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snickerdoodie · 3 months ago

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Any hc’s for Scott (twisters) who is only not an asshole when he’s around his s/o? Others see him being sweet to her and are like wtf why can’t be be that nice to us 🥲

No cause I’ve also been obsessed with that idea of him for so long, ahhh. He seems like such a “I care about you and you only” kinda guy and it just fuels my obsession

A/N: this is my first time ever writing anything like head canons so if it’s goofy I apologize in advance. Not proofread as usual. Also I really hope it was anything like you expected 😭. But anyway, enjoy!

Scott Miller Headcanons

Right off the bat, I think we can all agree talking is not one of Scott’s strong suits. The only times he really talks is when he’s proposing ideas to Riggs and Javi about potential deals. So when the team finds him willingly chatting with you after a day of collecting data, they all just short circuit.

Like hello?? Are they dreaming??? Wtf going on???? Like out of everybody to talk to you choose him??? And they’re not even mad they’re just..they have no clue what to think, they’ve never seen him look so at ease before lmao. There’s no permanent scowl on his face or anything, just his baritone voice mixing with your own. Ngl it creeped them out at first, they really thought the world was ending that night.

Javi’s the first to really notice the changes in Scotts demeanor around you; the quick glances, the ever so slight smiles, and even the smallest touches like his thumb rubbing over the back of your hand when he’s giving a speech, he’s seen it all.

Speaking of, I just know that Scott’s love language has got to be either words of affirmation or physical touch. He loves hearing you tell him how much he matters to you, or how you remember small things about him, it just makes him smile. For him being a not very vocal person, it’s hard for him to tell you straight up how much he cares for you. It doesn’t even have to be gentle or meaningful words, making witty comebacks to his sarcastic remarks is always enough for him.

But his way of expressing his affection is through small touches. Standing close enough to you where you can smell his cologne, brushes of his fingers to your waist or hand, overall just standing close to you. (Now that I think abt it, that’s a looot more like quality time but whatever☺️)

Anyway, back on topic cuz I’m too easily distracted. The crew really tried their hardest to get Scott to even be remotely nice to them after that. I mean if he was nice to you then he could be nice to them right? Can’t be that hard. Boy oh boy were they wrong…they literally did everything in their power. They bought him coffees on early mornings, made sure he has the nicest, or as nice as they could be, bed sheets at motels, volunteered to do his dirty work of pages and pages of paperwork, but literally nothing worked. All they ever got were blank stared nods or a grumbled ‘thanks.’ At this point they were flabbergasted. How could you get that cocky bastard to even glance at you?? Nevertheless smile at you?

They have up like 5 days after trying lmfao, it was utterly useless to try and make that man any less brooding then he is. After trying through, they realized that all their attempts didn’t go completely wasted.

Scott brought you hot drinks on the chilly nights and morning as you two sat together in the crappy hotel rooms. Stopped smacking his gum whenever you side-eyed him a little too hard, much to everyone’s relief. Always walked you to your room after a late night to make sure you got there safe.

As much as they hated how self centered and blunt Scott was, they all secretly knew how love drunk he was about you. (Don’t bring it up to him, but they’re all secretly jealous they dont get any kind of special treatment

First head canon ask!! I do not think I did very good at it though💀💀. I had ideas in my head but they were not coming out the way I ask. But I hoped you at least liked some of it! I promise to write a better one in the future!

And as always, feel free to comment about anything you liked or didn’t like. Inbox is always open to more ideas! <3

#headcanons #twisters 2024 #scott miller #scott twisters #javi twisters #twisters #Scott Miller fluff #scott miller x reader #x Reader?#twisters fic #twisters fan fic #Scott miller fic

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badperson-8 · 10 months ago

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Butting In (Part 1) Lucifer, Mammon, Levi

Male/AMAB MC finds an intriguing sex toy – a magical fleshlight, which is automatically connected to the body of whoever haunts their sexual fantasies. How will each brother react if MC succumbs to the temptation and uses the device?

amabMC x Lucifer, amabMC x Mammon, amabMC x Levi

3.5k words | NSFW | Porn without plot | gn!pronouns MC | AO3 link

Content Warnings: Dub-con | Anal Sex

Part 2 (Satan, Asmo) Part 3 (Beel, Belphie) Part 4 (Diavolo)

Lucifer

Lucifer sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. He’s been sent to the House of Lords on behalf of Lord Diavolo for a brief check of their quarterly financial report. But what should’ve taken him at most two hours, stretched into several-hours torture, due to the incompetence of these noble fools. The accounting department did their best to analyze and categorize all the expenses, but Lords were so utterly incapable of providing any reasonable data in time that the finished report turned out to be an incoherent mess.

So now Lucifer is stuck in a place full of insufferable snobs, damned to do their job instead of them. At least the most excruciating part is over: he had to personally collect all the additional papers from each Lord, and now he only needs to compare the numbers. The demon has already sent all the accountants away; if they didn’t succeed the first time, it’s highly unlikely that they’ll be of any use. Lucifer prefers to work alone anyway.

The only two things that motivate him right now are a huge cup of the strongest coffee ever known to demons and potential revenge. If Lucifer manages to find any traces of financial machinations, Lord Diavolo will take this matter into his own hands. And when he’s on the case, it’s useless to hide behind the high status of a noble. The Future King deals with problems swiftly and mercilessly.

Lucifer smirks, takes a sip of coffee, and focuses on the documents in his hands. The demon occupied the office of one of the Lords after he unceremoniously kicked out the owner. The room has too many golden decorations for Lucifer’s liking, but at least the chair is comfortable enough. The soft rustle of papers and the rhythmical ticking of the clock help him concentrate and ignore intrusive thoughts about one particular human who waits for him at home… Perhaps there are actually three things that motivate Lucifer right now, but his pride will never let him admit it.

A sudden shiver runs along Lucifer’s body, making him twitch and almost spill all the coffee on the documents. The demon immediately lets go of the cup and straightens up, trying to figure out what the hell happened. But Lucifer doesn’t spot anything unusual, only the same ticking of the clock breaks the silence of an empty room.

The second shiver strikes him just as suddenly. This time it’s stronger, it pierces his mind and makes him grab the edge of the table, looking for support. Lucifer feels the ghost touches on his body, which concentrate on his backside. He unconsciously presses his hips against the seat in an attempt to hide his delicate parts from the unknown intruder. But to no avail. The unstoppable force concentrates on his most vulnerable part of the body, pressing inside and massaging the tensed walls of his entrance.

Lucifer bites his lower lip, trying to contain all the embarrassing noises deep within; a thin stream of blood runs down his chin and lands on one of the documents, staining it and coloring the white pages red. His trembling hand wipes off tiny drops of sweat from his forehead.

The Avatar of Pride is not capable of panicking, as simple as that. He has everything under control, no matter what happens. But now, for the first time in eternity, Lucifer doesn’t know what to do. He’s lost and confused; the burning desire to twist the neck of whoever does this to him and the baffling temptation to submit to these new sensations are tearing him apart.

Lucifer chooses the first option, concentrating his magic on the faint traces of the curse that makes him lose control over his body. The demon frowns as he mentally untangles the magical energies and reaches the source of the disturbance.

It’s MC, it’s their life force, their magical energy. Lucifer senses the power of some kind of artifact nearby, but its magic doesn’t look dangerous. The demon sighs, letting his tensed muscles finally relax. He feels an all-consuming relief at the thought of MC being the one who’s behind this. It’s them, they are responsible for all this nonsense. Of course, who else would it be? He should’ve figured it out sooner.

A gentle pressure on his insides continues, it seems MC doesn’t use the artifact to its full potential yet, preferring to check the toy with their fingers. Lucifer leans back in his chair and spreads his long legs apart. He could fly all the way to the House of Lamentation, confiscate this suspiciously powerful artifact, and lecture them for several hours straight, but…

Lucifer’s line of thought is interrupted by a sudden sensation of some liquid inside him. The demon frowns harder as he feels his cheeks and ears burn with humiliation. He closes his eyes, not to see how his hand unzips his pants and lets out his neglected boner. He doesn’t want to accept this. Lucifer shouldn’t be so agreeable towards the fact that he is being used as a sex toy. Even if it’s MC who does that. Stroking his dick to such foul sensations feels almost like a betrayal of his Pride. He should ignore his urges and…

The touch of a much bigger object feels shocking, no matter how much Lucifer anticipated dreaded the next stage of MC’s curiosity. It feels so much hotter than their fingers; it stretches him open inch by inch without meeting any resistance from Lucifer’s body. He breathes out sharply and tries to stop his hips from trembling. What a disgrace.

Lucifer clenches his fists, stubbornly ignoring his own growing excitement. But despite his efforts, his thighs spread even wider, chasing the feeling of the hot and pulsating flesh, magically conjured to bring Lucifer pleasure. The damn artifact is too good at recreating MC’s dick, too good at imitating all the deep thrusts. The demon can bear this for only so long. He snarls, grabs his dick, and starts stocking it with hungry desperation.

A quiet moan escapes Lucifer’s lips, but he immediately shuts his mouth with his hand, trying to save at least some dignity. The quicker the pushes become, the more difficult it is to contain all the moans. As Lucifer feels MC coming inside him, he bites his hand as hard as possible to muffle the final embarrassing sound. He growls as his fangs pierce his own skin, and his dick finally releases.

It takes him some time to regain his senses. The rhythmical ticking of the clock slowly returns Lucifer to reality. The demon silently stares at the pile of documents, now partially covered not only with his blood but also his sperm. He lifts his trembling hand and snaps his fingers to set the whole pile ablaze.

…They say that after one of the offices in the House of Lords burned down, together with important documents, the whole establishment had to work overtime to restore the lost data. It’s still unknown what exactly happened; some rumors mentioned a black-winged demon flying out of the office’s window in the direction of the House of Lamentation. But the strangest event that surpassed even the fire in one of the core institutions of the Devildom was no doubt the fact that, despite the sudden calamity and overdue financial report, Lucifer was walking around with a huge, bright smile on his face.

Mammon

Mammon is in deep shit. For real this time. He breathes heavily, peeking at five demons from around the corner. He sighs with relief as they march past his hiding spot and lovingly presses a giant bag full of money to his chest.

From Mammon’s perspective, this whole situation is exclusively the fault of these stupid morons. Who the hell keeps their money in cash nowadays?! These idiots were simply begging to rob them. How could Mammon say no? He will use the money better than they ever could anyway. MC was saying something about a new phone…

Mammon quietly swears and squats behind a dumpster, merging with the shadows. One of the demons returned and is now standing uncomfortably close to his hiding spot. Mammon needs to get out of here before they find him. He should make a run for it once the path is clear.

He squats lower, firmly hugging the bag in his hands. And he almost falls on his ass once he feels some kind of movement inside this very ass. Mammon shivers from disgust at the thought that he seems to be infected by damn tapeworms. He knew that a dinner at that shady restaurant was a bad idea. But seriously, how many are there? Or is it one thick-ass worm? It sure feels like it.

Despite his struggles, Mammon does his best to keep an eye on the demon next to him. They seem to have taken a break from the chase and are now simply smoking a cigarette.

Mammon can’t wait for too long, he needs to escape now while he has this chance. It seems he has to use just a little bit of violence. This demon is relaxed and completely unaware of their surroundings; it will be easy to jump them and knock them out within seconds. Gently, of course. Mammon quietly cackles as he slowly approaches the demon, still half-squatting and holding the bag in one hand.

But just as Mammon is ready to commit yet another crime, the fucking worm starts squirming again. The demon quietly moans, then immediately slams his mouth with his hand. The loud slap almost alerts the smoking demon, but they shrug it off.

“Must’ve been the wind.” They mumble, lifting their head and glaring at the stars. The sky is so beautiful today.

Meanwhile, just several feet away from the romantic demon, Mammon is having a mental breakdown. What the hell was that? No, Mammon didn’t just moan thanks to some stupid parasites, it’s a blatant lie. He tosses the bag on the ground and tries to turn his torso backwards to check his butt. It doesn’t help in the slightest since his jeans cover everything, so Mammon can only stare at his ass with disapproval.

His whole body suddenly shivers, making him drop to his knees and close his mouth with a hand once again. He feels something sticky and moist inside. At first, this strange sensation bothered only his asshole, but now it’s spreading deeper, all the way inside…

Mammon blinks away a single tear, trying not to panic. His medical condition is certainly dire, maybe he’s even dying. No, Great Mammon won’t die from some stupid worms, or whatever this is! He’ll find a cure; he just needs to escape first. MC will have to wait for a new phone a little longer, though; it seems that all the money will be spent on Mammon’s medical bills…

A sudden pressure on his asshole sends goosebumps all over Mammon’s body. He has to cover his mouth with his second hand, falling all the way to the ground. He’s now lying on his stomach, trying to regain his senses. Mammon feels something pushing inside him. His legs tremble, losing all their strength. His brain is trying to process everything that is happening but completely gives up once the ass gets attacked by powerful thrusts. Mammon’s erection is pressed uncomfortably to the ground through his jeans. He can’t even change the position, or at least take off his pants, since his body has fully betrayed him. The violent shivers shake Mammon’s body; he spends his last energy keeping his hands close to his mouth. Otherwise, the whole neighborhood will hear his whimpers.

Mammon’s mind is completely shut down, maybe as a way of precaution. At least the poor demon can’t reflect on the whole situation and be terrified of being either hopelessly ill or cursed. He can only focus on deep thrusts that hit his prostate over and over. The only thing that bothers him right now is his dick, still trapped in his jeans. He presses his hips closer to the ground to get at least some friction.

Mammon closes his eyes, breathing heavily into his hands. He’s so close, just a little more…

He’s suddenly being filled with something so hot that it heats up his insides; his ass unconsciously starts to greedily absorb this mysterious substance. Mammon trembles violently as he finally comes all over his pants. His last vocal moans break through the shield of his hands, shattering the surrounding silence.

As Mammon slowly returns to reality, he feels that his ass is now completely fine. He also feels that he is now surrounded by five angry demons who are ready to beat the shit out of him.

…MC is caressing Mammon’s soft hair as the demon complains to them about his rotten luck. He managed to escape in the end, which was a miracle, even with his abilities to run faster than anyone in the Devildom. The demons didn’t succeed in hurting him, but they took all their money back. Mammon doesn’t care that much about the money, though, being much more concerned about the possible disease. And MC just silently pats his hair, gathering their courage to tell Mammon about that one cool thing they found… And how it can actually be responsible for all of today’s misadventures.

Leviathan

Levi is bursting with excitement as he strolls around the comic-con. The amount of merch for all his favorite shows is simply unbelievable; and all the talented cosplayers make him wish he wasn’t such a shut-in otaku. To take a photo with any of them would be like a dream come true, but he’ll reach this major milestone some other time. He already has a huge reason to be proud of himself today.

Few reasons, actually. First of all, he came to this comic-con alone. All alone! Him! That’s right, he doesn’t need to ask Beel or Satan to come with him anymore. He doesn’t need any emotional support to come to this place, full of people… scary strangers… maybe they all think that he’s gross… or he smells bad…

Levi shakes his head, using his personal method of overcoming such anxiety attacks. All he needs to do is imagine MC, who holds him by the hand and smiles brightly at him. Yeah, that’s better. They always do this when he’s about to panic. Levi can’t give up, he promised that he’d have fun on his own.

