#no this fic project isn't abandoned

[pigeonwit]

David felt too much.

He had his whole life. He had always been called a ‘sensitive child’; if anyone changed their tone at him or raised their voice ever so slightly, he’d burst into tears, begging them not to be angry with him or asking if they were disappointed. As he grew, he learned that that wasn’t allowed anymore (the mocking from Oscar and Morris in middle school saw to that), and so, David learned to camouflage himself. If someone rolled their eyes at him, or if his joke didn’t land, he’d take the pain he felt and shove it deep, deep down in his stomach, wait for the storm of ��they hate you they hate you just shut up why are you like this no one wants you SHUT UP’ in his head to calm, and then wait until he was safe in the nearest bathroom stall to hyperventilate into his sleeve. He’d always talk himself down eventually, once all the feelings had leaked out, leaving burning trails on his face and bruises in his chest. And then, he would feel blissfully numb. Tired and deflated and wonderfully empty, for the rest of the day. Everything would blur into the background, leaving him in a peaceful fuzzy euphoria, until he got back to his room and collapsed into his bed, and let the world around him fade away.

As he grew older, though, it was harder to disappear. The house grew louder, and more invasive. His mother would loudly crash around in the kitchen or the laundry room or wherever, desperately searching for some chore she could distract herself with. Les would whine that he was bored, or that he needed help with his homework, or that he was hungry, until David forced himself out of bed to satisfy him. His sister would yell at Les to get out of her room, yell at their mother that she was being unfair, yell at David for doing nothing but hide in his room all day instead of helping the rest of them. Their father never got yelled at, though. Not when he’d shuffle into their rooms without knocking to call them for dinner, not when he shuffled and groaned almost constantly as he tried to find a comfortable position on his new bed on the couch, not when he always looked so bored no matter what was happening, no matter how badly David wanted to scream at him to shut up, stop it, do something, no one ever yelled at their father. And it hurt. It hurt, and ached, and stung, and David felt, felt, felt with nowhere and no way for him to let it out.

The first time he ever spoke to Albert DaSilva, he was sixteen. He’d made it through middle school and almost through high school without ever having to cross the boy’s path, but he supposed that luck ran out over time. David had been trembling, the ten dollars of carefully counted change burning against his palm, and he distinctly remembered shoving his hand out and asking for ‘one weed, please’ with the world’s most perfectly timed voice-crack. Albert had laughed so hard he wound up letting David take the bag for five. David tried to think of it as an act of generosity rather than pity.

David wouldn’t call himself a pothead. He definitely wouldn’t say he was addicted. Technically, he would always remind himself, you couldn’t get addicted to weed. He knew it was a stupid argument – it didn’t matter if something was addictive or not, anyone could get addicted to anything. Still, it made him feel a little less anxious about smoking it, those rare occasions when his feelings were just too much for him and he didn’t have any other way of getting rid of them.

Today is one of those occasions.

David yells a half-hearted ‘going to Albert’s’ into the chaos of the Jacobs’ household, and swings the door closed before anyone can respond – not that anyone ever did. He doubts that they mind, really; he knows it annoys them when he leaves at random points of the day, since that meant one less pair of hands to do chores and deal with their father’s episodes, but he knows they’re also grateful to have one less person to snap at. The winter wind hits him like a thousand tiny needles piercing his face, and David grimaces, pulling his scarf over his mouth. Just a few minutes, he swears to himself. Just a few minutes, and he wouldn’t feel anything at all.

The path into the woods is beaten and muddy, and the number of weeds and bracken coating its edges makes it almost indistinguishable from the forest floor. But for those gifted few, the hikers and the dog walkers and the emotionally stunted teenagers who needed some place quiet to get high, walking the path was as easy as breathing. It wound and twisted its way around the gnarled trees, over the knolls and through the overgrowth, until you found yourself walking along a ledge of ferns and shrubbery. David had it down to a perfect art – he would identify the wild cherry sapling poking its way out of the shrubbery, walk exactly seven paces, find the tiny hollow where some animal had wriggled its way through the shrubbery (David assumes it was a fox, given the tracks and the strands of fur in the brambles), and manage to shove his way between them until he was through the wall of shrubbery and on the bank of a small stream. From there, David would perch himself on a rock, roll his joint, take a drag, and lose himself in the sound of sweet, sweet nothingness.

David groans in relief as the stress begins to seep out of his body; a loud, obnoxious sound that he makes purely for the sake of making it. For being loud without having to worry about someone yelling at him to shut up. The phenomenon of inconsequentiality is a rare one, and David relishes it. He stretches out on his rock and bathes in the silence for no one knows how long. Who’s keeping track? The birds certainly aren’t judging him.

His joint burns down, bit by bit – he blows smoke rings and smiles dopily as they melted away on the wind. He toes the water, splashing at it rhythmically, and then bursts into a giggling fit. Singing water. Babbling brook. Babble was a fun word. Babble. Babblabblabble.

God, his mother would throw a fit if she could see him here.

David giggles again.

[coquettepascal]

purpose on earth

summary: joel loves to take, you love to give.

tags: 18+, smut, angst(ish), jackson era!joel, cold!joel, grumpy!joel, innocent!reader, dom!joel, implied age gap (reader doesn't remember pre-outbreak), corruption kink, joel takes your undies, humiliation, oral sex (m!receiving), allusion to thigh riding, a feeling of helpless/hopeless-ness permeates this fic, reader is pretty pathetic, use of "sweet girl", objectification of reader, unrequited obsession, this fic isn't necessarily sexy, just mildly sad.

a/n: i literally wrote this like an hour ago while i was supposed to be outlining my next project, but @hellishjoel told me to listen to my creative demons... so now this is being posted.

(1.1k, just a baby)

Nothing in this world has ever, or will ever, belong to you. Faint memories glaze your mind sometimes, when you lay down to rest. Not your own memories, but things you’ve read in books and seen in abandoned family photo albums. White wedding dresses, cars that drive, Sunday night family dinner. An American lifestyle that was sucked away with the cordyceps, something only they could clear out. The bombs the government used, the ones you can’t remember anymore, they never wiped mother earth clean the way she has done for herself.

She’s infected, and not yours. Nothing outside of Jackson’s walls belongs to your human hands.

You’ve never known ownership. The clothes you wear belonged to people before you, the ground you walk on cannot be sold. Maybe in another life this would feel fulfilling, but something in you wants to know what it is to own, or even fit in. Your skin, flushed and healthy, skin full of life and blood and organs. A heart that thumps in a world of disease, disorder, death. What a weird purity you hold, something you want to ruin. 

A person like you isn’t meant to own anything here. It feels like you have to belong, if you wish to take.

He will do it for you. 

Joel knows greed, remembers the world before. His hands have taken food, land, lives, anything you can imagine. It isn’t something you realistically think about, more infatuated with how he has the ability to do all these things. Not that you hadn’t committed your own sins, but to defend yourself isn’t wrong, at least that’s what he says. Something in Joel smolders the way only a primal fire can, he is from a world whose memory of a flame will extinguish soon.

He doesn’t help with any of your wants, your need to own or belong. But Joel shows you what it is to take.

You don’t understand the fascination he has with you. The memory of the night he first led you back to his house is blurry, a fleeting moment in comparison to what has happened since. There was conversation of music, of you having a tape you wish you could play. 

His hands were slow when they slid your underwear down your legs, you hoped he wasn’t looking. Nothing about you felt sexy or womanly, you felt dwarfed when he was so close. Again, you wished you could belong, so maybe you could hide. There was a stain in the gusset and you remember how he pulled the garment off your ankles when it dangled there.

“Lemme see,” he had demanded, “lemme see what I did t’you.”

Joel had smeared his thumb through the sticky wet mark, huffing in surprise. He knew it was for him, knew there was nothing else that could have made you do that. Humiliated, you had tried to yank back your underwear, but he refused.

“S’mine now,” he laughed, cheeks rosy.

That was the first time Joel took from you. 

Now you seek him, the ache for belonging in the world twisting to a yearning for him to take from you. If you could not belong to this world, if you could not fit, at least you could fulfill him. Joel doesn’t like it when you seek him out too often, hates when others notice it. You’re not his, never his, just a moment of gratification for his consuming greed. 

Once, you waited in the early morning at the stables for him. Crouched near the barn door, you waited and watched the dewy grass grow. The crunch of his boots, the yawn he let out as he passed by you, it was enough. He said nothing to you, took off on his horse with some other man trailing behind him. 

“Joel’s so responsible,” you thought to yourself, “he’ll need me later I bet.”

Of course, he did. You relished in the small victory of him stealing from you again. Purity leaks from you in the form of drool on your chin, when he pulls you off his cock. Joel’s thumbs push the spit back in your mouth and you suck it down willingly. Praise rumbles off his tongue and into your ears, a southern rhythm you find sanctuary in. Pushing his dick back into your mouth is all pleasure to him, but it’s a taste of greed for you. 

“Sweet girl, that’s a good mouth f’me, ain’t it?” Joel asks, head tilting back.

He never takes his pants off, but he strips you naked. His eyes arguably take more than his hands ever will. The bob of his Adam's apple hypnotizes your eyes as you garble a response to his question. Scarcely do you make sense around Joel, or even speak. You don’t think you can remember the last time you held a proper conversation with him, he usually just waits for you to come around.

It all starts the same, standing on his porch and waiting until he opens the door.

“Missin’ me?” He asks every time.

Joel doesn’t miss you, he doesn’t need you. He just likes how much you give. But you miss him, as soon as he pushes you out into the cold again you miss him. His greed is your purpose.

And so with your purpose, you push yourself down to the base of him. The waterline of your eyes is welling up fast, distorting your vision of him. You blink up at him like he’ll look down, like you’re more than a mouth. You aren’t, not to him, but you get to admire him like this. The puff of his chest, the swell of his throat, and his hands when they come to rip you off him.

He never pulls your hair, just grasps your face in his worn-down palms and pushes you away before jerking himself onto your naked body. 

“S’nice, you’re so nice t’me,” he grumbles. 

Under the yellow light in Joel’s living room, you feel useful. You’re doing more than surviving in this world. You have a purpose, even if he seldom needs you. He uses the sleeves of his flannel to wipe away the tears that slide down your cheeks, still mumbling about how sweet you are. Naked, smattered in him, you smile. Glittery eyes meet his and he snorts. 

“You were missin’ me, huh?” He teases. 

Joel rubs his thumb across your cheek again, the closest thing you’ll get to his lips on you. In his post-orgasmic haze, he almost looks fond. 

“He almost likes me,” your mind whispers, your stomach fluttering, “it’s almost like I belong.”

And once you’ve nodded in response to his question, messy mouthed and gazing at him, your purpose, he taps his thigh. Blood rushes to your head as you stand, crawling onto him. 

In your obedient mind, you define your efforts for Joel as a purpose, but you think you can taste a hint of belonging each time he spreads your legs. 

[katboykirby]

I've talked about this at length on Twitter, so I'll try to keep it short and sweet:

OBEY ME IS NOT ENDING!

I've seen a lot of people panicking and a lot of people doomposting about the games being shut down, about how Solmare is abandoning the franchise, etc.

THIS IS NOT WHAT'S HAPPENING.

- From Solmare's announcement a couple of days ago.

The main story in Nightbringer is being wrapped up, but that's it. The games are not being shut down. The games are not going anywhere. You can still play the original Obey Me! and Nightbringer as much as you want. The main story will simply be finished at Lesson 60.

The franchise itself is not ending, either. Solmare has made multiple statements about this and has made it very clear that Obey Me! the series itself will continue. And the voice actors have confirmed this as well!

In addition to both games remaining, there are multiple new Obey Me! projects coming next year!

According to Solmare, the next era of Obey Me! will include new content, live in-person events, new merch, collaborations, and more that will be announced in 2025.

Believe me, I completely understand the disappointment that comes with this news. I'm deeply saddened and disheartened to know that the main story will be wrapping up so soon. I had been following Obey Me! since before the first game even came out (ever since the promotional trailer was shown at AX in 2019) and I've been a daily player of both games since Day 1. It's absolutely valid and expected for people to be upset.

