed away. 

There was so much he missed, in the little things. Taking the time to prune and shape the weeds and vines around his grounds helped him to feel accomplished, like he was finally doing something after so long doing nothing. So much so, that going into his castle, using the energy he had to restructure and rebuild where it had started to decay and fall apart, felt worthwhile. 

It was nice, learning how to exist all over again. Without the need for conquest or dominion, there was a focus on the mundane and simple. Pariah had hardly remembered what that was like. If he had ever known at all.

The feelings and moments of quiet, by himself in his own keep brought back memories. Memories of certain people, certain events, things he’d lost long before. But like everything else that caused pain or bitterness to build back up within him, he pushed it aside and got to work, releasing the feelings out into the realms and focusing instead on what was before him, what he could touch with his own two hands. 

One day, as he was carving a particularly sturdy vine into a new possible weapon design, he was interrupted. Rather rudely in fact, by someone who thought it somehow acceptable to storm into his keep. 

Fortunately for the ghost, Pariah’s isolation had gifted him an unusual amount of patience and he’d let it live, if barely.

That had, naturally, been a mistake.

It turned out that ghost was only the first of many, many, ghosts that thought to challenge the great Pariah Dark for his title and crown. A title and crown, Pariah thought with no small amount of annoyance, that he’d already lost.

The ghosts were rare and few between at first, a momentary interruption in the mundane rebuilding that had become Pariah’s world. As such, he took those moments to remind himself what it was like to spar again, his core humming in his chest at every cross of blades, seeking challenge.

Rarely though, did the ghosts that had the blind courage to attack him, Pariah Dark, the first and only High King of the Infinite Realms, also have the strength to back up their bravado. So he’d held back. 

Another mistake.

It led to some of the more foolhardy ghosts returning to challenge him again, barely any stronger than they’d been when they first attacked. It was pathetic truly, to be so constantly accosted by those so clearly weaker than him. Then again, someone strong enough to match his strength would know better than to challenge him, would know better than to want that crown on their head. 

Pariah sighed, he was expecting the dragonling to arrive at any minute now. She was excitable and easily riled in a fight and Pariah had been using it against her in an attempt to desensitize her for a true battle. Soon, he’d move on to teaching her how to block more quickly and then how to use her powerful transformation abilities more smoothly in combat. It was a beginner’s mistake to think that the larger you are the greater your advantage at all times.

After he defeated her he’d have enough time, he thought, to start exploring the far tower. He’d been avoiding it so far, the memories present in that place were strong and could be overpowering, but there was only so much more work he could do on the rest of the castle while leaving it untouched as it was. Pariah disliked leaving a job undone, it itched under his skin, grating. 

“Behold Pariah Dark! I have come once more in my eternal quest to defeat you!” ah, there she was. He unsheathed his sword, it was time to see how much she had retained from their last bout. 

Pariah was cleaning the tower, starting with the bottom and working his way up. Not avoiding anything, just… prolonging the moment where he would reach that room. The one that held enough memories to start a flood, dammed only by Pariah’s firm refusal to open the door just yet.

He should have known that wouldn’t work.

“It seems out of character for you,” said an achingly familiar voice from just behind him. Pariah didn’t turn around, he didn’t know what he’d do if he met those eyes, and he couldn’t risk it. Not against this fragile peace that had formed in the time outside of his coffin, as short in comparison as it was. 

“You sent them to me didn’t you?” Pariah realized, pulled a particularly stubborn purple weed that had been growing through the cracks of the elegantly carved stone that made up the inner walls of the room. “This is another one of your schemes.”

It had been some time since they had last spoken and longer still since they had done so with no swords or weapons between them, and Pariah refused to allow it to affect him. He’d felt the burn already that came from trusting that voice. It was better, certainly, to keep the door locked.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” his uninvited guest said. His voice was closer and Pariah flinched, quickly turning around only to see him there at the door, Clockwork. 

He was, unfortunately, still achingly beautiful. His features fine and chiseled, though his hair was hidden entirely by his hood, a practice he’d kept up after one too many comments about his unnecessarily alluring appearance. Many times he’d contemplated simply cutting his hair or doing something else equally horrid, but every time Pariah had talked him out of it, mumbling soft compliments as he combed through it in the mornings or tangled his hands into it at night. 

Had he cut it then? Since Pariah was locked away?

Since he locked Pariah away?

“It’s always one of your schemes” Pariah hissed. He walked deeper into the tower to get away, but it was useless. Clockwork simply glided along behind him, not acting at all like the bitter enemies they were, “you conniving, backstabbing pawn of those who watch and never act.”

Clockwork rolled his eyes, they were red. When had they become red? They used to be a deep purple, soft and mischievous and full of knowledge that even Pariah would never hope to match. Pariah had thought, once, that they were equals. He wondered now, if Clockwork had ever thought the same.

“I am simply visiting an old friend, surely my leash is long enough for that?”

His leash. So it was true then, Clockwork had been tied to the Observants’ will, just as the rumors suggested. It explained, Pariah supposed, why he had not been there when he had woken up before. “Is that what I am then? An old friend?”

Clockwork took mercy on him and shifted forms into his older self. His eyes were just as sharp, just as keen, but the urge to touch, to take for himself, lessoned as he watched muscles deteriorate and a beard grow long and knotted from the other ghost’s chin. “How would you describe it then, Pariah? Enemies?” Clockwork chuckled, “no, of course that’s how you would describe it.” 

Heart of the Realms he needed to get away, there was too much between them and the small moments of interaction he’d had sparring with random ghosts or seeking out current knowledge of the realms were hardly enough practice to deal with someone like Clockwork. 

But he didn’t stop following Pariah further into the tower and the familiarity of walking these halls, Clockwork at his side, was enough to force him into a stop. Why was he here? Just to make Pariah miserable? That seemed something he would do, conniving as he was. 

“It’s rude, you know, to enter a ghost’s lair uninvited,” he tried. 

Clockwork smiled, tilting his head in the way that meant he was being obnoxious on purpose. Pariah had, foolishly, assumed it would not be the kind of thing ever aimed at him. How bitter, to be proven wrong in such a way.

“I was under the impression that I had a standing invitation,” because he had. Because if anyone, Pariah had trusted this bastard the most and had not wanted even a day separated from his side. 

“I am not the one who betrayed his King.”

The time around them stilled, the realms silent in their entirety for just a moment. Clockwork’s expression was sheltered when Pariah had turned to look at him and he smiled bitterly, “The realms were never meant to be tamed Pariah. Not even by you.”

A familiar argument, one they’d had countless times, one that Pariah had thought unimportant in the scheme of things. He’d thought at the time, that if he could get the entirety of the realms under his control, infinite and expanding as they were, he could make Clockwork understand. It was his duty, it had been entrusted to Pariah. Just as the time stream had been entrusted to Clockwork. 

He should have known better really. 

“Then I rescind your invitation, you can leave now.”

Clockwork bowed, deep, formal, and it made Pariah grit his teeth. He’d never bowed to anyone but those pathetic eyeballs and Pariah knew what it truly meant to receive formalities from an Ancient. “Then I shall take my leave.”

Finally. Pariah refused to watch him go, and instead turned back to the walls he’d been so studiously clearing of their overgrowth before he’d been interrupted. 

The weeds had returned, covering every single inch of the room, just as they had before Pariah started clearing them away almost a week prior. Damn him. 

Pariah had finished the entirety of the tower’s first floor when he had returned, entirely unwelcome. “I don’t recall inviting you in,” he said, focusing on his work. He was restitching a cloth that had once been beautifully embroidered. Pariah’s own hands were hardly any good for delicate details but he made do through endless trial and error. He had all the time in the realms afterall, and it was in his nature to complete a task in its entirety. 

“No?” Clockwork said, his voice dry and purposefully pitched to piss him off, “so you don’t have an open door policy? You seem to have so many ghosts that come and go.”

He scowled, “they are fools, young and easily excited. They hope to defeat me and earn the crown for themselves. I am simply teaching them the error of their ways.” This stitch was particularly difficult, and in order to do it properly he’d need to focus. Something unlikely to happen with his current guest.

There was something uncertain in the ambient ectoplasm around them. A gentle wave gliding back and forth between a tentative hope and a deeper, darker mistrust. Pariah ignored it. There was no reason he should be so intune with another ghost’s moods, especially not this ghost.

Unlike Pariah, who wanted this conversation finished and to be left once more to his peace, Clockwork was an instigator, clearly here only to frustrate. He floated closer, just out of reach, “teaching them? It’s been some time since you bothered to take an apprentice.”

Pariah set down his work and stood up properly, Clockwork had shifted into an adult form since showing up and the mischievous tilt of his lips left Pariah frustrated and frazzled. There was no reason for him to be here, except to torture with his presence, precise and devastating. 

“They aren’t apprentices, you of all ghosts should know better than to think I would ever be so patient as to take someone under me.” as King, he‘d always been too busy, too easily frustrated, too stressed. Clockwork had been there, the nights where Pariah had wished he could give it all up, had spoken in whispers about what could have been if only he’d refused the crown. 