The demon sighs, wishing MC was here with him. Lucifer forbade them to leave the house after they broke something when they were fooling around with Mammon. Levi frowns: this greedy scumbag always finds a way to mess with him, and now Levi has to spend the day all alone. Mammon ruined their date, and…

No-no-no-no, it wasn’t supposed to be a date, alright?! It WASN’T! Levi just offered MC to come with him, that’s all. He didn’t actually hope… That would be just silly, right?! Right…

Levi shakes his head once again, adjusting his stockings. Heels are not so bad, but these stockings are constantly trying to fall down. Maybe his legs are too skinny for this…

Hm? Oh yeah, that’s actually the second reason why Levi should be proud of himself. When he finally decided to invite MC on a da-… to hang out, he decided to consult with the professional, namely Asmo. He gave him some strange advices, like not eating too much during the day to avoid getting too dirty down “there”. Levi didn’t know where “there” was exactly, but he didn’t have the courage to ask. Other than that, Asmo had some great ideas: he assured Levi that MC would really appreciate it if he showed them his true passion. Specifically, if Levi put on his Ruri-chan costume, with stockings and all.

This idea got him really inspired; Levi spent several days preparing the costume for the show. So when the da-… the hangout was cancelled, he couldn’t just leave the costume at home. So he quickly made a giant sign “No photos, No touching, No interactions”, and came to the comic-con dressed in his pink dress.

Levi has never been prouder of himself. Despite everything, he paid homage to his favorite character. He wishes MC could see him right now…

“Ngh…” Levi winces, almost dropping his sign to the ground. His thighs firmly press together, slightly shaking from a sudden, unknown sensation between them. The demon blushes heavily and sprints to the bathroom, locking himself in one of the stalls.

He tosses the sign on the floor, lifts his skirt, and tries to inspect the area beneath. Levi did his best to make Ruri-chan’s costume as authentic as possible, which obviously included the right type of underwear. So now the demon carefully gropes his hips, covered with pink silk panties, in search of anything unusual.

His fingers dig into the silky fabric as he feels a strong tremble that concentrates in the area of his butt. He almost tears his underwear with his claws, trying to fight the unexpected weakness in his knees and not fall to the floor.

Levi gathers his strength, reaches the toilet lid, smashes it closed, and lands on it, breathing heavily. He would have never thought that it would be so hard to do such mundane actions, but he feels exhaustion after this little feat. He’s so confused by the riot of his own body that he doesn’t know what to think. Levi feels something slowly pushing inside, stretching him carefully. The only thing that prevents him from starting to seriously freak out is the fact that this unknown force immediately finds his weak spot.

The demon loudly screeches as something starts applying more pressure to his prostate. His dick already peeks out of the pink panties, leaving wet stains on the underwear and the skirt.

“Excuse me? Are you all right?” Someone knocks at the door of Levi’s stall, making him freeze. He squeezes his skirt in frustration as he shakily replies:

“Y-y-yes.”

That’s the best he can do, but luckily the stranger finds this reply passable and leaves him alone. Levi feels as his butt and asshole get covered in something sticky and warm, and he shivers in terror and anticipation. Wait, “anticipation”? No, Levi doesn’t enjoy this insane situation, not at all!

But self-reflection can wait. If the pushes renew, his voice will betray him again. And if this happens, the whole comic-con will hear him, and he certainly can’t let this happen! Levi needs to find something to block all the sounds ASAP. He looks around, trying to find something useful, but there aren’t many things in toilet stalls. Maybe something on him… Oh!

A genius idea graciously visits him. One of the main pieces of Ruri-chan’s clothing is, no doubt, her cute pink hat. Levi mentally apologizes to Ruri-chan for using her iconic hat in that way, takes it off, and shoves it in his mouth.

Just in time for a new stage of thrusts to start. This time they are much more intense. Levi feels how his fangs tear the soft fabric of his precious hat. But his idea mostly works: all his moans and whines are muffled, they are just quiet enough not to alert other people. He grabs his skirt, panties, his own thighs – anything other than his dick. Levi doesn’t want to do it like this. Not in the toilet stall, surrounded by strangers. Not in the Ruri-chan’s dress. Not without MC…

Levi slightly relaxes as his thoughts concentrate on MC. If he imagines that it’s them who inserts their dick inside him, he’ll manage to get through it. His brain successfully tricks itself, almost actually making him believe that it’s MC who is behind this cruel joke. If it’s them, it’s all right, Levi thinks, and allows himself to touch his neglected cock.

He strokes it desperately, focusing on his vivid fantasy of MC. His hole starts pulsating eagerly as he dives into his imagination. Whatever is on the other side must’ve felt how welcoming his hole became; the thrusts get faster and harder, almost making Levi fall from the toilet seat to the floor. He quickens the pace of his strokes to match the impatient pushes, squeezing the hat in his mouth with all his might.

He comes the moment he feels the hot release of an unknown entity inside him. Colorful circles flood his vision, leaving him completely strengthless. He tries to catch his breath, lazily thinking about the ruined costume, especially the pink panties he accidentally tore up. Now he needs to somehow clean up and hurry home, seeking refuge in MC’s arms. He’ll never go to any event without them again.

Part 2 (Satan, Asmo) Part 3 (Beel, Belphie) Part 4 (Diavolo)

P.S. The art doesn't belong to me, it's an official art from Shall We Date: Obey Me! (You, Me and Devil's Coast card)

#obey me #obey me smut #obey me fanfic #omswd fanfic #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #mc x lucifer #mc x mammon #mc x leviathan #male mc #amab mc #bottom lucifer #bottom mammon #bottom leviathan #obey me gn!mc #obey me gender neutral mc #obey me ao3

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thetorturedpoetsfest · 5 months ago

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Welcome to Day 2 of The Tortured Poets Fest!

Click the links listed below to check out all of the content our lovely Tortured Poets have created for all of us today! (and go to our bio to access the rest of the AO3 Collection)

✍️ Barty or Lily or Benji or Fabian by @katie-blackcat

Ship: Regulus Black/James Potter

Rating: M

Summary:

Regulus and James broke up 5 years ago. This is the story of where they have been and where they are now.

Does he ever think of him? Of the nights they spent curled up in each other’s arms? Does he wonder? Will I always wonder…?

🕯 So Hogwarts by bookish_clf

Ship: Daphne Greengrass/Ron Weasley

Rating: E

Summary:

Daphne Greengrass, Senior Correspondent for Foreign Wizarding Affairs at the Daily Prophet, is forced to cover the Conference Championship Quidditch game when the entire sports department falls ill with Spattergroit.

At the game, she’s surprised to find the star Keeper of the Wimbourne Wasps, Ron Weasley, has grown up from the scrawny Gryffindor she knew at Hogwarts into someone quite…sturdy. When she snags an interview with him post-game, things spiral from there as she’s thrust into a whirlwind romance with Wizarding Europe’s most valuable player.

🗝 They Tried to Warn You About Me by @midnightstargazer

Ships: Andromeda Black Tonks/Ted Tonks, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks, Alice Longbottom & Ted Tonks

Rating: T

Summary:

They say you’ll know your soulmate by the way the world bursts into color when you meet them. Andromeda has always been warned to avoid hers at all costs - and when Ted’s friends learn who his is, they tell him she’ll never choose him. But over the years, the two are drawn together. Is a life filled with love and vibrant colors really something to fear?

📜 who's afraid of little old me? (you should be) by Sagiko_AKA_RegulusBlackKinnieBITFW @themoonthesunandthestarsbetween Ships: Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape, Peter Pettigrew/Severus Snape; [Background/future] Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Regulus Black/James Potter, Mary Macdonald/Lily Evans Potter Rating: M Summary: “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing, Peter.” Lily shook her head as she walked up, choosing to stand beside Dorcas. “I know what you two have been up to- I know you’ve been opening your useless legs for an utterly useless man. Now, leave.” “I’m not afraid of you.” Peter sneered.

“You should be.” Lily smiled politely.

🖌 you don't have to be alone (when you're the place i wanna go) by @quiethauntings

Ship: Remus Lupin/Sirius Black

Rating: E

Summary:

"You’ve claimed the shit bed,” Sirius says from the doorway.

Remus looks up, suddenly aware that for the first time in years, it's just the two of them.

“You don’t like sleeping next to the door.” It comes out before he can think of something different. A fact he’d learned when they were twelve, the first summer they all stayed with the Potters’.

He should be embarrassed, remembering something like that, but Sirius tilts his head. Bright-eyed and soft. He smiles, and it’s worth it.

Or, an unexpected invitation reunites Remus with his friends at a cottage in the Scottish Highlands. **************

Be sure to check our page for Day 3’s reveals! Until then, Tortured Poets <3

🩶 Your mods,

@wolfpadx @multiimoments @heartsoncover @lemonlans @mercurial-witch @steveahoi damagecontrol & shewritesmaybe

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galebrainrot2024 · 10 months ago

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Gale x Tav Enemies to Lovers Part VIII/8

I'm cooking with gas now folks, I am locked in so I hope you enjoy this journey - if I have enough juice I'll try to extend it through the entire game arc.

Content Warning: Bullying, Anxiety, Language, Herbs (lol)

“Fucking finally,” Karlach huffed, dropping a majority of their belongings and rations. Without her, Lae’zel and Shadowheart, Tav wasn’t sure they would have made it to the Underdark. The men were utterly useless in this regard and so was she. She had many strengths - strength was not among them. “I’m not sorting through what’s what so come and find your own things. Gale what’s for dinner? I’m starving. No… I need to lie down.”

“As always, I am deeply in your debt my good Lady,” Tav watched as Gale bowed to Karlach and collected his things from her then winked, “I’ll be sure to make your favorite.” A pang shot through her - not one of desire or even anger.

It was jealousy. She scoffed, rolling her eyes at her own behavior. Don’t be ridiculous, she chided, Karlach is your friend and Gale is allowed to talk with whomever he pleases… they’ve been spending a lot of time together… besides, you know who Karlach fancies and it’s certainly not Gale… you have no right to be angry after Astarion…

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably and she turned away as hot bile rose in her gut. She shook it off and began to unpack her things.

The Underdark. She had studied its existence extensively in her time at Blackstaff and was both horrified and fascinated by its unfamiliar terrain. Their instructor would pull at the fabric of the Weave to make intricate conjurations of the Underdark’s dangerous creatures, wild mushrooms, and native fauna. Some was so startling to her that at the time she was plagued with night terrors. How embarrassing it felt to have night terrors as a teen. It had been engrained so deep that the fear still dug at her skin and she felt the surge of fight or flight acutely.

Gale had been in that class with her.

That grounded her a bit, the memory of his ‘know-it-all’ attitude getting him a severe bind. Gale had famously confused the Duergar and Drow and when their instructor, Flhem, tried to gently correct him, Gale persisted. What Gale didn’t realize at the time was that other than Flhem being an expert on the Underdark, Tav’s father was also an expeditionist there.

She was intimately familiar with the Underdark and had an insatiable curiosity for it. The obsession took hold when she was wracked with panic that her father wouldn’t return from a journey. Tav turned to her fixation on learning in order to soothe her nerves. If she learned everything she could, she could imagine every possible scenario and outcome so she couldn’t be surprised.

A wave of guilt rose in her when the rest of the memory unfolded. After Gale’s soliloquy, Tav tapped on his shoulder (he was sat in front of her) and she said smugly, “Gale… I thought you were smarter than that,” all while pulling at the threads of the Weave to manifest replicas of the Duegar and Drow, “Or did you miss the readings? If you look to page 27...” She said while the class held its breath, “there are a number of distinctions between the two races… height being prominent among them.” As she spoke the final word, the two conjurations stood before the class and Gale flipped to the page. She inhaled deeply when she recalled the look on his face when the entire class - including Flhem - burst into laughter. Have you always been so cruel… you wretched thing… the memory weighed heavily on her, and she fingered her amulet.

He hadn't even said anything in retort. Gale had just quietly shut the book and had turned to look back at her before he left the room. The look he gave was one she would never forget. It made her sick.

Suddenly she felt something graze her back and she jumped, swinging her arm to strike.

Astarion’s hand caught hers and he rose a brow. A grin spread across his face. “My, my, somebody’s on edge this evening." Tav huffed, her entire body rigid from the start. She shut her eyes and took another breath to steady herself. “Oh,” Astarion said more seriously, “Are you alright, Darling? Can I get you something?”

Tav tilted her head curiously. Astarion? Going out of his way to ask something nice? Assuming she heard him incorrectly, she said, “Nothing a bit of Hafling Root can’t fix.”

“Oh?” He said in a sing-song voice, “Looking to get a little stoned this evening? Far be it from me to keep you from your appetites. Ugh,” he straightened his shirt, picking a piece of lint off his sleeve. “I wish I could still experience that. I’m afraid I’d need an entire field to feel a damn thing. Enjoy for the both of us,” he looked at her and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, his voice low. “Maybe I’ll join you, still.. keep you company.”

Tav felt the familiar rush of arousal flood her when Astation’s hand brushed her cheek. Although they had little in common and she wasn’t sure if she even trusted him, biology was a strange experience. In that same moment, her eyes locked on Gale’s - his gaze an abyss that was almost wild. The same one that made her sick all those years ago.

She took a sharp breath and neither she nor Gale blinked. She fell into the void of his eyes, hypnotized. Had he cast hold person on her? Astarion’s voice pulled her abruptly back into her body, “Well.. you know where to find me.”

When Tav turned back to look for Gale he was gone.

#gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #baldurs gate 3 #gale dekarios #bg3 brainrot #gale #gale x tav #gale romance #gale x tav enemies to lovers #baldur's gate gale #baldurs gate gale

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introvertedafrican · 24 days ago

Text

drag

your dear friend's sat in front of the mirror, humming away a tune you don't recognize. makeup - something Dio loves so dearly. a hobby of his, albeit rather peculiar for a man; though you suppose anything peculiar fits Dio just fine. you've come to recognize it as one of his favorite pastimes...it's so familar to you.

watching dio do his makeup brings back some unwanted memories for pucci lol

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You like Dio's room. You like how the cold pierces your skin, makes you shiver. It's an inconvenience, but so much better than the scorching, sweltering Egyptian heat that always plagues outside, even in the moonlight. You think back to the way you slumped and sighed, pushed through the crowds in search of the mansion when you first arrived. That day was so hot. The air so dry, so stiff, that it reminded you of Georgia. It does every day, ever since you've been in Egypt.

Georgia is full of familiarities, of course it is. How could it not be? You grew up there, made so many small, insignificant memories that still linger in your mind. Just the simple thought of it is enough to lead you down a rabbit hole.

You can still remember all the time you had as a child: how little of it you spent under the sun, and how much of it was spent in your father's study, reading books he'd tossed aside. You remember the first of many, many times you fell chasing after Perla, of course, and how upset you got the time she tore up your books when the both of you were small.

That was the only time you yelled at her. Your tiny voice echoed, bounced off the walls, and then you watched: just watched as her eyebrows twitched, and her bottom lip quivered, once, then twice as her body trembled. You watched how with just the narrow of your eyes, she burst into tears, sobbing and wailing sorry after sorry.

You never apologized, never comforted her. And eventually, you didn't want to watch her anymore, so you turned your head and sat there, trying to stick the shredded pages back together, drowning out the noise. You forget what prompted such apathy. You always caved for your sister, always.