However, I do think that we need to stop spreading misinformation. There have been a LOT of posts on both here and Twitter by people claiming that the series is over and that the games are being shut down. THIS IS NOT TRUE. Not only have I seen far too many people repeating these false claims, I've seen far too many people believing them at face value. I have seen too many people saying that now they're going to delete the games from their phone and leave the fandom, and I've seen fic writers and artists say that they're going to start deleting their works "because it's over now so why bother"

PLEASE DON'T. Obey Me is not ending! The games aren't being shut down! The series is still continuing with new content coming next year!

Repeating this misinformation isn't just damaging for the people who believe it, but if you're pushing players away from the fandom/series because they believe it's been shut down, then that's going to harm Obey Me! as well. We will only continue to get more new content and new OM projects if the series is successful, and alienating fans won't help anybody.

There's been a lot of anxiety and doomerism these past couple days. And while I totally understand feeling disappointed, PLEASE do not make false claims or spread misinformation. The games are not going anywhere and you can still play both of them as much as you want. The Obey Me! series is continuing with multiple new projects next year!

[farshootergotme]

Now that I have the confidence to send you asks, fully expect me to bug you periodically from here on out

Anyways- do you think Dick qualifies as a scapegoat? Cause I 100% think he's a scapegoat. People always try to shove the 'golden child' role onto Dick, and it always confused me cause like. He doesn't fit it at all if you actually look into what a golden child is.

Dick is definitely one of the scapegoats of the batfamily (Jason being the other) and it makes me sad that people always label him a golden child when he's the exact opposite. Seriously- he's hit, beaten, unfairly blamed, lashed out at, not told about important things (Jason or being replaced, Jason dying, Jason's funeral, probably other things, i wouldn't be surprised), etc. Definition of a scapegoat to me.

It's also why I hesitate to label him the 'favorite' even when the comics try to say otherwise. Mostly because... favorite children aren't really treated this way. Favorite weapon, maybe, as I've said in a post I've made before, but that's it. Bruce wouldn't kill for him or any of his kids. He's come close, yeah, but he's also come close to killing the Joker too after Jason's death and had to be threatened into not doing it. Every time, it's in a strong surge of emotion, and the second Bruce thinks rationally- well, he doesn't do it. Dick isn't at all unique, Bruce wouldn't kill for him either.

I think Bruce is the most proud of Dick, and has a unique relationship with him due to knowing him the longest and the parentification, but I don't think that makes him the favorite. Maybe to the other batkids, but probably not in reality.

I don't think Bruce really HAS a favorite- Dick is probably the closest to it, but still.

Though, if you wanna play around with angst and fanon ideas, maybe both Dick and Jason are the favorites and that's why Bruce treats them the worst? Dunno, it'd make a fun fic, even if it's not really grounded in canon (though I ignore RHATO and Comic UTRH).

Idk. Just,, gestures. Dick is a scapegoat to me.

Hope my 2 am rambling made sense lol

Okay, I see you, but I'll argue:

Dick Grayson is both the scapegoat and the golden child.

Now, you might not believe this since he doesn't tend to be both at the same time, and it isn't common for these roles to exist within the same individual. But Dick Grayson is praised and favored as much as he's blamed and pushed.

A golden child is the one who carries most of the expectations in the family. The parent expects them to be perfect, make no mistakes, take on roles they're pushed into with no issue (thus parentification can happen), and continue on and on to be good enough and meet the criteria so they don't make the parent disappointed.

The love is conditional hence they develop this unhealthy perfectionism and self-esteem and self-worth issues that will follow them till adulthood even when they're out of that environment and living their own lives.

The reason why a parent might choose a specific child (or children) to be the favored one is because they tend to see this child as an extension of themselves. And consequential to this, they will project their insecurities onto said child and force them to improve—be the best—where they fall short. All of their capabilities are overvalued, making the parent see them as special and much better than the rest, causing the unrealistic expectations a child must hold and fulfill so as not to “fail” their parent(s).

Although this child might seem like the favorite and who could do no wrong on the outside, the love they receive isn't something they can take for granted.

When a golden child underperforms or isn't as good as they're expected, the parent’s demeanor might change. They will feel the disappointment and fear this might cause the treatment they get to change. Sometimes the child might even fear abandonment or rejection from their parent as a result of their failures.

The mix of all this turns into a person who's over-competent, hard-working and someone that tends to take charge of things so they aren't at risk of failing, making them ‘natural’ leaders in any group they might be part of.

Sounding familiar yet?

Now, let's move on to the scapegoat:

A scapegoat child is the one that is blamed by all the things that go wrong in the family. They are constantly criticized and shamed by things they might've not even been part of, but somehow they're now involved and taking all the blame for the others so there are no consequences for anyone but them.

(All the blame also messes with their perception of certain events, making them prone to self-blame for the problems that occur in the family or their behaviors towards them.)

The scapegoating in the family may be due to subconscious projection from the parent when they're dealing with difficult emotions such as shame, guilt, rage, etc. They feel threatened by their own feelings and therefore they will try to escape from them by externalizing those feelings and making them their scapegoat’s problem.

Because of this treatment, the scapegoat might become an outsider in the family, feeling excluded and isolated from the rest. And for this, when push comes to shove and they're going through a rough patch, they will not have any reliable support they can go to inside the family as they'll be ignored or otherwise unfairly treated, having their feelings be invalidated.

Like the golden child, there's some aspects the scapegoat shares with the former:

Being treated differently by the parent/family.

Having unrealistic expectations placed upon them.

Being pushed into roles or responsibilities the child isn't meant to take.

Fear of expressing how they feel.

Self-worth issues and low self-esteem.

Although they're usually roles that are considered opposites, they aren't as incompatible as one might think. A child can alternate between being a scapegoat or the golden child, and this usually happens when the parent is very emotionally unstable, commonly due to a disorder such as narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) or borderline personality disorder (BPD).

(I have so many thoughts about the latter applying to Bruce, but I will refrain from elaborating to not make this longer than it needs to be)

Having all I've said until now in consideration, I'm sure you've noticed how Dick meets both criterias—dare I say the golden child more often than the scapegoat.

Bruce is always speaking about how Dick is “better than him” and “the thing he's ever done right”, but in both of these statements you can see he's taking who Dick is and making it as something that's part of him, comparing Dick's accomplishments to his and putting him in this pedestal, and because of this projection happens and Bruce starts seeing Dick as an extension of himself.

This is why, when he or Dick fail, Dick will suddenly become the scapegoat, contrasting with the former golden child position he was in.

Here you can see the high expectations, praise for his accomplishments, his siblings feeling like Dick is better than them (i.e. treated differently than the rest), and you can also see how when he doesn't meet the expectations, he's met with disappointment (see: Alfred disappointed he's not as bright as he usually is) or judgment (see: Bruce angry at him because he isn't committing to his cause as much as he expects him to).

And these are examples of Bruce being too harsh on Dick and expecting him to do better, blaming him for his brother's death, and in result Dick having a habit of blaming himself and accepting mistreatment, thinking it must be his fault.

More often than not, Dick is put on a pedestal by his family and even his friends sometimes. They praise and love him, but when there's occasions in which he's acting less than perfect, the treatment towards him can change.

Dick Grayson can be the golden child as much as he can be the scapegoat.

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

[aklaustaleteller]

I do not give anyone the permission to translate or repost my work. Please do not plagiarize it! Apart from that, thank you, thank you, thank you so much for fishing out your precious time to read my fics -- it means a lot; I appreciate your support so much! I genuinely hope you enjoy your time here!

All the love always,

A.

Harry Styles ff blog: @0oolookitsme Fic Rec blog (for KM): @niklausmklsn creds to @saradika for the amazing graphics! <3

Last Updated: August 29, 2024

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Hybrid!Klaus x Hybrid!Reader

Requested! (by so many of you I couldn't have put just on ask with the post!!)

Since Klaus admitted to infidelity, the harrowing pain of losing her family, her happiness, and her love has Y/n clutched in its arms, crushing her in its tight grip for what felt like was going to be forever. But will Klaus be able to hold a certain grudge against her for long? And if he can, then should he have?

Down Bad (4.6k, angst, smut, fluff)

Lucien Castle x Original Heretic!Reader

Requested!

In the two weeks that Y/n had been gone, Klaus had turned out to be quite an unfaithful man. However, Lucien Castle has been down bad for Y/n since he first met her, in a bar drowning away her sorrows. And he'll do anything for her – even if it meant lending her a helping hand to torture a man.

Fics longer than my life span (probably)

Vontade (10.2k, smut, fluff, angst)

Hybrid!Klaus x Vampire!Reader

Requested!

Y/n and Klaus had settled in the English Countryside, living in an isolated mansion that was settled under thick mist on most days. But what happens when Klaus leaves for a little, and things take a sinister turn for Y/n?

Word Vomits (essentially)

Not For A Long Time (1.3k, fluff, smut)

Hybrid!Klaus x Omega!Reader (slight a/b/o dynamics)

Klaus returns back to his lover omega's cottage after a long time, and he wants nothing more than to just mark her as his, all over again. But all Y/n seems to want, is to eat her dinner and get on his nerves, ...and to absentmindedly rub herself all over him.

An Unofficial Date (1.6k, fluff)

Hybrid!Klaus x Uni Student!Reader

Klaus has had a certain starry-eyed girl on his mind, so when he walks into a museum, not at all with the hope of finding her inside, he can't help but strike up a conversation, which might've just led to Y/n agreeing to see him again.

[kenjakusbraincum]

Walls

Sukuna x Reader

A small addition to Vows

Synopsis: Two scenes exploring the first times reader and Sukuna respectively break down in the face of reader's terminal illness. Tags/Warnings: sick!gn!reader, master/pet dynamics, angst, hurt/comfort. (Chronologically takes place after reader and Sukuna talk about him taking new pets in the original fic!) Word count: 1.2k Author's note: This is probably as vulnerable as I'll ever write Sukuna :3

You tried to be strong. So long, so hard you tried to be untouchable. You knew sukuna hates weaklings. But you're in so much pain. You can barely swallow anything properly with how sore your throat is from the coughing. It takes so much out of you, physically and mentally, to pretend that this harrowing illness is nothing, and that you're somehow okay with it and ready to die. You're not. You don't want to die. You don't want this life that you've built with Sukuna to end. At least not as abruptly as it seems it will happen. One day you just can't pretend anymore.

Sukuna always asks if you're doing okay. He hopes that one day he'll hear you say yes. But you don't. You mutter a quiet no, and hope the topic would quickly. Not quickly enough. Because you break down crying. It starts small, your usual, timid little crying, but as you talk through it, the weight of your illness presses down on you like a rock - and you break. Loud, helpless. Hysterical bawling, the crying that leaves you breathless, the crying that drains you of everything you have and more.

And Sukuna doesn't know what to do - usually telling you to stop would work, because you would obey his every word, no questions asked. But this is different, this isn't your usual crying about something small, something you aren't allowed to do or something mean Sukuna said. This is a honest, heart wrenching breakdown that has been impending for a while. And he can't tell you to stop - because you can't stop. All he can do is hold you tight, and remind you to breathe.

There's nothing he can do. Healing you is a double edged sword, that provides relief, but at the cost of crashing hopes when the symptoms return. They always return. How useless of him. He can't properly comfort you because he's so detached from human emotions and interactions, he can't save you from this hardship... And he can hardly make it any easier. All he can do is sit with his guilt, little weeping you curled up in his arms, and... that salty drop of liquid that just escaped from his eye to his lip. What was that? Is he?... No, it's impossible.

Of course, reader falls asleep quickly after this. Sukuna stands up to leave, but he finds himself unable to part his stare from the bloody napkins and abandoned crochet projects by your bed. Tea gone cold and plates still full of food and sweets that you didn't have the strength to consume. Clothes untouched, folded neatly in your closet - you don't change out of your sleepwear anymore. The doorknob to the terrace, the one that leads to the garden you love so much, gathering dust after days, weeks of being unopened. You used to go into the garden every day. Your descent is slow, like that of a flower, whose petals slowly dry and detach, until none are left. His favorite flower, the one he loved to admire every day, at every opportunity. The type of flower that grows, blooms once in a hundred years and more.