Clockwork smiled, a show of his fangs, and Pariah clenched his fist to stop from reaching out. If he tried, he could close the distance between them quick enough to pull Clockwork towards him entirely. Perhaps he’d end this game if Pariah called his bluff. Pariah wondered how many futures he saw, where Pariah did just that. He wondered how confident he was that those futures would not be his own. 

“I just thought to inform you,” his smile only stretched wider and Pariah wondered what had him so delighted, for surely it meant nothing good, “that I have taken on an apprentice myself.”

That had not been what Pariah expected at all. Clockwork was rarely around children or younger ghosts in the time Pariah had known him, and while many of the more powerful inhabitants of the zone spoke often of their desire for children, he had not heard such from Clockwork in the times they had known each other. 

Was that simply another truth that had been hidden from him, was the ghost he’d known nothing more than a lie, perfectly catered to Pariah’s own desires in order to trick and to trap him?

He looked over at his unwanted guest, unease threaded through his core. The mischievous smile had yet to fall and as much as Pariah wanted to bite it, he turned away instead, “are you hoping for us to meet? I should think you wouldn’t be so foolish to bring someone you care for anywhere near me.”

“Not at all,” Clockwork answered easily, floating closer once more, “besides, you’ve already met.”

Already met? Surely Clockwork wouldn’t have taken one of the foolish, eager ghosts that thought to challenge him in his time awake as an apprentice. They were hardly suited towards him and his subtle manipulations. 

But he hadn’t met anyone else since waking, few ghosts that remembered his reign wished to meet with him, and there was little reason for someone that had caught Clockwork’s discerning eye to seek out a failed king. Unless he had come to spy on him? No, there was little Clockwork did not know, and even less that he could not simply discover for himself using those accursed mirrors. 

Clockwork tilted his head, a mischievous smile still in place, “you don’t want to know his name?”

So it was a him, that narrowed it down marginally, “I wouldn’t know it either way.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have known the name of the ghost that defeated you, too busy getting stuffed into that coffin of yours.”

Pariah reached out, a blast built in his palm, to attack. But Clockwork, as always, had expected it and floated easily out of his reach, dodging the ectoblasts Pariah released after him as he fled the keep.

Good riddance. 

The next visit, Pariah had been the first to speak, “where is my crown?” he asked. 

Clockwork had shifted into his older form and gently stroked his beard, pretending to think about the question Pariah had asked. As if he didn’t know the answer, as if he didn’t know everything. 

“Would you really like to know?” He didn’t. Not truly, but he had wondered, if he asked, what Clockwork would say. He should have known it would be something cryptic and aloof. He’d never once bothered with straight answers before, it was unlikely he’d start now.

Pariah walked over to him, his steps steady and measured. He stopped just out of reach, as Clockwork had been doing to him in their visits and wondered, fleetingly, if it affected him at all. Surely not, as aloof as he’d been. If he felt as tortured by Pariah’s presence as Pariah felt by his, there would be no need for these games. They would simply avoid each other and that would be that.

He grabbed a book from a nearby shelf, they were in his study, private as it once was, and Pariah had been reading with the intention of catching up on the things he missed. Such as Clockwork’s new ward, the Half-ghost child that had been dead hardly a year before defeating Pariah. 

“Does your ward have it? Has he been claimed king? If so I’ll be sure to tell the fools that still visit to go after him instead.”

Humming, Clockwork floated over to Pariah’s desk. It was freshly carved, intricate designs by Pariah’s own hand. “There are some that do so already, but no, Daniel doesn’t have your crown Pariah. No one does.”

So there is no king.

“I see,” he said, opening his book to a random page and feigning interest. It was difficult, to be sure, when the most interesting thing in the whole of the infinite realms was here, sitting on Pariah’s desk. “You haven’t gotten any better at answering questions.”

Clockwork laughed.

And Pariah left the room. 

The next time Clockwork came to visit, it was just after a spar he’d had with one of his regular guests. It had been an improvement on her part, her control of her natural abilities was getting better and she had actually attempted to use technique instead of her admittedly limited brute strength.

But it had also been one sided, as all these matches were, and Pariah found himself itching for something more exciting. For a fight worth the effort of keeping his core lit. 

“Your teaching methods could use some work,” Clockwork had said, his voice smooth with an echoing touch of gravel, as he leaned over Pariah’s shoulder to see the weapon he was sharpening.

Pariah almost knocked him away, but as always, Clockwork was a moment ahead. Somewhere in the future. Never truly there, where Pariah was, always waiting instead where he would be. He growled.

“Then it is for the best I was not teaching.”

Clockwork smiled, “my mistake.” 

There was little doubt in Pariah’s mind that Clockwork had never made anything as simple as a mistake. There was too much that he knew, too much he could see. The decisions he made might not always lead to exactly what he wanted, his obsession unwilling to compromise the free will of others, but Pariah had no doubt that each and every one was perfectly calculated to the smallest minute detail. Mistakes were off the table.

He grabbed the weapon he’d been working and felt the weight and balance of it in his hand. His core, fresh from an unsatisfactory fight just moments before, hummed with energy. 

It would, Pariah mused, be enjoyable to catch Clockwork in a fight. But it was not something he did lightly, his powers, as grand as they were, were rarely suited for battle, and Pariah found himself wondering if he attacked now, would Clockwork fight back? Or simply stop time and flee, coward that he was. 

“The scar suits you,” Pariah said, stepping closer. Clockwork didn’t back away, but his expression twisted into something cruel. Pariah didn’t think about how well suited his features were for it, didn’t think about other expressions Clockwork might make and how Pariah had once made it his mission to see every single one. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” he said, his tone brittle and biting. 

Pariah was within an arm’s length now, “I had aimed for them both. I suppose it’s fortunate that I failed, seeing that you gave as well as you received.”

There was a tense silence and Pariah felt it almost like a physical barrier built between them. If he lifted his sword now, would it shatter? 

“I like to think I gave much better,” he said, nodding at Pariah’s eyepatch, “seeing as out of the two of us, I succeeded.” 

He lunged, but by the time the blade struck the ground, Clockwork had long disappeared. 

“Sever yourself from the observants,” Pariah demanded once he’d seen Clockwork again. 

There was a beat, a moment of time, and then Clockwork sighed, “and what, put myself into your less than merciful hands?”

He was in his youngest form, by all rights he should look vulnerable, weak, but he only looked tired. An expression Pariah had grown all to familiar with in the twilight of their relationship. Pariah scoffed, “better I than those useless snakes, they know not what they have. I’ve heard what they call you now, pet, attack dog. It’s demeaning.”

Clockwork looked up at him, his eyes deep and endless, “you are no longer a king Pariah. You hold no sway over the realms any longer.”

Said as if it were a gift, a token granted to him for his service. Then again, in the eyes of one such as him, it may very well be. Clockwork had always been bound in core and form by the duties required of him. 

“What hold do they have over you?” He asks, in need of an answer. Of something. Why would someone so powerful, so immeasurable, bend to the yolk of another? Especially those slimy optical wastes of ectoplasm. 

But he wouldn’t get an answer, not from Clockwork, and they both knew it. “The realms exist as chaos, those who seek to find order, or try and force their will upon it seek to destroy chaos. Everything that exists, exists with a sense of its own self preservation.”

Yeah, in no way was that an answer, and judging by the soft smile on Clockwork’s youthful face, he knew it too. “Yet you ally yourself with those things?”

Clockwork hummed, “everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”

Because of course it was.

“If you take a picture it will last longer,” Clockwork said nonsensically. 

Frustratingly, he was here, again, in Pariah’s keep, his personal lair, floating just an arm’s length away from him. Out of reach. “Is that supposed to make sense?” Pariah growls.

But Clockwork remained aloof, “you’re staring.”

Of course he was. Clockwork was in his adult form, all well-formed muscle and casual strength, soft skin blemished only by the scar Pariah had given him that fateful night. The claim he had carved.

“I’m admiring my handiwork as you said.” 

Clockwork tensed, “are you now? Looking to repeat the performance?”

He had been reading a book. Just, casually there, near Pariah in his own lair, reading a book. As if he owned the place himself, as if it were his. As if he were welcome here, to sit there carefree and out. of. reach. 

“Perhaps, if you wish to spend all of your time in my keep, I can leash you here.” he said, taking a page from Clockwork’s own book and ignoring the question. He stepped closer. 

Clockwork floated away, casual as ever, infuriating as ever. “I’m afraid I do have duties to attend, outside of babysitting you.”

“Is that what this is then?” Pariah growled, “your new masters sent you here to keep an eye on me? To make sure I am truly beaten, unwilling to rise again?”

“Something like that,” Clockwork drawled, “are you, Pariah?”

He crossed his arms, “Beaten? Am I not?”

Clockwork frowned, Pariah wanted to grab him by the chin, tilt his head up towards him and pull that infuriating hood away so he could no longer use it to avoid Pariah’s gaze. He held himself back, the other ghost was too far out of Pariah‘s grasp for now. Reaching for him too soon would only cause him to float away.

“You exist still,” he said, ignoring Pariah’s scoff, “you exist. Is that not what matters?”

Yes, he existed. He spent his days sparring with ghosts too weak to give him proper challenge, fixing a crumbling castle one single brick at a time, and waiting, with unwanted anticipation, to see if the ghost that had taken it all from him would bother to visit. 

“And what a glorious existence indeed,” he spat.