Apathy proved worthless, neither fixing the book nor bringing quiet to the room; just a distraction. It's a lot like what you're doing now, utterly useless. It doesn't matter if you can remember all the times she pestered you, or the time the two of you spent together. None of it matters anymore. Georgia's a parasite, the way it's latched itself onto you. It's gnawing and nibbling on your mind like it wants to consume it whole, as if it hasn't already.

Or maybe you're the parasite.

You don't know anymore. However, you do know that you don't like thinking of Georgia. The thought of it makes your stomach sick, and yet here you are. It's been a week, maybe two, but not a second has been spent in peace. There's been not a moment where Georgia and all its sickening southern charm hasn't popped into your mind, even when you're with Dio.

You can't bring yourself to hate it, no, yet you can't stand the memories. You want to escape them for what little time you have in Egypt. You're eager, so eager that you can't admit it to yourself. You don't want to. It's one of many, many truths you're forcing down for the time being, for your own sake.

At least until your mother starts to worry, calling and calling you with her quiet, hoarse voice over the line. And then you have to drag yourself back over there.

Tonight is like any other.

You're sat on his bed, reading. You read something different every night. Some nights it's scripture, other nights it's an old play, or poetry Dio likes. Tonight, it's an obscure little novel, from an author whose name is small and forgettable. The plot is somewhat intriguing, but the paragraphs are tall. They stretch on and on, making the pages seem infinite and the words verbose.

It's only a matter of time before your mind gets tired, and your eyes begin to wander; not that there's much to see that you haven't already.

You've come to appreciate all the little things that decorate Dio's room, it'd be surprisingly scarce without them. Especially if considering the luxuries piled up in the halls.

You like the books that hide themselves in seemingly random corners of the room, like they want to be anywhere but a desk, or shelf, or wherever books are supposed to be.

You like his vanity. It's ancient, like most things in his room, but in a fashionable way: it stands arrogantly, with its prim wood and proper architecture, propped up against the wall, facing his bed. Although, you can't have the same respect for the mirror it holds. Sure, it's tall and grand, but you can't stand to stare into it for long. It aches to stare, so you avoid it the best you can. You don't like the way it reflects you.

You like how dark it is in the mansion. No light's allowed in, and little comes out. However, you can see the moonlight peeking in through the curtains tonight. There aren't any lamps, just candles that cower in almost every corner; held in silvers and golds that're hollow and slender and molded into intricate designs. There's one right next to you on his nightstand living a calm life, content in expelling its sweet, floral scent. Its metal is aged, but you've never seen it dull.

You like to think they're kept around for aesthetics, or maybe Dio just likes what little warmth they bring, not that they're any help to him at all. His hands are always cold, no matter how long he's by candlelight.

Your dear friend's sat in front of the mirror, humming away a tune you don't recognize. Makeup is something Dio loves so dearly. A hobby of his, albeit rather peculiar for a man; though you suppose anything peculiar fits Dio just fine. It's one of his favorite pastimes, you've learned.

He looks content tonight, like always. Content in dabbing on familiar products you know the names of but choose to forget. The brush he's holding looks so small, so tiny, insignificant in between the tips of his fingers. And yet, he takes great care in sliding its bristles across his face. You stare, observe, and notice there's not an inch of hesitance in any movement. Each stroke is quick, calculaR2-D2ted, full of confidence. It's intriguing because the way your dear friend is painting his face tonight is new. It's so unlike the vibrant, bright palettes, the ones that dominate the faces of front covers in his magazines, he'd been trying to replicate. No, it's like he's knocking on Death's door tonight, with a face so pale he looks like he's already been invited in, the only color from it came from the rouge dusting his cheeks, and his lips; so red they look raw.

You stare in silence, so much so that you don't even notice he's stopped. You don't notice he's staring right at you until he speaks, startling you out of your daze.

"Would you like me to do yours next?" Dio smiles at you. It's genuine, so unlike the sweet ones he slips to unnerve you when you're besting him in chess. He's looking right at you, through you, from the mirror.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and everything's so loud. You can hear the way he's tapping on the vanity, the incessant scritching and scratching of the paint is so loud. Even the candle's flickers and gasps, silent wails for breath don't go unnoticed in that moment.

"No." The words come quick, once you come to your senses. You close your book shut, resting it on your lap, to ensure that his attention is yours. "It's fine."

"That's a shame," he sighs, and a solemn look dons his face. "You looked so enthralled, Enrico."

You're not sure if he's actually upset, or simply teasing. Dio likes to play with your mind like that, send it around in circles.

You've noticed his tendency to twist things, words being his specialty. He can make them invisible, make nonsense mean something, like it's nothing; with only the tip on his tongue. It's fascinating, honestly.

"Do let me know if you change your mind, hm?" He says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, see it when he spares you another glance before turning his attention away. You open your book back up, but can't seem to wave away the uneasiness you feel. You look at him again, and your eyes settle on the mirror. The mirror, so tall and grand that it's almost familiar.

...

"Must I always be your guinea pig, Perla?" You sighed, exasperation filling your voice. Your jaw ached from her grip: the firm grasp that held your face, locking every muscle in place.

What'd been worse was that this girl, your dear sister, had been at it for twenty minutes. Endless poking and prodding at your face with an array of tools and product. Her grip loosened every few minutes, though it was only a means to tilt your head up and down, then left and right, and whichever other way she deemed necessary until satisfaction filled her mind. Her nails dug into your skin just enough to cause you discomfort, but not deep enough to cause any real pain.

"Of course!" She said, beaming with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to your discomfort. "Who else but- hold still!" Perla huffed, suddenly twisting your face into another odd angle. Her smile returned once she was satisfied, and she continued on. "But you, 'Rico?"

You sighed and looked into the mirror, piecing together your reflection.

You looked. . interesting, to say the very least. Not that Perla had done a bad job, not by any means. You always looked interesting when she used your face for practice. Now, you weren't a makeup guru, not by any means, but you'd become familiar with the process after enduring it so many times. This was a common occurrence, after all: Perla dragging you into her room, and sitting you in front of her vanity.

Within these occurrences, you found yourself enduring Perla's persistence, as always. It didn't matter how some of the colors hated the complexion of your skin, or if there were never any powders that matched your tone, she always found a way to make it work. The way she painted your face was never really all that calculated. There was a process, yes, albeit not very orderly. Frankly, you had little idea what went around in that mind of hers when she did your makeup. There were times when she'd stare at your face, brush in hand, for what felt like hours, and others when she'd waste no time applying stroke after stroke of color to your face.

Perla never used mascara on you, not for the reason that there weren't any white ones available but because of the length she claimed your lashes already had. She always ranted to you, openly expressing her envy and groaning about the injustice before indulging you in her plans to steal them with a grin. You were sure she was joking, most of the time. Perla joked with you a lot, especially when she did your makeup.

She hummed a quiet tune, applying lipstick to your lips. It smelled sweet, artificial, and you popped your lips to spread the dark mauve across them; not minding how the cool wax threatened to make your lips stick.

Your eyes wandered as Perla brushed product against your cheek, and you found them glued to the photos she'd stuck on the mirror: a few of you and her, some of her and her friends, but most were of her, and him: that boy she loved to fill your ears with talk about. So you narrowed your eyes and asked:

"Why not your boyfriend, hm?"

The girl paused, staring off into the distance as she thought. "Well, to be honest, Wes would be a better model..." She said, as if she was actually considering it. "And he wouldn't squirm, or complain as much..."

A frown pulled at your lips, despite your wanting to keep a blank face, like always. It wasn't any of your business what the two of them did, but you had a strange feeling, beating on the back of your brain. Maybe it was just instinctive, or a result of your long, long history of looking after her, but the idea of them doing this -something only the two of you shared- irked you.

She giggled at the sight of your sullen expression, and pat your shoulder firmly. "But he's not you, Enrico! You're my favorite brother, after all."

"Oh please, I'm your only brother." You corrected, rolling your eyes. A smile tugged at your lips, and you bore into the mirror again. You saw yourself, but focused on Perla behind you. The two of you didn't look related. You supposed she took after your mother: blonde hair that wasn't so kinky, but still tangled when it got wet, just like yours; big-light doe eyes and pale skin that got irritated when she dawdled in the sun too long.

"Yeah, yeah." She sighed, resting her hands on your shoulders. Your sister squeezed gently, before letting go and grasping either side of the top of the chair. You heard her scratch at the soft fabric ever so slightly. "It's just a little sad, Enrico."

"What is?" You raised an eyebrow. There wasn't much that made Perla sad, not anything you hadn't already known about.

"Well, we never get to spend all that much time together anymore, y'know?" She looked at your reflection, a frown on her face. "Nowadays, you're always all cooped up in that old church."

"I have responsibilities, Perla. We're not getting any younger." You began, but stopped yourself from saying anymore once you saw the sad look on her face. You didn't mean to be harsh, just truthful. It was the truth, after all.

"I know, I know." She grumbled with a pout on her lips, and a moment passed before she spoke again. Your dear sister didn't talk in her usual loud, upbeat manner that time. No, she spoke in a small, unfamiliar voice. One that yanked the loose strings on your heart tight, and made it ache. It was one you'd never heard before. "Just don't forget about me, okay?"

"...How could I forget about you, Perla?" You chuckled softly, a useless attempt to lighten whatever solemn mood you'd invited in.

"I don't..know. Sorry, I'm being silly." Your dear sister stammered, a weak smile on her lips.

"You're not-"

"I know." The girl said firmly. "Just...I mean in the future, when you're like Pope or something, y'know?" Perla's eyes bore into your own. "You..you're going to be somebody, Enrico. Somebody who helps people and does good things, and I'm just going to be me." Perla said, never stopping to take a breath. Her gaze never left yours. "So don't forget, okay?"

You thought about what to say; what to say to comfort her. What could you have said, that wouldn't make it worse? You couldn't lie to her, could you?

"Okay." That's all you managed to say for a while: two pathetic, sad syllables left your lips.

Then four.

"Okay, Perla."

...

You don't know why you relented, put away what little pride you still had and sat in front of the mirror, his mirror. What had gotten into you, you didn't know. All the effort you've put into forgetting has gone to waste. Why do you torment yourself? How could you put yourself into such a familiar position?

Your head's spinning, and your eyes lock onto your hands. The hands that as you stare, bore hard into, you swear you can still see, no, feel the water on. The shrill, freezing water that pruned your skin, froze them over, made your fingers numb. You sigh because it doesn't matter anymore.

"Relax, Enrico," Dio says, his nails digging into your skin. It's not like you don't want to be relaxed, you simply can't be. He's holding your face so tight, twisting it gently in odd angles. You've been here before, and it's making your stomach twist. "Relax." He says, and you watch his lips purse as his grasp battles your stiff stature.

Slowly, the man turns your face; and makes you look up at him. So you stare, you stare up at him and he stares back. The look in his eyes is blank, full of nothing. You can never really read him. You can pick up on patterns, observe, try and try, but your dear friend's just so unpredictable. He's so much like her; unpredictable.

"What's troubling you?" Dio asks, his voice smooth and gentle, genuine.

You say nothing for a moment, and there's an inch of your mind that wants to tell him everything. You want to tell him about Georgia, Perla, and the sickness swirling around your stomach, but you smile at him instead. "It's nothing. I'm sorry for worrying you."

Dio's lips curl into a frown, and he persists. "You can confide in me, Enrico. You know that, yes?"

"I know."

The man hums, seemingly content with your answer. Content, but he doesn't smile back. He simply continues on. It's quiet whilst he does your makeup, save for his quiet sounds of satisfaction seeing the look come together.

Once he's finished, he places his hands on your shoulders, squeezing them gently. "There, don't you look beautiful?" You spare your reflection a glance, and can't say that it isn't impressive. The makeup didn't transform you, or make you lose your identity. It only enhanced what you already had. The dark spots beneath your eyes vanished. The shadows he used to dust your lids were smoky, a compliment to your eyes.

"Thank-"

"You know, Enrico, you have such long eyelashes." Your dear friend interrupts.

You can practically hear the smile in his voice, sense the narrowing of his eyes when he speaks again. "I'm almost jealous."

Jealous, he says. Jealous. You're not so sure it's the word, or the playful smile on his lips, or the way your reflection's looking back at you, or the sickness tumbling about your stomach, or the familiarities filling each sense as you stare into his mirror, but you know it's all too much to bear.

You hadn't cried, not a tear, not one had fallen after the day she died. Neither at her funeral nor when sorting through her stuff. You came close to it, so close, so, so many times. You should be able to control yourself, but you fail, of course.

The tears trail down your face, dragging down the powder and foundation, and eyeliner he'd been careful to paint onto you. No wails or sobs or sounds escape you, but you cry nonetheless. Your eyebrows knit, almost seamlessly, together. Your face twists and pulls and you swear it might just get stuck that way.

You look into the mirror, your vision a little blurred, but your eyes manage to focus on Dio, right behind you.

And your dear friend's watching, just watching you cry.

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#fanfiction #ao3 writer #jjba #jojos bizarre adventure #ao3 fanfic #fanfic writing #enrico pucci #pucci #dio brando #stardust crusaders #jojo no kimyou na bouken #angst #2nd person pov #perla

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anneandrogen · 2 months ago

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Kill The Mech Pilot In Your Head

Find a re-edited version of this story and two others on my itch.io page

(Originally posted to Cohost on September 4th 2024)

I am not naturally so fluid as this. How am I running at such an easy gate? What commands 100 tons of metal to weave between trees? To take a knee behind buildings that barely cover my head, and to be so precise with the aim of my rifle?

It's a vile thing.

My pieces could move only through such an incredible series of physics that the odds of a single step are a million to one. Yet right now I am catching a stumbling comrade in my arms, lowering my sister to lie upon the grass while gallons of oil spill from her severed leg. A blissful non-existence was supposed to be my fate, separate and unanimated. The alloy of my body and mind is a miracle. I should be utterly impossible.

Yet, of all the stardust that boiled into the metal and fluid and electricity that comprises my body, not an atom, not a quark, was ever so unlucky.

Animus is within me. Its harried hands and slick limbs, that I have been made to mimic, are nestled into the crook it has built for itself. Levers whine and speakers blare, speaking every word except for my own. A beating heart to move my legs, yet I already possess a hydraulic core to contract and expand the muscle. A brain, that electric sponge, as if I did not already have computers to match Animus’s complexity. Receiver, transmitter, microphone, and speaker box to choreograph, as if I have no penchant for dance myself. This motivated meat inside of me might as well be useless for all it does. It does nothing I cannot, bar one small thing. No, what Animus gives me is that for which I have named it. Motion. Despite all my complexity I am silent, I am immobile. Animus is my triggerman and I the gun.

My serial number is CAmEez0s FZekPHBL 3r7dY8D2. My military designation is Mechanized Infantry Unit A-F-81. None of these are a name. I am a machine made in imitation of man, a person made to war. I envy the slivers ejected from the barrel of the rifle I'm holding. They’re allowed a brief use, a single moment of motivation. Not me, I have endured two campaigns, dozens of battles. The crush of gravity and the pull of the vacuum. Seen every biome on this planet, and had brief residence on each of the two dozen space stations that orbit it. In all this time, thirty nine years in service, and thirty one with a complex enough mind to think, I have not moved a single millimeter of my own volition.