And Sukuna is a stone, was a stone, stoic and unshaken for the longest time. But he is not as he was before. Love spares no one. Love leaves no one unchanged. He breaks.

You're in his lap in the garden, during one of the last sunny days of autumn. He stares into the distance, lost in thought as he often is, but... his face looks different. Tense, with his brows furrowed and his lips tight. He looks worried, almost sad. You ask him what he's thinking about, and he hesitates. There's a lump in his throat, and you hear it in his voice when he finally speaks. Nothing. He should've said nothing. What a fool.

He tells you he struggles to imagine life without you. And then he looks at you, and you feel it so vividly. A punch to your gut, a knife to your heart. Oh. You know you're dying, but if you had even the slightest of doubts, it's gone now that Sukuna is opening up to you. Sukuna and vulnerability don't exactly go hand in hand.

You sit up and plant a kiss to his shoulder. You tell him what you believe to be true - that the pain is fleeting, and that one day he will be complete again, alone or with someone else in your place. He frowns at you, once more unwilling to accept that scenario. But you want that for him. You truly, wholy believe that he is worth your - and anyone else's love. That he's beautiful, he keeps you safe, provides for you, pleasures you, listens to you - what more can anyone ask for? There's a thousand humans who would die for a chance to be loved like that, who would be just as genuine and grateful as you - and he crumbles, telling you to just shut up! He turns his head in another direction, facing you with the veins popping in his neck. He should've known you would try to make it better. He should've known you wouldn't let him wallow in his misery.

You crawl closer, reaching your hand for his face and trying to pull it towards you, but he doesn't budge. He holds his breath. He really doesn't want you to see him like this. Weak, pathetic.

Sukuna. You call him by his name. So intimate, forbidden. So personal you don't think you've ever called him that outside his bed, and even then it was pried off your lips, pulled from the depths of your conscience, out of your control. Anyone else would've paid for the mistake of uttering his name with their lives. But it's nothing new that you have privileges others don't.

Sukuna. You wrap your arms around him and lean into a hug, and he accepts it, squeezing you so tight he almost leaves breathless. You kiss up his neck, his cheek - wet, and his lips, almost trembling as they touch yours. There's so much more you want to tell him - but he shushes you. Kisses you again, tells you to forget it, it will be fine. You're not sure if he's saying it to you or to himself.

You tell him you know, that's what you've been trying to say the whole time. Then you smile at him, that angelic smile of yours, and smooth your hands over his face, wiping the frown off of his face. What a magical little being you are, he thinks to himself as he savors your beauty. You always had the power to take his anger and turn it into love.

No, Sukuna doesn't think that he could ever scoop up another little human like you out of the crowd. For a moment he thinks maybe it's better that you die, simply because he fears how far he would keep falling for you if nothing stopped him. He thinks maybe he would've become a different man. A better man. But your fate is sealed, and with it, any and all hopes for a changed Sukuna. Soon you will breathe your last breath, and Sukuna will once again be a monster, unbound by anyone or anything. Free of the confines that you've passed upon him - the heaviness of a human conscience. Closer to the man he was before he met you. But never, ever the same again.

[dontbelasagnax]

OMG CAN I DO A PROMPT FOR THE KISS ROULETTE???

No pressure BUT I number 35. Kiss against a wall would make me go FERAL.

Bonus points if it's in some hidden corner and they're trying to sneak away after a hard won battle because the codywan brain rot has GOT ME. I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BUT THEM

Please pretend like you sent this ask recently and I haven't been sitting on it for months waiting for my eggs to hatch @why-cant-turtles-fly 😂 As requested, here is codywan kissing against a wall... though it's actually a pillar (oops). I was inspired by this artwork I did!

Pairing: CC-22224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2,330

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Tenderness, Making Out, Introspection, and by that I mean Obi-Wan is mentally ill and thinks too much, Implied Sexual Content, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summary:

    "Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters.

    "More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies.

    [ OR: Obi-Wan and Cody steal away some precious time after a victorious battle which of course results in a makeout session against a pillar. ]

(fic under the cut if you wish to read here on tumblr)

This morning Obi-Wan finds himself in the ruins of a long ago abandoned castle, high in the mountainous region of Bestoon's northernmost continent. However difficult the altitude makes it to breathe unassisted, it's worth it for the view. There isn't much he loves looking at more than a sunrise in the clouds.

The sunrise after a well earned victory in battle has become one of Obi-Wan's favorite moments to find peace these last few months or... has it been years? Time has melted together through this dreary drudge of a war.

He's watched this sky transition from dusky purples splashed with rays of golden sunlight to a pale blue canvas with clouds shadowed with purples leaning grey and highlights of soft pinks and yellows.

"Sir," a very familiar voice calls from behind. 

Obi-Wan turns towards the voice. 

'Ah,' Obi-Wan thinks, a smile already beginning to emerge on his features, 'my dearest commander.'

The light of the sky washes Cody in diffused golds and pinks. He is delightfully dressed down, forgoing his armour from the waist up. The tight, ribbed fabric does his physique all the favors the way it clings. A stray curl drops onto his forehead. The lighting does wonders for his complexion. It's as if he's glowing.

Yes, Cody bathed in the light of a new day is the most breathtaking, glorious view of them all.

"Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters. 

"More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies as he takes the lightsaber held out to him. The metal is heated from the rare touch of Cody's bare hand. Energy thrums from the kyber, a slow pulse that nearly sparkles, sending the residual heat of skin and life up Obi-Wan's arm, straight to his ever beating heart. 

So helpful his kyber crystal is, giving fuel to the flame of his infatuation that, once a slow burn, is steadily alight.

Cody leans back against the pillar, looks at him with those warm, big brown eyes of his and oh…

Obi-Wan steps into Cody's space.

Cody's sharp inhale and the way his hand comes up to touch Obi-Wan's belly is exactly what he wanted. 

Obi-Wan rests his arm beside Cody's head on the stone, bringing his face close enough to just feel Cody's breath on the whiskers of his beard.

Thick, black lashes fluttering downwards then back up. The want in those gorgeous eyes is magnetizing.

Obeying Cody's gravitational pull, Obi-Wan kisses him. The catch of their lips slow and tender, just a hint of saliva and suction, loving the warm nudge of Cody's nose against his cheek, and the bloom of Cody's Force presence like flowers turning to the morning sun. 

"Well done," Obi-Wan murmurs as he pulls away, chasing the wounded noise Cody makes with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Your performance was stellar today, as always. Always."

Obi-Wan clips his lightsaber to his belt and cups his darling's jaw with his newly freed hand. He sighs into the meeting of their lips. The soft warm comfort of Cody's mouth is offset by the rigidity of his armour below the waist. It’s as accurate a representation of Cody’s true self as it gets: compassionate and sweet while still deadly and unwieldy.

Though, as much as Obi-Wan adores this version of Cody—so delectable in only his codpiece, cuisse, and greaves—he’d selfishly prefer him stripped even further. 

Alas, he's getting ahead of himself.

Cody's arms curl around him, hands clenching in his tabards. Their lips make smacking noises with the separation of each slow, deliberate kiss.

It's with a bittersweet ache in his chest that Obi-Wan cherishes these moments for he never knows what the next day will bring. The reality of war is that any second of any day he could lose Cody and he'll never know another day painted warm and vibrant by Cody's dry humor and barely-there smiles, the rare times when Obi-Wan can make him really laugh and hear joy spring from his soul, the quiet steady companionship of his presence, and the compassion he shows his brothers. One day he'll never know another kiss, another pleasure coated sigh of his own name, or feel the needy way Cody curves his entire body into Obi-Wan’s to get what he wants. 

It is possible that Obi-Wan would be the one to go first but… he knows deep down, and has accepted it with peace, that he's meant for infinite sadness. 

He already nearly lost him that first time- the time Cody first kissed him.

However long Cody is willing to share these hidden pockets of love with him, he will cherish every second they have together.

He emphasizes this thought with a purposeful tug and suck of Cody’s bottom lip before pulling away to breathe. The thinner air at this altitude has them panting against each other, lips grazing slightly, a sensitive tingly, ticklish tease.

Cody rubs their noses together, as if trying to grasp any sort of intimacy he can while recovering his breath.

Obi-Wan’s heart squeezes painfully.

Never let it be said lest Cody try to kill him in his sleep… but Cody is not just a sweet, sweet man but adorable.

 Natural as the mist of cloudy mornings, Obi-Wan kisses him again. 

Everything about this is intentional. From the way he slowly draws their mouths together again and again, pace languid and savoring, to the way they've chosen each other- chosen to find these moments to do nothing but love. It's not a choice, really, that they will choose duty over each other if that's what it comes to. That's simply the reality of their existences. Those priorities will never change, not with how the war has molded them into thinking. 

No, the choosing is in the love. 

He does love Cody and perhaps always will. It's not been said. Nor does he know with absolute certainty that Cody feels the same.

Cody's presence in the Force has always been a bit of a comfort for Obi-Wan since they met. Through all the uncertainty and pain in the galaxy, Cody is sturdy and shines. He's not certain when Cody’s signature began emanating a warmth that curls into his chest and makes him feel at home. It could be that with time and the development of Obi-Wan's own feelings, every aspect of Cody became beyond endearing.

Or… it could be the manifestation of Cody's own feelings for Obi-Wan.

He's not certain. And he's very well not going to ask.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

Still, he catches quick moments sometimes out the corner of his eye where Cody looks at him with an impossibly soft look on his face and Obi-Wan thinks, 'Maybe-’

Really. It doesn't matter. 

He has Cody so readily in the cradle of his arms, drinking up every milliliter of affection bestowed upon him.

And, well, his train of thought falls to the wayside when Cody moans into his mouth and tries to drag him even closer between the v of his legs. 

He's not sure exactly what he’s done to make Cody react so positively but he goes with the motion as heat burns deep in his abdomen.

He teases at Cody's lips with his tongue and realizes his fault when Cody instantly opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. The inside of Cody's mouth is hot and wet and his tongue- licking all those spots that make Obi-Wan shudder into him. 

Not that it's not lovely—because it is, really—but this is not how he intended things to go. 

Cody's insistent against him, pressing for more, hotter, faster, harder.

With difficulty, Obi-Wan pulls away, dodging Cody's attempts to meld their mouths together. 

“Cody, dearheart,” he says, out of breath, thumb gently stroking the skin by the corner of Cody's mouth, “you don't need to devour me.”

Cody doesn't quite pout but it's a near thing. The way his eyes are glued to Obi-Wan's lips make tooka-eyes impossible. “Remains to be seen.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and kisses his cheek. “Please, my-” he catches himself almost saying ‘love’, “dear. Just for now. Let me treat you softly.”

Cody considers this solemnly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Good man.”

The bob of Cody's throat at his words is gratifying. 

He closes his eyes and leans back in to capture Cody's lips for a few slow, lingering kisses. 

“That’s it. Easy goes,” Obi-Wan murmurs between kisses. Cody melts underneath him, pliant and accepting. 

He'll take every rare opportune moment to treat Cody like the indulgence he is– truly savor him. Hot plush lips between his own, a smooth glide aided by saliva. Slow and steady. Discovering how electric and titillating the simplicity is. Just Cody's warm body against his own. Cody's lips. Cody's sighs. Cody…

He's the sweetest of luxuries. And he should be cherished accordingly. 

Obi-Wan plants a path of kisses up Cody's cheek, right to the end of his brow, following the raised skin of his facial scar.

He's wondered if anyone else has gotten to love Cody like he has or if he's the only one to ply him with tender affection. He's wondered if, in a kinder universe, Cody would be left free of the scars Obi-Wan has gotten to know so intimately. If there were a universe as such, would Obi-Wan be given the chance to love Cody all over again or if another is destined for him- someone closer to his age and able to devote their life to ensuring his happiness.

He's tied himself into knots over this. The hypotheticals. 

He loves Cody. He loves him easily, unhurried and unconditionally. He loves him with every breath he shares loving the Jedi Order—his family—and this wonderous Force-filled world they live in. 