Clockwork was a child again, floating around and above Pariah’s head. He’d asked him once, if the changes were voluntary or natural, and Clockwork, true to himself as he ever was, had given a vague answer that hadn’t actually answered the question at all. 

“How is your ward?” Pariah asked, his eyes never leaving Clockwork as he circled above him. 

He hummed and gave a noncommittal answer, likely unwilling to speak too much about the young phantom, unwilling to place him in the line of Pariah’s sight. It was an unnecessary caution, Pariah held no interest in the boy outside of his relationship with the Ancient. 

The crown held little interest either, with how much Pariah had lost to keep it the first time. 

“I’m sure your new masters are thrilled you have taken in such a powerful ward,” he had meant it with mostly dry sarcasm. It was clear, in all the actions of the observants before, that they disliked things that were different, things that didn’t fit neatly in their pathetically limited labels. 

He hadn’t expected Clockwork to growl as if it were a threat. It caught him off guard. He'd known Clockwork was hardly loyal. It was, if anything, the most predictable aspect of who he was. A being created in chaos was not going to ally itself to any one doctrine for long, and especially not to the doctrine of another. 

It was why, Pariah thought, the observants kept him chained so thoroughly with responsibilities and rules, unable to go against what they demanded and busy with pointless, petty tasks. Had he been wrong?

 “He is my responsibility,” Clockwork scowled, aging into an adult, “as he is meant to be.”

So they didn’t know. It was likely, knowing Clockwork and his propensity for twisting language to his advantage, that they had said something threatening or demeaning towards either Clockwork or the boy and he had simply taken it to mean what he’d like. 

It also meant that it was something he was keeping hidden from them. An advantage, Pariah thinks, that a better man would refuse to take advantage of. But Pariah was no king anymore, there was no proper way to get what he wanted, no code of honor and chivalry. And what he wanted, was kept tantalizingly out of his reach. 

Why shouldn’t he grab what he could, to pull it closer to him?

Pariah had not slept since he awakened the second time from his slumber. The idea, while once a pleasant excuse to ignore his responsibilities for the sake of rest, was no longer appealing to say the least. He would not admit, even to himself, the fear that crept upon him at the thought. 

He was not scared to sleep, he did not lie awake, staring at the swirling mist and ectoplasm of the realms around him in fear that if he closed his eyes they may never open again.

“You should sleep Pariah.”

“Clockwork,” he greeted, not bothering to stand, “you of all people do not get to tell me that.”

There was a soft shuffle of fabric and Pariah felt the subtle change in the ambient ectoplasm of the zone as Clockwork sat beside him on the ground of his once grand courtyard. It had taken some time, but Pariah had managed to tame the plants and vines that had claimed the land for their own. 

In his impatience he had sheared more than was perhaps necessary, leaving much of the ground barren and lifeless entirely. There was nothing to be done, but to keep the plants tamed and wait for the rest to grow again. 

“It was supposed to be the merciful option,” Clockwork lied, “You always liked to sleep in, if I remember correctly.”

Pariah refused to look up at him, he didn’t know what he would do, should he see him, softly glowing and silhouetted against the sky, close enough to touch, and he was unwilling to test his own resolve. “I had a reason to stay in bed then, if I recall correctly myself.”

Clockwork didn’t rise to his bait, “if we had planned instead, to take your core… we would have failed. You would have won and gone forth to take more of the realms as your own.”

Because of course he would have, fresh from Clockwork and the other Ancients’ betrayals. He would have been angry, vindictive, the scar he had now would have been nothing in comparison to what Pariah would have done in retaliation for such betrayal from those he’d trusted so thoroughly. 

“You would have lost your resolve. And without it, the others would have fallen to my blade.”

Clockwork didn’t answer, of course. But he didn’t need to. One didn’t need the ability to look into the branching paths of the future in order to know someone else well enough to predict. And Pariah felt the truth in his words hit as Clockwork hesitated.

Without thinking, Pariah reached towards him. His hand had gotten almost close enough to grab the edge of that damned cloak before Clockwork was once more out of his grasp. 

The weeds around him had grown back, his work entirely undone. Petty bastard.

“Fright has yet to bother me as you do.”

Clockwork floated towards him, grabbed the book from his hand and floated away. Pariah didn’t resist, any hope of actually reading had fled at the other’s sudden appearance. 

He hummed, flipping carefully through the book. It was on gardening, Pariah had read through to the section on encouraging natural growth, methodical as always in any task he undertook. “You can hardly blame him, with the pumpkin and all.”

Pariah scowled, “he can’t still be trapped by that.” It was rare, quite frankly, for his royal knight to be trapped for long at all in that thing. 

There was always some foolish ghost or other entity that wanted to test their courage, and it only took one before Fright would be freed to roam the realms under his own power. The sorcerer that bound him in the first place had learned that lesson quickly and was now spending their time trapped in a tailor made dimension of their own. 

“He’s not.” Clockwork answered easily, then he paused, mused something over, and said, “he’s been training with Daniel. But he won’t come see you after your last time awake, not after what he and Vladimir did to trick you.”

That was a new name, “Vladimir?” Pariah asked, voice deceptively soft, “am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You are,” Clockwork smiled, never a good sign, “he was the one who woke you up after all.”

Frowning, Pariah walked over to grab his book back, Clockwork let go of it easily, not having read a single passage and for some reason this frustrated Pariah further. Why grab the book at all if he wasn’t going to even pretend to read the damn thing? 

“I suppose you were behind that as well then?” He asked.

But Clockwork just shook his head, that infuriating smile still on his face. Pariah could have fixed that once, wiped that damn smirk away with naught but a touch or a well spoken word. He held his ground instead. 

He was clearly enjoying this somehow, basking in Pariah’s torment, “not every aspect of your existence is meticulously planned I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure,” Pariah said dryly, “there’s many decisions I’ve made in my time that have led you in unplanned directions.”

“As was your goal,” Clockwork floated back, away from Pariah. He stepped closer in response, unwilling to allow the distance. 

Pariah forced his posture to relax, it wouldn’t do to look the part of predator stalking prey. The goal, after all, was not to scare him away. And Clockwork had always been skittish, in moments like this. 

It had taken time, in the beginning, to get as close as he had. It would take time again. 

He had all the time in the realms. 

“It gave me great pleasure to see you flustered,” he was almost within reach, almost close enough to touch. 

Clockwork’s back pressed against the wall, Pariah stepped forward, caging him in. “Surely there were easier ways to seek your joy.”

Humming, Pariah stepped even closer, naught but a moment between them. “When has a challenge been anything but enticing to me?” He reached up to finally pull away the horrid hood that had been obscuring the other’s face, but his hands closed around empty nothing.

Clockwork had once again slipped through his fingers. Damn. 

Vlad Plasmius. 

A stupid name that reeked of a grandiose sense of self importance and naivety. And, knowing that he was the one to wake Pariah in a foolish, short sighted attempt at his crown, it was likely apt as well. 

He’d turned one of Pariah’s most loyal against him. Stolen what was Pariah’s and had yet to see due consequence. 

“I’d warn that your face might become stuck if I wasn’t so sure it already had, is a scowl the only expression you can make these days?”

Pariah’s scowl deepened, “what is this Plasmius to you?”

Clockwork blinked, a moment of genuine surprise flickered across his expression before it melted back into his typical neutral expression. 

“A nuisance mostly. His exploits tend to disrupt the flow of the realms and he rarely thinks about anything as dull as the consequences of his actions,” he tilted his head, allowing his gaze to wander, “and his determination to steal Daniel as his own has become grating.”

Pariah’s scowl lessened, he’d thought for sure, with the Half-Ghost’s penchant for chaos, that Clockwork would have a more favorable opinion of him. Often, it was the most obnoxious, frustrating, logic defying, gremlins of the infinite realms that caught his eye, and his affections. 

Things that existed beyond the simple calculations of his sight, wrenches in the works of otherwise well laid plans. They were Clockwork’s favorite, his desire for mischief surprisingly genuine for one so ancient and omniscient. Though, perhaps that was why. The Ancients may not be chaos themselves, but they had certainly been born from it.

“You haven’t thought to share custody?” Pariah asked, curious. It was uncommon amongst ghosts, as obsessive as they were, but not unheard of. Especially when obsessions were involved, it was difficult after all, for a ghost to let go of something their core had claimed as their own.

Clockwork’s smile was tight, “I don’t think I have it in me to share.”

Pariah looked over at his companion, the ambient soft blue of his glow and its contrast against the shadows of his hooded cloak. He watched as the watches, clocks, and other time keeping devices embedded and decorated throughout his form ticked, discordant from each other; each one a slightly different pace from the others. 

He watched as Clockwork’s face, as handsome still as it was the day he locked Pariah away, softened from sardonic and annoyed to something more gentle as the silence stretched on.

“Neither do I,” he said. 

“You shouldn’t seek me out, if you have any desire at all to keep what limited freedom you have,” Pariah warned.

He had walked down one of the winding stairs in the far tower only to see Clockwork there, halfway down and leaning out of the window. His legs were fully formed for once and Pariah had to bite back a remark involving just how long it had been since he’d last seen them. 

It was novel, to see Clockwork in his entirety. 