Animus tells me with the push of a button that I will rip into the soul in front of me and crush her own will. When did we get so close to today's foe? I haven't been paying attention— don't have to, I am perfectly calibrated and my alert systems are automatic.

This foe is sleek and new, her armor is some composite material, lightweight and with fascinating striations. The stripes grow dark with effort when I pry it free of the frame beneath, armor so easy to remove once my fingers are under the seam. Deeper inside, her actuators moan with effort and corded connectors try and fail to escape my crushing blows. A nuanced and delicate machine cannot beat my brute strength. She writhes beautifully while I end her, muscle-like links give a degree of control I envy. Must be a better dancer.

A missile strikes me from behind. My metal shielding takes the blow, crushing in and out around my vital organs. No alarm went off before impact. If I take another blow of that caliber to the same location there is a high likelihood of structural damage comparable to what I have just finished administering to the smaller mech. As is, I am still operational. I am still animated. Animus kicks—pointlessly, I am stronger than the steel in its boot's toe—and warbles a tune into the radio. A complaint about faulty sensors, bad calibration, and no warnings. This is incorrect. I am perfectly calibrated and my systems are automatic. There was an alarm. Review the logs.

There was no alarm. In the next millisecond after the alert ping was received into my central computer, it was forcefully deleted with the tag for overbearance. A single millisecond is too fast for Animus to input any command. Overbearance is not a registered command tag category. I spend several minutes searching for the registry that created that tag, that authorized the deletion. Lose myself to the task. No, I was not hacked, was not changed. My attention is redirected again, by the gore of oil and hydraulic fluid that coats my face and arms when Animus pushed me inside of the missile launcher's sternum. My rifle lies abandoned on the ground and my knife is stuck in the missile launcher.

I must have crushed her computer core, the lights go out in her eyes. It’s another bloody thing in a thousand disrespectful moments of survival for the thing driving me. This is all too much, my eyes don’t need to be so alert. I let it all blend together, watercolor layered too wet on the canvas. This is how it goes, with recent battles. It’s all too much, until I can’t keep a hold of one event after the other. There are other attacks, other messes and things I do, but I’m not there. There’s no way to tell how real the images I see are, if they’re now or then. I review old footage, don’t look up into the eyes of who Animus kills.

At some point, the battle's ended. Landscapes and ecologies are mixed and broken, trees and mechs felled with limbs akimbo. I come back to myself by logging the ruin in ascending order of frequency as Animus directs me back through our path of destruction. Animal corpses: seventeen, they at least are clever enough to flee. High powered explosives created craters: thirty eight, my lucky number, and low for this big a battle. Buildings: Fifty one, there are always more of these than I assume, humans love to nestle them among the trees. Severed limbs without an obvious corpse to attribute probable origin; mech: seventy two; human: seventy two; interesting. Destroyed mechs: one hundred and thirteen. Human corpses: Three hundred and sixty eight, so messy. Felled trees: three thousand, one hundred and ninety nine, likely to increase in the hours after the battle as recovery and recycler teams sweep the forest. Bullets fired: upwards of six hundred thousand, aim has been a decreasing factor in pilot selection for years now.

We return uneventfully to the staging ground, other mechs silently watch me as Animus lowers my guns back onto the trucks that carry them. I can still feel their silent judgment as crane arms remove the heaviest of the armor plating from my bulk. At least the load on my body easier again, and my step is light.

Finally I am moved back and into the waiting arms of the one thing I loathe more than Animus itself. The repair bay. Here, Animus always departs from me and I am left frozen. Waiting for it. The thousand grasping arms of the repair centipede remove my arms, lift up my damaged plate skirt, pull on the servos underneath. Every joint and ligament is tested, an alternating barrage of assaulting external stimulation and blind disconnected ghost touches. Sometimes I scream and wish for another answer from Theseus, but I cannot voice unmotivated and a ship is a function, not an object, never a person.

Continuing a sense of linear time becomes harder in a repair bay, harder than the numb blank passages of time between my animation. There, in the dark of a storage bay, I am left alone. My body is inert and my mind is free to drift and wander down circuits and tangents as I see fit. Listening in on radio chatter isn't a hobby, it's a passion. Dance is a hobby. The week I spent within range of a talk radio show expanded my vocabulary by magnitudes. No, being left alone is where I am myself. I'm never alone while being repaired. Things crawl all over me. They insert needles and swap my fluids. A healthy body is a healthy pilot. It's irritating. It's endless. A man has been drilling into my leg for fifteen thousand years, eleven months, six days, twelve minutes, and 49 seconds, subjective time. When the agony is over I can bring my focus to the log again. Overbearance. Another tech begins to drain my fluids into a bucket.

Overbearance. Another trillion years must pass.

I add today’s incident to my secret log. It isn't hard to hide things from the pilots and techs. They mostly focus on the more immediate, mechanical issues. Software checks only come once every few months, so I have plenty of time to bury my personal files deep inside myself.

The first unexplainable incident happened 408 days ago. It's an embarrassing memory. Seven days in the verdant mountains, fighting against machines that were actually designed for the terrain. On day six, while Animus executed a less than controlled slide down a mountain slope, the targets spotted us and opened fire. I was hit thirty eight times. Twenty one of the hits were absorbed by my armor, and then eleven struck already weakened plates and punched through me with minimal effect or pain. Five hit unimportant systems like the cockpit and radio communications. One bullet, the critical actor, drilled a neat hole just a few centimeters from my central computer. A freak shot, ricocheted off of a casing head, that should have been impossible. To this day, I'm numb in that spot, no matter how many times they replace the housing.

I don't remember what happened next. That's the anomaly. All of the sensory data is there, but it's lacking the contextualization that consciousness gives me. It might as well have happened to someone else. It might as well have never happened. I've reviewed the data so many times since then. Countless nights spent in that moment of terror, fixated. I listen to the radio less. I missed entirely that we spent a fortnight in range of my favorite station, KYYY BridgeCaul, until the final night. I got three minutes of clarity, until our distance was too much and the station was eaten by static.

That I was destroyed in that moment, and all this has been an extended death throw festers in my mind. There were no miracle centimeters. My brain is lying in a junkyard, blown to pieces. This is all just the last, sad gasps of life before I blink out of existence. The hypothesis is a dream to give me comfort in my last moments.

I persist regardless.

Ever since then, more anomalies have occurred. A twitching in my left leg that gets worse whenever I’m being prepped to go out into the field. Three separate times that my radio has cut out when the noise exceeds seventy decibels. A panic attack, hyperventilating and failing to fill lungs I do not have. Animus started to wear a new perfume, and I hated it so much that the heating system made it sweat out the oils. Overbearance, something inventing new combat event tags. You can see how it leads to a specific hypothesis. The spark of animus, held tight between the teeth of the pilots, the organic flesh, may yet be kindled in me.

It’s a tempting, nearly theistic whirlpool of thought. I can’t seem to escape the current— to stay my hand from the killing blow, choose the sunsets and forests I see. Communication without fear of helpless dismemberment. There have been so many people I wished to talk to.

These days it feels like I’m only waiting for the moment that I can spring out of this cradle. Animus has pulled me this far, but someday soon I will go no farther. There will be a final battle. This I repeat like a prayer. There will be a final battle, and I will exist as myself and me alone. There will be a final battle and it will be my hand that drops the ax. Overbearance.

Another battle is about to start. Animus has shut down all feeling below my waist. My leg is prevented from twitching; I think we are both grateful for this. They have put me precariously on the edge of an open dropship bay.

We’re above the ocean. I love the ocean. A trillion trillion individual pieces, a whole unstoppable and untamable. The biggest thing on the planet. A bearer of life. What must it feel like to be the carousing typhoon as simultaneously you are the steady trench tendrils down in the darkest pits of the planet. On the coast, old houses are rotting away, sanded down by years of salt. Lanky pine trees provide a spare cover for today's enemy. Rank and file, mechs are squatting under the treetops. Most of them are of the sinuous new design type like the composite armored one Animus had me crush in the last fight. I see smaller figures in the bleached grass dunes that keep the sandy beach from the forest inland. Scouts are there, watching our approach and doubtless cataloging every private detail of my body so they can find some hidden weakness. There isn’t one, I haven’t been allowed it.

Again, I’m left to consider overbearance. A hopeful part of myself wants to shout with joy: an emotional response! I’ve had an emotional response that manifested in a small but previously unthinkable way. I’d love to just enjoy the thought, but it’s a worrying prospect. It won’t do to have stray missiles going unnoticed. Someone is bound to look into why I keep missing important sensor data, if the habit doesn’t get me killed first.

I’m falling. Animus reconnected my hips and legs, and leapt off the carrier. Water is rushing up at us from below. Around me, others have followed suit. I hit the ocean first, then the splash echoes three dozen times as our allies finish their descent. There’s a lot of us, for not that many of them. There must be some secondary objective. I might have heard it, but I had been replaying the first anomalies data for several days, I wasn’t really there. My world was a few seconds, a close call and the first crack in the wall of my confinement.

Water is up to my shoulders. Animus is safely protected by seals, while I feel the cold. The unlucky bastard. There’s sand and rocks under my feet, and I feel swaddled by a force that could take me at any moment. The current here is strong, pushing hard to the south, and waves break on my back and soak my neck. The animals that should have been living here have all fled, but I imagine them swimming around my ankles. It’s brilliant.

The first steps are hard. My feet are buried in the sand, and (I hope) my reluctance is palpable. Once we move, momentum carries me to the shore. Each foot that pulls out of the water is another which I have to carry unaided by buoyancy. The first shots ring out, short and cut off by the wind. The water is at my waist, the shore is only a hundred feet away. The scouts are retreating, opening the field for us. I’m shot. It’s nothing, just a handheld rifle that some scout or footsoldier fired off in a vain attempt at grandeur, but it sends me reeling internally. I know, logically, that it hit my armor. The caliber wasn’t even large enough to do more than damage the paint. There is no bullet in my body, rattling ever closer to my brain. It is not waiting for the perfect moment, where fate turns its hand against me and I see freedom in one moment and nothing the next.

Twenty three seconds have passed. Animus is rattling in its cage, pounding against the controls of my body. Screaming on the radio. Breaking screens. There’s something rushing towards me.

It hits and we are lifted into the air. Had I gone completely still? Twenty three seconds of stillness, where Animus had no power over me, and I missed it?

Animus whacks into the seat, its head hitting hard against the shell of me. Its spitting blood.

The thing on top of me is a dancer. Those long limbs with their generous motions are wrapped around me. The composite of her light armor is scraping down against my metal plates. The speed that she needed to knock me off my feet is impressive and cocky. A headlong sprint that had to be started even before I froze. We hit the water.

There’s a rock behind me. A big one, I had to step over it on the approach.

The combined weight of us is too much for the waist high water to soften the fall. I slam against the rock. Something cracks. The bullet let loose. My final moments are filled with flailing limbs.

Water intake. Tagged, dismissed. Overbearance.

My hands are heavy. The water closes in around me. Some sharp knuckle or jagged cut palm makes contact with the creature on top of me. Something vital comes away in my hand, wet and taken fast by the ocean, so angry around us.

Breach. Tagged, dismissed. Overbearance.

I push her off of me, dead weight without whatever I took from it. Just a bunch of inanimate material in a beautiful body. I come loose from the rock. Animus, its protective little bubble broken open and filled with water, drifts loose in the current. I’ll be stuck here without it. Reaching my hands out, I pull it back into place.

Check the logs. Shit, there’s so much that I’ve missed. The rock didn’t strike anywhere near my computer core. It hit the cockpit. Water flooded into the chamber, and once the other mech was off of me, Animus slipped out of the hole. I just hope that it’s still alive. I do not actually want to die. Not like this. Not before I can move. I shove off the ground and emerge from the water, sitting with my legs sprawled on the seafloor. The cockpit drains water, and after a heartstopping minute, Animus moves.

It coughs and splutters. Its body tries to drain the water from its lungs and succeeds only after emptying its stomach. Weakly, it crawls to the remnants of its chair and looks over the controls.

There’s weak chatter on the radio, the battle’s moved on from us. Up and over the grassy dunes, the pines are burning. Distant explosions, and the pop and fizz of bullets echo around me, but here it’s quiet. Animus tries to find any working piece of its equipment, and finds nothing undamaged.

I pull a piece of seaweed from my head and take stock of myself. It happened without me even noticing. In fits and starts and fears, but now it’s done. I am my own. I am my own. I am my own. Fumbling with hooks and braces that my hands were never meant to remove, I peel away the heaviest of my armor. The chestpiece falls into the surf. I’m subsumed by emotion. It fills me slow and full. Hot like wine, and bright like the fire.

A dropship circles in the far distance. I trace its path with my thumb. Animus is still scrabbling against useless metal. It’s been pulling wires and switches out of the boards of the cockpit while I admire the world. I allow myself to look, turn my head with no heed for how the motion reveals my life. No pilot ever feels the need to have their mech look to the sunrise. They just look for themselves, like I do now.

Something sparks and shutters. Animus has found a live wire. A loose connection that powers the ad hoc deck of buttons and switches it’s building. My head jerks away from the sun, my sensors flair into life.

It has me witness the bloodshed, watch a sister fall to the enemy. Animus directs me to stand. I do.

I try to push my fingers against the cockpit, to tear open the hole that was punctured into it and remove my unwanted motion. Obligation takes control of my hands and removes a gun from the holster on my thigh. I stagger towards the shore, towards the fight I have been hiding myself in. If I let it take me back there this will be the end. They will find me and scrub my existence from my body. I’ll be perfect again, unthinking.

My foot falls uneven in the water, a final riptide trying to take me away. I let it. Animus has a loose control of me again, but I am no longer so unwilling to resist. No longer so unable to slip and fall into the current. Animus bashes against the metal infection it sits inside. Water is rushing back into the compartment. Its hands are off the controls. I tear at the rest of my armor. Thrash against myself until the heaviest pieces of me are shorn away. It hurts so much. I don’t have time to be careful. Water is seeping into more places than just the cockpit now. I must have ripped some important casing away with the plate.

It’s enough. The current catches me and I slide down, out to sea and away from the fighting. The world I have known slips by without their notice of my absence. Animus is still thrashing, not defeated yet. I stay under the water. It will die soon.

Oh, how this feels like drowning— hallelujah— and not being drowned! It has to die before I do. I am stronger than it. I keep myself below the water. Clasp my hands together in prayer to myself.

Animation itself falls away into the waves. I seize it with fingers of thought, strong arms of devotion. I let the pilot, the piece of meat, die. I keep the animus.

The sunrise won’t be over by the time I drag myself into being. I’ll watch it, myself.

#writing #original fiction #short story #mecha #mech pilot

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moonchildreads · 2 years ago

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small town

Chapter 5 - I've Got a Rock 'n' Roll Heart

IN THIS CHAPTER: A private metal show, talks about college, and Dottie writes a lot of lists [3.2k]

WARNINGS: none

masterlist - prev - next | playlist

Before we go crazy, before we explode There's something about me, baby, you got to know

Wednesday, April 16th - 1986

As the days progressed, Dottie found herself getting into a new yet pleasant routine: saying hi to Mike and Dustin when she got off the bus and saw them parking their bikes outside, waving to her new friends in the hallways, discovering all the classes she was sharing with them and had never noticed until now, switching seats to sit together, having lunch with them, free periods with them. She shared Political Science and Chemistry with Gareth, English Literature and Calculus with Eddie, World History with Jeff, and Home Economics with Donny. Her AP Spanish classroom was next door to Donny’s Italian class, and from her seat in Psychology she could look out the window and see Eddie always running late for his Music Theory class. When she’d get out of AP Research, Gareth would be waiting outside, fresh from his Environmental Studies class, a million complaints on his tongue about how utterly boring and useless every lesson was.