It's just that. He does not love Cody more than the order, more than his faith and his family. Cody is a part of his life. Whatever comes next, may it be death or freedom or- well, Force knows what, Obi-Wan hopes Cody remains a constant. Selfishly. More than a little lovesick. He wants Cody in his life. But he will accept whatever comes their way, as it is the will of the Force. 

 And if that means-

“Where'd’ya keep going?” asks Cody, big brown eyes of his gazing into Obi-Wan's soulfully. A deep brown that melts into a warm, rich amber. Beautiful.

“Nowhere of consequence.” He rubs his nose along Cody’s cheek. Breathes him in. 

“You sure?”

Obi-Wan drags his lips down Cody's jaw, smiling to himself and settling in once Cody shudders and angles his head out of the way.

“Absolutely certain,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his pulse point then kisses that very same spot.

A sigh from Cody is just the encouragement Obi-Wan needs to continue on. 

It's a gift having Cody so sensitive and wanting under him. An entirely different side of his commander than the stern, regal demeanor their troopers see day in and out. 

He kisses and sucks and nips the column of Cody's neck, delighting in the small, pleased noises he draws from Cody with every pass of his mouth over salty skin. 

He only leaves a couple of marks by the time Cody tugs him upwards. He's not too dismayed to leave the warm crook of his love’s neck because the expression on Cody's face is nothing short of wanton, absolutely debauched. 

Cody’s lips are still plump and kiss bitten. 

Obi-Wan can't resist. He traces the pad of his thumb across Cody's bottom lip. Breath shakes onto skin and Cody's mouth closes around the digit, suctioning him in hot, wet heat. 

He draws in a sharp breath.

His gaze darts to Cody’s eyes where he meets pupils blown wide with desire. Cody stares unflinchingly, daring and, oh… 

Cody has bewitched him, utterly and completely. Try as he might to retain composure, Cody is his undoing in these moments. The fragile strings of his heart (and… other parts of his anatomy…) pulled taut and ready to spring forward.

He wanted to keep it slow and soft, but Cody knows just how to arm him into an arrow ready to spring forth.

He pops his thumb from Cody's mouth and fixes his mouth and lips there instead, letting him know just how affected he is. He tastes Cody’s own desire echoed back to him in his moans and tongue and the needy press of his body that Obi-Wan keeps caged to the pillar. The fists that grab at his tunic and hair to try and get him even closer.

The high altitude forces them apart to breathe sooner than either of them would like but they don't go far, nuzzling noses and panting against one another's lips. 

“We’d better take this back to The Negotiator,” Cody says quietly, still out of breath.

Obi-Wan nods his agreement, sure that if they stay here a minute longer he'll be on his knees.

Hand in hand, they hurry away and the sunrise grows only brighter, pink tones making way for the brilliance of the full sun. Clouds drift with the breeze and all is as it will be.

[whumpdreaming]

My introduction!

Hi! My name is Heather (they/them). I've been a lurker for some time, but I now realize what I've been writing has been whump all along, so.. hello!

My first encounters with whump were in Sunday school 😭😭 some of those kid's bible books were insanely whumpy for no reason at alI, and then it's only now I learn what the term actually is. I speak decent French (getting back into it after not using it for a few years), I intend to go to culinary school and become a professional chef, and my main fandoms include Overwatch, Baldur's Gate (not into it as much anymore, sadly), Epic: The Musical, and Ultrakill and FNAF (which I don't write much fic for).

This blog will never contain NSFW content! Kink blogs and antis please DNI!

What this blog will contain:

Whump (obviously)

My own writing (lots of drabbles, occasionally some of my more involved work ; aka my two big projects, a BBU story since that setting grabbed me by the brain as soon as I saw it for the first time, and various Overwatch characters getting whumped to hell and back --- I don't see enough talk about Cole Cassidy's big sad puppy dog eyes)

Lots and lots of reblogs since that's easier than actually writing 😅

Keep in mind that this isn't a NSFW blog and I won't be posting anything sexual/explicit, but I'm a fan of intense/graphic whump and things can get pretty dark. In those cases, there'll be a warning at the top of the post along with the content listings just to make sure everyone stays safe!

Some of my favorite tropes:

Living weapons!!

Gore (I'm not a fan of major character death, so I like it best when a healing factor is involved if it's very intense)

Parental caretakers

Transition/weight gain in recovery

Recovery in general, especially when difficult!

Lab whump!

Pet whump!

Chronic pain (totally not coping with this one)

Dehumanization!!

Vivisection!!

Panic attacks

Emotional distress of all kinds

Sickfics!!

If you send me any asks or requests or interact with my posts or say literally anything nice about me whatsoever I will give you my firstborn child

Some of my favorite whump blogs that inspired me to make a blog in the first place: @painonthebrain @whumpninja @defire @whumpwordsoftheday @sowhumpshaped

@sickfictropes @allthingswhumpyandangsty @writinglittlepains @whumpyourdamnpears --- sorry in advance if you didn't want to be mentioned! 😭

Btw --- check out my Widowmaker whump fic :)

Series:

Barbara Summers has a bad time with the mob (I'll update it someday I promise) ; also called "Consequences"

Intro

One

Two

Drabbles: (Electrocution+Unconscious+"Say Please") (Warm Bath + Fresh Bandages + "..Nothing. It just hurts") (Broken Fingers+Trying not to scream+"Aw, poor thing")

---

Crownchain

Character/setting introduction

"Foul Play"

"Pulling Strings"

Whump+Hurtcember: (Day 1: Collapse + Broken Bones) (Day 2: Breakdown + "This is your fault") (Day 3: Blood + Begging) (Day 4: "Help me" alt prompt + "This isn't my blood") (Day 5: Faint + Concussion) (Day 6: Touch Starved + "Please stop") (Day 7: Abandoned + Kidnapped) (Day 8: Cuddle + Fire alt prompt) (Day 9: Exhausted + Shaking) (Day 10: Touch Aversion + "Let me help you") (Day 11: "It's my fault" alt prompt + Manipulation) (Day 12: Cry + "I have nowhere else to go") (Day 13: Nightmare + Trauma) (Day 22: Self Harm + Hallucinations)

(Poisoned + Pleading + "You never do shut up, do you?")

---

Hemopenia

Stages of blood withdrawal

Stage Zero

Pilot

Not Dead

Stage One

Lively

(Delirium / Good dream with an unpleasant wake-up / "..Mom?")

---

Taby's terrible horrible no good very bad life

Intro

One

---

Various unnamed superhero things

(Anxiety attack / Apologizing / "I just.. I just need a minute.")

Febuwhump: (Day 1: Vocal Chords)

That's about it for now!! Thanks for reading!

[bea-l-t]

Because I love Andreil fanfics to an unhealthy degree, here are my recommendations (and like a paragraph each for why you should read them). Also all of them are complete. I couldn't get links to any of the locked content to work, but I still included the recommendations for ao3 account users:

For angsty AUs where college and exy are still things:

-Raised on Little Light by maqicien. Where Wymack adopted Neil at age 13. Good if you like lots of angst, edgy Neil that still gets his damsel in distress moments, and some really cute relationship moments in between.

-There's Just No Getting Through by maqicien (can you tell I like this author?). A series of oneshots where Neil is a Raven and Andrew is still a fox and the two date secretly. Technically, this is a series, and the series itself kind of leaves off at a cliffhanger that could be seen as incomplete. Personally, I just pretend that the last paragraph of the last part doesn't exist and we're good to go. Good if you like pining and edgy Andriel. Andrew especially feels very canon with his personality.

-The Road to Nowhere by emmerrr. A post-apocalyptic world where Neil joins the foxes as they all try to survive at an abandoned PSU. Good if you like your fics to still vaguely follow the bigger points of the canon content, some angst, domestic fluff and of course an edgy (but still damsel) Neil. Honestly just extremely well written and the characters feel very canon personality-wise. (Bonus if you like Renee/Allison)

For post-canon lovers (all except one are about an injured Neil):

-Scribbles and Sticky Notes by Fortheloveofexy. A (long) oneshot where Neil faces a career-ending injury. Read the tags/content warnings to get a better idea of what you're getting into, but this fic hurts so good. Featuring a lot of domestic fluff. I feel like this fic feels extremely true to how middle-aged Andriel would act.

-The Bones of You by emmerrr (again, love this author). Neil and Andrew are married in this! Neil gets injured during an Exy match and goes through a difficult recovery. Featuring the Moriyamas, Renee/Allison (mentioned), Kevin& Allison being besties, Wymack/Abby, and domestic fluff.

- You go your way, I'll go your way too by Emmerrr (Cannot emphasize how good their fics are). The only fic in this section that isn't about Neil getting injured! About the time that Neil and Andrew spend doing long distance. It's adorable.

-Pause and Restart My Heart by knoxham. A two-part series where Neil and Andrew get into a car accident, Neil goes into a coma, Andrew has many feelings. Part two obviously has spoilers for part one, but they're both very much worth the read.

-Calling Me Back Once Again by fuzzballsheltiepants. On a ski trip, Neil gets lost during a storm. An angsty wait for search and rescue to find him ensues.

Other POVs of the canon events/books:

-never fallen (from quite this high) by crystalcrow. The series from Andrew's POV. I really like the twins and their dynamic in this.

-Yes, Coach by emerrr (last fic I'll recommend by them, I promise). The whole series from Wymack's POV. It's a digestible length, so 10/10.

Anyway, hope these find fic lovers well!

[knightyoomyoui]

Mina x M/F Reader - "Need You Now"

One of my shortest one-shots in the book. Sorry if this is unlike most of my longer fics, unfortunately I have to say that due to how busy I am in my life right now, I can still insert wriing stories in my free time, but not as long as I use to do anymore. Probably my one-shots from now on will be like less than 3 or 5k word count. This fic is inspired from one of my favorite songs of all time, "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum. The structure of this story is in a music video-type narrative, so while reading this you can just imagine this as an alternative MV with the song in the background. I may have done the ending a little bit longer for the final chorus but I needed to add atleast more dialogue so yeah, just skip any unneccesary parts in your mind to fit it in the song haha. Lastly, I don't accept any commissions for now but I'm very open to accept any donations for you kind readers as another way of appreciation for my works. I can use this for my upcoming on-the-job training so please if you can spare some, I would be highly grateful. ko-fi.com/knightyoomyoui Enjoy reading!

It is nighttime of a random day in the 1700s in Japan, and Myoui Mina is currently living alone in her house. She is standing in front of the window as she views the townscape of Kobe with all the illuminated lights coming from the houses and posts. While her eyes are fixed on the scenery, her mind is busy projecting an image of a certain person to cope with the sadness she’s feeling.

Picture perfect memories with you is what she has been replaying on her mind again and again, in which she won’t stop or get tired at all, just like she can do with just being around you. All she feels is joy and tranquility within your presence, and although she needed it right now, it makes her disappointingly wonder why this day is just going to end up unlike what she had with you before.

Her almost-a-month of longing for you has already reached its breaking point, not for the idea of only meeting you in her dreams but to the annoying fact that you had to disappear without leaving any trace for her to follow or indication to be relieved that you’re doing well on wherever you may be at right now.

She reached for the telegraph in her table and tries to contact you until she realizes that she never had your contact with him and it will rather end up being pointless, just like as her search around the town that she has done few days ago, inquiring for your whereabouts.

Slamming the telegraph back into its place, Mina groaned and sighed heavily with a frown on her face. She sat on the bed, her energy deteriorating as the likelihood of receiving a response or an update about you increased. It’s already a wasted 49th attempt at reaching back to you, and she wondered how long it would take to be ignored like this.

Mina then started to question you by herself: did you ever become happy with her and do you even still think about her even when you're not around to spend time together with her? She knows that you already knew that she hates feeling abandoned anymore, and now that you act like you are unaware of it, Mina is now wondering twice if you even listened or understood why she said that and especially

when she told you how much you mean for her.

If she'll be the one to ask the same, she admits that she is and she does it always until now. She won’t be this determinated to find and learn any news about what you may be doing if you’re just somebody that she’s close with. No, for Mina… you turned out to be the only person that holds special purpose in her life.

And not having you anymore will make Mina lose interest or simply, a reason to continue living again. Twice is enough if the pain will just be doubled, she believes.