“I have little choice, my duties as they are,” he lied. It was unlikely the Observants had any desire for him to leave his tower, poised at their beck and call. If they had demanded he keep an eye on Pariah at all as he claimed, it had been with the intention of using his screens. There wasn’t much that could be hidden from them after all. 

Pariah stepped close, just enough to look out of the window beside him. It was like standing beside a lightning storm, as static and electric as the space between them had become. 

“They do not fear I’ll steal you away from them?” He folded his hands behind his back, held them there, clenched tightly in restraint. 

Clockwork’s smile was bitter, as it often was nowadays when he was reminded of his bindings, “there is little you can do.”

“There is little I would not do,” he countered. 

He stepped away, his legs fading once more into a familiar tail and Pariah bit back disappointment. 

“You assume I would return here? Should I be relieved of my duties?” Clockwork asked, snide.

“You assume I would not chain you here myself?” He would, with no hesitation at all, if he thought it would hold. If something as simple as chains and binders could keep something like Clockwork.

He walked towards him, internally rolling his eyes when Clockwork kept level at his height even as they descended. It was a small, petty thing, him not allowing himself to be vulnerable in any way, and it was very Clockwork. 

“You could not hold me.”

“I could try.”

Pariah, finding more and more time to himself as the Castle’s restoration saw its completion, was looking into the observant’s laws. And their prisoners, and their actions after Pariah himself had been locked away. 

It was boring, tedious work to shuffle through the information given to him. The countless detailed notes of the Observants countless boring meetings were beginning to blend together in his mind. It would be easier, he knew, if he simply skipped to the parts that were important to him. The ones that involved Clockwork and their claims to him.

But that was against his nature, so he read, and read, and fought down the rising urge to simply fly over to their courts of judgement and raze it to the ground. It would be quicker, and more enjoyable as well. But it wouldn’t give him the answers he needed, and it wouldn’t guarantee Clockwork’s release from his duties. 

He continued reading. 

“You’re calmer now, without the ring,” Clockwork said, once more stating the obvious. 

Pariah put down the papers he was staring at, the words had long blurred together and there were more pleasant things here now to keep his eyes occupied. “I should hope so, with all the trouble you went through to separate me from it.”

His companion nodded, the hood shifting slightly with the movement to cover his face even further and Pariah frowned. 

“You would have been more successful in your conquest had it never been gifted to you,” Clockwork said, “it is perhaps for the best, that you fell to its charms and lost your patience.”

Pariah doesn’t know why he brought this up. It could be to agitate or remind him of their animosity. It could be one of those strange roundabout explanations Clockwork used instead of apologies, or it could be his attempt at distancing himself. A reminder of how far Pariah had fallen in the end. 

“Carefully planned no doubt,” Pariah said, his voice light. “A gift given to disrupt what goals I had, to speed up my fall and more quickly end my reign.”

“A necessary evil, to lessen the cost.”

Pariah smiled, sharp, “are you saying I’m a larger threat without it?” 

Clockwork turned his gaze away, “you're certainly more meticulous. It’s terrifying really.”

“What do you see in those futures of yours?” He asked, not expecting an answer. 

He didn’t get one, “many things. Different branches and paths, some brighter than others, some barely there at all…” Clockwork floated to the window and looked outside, “it would be easier, Pariah, if you bothered to be predictable.” 

Ha, Pariah smiled, “If you truly struggled to predict my actions, we would not be here now. At least not as we are.”

Clockwork gave a hum of agreement, “it is what you are going to do next, I think, that I struggle to see.”

Pariah had taken the chance, with Clockwork’s back to him, to get closer. To crowd himself near without touching and spoke in his ear, “I disagree. There is no doubt in my mind you see exactly what I am going to do, what I have planned. What you fail to see, my dear timekeeper, is how to stop it.”

He disappeared before Pariah could get his arms around him. 

But no matter, Clockwork had been correct when he’d called Pariah meticulous. 

“I’d rather you not call me your ‘dear’,” Clockwork said, appearing far enough away that it was a wonder Pariah had heard him at all. 

They were outside, the weeds and plants of his courtyard finally, properly tamed and pleasant. He lifted the petals of a particularly pretty purple plant to his lips and kissed it gently before replanting it into the ground. 

“I could,” he offered, “call you by the name of a flower instead.”

Clockwork clicked his tongue, “I do think pet names are beneath you. You’ve never used one before.” That was certainly true, but he’d also had an image to uphold before, and many other ways to see Clockwork flustered. 

If he had known how well something so simple had worked though, he would have started using them an eon ago. Ah well. 

“Perhaps I grew romantic in my forced sleep?,” Pariah said, his expression slipping into a smirk. Clockwork’s careful distance was a set back and a hopeful promise tangled together and he didn’t bother trying to move closer. He knew better than trying to corner a startled animal, trying to corner a skittish Ancient would unlikely end any more in his favor. 

There was movement out of the corner of his eye, ah, Clockwork had shifted to his younger, child form. Was that a defense mechanism of some kind? Or did he do it out of spite? It would take some time, and likely some subtle experimentation, if Pariah ever wanted to truly solve that particular mystery.

But he was finding he didn’t mind the thought of taking his time, slowly unwrapping all of the things Clockwork had long kept hidden from him. The imperfections and jagged edges. Patience was starting to become second nature, in his dealings with the other ghost. 

“Are you saying you dreamed, Pariah?” Clockwork asked, disbelief coloring his tone. Pariah wondered, if he refused to answer, would Clockwork ever know? He could not read minds, would he simply look at a branching path where Pariah was less inclined to be petty and seek his answer there? Would there be one?

Pariah was stubborn afterall. 

The silence stretched uncomfortably and Pariah reveled in it. How novel, catching Clockwork off balance like this. He wondered if he could make it worse. If a gentle push would break the tension or heighten it.

“Afraid that you’ll fall for me again, if I should be endearing towards you?”

Clockwork made an incredulous noise, something between a cough and yelp, and Pariah had to bite back a smile. Much of the fun would be lost, should Clockwork realize he was being messed with. 

His form aged as he started to rant, his low, deep voice colored with irritation and sang like music to Pariah’s ears. He didn’t even bother listening to the words, content instead, to feel Clockwork’s frustration in the ambient ectoplasm around them. Perhaps this feeling was why Clockwork had started these visits, marveling in Pariah’s own flustered discomfort. His mistake. 

“-An obsession with conquest, control-“

“Obsessions change,” Pariah interrupted softly. 

He was met with only silence, and when he looked over again towards Clockwork, the ancient had frozen entirely. His gaze was locked on Pariah himself, before he broke it away, looking instead at the keep around them. The rebuilt castle, the carefully manicured courtyard, the area set aside for his spars with the younger ghosts that returned so often, so ready to prove themselves. His posture softened.

“Yes, I suppose they do… if you allow it.”

This time, when Clockwork left his presence he didn’t bother to stop time and sneak away. There was no need likely, Pariah had not bothered to get close enough to stop him from simply flying away. 

He leaned back into the grass, his core humming in satisfaction and anticipation. 

It had been some time since Clockwork’s last visit. Too much time. 

The visits had become regular, expected disruptions to Pariah’s rather dull afterlife, and their absence soured on his tongue. He tried not to let the frustration show in his lessons with his students, hitting one harder than necessary would hardly teach a ghost how to better dodge, and attacking faster than they could keep up with would hardly help them plan their next move. 

So he put all of his frustration towards renovation once more. Sure, the castle had been properly rebuilt and looked as grand now as it ever had, but Pariah had learned of more modern comforts in his studies, as detailed and meticulous as they were, and desired to have some for himself. 

He just needed to figure out how to implement the overly complicated designs to something that had long been simple. First he would start with an aqueduct of some sort. It would be nice to have regular access to more purified ectoplasm with which to bathe or shower himself, and the well in the center of the courtyard that dug deep enough to access the steady supply at the heart of his lair only allowed for him to pull up so much before it would be depleted.

If instead, he built some kind of purifier, something that could take ambient ectoplasm or even throwaway energy from the realms around him, he could imitate the water systems mortals had invented for their own homes. Perhaps he could create something similar to this ‘sauna’ he’d read about. A room packed full of purified ectoplasm for the sole gain of sitting inside to relax. 

There was nothing more rewarding, Pariah thought, than working towards a goal and seeing that work bear fruit. Patience and perseverance were all a ghost needed to succeed.

Pariah worked as he waited for Clockwork to return.

“You seem to be in a bad mood, your majesty,” the dragonling said. She had long learned to use the most advantageous aspects of her abilities without fully shifting her form, but her speed at doing so needed work and Pariah had started leading her into Katas specific to each trick she had developed. 

He glared at her, “I don’t have moods,” he lied. “But if I did, it only makes sense that I would be irritated to find my day interrupted by your foolish challenges.”

There was another young ghost there as well, a small dokkaebi that looked like it had once been a broom or something similar. He had attacked Pariah alone multiple times himself and had apparently convinced the dragonling to team up with him in their next attempt at Pariah’s nonexistent crown. 

It had been nice, the extra bit of challenge it took to defeat them both without causing serious damage to either of them. 

The dokkaebi scoffed, “if you really didn’t want us here you wouldn’t have this time in your day set aside.” 