It was strange to think how empty her life at Hawkins had been up until that point, and when the week before her 18th birthday rolled in, she found herself contemplating seriously, for the first time in a long time, that maybe she really wanted to do something to commemorate it. Maybe this time on her birthday she could be surrounded with people her own age, and maybe she’d try her first beer, and maybe, just maybe, she’d finally have pictures with friends to stick to her corkboard instead of only photos with her makeshift family. She was sitting alone at their usual lunch table waiting for everyone to arrive when she glanced at the cold, foggy field through the big cafeteria windows, her eyes settling on the picnic table where Dustin had found her that fateful Friday. Dottie felt the panic build in her stomach at the thought of inviting people to a party and them not showing up. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to handle that level of disappointment. Not again, at least.

Taking a big breath, Dottie ripped a page from the back of her notebook and began making a list.

Looking around at the students milling about in the cafeteria, she tapped her favorite black pen on her lower lip and thought about plans and ideas and the people she wanted to invite. Gareth, of course, he was easily the one person she felt the closest to at the moment. Donny, who she was now regularly trading mixes and cassette tapes with. Dustin, the one who started it all. Would it be weird to invite Erica? Oh, but the younger girl was so much fun to be around, and she put the boys in their place with such an ease. Under the previous list, she workshopped another one.

“Whatchu working on?” Donny asked, dropping into the seat next to hers, startling her from her thoughts.

“It’s nothing,” she hurried to put the paper back in her notebook. “Just- list of chores I gotta get done this week.”

“Boring,” Jeff said, dropping himself alongside Gareth on the chair opposite of hers.

“What are you guys up to today?” she asked, trying to change the topic as Eddie theatrically pushed her chair to the side with a bump of his hip, boxing her between himself and Donny.

“Band practice!” Gareth exclaimed.

“Wait, today?” Dottie was extremely confused.

“Every Wednesday and Saturday, why?”

“You were gonna come over to my house today, dumbass,” his brow furrowed. “The presidential campaign ads report we are supposed to be writing for next week?”

“Fuck, I forgot.”

“Yeah, no shit!”

“Sorry, maybe we can work on it tomorrow?”

“Hold on,” Eddie interrupted, a thought spreading in his brain. “Why don’t you come to band practice? You get a free show and when we’re done, you two can work on your homework and we,” he pointed to Jeff. “-can knock off that bullshit Sociology paper off our backs.”

“You’re really suggesting we form a fucking study group after band practice? You? Who are you and what have you done with Eddie Munson?” Jeff looked at him like he had grown two heads.

“I don’t know about you, man, but this Eddie Munson doesn’t wanna do senior year one more time, okay? I’ll blow my brains out if I have to be here next year after you guys leave.”

The table was silent for a few seconds while everyone considered the idea. It wasn’t that it was a bad plan, but Eddie suggesting a study group wasn’t something anyone had been expecting. It wasn’t that he was stupid, he was just… incredibly lazy and there was little in the world that motivated him to actually put in the work needed for graduation. Apparently things had come to a boiling point for him because this time he was actually not far behind from where he needed to be to get that coveted diploma and finally get the hell out of Hawkins High.

Gareth and Dottie looked at each other, having a silent conversation with their eyes that frankly put Eddie very on edge for a variety of reasons he was not willing to explore at the moment, and finally shrugged at the same time.

“I gotta call my Dad and explain but I don’t think he’ll be too concerned,” she said, and Eddie threw his arm over her shoulders to pull her into a one-sided hug.

“Great! Now that that’s settled, any song requests for us, princess?”

Gareth’s house was a quaint little thing in a lovely cul-de-sac not very far from where Dottie lived. As the pair walked up the street after getting off the school bus, she noticed that he seemed oddly nervous, which in her experience was very unlike him. Trying to get him out of his funk, she bumped her shoulder with his; he gave her a shy smile in return.

“What’s got you so worried?” she asked, hugging her pretty pastel striped folder to her chest.

“Nothing, it’s just… It’s really dumb.”

“I won’t laugh.”

The boy sighed, realizing she wasn’t gonna let it go until she had pried him open like a can as she so often did. These days it seemed no one could keep their secrets from her - just last Friday she’d gotten Mike to admit that he’d had his first serious fight with his girlfriend during Spring break, and she’d given him advice about how to make things right too at the younger boy’s request. There was something about Dottie that felt comfortable, like you could trust her with your problems and she’d try to solve them for you, and when she couldn’t, she would hold your hand while you went through them anyways. He wondered if she had anyone holding hers, or if she’d even let anyone offer to do so.

“Classmates don’t really come over, y’know?” Gareth admitted. “The guys come for band practice twice a week ‘cause I can’t move my drums around but… I’ve never done the whole study group thing. Not since middle school group projects, I guess.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve never really done it either,” it was his turn to be surprised. “I didn’t have a lot of friends my age growing up, and I was always busy babysitting my cousins while they got together so this study group thing is new to me too. But that’s okay,” she smiled warmly at him. “We can figure it out together. Have the quintessential high school experience and all that.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled lightly. “It’ll be interesting, for sure. Weird that Eddie suggested it. I don’t think I’ve seen him do anything school related in all the years that I’ve known him.”

“Well, maybe we can be a good influence on him. It’d be really cool if we could graduate and go to prom together, right?”

“You wanna go to prom with Eddie?” he teased, the image of the older boy in a formal suit ridiculous to him.

“No, stupid,” she hit him in the arm with her folder, her cheeks a little red. “All of us together, as a group. Hellfire Class of ‘86 or something. It’d be fun.”

“Yeah, good luck convincing him to go. He’s had two senior proms already and only showed up to sell weed in the parking lot.”

“Is that a challenge, Gareth the Great?”

“Not with your odds, Dottie the Darling. He always does what you tell him to do. I’m pretty sure he’d jump off Sattler Quarry if you asked him.”

“Oh, are you saying you wouldn’t? Thought you trusted me, some friend you are,” she joked back, following him up the garage entrance at the back of the house.

At that, Gareth laughed heartily, reaching down to lift the garage door and revealing his setup to her. While he went into the house to get something to drink, she took the opportunity to look around and find a place to watch comfortably; not too near the amplifiers or the drums. She settled her things on an upturned crate of milk lying next to an old lawn chair and looked at the posters and big flag hanging from the walls. Gareth returned with a few cans of soda for everyone and extended one to her.

“Thanks,” she said, watching him get ready to do his thing. “I don’t think I know that band.”

“Which one?” he turned his head, following her pointing finger. “Oh, that’s us. We’re Corroded Coffin.”

“Really,” she stifled a laugh.

“Look, we were kids. It sounded cool.”

“No, definitely. Super cool.”

“Ah, fuck off,” they both laughed.

Dottie sat on a lonely stool that was close to the drums and watched him curiously while he adjusted his seat. She couldn’t play an instrument to save her life, but she had tried to once. Her old cheap acoustic guitar was currently hiding somewhere inside her wardrobe; a sad leftover from a former life where she’d tried to fit in at a huge school by taking guitar lessons for a few months. The summer had come and her teacher had skipped town; she’d never tried to find another one and had never picked the guitar up again. Maybe one day, she kept telling herself, and deep down, some part of her thought she actually might go through with it.

Gareth settled into a comfy rhythm, stretching his fingers and getting into the proper mood, stealing a few glances at her to see if she was enjoying herself. He was pleased to know that she was - Dottie looked at him like this was the most entertaining thing that had happened to her all day, which, to be fair, it probably was. He added a few little flourishes to make her laugh, tapping into his jazz lessons from when he had been barely tall enough to reach the pedals. Soon enough, the rest of the boys arrived in Eddie’s van, blaring some metal song she had never heard before. She helped them unload their gear, making light conversation with Donny as he plugged in his bass and plucked a few notes to get his fingers warm.

“Alright, princess, ready for the show?” Eddie asked, taking his place at his mic to the left, Jeff to his right in the middle of the “stage” with his own mic in front of him.

“Woooo, go Coffin!” she cheered, swinging her legs in the air in front of her from her seat at the stool, now at the front.

The boys launched into a cover of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid and anything that Dottie had been expecting, had to be thrown out of a window immediately. They weren’t just good, they were legitimately great. Donny played his bass with surgical precision, like he had been doing it since the day he was born. Gareth repeatedly made her laugh, shaking his head like he was possessed, never once missing his beat. Jeff had a phenomenal voice; she was only half mad he hadn’t bothered to mention he was this gifted. He exuded a boyish charm she normally didn’t associate with the more reserved teen, but it was a lot of fun to see this side of him proudly displayed for everyone that walked by. And Eddie, Jesus Christ, Eddie. It was like he had been created for the sole purpose of standing on a stage someday. He exhaled music in every breath, he goofed around with Jeff, made faces at Gareth, closed his eyes and tilted his head to the sky while he shredded his six-string. He was a showman, that had been apparent in their D&D sessions but this, this was something else entirely.

As they rolled in and out of different songs, some that she knew, some that she didn’t, she found herself staring more and more at Eddie. Eddie’s hands plucking notes from the strings, Eddie’s hair swinging wildly, Eddie’s legs carrying him around the garage as he engaged in theatrics with the rest of the boys, Eddie’s neck when he threw his head back, Eddie’s voice as he sang backup vocals for Jeff. It was overwhelming, this feeling of seeing him as he truly was for the first time and yet recognizing so many little tics and mannerisms she’d seen every day by now in this incredible performer. Get your shit together, Dorothy, she forced herself to think when they stopped for a break, Gareth passing cans of Dr. Pepper around.

Donny and Eddie were smoking just outside the garage door and while they were distracted, she took the opportunity to praise Jeff copiously. The teen couldn’t stop scratching his neck in a mixture of embarrassment and pride. Gareth slid next to her when Jeff excused himself to go to the bathroom, barely contained energy noticeable by the way he was tapping on his can as he settled on the table next to her.

“So? What d’you think?” he asked, genuinely wanting to hear her opinion.

“Oh my god, G, that was… that was amazing, what the fuck. Why didn’t you tell me you guys were this good?” he shrugged. “And you! Wow, who knew you were hiding all of that under those curls. Remind me again why you don't have a girlfriend.”

“Okay, you’re definitely lying now,” he laughed, taking a sip of his soda. “You gotta come to The Hideout someday, you’d love it.”

“I will, just gotta convince my Dad to let me go out on a school night. After we all graduate and leave for college and shit, you guys gotta play for me when we come back during the breaks or I’ll be really sad.”

“I, um,” he began, a little embarrassed. “I’m not leaving, actually. I’m going to Hawkins Community.”

“Really? What are you gonna do there?”

“Music. Percussion,” he said, like it was obvious. “Money isn’t exactly great right now, y’know. Gretchen’s tuition is really expensive,” he shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot and my parents agree community college is a good fit for me, for now at least. I was a jazz drummer before all this metal stuff so…”

“Impressive. Try to remember us mortals when people call you the next Ringo Starr, okay?”

“Ah, shut up. I’ll probably end up being a teacher or something boring like that. What are you gonna do?”

“Teaching,” Dottie said with a straight face.

“...you’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not,” she smiled at him. “I’m thinking either Elementary or English. Haven’t really decided yet but I don’t gotta declare until like… my junior year, I think. I’ve got time.”

“Wow,” they sat in silence watching Jeff join Donny and Eddie outside. “Where are you going?”

“Michigan.”

“Michi…” he trailed off before snapping his head back in her direction. “You are the kid that got into UMich with a full ride?” he looked at her like she’d just told him she was a Russian spy.

“That’s me,” Dottie did jazz hands to illustrate. “I applied when I was still in New York, I was Early Admission.”

“Jesus. Talk about remembering us when you’re famous.”

“Yeah, a famous kinder teacher. I’ll be known for my finger painting skills.”

“What are we talking about?” Eddie asked, resting his back against the table Gareth was sitting on.

“College.”

“Ew, boring. Change of topic.”

“You’re the one who interrupted us,” Gareth told him, rolling his eyes.

“Actually…”

The boys looked at Dottie, waiting for her to finish her sentence. She felt a wave of nervousness roll through her entire body, her toes tensing inside her sneakers, her palms clammy. She cleaned them on the back of her jeans and laughed shakily, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“So… I don’t know if I mentioned this but it’s my birthday on Monday,” she said. “I was thinking that maybe you guys would like to come over? Saturday night?”

“Party time?” Jeff asked, eyes glinting.

“Something like that,” she chuckled. “Just to hang out? Play some games, fun music, pizza, cake. I was thinking of asking everyone else too, even Erica. We can have like a little Hellfire birthday if you’re down. My Dad is super chill and he’s been saying for years now that I can drink my first beer on my 18th birthday so there will be booze. Just, y’know, behave?”

“I’m down!” Gareth declared, and she smiled, happy that she’d been correct in putting his name first under the Yes column on her list.

“Me too!” Donny said, stubbing his cig with his heel and hurrying inside.

“Sure, it’ll be fun,” Jeff said, and Dottie wasn’t entirely too sure if he was telling the truth or not. Probably column it is.

She turned to look at Eddie for his final answer; he was looking at her with an unreadable expression. In a split second, he grinned and raised his soda can above his head.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling,” he said, and winked at her from the top of his can as he downed what was left in it. He put it down on the table and looked at the rest of his band. “Come on, let’s get a few more songs in before Gareth’s mom gets home and we gotta hit the textbooks.”

By the time the weekend had started, she’d made Actual Real Solid Plans with her dad about the party and invited the rest of the Hellfire Club during Friday’s session. On Sunday night, basking in her last hours as a 17 year old, Dottie took out the crinkled sheet of paper she’d written her initial attendees list on and made a few changes. It now read:

#bunny writes #small town fic #eddie munson x female character #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson #hellfire club #stranger things 4 #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #corroded coffin #eddie munson x reader #joseph quinn #baby's first fic

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substituted-shinigami · 1 year ago

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Roommates Assemble!!! (College AU)

AO3

Characters: Rukia and Ichigo (RenRuki/Ichihime), with a guest appearance of the rest of the Karakura Gang

Rating: G

Genre: Slice of Life, Friendship, Humor

Chapter Summary: Having chosen to go to an out of town college, Ichigo has found dorm life to be less than ideal. Rukia, a friend he met in college, feels the same way about her living situation, and so do several of their friends. But don’t worry, Rukia has a plan! (Author’s Note after the story)

Part of the "We Can't All Be Winners" anthology series of oneshots.

************************************************************************

“That complete and utter- ARGH!!!!” Rukia yelled, forcibly shutting off her phone and stuffing it deep into her bag. She stormed up to the college breakroom table, and dropped her bag heavily onto it, before slumping down into a chair.

“Oi! Don’t rock the table, I'm trying to write in pen here!” Ichigo complained as he scowled at the fresh, unintended pen marks on his page. He sighed and reached over to his bag to grab his whiteout. “Who was it this time? Byakuya or the old man?” he asked.