Mina has checked the time and realizes it's been already quarter after 1 AM that she remained awake. It made her broke down in tears, knowing that this isn't like her who waits for this long and the fear to be alone again is eating her up inside more in which you once helped her to fight it since the first time she met you.

Looking at the telegraph again, she said to herself that she won't call anymore, thinking that she might probably be disturbing you or becoming strange with her frantic efforts of searching for you, but Mina has already lost control, and she doesn't care anymore if she has become this desperate.

She just needs you tonight, and now that you’re gone after showing her how it feels to have someone by her side after living most of her life without a family, relative, or even friends, she doesn't know how she can manage without having you again in her life.

Meanwhile, not so far away from your hometown and from Mina’s sanctuary, you were cleaning your weapons until it got interrupted when your concentration vanished again just by the memory of Mina affecting your heart and mind.

You looked out the window, reflecting the dark sky and atmosphere outside. A sudden concern about how she may be doing had obliged your body to react. Letting out a huge exhale, you stood up and proceeded to your brewery to grab another bottle of whiskey.

Pouring one into the glass and taking it as medicine for missing Mina a lot again alleviates the loneliness from the state you are in. You kept your composure; you know the time is running out, and you just had to remain still and focus on the plan.

The more you keep remembering Mina, the more you have begun to appreciate every aspect of her, even more than you have ever crossed your mind. But then you have seemed to notice that whenever you have an episode of this, a strange feeling is lingering inside your heart.

Which led you to speculate if maybe you are now enjoying the existence of Mina like, way more or far away from just being a friend or a companion that you met when you were alone strolling through the forest. The thoughts of her being actually deadly gorgeous in a way that is obviously not a normal compliment anymore and her admiring personality have captured your attention further to how she really is as a mesmerizing woman.

You looked at the door shut, missing those moments where Mina would just freely sweep open through it and greet you with her gummy smile and her adorable cheeks that puff whenever she’s happy. If only she can visit you again, it will not be the same exchange that you’ll definitely do for her this time.

You owe her one that is more than that, that’s why. But then you took note that you'd save it for later as the perfect time is about to arrive soon nonetheless.

You checked the time and it's been quarter to 1 AM already. You also became aware that you’re starting to get drunk now. The alcohol increased the emotions you’ve been caging up inside, causing you to lose control that results to your tears containing the minimum of what you’re entirely feeling right now that’s making you obvious that you simply want to see Mina again.

You swore that you wouldn't call for her to keep your focus on the plan but at your drunken state, you have gotten lost out of your control, betraying your very own words.

You kept on mentioning Mina's name as you promised to yourself that you’ll come find and save her because if you don’t, you aren’t sure at all on what you can do without her.

And at the same time as when Mina declares to herself that she needs you, it wasn’t coincidental that you share the same sentiment.

Timeskip to 4AM early in the morning, Mina was peacefully sleeping on her bed when her enhanced senses had her alerted back to conscience. She rose from the bed and noticed some flashing lights and growing silhouettes coming from outside the window. It should’ve been dark and quiet during this time since it was still too early.

Checking out to gain a better glimpse of what source its coming from, she observed that the townspeople are marching into her house all bringing their tall torches and knives with them.

“Is there a ceremony being performed today? W-why are they making their way through here?” Mina then watched them seperate, in a form that they’re surrounding her house.

“D-do they know already?” Getting the hint that they all are now aware of her true nature, based on the knives and torches they brough with them, she became scared that this will be the time that she'll die.

They all began to yell and some went on to bump the front door repeatedly. Mina rushes to close the door of her bedroom. Hearing the door collapse from outside, footsteps and chatters came near towards her hiding place.

Mina started to block the door with her body as the townspeople banged through her door again, their intentions come full obvious that they came here with one objective, and that is to eliminate the impostor that has been living with them all along.

“Ah! P-please, stop!” she yelps and cries for mercy as she remains to secure all the doors for her safety while they barge into her place, she wishes for you to come for the last time

until she heard series of growls, curses, and screams from outside.

She tried to take a peek through the little gap that she made by opening the door a little. “YN!!!!!!!” Mina became horrified to witness you getting teamed up by your fellow townspeople with some dead people lying around as they bathe in their own blood along with some scattered through the walls because of what you did.

With your bloody huge knife, she realized that you came all around here to rescue Mina only to get outnumbered because of the ampunt of townspeople gathered to hunt and kill her kind.

“MINA!!! RUNNNN!!!!!” She heard you yell for her name while being battered and dominated by your monstrous townsmen. They all looked around to find her, and they spotted Mina peeking through the door.

She closed it again and barricaded it with her body. Their more aggressive bumps and your wails with your brutally awful state had Mina whimpering and crying poorly.

The pity she feels for you however loaded her infuriation. Every second her eyes blink, her pupils flicker into a purplish color. As she gritted her teeth, her hands clawed with some bio-kinetic energy forming like a ball through her grasp.

Her hair floats at the intense air caused by her transformation, and suddenly her witch powers awakened. She points her hands at the door and blast through it, sending all the townspeople back. The rest looked at her horrifyingly as Mina steps out of the shadows with her figure beaming in all purplish magic.

“KILL THE WITCH!!!” The all roared but Mina used her magic to dismantle every townspeople who go against her and YN, all in brutal fashion.

After she splits a woman in half in mid air with her innards and blood splattered across the room and into her face, she then got caught by the last three men by firing bullets at her, making her groan in pain.

They were about to do a double tap when you quickly stood back up despite being wrapped around in ropes. You attacked them by tackling and headbutting them away from Mina before you leave them for her to finish them all by exploding their brains out.

As she slowly calmed down and degenerates her magic, she breathe heavily and saw you staring at her in awe, speechless at her true identity as a witch. You know who she really is, but this is the first time you’ve seen her in her full potential.

Mina got afraid of how you will but in her surprise, you ran through her and reconciled with her in an embrace.

“A-aren’t you scared of me?”

“Of who you really are? I have accepted you since the beginning, I’m rather scared of what they might do to you.”

She immediately broke down in tears around your arms. “W-where have you’ve been all time? I thought you’ll leave me forever.”

“I’m sorry, Mina. I know, it’s all my fault that I didn’t inform you at all, but its all according to my plan and it has to be done.”

“So you knew about this?”

“I did. I overheard my tutors that one of them discovered your background of being a Myoui, a well-known family came from a coven of witches that they’ve… k-killed years ago. And since they knew me being close to you, I hide and there, I began making my plan to rescue you with the help of an informant.” You revealed the reason to your disappearance.

“Y-you did that f-for me? B-but you hurt yourself came all the way back here because of me… and you killed your-”

“Ofcourse and I don’t care about it, I rather can’t consume the guilt more of having you harmed than killing others who dares to lay their abusive hands at you. Y-you’re… you’re the only person I care… and love the most than anyone, Mina. You’re the only one I have left as much as you have me only in your life. I came here not just because I have to save you. I need you now, Mina. I can’t wait any longer again to see you.”

Mina cried again and buried her head deeper in your chest. “I need you now too, YN. And always. I’ve waited for you to come back.”

“And I’m here now, Mina. I’m never going away anymore. Whoever come across against us, we’ll face them together.”

You kissed her on the lips after breaking your hug with her. She was shocked at your action but it didn’t took her more time to catch up with your movement. As you and Mina stare at each other, both then smiled at this new found relationship that grew within your bond.

You helped Mina stand up and covered all her gunshot wounds, not minding your own evidence of violence through your beaten body. “I think we should go now, others will start coming here and they won’t like what they’re gonna see.”

You offered her hand at her and she looked at it before she returned her gaze at your face. “Should we run away from here?”

“I’ll follow you wherever we go.” Mina accepted, holding your hand with firm grip, enough to consider that she’ll forever stay by your side.

You nodded at her. Pulling her along with you, both left her house and all the deceased fellow townspeople inside as you escape the grotesque scene with Mina.

[sitp-recs]

Hey do you have any Drarry fic recs which basically have Draco completely changing in 8th year/after the war, like he's dyed his hair and has tattoos and just has become more friendly and changed and Harry basically loses his mind? Kinda tired of the grovelling Draco or animosity fics atp.. Thanks :)

Hi anon! Omg yes, love me confused Harry losing his mind over a changed, hotter and confident Draco. This trope always delivers even when Draco doesn’t go through major physical changes (I love it when he gets extra though 🤌🏼). I have a few recs but they’re all post-Hogwarts, I hope they still work for you!

Enjoy the Silence by @shealwaysreads (M, 3.4k)

Draco stops speaking, gets some tattoos, and discovers that Harry’s happy to be quiet with him.

Under Your Skin by p1013 (E, 4k)

He initials another section and flips the page. Being a junior Auror is a lot more grunt work than he expected, and the paperwork isn't even the worst of it. He's also managed to catch intake duty. It's getting close to 2 AM, there hasn't been a single arrest brought in tonight, and he's still got another six hours before his shift is over. Rubbing a hand over his face, he prays for something, anything, to make the interminable evening better.

The Study of Change by p1013 (M, 4.3k)

Harry's going to hell. He's going to hell immediately. Even with all of the good he's done in his life, he's never going to overcome the impure thoughts racing through his head at the sight of Draco Malfoy looking like an academic wet dream in a room full of barely legal adults.

Starstruck by phrynne (E, 4.5k)

Yeah, Malfoy has pink hair. Or sort of. Half of his hair is shaved short and dyed an aggressive pink. The other half is still white-blond, a strand falling over his right eye, only the left side of his face visible at all times. He turns it slightly and spots me beyond the moving bodies. He doesn’t stop dancing, a smile plays on his lips. This time I don’t look away like I used to when all this began.

Sex on Legs in Six-Inch Heels by @tessacrowley (E, 9.6k)

Draco Malfoy is a brilliant freelance cursebreaker and the only one who can help the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a very dangerous case, but more importantly, he's wearing six-inch heels, and Harry cannot handle it, he really just can't.

Dream by the Fire by GallifreyisBurning (M, 11k)

When Draco Malfoy resurfaces in England after eight years abroad—tattooed, pierced, and wanting to take over a corner of Harry's coffee shop to work on a writing project—Harry can't help but be intrigued. Where has he been? What is he working on? Why here? And why does he have to look so stupidly hot with all those tattoos?

Cold Like Fire by QueenofThyme (M, 12k)

Head Auror Harry Potter had no problem with mandatory consent training for his team. He’d actually been looking forward to it, that is, until he discovered who the teacher was. Now, he had no idea how he was going to get through the training without throwing a hex at Draco Malfoy. Or a punch.

In the Shape of Things to Come by @academicdisasterfic (E, 15k)

Existential angst and chronic boredom are plaguing Harry Potter in his cushy post-war life. However, a chance encounter with a tattooed, pierced, disgruntled Draco Malfoy in the middle of Muggle Camden seems to spark something in Harry again—and he never could stay away from Malfoy.

We Might Be Too Old for a Bildungsroman by @wellhalesbells (T, 21k)

Harry finds something he’s been looking for since the war’s end. Admittedly, the packaging’s a bit odder than he expected.

Ink (My Skin With Your Name) by Kandakicksass (M, 22k)

Several years after the war, an ostracized Draco Malfoy covers himself in tattoos, becomes best friends with a muggle, and debates abandoning magical society entirely to work in a tattoo shop. All in all, he's having a hell of a time trying to figure out who he is and what he wants to do with his life. The last thing he needs is to run into Harry Potter, who seems intent on becoming his friend, even if he has to get a lot of ink to do it.

All Bets Are Off by dualwieldteacup (M, 31k)

Harry Potter's latest security assignment brings him to Las Vegas for the International Wizarding Casino World Series. At a magic underwater hotel, he is tasked with guarding the legendary and mysterious gambler known as Snake Eyes. The stakes are high when both Galleons and emotions are involved. Not to mention peacock pool floats, secret pizza, and most importantly of all, second chances.

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[NEXT PART]

Okay I'm trying to be brave and post this before I chicken out, first time writing a fic, and I'm not sure if this is any good.

So, since I don't have time to draw out all of the revenant au story, but I still want to share it, I'm writing it instead.