Pariah frowned and threw a gentle ectoblast towards him. It grazed his shoulder and he yelped in response. That should teach him not to sass his elders. “It is a foolish decision for a ghost to make plans when those around him seek to ignore them so entirely.”

The dragonling chuckled at the dokkaebi’s misfortune and Pariah snapped at her to concentrate on her own training. It was a poor showing of his self control, that even ghosts as young as they had noticed something off. 

He was building a blueprint for the aqueduct’s filter when a feeling not unlike that of being covered entirely in slime settled around him. He scowled, “I don’t remember inviting you into my keep, watchers.”

“We are the Observants,” Pariah rolled his eyes, “we have come to judge you for your deeds.”

Entitled bastards.

They likely thought themselves more powerful than they were, Clockwork having lowered himself as he did for whatever nefarious, long term plan he was no doubt biding his time to implement. But Pariah was not bound by contracts or schemes, and even without his crown a handful of inactive ectoplasmic waste such as these were hardly a threat. 

An annoyance though, considering what would happen should he actually shatter their cores. The last thing he wanted was for them to send Clockwork in their stead, even if it would break the impasse he’d caused with his prolonged absence. 

“I have done nothing worth being judged,” Pariah said, his knowledge of what was and was not mentioned in each of the Observants’ ridiculous laws was encompassing and complete. There was somehow, despite their likely efforts, no laws against rebuilding one’s own lair or meeting challenges set against oneself. 

Even in the rules of their contract with Clockwork, there was nothing that confined him permanently to his tower. It was stated, quite plainly, that he could leave in the performance of his duties as given by the Observants themselves. 

Clockwork had stated many times that one of those duties had been to watch over Pariah. 

The Observants, predictably, disagreed, “you have left the realms in terror and abandoned your duties as King.”

“What I did as king is not under your jurisdiction, and you know well that I was dethroned. You wouldn’t be here now, attempting to threaten me otherwise.” He stood to his full height, towering over his uninvite guests. 

They wavered, giant, bulbous eyes that never blinked, Pariah held back his revulsion in favor of allowing his fury to take stage instead. “The clause of the King, as I remember it, was right by conquest. The fate of the realms to be given to the hands of whomever defeated me under their own power. The crown is no longer mine, it does not heed my call. I have no duties to be found in remis of.”

“Your reign of terror-”

His remaining eye twitched, “I did as King. To whom such laws do not apply.”

It was tedious, dealing with their repetitive denials, their attempts at enforcing laws that did not exist to their standards. But Pariah calmly shot down every accusation, every mentioned offense, citing written laws and countless examples of other ghosts and their versions of compliance. He had done nothing since he awakened, and it was this nothing that both infuriated them and protected him now.

“How does it feel, I wonder, to have been so thoroughly outsmarted by a child? Less than a year dead at the time, as I’ve been informed. Did your council throw a fit, when he absconded, erasing the position of High King from the realms until someone else should attempt to take up the mantle from the start as I had? Did it affect your plans? Were you hoping, when I awoke a second time, that I would start once more on my trail of conquest, crown or not?”

One of the Observants glared daggers at him, a nerve clearly struck, “we had hoped you’d stay true to what we believed you were. You left the task incomplete.”

Pariah grinned, “I don’t know what you mean, are the lands of the realms not united now?”

It squawked, “in what way?!”

“Why, against me, of course.”

The conversation with the Observants had been long, tedious, and mostly fruitless for both sides. They could not make anything stick against Pariah, not without breaking their own vows as they stood and making themselves powerless entirely. Yet all the same, it would not stop them from attempting to pass new laws and regulations, with the sole intent of catching Pariah out on it. 

They would fail, of course, he had painstakingly sorted through every record and law, every court decision ever made since the foundation of the Observants’ Order. There would be no ghost, Observant or no, as thoroughly knowledgeable as he, in what could and could not be done. He was meticulous like that. 

It had been a flaw, in their eyes. Made him slow to action. And the reason, he suspected, he had been gifted that ring. They had thought to use his rage, to falsify impatience, to more quickly advance their plans. 

Their mistake. 

Taking a moment to relax and stretch his limbs, Pariah stood to leave.

“Pariah!”

He had opened the door to see a flustered looking Clockwork on the other side, easily within reach. His hood had been mussed, likely caused by him rushing over to Pariah’s keep after so long purposefully ignoring him, and Pariah could see wisps of long white hair peeking through, no longer completely hidden. He’d kept it long.

“Where- I- I couldn’t see-,” Clockwork’s eyes darted around the room, looking for something that had long left, before settling on Pariah, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. 

Realization dawned quickly as Clockwork noticed just how close they were to each other and attempted to create space between them. Not quick enough though, as Pariah curled his hand around a gloved wrist. 

He stepped close, Clockwork moved back, almost like a dance, until the stone wall of the corridor blocked his retreat and he had nowhere left to go but Pariah’s arms. 

Marveling in the feeling of finally, finally having Clockwork exactly where he wanted him, Pariah purred. When he looked down to admire his prize, Clockwork had ducked his head further beneath that damned hood, avoiding his gaze still. Annoyed, Pariah lifted his free hand and tugged it forcefully away. 

It was a view easily worth the wait, Clockwork’s flustered expression, framed beautifully by soft white hair, even longer than Pariah last remembered and tangled in a mess by the constant presence of his hood. Pariah longed to card his fingers through it, to gently brush away the knots and feel the silky strands beneath his fingers. So he did, drinking in Clockwork’s gentle shiver like fine wine as he leaned closer, trapping him against the wall. 

Once he was done, he allowed his arms to lower, circling around a tapered waist and pulling the other ghost closer to him. Even stopping time, it would be impossible now, for Clockwork to disentangle himself and escape. Pariah’s grip was as gentle as it could be, but it was unyielding. 

“You did not tell me they could block your sight,” he muttered gently into Clockwork’s hair.

“It is not my job to tell you things you already know.”

Pariah hummed, trailing his hand along Clockwork’s back, documenting in his mind every soft hitch of unneeded breath, reacquainting himself with the more sensitive places now available to him. “Once I destroy that useless council of theirs, I will have to find a way to cage you for myself,” he mused.

Clockwork bit him, fangs sinking into Pariah’s unarmored shoulder. 

Well, he would at the very least attempt it. 

Final comments

[pearlsephoni]

The Trial of Shoyo Hinata’s Rising Heartrate, Evidence Four: The Trim

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: G

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Kagehina (Kageyama/Hinata)

Characters: Shoyo Hinata, Tobio Kageyama, brief appearances from Coach Ukai and Daichi

Word Count: 1,773

Summary: A close call at practice becomes a source of confused embarrassment for Hinata.

A/N: Inspired by this very sweet, very good fanart by @fauxmeeks. Further author’s notes can be read on AO3.

It wasn’t that Shoyo had ever doubted Karasuno would make it through the first Spring Interhigh qualifying rounds. He’d known they would win. But that still didn’t lessen the thrill of victory. 

And that especially didn’t lessen his excitement over facing Aoba Johsai again. With every passing practice, the new freak quick was becoming more reliable, and the thought of using it to get around the very block that had lost them the last tournament made Shoyo’s palm itch with anticipation. 

He could see that anticipation mirrored in Kageyama. He saw it in Kageyama’s eyes whenever their gazes met, saw it in the way he ran across the court, the way his fingers curved around the ball before a set. He could see it in the entire team, but his eyes always sought Kageyama’s, searching for the distinct glint that told him, “Now.” 

Not that he could let his duties as middle blocker lag behind either. He didn’t know what kind of practice Tsukishima was getting with his brother’s team, but the blonde beanpole had started playing like he actually wanted to be on the court. On the days that Shoyo was a little too focused on refining the freak quick, Tsukishima could actually give him a run for his money when it came to blocking. 

It was unnerving, but also a little thrilling. And Shoyo would never turn away from a really good competition. Tsukishima was suddenly playing with a burst of motivation? Fine. Shoyo would fight just as hard. 

The thing was, volleyball went so far beyond just what they did on the court. There were drills, strength building exercises, eating the right food, getting somewhat passable grades, stretching and warming up and cooling down, and taking care of his nails. He did his best to keep up with it all. 

But sometimes things slipped through the cracks. And he didn’t notice until it was a little too late. 

It happened near the end of August, during a 3-on-3 practice match. On one side were him, Kageyama, and Sawamura. On the other were Suga, Azumane, and Tsukishima. The entire match, Tsukishima had been tracking the quick with freakish accuracy, and even though Shoyo had been able to dodge his blocks, he still felt the burn of competition lighting a fire under his feet. He felt like he was seeing everything a little clearer, his eyes tracking the ball from Suga’s dig, to Tsukishima’s messy set, to Azumane springing into the air. 

There. 

Shoyo’s hands managed to touch the ball, and he opened his mouth to shout, “One touch!” 

But what left him instead was a surprised yelp. When the ball bounced off his hand, he suddenly felt a sharp stinging pain in the side of his middle finger, as though someone had nicked him with a tiny blade. 

To his dismay, he heard Sawamura call out, “Wait, time out!” 

“I’m okay!” Shoyo tried to reassure him. 

“It didn’t sound like you’re okay,” Sawamura hummed with furrowed brows. He moved towards Shoyo, but Kageyama beat him there, blue eyes looking dangerously stormy. 