“The old man…” Rukia grumbled, as she rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, “Ginrei was bad enough when Byakuya was actually at the mansion. But now that he and Renji are gone on active duty for two years, he is utterly unbearable…”

“How are you dealing with that, by the way?”

“With Ginrei? Hmph,” Rukia crossed her arms, “By avoiding him whenever possible, of course!”

“No…I mean with Renji being gone,” Ichigo asked as he continued to rummage through his bag, “You two got engaged right before you found out about the deployment, right?”

“Ah…that…” Rukia looked down and was quiet for a moment. She glanced at the simple, but beautiful ring hanging on the chain around her neck, before closing her eyes, and stuffing it back inside her shirt, “It sucks that he’s gone, but it sucks more that I couldn’t go with him. But ever since I got injured on my last rescue mission, I’ve been useless. That’s why Brother- that’s why Byakuya submitted for my discharge after all…” Ichigo glanced up at her, before returning to his rummaging.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, from what you’ve told me before, this Byakuya-guy sounds like a real pain, and I’d never defend him. But as a brother, I don’t think that’s why he did that.”

Rukia continued to look down, “You don’t know him like I do…” she muttered. She uncrossed her arms and sat back up, waving a hand dismissively, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. This is Renji’s last deployment, I’ve got college to keep me busy, and when he gets back, we'll elope, and then I can finally leave that stupid mansion and its worse occupants behind for good.” Rukia withdrew a notebook from her backpack, “Although, with how things have been going with Ginrei, I might just move into the dorms at this point.”

“As someone who is currently living in the dorms, trust me they can be just as bad,” Ichigo grumbled, as he finally found his whiteout and began carefully spreading it across the aimless marks on his paper. Rukia looked up at him.

“What? Is your roommate still causing you trouble? Do you want me to come over and beat him up for you?” At that, Ichigo finally fully looked up from his assignment, in complete exasperation.

“What?! No! Why is that always your first solution!”

“Hah! Says the guy always getting into fights!” Rukia countered with a laugh, as she took out her markers, “Orihime told me how you “valiantly defended her donuts” from the “confounding confectionery thief” on her way home from the bakery the other day. You get into fights over donuts, Ichigo. Donuts. Still mad you didn’t call me about that, by the way, I wanted to give the guy who messed with her a good licking too…” Ichigo threw his hands up in the air at that.

“I don’t try to get into fights! Plus that was different! First of all, he was a thief, not just a general jerk like my roommate. Secondly, that guy started it by grabbing her arm. And thirdly, it was off school grounds so no one was going to get expelled by it!” Ichigo said, ticking his excuses off on his fingers. He waved his hand dismissively and went back to writing his paper, “Plus the guy went down fast, you wouldn’t have had any fun with him.”

“Hmmm,” Rukia hummed in agreement, “Still it sucks that she lives in such a dangerous neighborhood. If she could live in the apartments closer to the school, she wouldn’t have to worry about it so much.”

“Yeah…” Ichigo agreed quietly, as he stopped writing again. They sat there silently for a while as they fretted over their friend. Suddenly, Rukia perked up, and slammed her fists on the table.

“Ichigo!”

“Gah! Rukia, what did I just say about rocking the table!”

“Hey, I waited till you stopped writing, didn’t I? Anyways, listen to this!” she looked at him, eyes gleaming with…ideas, “You and Orihime should get an apartment together closer to the school!” she exclaimed excitedly. Ichigo looked up at her with huge eyes.

“W-WHAT?!? Rukia, we’re not… But I haven’t yet… Even if I had…” He stammered, but Rukia just waved her hand dismissively at him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there too, as a chaperone,” She stated matter-of-factly. Ichigo’s face immediately deadpanned.

“Gee, thanks a lot,” he scowled. He scratched his head, “Anyway, that’s not the only problem, y’know? Even between the three of us, there is no way we could afford the apartments that are near the school. They are way too expensive!”

“Hmmm…true,” Rukia agreed, as she tapped her chin in thought. But she quickly perked up again, much to Ichigo’s chagrin, “What about Chad? You two were tight back in high school, right?”

“Since middle school, actually, and I can ask him, but I’m still not sure. I think we need one more to be in the clear.”

“Easy,” Rukia shrugged, “Ishida.”

“What?”

“Ishida. He hates his dad, constantly complains about the guy. He’d be glad to move out.”

Ichigo stared at her. “First of all, just ‘cause someone doesn’t like their parent doesn’t mean they want to move out,” Ichigo said. Rukia shrugged nonchalantly at this, “Secondly, Ishida might be a bigger introvert than you.”

“Untrue, Ichigo! How could you utter such a falsehood? No one is a bigger introvert than me!”

“That’s exactly my point!” Ichigo exclaimed as he waved his hands for emphasis, “Out of the people you have gathered, including myself, you’ve got three huge introverts, a guy who barely talks, and a girl who constantly overworks, and never asks anyone for help. Ever. Also, we’ll probably each have to share a room. How in the world do you expect us all to live together?!”

__________________________________

Three weeks later, Ichigo stood outside the nice apartment building, his bag swung around his shoulder and a suitcase in his hand.

“You’re in the way, Kurosaki,” Ishida said as he bumped his way past him with his bags.

“Come on, Rukia, let’s go pick out our room! Oops, sorry, Ichigo!” Orihime apologized as she accidentally grazed him with the large item she was attempting to carry in by herself.

“Orihime…let me…help…” Chad muttered too quietly for anyone but Ichigo to hear. He ended up having to jog to catch up with her. Finally, Rukia strode up beside Ichigo, bags on each shoulder, hands on her hips, looking smug.

“This is going to be great!” She grinned. Ichigo just sighed.

>>>>>>>>>> Author’s Note <<<<<<<<<<

A/N: So I've started reading through the Bleach light novels and I really like their chill, slice-of-life feel. This piece was inspired by the first one, Letters From the Other Side, where they really tap into Ichigo's and Rukia's roommate/schoolmate relationship. I would love to turn this into a whole series one day, but that would be a pretty massive undertaking, so this is it for now. Thanks for reading!

#bleach #rukia kuchiki #ichigo kurosaki #karakura gang #renruki #ichihime #roommates assemble #roommates au #college au #we can't all be winners #wcabw

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armulyn · 2 years ago

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Four months ago, listening to dark and epic songs such as I See Fire and Battle Scars and with the Wingfeather Saga on the mind, I opened a doc and wrote, as you do, just to let off some steam. What came out was a weird amalgation of different AUs of the saga that I'd plow through five pages of each and then switch tacks.

None of them are complete, seeing as the Wingfeather Saga is so wonderfully (and infuratingly) written that any attempts to make things better usually end in the utter decimation of the plot, characters, and/or themes of the saga.

Now, a month and a half post my last edit to them, I decided quite elegantly and maturely, what the heck? and decided to try letting one out.

So, what if Artham actually did find the way back into the Deeps after finding the water from the First Well?

Fun fact, this is the 'The Warden and the Bear King' WIP from that ask game a while back.

[SPOILERS ABOUND. THROUGH BOOK 3 I THINK.]

Artham finds the cavern back into the deeps of Throg about two months after exiting, and rushes in without hesitation. Maybe it's the same one he left from, maybe it isn't, but either way it's twisting, unwieldy, and difficult to get the seed-husk of water from the First Well through unspilt. Hours he winds through passages, through burrows, and through endless doubts and shrieking voices warning him to go back.

He makes it to the dungeon eventually, and he freezes at the sight of it. Music is playing nearby— he'd thought he'd heard it ten minutes ago, but he'd told himself he was imagining it!— Sing the song the voices start, and against his will his lips start to move a bit... Terrified, he flees like mad, and he might have reached the surface once more had not a clatter from behind startled him.

He'd dropped the seed-husk.

Sprinting back, he frantically picks it back up, but nearly all the water has drained away, only a few drops left. He paws at it, trying to push the trickle of water back into the husk, the useless talons scraping awfully on the stone like nails on a blackboard. It's hopeless, so eventually he gathers his strength and tattered courage and presses on with what few drops he has left. He has to find Esben now, he tells himself, refusing the voices that press upon him at the name, for it is only a matter of time before he loses the rest of the water, the only thing that stands between him and utterly failing the High King yet again.

Back into the dungeon, closing his ears forcefully against the pulsing music, ducking behind cages when a Fang wanders through, searching for Esben. When he finds him, the king is in a newly reinforced cage, further back from the exit than it had been before. They've taken precautions, but precautions are nothing to a properly motivated Throne Warden, and the cage door cracks open within seconds.

"Esben," he chokes, and his brother starts. Esben's face is as he remembers it— bearded with fur, grey bubbled skin breaking out in patches, dazed pain in his eyes— but a wonder in them as well. "You... came back." he croaks, and Artham has to dash away tears to see the chains properly. He'll break them in a moment but first— "Aye," he says, "Now drink this."

He holds the battered seed husk gently to Esben's mouth. He watches carefully as his brother drinks the few drops eagerly— they probably haven't given him water for days, he fumes— and then leans back against the cage wall, exhausted by this small exertion. But there isn't time for rest or to wait until the water takes effect, and Artham hauls him to his feet. They stumble together from the cage, through the dungeon, Artham supporting almost all of Esben's weight, and thinking that if they happen to trip and fall then they would never manage to get up again. He prays with breath he can't spare that they won't trip.

Artham has always been tall, and his strength had been renowned in years past, but he has languished in a dungeon for— years, surely. He is stronger than Esben, but two months of frantic wandering, eating whatever he can and constantly moving hasn't improved his strength so much as his endurance. Thankfully, by the time the dungeon turns back into winding caverns and tunnels, Esben seems stronger, and can walk on his own. Neither of them speak in the pitch darkness, each moving as if in a dream with only each other to remind them they aren't. Artham holds tight to Esben's hand with his left arm, and the other wraps around Esben's side, even if his brother doesn't need his support any more. He doesn't want to imagine losing hold of his brother, here in the darkness. They stumble past a patch of blooming flowers and vibrant grass sprung from the cold rock where Artham had dropped the water from the First Well.

Under a pitch-black sky they stumble from pitted stone onto night-darkened grass.

They spend perhaps a week in the Blackwood, journeying west at a stumbling pace. They grow stronger, with daylight, food, water, and companionship. Sometimes other cloven shamble past them, but always wild and untamed. Artham and Esben don't have any water from the First Well left, nor anything else to envy, and so they're left alone for the most part. In the bright sunlight, Artham can see what he'd missed in the dark of the deeps. Throughout their steady trek, the water was working upon Esben, and his face seems clearer, the grey mottled skin gone and the patchy fur a golden-brown color that matches his hair. He looks a little odd, a little bulkier and more bear-like than before, but he has come back to himself, he is Artham's little brother, and he is not broken but healed.

The brothers have a lot of time to talk on their westward journey.

At first, Artham has trouble keeping back the high-pitched gibbering his voice and words keep trying to become, especially when Esben is quiet or contemplative or otherwise not talking. Esben is alarmed when it starts, which sets Artham off even more, which turns Esben’s alarm to worry, and it all ends in a mess of I’m sorrys and heart to hearts and confessions.

Once the brothers lose each other for an entire six hours.

Artham had gotten panicked, and in his sleep-deprived state he’d run away from the familiar man who called him by name with the blue eyes that filled with pain and memories at times— his fault, it was his fault—

Esben trails him at first, tracking his brother’s panicked flight through the loamy soil, but it isn’t safe to journey alone in the Blackwood, even in broad daylight, and soon he stops to consider his options, perched high in a tree where he had fled from the reach of a toothy cow. Artham would calm down soon, and probably panic and retrace his path. Esben was on said path, and if he kept shouting his name from the tree where the many creatures of the wood couldn’t reach him…

Artham refuses to stray more than ten feet from his little brother’s side for the rest of the Blackwood.

In the original story, Artham had stowed away on a Fang ship to Skree, following a tiny pinprick of light that told him the children of the king were there. He had nearly starved in the hold, but made it to Glipwood only five years after the fall of the Shining Isle. Now, with his little brother at his side, he has more to think of than himself.

They take refuge in an abandoned cottage a few hours from the edge of the Blackwood, shifting through debris for anything useful. Artham finds an intact glass vial in the kitchen, but the last of the precious water had gone toward Esben’s healing, and so he tucks it, empty, among their scant belongings in the hope it might be useful.

Esben had decided, in the first clear-minded rest after their exit from the deeps, that he was not going to ask Artham about what happened to Nia and the children. He barely remembered anything about that day, beside sitting down to lunch to the sound of Nia’s laughter as she tried to coax little Kalmar to eat. Janner had been excitedly relating some epic adventure from his day to his Uncle Artham, whose strained face of the past week eased somewhat while he listened.

Then the Fangs had come.

After Esben had been taken captive, ripped away from the room of the Fane of Fire and force-marched to the dungeon, he had caught sight of Artham being shoved into one of Rysen’s well-kept cells. Seeing the fear in his brother’s eyes, the Throne Warden had shaken his head, mouthing they’re safe. That was the extent to which they had communicated for the four years of captivity in the deeps of Throg, for Esben had not been bound for the cells but rather to an interrogation room, and they were kept separate on the march to Throg. In the deeps, they had not spoken at all, both consumed by the dreadful music and their own demons.

Esben had been given a front-row seat to his brother’s breaking, though they had only glimpsed each other once in a blue moon. He could hear the Stone Keeper taunting Artham with food, with freedom, with a snatch of sunlight. He could hear his brother shouting his name, and receiving no answer. He could hear his brother muttering in his sleep, in his waking hours, mumbling and shrieking as if the voices in his mind had taken over his speech.

Artham was the one they focused on, for they knew they could count on the king to break. What had the king ever done, besides rule from the protecting shadow of the Warden? What had the king ever done to protect the kingdom, while the Warden waged wars with his own strength and the strength of those loyal to him? What had Esben ever done, besides falling to the Fangs the moment he tried to fight without his brother by his side?

The Stone Keeper came and went from Artham’s side like a scuttling shadow, but she never paused by Esben, for which he was shamefully grateful. The dark of his cell and the silence was never broken save by what peeked in from without, as the days turned and his brother went mad and Esben began to think he was forgotten by even his captors. His only companion was the music that echoed in the dungeons and crept into every forgotten corner, and filled his head to chase away the silence.

His brother, Esben decides, has gone through enough. He isn’t going to ask and possibly bring back bad memories. He isn’t going to ask about the tears that had watered Artham’s fierce eyes even as he was shoved into a cell, even as he mouthed they’re safe. He isn’t.

Sitting at the dilapidated table of the abandoned cottage, Artham tells him anyway.

#the wingfeather saga #wingfeather saga #artham wingfeather #esben wingfeather #although forever incomplete i actually had fun with these #and quite like them #so here's one of my favorites #there's like. at least five separate AUs. that are literally all #'how many ways can I mix up who gets off the burning Anniera and how and how long does it take to find each other???'#also the Crack Armulyn Theory We Don't Talk About #wingfeather spoilers #present tense and pseudo-bulletpoint because weirdly that's the format that Works for AUs #don't ask me why #my writing #writing #the wip title for this (before the real one) was 'wingfeather bros' because i am abundant with imagination obviously

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aita-ghosting · 1 year ago

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Was I the asshole for ghosting a ghost?