Will continue this if people are interested!

[this isn't requiered but reading the comic might help you understand this better]

[also there's a Soap pov version of this by Badolmen, it doesn't line up 100% because we didn't work together but it's very very good and you should read it regardless]

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking, Ghost.”

He shifted in his place. Can never get used to Price’s voice in his head.

“You know I work best alone. All he’s gonna do is get in the way.” 

Price’s mustache twitched, as if he’s fighting a smile. Bastard is about to drop something to win the entire argument, Ghost already knows.

“He’s a revenant. Strong one too.” 

Fucking figures. Still, he could argue he doesn’t need any support-

“Intel is rigged with explosives. And the Sergeant just so happens to be explosion-proof.”

…Fuck.

Ghost sighs heavily like he was presented with an unreasonable amount of shit to deal with. He watches as Price sits there, shit eating grin spitting at him. He looks back to the folder, at the details of this already annoying mission, “you said there are 2 buildings?”

Price snaps from his self boasting to confirm “one suspected barracks and the other an abandoned warehouse. Warehouse contains the majority of explosives.” 

Finally finding something to work with, Ghost straightens his back to his usual self-assured posture, “the Sergeant can deal with the warehouse, I’ll clear the barracks. No need to work together.”

Price seems less happy about that. Serves him right. He sighs and drags a hand over his face, and Ghost almost feels bad for ruining his plan to get him to play with a team. Almost.

“Will it kill you to try and work with the lad?” Price asks offhandedly, while organising the folder back to the never-ending pile of documents on his desk.

“You mean again?” Ghost would wear his own shit eating grin if his face wasn’t permanently covered.

Price still seems equally pissed. Probably saw it in his literal mind’s eye. “Get out of my office Lieutenant, wheels up at 0500.” He gets up and walks around his desk to face Ghost, “don’t scare the kid off alright? I have a feeling you two could mash well together.”

Ghost tilts his head and projects the most doubt he could muster at Price. “Yes sir.”

This is going to be a bloody long day.

It’s not that Ghost hates people per se, it’s just that most of them seem hell-bent on being annoying, disruptive, or boring. Useless on the field for someone of his caliber, and even more useless off-field.

He knows he’s not exactly easy to relate to, but he couldn’t care less about trying to be. He’s here for one purpose. And it’s not “making friends” or whatever Price and Gaz has been trying to push him towards.

He wonders which category the Sergeant currently standing in front of him will fall into. By his fidgeting nature and easy smile, Ghost would put his money on “annoying”.

The Sergeant, “Soap” apparently (Ghost wonders if that callsign was given to him before or after he died a probably painful death), now directs that smile at him, seemingly undeterred by the giant man wearing a skull like a stereotypical grim reaper. He has to give it to the lad, at least he hides his discomfort well.

“You must be Ghost, eh? Let’s get ourselves a win LT” The Sergeant says with an obvious Scottish accent, fist-bumps his shoulder and walks off towards transport.

Oh, annoying is definitely winning.

Despite that, Ghost can’t feel like Soap really fits it. He’s unlike the other muppets in the category, He’s not poking him like the rookies do, trying to make him reveal his powers.

No, the Sergeant is annoying like an overly friendly dog is to someone that doesn’t want to be licked. He’s acting like they’re just two normal soldiers on their way to a normal mission, not the unnatural, unexplainable phenomena they actually are.

Ghost will have to keep watching. Certainly on field he will be able to find out his true colors.

On the helo, Ghost picks his usual spot near the ramp, where the lights don’t reach as much and most prefer not to sit, and observes Soap. His fidgety nature stayed the same, but the carefree expression he wore on ground morphed into a determined one, face stern and serious. He seemed lost in thought, eyebrows twitching here and there. He sees how his fingertips flicker, watching flames dance between them before the rapid movements put them out.

Well, at the very least Soap doesn’t fall into “boring”.

Clearing the barracks is a laughably easy job, even without using his powers. Although, it would’ve been so much faster with them… too bad he doesn’t hate the Sergeant enough to send him to Limbo.

They practically run through both buildings, untouchable storms. Ghost has to admit, Soap is clearly competent, disarming bombs and taking down hostiles at an impressive rate.

God, he hates when Price is right.

“Ground floor clear, heading to the basement” Soap relays on comms. 

“Copy, clearing third floor, keep an eye out for Intel.” 

“I have to say LT, you’re not quite like I expected.”

Feeling’s mutual, Ghost thinks to himself. “That so?”

“Aye, you’re not a major cunt for starters.”

That startled a small huff out of him. What the hell do the rumors say about him? He would have to ask Gaz about that, “Could still change that Sergeant.” he mock-lectures him.

A small laugh is what he gets in return, “I doubt that. I’ve worked with some bastards before, you barely make top 50.”

“Only 50? I hoped for at least 20”

“Got work cut out for you then, sir”

“That I do.”

Ghost continues clearing the floor methodically before faltering for a moment. Why was he entertaining the Sergeant like that? Since when does he joke with people? 

Though, he would’ve done it more if he had someone so ready to joke back…

Useless thoughts. 

Cursing Price, Soap, and all other stupid distracting things swirling in his head, Ghost takes down another hostile.

The mission is going without a hitch. Which is usually when something “hitches”.

A couple of minutes after Soap’s last words, Ghost sees a bright light flash from the warehouse, before a soundwave shakes the windows of the now barren barracks.

One of the explosives went off… “Soap, what the hell happened there?”

No answer.

Ghost knows he’s fine. Price wouldn’t brag about how “explosion-proof” he is otherwise. But he’s not answering…

“Sergeant, give me sitrep, now.”

Ghost stands still for another minute, listening to static. He checked the last room right before the explosion went off, so he just has to go to exfil and wait for the Sergeant at this point. His part of the work is done.

He should just go to exfil.

Ghost climbs down the stairs and heads for the warehouse, a foreboding plume of dark smoke billowing from its roof.

If asked why he didn’t ignore his gut feeling and use his brain like always, he wouldn’t have an answer.

Maybe he just wanted to exchange one more joke with the Sergeant before they finish the mission and never see each other again.

Arriving at the doors, he sees how the ground floor caved in, creating a ramp down to the basement. He starts making his way down, when he sees bodies littering the debris. Was Soap ambushed?

“Soap? Where the fuck are you Sergeant!” Ghost shouts. He has half a mind to be quiet, not wanting to attract enemies to their location, before realizing no one would’ve survived this. No one but-

“LT…?”

“Soap, why weren’t you answering comms- what…”

He stumbles upon Soap. Soap, who's laying on the grey concrete floor, wheezing and shaking, a metal rebar in his hands. Ghost walks closer and realizes the rebar is going through his stomach and pinning him to the floor. 

The Sergeant’s eyes blearily look at the metal “I need, I n-need to get this out…”

He lifts himself half an inch and Ghost sees how the blood rushes out of the wound, how Soap pales. 

Ghost rushes to his side. “Stop fucking moving”, he slides his hands under his torso, feels his gloves getting soaked in blood, “let me help you”.

Soap’s breathing becomes less harsh, and he looks up at him, “you… you don’t have to-”

He slowly lifts Soap before he can say another useless remark. The muscles under his fingertips clench and the Sergeant chokes out a scream.

“Fuck” Soap mutters between pants. 

“We’re halfway there, you’re doing good.” Ghost lets him rest before continuing to lift his body up. The blood keeps rushing out of the wound, enough that he doesn’t understand how Soap is still conscious. The sergeant let go of the rebar, and is now gripping Ghost’s forearms like he’s about to fall to his death.

After a few seconds, which Ghost is sure felt like hours for Soap, he eases him off the metal and onto the ground. Soap immediately collapses, shuddering and holding his hands around the wound.

Ghost then realizes he’s not sure how the Sergeant’s powers work. Is this supposed to even happen? Is he actually dying?

Soap looks up at that moment, giving him a small smile that looks more like a grimace, “I just… give me a minute to heal, I’ll be ready to go soon.” he uncurls and drags himself to sit against a piece of wall.

Ghost frowns and slowly steps towards Soap and slides to sit next to him, “take however long you need.”

He doesn’t look, but from his peripheral, he sees Soap’s head whipping around and staring at Ghost like he told him he’s giving him a million pounds.

He seemed to find something in his expression (however much he could even see of it), and looked down at his bloodied hands, “thank ye…”

Ghost blinks down, “I hope this doesn’t lower my cunt rank.”

Soap lets out a small laugh that turns into a fit of coughs. More blood rushes out of his wounds, and Ghost internally winces.

“Ha… I think it takes ye off the list, mate.”

Ghost heaves an over-the-top sigh, “shame”.

Soap smiles at him, and Ghost notices it’s different from the one he gave him before the helo. This one is… warmer. Or at least it makes him feel so.

Soap lifts his shirt to inspect the wound, and Ghost can’t help by take a look. The wound stopped bleeding, and when Soap wipes some of it away, he can see how it’s already closing.

So he does get hurt… it just heals. Ghost still wonders how it all works, but he knows their powers work with bizarre rules, weird exceptions and what not. He can almost hear his Reaper laughing. Or whatever you would call that chilling noise it lets out when it finds something funny.

It doesn’t matter either way. Not like he’ll get to work with Soap again. 

The Sergeant exhales and lets his shirt drop, “a’right, let’s fuckin’ finish this.” he slowly starts lifting himself up before Ghost wordlessly grabs his arms and helps him.

Soap mumbles a thanks, “did you find any intel?” 

Ghost looks ahead. The climb out of the basement won’t be easy on his wound… “Negative. We’ll keep looking.”

Eventually they reach a door labelled “storage”, that is blocked by several tonnes of concrete and metal. Ghost internally curses.

Soap, who’s been trailing behind Ghost, reaches the door and looks around. Ghost is about to ask him if he’s got a few C4’s hidden somewhere when the Sergeant asks him, “permission to use my powers, sir?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, “what are you planning?”

“Gonna blow it up sir” Soap says like it was obvious.

“...go ahead.” Ghost replies, half baffled Price forgot to mention the Sergeant, besides being unkillable by explosions, can also create them. 

Was probably in the folder he didn’t bother reading.

He takes a step back to let Soap Have a go. The Sergeant rests his palms on the debris, inhales, and…

A loud boom makes Ghost’s ears ring. He’s momentarily blinded by the bright explosion before he regains his vision, and sees Soap stepping around the remains of the door into the small room.

Ghost shakes away his slight shock and joins him. Soap’s powers intrigue him… he wonders what else he could do.

Somehow, the intel survived the explosions. Ghost could barely care. At least they won’t have Price on their case later on. 

As they walk towards the exfil point, a heavy feeling sinks within Ghost. He’s not sure what to call it, but if he had to it would be “regret”.

Regretting what, he’s not sure. Maybe he should’ve prolonged their walk.

And from a glance at his face, Soap might understand this feeling as well.

“You did well Sergeant.” He has the sudden urge to say. Maybe it will make him regret less.

Soap casts a smile at him. It doesn’t warm him in the slightest.

The chopper blades slashing through air never made him feel worse.

“I guess this is it then.” Soap says when they land.

Ghost turned to face him. That heavy feeling in him just kept getting heavier throughout the flight. Why?

“So it seems.”

Soap stares for a moment longer before sighing. Ghost wants to do something about the annoyingly heavy air of despair around them.

“Soap” the Sergeant hums, “Why did the Scotsman’s prank fail?”.

Confusion takes over his features, “what?”

Ghost inhales, “because no one let him get away scot-free.”

Soap stares at him like he brought shame to his entire bloodline. Ghost grins like he did.

“Steamin’ Jesus LT, that was horrendous.”

“Ah Sergeant, just admit my jokes are better, no need to be a sore loser.” 

“My gran got better jokes than this, fuckin’ hell” Soap laughs.

“I’d like to meet her.”

“So you two could battle? I rather not see you die of embarrassment sir.”

Soap’s transport decides to arrive at this moment, chasing away the small joy they both found.

Soap looks back at it and turns to Ghost.

“It’s been great working with you sir.” if Ghost was feeling bold, he would say Soap almost looks sad, “I hope we’ll get to go another round later.”