“What’s the deal?” 

“Nothing!” Shoyo glared back up at Kageyama. “Just…my finger hurt suddenly.” He squinted at his hand, but all he could see was a line of raised red skin on his middle finger. “I’m not even bleeding, I’m fine. Wait- hey!” 

Before Shoyo could even look up, Kageyama was grabbing his hand and pulling it up peer at his fingers. “The hell? Who cuts your nails?” 

It took Shoyo a beat to respond, his attention narrowed in on the feeling of Kageyama’s calloused fingers handling his own. “U-um…I do.” 

“Of course you do,” Kageyama sniffed. “You ever seen a nail file, dumbass?” 

“Yeah!” The effect of his indignant voice was ruined by the way his cheeks heated up at Kageyama’s disbelieving frown. “…Maybe.” 

“Doesn’t look like you have. Look at how sharp the edges of your nails are.” He pushed the offending fingers into Shoyo’s face. “I dunno how you haven’t cut yourself before.” 

The embarrassment that was bubbling up in him clashed with his confusing happiness over Kageyama’s fingers wrapped around his own, making a cocktail of emotions that felt dangerously like anger. “It’s not my fault I don’t—”

“Hey, lovebirds.” Their heads whipped around to see Coach Ukai watching them with a bemused smile. “Can we continue the practice? Is everything ok, Hinata?” 

It wasn’t the first time he’d called them that nickname, but it was the first time it made Shoyo’s cheeks feel like they could catch fire. “M’fine,” he mumbled, tugging his hand out of Kageyama’s. “Sorry, Coach.” 

“It’s alright, just be careful.” 

It was a weird, embarrassing moment, but as soon as Azumane served the ball, all of Shoyo’s embarrassment was forgotten. They had a match to win. 

He didn’t get hurt again for the rest of practice, though he did get stopped by Coach Ukai before he could leave for the club room. “Can I see where you got hurt?” 

“Yes, sir. But you can’t really see it now.” Shoyo still presented the offending finger, and Ukai peered at it before nodding. 

“Alright, I’m glad it wasn’t serious. Kageyama’s right, though. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it is important to keep your nails smooth. It’s already easy enough to get hurt in this sport without you creating more chances for that to happen.” 

Just like that, Shoyo remembered the feeling of Kageyama’s fingers around his own, handling them with a gentleness that belied his grumpy nagging. Shoyo’s cheeks warmed with…anger? Was it anger? Anger was the only response to a big jerk nagging at him that made sense, right?

“Hinata?” He was startled out of his thoughts by Ukai, who once again looked both amused and confused. “You ok?” 

“Yeah! I’m fine!” 

“Alright…well, go get changed and go home, get some rest. Good work today.” 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” 

The warmth in his cheeks faded as he jogged to the clubroom and got ready to go home…only for it to return when Kageyama suddenly nudged him. “Oi.” 

“What?” 

“Sit.” 

Shoyo blinked at him. “Huh?” 

“Sit down.” Kageyama plopped down onto the clubroom floor, as if he wanted to provide an example. 

“Why?” 

“Quit asking questions and just listen to me!” 

Shoyo scowled, but obeyed, mirroring Kageyama’s cross-legged position. “Why’re you being so weird?” 

Kageyama glared in the middle of digging through his bag. “I’m not being weird! I’m trying to help!” He tugged out a small pencil case with Vabo-chan printed on it and unzipped it, before holding his hand out. “Gimme your hand.” 

“...You’re not gonna cut it off or something, are you?” 

“I will if you keep being stupid.” 

That was hardly reassuring, but Shoyo still placed his hand in Kageyama’s. The setter tugged Shoyo’s hand closer and pulled out a nail file from the Vabo-chan case. And then, while Shoyo watched in disbelief, Kageyama isolated one of his fingers and began carefully filing away the jagged edges of his nail. “You…wanted to do my nails?” 

“Someone’s gotta do it when you’re doing such a shitty job.” It was almost funny, how much the harsh words clashed with the gentle way Kageyama worked. Shoyo didn’t know he was capable of handling anything as gently as he handled his fingers. It was like Kageyama thought he was made out of glass, like he was a fragile thing that needed to be handled with the utmost care. 

At any other time, from any other person, Shoyo would’ve been insulted by the idea. But now he could only sit there and watch as Kageyama worked, his dark fringe hanging over his eyes and his ears slowly turning a bright red that matched how hot Shoyo’s cheeks felt. 

Shoyo Hinata wasn’t a shy person, and he wasn’t easily embarrassed. He wouldn’t have stuck with volleyball if he were. 

He wasn’t very good with words, either. So he sat there, with burning cheeks and a feeling like electricity skating through his body from where his fingers met Kageyama’s, and felt utterly confused over the emotions bubbling up in him. It wasn’t just happiness, and it wasn’t just embarrassment, either. He wanted to both hide away from Kageyama and never leave this moment, wanted to pull away and wanted to weave their fingers together. His heart felt like it could pound out of his chest, and if he tried to speak, his throat felt sealed together from how dry it was. 

So he didn’t speak. He just sat there, mutely watching Kageyama work, only managing to speak up when some of the team began trickling out of the clubroom with shouted “Bye!”s. 

He didn’t know how long it took for Kageyama to do all his nails. It felt like it could have lasted five seconds or five years, he couldn’t say. Eventually Kageyama brushed away the dust with his thumb and nodded in satisfaction, his lips pressed thin around a secret smile. “Alright. M’done.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” For his flustered shyness, Shoyo felt a little reluctant to pull away, but Kageyama settled it by gently dropping his hand into his lap. 

“I’m not gonna do it again, dumbass. You better learn to file your own nails, or you’re gonna keep scratching yourself.” 

“So mean, Kageyama-kun.” 

Blue eyes flashed up to meet his, only to soften at the wide smile that stretched across his face. “...Whatever. Let’s go.” With that, Kageyama packed away his Vabo-chan case and pushed himself to his feet, swinging his bag across his body. “This took way longer than I thought it would.” 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Shoyo grumbled. 

“I’m not gonna let you get hurt when we have to beat Aoba Johsai and Shiratorizawa.” 

“I’m not gonna be taken out by a scratch!” 

“You don’t know that!” 

Shoyo’s cheeks couldn’t seem to cool down, not during the trim, and not during their walk from the school. He couldn’t help it. Kageyama just seemed to keep saying things that made the blood rush to his face, even though everything he said was as stupid as usual. 

The weirder thing was that Kageyama’s ears had stayed red from the moment he’d pulled out his nail file to the moment they parted ways on their way home. The whole thing had just been…weird. Shoyo couldn’t think of a better word for it, and he couldn’t figure the whole thing out. 

Still…as he replayed the feeling of Kageyama’s fingers holding onto his, Shoyo felt a smile push at his red cheeks. It was weird, yeah. But it was also nice. Really nice. 

Maybe he was turning a little weird, too.

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 6

Righteous and Condescending

B.Barnes x Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: Tony and Steve are dicks

Warnings: angst (I think), swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"You're kidding, right?" Tony drawled, chewing obnoxiously on another blueberry. When Bruce didn't respond, Tony frowned slightly, turning to Steve. "He is kidding, right? I mean, she doesn't even look like Lily!" Tony said harshly, but Steve wonky sighed heavily before closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he passed Tony the sheet of paper that held all of his answers.

Tony snatched the piece of paper from Steve's hand, eyes running over the black ink cynically over and over until he finally looked back up at the table of avengers. Bruce and Steve had hard expressions, whilst Thor and Clint looked genuinely amused with the situation, and y/n had a resentful glint in her eye.

Now that she met him again, seen him up close, she couldn't help her bitter tone as she snapped.

"How's Peter?" Her eyes were cold - colder than ice as she glared at Tony, hand balling into fists in her lap. Tony gulped, eyes darting around the room and avoiding her's.

"At school," he said slowly, "and living with his aunt May." Y/n scoffed, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

"I'm surprised you even let that kid out of your sight. I mean come on, Dad, we're to too busy pampering your little protege to even spare a week to come and find me? Do I mean that little to you?" Y/n asked, a glint of tears now in her eyes. Tony made a face, as if he'd been wrongly accused, and held his hands out in defence.

"Come on, kiddo, that's hardly fair - he was only young, and struggling at that." Y/n gasped at her father.

"And I wasn't? After years of loving me you just decided he needed more than me? It hurt, dad, and I tried to tell you that but you didn't listen!" Y/n's voice broke on the last word, a tart finally slipping from her welling eyes.

"Maybe you should take this to another room?" Bruce asked weakly but his comment was lost the second Tony began talking.

"You think that kid didn't need my love too? His parents died, y/n! It's not like I just picked him up from the streets and discover he had superpowers!" Tony almost shouted, his raise in voice making y/n flinch. Her eyes blew wide at his statement and the man seemed to realise what he'd said the second her reaction was seen.

"I-I didn't mean to-"

"Mean to what, dad? Didn't mean to abandon me? Didn't mean to let HYDRA torture me, force me to kill for them?" Y/n interrupted, completely ignoring the bulging eyes glued on her and Tony as they bickered.