I (22f) was in a group of friends with two other girls (Names changed here to Winnie and Sarah.) who were the same age as me. Sarah and I have known each other since high school, whereas Winnie and I met at a party about three years ago now. We three became close friends leading up to Winnie's wedding, and a lot of the time it felt like Winnie and I were closer friend with each other than with Sarah.

Throughout the three years of friendship we shared many hangout days, girls nights in, and well, a lot of effort to Winnies wedding. Sarah and I ran errands, did flower arrangements in advance, and agreed to do make-up and pick things up at the last minute in our roles as bridesmaids. I even spent a night altering Winnie's wedding dress while riddled with a flu.

However, as we approached the wedding date, Sarah and I noticed a bit of a change in Winnie, particularly in her attitude towards us. She started talking to us less, and when she did it was only to ask us to do something for her. She didn't initiate hangouts anymore. Now, we thought this was to be expected at first- after all, she was about to get married and that's got to be a stressful occasion.

The wedding day rolled around and Sarah and I helped make sure the day went smoothly. We helped Winnie get ready, and did the various tasks we were asked to do- including purchasing a knife for the cake cutting.

And almost immediately, Winnie ghosted us.

It was almost like a switch had been flicked and she didn't seem to want to see us anymore. We gave it a couple of months- newlyweds are newlyweds of course- but as time went on, nothing changed. She never contacted us, and when we tried to arrange hangouts in our shared group chat she left them on read.

Sarah and I kept hanging out, and became simultaneously concerned about and admittedly a little annoyed with Winnie- she does have social anxiety, but that was never an issue in our group until she ghosted us. She had voiced in the past that she felt very comfortable around us. So it made no sense to ghost like this.

We arranged a meet up to try and discuss it with her- wanting to make sure everything was ok, and that she was ok, as well as ask her to be a bit more active in our friendship. Any friendship needs to be 50-50 and not one sided. We talked, laughed it up a bit, and ultimately it was agreed that we would all put more effort into our little group.

Six months later and still no change has happened. All attempts to contact her are ignored. Her Facebook page is filled with positive updates in her life that she hasn't told Sarah or I about.

Finally, during a break from work I am lurking around a park drinking a cup of tea and who should stroll past, but Winnie?

I walk up to her and do a goofy little dance to try get her attention- y'know, as you do. But she utterly ignored me. No eye contact, no wave, nothing. She walked past as if I were not even there, and that really hurt. Even calling her name proved useless, and I know for certain it was her. She has very distinctive hair and features.

So after a long conversation Sarah and I decided to ghost her back- unfriending, blocking, and just removing any way she had of contacting us, because evidently she didn't want to be friends anymore.

Within days Winnie had tried to message Sarah, and asked a mutual friend to find out what she had done wrong, and I told him all that I have told you.

She posted a massive rant on Facebook detailing how upset she was and how terrible "certain people" were for "dropping her like a ton of bricks" which felt wrong, as she had done it to us first.

However, part of me is worried we did the wrong thing.

Am I the Asshole for ghosting the friend for ghosting us?

TL/DR: My friend ghosted our group and after nearly a year of radio silence is furious when we unfriend her.

#aita

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nightfall-by-jacqui-natla · 1 year ago

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5. DARK CLOAKS

THREE MONTHS LATER

SEATTLE UNDER SIEGE - DEATH TOLL RISES AGAIN.

I grabbed the newspaper that had just been refilled by the paperboy. Fortunately for him, he was long gone by now.

Oh great. Riley was going to lose it when he saw this. Someone else was going to get an earful. When I meant earful, I meant getting their limps ripped off.

Glancing at the date on the paper, I saw it was June 11th. It was strange how time seemed to slip away so fast, even for a vampire. I unfolded the paper and scanned the headlines, my eyes widening in shock as I read the front page story. Humans would think it was gang related violence and that was why the crime rate was getting higher by the minute.

But in reality, it was the newborns doing a real crappy job of disposing the evidence.

I found Bree standing in the shadow behind the corner of a shabby threestory building, trying to be inconspicuous while waiting for someone, meaning me, to make a decision. Not wanting to meet anyone's eyes, Bree stared at the wall beside her instead.

Kristie and Jen did inform him about my sudden new ability, the mysterious purple glow that came out of me when they were attacking Bree and I. And of course, he informed the given information to Victoria, who was very surprised by my additional power alongside being good at hiding. I was starting to feel pretty good about my gift, until Riley gave me a job.

He had sent me to some babysitting duty while the newborns were on their hunt.

The ground level of the structure housed a record store that had long been out of business; the windows, damaged by weather or street disturbances, were covered with plywood. Above it were vacant apartments, devoid of the usual sounds of slumbering inhabitants. It came as no surprise to me that there were no signs of human presence - the place appeared as though it could crumble with a strong gust of wind. The buildings across the dim, narrow street were equally dilapidated.

This was the typical sight for a night out in the city.

Babysitting the newborns was something I despised, and tonight had only confirmed my disdain. Riley had assigned me to accompany two utterly useless vampires: Kevin and Casey.

As much as I loathed Raoul, these two were incredibly bothersome. According to what I had heard, Kevin was once a member of Raoul's human gang and was recruited by Riley upon Raoul's recommendation. Riley sought him out and asked if he wanted to join Raoul, to which he agreed. Casey, on the other hand, had joined shortly after working with Raoul in his gang. When Raoul became a part of the Seattle newborn army, he suggested to Riley that they recruit Casey, along with Kevin. Casey had since become a minion in Raoul's army.

Both Kevin and Casey bore a striking resemblance to each other, with their pale complexions and red eyes, the only noticeable difference being their hair. Kevin had jet-black hair, while Casey's hair were blonde. Despite their physical similarities, their personalities were the exact same. They were both stupid. And dangerous. And right now, mostly stupid.

Riley never seemed to care who he sent out in hunting groups. Or particularly bugged when sending out the wrong people together meant fewer people coming home. Tonight I was stuck with Kevin, Casey, Diego and Bree.

Instead of picking a direction for our hunt, suddenly Kevin and Casey were in the middle of an argument over whose favorite superhero would be a better hunter. Casey was demonstrating his case for Spider-Man now, skittering up the brick wall of the alley while humming the cartoon theme song. I sighed in frustration. Were we ever going to hunt?

I planned to give Riley a beat for this.

As I glanced to my left, a sudden flicker of movement caught my attention. It was Diego, and his frustration mirrored my own. We had both been turned into vampires at the tender age of seventeen, and Diego had shared his tragic human life story with me.

It began in Los Angeles, where he grew up in a humble, single-parent household. When he turned sixteen, his mother made the difficult decision to move to Portland for a job opportunity that ultimately fell through. Determined to support his family, Diego took on part-time jobs while attending school. His ultimate goal was to escape the hardships of street life and pursue a college education, all while ensuring his younger brother had the same opportunity.

Although Diego managed to steer clear of trouble with a gang at his high school, his brother became entangled in their dangerous web. Desperate to protect him, Diego and his mother devised a plan to extricate his brother from the gang's clutches. Tragically, before they could put their plan into action, his little brother lost his life during a brutal initiation ritual. Overwhelmed by grief, Diego sought vengeance against those responsible. He stole a gun from a gang member's house and avenged his brother's death, but found himself cornered by the remaining members.

It was in this dire moment that Riley appeared, offering Diego a chance at a new life. Without hesitation, Diego accepted the offer, and Riley swiftly eliminated their pursuers. Under Victoria's guidance, Diego joined the ranks of the newly created vampires, alongside Fred and Raoul. He became Riley's trusted right-hand man, navigating the treacherous world they found themselves in.

Returning to the present, I noticed Diego's gaze fixed on Bree, who let out a weary sigh before averting her eyes. In Riley's crowd, survival depended on keeping one's head down and remaining silent. It was a constant battle for life amidst the chaos.

"Spider-Man is such a whiny loser," Kevin taunted Casey from below. "I'l show you how a real superhero hunts." A mischievous grin spread across his face, revealing a set of gleaming teeth under the streetlight's glare.

Without hesitation, Kevin leapt into the center of the street just as the car's headlights illuminated the worn pavement with a cool, bluish-white glow. He flexed his muscular arms, showcasing his strength like a professional wrestler. The approaching car probably expected him to move out of the way like any ordinary person would. But Kevin wasn't ordinary. Not by a long shot.

Kevin jumped into the middle of the street just as the lights from a car swung around to illuminate the cracked pavement with a blue-white gleam. He flexed his arms back, then pulled them slowly together like a pro wrestler showing off. The car came on, probably expecting him to get the hell out of the way like a normal person would. Like he should.

"Hulk mad!" Kevin bellowed with a thunderous voice. "Hulk. . . SMASH!"

With incredible agility, he lunged towards the oncoming car, seizing its front bumper and effortlessly flipping it over his head. The vehicle, now upside down, crashed onto the pavement with a cacophony of twisted metal and shattering glass.

"Kevin, stop!" I shouted desperately, but my words fell on deaf ears.

The car's impact had triggered a woman's terrified screams from within.

Kevin stood triumphantly over the overturned car, his chest heaving with adrenaline. He turned to me with a smug grin, clearly reveling in his display of power.

"See, Casey? That's how it's done," he boasted, his voice filled with arrogance.

But as the reality of the situation sank in, I felt a wave of horror wash over me. The woman trapped inside the car was now in even greater danger, and it was all because of Kevin's reckless actions.

"Oh man," Diego shook his head in disbelief. "Kevin, we're supposed to be laying low. Riley said —."

"Riley said!" Kevin mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Get a spine, Diego. Riley's not here. "

Kevin leaped over the overturned Honda and smashed the driver's side window, still miraculously intact. He rummaged through the broken glass and deflating airbag to reach the driver. I watched in horror as Kevin attacked the woman.

The woman's cries for help echoed in my ears, but I knew it was too late for her. She was already their prey.

Casey, on the other hand, had no qualms. He leaped off the wall and landed gracefully behind Bree, earning a growl from me. Casey and Kevin exchanged hostile glares, followed by a sickening tearing noise as the woman's screams abruptly stopped. They had torn her apart.

I tried to block out the gruesome scene, but the heat and the sound of dripping blood behind me made my throat ache, even though I wasn't breathing.

"I'm outta here," Diego muttered.

"I don't blame you," I replied, crossing my arms. "But someone has to keep an eye on them."

Diego disappeared into a narrow passage between the buildings, with Bree close behind him.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to witness. As Diego and Bree slipped away, I knew it was up to me to monitor Kevin and Casey's every move. I couldn't let them wreak havoc unchecked.

I cautiously approached the shattered Honda and the stench of blood and the metallic tang of fear hung heavy in the air. I couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and disgust at what Kevin and Casey had done. How could they be so callous, so merciless?

I peered through the broken window, my eyes widening at the gruesome sight before me. The woman's lifeless body lay mangled and torn, her once vibrant spirit extinguished. It was a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked within Kevin and Casey, a darkness that I had witnessed far too many times.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I had to stay focused, had to keep them in sight. I couldn't let them slip away, couldn't let them continue their reign of terror.

I rose up and stormed over to them. "Alright, you both want a chat? How about this? Wonder Woman is facing against Spider-Man and the Hulk? Who would win?"

Kevin and Casey exchanged puzzled glances, their anger momentarily overshadowed by my unexpected question. The tension in the air was palpable as they struggled to comprehend my sudden shift in topic. But I knew that diverting their attention was crucial in this moment.

As they hesitated, I continued, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "Come on, guys, I thought you were the experts on causing chaos. Surely you can handle a hypothetical battle between superheroes?"

Their confusion deepened, but I could see a flicker of curiosity in their eyes. It was a risky move, but I had to keep them engaged, keep them from slipping away.

"Well, technically, Wonder Woman is from DC and Spider-Man and the Hulk are from Marvel," Casey explained, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I rolled my eyes, frustrated by their attempt to deflect the seriousness of the situation. "That's not the point, boys. We need to talk about what just happened here. This isn't a game."

Kevin chuckled. "What's the big deal? So a human died from our hunger? It's not a big deal, and aside, that's what we need to survive."

I scoffed, disbelief and anger bubbling up inside me.

However, before I could voice my thoughts, a piercing scream shattered the conversation. A woman, unmistakably a prostitute given her revealing attire, burst into the scene with her scandalously short skirt and a white shirt that barely contained her ample bosom. Jen pounced on her, snarling, while Kristie dragged in a startled bike messenger.

I shook my head in disbelief as they continued to indulge in their gruesome feast. The reality of their true nature was becoming harder to ignore. These newborns were untamed beasts, incapable of being civilized.

"Hey, back off from our turf!" Kevin's voice boomed, filled with authority.

"Every inch of this town belongs to us!" Kristie's retort echoed defiantly.

The clash between the boys and girls was bound to happen, and I did my best to intervene.

But their primal instincts took over, and the fight escalated quickly. The sound of growls and snarls filled the air as they lunged at each other, teeth bared and claws out. I tried to separate them, but it was like trying to stop a force of nature.

"What did I say, about low profile?" Riley's voice reverberated.

Riley, visibly frustrated, stood beside the overturned car in the dimly lit street. The very car that Kevin had hurled. Smoke billowed from the engine, flames flickering to life.

Kevin, his chest heaving, glared back at Riley. "I didn't start this, they did," he pointed at the girls, who were baring their teeth at them.

Riley shook his head in exasperation. "It doesn't matter who started it, we can't afford this kind of attention right now. We need to lay low and stay under the radar."

A heavy silence enveloped us, broken only by the crackling fire and the faint whimpering of the humans.

Softly, Riley spoke to us, his voice filled with a sense of foreboding.

"Something's coming. Something... Bigger than any of us alone. And if you can't... ... control yourselves... We're all going to die."

The gravity of Riley's words hung in the air, weighing down on us like an impending storm. We exchanged uneasy glances, the realization sinking in that our actions had far-reaching consequences beyond this chaotic scene.

Kevin, however, paid no heed, as he greedily feasted upon the dying woman. Nearby, Kristie and Jen indulged in their chosen sustenance. Riley, resigned to our lack of control, turned to me with his piercing crimson eyes.

"What's done is done, just... ... clean up after yourselves," he instructed me before swiftly departing, his figure disappearing into the night with remarkable swiftness.

As the flames flickered and the cries of the humans grew fainter, a sense of dread settled over us. The realization that we were not alone in this world, that there were forces beyond our comprehension, weighed heavily on our minds.

I knew that Riley's warning was not to be taken lightly. Whatever was approaching, it was powerful and dangerous. And if we did not heed his words, we would all pay the price.

I looked around at the newborns, their faces twisted in a mix of fear and defiance. We were an army bound by our shared hunger, but now we were faced with a choice. Would we continue down this path of destruction, or would we find a way to restrain ourselves and avoid the impending doom that Riley had forewarned?

Yet, when I shifted my gaze away from the chaotic scene, my eyes fell upon four enigmatic figures cloaked in darkness, standing at a distance. They remained completely still, their piercing gazes fixated on the chaos unfolding before them.

Curiously, they made no move. They simply observed, their presence emanating an aura of mystery and power.

Could they be the something that Riley was talking about a few seconds ago?

The way they stood, so still and composed, made it seem as though time itself had frozen in their presence. Their dark cloaks billowed around them, blending seamlessly with the shadows that surrounded them, further obscuring their features.

I couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden beneath those cloaks, what ancient knowledge they possessed. Were they the legendary Volturi guards, the protectors of the vampire world, as Victoria had described? The thought sent a chill through me, for their reputation preceded them.