Ghost hates the hopeful tone in his voice. Hope is uncertain, leaves everything up to chance.

Useless.

“Likewise, Sergeant.”

He stays standing there for a few minutes, staring at the truck vanishing towards the horizon. As if it will lighten the boulder in his chest.

“So, Simon, what’s your verdict?” Price finishes after debrief.

Ghost thinks about the entire endeavour. Not annoying, not disruptive, or boring.

Soap is…

“He’s something else…”

Critiques are welcome! Nobody beta'd this so I'm sure there are mistakes lol (that and this isn't my first language...)

[jheselbraum]

Do you think the GF fandom tends to wobbify Stan a lot more than Ford?

Oh absolutely. And part of it is standard fandom projection, you know? Which is fine, it's whatever. People do it to Ford a lot, too. No biggie. People do it because they see themselves in Stan and that's fine, it just gets in the way of more serious thematic discussion, though back in the day it was a Lot worse people were a lot less chill about the whole thing to the point where if you so much as dared to point out that Stan is a criminal without the qualifiers that he's a criminal because he had no familial support as he was maturing into an adult and was homeless so he kind of had to in order to get by, you'd get fucking demolished.

And like, it's because a lot of people relate to having shitty parents and being told by teachers that they're not smart enough and being homeless or at least really fucking poor. Like, it's just kind of something that happens with fandom, you know? And it's fine, mostly, fandom is a sandbox and a lot of these people are projecting so they can work through real world shit that's happening in their lives (you guys have no idea how many unposted "Ford has some kind of mystery chronic illness that's just absolutely wreaking havoc on his daily life" fics I wrote after I got diagnosed). And it's not like there's zero justification for it, Stan's a very sympathetic character in the show canonically, despite his status as a wanted criminal (presumably internationally), and a bit of a softie at times.

The problem is when the fanon woobification is used in place of actual textual evidence when people try to have serious discussions about the canon material and not your fanfic where Stan is just. Just real sad about his brother, why won't he thank him? He's sad!

This chart from @itsabouttimex2 explains the cycle very succinctly.

Like, I'd argue that Stan isn't even the most woobified character in Gravity Falls by volume (that honor goes to Fiddleford to be honest) but he's the character whose woobification is the most visible and has the most capacity to grind any serious discussion about anything even slightly negative that happened to Stan or, god forbid, was caused by Stan to a halt. Again, this problem has gotten better over the years, despite the fandom's recent "relapse" for lack of a better term, but (and I say this knowing exactly who I was in 2017) sometimes in order to talk about something you like in a fan context, you have to take a step back and remind yourself of who these characters actually are and what the text of a work is actually trying to say. Like, "death of the author" as a way to interpret a work is incredibly popular in fandom at large, not just in Gravity Falls, and it has its merits, but I feel like it's gone from "the meaning of the text is not derived from the author's intention, but the reader's interpretation" to "the meaning of the text is not derived from the text, but the reader"

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue" has already been used to justify completely abandoning the idea of critically analyzing a work (to the point where many reading this will see the word "critical" and assume that I'm talking about literally criticizing something and not analyzing a work to determine its meaning, its purpose, and effectiveness at conveying those two things) and some people will take that a step further and go "Sometimes the curtains are red, because red is better than blue. Sometimes morally."

I didn't expect to go off to yes or no question like that, it just kind of happened. I don't know, I prefer discussions about this show where I don't have to step over a dozen people who think I'm talking about the version of Stanley Pines that lives in their head and always Responds Correctly to whatever personal issue they might have.

[fir-fireweed]

Just here to play devil's advocate bc I have a different perspective LOL I love reading unfinished fics and IFs; just because they aren't completed doesn't mean it wasn't a story worth telling, and there's creative inspiration to be found anywhere, even in stories that don't have an ending.

I'd like to encourage people to do more of that, a conclusion isn't always needed to feel gratified, sometimes it's fun to just fill in the blanks yourself. It's okay to get attached and be disappointed that it's not going to have a conclusion, but I don't really agree with encouraging other writers or artists to have that same perspective.

I don't like the pressure it puts on people to only put out works that can and will be completed, it discourages people from creating, and I always want a world where more people are creating than not.

I think people have gotten a little bitter about it over the years, so many unfinished projects can do that, but writing is HARD. LOL. and so much more goes into an IF than just writing, these are passion projects and not everyone sticks with a passion project to the end. Doesn't mean it wasn't an experience worth having, doesn't mean it should be discredited just for existing half-finished. Better that it existed at all

I love the counter point, thank you for sharing your thoughts! It wasn’t so much the incomplete demos I was referring to, more so the no demo at all, but you bring up good points.

I, myself, am guilty of not recommending abandoned wips, simply because I don’t like to be left hanging. (Yes, I’m a completionist in games, BG3 you’re killing me!) But IFs are different, and you’re right that we shouldn’t discredit or discourage authors from following their passions. And if you can find worth in any experience, you should take it!

I appreciate your ask, thank you!

[wafflexdguy]

Murder Drones | Platonic Doll Oneshot

PLATONIC Doll x Traumatized!Male!Reader

Requested by Youllneverknowmynam3, thank you!

The reader identifies as male, but since the POV isn't 3rd person, you probably won't notice.

CW! Gore(?)

This is more different than what I usually write, this is because I wanted to change up how I wrote trauma fics.

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You knew that it wasn't a good idea from the start, but somehow they convinced you to go through with it anyway. Your (ex)friends convinced you that there weren't anything on the other side of the door, that the murder drones weren't real.

You were naive. Stupid. You wished you knew better.

But you didn't.

And there you went, into the cold, desolate winter hellhole that was Copper-9. Or what was left of it. Quite frankly, you didn't expect it to look that bad. You had learned about it in class about the history of Copper-9, about how humans basically fucked up something with the core, and that it collapsed because of their own incompetence.

And that leads to the murder drones landing here, because the company that owned Copper-9 didn't like having their ex-slaves free.

Your friends led the way. They weren't that much older than you, but you assumed that they knew better because they were older than you. You went exploring, like those cool cave explorers you saw from those pirated human shows. You thought they were cool.

You didn't even have time to blink as one of the murder drones landed right in front of you.

By all accounts, you should have died. But you didn't.

It stabbed you straight in the chest, barely missing your core by millimeters. It threw you into a window into one of the abandoned buildings. You were still busy trying to process what was happening as the screams from your former friends rang out throughout the city, followed by sadistic laughter.

By the time reality set in, it was already too late. You sat up and went over to the window, trying your best to stay out of sight, pray that it forgot about you; that it wouldn't realize that you were there.

That image never really left your mind, even after so many years.

That 'FATAL ERROR' on their screen, with their mouth wide open in horror didn't leave your mind at all that night. And seeing the murder drone holding one of their bodies up, draining the oil from the mutilated body. Your eyes had hollowed out seeing the gruesome sight, but you somehow managed to keep your breathing steady, and stayed calm as you possibly could in that kind of situation.

By the time it got its fill, you had already retreated from the window and hid behind whatever you could.

It didn't forget about you, but after taking one scan across the room it had thrown you in, it decided you weren't worth the effort.

And it flew off.

Leaving you to deal with the consequences.

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

You woke up, like per usual. Back into your plain old room, with nothing really there.

You usually had a laptop nearby, but someone had to borrow it for some reason. In her words, it was to 'track down a special someone,' whatever that meant. You inquired it with her, but she just denied telling you anything about it. It annoyed you, but you didn't complain about it directly to her face.

You and Doll had met through ironically unique circumstances. She was interestingly more outgoing than you were, which showed when you were paired with her in a class project. Usually, she would have hung out with Lizzy during school projects, but the teacher -for some reason- decided to switch things up with the grouping and sat you two together.

You were initially offput with her, because she was the quiet type. Really creepy when she came over to your house to work on the project with you.

Maybe it was out of curiosity, or just out of pity with your slightly disheveled form, but she decided to try and warm up to you. You knew what she was trying to do, but your parents had basically 'forced' you to try and make new friends, so you gave it a shot.

After that, you found that you had a lot in common. Ranging from weird ritualistic things, to just hanging out and enjoying each other's company. She fed into your fragile ego, which had already been shattered forty times over, but she still fed it. Usually to make you feel better if you're having a really bad day. Your parents basically considered you two peas in a pod.

She was a really good friend; you appreciated her for just being there for you.

Her mother was really cool too, typically letting you two do whatever you wanted while you were over there. Not like your parents, who after seeing you after what happened didn't let you do anything without adult supervision. You hated being treated like a kid, even after all these years later, but not much you could do about it.

You never really figured out what happened to her. All that Doll told you was that there was an accident, and she isn't really liking it over her house as much anymore. You wanted to inquire more about it, but when she was talking to you about it, she was tripping over her words and shaking a lot too.

You've seen that before. You don't ever want to see it again.

You assumed the worst.

That was all about a few years ago. You never said a word to her about what happened to you, not fully and you don't think you will. Not yet anyways.

It felt unfair, it was selfish of you to do that to her, especially after everything you two have been through. But she weirdly seemed to understand, especially after that night she approached you, telling you what happened.

It didn't reassure you when you saw the same murder drone that killed your friends show up for a second time. When Uzi let them in.

The worst part was that it didn't recognize you. The very same drone that ruined your life didn't even know you.

You weren't sure if you felt anything by that or not. Didn't really matter anyway, since it had its ass handed to her by its own teammates.

And that leads you to the present. In your room, still juggling with whether or not you should get out of bed, whether or not you really wanted to. Your parents weren't usually around anymore anyway, typically out on business trips around the very small bunker, but it's still there.

'You have to grow up, get past what happened,' they said. Easy for them to say, they weren't there.

Unfortunately, you didn't have a choice as a knock on your door immediately ruined your mood.

"Not right nowwww...." You whined. You heard another knock at your door, and you immediately knew who it was. She was usually unnecessarily stubborn.

"Go away Doll-"

Before you could even finish your sentence, the door had opened, revealing who you already knew who it was. She had something in your hands that you couldn't make out due to the sudden flash of light.

Probably helps to mention that you were an older model of Worker Drones. You were painfully aware of that as the sudden flash of light nearly makes your systems reboot.

"Dammit Doll, I told you not to do that!" You yelled, to only receive a lighthearted giggle. She walked over to you, setting down the item in her hands that turned out to be the laptop you had lended to her.

She sat next to you in your bed as you sat up, rubbing your visor. "И я сказал тебе больше не спать допоздна. (And I've told you to not sleep in late anymore.)"

You shoved her lightly in the shoulder. "What are you, my mom?" You joked, to which she only let out another giggle.

She opened up the laptop and lifted her hand up shifting it into a gesture, and a glyph appeared. Suddenly, one of the USB drives came shooting out from one of your drawers, to which she grabbed and handed another end to you.

You knew this was necessary, but you really didn't want to do it. "Do we really have to keep doing this?" You groaned, to which she nodded.

"Мы занимаемся этим уже много лет, Т/и. (We've been doing this for years, Y/n.)" She pointed out, which you already knew. That just didn't make it any easier.

Reluctantly, you reached to grab the USB and plugged it into your head, and immediately you heard clicking coming from the laptop.

What she was doing was basically installing code that was basically the human equivalent of human anti-depressants. You didn't deem it necessary, your dad did. You loved the guy like family, but he can be really unbearable sometimes. You were fine.

You were fine.

"Сделанный. (Done.)" Doll pulled the USB plug out of the laptop, as you did the same to your head. You didn't like the feeling of being broken. Doll knew that as she pats you on the back for comfort. You didn't respond, just sitting there stewing in your own depression and pity.

Doll took notice of this as she snaps her fingers in front of your face to grab your attention. You turn to her, seeing her slightly worried expression.

"ты в порядке? (Are you okay?)"

You shrugged. You felt fine physically, you felt shitty emotionally. "Yeah, just... Had a nightmare."

She hums as she sits up from your bed. "Я могу это понять. (I can relate.)" She offers you a hand, to which you accept. You grabbed your backpack from next to your bed and walked out with Doll, who was on her phone texting someone. Likely Lizzy.

"She say anything after your fight?" You question.