"Y/n, I-"

"You what? Are you sorry, dad? Do you feel bad?" She snapped, pushing harshly from her chair and standing inches in front of him. "Well fuck you, because you were so wrapped up with your little Spider-man project that you forgot me. And I deserve better than that." Y/n stormed away, fists clenched at her side as she tried not to punch her dad or anyone else in her fit of rage.

"Y/n!" Steve called after her, but the girl was already gone. Steve was out of his seat a second later, charging after the girl who he considered completely out of line. "Y/n!" Steve snapped, wrapping his nimble yet thick fingers around her bicep and spinning the girl to face him when he caught up to y/n.

"What the do you want, Rogers?" Y/n seethed, face burning with anger.

"You're completely out of line, cut it out." Steve grit through his teeth, grip on her arm only tightening as he pulled y/n closer to him. It was like they were sharing the same air, with how close he was now standing to her.

"So you're telling me that if you saw the man who left you to die - or worse - for the first time in years, you wouldn't be angry too?" Y/n demanded.

"Yeah, but unlike you, I wouldn't react so brashly." Steve countered. Y/n raised her brows.

"Oh, really?" She challenged.

"Really." Steve confirmed, jaw clenching and unclenching. "If you want to remain here, without rotting in a cell, I suggest you straighten out your attitude."

"Oh yeah? And what're you gonna do about it? I hardly doubt Natasha would approve, and Thor seemed very fond of me." Y/n smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. Steve's jaw clenched again and he quickly pushed her backwards.

Y/n made a 'hmph' noise as her back collided with the wall, air rushing from her lungs rather unpleasantly.

"I'd watch your mouth if I were you, little one." Steve was now the one seething, whilst y/n had become rather amused at his little 'lecture'. "I'm the one pulling the strings around here, so you better watch it." He continued, before pushing away from her and turning to walk down the hall. Before he was out of range, he called over his shoulder, "I want you down in the gym and ready to train in ten. Don't be late."

...

"Harder." He demanded, arms crossed as he watched y/n punch the bag. "I said harder, y/n, not faster." Steve scolded, frowning as the girl seemed to think speed was much better than technique.

Y/n's knuckles were sore from punching the bag repeatedly, the wraps that once acted as a thin barrier between her skin and the bag long gone as they'd unraveled after the relentless punching. Steve had scolded her about that, of course, remarking scornfully about how if she'd wrapped them better it wouldn't be an issue. He had done nothing but criticise her - from the way y/n wrapped her fists down the the damn way that her fist hit the bag.

She could do nothing right, in his eyes, and it was infuriating. They had been at it for three hours, and Steve had only allowed two drinks breaks over the whole course of that time. They started on hand-to-hand combat, and when Steve decided she couldn't even punch him right, he had taken it upon himself to teach her. And now here they were, two hours in and Steve was still making the same criticisms. It was hard to tell whether y/n just wasn't listening to him or if Steve just didn't like her.

It was most probably both.

"That's enough." Steve finally said and y/n came to a halt, breathing so heavily it was as if she'd been exercising for hours with no break-

Oh wait. She had.

"Let's take a look at your aim." Steve decided, already walking towards the target practice.    Y/n finally caught her breath, striding over to join the super Soldier and picking up a belt from the rack on the nearby wall - one filled with an array of throwing knives that she'd been itching to use once she'd gotten in there.

Despite wanting to use them, y/n couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness - tinged with nostalgia - when she eyes the knives, the silver, glimmering blades only reminding her of The Soldier, and how he'd been left behind. Not that she figured he minded, after all, he never seemed to mind being HYDRA's assassin as long as he got fed.

"C'mon, Stark, let's hope your aim is much better than your punch. For your sake." Y/n clenched her teeth. Did he not remember she was a trained killer and assassin by HYDRA? Or was he just that self-righteous and condescending? The question was swiftly answered, and in the following moments y/n chose the latter option.

Y/n set herself up, pulling her shoulders back she made sure her stance was correct - just like the soldier taught her - and her wrist was loose - just like the soldier taught her - and threw. The knife pierced just to the right of the minuscule centre point, y/n's breathing steady and yet still heavy.

"Almost. Fix your stance."

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

You’re Not Alone

heartwitchhouse request: Hey uh.. can I get Logan introducing Thomas to neurodivergent communities online?

Sure you can, babe! Thanks for the prompt!

Read on Ao3  

Pairings: none

Warnings: also...none? there’s some discussion on having anxiety, depresion, and ADHD with some self-doubt but it’s not that bad

Word Count: 2899

It’s just a little off.

 It’s not like it’s some big obvious thing that his parents immediately took notice of. It’s not something his doctor noted on his sheet and made sure to talk about. It’s not even something one of his teachers gently pulled him aside for.

 It’s just…not quite right.

He knows that his classmates don’t struggle to stare at the board or their work for like…three minutes at a time, but he also knows one of his classmates who can’t do it for three seconds. He knows the others don’t lapse into gray hazes where doing literally anything feels like an insurmountable force, but he also knows the kids that can’t even come to school on certain days.

 He knows people who are better, but he also knows people who are worse.

 He has good days. Great days. Great weeks, even. It’s just…sometimes he’ll have a bad day and he can’t help but look at everybody else who’s having a worse day.

 And here’s the thing. He knows how to work through it.

 He can put his head down and just get things done. It doesn’t matter that he can’t focus for more than three minutes, he’ll do the work he can in those three minutes and then move onto something else. Maybe he’ll get to cycle back and pick it up again later. He can shake his head to clear it and squint at his work again, just to finish this one page through the haze. He can make it.

 But it’s just that; making it.

 He can’t deny the way the polite smile from his teachers settles heavily in the pit of his stomach saying that yeah, he did fine, but he could’ve done better. The way the list of things he needs to do gets checked off by just the bare minimum, something he’s going to have to redo in just a few days, makes his hands itch. The insecurities over all the things he could have done, could have done better, all the things he’s missed, pile up in his brain until he has to shove them all away just to breathe on bad days. But doesn’t everyone struggle with insecurity now and then? This is normal, right?

 Or is it just a little off?

 “Oh, I’m sure you’d feel better if you just exercised more! Get yourself a workout schedule, there’s no better free therapy!”

 Running makes his chest feel like it’s going to explode. His arms and legs ache after the first round of whatever ‘beginner’ program he decides to try once. The gray haze only flourishes, steady as ever on bad days.

 “Just focus on your studies, I’m sure once you’ve got more structure in your life it’ll help you feel better, sweetie.”

 Work pounds into his head and he gets it done. All the things he could’ve done better stay there too, bold and bright on the page next to red slashes of ink. He puts his head down and goes, goes, goes. That doesn’t help the bad days, it just pushes them off. Then they get worse.

 “Maybe you just need to go outside more often, sunlight can do wonders for you!”

 Listen. He and the sun have an agreement. The sun doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like the sun. It’s better if they just…stay out of each other’s way. He could do without the achy headaches the bright light gives him.

 “Are you sure you’re drinking enough water? Are you eating the right stuff?”

 His budget quickly becomes strained with the amount of ‘healthy food’ he’s supposed to buy. The piles of ‘proper ingredients’ sit in his cabinet, unused, taunting him with how difficult it’ll be to figure out how to eat them. The guilt over not using them worries at his throat as he’s forced to toss them out as they go bad. He gets raised eyebrows from everyone with how often he has to go to the bathroom. The ensuing doctor’s visit is one he’d rather not repeat any time soon, even though at that point it’s just…you know those days where you’re like ‘this might as well happen? Adult life is already so goddamn weird?’

 “At least you can get out of bed most days. You seemed fine yesterday!”

 …yesterday was yesterday. And just because he got out of bed doesn’t mean anything. It wasn’t really a conscious choice, he just…had to do it.

 “You’re not nearly as bad as—“

 You know, it doesn’t really matter who they put at the end of that. The point is he’s not as bad as other people. So he doesn’t get the support that they get.

 He doesn’t get the polite nods from professors when he needs an extension. He doesn’t get the medication prescribed to him for something that he shouldn’t need because he’s ‘healthy.’ When he finally tries therapy, the therapist compliments him on how easily he’s able to hold a conversation, maintain eye contact, and asks him if he’s tried keeping a diary.

 During the nights when he can’t sleep, when the blankets feel way too rough, like sleeping on sandpaper that rubs persistently at his skin, he tosses and turns and thinks…would it be better if…

 Would it be better if it were worse?

 If it were more obvious, if he actually had depression, anxiety, ADHD, something with a name that people could recognize, or even just the freedom to say he had something…would that be better?

 He doesn’t cry every day. He can still feel things most of the time. He eats. He drinks water. He sleeps. He goes outside. He doesn’t get high or drink or do anything to try and numb the pain or escape it. He doesn’t have suicidal thoughts.

 But it still feels like he’s not quite right.

 If he were worse…people would be more sympathetic. He wouldn’t be accused of milking anything for attention. He wouldn’t get scolded for making light of other people’s problems. He wouldn’t be faking it. Is he faking it? Is he blowing it up out of proportion?

 Is it really as bad as he thinks it is?

 He finds the perfect metaphor almost by accident. He’s over at a friend’s house one day and they’re in the kitchen, getting hot chocolate to drink before starting their movie night. He opens the cupboard and pulls out a mug with flowers all over it. As he turns to give it to his friend, he notices a chip in the rim.