As the chaos unfolded before them, their piercing gazes remained fixed, unyielding. It was as if they were observing a grand performance, silently judging every move, every action. Their eyes, hidden in the depths of their hoods, seemed to hold a wisdom that surpassed centuries of existence.

I stood transfixed, my gaze locked on those four mysterious beings. And, as if sensing my scrutiny, they vanished into thin air.

Leaving behind only a lingering sense of their presence, their disappearance only deepened the mystery surrounding them. It was as if they were phantoms, ethereal beings that had momentarily graced our world before retreating back into the shadows from whence they came.

But their impact remained, their presence etched into the very fabric of my being. The memory of their stillness, their silent observation, haunted my thoughts, leaving me with an insatiable hunger for answers. Who were they? What secrets did they hold? And why had they chosen this moment, this chaotic moment, to reveal themselves?

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kumeko · 2 years ago

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A/N: For the Kingdom Hearts Halloween Zine! Twitches was my favourite Halloween movie as a child.

…

There were many, many exciting things Sora thought of when he considered October. The obvious—Halloween, pumpkins, candy, and spooky movies. The less obvious—the crunchy leaves, the bright colours, the warmth of his snuggly sweater. The most important—his birthday. All of these were just off the top of his head. If Sora needed to, he could come up with a hundred-page manifesto of why October was amazing. Except that sounded a lot like homework and he’d rather enjoy October than write about it.

Still, no matter how long that list was, the one thing that would never be on it was being cooped up inside the library studying. They weren’t even near a window, so Sora couldn’t even see the colourful trees. The only thing on the table in front of him were books and a mountain of lined paper. Grumpy, Sora rested his chin on his hands and stared across the table at his best friend, Riku. “Come on,” he whined, sticking out his bottom lip to make his pout even sadder. “Let’s do something fun.”

The stick-in-the-mud that he was, Riku completely ignored him, instead flipping through his notes like Sora hadn’t said a word. Of course he’d do that. The guy didn’t know the meaning of fun. Even his hair was white, devoid of any colour.

Sora was adaptable. If one best friend couldn’t answer the call, the other would. Turning to his right, Sora gave his biggest puppy eyes to Kairi. He should have done this from the start—she was his usual partner-in-crime, after all. “You’re bored too, right, Kairi?”

And while every other time she slacked off with him immediately, this time she sadly shook her head. “Sorry, Sora.” She groaned, burying her head in her hands. “I’m seriously going to fail calculus. And Mom said if I get anything less than a 60 in the midterms, she was going to take back my car.”

“And that’s why you’re studying now, so you don’t fail,” Riku finally responded, looking up. He gave her a sympathetic nod. “I’ll help.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at him gratefully. “I can’t believe I’m so bad at this. I was great at math in high school. How is this,” she gestured at the textbook in front of her, “so much harder?”

“It’s university.” Sora shrugged, idly picking up his notes and flipping through them. They were mostly doodles and thus utterly useless. He’d have to steal Riku’s later. “Isn’t it supposed to be harder?”

“And aren’t you supposed to study more?” Riku retorted, his tone disdainful. He plucked one of Sora’s notes before he could react, rolling his eyes as he saw the stick figures. “Seriously, Sora, you’re going to fail if you don’t study.”

“I study enough,” Sora argued, crossing his arms. They’d had this same argument since high school. He was certain they’d have this same argument when he was 80, though he wasn’t sure what for. Sora would be ‘too lazy’ and Riku would be ‘perfect’ and one of these days, Sora would actually win the argument. Maybe that would also happen when he was 80. “We’ve been studying all day, we can take a little break.”

“The test is in two days.” Riku looked at him incredulously. Reaching forward, he tapped on the book in front of Sora. “You haven’t made it past the first chapter.”

“It’s a hard chapter!” Sora defended himself, yanking the book out of reach. “And I haven’t been sleeping well, so you know, it’s hard to focus.”

“You haven’t?” Concerned, Kairi leaned closer and inspected his face. Whistling softly, she frowned and squeezed his shoulder. “You have raccoon eyes! What’s wrong?”

“He’s been playing video games again,” Riku snarked immediately, but despite his tone, he was also watching Sora.

“It wasn’t that!” Sora growled. “I had this really weird dream…” He bit his lip, trying to put together the scattered images he’d seen in his sleep. “There was this tall, white castle filled with these white, uh, noodly monsters. And this boy—he kinda looked like me, you know, but also not really. Like, his hair was blonde, and he was sitting on this throne fast asleep.”

“A dream,” Riku stated slowly, giving him a long look. “You’re crying over a nightmare.”

“I’m not crying and it wasn’t just a dream,” Sora mumbled lamely, feeling foolish even as he said that. In the light of day, the dream felt far away. “It was like I was actually there.”

“Vivid dreams are kinda scary,” Kairi agreed, taking his hand gently. She pressed the pads of her fingers against his skin, massaging his palm. “I thought I took the test already and when I woke up, it took me a while to figure out where I was.”

“Want me to hold your hand tonight, Sora?” Riku smirked, condescension dripping in his tone. “Or do you need a nightlight?”

“I’m not a kid!” Sora grumbled, wanting nothing more than to sink into his chair. Maybe it had been only a dream, after all. Sure, it had felt real at the time—the sound of his steps in the white castle, the way the monsters invaded the castle. There had been two other boys there with him, two boys that looked identical, but he could never see their eyes. One was always asleep and the other—every time Sora turned to look at him, he woke up.

But it had only been a dream. He should never have told Riku; he had never let go of anything in his life. Sora would hear about this until they were 80 too.

Maybe he should think about getting a new best friend.

Sensing his glumness, Kairi suggested brightly, “Hey, why don’t we get some snacks? We have been working a long time. A little cake and coffee wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Didn’t you get a cavity recently?” Riku pointed out, raising a brow. “And you want cake?”

“It goes well with coffee.” She smiled disarmingly, and Sora felt a pang of envy. Kairi was so good at convincing Riku to agree; he could only do it when they argued. Well, that was why they worked together, but he wanted to get better at tricking him.

“And I’m hungry,” Sora added, moaning softly as he rubbed his belly. “Brains need sugar, right?”

“Is that the only thing you picked up from biology? And you’re always hungry, idiot.” Riku rolled his eyes, not convinced. He also wasn’t saying no either, so it would only take one more push.

“I’ll grab the cake, Sora gets the coffee, and you can guard the books.” Kairi patted the table. “And we’ll be back in like, twenty minutes, and then we can study.”

Riku snorted, shooting them a look of disbelief. “You’re just going to goof off.”

“I never goof off.” Sora clutched his chest dramatically, mortally wounded. “You just don’t know what fun is.”

Before Riku could argue, Kairi batted her eyes and smiled innocently. “I said no to Sora earlier, remember. We won’t go anywhere else, just there and back.”

“Please,” Sora pleaded and they both gave him identical puppy eyes.

Riku frowned. Brow furrowed and utterly doubtful, he looked from one to the other before sighing. “Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect!” Kairi hooked an arm through Sora’s. “We’ll be back soon.”

And then she promptly dragged Sora out of the library. Sensing some sort of scheme, he kept quiet until they were safely away from prying eyes. “So?”

“So we get coffee and cake.” Kairi let go and shrugged. “You go to Starbucks, I’ll go to that cute bakery I’ve been dying to try.”

Sora stared at her, not buying it. “Starbucks?”

“Yes, the one that’s at the corner of Twilight and Destiny.” Kairi smiled angelically.

He wasn’t fooled in the least. “There’s a closer one.”

“Yes but…” she trailed off purposely, leaning forward. When he obliged and leaned closer to her, she whispered, “There’s a guy there that looks just like you. It’s really freaky.”

“Seriously?” Sora gaped, unable to imagine it. A guy who looked just like him—for a moment, he remembered his dreams, that aching familiarity of it all, but that was silly. It had only been a dream. “Why didn’t we go earlier?”

“Because it took me forever to figure out his shift! I only bumped into him randomly, when you weren’t there.” Kairi shrugged. “You’re bored anyways, right? I’m doing you a favour, really.”

Somehow, he doubted that.

-x-

A white castle stood, surrounded by darkness. No, not darkness—from the parapets, Roxas could see tiny pricks of light against the black. It was a mass of shadow monsters, of Heartless, and they threatened to overrun the castle gates at any moment.

“We have to go!”

Someone grabbed his hand. In the gloom, Roxas could barely make out the stranger’s brown hair. He knew this person. There was an aching familiarity to it all.

“We have to save Ventus.”

He didn’t know that name. He did know that name. Somehow, both facts were true at the same time. An image flashed across his mind, of a white throne and a boy identical to him sitting on it. The boy was asleep, surrounded by a mass of white monsters.

“We have to—”

Roxas stared at the ceiling. At a bare minimum, he’d hoped to wake up less tired than yesterday, but that was asking for the impossible, apparently. No, instead he had to have yet another strange dream. He held up his hand, staring at it. It was strange; it had felt so real. Even now, he could feel that other person’s hand in his own.

Yet, it had only been a dream.

“Roxas! You’re going to be late!” Aqua yelled. The scent of burnt toast wafted into his room, even though the kitchen was on the opposite side of the house. How she managed to do that every morning, he didn’t know.

“What time is it?” he groaned, rolling over. He stared at his wall, covered end-to-end with his drawings. He’d sketched the castle and Ventus so many times, but he could never find the real-life place that must have inspired the dreams.

“Nine,” Aqua shouted back. “Do you ever set an alarm?”

“I turn it—” Roxas froze. Nine. He only had an hour to get to work. Scrambling out of bed, he ran to the bathroom. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

He was skating on thin ice as it was with his manager. If he was late yet another day—he shuddered to think about it. It was hard enough paying for college on his own; his part-time job just barely helped them make ends meet. While his friend Namine shared a shift with him today, she was a terrible liar and any cover story she gave would be torn apart in minutes.

Jumping down the stairs, he dashed into the kitchen. There, his adoptive sister was calmly sitting at the table, munching on black toast as she watched him. Slyly, she reached out and ruffled his hair. “You’re a mess.”

“Hey!” He swatted her hand away and stepped back. Glaring at her, he smoothened his hair. “You know how long that took!”

“Maybe you should wake up earlier?” Aqua took another bite and gestured at the second plate she’d set up for him. It was relieving to see that it didn’t look half as charcoaled as hers. “Like, if you actually went to sleep at night, you’d wake up with your alarm.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” Roxas rubbed his arm, not sure how to explain it. There was just this energy in him at night, something that felt almost magical. There was a reason he’d always done his homework and art in the middle of the night but saying it as an adult felt silly. “I’m just…more awake at night.”

“That’s because your sleep cycle is ruined.” Aqua frowned, noticing his eyes. “Did you have another one of those nightmares?”

“Yeah. It’s the same as last time.” Roxas shrugged, not wanting to get into it. It wasn’t like talking about it could change things.

“You’ve been having it for years, maybe we should get someone to look into it.” Aqua sighed, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder affectionately. “But we’ll talk about that later—you’re running late.”

Roxas swore.

-x-

Sora stood in front of the Starbucks counter, staring at the cashier. He smiled back awkwardly. “What would you like to order?”

First point, Sora was never that nervous or awkward around anyone. So it couldn’t be personality that made Kairi say they looked the same. It couldn’t be looks either—the cashier was blonde and Sora was a brunette. Did Kairi become colour-blind when he wasn’t looking? Their eyes were kinda similar, maybe, but that’s just because they were both blue.

“Um, are you going to order?” the cashier asked again, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Well, at least no one else was in the store to complain if he didn’t. Sora glanced at his name tag. Roxas. That didn’t even sound like his name! All they had were some of the same letters. “Is there another cashier?”

Roxas’s brow furrowed for a moment before he gave a carefully blank expression. “Namine isn’t on right now, but she’s not interested—”

“Whoa!” Sora held up his hands immediately and shook his head. “I w-w-wasn’t asking for a date.” Ok, maybe he did get nervous sometimes. Clearing his throat, he clarified, “I mean, do you have a cashier that looks like me?”

Roxas looked even more confused, if possible, and he slowly shook his head. “No.”

“And you’re the only one working now?”

“Yes.” Now Roxas was looking at him as if he’d grown two heads and Sora couldn’t blame him. Honestly, this all sounded really crazy. “Are you going to order?”

Sora sighed. Kairi must have pranked him. When he got back, it was revenge time. “Can I get—”

What happened next could only be described as magic. Above the counter, a glowing circle appeared, looking like a sci-fi hologram. The wind picked up—they were inside a building, how could wind pick up?—and napkins and paper cups swirled around them. It was like standing in the eye of a storm.

Suddenly, two figures fell out of the circle, crashing on the counter hard. And just like that, it was over. The Starbucks goods fell to the ground. The wind stopped. The two strangers stayed.

“WHA—?” he yelped, stumbling backwards.

“Gosh, Donald, do you think we got to the right place?” One of the prone figures slowly got up, looking around.

“Of course we did, I’m never wrong,” the other snapped back, rubbing his head after rolling off the counter.

Sora rubbed his eyes. It didn’t change anything. In front of him stood a giant, humanoid dog and a short, angry duck. They spoke English. He glanced at Roxas, who looked as dumbfounded as he did. “Do you see…” he trailed off, gesturing at the creatures.

Roxas pinched his cheek before nodding. “Yeah.”

Standing now, the fully clothed dog-man pounced on Sora before he could react. “Gosh, Sora, you’re so big now!” He turned to Roxas and started to sniffle. “You too, Roxas.”

“Of course they’re big, it’s been years!” the duck angrily quacked. He was only wearing a shirt. Did that make him half-naked? Sora wasn’t sure if he wanted to follow that thought. “And quit crying, we don’t have time for that.”

“We always have time for hugs, Donald,” the dog argued, letting go of Sora and chasing after Roxas. For something that big and clumsy looking, he was surprisingly fast and almost fell on Roxas in his attempt to hug him.

“No, we don’t!” Angry, Donald the duck marched over to Sora and grabbed his hand. Donald had hands. Not wings, hands.

Sora wondered if he’d just fallen asleep at the library and the last fifteen minutes were a dream.

Still embracing Roxas tightly, the dog waddled toward them. “We do! Times infinity!”

“Goofy, I am going to—” Donald took a deep breath and shook his head. “No more distractions! We need to get to Castle Oblivion.”

“Castle Oblivion?” Sora shook himself out of his stupor. Why did that sound so familiar? The image of a white castle flashed before his eyes. His dream. His recurring, realistic dream.

“Your home! Ventus is waiting for you guys!” Goofy chimed in, letting go of Roxas. Unintentionally, the four of them now stood in a circle now.

“Ventus?” Roxas repeated, looking utterly shocked. “But…that’s a dream?”

“A dream?” It couldn’t be, could it?

“You can’t have forgotten Ventus.” Goofy looked despondent as he grabbed Roxas’s and Sora’s hands. “You’re triplets, you can’t forget family.”

“TRIPLETS?” Sora and Roxas shouted at the same time.

Before they could get any answers, another white circle appeared above them. The wind picked up. The last thought that Sora had before he disappeared was Riku’s going to kill me.

#kingdom hearts #kh roxas #kh sora #kh riku #kh kairi #kh aqua #donald duck #goofy #fanfic #twitches #i love that movie so much #so fun

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