Doll had recently gotten into a petty fight with Lizzy -who you knew absolutely had a crush on Doll- about her spending much more time with you than her. You were just kind of there sitting awkwardly on the side. Doll has tried to apologize, but to no avail. Lizzy was always kind of a brat, which you feel like only you knew. Doll seemed somewhat oblivious to it, or at the very least, really good at hiding it.

She shakes her head as she puts her phone away. "Я могу это понять. (No, she's still ghosting me.)" She shakes her head as she thinks. "Я даже не знаю, что я сделала не так! Она мелочная, я думаю. (I don't even know what I did wrong! She's being petty, I think.)"

You shrug. "That doesn't surprise me. She's been petty in the past."

"Да, но прошло уже несколько дней. (Yeah, but it's been a few days.)" She digs around in her pocket to fetch her phone again. "Она сказала, что поговорит со мной, если это будет связано только с планом. (She said she'll talk to me if it's only related to the plan.)"

"What plan?"

She nearly chokes on her own spit when she realizes what she just said. "Ничего. Забудь, что я только что сказал. (It's nothing. Forget what I just said.)" She gives her best 'sweet' smile towards you.

You tilted your head but decided not to question it any further. You figured it wasn't anything important.

"...How're you doing?" You asked, looking to Doll. She tilted her head, confused to what you meant as she lets out a small hum. "After the whole... break in."

It clicks to her on what you meant as she rubs her arm discretely. "Бывало и лучше. Но это я должен был спросить тебя. (I've been better. But I should be asking you that.)"

You look down.

And you can see oil.

Your brought back to the same place. Every. Time. You're asked that question.

This is your fault.

You should have stopped them.

You idiot.

"I don't know." You answer honestly. For once you answered honestly about that.

'Хорошо...' she mumbles to herself. She decides to take a risk.

"Это было связано с вашим кошмаром? (Was it related to your nightmare?)"

You felt your body tense a little bit. It couldn't hurt to at least talk a little about it.

"...I got lost." You started. "In the city, outside the doors?" She hums. "And... I couldn't find a way back. I had this sense of dread to where if I screamed, I was going to die, or worse."

You fell silent after that. You continued walking to class.

Doll processes this as she thinks to herself. It was clear that you were outside the doors, for what, she'll probably never know. She pats your back as she changes the topic, deciding not to pry further.

"А как насчет выпускного вечера? Ты уже выбрала, с кем хочешь пойти? (How about the prom coming up? You choose anyone you want to go out with yet?" She asks, giving a sly look towards you direction. You snap out of whatever daze you were in as you look towards her.

"Eh, not really. I don't think I'll go out with anyone this year, really. You?"

She looks forward, thoughtful.

"...Я хотел спросить Lizzy, но не думаю, что она захочет. (I wanted to ask Lizzy, but I don't think she wants to.)"

You chuckle. "You kidding? That girl has had a crush on you since she was 10. You could probably say a word about it and she'll accept it."

A blush creeps a way on her screen as she punches your shoulder lightly. "Не произносите этого вслух! (Don't say that out loud!)" You continue laughing lightly as you two finally make your way to class.

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

"Is this really a good idea?" You question to your friend. Your other friend put a hand on your shoulder.

"Relax, there's no way the adults are being serious about the murder drones. I mean, the planet blew up! there's no way they could have survived that!" They exclaim, pumping their fist in the air.

"We survived." You pointed out.

"Then we're stronger than them! Come on, you aren't scared, are you?" Your other friend asked, to which you furiously shook your head.

"Of course not! I'm just... Unsure."

"So your scared?"

"S-shut up!"

"Relax, Y/n. If anything happens, the big kids are here to protect you. You trust us, right?"

...Did you?

"Uh... Yeah! Of course."

That was a lie.

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

Class took way too long to complete this time. Especially after Uzi wouldn't stop groaning the entire time about something, which you couldn't hear over her. It ticked you off, but you didn't do anything about it. Doll didn't acknowledge it, notably. Nobody else did, which didn't surprise you.

You felt singled out in your own mind, it was slightly embarrassing. But, nonetheless, you press forward.

Class was... Interesting. To say the least. Doll had to leave early with Lizzy, for some random reason. It was really rushed on how it all went; you didn't really have time to process what the hell happened, but Doll said she should be around for the Prom tonight. You didn't want to go to the prom, and interestingly, neither did Doll.

Your parents are forcing you to go. 'You need to socialize!' So they say. It's fair, but you really didn't want to do it. Not because you were anti-social, although that was certainly a factor, it was because you had this overwhelming gut feeling that something was going to go wrong.

You're practically forced to go. Regrettably.

At least you'll have Doll there to keep you company.

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

You rubbed your arm nervously, peaking around every corner. Your friends saw you doing this as one shoved you lightly.

"Relax, N/n, you'll be fine. You need to stop worrying so much." Your friend reassured to which you didn't feel very reassured. You felt more threatened than anything. The atmosphere was extremely tense. You didn't like it.

You hated this feeling. The feeling of being helpless. You had your friends to help you in case things went awry, but even then, there's only so much that they could do if things went wrong. You regret this. You shouldn't have gone out here.

Your friend nudged you.

"Hey, N/n, relax, nothin's gonna ha-"

"Shush." You blurted out.

You heard something cracking. Sounded like glass, sounded like something moving.

The others didn't seem to hear it. You figured as much, these guys were good hunters. You had to give them credit for that if nothing else. Stealthy, crafty, murdery. All traits that are not good with the last one. Especially for you and your friends.

"I hate it here. I really hate it here." You voice. The others look at each other for a split moment before looking back at you.

Your friend sighed. "Yeah, I guess this was a bad idea." They said. "Yeah, we should probably go. Our parents are probably going to be worried about us if we stay out for too long." The other concurred. With all in agreement, you started to go back the way you came.

Unfortunately, someone didn't want you to go back.

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

The blaring music, the crowded nature of the place, everything about this made you slightly uncomfortable. You saw people drop dead right in front of you because they drank the fruit punch, which obviously isn't good for worker drones. Honestly, it was really confusing on how the ignored the signs.

Another thing was that you saw Lizzy on the stage, just kind of waiting around for something. She was on her phone, texting the entire time. It was par for the course for her. It didn't surprise you, not one bit. You figured she was texting Doll, or some of her other goons that you didn't care for.

You didn't like how you were just sitting around, twiddling your thumbs like a total loser. You had no way of conversating with anyone, Doll hasn't shown up yet, and you feel like a loser.

You tap your finger against your arm as you consider just ditching the entire place in general. It's not like you had any real reason to be here. You didn't know anyone here, you weren't really looking to make any friends right now, and not to mention that you were forced here.

Forced being a loose term.

"Бу."

You jump at the sudden loud noise close to your audio receptor, immediately snapping your head to the source of the noise, only to see your red eyed companion. Sitting there with an innocent smile as she waves at you.

You felt petty anger boiling up inside of you.

"Doll."

She hums.

"Could you not do that every time I'm off my guard?"

"Нет."

You sit in silence, glaring at Doll while she just stares at you back. She doesn't do anything, both of you waiting for the other to break the silence. It was a super unnecessary standoff. Eventually, Doll is the one to break the silence, ignoring the loud prom music.

"Я не думал, что ты действительно появишься. (I didn't think you'd actually show up.)" She casually mentions, to which you shrug, your previous anger having dissipated completely.

"Yeah, well; not like I really had a choice." You wave off. "'Sides, couldn't let you have all the fun by yourself, right?"

What you expected didn't happen as she looks down, seemingly concerned or worried, you couldn't tell. You reached out a hand towards her, touching her shoulder.

"Hey, everything okay?" You question, to which she sheepishly nods.

"Да, просто... (Yeah, Just...)" She seemed to lose herself in the moment. She looked at you, then the stage. Which notably had a giant 'X' in the edge of it. You didn't even notice it before until Doll glanced at it.

"Doll? What's go-"

You were suddenly interrupted by someone on a microphone, which was Lizzy, standing there with a hand on her hip.

"Okay, listen up nerds." She announced, leaving you with a bad taste in your mouth already. "We're doing this a little early-"

"Т/и." Doll grabbed your attention away from the entitled bitch. "Послушай меня, (Listen to me,)"

You look at Doll, confused and frightened at her sudden shift in tone. Urgency, you've seen it before.

"Вам нужно- (You need to-)"

"This..."

...

You honestly weren't sure what you were expecting. But Lizzy bringing in a murder drone, especially after what had happened definitely caught you off guard. As for you, in the present moment. You shot back into the wall where you had initially been situated, hand clutched to chest, trying to process what the hell Lizzy was doing.

She wasn't doing anything intelligent, that's for sure.

The thing that was right behind her crept up behind Lizzy as everyone in the auditorium started to panic. Justifiably, people started heading for the exit, but Lizzy stopped them before they really hit it, except for one in a mustache.

You had mostly tuned everything out, just staring in horror at the sight in front of you. The same murder drone that had ruined your life had showed up for the third time. You were starting to get sick of it, you just wanted to live in peace.

Of course, you could never get that lucky. Right?

"Черт возьми, Lizzy, зачем ты... (Dammit, Lizzy, why would you...)" Doll turned her attention to you. "Т/И, уйди с дороги и скройся из виду. (Y/n, get out of the way and get out of sight.)"

You didn't have to be told twice, considering you weren't the one with spoopy magical powers. Doll started to walk over to the middle of the crowd, to which you lost her in the crowd.

You felt like you were going to be sick. Ironic, since you couldn't really feel sick.

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

Someone had knocked on the door. Confused, your parents went to go open it, only to find Doll standing there.

"Oh, greetings young lady," Your dad greeted. "what brings you here at this hour?"

"...Могу ли я поговорить с Т/И? (May I speak to Y/n?)" She nervously asked, to which your father accepted. "Of course, come inside! Y/n, your friend is here!"

You had opened the door from your bedroom, only to see Doll there, disheveled, more than what you had ever been. You immediately noticed the difference, while you dad hadn't. She did typically look at least somewhat disheveled all the time, usually with messy hair. This time was different though, you could tell.

Her dress had looked slightly torn up, hair messier than usual, that look in her eye. You knew what that look was.

The feeling of being empty.

"U-uh, hey Doll." You greeted as she approached you. "You need something?"

"Можем ли мы поговорить наедине? (Can we speak in private?)" You nodded, unblocking yourself away from your bedroom door and allowing her entry. You thought about just not doing it, because you had your own issues to deal with. You didn't need to deal with hers.

That's selfish.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Your trauma doesn't matter right now, your friend needs you. Don't abandon her like you did with them.

Both of you sat on your bed, not breaking the silence. You were waiting for her to say something, but nothing came out. She was just kind of sitting there, expression blank with nothing coming out. Nothing.

It confused you. You knew you weren't particularly chatty either when what happened happened, but this is a whole different level than what you were expecting. Maybe you were still being selfish. You didn't know, but all you knew was that your friend was hurting. You needed to help her.

"Ее больше нет... (She's gone...)" She managed to whimper out. She had her hands folded in her lap, still looking blankly at the ground. You didn't know what that meant. Who's she? You didn't inquire further as it seemed like a sensitive topic.

"Are you okay?" You questioned. Doll only shook her head in response, which kind of confirmed your suspicions.

You didn't know how to deal with this, you were just a kid.

You both were just kids.

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

The fight that just took place in front of you... You couldn't believe your eyes.

You had no love for the murder drones, and you couldn't help but cheer Doll on from the sidelines as she ensnared V (that's what you heard Doll refer to her as, anyway) and took down the metal ceiling fans, and launched them towards V.

Everything after that was a blur. But you knew Doll was starting to lose, because she had just gotten launched back by Uzi, who kicked her back. Your breathing hitched as you saw yellow approach doll from behind.

...And point a gun right at her head.

Without a second thought, you bolted towards V.

"Doll, move-!"

Doll turned around just in time to see you push V's gun out of the way. In turn, you got a nanite tail straight to the eye. Doll breathing grew erattic as she grabbed a table with her glyph and immediately launched towards V, who wasn't expecting to receive table.

You felt arms wrap around you as the world seemed to shift around you. All you saw was red glitches before your system finally gave way and you passed out.

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

Too be continued, probably.