 “Oh, oh gosh, I, um, I’m sorry—“

 “What? What’s wrong?” His friend takes the mug from his stuttering hands and squints at it. Her brow smooths out and she laughs. “Oh, are you worried about the chip?”

 “…yeah. I don’t—I don’t think I did it?”

 “You didn’t,” she says easily, filling it with hot milk, “it’s always been like that.”

 “Oh, okay.” The black fuzzy things buzzing about his head settle at that as he leans back against the counter, ready to accept the mug of hot chocolate. It’s warm, pleasantly so, sending a rush of contentment up his arms as he cups his palms around it. “Where’s yours?”

 “I’m almost done!”

 He looks back down at the hot chocolate, shimmering brown with the kitchen light’s reflection. Tilting his head, he examines the chip in the ceramic. It’s not that big, barely noticeable, but there’s a sharp edge on the inside. He’ll have to be careful he doesn’t drink from that side. Wouldn’t do to burn his tongue and accidentally cut his lip.

 “Alright! I’m ready, let’s—ah!”

 Her yelp startles him out of whatever hot-chocolate-drinking-planning haze he’d been in, only to see his friend staring at the floor with her hands over her mouth.

 “Hey, whoa, are you okay? What happened?”

 “I, um—“ oh, no, she sounds so upset, let’s help her!— “I dropped my mug.”

 Sure enough, as he hustles around the counter, he sees the broken mug, lying on the floor, hot chocolate spilling mockingly from the remains. He sets his mug—carefully!—on the counter, looking around for the paper towels.

 “Did you get hurt?”

 “What?” Her gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “No, no, it’s just…that was my favorite mug.”

 A horrible sadness settles in his chest as he looks at her and he gently knocks their elbows. “It looks like it’s still got some pretty big pieces, we could…maybe we could fix it?”

 “You came over here to watch movies, not to fix my mug.”

 “We can do both, can’t we?”

 So there they end up, with the lights on, newspaper spread on the floor, hot glue gun, superglue, carefully piecing together broken ceramic as Finding Nemo plays in the background. By the time the seagulls are all racing around the screen, frantically yelling ‘mine!’ they’ve set the now-fixed mug gingerly on the counter, out of harm’s way, and cleaned up all the spilled hot chocolate. As the night creeps on, their eyes growing heavier and heavier, they make it through Mulan, The Princess and the Frog, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. Just before they start The Black Cauldron, his friend gently taps the side of the mug.

 “…I think it’s fixed!”

 “Wait, really? That was fast!”

 “Dude, it was like…at least six hours ago.”

 “Is that how fast superglue sets?”

 “Have you never used superglue before?”

 “Hey!”

 The sight of his friend with her favorite mug cradled in her lap makes him smile as he turns his attention back to the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her talking softly to herself, saying how she promises to be more careful next time, how she’s so happy the mug is fixed, it’ll be better now, stronger this time. And yet she still cradles the cracked, seamed thing with the same tenderness she did when they first picked up the pieces.

 He looks back down at the chipped mug in his lap. The chip is so small. It’s barely noticeable. It doesn’t make the mug leak or anything. The mug still works as a mug.

 He runs his thumb over the rim, feeling just the slightest pressure when he runs over the chip. If he tried to drink from that side, it would hurt.

 She’s had this mug for…years?

 He looks back over at the mug in his friend’s lap.

 The broken mug gets fixed.

 The chipped mug stays chipped forever.

  “Thomas?”

 Thomas blinks, looking up from his lap to see Logan standing next to him. Logan adjusts his tie.

 “You took a moment to respond.”

 “Sorry. Did we, uh, are we late for something? Did I miss a deadline?”

 There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it expression that flitters across Logan’s face. Then he adjusts his glasses and it’s gone. Thomas frowns.

 “…you okay, bud? What was that?”

 “What was what, Thomas?”

 “You, uh, you made a face.”

 “I have a face, Thomas, we all have faces.”

 “But you made an expression.”

 “…I believe I am…incapable of not making an expression.”

 “Logan,” Thomas sighs, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

 Well, he certainly takes him by surprise at any rate. Logan glances around—is he worried the others are going to show up?—and adjusts his glasses again.

 “I suppose I was…perturbed,” he settles on finally, “that your immediate assumption when I appeared was that I was going to…reprimand you in some way.”

 Oh. “Jeez, um, sorry, Logan, I didn’t mean it like that.”

 Logan waves him off. “It’s quite alright.”

 “But…no, it’s not.” Thomas shakes his head. “You…we gotta talk about this…more, but that’s not the only thing you’re important for. You know that, right?”

 …well, Logan’s certainly making a face now. It’s the same one he made after Remus first appeared, after Thomas called him ‘cool.’ After a moment of savoring Logan looking a little flustered, he prompts him gently.

 “Did you wanna talk about something?”

 “Right,” Logan says quickly, shaking himself, “do you remember our conversation about neurodivergent communities?”

 Right. They’d been talking about trying to find therapists during COVID and how it would be difficult since, y’know…going outside is more than kind of a no-no. Virgil had brought up how it’s almost impossible to get a good read on whether or not a therapist would be appropriate for them without a proper appointment, which…kind of led to everyone agreeing that maybe it would be better to try just the texting one first. Logan had mentioned trying to find a group of people to talk to, not just a single person, until Janus said something about not knowing how to navigate something like that.

 Not one of their more productive conversations.

 “Since your desire to try and see a therapist seems to have stagnated,” Logan says as Thomas nods, “I have found an alternative solution that I believe might be more suited to your current approach to your mental health problems.”

 “I don’t—Logan, I don’t have—“

 The look Logan levels at him is enough to get him to shush.

 “What’s the solution?”

 “One of the main obstacles for finding a therapist or seeking help in a group setting was an unawareness of how to properly navigate those dynamics, correct?” Thomas nods. “Then it seems that a solution would be to simply find a group where you do understand the dynamics, yes?”

 “…how do I do that?” Thomas scruffs a hand through his hair. “I—look, I…I get that I should talk to someone, we made that clear but it’s just—I don’t—“

 Logan waits patiently, his head tilted slightly, as Thomas struggles for words.

 “…it’s not that bad,” Thomas says lamely.

 “But we’ve established that—“

 “I know, I know,” Thomas groans, burying his head in his hands, “but it’s just like—I don’t think I belong there.”

 “Why not?”

 “Isn’t that for people who have it worse?”

 There must be some note of hysteria in that last word because Logan blinks and eases himself down onto the couch next to him, folding his hands in his lap and waiting patiently. When it’s clear Thomas isn’t going to be able to make words go for a while, he clears his throat.

 “You don’t want to join a space in which you are not welcome, correct?”

 Thomas nods miserably.

 “This idea that you will not be welcome stems from the idea that your problems are not…severe enough?”

 “Aren’t they?”

 “Why must they be more severe for you to seek help?”

 “I don’t know, I just—what if they think I’m faking?”

 “Are you?”

 That’s the kicker, isn’t it? When Thomas looks helplessly at Logan, uncertainty probably written plainly all over his face, Logan tilts his head.

 “If you have to ask whether or not you’re faking,” he says in a soft voice Thomas rarely hears, “it’s almost certain that you are not.”

 Thomas just nods dumbly.

 “Mental illnesses can manifest in a variety of ways,” Logan continues in that same soft voice—and anyone who says Logan doesn’t understand emotion can get out—“and you do not have to fulfill a certain standard of ‘bad’ in order to seek help.”

 “But then how do I find people to—who will—who are gonna—“

 “…understand?”

 “Yeah.”

 Logan’s mouth quirks up. “When was the last time you were on Tumblr?”

 Thomas blinks. “Excuse me? Also don’t you know that?”

 “I do.” Logan gestures to Thomas’s phone. “You wanted a space where you understand how to interact with people and where talking about these types of things will not be a drastic breach of boundaries, yes?”

 “…yeah?”

 “You would be surprised at the amount of neurodivergent communities online.”

 “So why’re you asking me about Tumblr?” The second it comes out of his mouth Thomas’s eyes widen. “Logan—“

 “I am not suggesting that be your only source of help, by any means,” Logan says quickly, “but it might serve as a good starting point. You know what is to be expected from Tumblr—relatively speaking,” he corrects when Thomas makes a face, “and it will help you see that, despite what you may think, you’re not alone.”

 Logan stands, giving Thomas one last look before he sinks out.

 “…and you don’t have to be grateful it isn’t worse, Thomas.”

 Thomas looks down at his phone. He opens the app and types something into the search bar.

 Logan was right. People…people talk about stuff on Tumblr. Admittedly, it’s Tumblr, so it’s an absolute hellsite, but there is something a little reassuring about being able to just…word vomit into a post and see other people doing the same.

  Friendly reminder that people’s symptoms are gonna manifest in different ways and you’re not allowed to judge someone who experiences something different than you

  REMINDED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO GRATEFUL THAT THINGS AREN’T WORSE WE DO NOT PLAY THE PAIN OLYMPICS IN THIS HOUSE

  You’re not alone.

 He’s still gonna have to figure out how to find a therapist. He’s still gonna have to figure out how to talk about this kind of stuff.

But for now, he can sit here and scroll and realize that there are words he can use to describe these things and it finally might start feeling right.

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